#ch: amarantha

[thestarswholisten]

For though my strikes land a powerful blow, when I kill, I do it slow.

[solasan]

oc edits: amarantha, goddess of spring (@chrysanthemumgames)

i want... to be of use to someone.

[delaneytveit]

saw someone say that Tam didn’t crawl to Feyre when she was deleted by Amarantha and how that was how they knew that he didn’t actually love her and i just have to say

“But Rhysand didnt come any closer to my corpse, not as rushing paws— then a flash of light, then footsteps — filled the air.”

“Amarantha’s blood had vanished from Tamlin’s face, his tunic as he slammed to his knees. He scooped up my limp broken body, cradling me to his chest…i heard the shuddering sobs that broke from him as he rocked me, stroking my hair.” -ch 45

yeah, you’re right, he ran straight to her immediately and without hesitation after killing Feyre’s murderer in a blind rage. AND THEN SOBBED WHILE CRADLING HER!!!!! but go off i guess

[elainemg97]

Azriel can smell the bond? Ramblings

Adding to this reply from @nikethestatue

- We know Nessian's bond didn't merge until Winter Solstice night when they fully accepted eo and slept together (they never had a snapping/ click moment). We know the only person who smelled it was Lanthys who was a death god.

- We also know that Feysand had a snapping bond but no one could smell it except Amren cause she was “other". The others finally were able to smell it after the bond became a living thing (2nd bond) and merged in ch 55 when Feyre rode him to erase the memory of Amarantha, they unleashed both of their powers and Feyre began to glow.

- We also know that Elain/Lucien have the same snapping moment/bond as Feysand so it is likely that no one can smell the bond since it's not accepted and they've had o physical intimate interactions.

- So it is strange that Azriel can smell the Elucien bond unless he's also connected to Elain in some way (2nd bond?). It’s clear the bond makes him ill or uncomfortable, so maybe it’s some sort of parasite making them both (Elain and Az) uncomfortable. Az never smelled Feysand’s bond so why can he smell Eluciens?

[umthisistheonlyusernamenottaken]

ACOSF rant: Poverty in Velaris

Velaris has been isolated from the rest of the fae world for over 5000 years, and yet there are still 'rough' parts of the city?

'But why live in this dump when the town house was sitting empty? Since construction had finished on Feyre and Rhys's sprawling home on the river, the town house had been left open to any of their friends who needed or wanted it.' Cassian, ACOSF ch 1

The I.C had 50 years of ruling whilst Rhys was UTM and did... nothing? They are literally the people in charge, the fact that there are homes that could be described as dumps by a character who has had a rough childhood on the streets AT ALL reflects really fucking badly on their leadership.

Also, Feysand already owned 4 houses, yet they decided to purchase war torn land, AND BUILD ANOTHER FUCKING PRIVATE HOME, in addition to the four others that are apparently sitting empty. Did it ever occur to them that they could have built their home for displaced fae there instead of tearing down Nesta's apartment building and displacing potentially hundreds of fae?

At this point, I'm pretty sure that the only reason that Rhys put so much effort into maintaining the 'shields' around Velaris when Amarantha locked him up UTM is actually because he's Ba Sing Se'd the citizens of Velaris into thinking that everything is amazing and that he's a great ruler, so that they wouldn't have epiphanies and revolt whilst he was gone.

* the average Velaris (Velarion?) citizen

[feyres-divorce-lawyer]

@night-courts-shadowsinger Rhys never sexually assaulted Feyre wtf

Violent Foundations

An Excerpt from The Tragedy of Feyre Archeron: Decentering Female Trauma to Garner Sympathy for a Male

Feyre’s relationship with her canonical endgame, Rhysand, is one constantly painted in a romantic light that intentionally attempts to blind the reader to the innate violence that surrounds the pair. With every gifted crown, gown, and house, Maas tries her hardest to cover up the horrifying foundations Feysand, their fandom ship name, was built upon.

Exhibit A

A Court of Thorns and Roses | Ch. 37

Torture: Rhysand twisting Feyre’s exposed bone.

Is when someone in an official capacity: Rhysand as Amarantha’s second puts him in a position of power. The fact that he can even be in her cell for definite amounts of time, freely interacting with her, says enough.

Inflicts severe mental or physical pain or suffering on somebody else: Mental pain and suffering aside, Rhsyand inflicts physical violence on Feyre. Her vision blacked out due to how severe the pain of her bone being twisted, several times, were.

For a specific purpose: Rhysand is torturing Feyre in order to get her to accept a bargain: two weeks spent in the Night Court, the court Rhysand is High Lord of, in exchange for her arm to be healed from the injury she sustained completing her first trial.

The bargain scene, for all intents and purposes, fits the definition of torture; all conditions are met with individuals that match.

Exhibit B

Her trials aside, a majority of Feyre’s time Under the Mountain is spent non-consensually dancing in a sexual manner. It starts with Rhysand sending two shadow wraiths to take Feyre her cell, strip her naked, and paint her. They then proceed to dress her in two sheer panels of gossamer, ignore her demands to be clothed in something else, and physically restrict her from taking the panels off. Though this act is not torture, it is still a violation. She is made vulnerable by two individuals she does not know, in a place she’s endangered in.

A Court of Thorns and Roses | Ch. 39

Rhysand reveals she is so scantily clad in order to be his escort to a party. Feyre’s sexual assault and humiliation at his hands begin here. On their way to the party, she is already self-conscious about the outfit she was forced into, and by the time they arrive, it is very clear that she does not want to go.

A Court of Thorns and Roses | Chapter 39

It is very important to note that Amarantha was not the one who ordered this. Rhysand chose of his own volition to take Feyre to the first party, and by doing so put Feyre on Amarantha’s radar outside of the trials.

A Court of Thorns and Roses | Ch. 39

Exhibit C

Rhysand, perhaps knowing she would not do as he asked otherwise, makes Feyre drink faerie wine, a substance that her human body is not built for and intoxicates her quickly.

A Court of Thorns and Roses | Ch. 39

At no point during this encounter did Feyre choose to drink the wine. In fact, one could interpret that her mind echoing Rhysand’s instructions and her fingers moving to do as he wished is evident of him using his daemati powers to further influence her actions. Regardless, the fact that she said and thought “no” four times is enough to say Rhysand drugged her and this causes her to black out.

Exhibit D-1

Feyre wakes up in her cell still dressed in nothing and is disoriented to the point of regurgitation, remaining sick for most of the day. She finally finds out what happened during her blackout from Lucien.

A Court of Thorns and Roses | Ch. 39

Exhibit D-2

A Court of Thorns and Roses | Ch. 39

Rhysand sexually assaults Feyre night after night after night presumably for the entirety of time she was Under the Mountain after her first trial. He continuously drugs her with the wine and she continuously blacks out, leading to gaps in her memory that are never explicitly stated to have returned. Please note that Feyre consented to none of this. She had no power, no agency, and no personhood at Rhysand’s hands. Her becoming dependent on the wine to stifle the horrors of what was happening to her doesn’t change that fact. She considered her blackouts a mercy, you do not seek reprieve from things you enjoy.

Exhibit E

At a particular party, Feyre gets an opportunity to meet Tamlin in a secluded place, and it becomes the only time she enthusiastically consents to being sexually touched by a male. They’re caught by Rhys, however, and he takes it as an opportunity to assault Feyre, again.

A Court of Thorns and Roses | Ch. 42

This is another violation of Feyre’s consent. Note the language being used here: pries, forcing, pushed and thrashed. She doesn’t want it, Rhysand knows she doesn’t want it, yet he did it anyway. Later on, he says this was to have a reason why the paint on her body had been disturbed but he had the ability to magically correct the paint, and if scent was the issue then it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

Conclusion

You’re free to engage with literature however you choose, but denying Rhysand sexually abused, assaulted, and humiliated Feyre doesn’t make it untrue. Maas may attempt the same via retconning and placing reason over impact but it does not change what she wrote.

[ataraxiasflame]

In doing some research for my fic, I encountered a few names from different SJM books that seem to be derived from similar origins and I went on a bit of a trip trying to consider all the connections:

When researching some information regarding the inspiration for Helion (the God Helios) I discovered that Helios’s mother is called Theia and his sister is called Selene. Theia, Helios and Selene are all connected through solar elements like light, the sun and the moon.

If we recall from HOFAS, Silene was Theia’s second daughter who Azriel also claims looked like Rhys’s sister. We also know that she too was able to wield her mother’s Starborn powers (which is essentially starlight).

Helion’s power is also light and also has several similarities to Helios:

And I always question the potential foreshadowing of the scene below.

- ACOSF ch 41.

If I had to guess, perhaps Silene or a descendant of hers was married off to a member of the Night Court, which is why Rhys’s sister looks like her. But my real interest is the connection that Helion (and Lucien) has to the Trove, and their potential challenge to the theory that Rhys has a claim to the throne as a descendant of Fionn/Theia. The similarities in name could have been mere coincidence but the effect the trove had on Helion creates that potential connection to Theia and Fionn (I’m not saying he is Silene’s brother but they could be the ancestors to whom he is referring in ACOSF)

Then perhaps this chapter in ACOSF (ch 42) in which Amren urges Rhys to conquer Prythian claim the throne and he declines several times, only to have her respond with this line:

…might suggest that there are others who have equal claim to the throne.

Personally, I hate the potential High King plot line, especially if Rhys and Feyre will claim the throne (I could write an essay on why this would make no sense from a narrative perspective). There are so many references in HOFAS that highlight why Prythian failed under the ruling of one sovereign and we as readers experienced the reign of a sole ruler in book one. It just makes no sense for Prythian to return to a proven failed form of sovereignty, especially with Rhys and Feyre in those positions of power, when they only recently broke free from Amarantha’s reign.

However, should the High King and Queen narrative be necessary to the plot line, I would far prefer Helion/Lucien be the potential challenge to the throne over Rhys. The end of HOFAS even opens questions regarding Nesta’s future in a position of power in Prythian.

High King plot aside; these potential clues do make me even more interested to see how Lucien’s past will affect the rest of his story and the over arching plot of the series, how his power could be even stronger than we expected, how they could come into play with the Koschei plot line and whether he will play a larger role in the political future of Prythian as well.

But most interestingly is that Theia (the mother of Helios and Selene) was the Goddess of Sight and Vision, possessing prophetic powers, and it seems fitting that Helion’s own son is mated to a cauldron-blessed Seer. Mates fated to be together who are true equals in every way.

[highladyjane]

The assault at Sangravah happened in early ACOMAF (before Elain's existence even came into picture for Azriel - 3 days before he even got to meet Feyre)... So I don't get how G and Az are supposed to be mates when he's had all that time to feel something?

There's the parallel of Rhys' father feeling his mating bond snap into place the moment he met his mother being assaulted.

"One look at her, and he knew what she was..." (ACOMAF, ch. 16)

Or Rhys himself feeling the bond when Feyre was being tortured by Amarantha...

"And I knew as I picked up that knife to kill her... I knew right then what you were. I knew right then that you were my mate." (ACOMAF, ch. 54)

Or Cassian simply meeting Nesta. "Say what I've guessed from the moment we met" he breathed. What I knew from the first time I kissed you. What became unbreakable between us on Solstice night." (ACOSF, ch. 62)

Bonus from Nesta: “‘From the moment I met you, I wanted you more than reason. From the moment I saw you in my house, you were all I could think about. And it terrified me. No one had ever held such power over me."

Or even Lucien after Elain was Made and maybe even while being thrown into the Cauldron... I don't even need a quote for them, but even Lucien knew and has tried seeking Elain out after the incident.

It's stated in the books and shown again and again that it's the males who are deeply affected by the mating bond. That they can know from the moment they meet. They all in one way or another sought after the females. Even Nesta and Feyre felt something before they knew or opened themselves up to it. And since they all met - They. Couldn't. Stay. Away.

But there's like... no hint of it from Az after stumbling upon G? Like he just literally stumbles upon her - never actually even actively seeking her out through all those years? He hasn't even actively tried to stay away? He's just... *crickets*

It's been Gwyn making noises and attracting his attention through all their scenes together. It was Gwyn asking for dagger lessons. It was 'Gwyn' making Az the new ribbon (whatever that means). And it's Az's shadows reacting to Gwyn, not Az himself. But there's no real hint that Gwyn feels anything romantic for him. There's barely any interactions between them without linking it to her assault in Sangravah and her growth from it.

Besides Az's shadows reacting to G, and that ribbon moment that everyone deems so pivotal when Az realises what it means for the Valkyries (that he's had a hand in training) and maybe even reflects upon Gwyn's character development and therefore what the ribbon means for Gwyn - which made me feel proud too, and that's how I interpreted it - but I can't see an undeniable sign of it being a mating bond anywhere.

I thought at first that mayhaps he was giving her space because of the assault, but then the BC came and he went "It was too late to bank without appearing like he was running," and then "He wouldn't go so far as to call Gwyn a friend,". (ACOSF, Azriel's Bonus Chapter)

Let's not even mention the part where Gwyn was actually in danger (no matter how capable she was at that point), while Cassian was going ballistic at Nesta being in danger, but Az is all like "Let's go save Eris". Eris who both he and Cassian hates. Eris who Az himself nearly killed during the HLs' pre-war meeting (before he exhibited actual mate behaviour and sought and risked his life to save Elain who's not even his mate). But no, he gave just as much or even less action and reaction about Gwyn as Tamlin gave when Feyre was UTM.

And I was like...

How are they mates? Where's the mate behaviour every male - mated or not - in Prythian has exhibited throughout the books? Why did I keep seeing things about them being mates and endgame?

The only hint between them that I could even begin to consider it from is the second to last sentence in Az's BC.

"But Azriel tucked away the thought, consciously erasing the slight smile it brought to his face. Buried the image down deep, where it glowed quietly."

But I basically have the same interpretation about that as this post from @merymoonbeam. (Although I'm still neutral about the lightsinger theory, it's the most interesting take.)

Because again.

Why hasn't Azriel felt/shown anything or actively sought her out or even actively stayed away if he's known Gwyn since Sangravah?

If they're mates, shouldn't he have felt and shown something - like that glow - and Gwyn be the one to snap him out of his 'love' for Mor before he even had the chance to meet Elain? If he's just lonely and jealous of his brothers having mates then... Why has he barely noticed or sought out Gwyn who's supposed to be his mate?

What, he had to wait until his shadows reacted to her to even think about her?

I'm not an expert at analysing things - I wouldn't even say I'm good at interpreting things especially when I've got my rose-tinted glasses on, so/but I'm always open to being wrong and changing my mind accordingly.

