#feyre is not a saviour

[kaitlin-kate]

People think Feyre is cool because she destroyed the Spring Court? I'm sorry, but that's not cool at all. That's terrible. She destroyed an entire Court to simply get revenge on Tamlin?

Also, she says she's sorry about those (well, some) she killed, but she doesn't even think about them. I mean, Andras, for example. She doesn't think about what she did to him ( killed and skinned him), or whether he had a family or not. And everyone is supposed to think Feyre's some savoir? If Andras had a mate or children or even siblings, they won't think the person who killed him simply because he was a fae is a saviour.

[motherfeyre-archeron]

Cassian: I saved Feyre and Lucien

Elain: I saved Nesta and Cass

Azriel: I saved Mor and Elain

Nesta: I saved Feyre and Nyx

Feyre:

[beansidhebumbling]

A Rhysta Snippet inspired by the amazing @theladyofbloodshed

His ribs began to ache before the Manor came to view. It should have been a sign in hindsight, that blooming flower of pain in his side, a warning corsage from the Mother. But the swirling snow obscuring their sight and Feyre's wringing hands, picking in turn at her ragged nails and then the fine leather of a scabbard Cassian had pushed onto her that morning for protection, were bigger concerns.

His lovesick fool of a General, was continuing his pining from 6 feet away, fists clenched and jaw tight, a wound spring of longing. Rhys would never have called his brother hesistant until now. But love did strange things to males his mother had said. As Cassian’s eyes bore holes into the back of Feyre's head, fear or idiocy, probably a mixture of both, prevented him from comforting the Saviour.

Which left Rhysand with the honour.

He was going to thrash Cassian in the ring for this tomorrow.

Falling in step beside the girl he said lightly,

"Relax. I think you've faced down worse than whatever that place houses."

He tipped his head towards the looming shadow of the building that had emerged from the gloam just a moment prior. With each step further detail of the house was revealed, candlelit windows with iron bars on them, marble pillars and statues of beasts of old caught his eye. The humans had spent Tamlin's coin well it seemed.

'You haven't met Nesta.'

Feyre let out an unconvincing watery laugh.

He'd heard more than enough about the eldest Archeron. Whispers between Cassian and Feyre had reached his ears in Velaris. And he was not blind to the tears that carved new paths on the archer's ice-nipped face. He always had a particular disdain for those who failed to care for blood, hence his hatred of the mirror.

'Nesta hasn't met me.'

He muttered darkly.

'Stop it.'

Feyre snapped firmly.

'You'll have manners, Rhysand. Do you understand?'

She was very like Rowena when she said his name like that. His sister would have loved her. A fellow pain in his neck.

Huffing in agreement and feeling like a scolded child he stormed forward to knock on the great iron studded door they had reached.

----------

He had always liked romance books, a secret youthful pleasure his mother indulged and his father abhorred.

He dreamed his first meeting with his mate would go like the great love stories he'd devoured, a single glance, a fleeting touch that would explode his world of night into symphony of colour and sunshine.

Instead as a human opened a door, his pulse began to rise, a tremendous searing heat radiated from his heart and the snow around him whirled with fae cast gusts of innate power before being evaporated when he got his first glance of her.

She was resplendent, his mate, her delicate eyebrows furrowed in distrust even as the corner of her mouth softened at the sight of her sister.

He attempted to correct his expression into something gentle and charming so she might like him. It was imperative she liked him.

Instead Nesta Archeron with a beauty so sharp it shredded the snowflakes around him, took one glance at his pained grimace, his pointed ears, his damned wings, and promptly shut the door in his face.

[tsunami-of-tears]

But Daddy I Love Her

Mor x Vanserra!Reader (sapphic)

A/N: IMO this is some of my best writing yet. Thank you to the anon who requested some angst with Mor. I’ve been wanting to write some more sapphic stuff, so this was fun 💕  Also thank you to @daycourtofficial for being my sounding board ✨ As you can tell I didn’t go with either title option we discussed 😘

Wordcount: 4.4K

Warnings: Female Reader; Angst; Beron being Beron; Controlling father dynamic; visit to the Court of Nightmares; coming out; canon homophobia + patriarchal bullsh!t.

Reader

Your father was a complex character, to say the least. 

He was every bit the callous ruler that he portrayed to the world, but inside his blackened, hateful heart there was a soft spot. You. His only daughter.

While your brothers were pitted against each other and forced to fight for his approval, you couldn’t do much wrong. 

He was protective of you to a fault. So much so, that you were never allowed to court anyone. No one was good enough for his precious pup. Not that you were very interested in males anyway, having grown up with a litter of brothers. You found males irritating at the best of times, and utterly repulsive at the worst. 

You were closest to Beron’s eldest and youngest sons – Eris and Lucien. They were very protective of you too, but in more of an annoying way. They always had your best interests at heart. 

You were never allowed out of the Forest House unsupervised. Adventuring with your brothers was the only time you got let off your leash. You could run with the hounds, fish in the stream with Lucien or just simply be – relaxing under a tree, reading aloud to Eris. 

You often dreamed of a world where you were free. Free from your father’s strict rule. Free to do as you please. Free to be whoever you wanted to be. 

But alas, this was not a world for the dreamers. 

————

The conflict with Hybern was drawing nearer and your father was summoned to attend a meeting with the six other High Lords of Prythian. 

Your entire family was to attend, to showcase the strength of Beron’s brood.

You enter the meeting room together, sticking close to Eris and trying to seem confident, bored even. You keep your head held high, ignoring your brothers’ sneers beside you. 

“Enough” Eris murmurs, calling all three brothers in line. 

You take in the grand room around you, and the wealth of power convened within. 

You recognise most faces from Under the Mountain but some were new to you, their allegiance given away by the shades of midnight blue and black that they wore - the Night Court. The Court that your father despises the most. The Court you were raised to hate.

The High Lord, Rhysand, sat with a casual grace, his great taloned wings stretched out behind him. Beside him was his High Lady, Feyre - the saviour of Prythian - in a glittering dress that looked like it was made of pure starlight.

They were a beautiful couple, and you wonder how evil the male could truly be if he proclaimed his wife as his equal, something that had never been done in all of Prythian’s history. 

The rulers of the Night Court meet your curious gaze; for a second there is understanding on their faces and you have to remind yourself not to smile. 

You break their stare and your eyes flit over two more winged males and a female who shared the same golden hair and blue-grey eyes as Feyre before they settled on a blonde female. 

To describe her as breathtaking would be an understatement. 

She needed no introduction. Not with the rage upon her face as she watched your family, the pure venom in her eyes.

The Morrigan.

You’d never met the female your eldest brother was formerly betrothed to, and he never spoke about her. 

Morrigan’s fury wanes as she looks at you. For a moment you can see behind the mask she was wearing. You can feel the pain underneath, you can see the love for her family and her Court. Only for a moment before she built that wall back up again, sealing herself within. 

You knew her anger towards your family was justified and you couldn’t help but empathise with that. Like so many women, your mother included, she’d been dealt a losing hand.

You successfully kept your eyes off