But/so convince me with actual canon and not just your biased opinions, delusions, self-insertions, or ships.

[lexluvswriting]

ꔫ L'autunno.

ꔫ Ch: 5 [last page] [next page]

-> Pairing: Eris x ballet dancer!fem!reader.

-> (CW): x fem!reader (she/her), slow-burn, rivals to lovers, tinkle of angst on occasion, fluff, non-specified identity Summer Court!reader, no specific time in storyline except it's after Amarantha.

-> (TW): um… you guys now like each other ig. KIDDING! romance, pining, Eris opens up a bit, and so do you!! and you both kinda chill and it’s really fluffy.

W/C: 4.4k

╰┈➤ Lex's note: um… hey… me again. i promise i'll sincerely apologising for neglecting you all, but pls accept this fat, juicy peace offering <3 i love a male who has to yearn! as i always say: “to earn the puss, you must yearn the puss” (i only thought of this now, at 12:02 a.m.)

Your eyes widened, a laugh of disbelief leaving your lips as you shook your head, stepping back from him- to prevent from shaking him or kissing him again, you weren’t entirely sure.

“No. No! Absolutely not- Have you not listened to a word I’ve said?”

“Of course I have, and I meant everything I said- and did.” He tried to meet your gaze as you stubbornly looked away, trying to gather your bearings from what the hells had just occurred. He let out a breath, stepping forward with his palms exposed in what looked to be a placating gesture.

“You, my dear, are a radical.”

Your brow raised,

“A revolutionary,” He tried again.

“I don’t think that’s what it-”

His hand grabbed your face easily, as if it fit like a missing piece in his hand, and squished your cheeks to stifle your flat reply,

“Just… Listen to me. Brains like yours cannot be wasted in some- some shoddy little apartment complex. People like you- People with your sense of courage,” He amended after a not-so-silent silent look from you, “Are exactly what I need for when I become High Lord.”

“Huh?” Your eyes bugged out of your head as you finally pulled his hand away from your mouth, too distracted by his sudden shift of thought to even think of walloping him. Since when did you sign up to some lordling’s political campaign?

“You’d be absolutely perfect to meet the High Lord. Granted, your bedside manners need a bit of work, but you could really stir him up-” Eris kept pushing the topic, and your mind raced. 

“Eris! We- I… Alright, listen!” You held a hand up in case he wanted to interject, “Look, your strange, spontaneous agenda means nothing right now, not when you just- You just-” You gestured between you and him, and he rolled his eyes, as if you were the crazy one.

“Here we go.” He sighed, leaning against a nearby tree, watching you with a look that made you want to throttle him.

“Oh, ‘here I go’- You kissed me, Eris!”

“Darling, there are people dying-”

“With no warning?! No context?! Nothing!” And it was a damn good kiss too- weirdly enough.

“Yes, darling, I did. I don’t regret it currently, but I’m starting to think I should.” His tone was dry and amused, yet that same fire stayed in his eyes- like infant embers, waiting for more firewood. You faltered for a reply, before grabbing his arm and pulling him back to you as if he was some sort of doll.

“Hey!” Were you overreacting?! Were you just going insane? Yes, that must be it. Being with this absolute idiot must be making you lose your sanity- and you certainly told him as much. He simply snickered at your tangent, shaking his head.

“You almost had me beat, darling. I figured I’d find a way to settle the score.” The heir shrugged, making you growl softly as his trademark smugness surfaced again.

“No, Eris! It was strange! It was strange, and spontaneous and- You can’t just do that!” You argued, making the Vanserra male shake his head as he grabbed your face again with two hands to cup, looking into your eyes with a look that you swore held fondness amongst the blatant amusement.

“See what I mean? You work yourself up. You’re hardly a swan- more a headless chicken.” He mused, making you pause, looking up at him as you tried to decide whether to kiss him again or smack him- hard.

“Stop avoiding the subject-” You opted to grab his wrist, removing his grip on you, but keeping him close in case you changed your mind on not smacking him.

“First of all: I am meeting your father at the Equinox ball solely because you invited me to perform. End of discussion.” You affirmed, and Eris sighed in mock defeat, waving a hand dismissively.

“Next: are we going to talk about how you completely blacked out on me?”

At the mention of his flashback, he tensed slightly, jaw setting before shaking his head, wanting to pull away.

“It’s none of your concern.”

“None of my concern?” Your grip tightened around his hands stubbornly, “You looked unwell. Visibly. I couldn’t just ignore that-” You scolded like a worried parent almost, glaring up at him as you did so. He looked at you after you brought it up, his eyes narrowing slyly. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“And why, little swan, did you feel the need to be so kind? I thought you were supposed to have a severe ‘distaste’ for me.” He pushed it back on you, making you groan. Why did he have to be so wily and infuriating?

“Because I- I… Well, I’m not a bloody monster.” You replied hotly, cheeks warming as you glared at him, taking a moment to recompose before you fixed him with a stern scowl, squeezing his hands to prompt his attention.

“Look- I agreed to accompany you, and do whatever is required for the Equinox, yes. But we aren’t lovers, or casual bedtime partners for you to just use-”

“I have enough of those already, my dear, but thank you for the offer.” He flashed a canine in a smug grin, proud of his stupid humour, before your snarl made it fall back into a still smug smirk instead. You stepped into his personal space, grabbing him by the collar of his fancy shirt and pulling him to your eye level,

“I’m being serious! I am not some sort of toy you can reach for whenever you feel vulnerable, Eris.” 

You snapped, irritated at how badly that kiss had flustered you, rocking you off balance emotionally. His eyebrow raised at your assertion of the boundary, and he blinked slowly as if considering your blatant irritation, before his eyes trickled down to where your lips waited. Something must have flipped within when he kissed you, because you caught yourself wondering for a moment if he’d bridge the gap again.

Cauldron above, that kiss had practically ruined you.

That, or maybe, it was because you barely allowed yourself to get close to anyone beyond casual unions in the night, rendering you sorely touch-starved.

But you could not lie to yourself and deny that, in the moment, the way he held you- as if you were porcelain- the way his eyes softened- before kissing you so gently as if you were something sacred- hadn’t made you feel things you hadn’t felt in possibly ever.

“Get distracted, darling?” He caught the way you fell silent and hummed, before looking at the way you clutched the lapels of his jacket, reminding you that you were still holding onto him.

“You know, for someone so adamant on disliking me, you’re quite content to keep your hands on me.” 

“Yes, because you were- you are- acting like a damned child! I’m trying to talk to you about something important and you keep interrupting, or finding ways to distract me.”

Eris sighed, tilting his head to either side as he stretched his neck lazily, before smirking down at you.

“What a charming little wife you’d make. Nag in the morning, nag at night... How endearing. I pity the male who falls victim to you.” He hummed, prompting a soft huff as you rolled your eyes again.

“Oh, go off and fuck yourself-”

“Only when you’re watching, swan.” He winked, before adjusting his jacket and shirt once you stepped back to create a safer distance again, and sighed as you did not indulge him in more fiery banter.

“Fine, fine. I’ll address your concerns, since I do enjoy helping my citizens.” He drawled, catching your hand before it whacked him and tutting. He looked at you, as if he was trying to figure out how to handle you, before deciding to twirl you around and dip you, soliciting a squeak as your body aimlessly bent to his will.

“Number one: I kissed you because I wanted to. Granted, perhaps I should have asked, but I’d rather not have you bite my head off,”

You could feel blood rush around your body as your cheeks heated, and you became painfully aware of the way he held your wrist gently, and his other hand which had planted itself comfortably against the small of your back,

 “Number two: I… went ‘distant’, as you say, because I had a bitter memory of my father beating my mother the way he usually does, and I’ve realised it kills me a bit more each day I do not interfere. I mean, having the constant attention from everyone in the Court always being on you… having such high expectations placed? It’s utterly exhausting.” He huffed, as if he was talking about the weather, or the price of pumpkins at the markets. On the other hand, your eyes widened, your jaw dropped- bewildered by his casual delivery, but he shushed softly,

“Uh-uh, focus, darling,” He shook his auburn head, as if he didn’t want you to speak, “And number three: I am insisting on you meeting my father, because I-”

“Wait-”

“Because,” He tried again, “I do believe that, upon hearing of your unexpectedly high intelligence and combining that with your thorough contempt for him, it could mean that he will either get so offended at your criticisms and combust from the rage, or have a heart attack late in the night from stewing on your brazen audacity alone, which speeds up the process for me and makes my life easier.”

Your mind was convoluted with certain words of his that paralysed you with absolute shock- your eyes widening as you looked up at him with alarm, with shock- with concern.

“Hold on- I’m sorry-”

“Forgiven,”

“Did you just say the High Lord hits his wife?” A chill went through you as you asked it, already having your answer as he went rigid, eyes darkening for a split second, before he righted you on your own two feet with a scoff, adjusting his sleeves.

“Really? That was the part you paid attention to?”

“Eris?!” His only response to you was a sigh before he escorted you up the hill again.

--- ⋆⁺₊✧˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆ ---

You two returned to where your picnic had been, where there had been tea waiting, and talking.

A lot of talking.

Eris Vanserra, pompous prick and heir to the Autumn Court, had come clean with a lot of information you thought you’d never become privy to. Yet what bewildered you more was how horrible you felt about it. All of it, including your treatment of him. Your expression had never changed from the slightly stunned one, from the moment he started talking to the moment he finished explaining, and he snickered half-heartedly at your gaping face.

“Careful, darling. If you look at me like that, it might lead me to believe you care.” His smile was wry, yet his eyes watched you with a careful understanding, like he was worried you might keel over, or combust. Good. He should worry. It was certainly a lot to take in, listening to him explain how brutal it had all been living with such a monster, how it had structured his relationship with his many other brothers, how he watched his own mother lose her light. You made the mistake of picturing a young, chubbier-faced version of Eris, which made your insides squirm.

“Sorry-” You corrected your expression, forcing yourself out of your stupor as you looked anywhere else, not wanting to outright patronise him with pity or offend him with your mortification, “I’m just… processing.”

“Understandable. It is quite the tale.”

“Yes… it is.” You both fell into a contemplative silence, back at the top of the hill overlooking a myriad of fiery leaves that rolled throughout the forest. Finally, in a softer tone, you broke it first.

“I’m sorry.” 

“For?”

You snorted in disbelief at his tone, which made his russet eyes flick to your face. It was a good question, you’d give him that. Certainly one you weren’t sure how to answer. But you figured he had earned himself a sliver of redemption, so you allowed your walls to shrink ever-so-slightly.

“Living through all of… that.”

He waved a hand, brushing you off with a huff, but you shook your head,

“No, no. I’m serious.” You pressed, glancing at him before looking out at the sky,

“Having that for a childhood… It’s... That’s a different kind of horrible. I mean, I told you about me-” You gestured to yourself, not noticing how attentively his eyes followed your hand, before focusing on your face.

“I can’t ever really imagine having parents, let alone parents who never truly… liked each other.” You tread carefully as you referred to his parents' situation, which he seemed to appreciate as he nodded for you to continue mentioning your own life.

“I mean, I guess my upbringing was a little less… turbulent than that, in a sense.” He nodded in amusement, before waving for you to continue, so you did.

“My earliest memories are… probably ‘little me’, being brought up in an orphanage where I was coined ‘the odd one’,” You elaborated, scoffing in bitter amusement at the deep memory, barely catching that his gaze softened slightly. You shook your head, not wanting to let his sympathy soften you- as if the last few hours hadn’t already.

“I mean, they weren’t wrong. Still aren’t.” You shrugged, yet he continued listening, sitting up slightly, “But I learnt to embrace what were supposed to be my ‘differences’. Figured it wasn’t fair that everyone else felt content in their appearance while I couldn’t love my own.”

He nodded at your words, and you looked back at him occasionally, feeling… appreciative at how he seemed to process every word while you told your own story, bare and raw and brutally honest, all for him to have. It felt a little intimidating, feeling how his gaze never left you for a moment, even as you looked away from him at times, but you grew accustomed very quickly. He was listening… listening to you.

“I suppose, what I’m attempting to say is that… as different as we are… I can understand some of it. The burden of carrying such memories… the-”

“The loneliness,” He murmured, and you raised an eyebrow, stopped mid-thought.

“The loneliness… of going through something you’re absolutely certain nobody else is going through.” He finished the thought for you, looking uncharacteristically docile when you glanced at him to make sure he wasn’t mocking you, before slowly nodding in agreement. Something in your stomach ached at the way he looked so small, sitting all quiet and contemplative. It almost unnerved you, really, having a conversation with him that didn’t include the haughty bravado he would usually put on, when he acted like the heir of the Autumn Court.

That’s how you’d define the change, you decided. And at the moment, you certainly preferred ‘Eris, a mother’s son’ to ‘Eris Vanserra, pompous prick and heir.’ 

“Yes… That.” Your mind was practically screaming, your heart racing in your chest. This… this newfound levelling ground- this… connection- it was too deep, too intimate- far too intimate for your liking. You weren’t sure why this made you more uncomfortable than when he was angry at you in the carriage, but your heart was absolutely restless in your chest. You cleared your throat, looking down at the cobblestone of the amphitheatre floor and tracing idle shapes with your fingertip as you decided to lighten the mood.

“I mean, that, and having to pretend like it doesn’t haunt you… putting on a brave face for all the people who scrutinise you from their shoddy little apartment complexes… I couldn’t possibly imagine.”

A ghost of a smile curled on your lips as you repeated his previous words, and he chuckled softly at it, which pulled a knowing smile from you.

“Ah, yes… Woe is me, having issues with my father in our luxurious Vanserra mansion with our  many acres of land… What will I do with myself?”

He asked so miserably, playing perfectly into the role you set up for him, and for the second time that day, you rewarded him with your unrestrained laughter. At that sound, his face watched you with interest before you groaned softly. His eyebrow quirked up as he watched expectantly, seeing you shaking your head in a sardonic fashion before clicking your tongue, 

“Damn it all…” Your palm hit the floor of the amphitheatre you’d be dancing on in a few days time as you spoke with faux disappointment,

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

“What?”

“A civil conversation with you! It’s making you seem relatable, almost- as if you have the potential to be likeable… or something stupid like that.”

He snorted as you finished- snorted, like you were actually funny- before shaking his head as he rewarded you with a clear laugh of his own. You ended up chuckling too, watching as his smile grew- admiring it- while he thought over your words, before you realised your eyes were on each other again.

“[Y/N]... I’d like to start over.” He declared, making you tilt your head curiously.

“Perhaps there is something wonderful- dare I suggest, a friendship- to come from this.” He extended his hand, one you found yourself taking with a broad, wry smile of your own.

“Friendship, huh?” You raised your brow, watching him amusedly, like you were pretending to think about it. What kind of friends kissed each other, or despised each other the way you two did?

“If that’s the case, then I should apologise for the horrible presumptions I have for you, and the raspberry I ruined your shoes with, the day we first officially spoke.” You reflected on the bitterly comical encounter, both of you grinning at the image it planted, and your chest seemed to tug as you saw his smile.

“Ah, yes. Well, I forgive you. Please- forgive me for the horrible notions I have allowed the newsletters to fill your head with. I’d like to show you that I’m not just a callous, conniving bastard.”

“You missed heartless, womanising and cunning too.”

“I’d argue my cunning makes me lovable. And it’s not really womanising if females offer themselves willingly to me.” That damned smile made your chest tug again- your heart was doing pirouettes of its own- and you rolled your eyes.

“Fine. I suppose I can try to be civil.”

“Cordial?” He suggested,

“Cordial.” You amended, and he nodded, satisfied with the correction.

“Perhaps we’ll also share a few kisses of our own on the night of the Ball- proper ones, I can assure you.”

“Don’t push your luck, lordling.” He laughed at that too, his voice smooth, warming; like a strong whiskey. It kept something of an endearing smile on your own face as you sighed contentedly.

“Now… about meeting your father for matters of a ‘political nature’…”

“Yes?” You sighed at his eager tone,

“Eris, I appreciate your confidence in me, but I… I can’t.” Your face fell as you shook your head, making him scoot closer to you. Immediately his mouth opened, ready to refute your claims, but you held up a hand that had him biting his tongue obediently- albeit impatiently- as you shook your head again.

“From what you’ve told me… your father is the lowest of lows. Mud in a puddle is more honourable than he is. What could I possibly bring to him? What could I possibly say- How could I possibly say it in a way that’s important enough- powerful enough- for him to even listen?”

You posed questions that made him hesitate- and rightly so- before he shook his head. He even grabbed your hand in his own, to reign in your focus and emphasise the seriousness he wielded as he looked at you. Also because he couldn’t help himself.

“For me to say these points, he would ignore it. To him, all I am is a puppet. Heir in his eyes is a means to an end. If I were to suddenly show a change of heart and advocate these things in the comfort of our manor, he would wave me off; he'd say I’m as flowery as my mother, and dismiss it. But you- For someone who is, as you point out to me,  not of this Court… if you say something, it puts him in a predicament, [Y/N].”

His points did make sense, but you thought about your little apartment, the royalties you were barely living off, and your loving neighbours. It wasn’t like you had nothing to lose.

“Eris, if I offend him, he can erase me like that,” You snapped your finger, “I have a life here- as… conditional as it is. As far as I know, I was born here, dumped on a doorstep here, therefore I live here. I know nothing about the Summer Court- I have no friends, no family, nothing. Where could I go, should he want my head on a stick? My passions are dance, and music. Sure, I know how to read and write and put words together but I’m not a prolific politician. Who would take me in?”

Eris stilled at this, handsome face falling as his brows pinched together thoughtfully, before he waved a hand, not understanding the implications in depth,

“My brother has friends, as he calls them. Friends who could happily help you-”

“Eris! I’m not leaving my fucking home because your father can’t handle being told how shit of a Lord he is!” You scolded, pulling your hand away, but his face lit up, a fanged smile flashing as he clapped. You felt a pull in your chest as he smiled so brightly, 

“There it is. That fire! That’s what Beron needs to see. That is what he needs to be exposed to.” He urged while you groaned softly, holding your head in your hands.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

“We’re friends now, darling. My father will not touch you- not if he still wants his heir.”

You looked up at him, the expression on your face radiating ‘Bullshit’, yet you felt that strange pull yet again.

“So what? I get special treatment while your- while Beron’s men drag innocent people out of their homes in the dead of night still? No. That would make me no better than those who do nothing to help.” You shook your head stubbornly, sitting back as a servant came up to the Vanserra heir, murmuring something to him that made him sigh, before looking at you again.

“I wish you’d understand how brilliant your mind is, sweet swan.”

Your chest warmed at that, your heartstrings tying the endearment down, though your eyes drifted, unable to stay on him while your brain rattled at the cocktail of desperation and admiration his voice had spoken with.

“I know I’m brilliant, Eris,” 

Didn’t hurt to hear from him, though.

“Just… let me get the Equinox over and done with, before you try to get me killed off.” You negotiated, hating how convincing he could be, and how you felt yourself beginning to bend as the idea lingered longer in your mind.

“That wasn’t a ‘no’, darling. Oh, don’t give me that look- I’ll relent.” He stood up, taking the hands you stuck out for him to pull you along, and you nodded in thanks- enjoying the way he managed to make you feel like a ragdoll when you had relaxed completely. You both began to walk back to the carriage that had awaited you, not even realising how much time you two had spent together until the sun began to set, and your mind buzzed at a content frequency while you walked side by side, you hugging yourself from the mild autumn chill that developed in the sun’s absence.

“Excited to dance with me?” He nudged slyly, his cheeky smile pulling a chuckle from you. You almost hated how easy it was to laugh with him now that you had come to understand him. Strange, how easily perceptions changed with a simple conversation. Of course, he still had his moments like now, making you push his face away gently as you both walked, only for his hand to catch your outstretched wrist and pull you back, his other arm encircling your waist as he looked down at you, your bodies pressed flush together.

“That wasn’t an answer, partner.” He mused, the mere name making your breathing stop. You were helpless as you looked up into his eyes again, lips parting only for nothing helpful to slip out. Your own eyes shuttered before you turned your head away, as if to reduce the intimacy like you two hadn’t kissed already, and you huffed softly,

“What, am I excited for you to waltz me around like some little lady?”

“I’ve been told my footwork is magical. So magical, that it even strips ladies of their garments.” He hummed, full of confidence; confidence that made your stomach flutter. Truthfully, in the comfort of your private mind, you allowed yourself to admit that you felt aroused at the idea of being in a situation with him where he could strip you of your undergarments. But you saved face- refusing to let him have too much confidence- shaking your head with an amused glimmer in your eyes, voice full of mirth,

“There’s no possible way that line has actually worked on someone before.” You uttered, before giggling lightly, and his eyes narrowed playfully. For a moment, you thought he’d kiss you again, and pull you into that carriage as if to prove you wrong, but he twirled you around instead, letting you go as if to let you dance independently, and you laughed as you spun freely. After a moment, you slowed to a stop, the skirts of your dress fanning out before falling back against you while you watched him, tilting your head slightly.

“You plan on twirling me around like that all night?”

The way he looked at you in that moment felt like a manifestation of the tension that had slowly begun to accumulate, all of it gathering up in his eyes as his gaze followed you,

“If you smile, and sound like that after each spin, then yes.”

The words caught you off guard. You knew Eris Vanserra was a heartthrob- a complete and utter flirt, who could charm the pants off a statue if he wanted- but this look was new. This look was different. Deeper than he let on. There was no sly smirk, no cocky attitude, no cheeky banter to lessen the tension that settled, and your heart… your stomach, your core seemed to squeeze as he beheld you. Your gaze softened, your smile falling slowly as you swallowed, eyelids fluttering before you nodded, advancing towards the carriage again, though your gaze never left him.

“Right.”

╰┈➤ Lex's note 2: friends... i am so sorry for being inactive for so long! it was an unexpected hiatus, i didn't do as well as i thought i would in my exams, i was severely burnt out and struggling with my adhd meds as well as a plethora of mental/other issues but i pinky swear i am back and ready to pump out fics!! i had a bit of writer's block with L'autunno but we are back in business, baby!! i have had loads of ideas that i wanna write n share with you all (across whatever fandoms i feel creative inspo for) but pls send requests bc they do actually motivate me to stay consistent! as always, pls let me know what you think, be it a dm, a reblog or a comment!! love always, Lex <3<3<3

[rosanna-writer]

we said hello and your eyes look like coming home (24/?)

Summary: A canon-divergent AU where the bond snaps for Rhys on Calanmai, Feyre unwittingly accepts it, and Fire Night magic proves to be more transformative than anyone bargained for. Feyre drags a mate she hardly knows out from Under the Mountain, then puts him back together as war with Hybern approaches. Warnings: dubious consent, canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence Rating: Explicit Chapter Word Count: ~4k

ch. 1 - 10 | ch. 11-20 | ch. 21 - i wouldn't marry me either | ch. 22 - burn all the files, desert all your past lives | ch. 23 - i've still got love for you | ch. 24 - and the girl in your bed has a fine pedigree

It's quite brief and not the focus of this chapter, but just a note that there's some brief discussion of disordered eating/skipped meals.

Read on AO3 or you can find the twenty-fourth chapter below the readmore.

Cassian found me while I was on another one of my aimless walks through Velaris. Though honestly, they weren't completely aimless anymore—the city was full of public art, and I'd taken to walking by as much of it as I could.

Statues were easier to face than paintings. The largest concert hall had several on its roof—lullabies given physical form in the stone, marble creatures from fae bedtime stories, and lithe bodies of hewn dancers. Several streets over, water sprayed from sculpted copper river nymphs at the center of a fountain where children swam during the summer. And in a quieter square, a black granite memorial honored the warriors Amarantha had killed in an attempt to break a then-captive Rhys during the War.

Murals covered so many buildings, even outside the Rainbow. The soaring, multi-story portraits were far beyond the scope of anything I ever imagined painting myself; they didn't remind me of the thorny emotions surrounding my own art. I could let myself just appreciate the colors and shapes.

The mountains and pine forests of the Night Court were all brutal, untamed beauty. But Velaris had been made beautiful by the artists who'd called it home for thousands of years. It was a waste not to appreciate it, even if I could only manage to paint half-hidden decorations in the townhouse myself.

I'd been crossing one of the footbridges that spanned the Sidra when the shadow of a massive wingspan fell over me. Stopping to lean against the railing, I watched as Cassian dropped smoothly into place at my side.

There was a slight gust of wind as he pulled his wings in tight. "Rhys said you have orders for me."

I stilled. There was a deferential note in Cassian's voice that I'd only ever heard when he was speaking with Rhys—not as brothers, but as High Lord and his general.

I was aware, of course, that courts had a hierarchy and that I existed somewhere in it. Amren ranked above Mor who ranked above Cassian and Azriel—that much had been explained to me early on. I'd never thought much about it beyond that.

But if Cassian was taking orders from me, then Rhys was making it clear that he would not interfere in matters involving my father and sisters. My choice—it was always my choice with him.

"He told you about Nesta?" I said.

An expression I couldn't read flashed across Cassian's face. His wings twitched. "Is that her name?"

"Cauldron, what the hell did he say about her?" Whatever had passed between Rhys and Nesta clearly hadn't been friendly, but…I hadn't thought it was bad enough that Cassian would look so stricken at the mere mention of my sister.

"Nothing, other than that he'd met her. It's your business to handle."

"Nesta can see through glamours."

Realization dawned on his face. "Ah, fuck."

I laughed, partly just because it was a relief to hear Cassian stop speaking to me like I was someone with authority. Being his brother's mate—and his friend—was much more comfortable, familiar territory.

"Would you be able to talk to her about the sentries and ease her mind? She knows they answer to you."

"Of course."

For someone known as the Lord of Bloodshed, Cassian was remarkably reassuring to be around. I'd experienced that firsthand when I'd found him perched on the roof of the townhouse on my first day in Velaris. And there was nothing I could imagine intimidating him.

Well, almost nothing.

"Thank you. Nesta is…." I stopped short as I tried to find the words, eventually settling on, "She's her own creature."

Cassian knocked a wing against my shoulder. "I'm sure. There's no way anyone could have grown up with you and not come out of it unscathed."

I scowled. He barked a laugh, then added, "You're headed to the House of Wind soon, right?"

"Yes."

The world turned on its head as Cassian hoisted me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. There was no chance to wiggle out of his arms before we shot into the sky. I went limp, afraid I'd end up plummeting to the ground if I moved the wrong way.

"What the hell was that for?" I grumbled, resigned to my fate for the next few minutes.

"React faster next time if you want me to hold you more comfortably."

Bastard. But he was right—I still had quite a lot of training to do before being grabbed and winnowed unexpectedly wasn't such a concern when I stepped outside Velaris's wards. The practice was good for me, even if he was being an ass about it.

"Fine. Don't drop me on my head when we get to the House of Wind, then."

"Tuck your chin and roll. If you crack your skull open on the floor, we'll do remedial drills once it heals."

Learning to fall safely had been one of the first things he taught me, so I contented myself with a glare at the back of Cassian's head. "You're worse than Az."

His long hair whipped in the wind, smacking my face as he tipped his head back and barked a laugh that echoed against the townhouses below. I gritted my teeth and wished he'd fly faster.

But before long, we did make it up there, and my training was good enough that I earned a pat on my thankfully uninjured head. Cassian left for some sort of business with a promise that he'd be in the mortal lands as soon as Nesta gave me a date and time.

Brushing my bangs back into place, I retrieved a book from where I'd left it in Mor's office the other day. Now that I could read, she'd given me an open invitation to see any diplomatic correspondence that mentioned me and give input on her responses. I'd forgotten to bring my book back home when we'd finished working through the latest round of letters.

There had been more talk of me than I would have thought. Helion himself—not an underling—had asked about what would be required to ensure a human was comfortable during our eventual visit. There had been blandly polite inquiries about my health from the Autumn Court, though according to Mor, those were Beron's or Eris's attempts at fishing for information about me because I'd been the one to whip Lucien Under the Mountain. Even amid a discussion about fish imports, Cresseida, a Summer Court princess, had written that she was relieved to hear Rhysand was treating me well, though she'd left it unclear whether she meant as an emissary or as a…lover.

"They don't know that I'm immortal, so I don't see why any of them care," I'd told Mor, speaking freely behind the privacy wards that she'd casted to protect her workspace. "As far as they're concerned, I'll be dead in the blink of an eye."

"Why wouldn't they care about the fate of Feyre Cursebreaker, Savior of Prythian, a true living legend?" she'd said, brown eyes twinkling.

I knew Mor didn't mean it like that, but I still squirmed in my seat. It sounded too much like the faeries who occasionally stopped me when I was out in the city and thanked me for going Under the Mountain. They spoke about me as if I'd been a selfless hero, but in truth, I'd only been thinking of Rhys. Everyone else just…happened to also benefit.

"Because I'm not that interesting." And because I mostly just wanted to be left alone.

Mor shrugged. "Immortality gets dull after a century or two."

I wondered if I'd ever be able to speak about being alive for so long with the same nonchalance. It was easy to forget just how old my new family was. They were all ancient, even if none of them looked a day over thirty.

"It must if I'm what passes for interesting around here."

Rolling her eyes, Mor swept her golden hair off her shoulders, twisted it deftly around a finger, then secured it to the back of her head with a spare pen. "It won't kill you to be a little less modest. You're allowed to be proud of yourself."

I wasn't sure exactly when I'd forgotten that, but I had. And I was grateful for the reminder.

Today, however, Mor's office was empty. She was back at the Court of Nightmares, but I wanted company, so once I'd grabbed the book off of her rosewood desk, I made my way to the library downstairs.

Several heads whipped in my direction when I entered, gems on their foreheads glittering. I froze. Evelyn, the priestess who'd taught me to read, waved me over to the table where she was sitting with several others.

I'd studied with them before. Roslin, who sat next to her, was a historian, and she'd been kind enough to make me a list of books about Night Court history that were appropriate for someone who knew nothing about the subject. Many of them were children's books. But still, Roslin, Evelyn, and the others didn't mind answering my occasional questions about what I read, and ever since I'd helped with the aftermath of the attack on Cesere, I'd always been welcomed to work alongside them.

No one had ever been crass enough to voice the silent, shared understanding aloud—that I might not have sworn an oath to the Mother and donned a hood, but I was still like them. Another female who'd been through an ordeal and found solace afterward in quiet study here.

But today…when I didn't move, Evelyn merely waved her webbed hand more frantically. Confused, I slid into the seat between her and Roslin.

"We have news for you," Roslin said. Her voice was low, almost conspiratorial.

"You do?" I said.

"Ianthe returned to the Spring Court."

I blinked. "Who is that?"

"The worst," another priestess at the table, Deirdre, said without looking up from the yellowed pages of the hefty tome she was reading. Roslin brought a hand to her mouth to hide a giggle.

Evelyn rolled her coal-black eyes. "The youngest High Priestess in three centuries. Her father sent her family to Vallahan—that's on the Continent—when Amarantha took over. Apparently, now she's back."

I was only vaguely aware of what the High Priestesses did. There were twelve of them, apparently, and Rhys had conferred with some of them regarding temple security after the attacks. They were as powerful and well-connected as nobility, but I didn't understand the intricacies of it.

Maybe I should have asked Mor for more detail when she'd explained all this to me a while back. "Is that a bad thing?" I said.

The look Roslin gave me was….sympathetic. "Clotho mentioned the news came in a letter with other updates this morning. We thought you should hear it first, considering your history with Spring."

It seemed as if she'd done me the courtesy of making sure I wasn't blindsided by something important and possibly upsetting. I just wasn't sure what. But still, I appreciated the gesture, even if I didn't quite understand.

"Thank you," I said, though the words came out as a question.

Deirdre flipped to the next page of her book. "Ianthe is unofficially banned from the Night Court because she tried baby-trapping the High Lord."

My immediate, instinctual rage was so strong that my vision went white for a moment. If anyone said something, I didn't hear it over the roaring in my head. My breathing nearly went ragged.

If any other female even considered bearing my mate's offspring, I'd feed her her own intestines.

A gentle hand on my arm snapped me out of it. I took a breath, hoping my reaction wasn't too insane. And before Rhys could hear anything, I clamped down harder on my mental shields. We'd never discussed the possibility of children, but this certainly wasn't how I wanted to broach the subject.

But perhaps I didn't have as much self-control as I would have liked, because the words that slipped out of my mouth were, "She can live if it means she's making Tamlin miserable."

Roslin laughed. "No wonder Rhysand loves you so much."

The tight feeling in my chest loosened. She'd said the only thing that could have made me feel better when the feral instincts of the mating bond were riding me hard—a casual observation that Rhys loved me. Not that he cared about me as merely as an interesting human playing or a useful emissary doing his bidding.

Knowing that an outsider had noticed was…comforting.

But still, I was curious. The Spring Court had been quiet since our return—no signs of interest in either a misguided attempt at saving me from the wicked Night Court or killing me in revenge for a perceived betrayal. Azriel's spies had reported that Tamlin still kept the boarders with Summer and Autumn sealed shut. We knew very little.

"Do you think Ianthe wants to be Lady of Spring?" I asked.

Deirdre's face darkened, and the scars criss-crossing her cheeks, a reminder of whatever she'd survived before coming to the library, seemed to deepen. "Despite our vows to serve the Mother, some of the sisters are more interested in serving their own ends."

Rhys had said I was the only one he'd ever sent after the ring tucked under my tunic, but there must have been plenty of others who'd wanted it, as dangerous as being Lady of Night could be. It worried me that one of them had now set her sights on my kidnapper.

Maybe it was for the best that Night had no diplomatic relations with Spring—I wouldn't have face Ianthe at some dull courtly function.

And perhaps it was all the talk of sisters, but I couldn't help but think that Nesta would know precisely how to politely eviscerate her if that ever changed.

I'd gone quiet, and the conversation had petered out. We returned to our books, and I flipped to the page I'd marked because there had been a word I didn't recognize and needed to ask about.

"By the way," I said, "What does def— defenes—"

Unable to pronounce it, I gave up and pointed to the word as Evelyn peered over my shoulder. "Defenestrate. It means to throw someone out a window," she said.

"Does that really happen enough that there's a word for it?"

"It was a favored method of execution in the Court of Nightmares a few millennia ago," Roslin said. Her smile turned into something a bit ghoulish as she rested her chin on a fist. "Isn't history just fascinating?"

I laughed, not sure I agreed, but enjoying myself all the same. This was certainly better than Tamlin's war-camp limericks fashioned out of the list of words I didn't know.

It was a good way to pass an afternoon. And it hadn't been a waste, exactly, but by the time when priestesses left for their evening prayers and Rhys had slipped into my mind to let me know he might be late for dinner, I had to admit to myself that I was procrastinating. I still needed to send that letter to Nesta.

It wasn't the wording that I hesitated on. Nesta would feel more comfortable if she knew what Cassian looked like ahead of time—to be sure that the meeting wasn't more faerie trickery. So I intended to enclose a sketch.

I'd set myself up on the roof of the townhouse, paper and pencil in hand, and wrote the letter. That much had been easy enough. But when it came time to draw…I froze.

After the painting I'd done all over the townhouse, I'd thought I could manage it. But this was different. Those designs had been impersonal—flowers, birds, flames, that sort of thing. A portrait, however, was a statement by the artist about the subject.

I couldn't hide. But I also needed to get this done, and all I could do was sit and stare at the empty paper. I'd faced actual danger much more fearlessly, but somehow….a blank page left me paralyzed.

That was how Rhys found me when he landed some time later. Before he could say hello or ask how my day had been, I said, "Could you help me with something?"

He went preternaturally still. Better than anyone, Rhys knew how difficult I found it to ask for things, especially help. I might as well have just declared a crisis.

"Whatever you need," he said, violet eyes roving over me as if he were looking for injuries.

"I'm sending a sketch of Cassian to Nesta so she knows who to look for when he meets with her. Since you're a daemati, could you help me…er…hold a picture of him in my mind while I draw? It'll be more accurate that way."

I actually didn't need that—I knew perfectly well what Cassian looked like. But I couldn't do this alone, and it felt a little pathetic to admit that I wanted the comfort of Rhys's mind curling around mine.

He understood anyway. With a wave of his hand, the chair I was sitting in became a bench wide enough for us both. He sat, draping his wings over the back, and pulled me against his side.

He hadn't even touched my mind, but I'd already relaxed just from having him near. Getting closer to Rhys always felt like straightening out something that had just been askew.

Mate.

A talon rapped politely against my shields, and I let him in. The picture formed, sharper than I would have been able to manage with just my own mind's eye—Cassian, with his rough-hewn features, shoulder-length hair, and easy smile. Not so obtrusive that I couldn't concentrate on anything else, but clear and easily reachable. A perfect, helpful reference.

Rhys's mind encircled mine just as surely as his arms did. For anyone else, that might have been terrifying, but I was held—not fenced in. Cradled. Rhys was there with me, every step of the way. Even the darkness settled around my shoulders.

I managed it. The sketch was hardly my best work, but it didn't have to be. It was accurate enough, and I folded the paper and let it disappear before I had too much of a chance to nitpick my own creation. Rhys, who must have known I didn't want an audience, kept his face buried in my hair and scented me instead of peeking over my shoulder.

Once the letter was gone, I swung my legs to the side, crossing my thighs over his and letting my head fall against his chest as his hand rubbed soothing circles on my back. I could hear his heartbeat through the fine embroidered fabric of his jacket, slow and steady. We sat like that for a while, until the first few stars appeared in the sky.

"You haven't eaten anything, have you?" Rhys said eventually.

Right. Dinner. I'd told myself I'd eat once I'd sent the letter, then gotten so caught up in not being able to sketch that I'd forgotten about food entirely. But now that I thought about it…I was starving.

"No, but I need to," I said, standing up.

Rhys was looking at me curiously, with an expression I couldn't quite name. He'd once told me he could feel my hunger pangs through the bond, but I wasn't quite sure if that was what this was about.

"You could have told me sooner that this was a bad day," he said gently.

"It wasn't. Not until I tried to draw. And then…" It had felt like everything came crashing down.

"Come," he said, taking my hand. "Let's not let an empty stomach make it worse."

Cerridwen had long since left for the day, and the meal she'd left us had gone cold. Rhys set about heating it up again, shooing me away from the oven when I tried to help.

Instead, he reached into a pocket dimension and pulled out a wine bottle. "You can open this and pour if you really feel the need to make yourself useful."

"There's a cellar downstairs," I said, hopping down from my perch on the countertop to take the bottle.

There was wine down there, and whatever magic protected the townhouse had kept the bottles pristine—not a single speck of dust had touched them during his fifty years away. Because I'd refused to snoop, I hadn't known they were even there until Mor had insisted on opening one that first dinner after we'd returned.

Rhys flashed me a wicked smile. "The good wine is downstairs, where Cassian can steal it and think he's put one over on me. But I don't tell him about the best bottles, and they stay where he can't get to them."

I couldn't help but feel a warm rush of affection. Even in something as small as this, Rhys couldn't help but be a sneaky, conniving bastard—who also trusted that I'd keep his secrets.

We sat down, and it was hardly the first time we'd eaten a meal together. I was still acutely aware this was the sort of evening I'd dreamed about Under the Mountain—idle chitchat about how our days had been, enough food, weather mild enough to leave the windows open and let the salt-tinged night breeze inside. Everything we'd fought for, really.

We'd just been finishing up when Nesta's response arrived, the note appearing out of thin air next to my plate. Rhys hovered in the doorway, far enough to make it obvious he wasn't trying to read it, but concern for me evident on his face.

Nesta had given me a date and time, then written, Send an accurate portrait, not cover art from a cheap romance novel. No one actually looks like that.

I hadn't embellished anything. The sketch might not have been my best work, but it was true to life. And if it had truly been bad, Nesta would have said something far more scathing.

With a small smile, I picked up the pen that had appeared and wrote, I haven't been able to read long enough to take inspiration from novels. You can trust it's a good likeness.

I thought that would be the end of it. But the dishes were in the sink, and I was halfway up the stairs and intent on drawing a bath when the paper appeared again.

Was Rhysand angry? An illiterate wife would have difficulties running his household.

I was tempted to scoff or roll my eyes, but those words had a certain weight to them when they came from the woman who'd nearly married Tomas Mandray. Instead, I considered what to say while I brought the note to my room.

There's not much of a household to run. The palace is for business only. Rhys and I are the only ones in the townhouse where we reside. He wasn't angry, though. Just concerned and horrified on my behalf.

Her last note of the evening arrived as I stepped into my bedroom. Your husband is quite strange, but send him my regards. Please ensure General Cassian arrives on time for our meeting. Goodnight.

No pen accompanied the note; Nesta clearly intended the conversation to end there. I tried to let it go, though I wished I'd asked about Elain and my father while I'd still had the chance. But still, it was one of the most civil conversations I'd had with Nesta in recent memory.

Perhaps it was easier to be kind when we weren't looking each other in the face.

Though we could now sometimes manage without it, out of an abundance of caution, Rhys and I took the sleeping draught that night. We'd taken to knocking it back together, then kissing goodnight.

We weren't quite fine yet, but we were getting closer.

[climbthemountain2020]

Your Eyes Whisper Have We Met? - Chapter 15

Ch. 15 | Ao3

Thank you @witch-and-her-witcher and @popjunkie42 I love you!

[Some NSFW content and a dash of horror! Enjoy!]

For a while, their days and nights were exactly the same, something so horrific starting to feel commonplace as they neared the end of the second week. The first task was coming, and everyone could feel it in the buzz of the air. Amarantha had said nothing to them in the way of a time frame, likely hoping the element of surprise would work against them, but the hum of anxiety and excitement in the air belied the truth. 

The days ran together, the hours hard to track without the sun. It left her feeling a little crazy, and disoriented that her body and the anxiety contained within it would spike, clock or no, as they neared time to go to the throne room each night. But still, Feyre treasured every moment she spent with Rhys, even in that place. Even with the time lost, she was keeping her mind and body as busy as possible, keeping herself focused on other things and doing her best to move forward through each day. 

Feyre would wake up with Rhys curled tightly around her, they’d eat breakfast, train as much as they could get away with before sunrise, pack away additional food, and then he’d winnow her down to the dungeons. She’d bring that food to Calla, then also give Calla her portion from the guards. Calla looked exhausted, but Feyre and Rhys were doing their best to keep her fed well and her spirit buoyed as they ambled towards the first task. 

“Are you sleeping at all?” 

“There’s a lot of screaming at night, but I’m okay.” Feyre was worried, but despite seeming tired, Calla was clearly trying to remain upbeat. They’d had a chance to discuss Feyre’s magic in more detail as they scrubbed the floors one day. After talking it over with Rhys, Feyre had chosen to only disclose that she could occasionally speak in others’ heads along with the fire magic. True to her nature, Calla had been openly annoyed that Feyre had kept it from her. 

“Did the curse keep you from telling me about that, too?” she’d bit out as her scrubbing became nearly violent.

“No, but I had only told Lucien and Tamlin the night before the attor came.”

“So not another secret you were all keeping from me then?” Calla refused to look at her when she asked, focusing all her attention on the grimy floor in front of them that she was scrubbing raw. 

The comment stung, but Feyre deserved it. She focused on turning the murky water clean in a manner so agonizingly slow that Calla wouldn’t notice. She felt guilty, but she was still keeping secrets for everyone’s sake. Calla didn’t know how to guard her mind–if any other daemati happened to join Amarantha’s court, it would take nothing to breach the walls of her thoughts. Truly, if Feyre hadn’t slipped to speak in Calla’s mind in the throne room, she likely would have kept that from her, too. She wondered if she should be concerned with how easy it was to explain all this away, but it was for the good of everyone, even if it made her feel like shit. 

“No, Calla. I’m sorry.” Calla sighed, her shoulders dropping, but she said nothing more. 

Most of the time was spent in companionable silence, Feyre not sure how to go about repairing the trust that had been broken while still finding companionship within the trauma they were suffering. 

“Are you doing okay?” Calla asked. Feyre was shocked by the question. 

“I’m okay. All of this is so overwhelming, but being here,” she lowered her voice to barely a whisper, “with him. It’s all I’ve wanted for so long that it doesn’t feel real, even amongst all the horrors.” It was true. Feyre almost felt selfish for the joy that she was getting to experience amongst all this misery. Calla stopped scrubbing to put a hand on her thigh.  

“He healed me when no one else came. As long as he is good to you, I don’t care about the rest.” 

Feyre hadn’t realized how much she’d needed to hear it, tossing her own brush into the half-clean water and throwing her arms around Calla’s neck. Calla froze for a moment before returning the hug. 

“We can make it out of here. We can.” Feyre wasn’t sure if her words were meant more for Calla or herself, but she said them with conviction anyway.

+++

Aside from the daily chores, Feyre and Rhys were allowed more time than she’d dared to hope for. Every afternoon, she’d return to his room, spending the few moments she could with him while Nuala and Cerridwen prepared her for court. She didn’t miss the way his eyes roved over her hungrily each night, the desire in them so thinly veiled he might as well have come out and said it to her face. 

Despite that, all they’d done since her arrival was kiss, quite passionately at times, and Feyre was jumping out of her skin. She ached to run her fingers along his skin, her body seeming to reach out for his every time they were near each other. But she knew what Rhys had gone through, knew what he was still going through, and she would give him the right to choose when he was ready for more with her. 

Despite the requirement for their presence every night at court, it had provided them with some excellent quality time to talk while she sat at his feet or in his lap as his toy. Occasionally, she would dance for him like the courtesans that filled the halls once dinner had been put away and entertainment brought in. She’d been shy at first, the thought of what all those human suitors back at home might have thought edging her mind with shame. But at the feral, possessive look in Rhys’s eyes despite his nonchalant expression, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of enjoyment at the activity. Knowing that she had that power over him, the ability to send small cracks through that mask he’d perfected for so long, left her feeling confident beyond measure. At first, the high fae had giggled and pointed, but then, after a night or two, it had become as normal and commonplace as everything else, exactly as they’d been hoping. People lost interest in Rhys and Feyre and what they were doing, and it allowed them more freedom to sit and speak mind to mind for the hours they were expected there. 

Rhys told her all about the way they’d been trapped there, the details that Vincent hadn’t known well enough to share with her becoming clearer. He told her about how with the last dregs of waning power, he’d cast the strongest protective spell he could over his home, warning his family and effectively trapping them there to keep them safe. 

Tell me about your family. She glanced sidelong at him as she asked, and though she could hear his longing sigh in her mind, his face remained impassive, almost cocky as he surveyed the crowd while she sat at his feet. 

Morrigan, Mor, is my cousin by blood, born and escaped from the horrors of the Hewn City. You and her are going to get on impossibly well, I can already tell. I’m sure you’ll both be driving us up the wall in no time. 

Feyre thought she might like her a lot, too. 

And Amren is a terrifying creature millenia older than all of us trapped in a teeny tiny fae body. We try not to piss her off when we can help it. She cares a lot about us though, in her own way. I think that the two of you will get along nicely. I’m certain you’ll have earned points with her already for your grit and determination. 

Feyre loved that Rhys spoke of their time together in the future as though it were a sure thing. It gave her so much hope to see him imagining her meeting his family, blending with them as though it was a certainty. 

Cassian and Azriel are my brothers. They’re Illyrian, so they have these massive wings. 

Feyre was intrigued by that--she tried to picture it. 

Like a bat? She could hear Rhys’s rolling chuckle in her head. 

Much larger than a bat. The Illyrians are the Night Court’s most fearsome warriors, and they make up a majority of Prythian’s aerial forces. But Az and Cass are my brothers–we met in Illyria during my time training–the half breed and the bastards. Truly, you remind me a bit of Cassian. 

It was Feyre’s turn to laugh. I remind you of a fearsome, winged warrior? Did you drink the wine tonight?

No, smart ass. You have that same spirit, that unbreakable hope and stubbornness of will. And I can see so clearly the way you dream. They way you fight for something more. In truth, I see a bit of all my family in you. I know that they’re going to love you. 

I can’t wait to meet them. 

Feyre paused, wondering again about his home. She’d seen the maps of the Night Court when she was in Spring, remembered the separateness of it all and wondered what part of it Rhys lived in when he hadn’t been trapped here. She remembered the way he’d told her about the mountains of the ring she wore, glamoured here to be invisible. He’d said they were representative of his home. If he’d thrown wards up to hide it like he said, perhaps it wasn’t on any maps she’d seen.

Where do you live in the Night Court? 

Rhys paused a moment, not speaking immediately as he had been. She could feel a rush of nerves through his mind straight down through her chest, as though the emotions were her own. 

Will you let me show you?

Of course. 

She felt the gentle caress of him against her mind, pushing just past where they spoke, and she bit back a gasp as she felt their thoughts meld into one. Suddenly, she was soaring, the scene in front of her no longer the macabre visage of the throne room Under the Mountain, but the sprawling white-tipped mountains of a city far away. 

The stars shone like diamonds above them, the sky fading from a periwinkle at the horizon to the shades of deep navy, plum, and burgundy above. She felt the exhilaration as the wind whipped at her face, her eyes drawn down to the city of lights below, wrapped like a gift by the gentle, winding curve of a long and lovely river. She could smell the rich spices and cooking foods from the city below, hear the peals of laughter and feel the joy of the citizens. The air smelled like citrus and the salt of the sea–it smelled like Rhys. It smelled like home. 

The city was cradled on the other side by mountains of the deepest red clay, the lights twinkling from it as though a dwelling had been carved directly into the face of it. As she drew closer, she could see that’s exactly what it was: a home carved into the smooth face of the mountain, and she was nearly to the balcony of it. 

She dropped in the sky, circling around as the people below came into view. A beautiful female with flowing blonde hair, smiling and waving excitedly. A petite female next to her with a black bob and goblet full of dark liquid, looking imperious except for the relieved glint in her eyes as she looked up. Finally, she saw two winged males, exiting the massive double doors and shoving at each other while they laughed. Her heart leapt into her throat to behold them all there, all smiling up at her. 

A word flashed through her mind that wasn’t her own, a sigh on the breeze. 

Home . 

She blinked and she was back in the throne room, her eyes feeling strangely misty as she drew in breath. 

That is your home? It looked like nothing she’d seen on the maps or books of Night. 

That is Velaris, the City of Starlight. Mine and my family’s home. 

It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. 

You won’t find it on any maps , he said as though reading her mind. Centuries of High Lords have kept it guarded from the world, and I have kept that tradition up. I sacrificed myself here to make sure Amarantha never found out.

Thank you for sharing it with me, Rhys. 

I can’t wait to share it with you in more than just memory. Feyre felt her heart clench again at the longing and determination in his voice. 

Home. 

More than anything, she hoped that he was right. 

+++

When they arrived at court the following night, something was different. The tables were not set out for dinner, and Amarantha already sat on her throne, the crowd full and flush with high court and low court fae alike. Strangely, Tamlin was nowhere to be found, the seat beside her vacant. Feyre steeled herself, ready for whatever horrors might be coming–a change in routine here typically meant something gruesome. 

But instead, the crowds were focused on Rhys. She schooled her face, looking ahead as they parted. 

“Rhysand,” Amarantha’s voice rang out above the near-silent crowd of fae. “Come here.” 

Stay close to me.

He put a guiding hand on her arm, securing it more roughly when he remembered people were watching, then walked them towards the throne. As the crowd parted, they saw a male, a high fae, sobbing on the floor. His beautiful, dark skin was shining with sweat and tears, and even with the walls high in her mind, Feyre could feel the anguish washing off him. 

Amarantha did not deign to look at Feyre or Rhys as they approached, her predator’s smile locked in on the male on the floor. 

Remain at the edge of the crowd. If something goes wrong, find Lucien. 

Feyre did as he said, reluctant to leave him alone, her heart thundering in her chest. 

Amarantha finally turned her eyes to Rhys as he stopped at the foot of the dais, sketching a low bow. 

“My queen.” 

“Rhysand. The Summer fae,” she said of the male cowering at her feet, “tried to escape through the exit to the Spring Court lands. I want to know why.” Feyre knew Amarantha would be using Rhys to break into this male’s mind, cracking him piece by piece until he gave the information she wanted. She felt a crush of guilt in her chest. Was it because she could easily do the same? She had that same power beating through her body right this moment, and yet, the entirety of the burden fell on Rhys. 

Rhys slid his hands into his pockets and sauntered closer to the male on the ground. The Summer faerie cringed, his face shining with tears and the sobs choking out of him in croaking breaths. Feyre wondered how much information Amarantha had gotten on her own before they had arrived. The fae turned his eyes down, and Feyre looked away as he wet himself while Rhys grew closer. 

Gods, but they feared him.  

She was glad Rhys was turned away from her while he approached the male. She knew she wouldn’t be able to see the feral smile on his face matched with the pain she was certain she’d find in his eyes. 

“P-p- please ,” the male gasped out. 

Feyre could hear the silence around her, the air so quiet that it felt thick. She took the opportunity to scan the crowd, finding Lucien across from her, a short sprint away if things went awry. Halfway between the two of them stood a lovely young fae male, the same dark skin as the one kneeling on the floor. However, this fae had hair the soft white of the sand on the beaches her father had visited and told her about when he'd brought her home that shell. It seemed centuries ago, an entirely separate lifetime. 

She recognized this male though, from the books in Spring. It was Tarquin, the High Lord of Summer. That's why he looked so young–he'd been instated when his court had rebelled. Rhys stopped short in front of the fae, tilting his head to the side as he looked down into the broken male’s eyes.  She could tell Rhys was inside of his mind when he fell silent, his shaking ceasing as he slumped to the ground. 

Tarquin stood as still as stone, and his face was contorted with the true pain of seeing someone die from what was likely his own machinations. He was young, new in this position. Feyre wondered if he'd ever had to make choices that cost him lives before. He looked sick to his stomach. 

Rhys spoke and Feyre nearly jumped; she'd been so lost in her own thoughts. 

“He wanted to escape. To get to the Spring Court, cross the wall, and flee south into human territory. He had no accomplices, no motive beyond his own pathetic cowardice.” 

A lie. 

Feyre knew it, though Rhys’s voice remained steady and nonchalant. She could see Tarquin’s whole body deflate, as though sighing in relief. And Feyre knew what Rhys had risked, what he’d lied for. 

Amarantha simply huffed as she slumped back in her throne, resting her head back against the backrest. 

“ Fine. Shatter him, Rhysand. Then Tarquin can take the body.” The High Lord of the Summer Court bowed as if he’d been given a gift. The unnamed male from Summer had gone entirely still on the floor–Feyre was shocked to find him looking relieved . Rhys took his right hand from his pocket, letting it hang limply at his side, the only movement a slight curling of his fingers.

“Hurry it along, Rhysand. I grow bored.” Feyre felt guilty at the relief that Amarantha’s attention was not on her. 

Feyre watched closely as darkness, the full force of night, seemed to wrap itself around Rhysand’s shoulders as his fingers curled into a fist. The male on the floor went boneless, his entire body crumbling down into the puddle beneath him, blood pooling from his ears and eyes. 

Rhys had killed him. 

“I said shatter his mind, not his brain,” Amarantha snapped. She was visibly irritated, her dark red brows furrowed in agitation. The crowd murmured and rustled around Feyre, but her attention was on Rhys, still holding himself as though it were just any other day. He shrugged, putting his hand back in his pocket and looking up at the throne. 

“Apologies, my queen.” He was already walking away, back to that chair in the far corner of the room. Feyre hustled to catch up to him, falling in step right behind him so as to not raise suspicion. The crowd parted for them as though they were on fire, the berth so wide it would have been comical in any other situation. Rhys didn’t acknowledge her, didn’t acknowledge anyone around them, just walked with his shoulders still loose as though he had all the time in the world. 

That killing had been a mercy, and whatever he had seen in the male’s mind, Rhys had lied. Lied to save others, lied to spare Tarquin. The High Lord of Summer had known it, and so had the male about to die. It was why he’d looked so relieved, so ready. Rhys had spared them all, taken pity on all their lives and shown mercy. And yet, everyone here tonight would view him through the lens of the monster he’d made himself out to be. 

Rhys didn’t stop until he reached the table full of food and wine, servants now milling about and refilling it each time something was taken. This was clearly in lieu of the dinner they’d forsaken for Amarantha’s entertainment tonight. Rhys grabbed a goblet from a serving boy and drained it in one gulp, grabbing two more and handing one to her. 

They moved to his seat, her choosing to sit on his lap instead of the floor tonight. She ached to take his hand, to comfort him in some way, but the physical proximity would have to do. For the first time, she took a sip of the faerie wine, the taste sharp and somehow still sweet on her tongue. Perhaps it would help a bit to forget. 

The night went on in a blur of movement and drinking, Feyre sticking to only one cup and still feeling nearly out of her mind while Rhys threw back goblet after goblet, drinking himself into oblivion. They didn’t speak, not even mind to mind, and Feyre didn’t push, choosing to respect his space and be there for him when he was ready. But she hadn’t anticipated how lonely it would feel without his presence in her mind. His soft voice and low, rumbling laugh while they discussed any and everything had become so commonplace during their nights here, she felt empty without it. Her chest felt hollow and she wondered if she’d ever felt so alone, even though she was warming his lap beneath her. 

By the time it was acceptable to leave, Rhys was hardly able to function. He missed the winnow three times, dumping them into multiple hallways before finally landing in the room. As soon as they did, he waved his hand to lock the door and set up the sound shield, slumping back onto the bed and falling to his back. He was a sight, and Feyre decided to return the favor of running a hot bath for him, assuming he didn’t pass out before she’d returned. Once she’d lit the candles and filled the tub to the brim with steaming water, she returned to get Rhys. 

At first, she wondered if he had fallen asleep, his hands pressed over his eyes as though blocking out the low light. But then she saw the glint of the tears on his face.

He had been crying. 

She approached the bed, gently touching her hand to his as he pulled back, his bloodshot, wild eyes meeting hers as though he was surprised to see her there.

“Come on, to the bath.” She pulled him up, her hand grasped in his as she led him to the washroom. She untucked his shirt, pulling it from his waistband and undoing the buttons, then easing it off his shoulders. She unbuttoned his trousers, bending down as she removed those, too, then pulling his socks from his feet one by one until he was left in front of her in only his undershorts. She removed those too, his body shuddering beneath her fingers as they brushed his skin. 

“In you go.” Her voice was gentle, and he stepped into the steaming waters. 

“Don’t leave.” His voice sounded stronger than Feyre had anticipated, but that edge of need in it stopped her short right before the door. 

“You want me to stay with you?” He nodded. “Out here or with you?”

“With me. Please.” Feyre didn’t say any more, simply stripped off the scraps of fabric and belt and stepped into the bath with him, settling across from him in the tub and meeting his eyes across the water as the paint bled off her skin and into the steaming bath. The pain on his face nearly debilitated her, knocking the wind from her lungs and filling her with such a powerful sense of hurt and guilt and shame and rage that she gasped for air. 

“You saved Tarquin tonight, didn’t you?” Rhys’s eyes locked on hers as he nodded again. “It was a bigger plot?”

“Yes.” 

“You chose to save that male a life of suffering. You took his pain, didn’t you?”

“But I still killed him.” 

“You showed him mercy.”

“I am a monster.” She swam across the tub and found his arms open and waiting for her. He pulled her into his lap, turning her and resting his chin on her bare shoulder. She could feel the rasping exhale and ragged inhale of his breath on her. 

“You are no monster, Rhysand.” 

“You don’t know me, Feyre.”

“I do, though. I do know you.” She turned, tipping her head back to look into his eyes, pressing her lips to his. He was still for a moment, her lips eclipsing his before he relented, moving against her as though resisting the temptation were entirely beyond the realm of possibility. 

I do know you, Rhys. A monster would not have shown mercy.

He gasped against her lips at her voice in his mind. 

I do not deserve you, Feyre. But I will selfishly keep you as long as you let me. 

Forever, then. She could hear him sigh in her mind, his body going slack finally, the tension starting to melt off of him. 

Forever. 

+++

Feyre could tell it annoyed the guards that she was able to complete her tasks each day, and always early. They were too stupid to tell she was using magic, and Feyre was being far too careful to get caught. Even when she reached the point where she could have done the chores with a snap of her fingers, she paced herself, whittling the time away until it seemed more realistic. 

Each day, they came up with something more stupid and tedious, and each day Feyre thought through a way she might make it easier to complete. Between time speaking mind to mind in court and time spent in their room together, Feyre had been able to train more with her magic since arriving. She’d had a good enough handle on the powers before coming Under the Mountain to impress Rhys, but to be fair, he always acted awed at anything she did. It was a lot easier to practice with someone else than just alone in her tub, though, and getting to flex her powers a bit every day was certainly helping to strengthen them. 

Today, the guards led her deep into the mountain down dark hallways that reminded her of her first day there. The walls were more roughly hewn here, the air damp and heavy. Every room held a heavy iron door similar to the ones in the dungeons, but they were much closer together than the room she stayed in with Rhysand. She wondered what designated where people would stay here, how the mountain itself could possibly hold all the people currently living there. 

An abrupt turn led them into a massive, dark bedroom. It looked unused, an unassuming layer of dust across all the surfaces. As Feyre’s eyes adjusted, she could see there were no real items of personality to be found, simply some old stacked boxes, and a sword with so much dust on the pommel that a spider had strung its web between it and the wall. 

“Today you’ll be cleaning the fireplace. A servant spilled lentils in the ash.” Feyre wondered what a servant had been doing in here since it didn’t look particularly clean, but she kept her mouth shut. She wasn’t too ignorant to tell that the guards and Amarantha used these daily tasks to screw with her–she was certain they’d just tossed a bag of lentils in this morning. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. 

“Clean it up before the occupant returns, or he’ll peel off your skin in strips.” That got her attention. 

“Someone lives here?” The guards sneered at her and laughed, slamming the heavy iron door behind them as they left. Feyre rushed to it and bolted the lock as soon as they did. 

Peeling off skin in strips?? Whose room was this?

She wondered if she should try to call out for Rhys, but she wasn’t sure how far the connection stretched. Certainly by now everyone knew he was using her as his property. Surely they’d know he would be irritated at least if someone touched her instead? Rhys wasn’t exactly portraying himself as someone who liked to share. 

The thought reassured her, but she still scoped out the situation in the hearth so she could start getting to business. There were so many lentils in the dark fireplace that the little rounded dots blurred together before her eyes. There was hardly any light to see by, either, which made picking them out more difficult. She sighed, calling on her magic to find it…lethargic. A wash of panic came over her then. 

Oh no.  

She pulled again, calling from that now-familiar well inside of her. 

Nothing. 

A tiny, distant hum of nothing. Not even enough to conjure fire in her hand to light more candles. 

This was not good. 

Feyre pushed the panic down, reached into the fireplace, and began digging. 

Two hours later and her eyes were burning and aching, the joints in her hands feeling tender and swollen from the meticulous picking through the ash. Every time she thought she’d reached the end, there were always more she found–a never ending task that was exhausting her, her stress so palpable that she’d begun shaking and never stopped. 

With no magic, she couldn’t call Rhys. With no magic, she couldn’t finish this task or defend herself. No wonder Calla always looked so exhausted. 

The guards hadn’t specified how long she’d have to complete the task, and she was terrified that the owner would be back any moment. Who could it possibly be? One of the High Lords, perhaps? They’d all looked so stern and unforgiving in court. If anything, though, she knew the one from Autumn was the most bloodthirsty. She sent up a little prayer to the Mother that it wouldn’t be him. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by the turning of the lock, Feyre whipping around and grabbing the wrought iron fire poker to defend herself. 

Surely none would dare hurt her , she reassured herself. She was in the deal with Amarantha. But her thoughts stuttered there. Was she, actually? Calla was. But to the court member’s knowledge, Feyre was nothing more than a slut for the High Lord of Night. Would they think she would perform for them, too? 

A racing darkness entered the room, the candles blowing out as though a strong gale had blown through. The door never opened, despite the clicking of the lock, and Feyre’s breath caught in her throat as she gripped the fire poker tightly in her hand. She would not go down without a fight. 

The darkness settled on the bed, nearly glittering in what was left of the low light, and Feyre’s shoulders slumped as a familiar, grinning figure materialized on the bed like some trickster of lore. 

“Rhys,” she breathed. “Thank the gods.” She was so relieved to see him she was nearly lightheaded with it. 

“As wonderful as it is to see you, Feyre, darling,” Rhysand said, sprawled on the bed, his head propped up by a hand, “do I want to know why you’re digging through my old fireplace?” He seemed to be in a much lighter mood today, and Feyre was relieved to see it.

“They said I had to clean out lentils from the ashes, or you’d rip off my skin.” 

“Did they now?” A feline smile crossed his face, a perfect brow lifting, and Feyre couldn’t help the heat that settled in her stomach. In another world, she wondered how this cat and mouse game might go. She wondered if Rhys might have still chased her without having met her outside of all this. Would she have let him having only seen him as a villain? She shuddered at the thought, but the reaction was not born of fear. 

“Do I have you to thank for this idea?” She cocked her head playfully at him.

“Oh, no,” he drawled. “This is my old room. I almost never use it any more. I came in today simply because I was told to vacate the rest of my items for a new tenant. I'd moved to the other one higher in the mountains years ago. I use this one only for storage purposes. I'm truly surprised no one else has moved in before now.” This room was bigger than the one they shared, but farther from the court. She didn’t know where Amarantha’s quarters were, and she didn’t want to know if the implications were what she thought they were. 

 “Is this clean enough for you?” She gestured back to the fireplace teasingly. He took in the pile of lentils and her dirty appearance.

“Why were there lentils in my fireplace to begin with?” 

She gave him a flat look. “To toy with me, I’m certain.” 

“Hm,” he said, sitting up on the bed.

“What's her goal here? She knows you and I are together every night, why put me here?”

“Likely more torture for Lucien. She asked if I was enjoying this the other night. I might have implied I had a few more sick plans for you, to which she seemed delighted. Perhaps she’s just giving me the opportunity.” 

Feyre immediately went on edge. “Or setting a trap for you.” 

Rhys suddenly cast out his power, sitting all the way up on the edge of the bed, the darkness snaking around the room as though searching for something. He furrowed his brow as it wrapped around the room, skirting over the walls and then pulling back into him. 

“No magic is spying on us here; nothing is listening or tracking as far as I can tell.” He cast what Feyre now recognized as a sound shield anyway. 

“I couldn’t use my magic here.”

“I cast a damper when I lived here,” he grinned. “Only I can use magic in this room. Now, are you going to put down that poker, or can I expect you to start swinging soon?” Feyre had forgotten entirely about the fire poker, laughing lightly as she leaned it against the wall. Rhys stood from the bed, walking slowly towards her. 

“So vicious, my Feyre.” His voice was low and predatory, the tone of it entirely changed. Feyre’s stomach fluttered, her heart racing as he closed the space between them. 

“A valiant effort, but useless,” he said. Why did the words turn her on so much? 

“How is it that you have such power still and the others don’t? I thought she robbed all of you of your abilities.” 

He lifted a groomed, dark brow, now only inches away from her. “Oh, she took my powers. This…” A caress of talons against my mind. Feyre sighed into it, back meeting the stone of the fireplace behind her. “This is just the remnant. The scraps I get to play with. Tamlin has brute strength and shape-shifting; my arsenal is a far deadlier assortment. And stronger ” He wasn’t bluffing– he was by far the strongest High Lord, and that did something else to Feyre’s fluttering heart. 

She swallowed, trying to continue talking. “So you can’t shape-shift?”

He stepped closer, his face nearly touching hers as his fingers caressed her jaw and she closed her eyes. 

“So many questions from my little human.” But just as she felt his lips graze hers, just as she was about to give him and press against him, she heard a crack like the snapping of leather or a whip. 

Her eyes shot open in awe, the most unbelievably beautiful set of wings now present on Rhysand’s back, a smile of male pride across his face. These were the wings of his brothers, the wings of the Illyrian aerial forces. They caught the low light, illuminating red through the veins and scars of the membranes that looked velvet soft. 

“Beautiful,” she whispered before she could stop herself, and his expression softened into something different. She reached out to touch one, and he let her, though he shuddered as she pressed her fingers gently down the flesh of it. His eyes closed, his breath inhaling between them. 

“Feyre,” he whispered it like a prayer, his eyes opened but hooded, now shining with something that looked a lot more like lust than anything else. Every nerve ending in Feyre’s body was firing, the intensity of it all lighting her up like the solstice. 

“Well, Feyre, are you going to finish the task, or not?” His voice was rough, hoarse with need. She nodded absently, catching on to his game as his voice sent shivers down her spine. 

“Yes, High Lord,” she said coyly, turning just as she saw his eyes gutter shut again with the words. 

She turned back to the fireplace, jutting her hips back as she did, bending low to the ground again and making a show of it as she knelt. Rhys didn’t say anything, but his sharp exhale made her smile as she ducked back into the hearth. 

She didn’t even hear him move before she felt his warm hands on her back, the teasing touch as his fingers brushed over the thin fabric and up and down her spine. She arched into the movement, swaying her hips and grinning again as he bit back what sounded like a curse. She busied herself with shuffling absently through the ash, though she felt nearly certain there weren’t many more lentils to be found. Rhys’s fingers found purchase beneath her tunic, pushing it up and wandering around the skin of her back and hips while she sighed. When those fingertips met her waistband and tucked into the sides, she wiggled her way out of them as he tugged. She could feel the cold air against the wetness forming between her thighs, the position she was in preventing her from rubbing them together for any form of needed friction. 

“Eager, Feyre?” The low timbre of his voice shot straight down her spine, her heart pounding in her chest as she practically vibrated from the absence of his touch. 

Yes . She jutted her hips out further. She had waited so patiently for him to touch her, to want this intimacy outside of whatever strange Calanmai magic or dreams they had shared before. 

She felt him pause. Had she said the thought aloud? 

Tell me you want this. 

I want this. 

Thank the Gods. And his hands were on her. She felt everything as he gently slid a knuckle up and down her slit, gasping for breath as the touch shot zaps of lightning through her veins. She whined as he pulled away. Just how I remembered. 

She turned in time to see him pulling a finger from his mouth, the movement nearly causing her body to buckle and collapse. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be working on something, love?” His voice was nearly a purr in Feyre’s ear, and she whipped her head forward, the remaining lentils in the fireplace taunting her even with her bared lower body exposed to the open air. Rhys didn’t waste time, his fingers back to exploring the second she had turned to the ashes. Feyre absently reached her fingers out, running halfheartedly through the cinder as Rhys ran his broad fingers through the wetness between her legs. She barely caught a breath before he was bent over her back, the solid, warm weight of him barely pressing into her. 

He dipped his fingers in right at her opening, then returned them upwards, her body banking as his fingers circled her clitoris. Feyre was so wet that his fingers easily glided in circles around her, her body already shaking with the sensation of it, her breath coming in short gasps. 

She was so close already, so tortuously close and the magic in her chest began to swirl violently, as though he’d lifted the damper on the room. She could feel everything , the lust, the desire, the pure, unadulterated want suddenly crashing through her and it was impossible to breathe. 

More. 

And Rhys didn’t hesitate, plunging his fingers into her, letting his thumb take over their previous job rubbing tight, quick circles around her as she fell apart. Feyre whimpered and ground back against him, entirely lost to herself and the whims of his fingers. She didn’t even attempt to control herself, letting the sensations guide her. Rhys bent just slightly more, his lips finding her neck and placing kisses on it as she writhed beneath him, the lentils and the fireplace and the task forgotten as he pushed his own hips against her. When he bit down with his sharp teeth on her earlobe, pressing his fingers firm and deep, she was lost. 

Feyre’s whole body quaked with the force of the orgasm he’d pulled from her, his free arm winding beneath her stomach and holding her steady as she came and came and came. It seemed to last forever, the sensation of his fingers slowing and caressing gently as she came down from it all, her body shaking and pulsing and her magic humming like a renewed beast between her ribs. 

They breathed together for a few moments, allowing Feyre to come back to herself and lightly whimpering as he removed himself from her body. He cleaned her gently, lovingly, and when she raised to her feet, he pulled her in to press the softest kiss against her lips. His lovely wings had disappeared, pulled back into his back as though they’d never been there at all.

“But you didn’t get to–” He shook his head, smiled and gripped her hands.

“We will have time. This was perfect.” Feyre chose to believe him, though the need to put her hands on him was becoming overwhelming. He looked down, seeing the soot that covered her hands and arms and his tunic now, as well, snapping his fingers to vanish it all away. The hearth was now cleaned, too, the lentils neatly piled in the provided bucket and the ashes pushed back into the fireplace as though she had done it all alone. 

As if summoned, the door roughly swung open, the guards on the other side stomping in then slamming to a stop once they realized Rhys was present. The panic in their eyes made Feyre smile. 

“She accomplished her task.” They grabbed for Feyre, but Rhys bared his teeth at them, a snarl ripping from him that sent heat flying through Feyre’s entire body. “She'll be staying with me for now.” 

Then, their eyes went vacant, as though they were no longer seeing, their bodies swaying slightly in place. “No more stupid tasks. One task, every three days. Otherwise, I will be taking over her chore assignments. Tell the others, too. Stay out of her cell, and don’t touch her. If you do, you’re to take your own daggers and gut yourselves. This applies to the other prisoner, too. The human. Understood?” 

The guards nodded in synchronicity, their glazed eyes staring out at nothing while Feyre smiled smugly at them. She was glad Rhys had included Calla, too. There was no denying the guilt she felt that Feyre was here, able to train and use magic and eat nourishing meals at a table while Calla all but rotted below. Even with the additional food and blankets and healing and protections, there was no denying the discrepancy in their stations here. It ate at Feyre, but knowing Calla would get a break too, especially as they neared the first task, set her mind at ease. 

As the guards left, the door slamming and bolting by itself behind them, Feyre let her shoulders drop, feeling safe as Rhys pulled her into his arms and winnowed them back to their room. 

+++

The next morning, Rhys woke Feyre gently, his nose nudging into her neck as she sighed. 

She closed her eyes, knowing that they’d soon have to get out of bed and eat and begin the day, but she wanted to savor the few moments in between. They were the moments she could pretend they were elsewhere, one of those lovely, large beds from their shared dreams in a place far away from here. 

Slowly, the two became aware of a rush of sound from the passage that led alongside their room, the voices and footsteps echoing off the walls as though many were passing through it quickly. Feyre turned in Rhys’s arms, looking into his eyes with renewed anxiety. 

The first task.

They shot out of the bed, dressing and throwing the necessary glamours over Feyre. 

“No matter what she faces, Feyre, you must let her. We cannot interfere.” Feyre blanched at his words. She knew he was right, but who knew what was waiting for Calla in the throne room? Could Feyre let her face it alone? Leave her to die? She would have to. 

Rhys put his hands softly on her face, pressing a fierce kiss to her brow. “Promise me, Feyre.” 

“Okay.” She nearly choked on the word. 

He flung open the door, Feyre letting him pull her along the hallways that were now nearly vacant of people. They must have been some of the last to arrive, the news spreading fast in the cave systems throughout this horrid nightmare court. They were not, however, going to the throne room. At the final moment, they cut left, equally massive doors opening into some sort of rock-hewn amphitheater. As they neared the doors to the arena, Feyre could hear the cacophony of sound ramping up to violent levels, hoots and hollers and shrieks that sounded like a crowd about to rip someone apart–thirsty for blood. 

They descended the endless stairs, the crowds jeering and shouting around them, but not focused on them. The attention was all aimed down at the bowl of the arena, a large platform built out to the sides and high fae surrounding it on the sloping walls of the audience. Rhys tugged her along behind him, the crowds dispersing row by row as they continued down, down, down. Amarantha sat on the platform in a new throne, the smaller one beside her holding Tamlin, vacant-eyed and more exhausted than Feyre had ever seen him. For the first time since that first day, it was pity she felt for him instead of resentment. He looked broken, that mask of indifference cracking a million different ways. 

As they approached the platform, Feyre could see five other high fae lined out around the thrones; Tarquin was one she recognized. Rhys took his place in line, her instinct to fall at his feet now second nature in these situations. She kneeled on the floor in front of him, taking in the rest of the motion around her. Even on the busiest nights at court, she hadn’t seen this many fae. Down in front of the platform, at the very center of this arena, was some sort of strange maze, walls of mud and clay seeming to defy gravity and draw upwards. Would they make Calla run this maze?

It wasn’t long before Calla was dragged in by the attor, her body thrown to the muddy ground in front of the platform. She and Feyre made eye contact for a moment, then she looked at Tamlin. Feyre was positioned behind the thrones, so she couldn’t see Tamlin or Amarantha’s faces anymore, but the crowd quieted as their queen began to speak. 

“Well, Calla, it’s time.” Feyre could almost hear the taunting smile on her face. “The first task has arrived. Let’s see how deep that human love and loyalty runs. This task seems fitting for you. I hear you’re a huntress.” 

Calla looked like she wanted to smile, but bit it back at the last moment. She would need that grit, that spirit for what remained. 

“Go ahead, look.” Amarantha goaded, as Calla rose from her knees to lean over the edge and look down. 

What is it?

Rhys didn’t answer, and Feyre didn’t dare turn to look at him. Calla didn’t see the attor coming, and Feyre’s warning scream died in her throat as Calla fell deep into the muddy trenches. In the chaos  and jeering and cheering from the crowd that followed, Feyre got to her feet, joining the people in crowding the edges to peer down into the muddy pit of dug out walls. 

Muddy walls, dark, carved caves. 

The stench was overwhelming. Feces and mud and stagnant water and death. Below, Calla struggled to keep her balance, the mud already swallowing up her legs to the shin as she strived to stay upright. 

“Hunt this,” Amarantha called out from the platform as a great rumbling began beneath their feet. Calla looked back up at Tamlin, and though Feyre couldn’t see his face, she wondered what was happening in his own mind as he beheld what were potentially Calla’s last moments. 

Feyre beheld in the distant trenches what looked like pieces of wood sticking out from the mud as the rumbling grew loud enough to vibrate their feet. 

Not wood. Bones. Mud and trenches and bones, and a body large enough to cause the whole mountain to shudder. 

The crowd moved to near silence, only whispers finding Feyre’s ears. 

She had read about this before, a lifetime ago, in one of Vincent’s books. 

Calla looked up to the platform one last time before the beast barreled out into the arena, Amarantha’s gleeful whisper filling the quiet air. 

“Run.” 

Then all hell broke loose. 

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[geniemillies]

Yearning For Spring | Ch. 1 | Tamlin x Oc

— Chapter 1 - The Green Handkerchief

Summary: It was always doomed from the start. Before the fall of the Spring Court, before the horrors of Amarantha's reign, and before Tamlin could even become High Lord. Fate played its hand long ago and brought them together, the string loose and the bond one-sided. Choiceless and caged, Niamh bears the weight of this secret as a heavy burden, this cursed bond she will take to the grave, condemned to only dream and yearn for spring.

A/n: The first chapters of this story is a very.. very long prologue for their meeting, centering around Niamh (pronounced Neeve) throughout the events of pre-acotar to acowar in Hybern’s setting, showing her side of the story, her struggles and her yearning. I'm attempting to expand/rebuild the world of Hybern, give it the story it deserves because I am baffled that the main villain location of the first books are never further built, and the people are depicted as cartoony villains. Like. The entire land, everyone is born evil. No no. Justice for Hybern. So I will be trying to write Hybern, The King, add actual people, lives and struggles, lots of struggles, and might also write Hybern a new future. But don't worry there is.. a lot of yearning. It's in the title. The girl is fighting for this man-

Ch. Warnings: implied sexual harassment, implied animal cruelty (I swear not by any mc), things get extreme in Hybern ok, Hybern as a place should be a warning on its own :^

__ Ch.2>>

Hybern Castle — Two years after the Treaty

Another party. Another night of standing beside his chair on the dais, overlooking the crowd of Hybern officials as they partied, their faces a mask of joyful expressions, their bodies too rigid as they moved about the floor like puppets under their marionette's gaze.

“Incredibly uneventful.” I hear Brannagh whisper beside me. Her twin mimics her dead expression beside her. Guess I'm not the only one who thinks so.

“Quiet. Don't slouch or he will punish us again.” I scold through gritted teeth and feel their posture shift at the command. “Just until past midnight and we are dismissed.”

I feel them sigh in unison before stepping off the dais to stand in some corner away from the throne, away from where the King might see them. Yet I stay still, unmoving despite my legs and neck beginning to sore at the lack of movement.

Just until past midnight.

The ball went on as usual, the music getting louder with each hour while the dance floor remained filled with rigid dancers. Wine continued to flow and stomachs filled and this party seemed to go on for an eternity.

I hear the King's laughter echoing throughout the room, followed by several others as they clash glasses and exchange vulgarities. Mainly discussing political and military matters that did not need a child's attention but I listened in anyway. Nothing eventful. The King would find a way to spin the subject towards his hatred for humankind to which his circle were more than happy to indulge him in.

In a corner of the ballroom, I spy through the tiny slits of my mask a servant tripping over a lady's gown, echoes of breaking glass did not do as much as startle the dancers but their nervous eyes dart to where the servant was dragged to the kitchens, crying and spilling his apologies, his voice muffled as the door closed and then– nothing.

The dancing and laughter did not stop.

In a corner of the ballroom, I spy through the tiny slits of my mask, the twins gossiping amongst themselves in quiet solitude. They spot me from all the way over here with pleading eyes, I want to leave. But I only shook my head and they already knew my answer. Not until we are dismissed. And with that, they continued to sulk.

In a corner of the ballroom, I spy through the tiny slits of my mask… Amarantha. With her wavy locks of red hair and a dark dress that outshined every other lady in the room. As always, heads turned as she walked, whether or not it was out of respect or admiration or fear, they turned their heads and I knew she basked in the attention.

Before I could roll my eyes and turn the other way I spotted— green amidst a sea of dull colours. Amarantha makes her way to a boy.. strikingly close to my age. His hair was gold in colour. Gold like I've never seen before. It is a rare thing. Hybernians mostly have dark hair but there is the occasional rarity born with red locks.

Right. The King has once again invited a Prythian Lord, our closest ally from the neighbouring island. The High Lord sits with him now in his circle of friends, bearing the same golden hair as the boy Amarantha’s currently harassing. I felt unease as her hand brushes against his shoulder, how he'd shiver and say words I could not hear. Stop, maybe. Most likely. Because she always does this. To him especially, none of the other brothers are treated that way, much less spared a glance by her.

“Niamh.” His voice jolts me from my thoughts and I almost flinch to his direction. “More wine, dove.” The King orders, slouching in his seat.

“Yes, my King.” I turn to one of the servants ready at my command. “Three more bottles of Crimson Oathe. And tell the others to fetch a dozen more from the cellar. We'll be here for quite a while.” Seeing as they're already drunk and craving for more.

The servant came back in a flash with what I requested and I hurried to the King and his little circle of friends. “Pour.” He orders simply and I could feel his friends’ gaze in my direction. I do as I'm told, pouring scarlet liquid onto everyone's golden goblets before pacing three steps away, standing straight with the bottle still in my hands.

They continue their conversations and I stand there until I am dismissed. It is the rule. I cannot walk away from him unless I am told so. Sometimes I thank the Mother for the mask on my face, hiding the discomfort in my expression. I never liked being too close to his circle. Do my best to avoid them, really. His group mainly consists of highborn Lords of Hybern, however few they might be, and military officials that control his armies.

I stay there with my head down, listening to their horrid conversations, unable to mute out their loud voices.

Then I felt it. Felt it before it could even touch me— the hand of an older fae hovering up my arm that I felt all the hairs on my body stand.

Go away. Go away. Go away. Go—

I grabbed his wrist before he could go any further, earning a grunt of pain from the older male. The conversation ceased around the King's circle and all eyes were on me and the death grip that was my small hand around his bedazzled wrist.

“If. You could refrain. From touching me. Good sir.” I do not look at him. I do not do as much as move. I cannot. I might kill him.

“My hand! My hand!!” He cries out. I feel his pulse on my skin, the blood desperately flowing in his wretched veins. I felt my nails digging into flesh, scratching against skin and drawing blood. I smelled it, rotten and unsweet.

“My King!” He looks to the King, hoping to find his aid.

But he only looked, a simple grin on his face as he watched red seep out of his wrists, tainting my own skin. “Niamh. Drop the poor thing's hand.” I hear a chuckle leave his throat. Being used to following his orders— I do just that.

“Careful with this one, Lord Galdiir. She is.. a fascinating one. She will not hesitate to feast on your bones right at this very table. Perhaps then we'll have a real show.” The King laughs once more and other people follow. He snatches the wine bottle out of my hands, his eyes wandering to the blood that smeared my palm. And even with the mask I spot his smile curling into a smirk.

“And next time I hope you'd be wise enough to remember not to touch something that is not yours. I will have your head ripped from your shoulders if you ever touch her again.” He threatened and the circle went quiet.

“Now.” He doesn't face me, only flicks his wrist. “Go.”

And so I left that corner of the room, my left hand shaking, the smell of blood that isn't mine violating my nose. I did not return to the dais and as I passed guests I saw a glimpse of the twins’ face, riddled with worry. Yet they do not follow me.

The music and chatter from the ballroom faded as I now find myself in the empty terrace just outside. I let myself breathe in air that I couldn't find inside that wretched room. Yet, not even fresh air could calm me down. Couldn't really call it fresh as there's always a rotting smell that came with it.

Because this place is rotten. Void of light, life, anything, really. It is a cage.

The terrace overlooked a large garden of shaped trees and bushes that formed a maze. I'm glad for the night's darkness as I knew the dead colour of the leaves in morning light would only sour my mood. At least the sky looks peaceful. Though, I wish the fog would show more stars. I could not even see the moon, only a blur of reddish white light.

I look down at my hands, dark crimson taint the my palm. I press my fingers to it, feeling it sticky and warm and vile. Then my touch lowers down to the golden cuffs etched on my skin, smudging red on it.

I urge to curse, to rip this stupid mask off my face and storm to my room. More often than not, I think about it. But I know the consequences of leaving the King's presence without permission. And so I suck it up and inhale the rotten air, rubbing my bloodied palm, willing myself to believe that midnight would come soon and I could return to my room.

But I sense a presence approach, quiet footsteps make their way to the terrace. Then the intruder stops, standing at a good distance from me.

I froze and thought that if I turned around and left it'd be considered rude. So I shift uncomfortably, looking to the side and to my hands below, glad for the mask on my face for once. But when I caught a glimpse of gold at the corner of my eye, I was forced to look to to the person who had interrupted my solitude.

It's him.., the youngest son of Spring.

He dons on green fabrics, golden accents throughout his outfit that matched his long locks that cascaded down his shoulders. He smells like flowers and morning after a storm. His gaze is fixed to the garden forward and I wonder if he felt my gaze on him.

“Good evening.” He says, his voice quiet and soft and nice.

I snapped out of my thoughts and did a subtle curtsy to the young Lord. “Good evening.” I was told to treat our guests from Prythian with the warmest welcome and yet I forgot to greet him first or address him by his name.

“Forgive me, I was simply–”

“In need of some quiet?”

“I've been in search of it all night.” He said, his gaze torn away from me again. There is a stiffness on his shoulders, a longing for home in his eyes. He does not wish to be here any longer. And neither do I.

“It was beginning to feel suffocating. In there. With all the tense dancing.”

I slightly turn to face him again.

“Sorry. I meant no insult. It's a nice party.” A nice attempt at a lie.

“No.” I hesitate. But no one else is here. No one to hear me speak ill. “It is not.”

I hear a pause, a flicker of surprise maybe. That someone actually has a mind of their own around here. “It is not.” He repeats and maybe I heard a smile in his words, a quiet relief that someone understands.

“Perhaps we could enjoy the silence together?”

I look at him again, my face betraying the look of surprise at his suggestion. I did not say anything when I looked away from him.

But I stayed. And quiet company has never been so peaceful.

My shoulders relaxed as the minutes passed us by quietly. I could still hear the music in the throne room, the sounds of the King's laughter and the clink of glasses. In the stillness of the night, away from the noise and commotion of the party, the gardens below lay silent, and the only sound to break it was the gentle breeze rustling the leaves of trees.

And for a brief moment, I felt respite. I don't know why. Maybe because of the silence. Maybe it is because of him and his very presence that brought a calmness that I didn't know existed. The air seemed more bearable in his presence and for the first time tonight my heart was at peace.

My eyes faltered ever so slightly as I fiddled with my palm, the blood now cold on my skin.

I never want to go back inside.

“I'm sorry that that male has made you uncomfortable.” He quietly said as I felt him extend an arm to me. So I looked and he handed me something..

A green handkerchief.

I stared at it for a good while, confused as to why I am being given such a present. Then I realised that my bloodied hand was still visible and he had seen my outburst earlier.

I take the handkerchief slowly, inspecting it as if it were a strange thing. And it was strange, this kind gesture. I felt my lips curl up into a soft smile.

I began wiping the blood off my palms, smudging red onto the green fabric. “I'm sorry, too.” I mutter.

“About what?”

“About Amarantha.”

He goes silent and looks away in discomfort. “She always does this.”

“I know.” I continue to wipe, fighting the urge to scoff at the mere thought of that female. “She does not take kindly to ‘no’.”

I hear no reply. As I finished wiping the blood off my hand and cuff I looked at the fabric sullied in crimson. “Thank you..,” I trail off, forgetting his name despite going through the guest list just hours before the party.

“Tamlin.”

“Tamlin..” I finish wiping off the blood and I hand him back his handkerchief, completely facing him this time, letting myself see his face through the tiny holes of my mask. “Prince of Spring.”

He only seems to look towards the cloth in my hand. “Forgive me but I do not know your name either..”

“Niamh.”

“Miss Niamh..”

I nod my head and offer him back his handkerchief. He looks at it for a moment.

“Keep it.” He said, reaching for my hand with both his, closing my fist around the piece of cloth. A gift.

I was taken aback for a mere second. I've never been given a gift before. Never had much to say thank yous to. Never had to be grateful. A very foreign and yet.. welcome feeling.

He closed my fist and my eyes failed to remain averted. I look back to his face to see emerald eyes looking back at me. An expression of gentleness that couldn't be found in the eyes of Hybernians. I wonder if there are more like him back on the land he hails from. More people with genuine smiles and golden hair. I wonder if he deems the garden before us a pathetic piece of land compared to the endless fields of flowers back at his court. And maybe if I look into his eyes long enough I could see a glimpse of what that may look like.

I felt myself lost in them. Because I’ve never really seen green like that. Green that swirls with other colours of the earth. Strange and pretty. Even Hybernian trees are of lifeless colours. So I couldn't help but let my gaze linger for a moment longer.

“I cannot–” I gasped.

I flinched, my back arching slightly, the words stolen from my throat.

'What–?'

I grip my neck as I felt something pierce through my back, to the centre of my chest. Like a sword, a needle—No. A spark. Like lighting from the calmest of storms—struck me, right through the heart.

I staggered backwards and I stared at him like he might've inflicted such pain on me, the mask I wore hiding the horror on my face. But when I looked at him again, my heart beat so strongly against my rib cage I thought it might've broken out of it. Every bone in my body seemed to falter into brittle stones as if every part of me was faltering then and there. I wanted to touch him, grab his hand and take him away–

“Miss N–” He reaches out to me, his face riddled with concern. But before he could touch me again I gathered every bit of my common sense and— disappeared.

I panicked and winnowed away, appearing in my room disoriented from the sudden shift of my surroundings, as if I hadn't winnowed all of me, my back hitting against a table as I breathed heavily. I fall to the floor and grip my throat, desperate to stabilise my breathing before letting that hand fall to my chest where I could very much feel the beating of my heart. I still feel it. The spark. Like it's sentient, living inside me, telling me to go back to him.

The thrill of that spark dies inside me when realisation sank, replaced with nothing but dread and fear as I recall back to the books I've read on the matter. The romantic, forbidden tales of fated mates. Libraries are a rare thing in Hybern, the King deeming it worthless to record our histories when he alone exists to remind every single soul in the island just how we were robbed of everything in the Treaty that happened just two years ago. He does not care much for stories outside of those that he only thought mattered. Education of the most basic things are not encouraged, instead he favours military training, condemning all fae, high or lesser, young or old, to be trained ruthlessly into military submission.

Father thought the concept interesting albeit useless. Brannagh thought it a curse. Dagnan doubts its existence. How the Mother bonds two souls together on a whim, on a baseless calculation that the two might work well together. And now she dares pair me up with the youngest son of Spring. Someone so different. So out of reach. So out of my league.

Someone I can never ever have.

She dares play cruel jokes on me. Or perhaps she is simply cruel. That would make more sense. She’s always been cruel when dealing with my fate in her hands.

I did not return to the party. I lay in bed awake that night, my head filled with nothing but images of his face. There wasn't a moment where I wandered to other thoughts, afraid that if I did I couldn't burn his face into memory hard enough. And a hundred years may pass and I might forget his face. The thought alone broke my heart.

The bond didn't seem to snap for him and I could only sigh out of relief. Good. It's for the best. I know well what happens to the things that bring even the smallest amounts of joy into people around here. He takes them, breaks them, ruins them in the cruellest of ways and he makes sure there is an audience to bear witness to his acts. I still remember how her growls of pain echoed throughout the throne room while my body froze, my eyes locked into the eyes of a direwolf I had secretly snuck into the palace. I stood and cried as she whimpered, the light, the life fading from her darkened eyes, her head rolling to my feet as I tried my best to hold the vomit urging up my throat.

The King does not like hope festering the hearts of his people. Says that hope makes way for want. A want for something other than what he has to offer. He seeks only for total control. That is why every waltz at his parties are always rigid, always controlled. He liked it that way. Liked puppets more than people.

He would ruin me in ways that will kill me slowly if he ever finds out. Because I was born into a life of servitude. Everything, even my body and mind, leashed to the King. And this bond swirling inside me, this string of fate.. He will take it too.

And so I held my aching heart as I closed my eyes. And in the darkness it's not a wolf’s head before my feet that I imagine.

It’s his..

I will take this bond to the grave.

[polyacotarweek]

Day 5 Masterlist: Favorite Tropes

Fanfic:

"did something bad (why's it feel so good?)" by @thesistersarcheron (Eluzriel)

"The Fawn of Prythian, Ch 4-6" by @witch-and-her-witcher (Eluzriel)

"Star-kissed Night Beneath My Wings" by @starfall-spirit (Feyre X Bat Boys)

"A Dance Named Starlight" by @chunkypossum (Nerissian)

"The Siren's Song" by @nocasdatsgay (Nessriel)

"Wingspans" by @tsunami-of-tears (OC X Cazriel)

"Romance" by @littlestw01f (OC X Rhysand X Eris)

"Mister Grumpy Pantses" by @readychilledwine (Reader X Azris)

"Omega Ours: Part 1" by @mrs-illyrian-baby (Reader X Nessian)

"Just This Once...Right?" by @danikamariewrites (Reader X Rhyssian)

Fanart & Miscellaneous

"Amarantha/Tamlin/Rhysand" by @copypastus (Not CNM)

"Cold Feet, Autumn Fae, Only One Bed" headcanon with moodboard by @acourtofladydeath (BOE, Lucien X Vassa X Jurian)

If your creation is missing or you see an issue with the masterlist, please reach out to the blog so we can rectify it!

[goforth-ladymidnight]

On ACOTAR Faeries and Names

For some reason, SJM undoes most, if not all, of traditional faerie lore in her books. (I haven't read TOG or CC so I can't comment on those.) The cynical part of me thinks it's because faeries can be difficult to write well, therefore she took the easy route; the more forgiving part of me thinks it's because she set out to explore why humans believed certain myths about faeries, but then lost interest as she spent more and more time in the realm of the Night Court. (Side note: I find it odd that SJM chose to emphasize that the Illyrians are NOT really faeries, whether High or "lesser". I honestly wonder why that is.) Regardless, there's nothing very faerie about SJM's High Fae, etc. except for their ethereal beauty and pointed ears and the fact that they can do magic, I guess.

I've already written about Aging and Lying when it comes to ACOTAR's Faeries, and I thought I'd touch on another aspect of faerie lore that SJM chooses to ignore. (Heh, that rhymes.)

Names.

His [Rhysand's] eyes shifted to my face. “What’s your name, love?” Giving him my name—and my family name—would lead only to more pain and suffering. He might very well find my family and drag them into Prythian to torment, just to amuse himself. But he could steal my name from my mind if I hesitated for too long. Keeping my mind blank and calm, I blurted the first name that came to mind, a village friend of my sisters’ whom I’d never spoken to and whose face I couldn’t recall. “Clare Beddor.” My voice was nothing more than a gasp. ~ACOTAR ch. 26

Clare and her family are killed because Rhys revealed that name to Amarantha, even though he admitted later (in the next book) that he thought she made it up. So, Feyre's fears were not unfounded, but once she is Under the Mountain with everyone else, she is still reluctant to give her name when Amarantha asks for it.

Lucien is even brought forward and refuses to give away Feyre's name. For his defiance, Amarantha orders Rhysand to shatter his mind before Feyre finally gives in and shouts her name for everyone to hear. The Lady of Autumn even repays her sacrifice by helping her with one of Amarantha's "household tasks".

What is the sacrifice, though? It would seem that the only reason Amarantha wants to know her name is because Feyre knows hers, and wants to address her "properly":

“Feyre,” Amarantha said, testing my name, the taste of the two syllables on her tongue. “An old name—from our earlier dialects. Well, Feyre,” she said. I could have wept with relief when she didn’t ask for my family name. “I promised you a riddle.” ~ACOTAR ch. 35

In traditional faerie lore, it is said that names have power, so giving a faerie your name gives them power over you. (It is important to note that they cannot take anything from you. It has to be given.)

There is a scene in Hayao Miyazaki's animated classic in which the young protagonist Chihiro signs a contract to work for the sorceress Yubaba. In a beautifully animated sequence, her signature floats away and into Yubaba's waiting palm. She literally signed away her name. Chihiro is then given a new name in exchange: Sen. By the next day, she has already forgotten her original name and her purpose (freeing her enchanted parents). It is only when another ensorcelled young man gives her the bundle of her old clothes with a card in the pocket (with her name written on it) that she remembers who she was, and why she's there.

I just think it could have been very interesting to give Feyre a similar plotline in ACOTAR. By giving Amarantha her name, she no longer has it, and can no longer remember it. (And since the story is told in first person, it's easier to convey.)

How she gets her name back could be handled in one of two ways: Lucien gives back her name like the true friend he is, or she doesn't remember it until the very end.

If we explore the second option, this is what I'm thinking: Amarantha sought to break Feyre in mind, body, and spirit. The one thing she could never take from Feyre was her love for Tamlin.

“I love you,” I said. “No matter what she says about it, no matter if it’s only with my insignificant human heart. Even when they burn my body, I’ll love you.” My lips trembled, and my vision clouded before several warm tears slipped down my chilled face. I didn’t wipe them away. ~ACOTAR ch. 43

In my Faeries and Lying essay (linked above), I think it would have been more powerful for Amarantha to want Feyre to admit to lying about her love for Tamlin. In the same vein, I think it would be that much more impactful for Feyre to admit that even if she does not know her own name, she knows she loves Tamlin, and that's enough.

It's the one thing Amarantha couldn't take from her. It's the reason Feyre went Under the Mountain in the first place. And most importantly, it's the answer to the riddle. Love. And that's enough.

[umthisistheonlyusernamenottaken]

On an unrelated note,

ACOTAR ch. 46

ACOMAF ch. 54

So... which is it Rhysand?

Did you know Feyre was your mate immediately as you picked up that knife? Or was it afterwards when Amarantha had already been defeated and there was no need for heroics?

If it was when Rhysand picked up the knife, then I wonder what made him vanish on Feyre like that and winnow into Velaris crying to Mor about his mate? Couldn't possibly be the SUDDEN realisation that Feyre was his mate 🙄

[secret-third-thing]

Upcoming Writing (February-ish Edition)

February 22: And the Hounds Bayed | (Est. 10-15k)

An indulgent Southern Gothic-ish one-shot about the price one pays for family. Featuring Neris, Nezriel, Azris and some background Elucien cause we love them in this house. Ping/reply/dm me if you want to be on the tag list.

February 28: Ch. 5 of Blood in the Wine

A political intrigue long fic set before Amarantha's rule. It features an Eris x OC romance that's mostly canon compliant. In this chapter, Gianna learns she's going to Autumn. She's not happy. Read from the beginning here.

March 5: Wild Nights - Wild Nights! (Part 2)

In part 1: It was only a kiss. Or was it? In part 2: Morrigan avoids her father in Velaris and Emerie wants to spend time with her favorite Blonde. More than just kisses ensue. Read part 1 here.

And then I'm hoping to finally get caught up on some of the drabble requests languishing in my inbox. 🤡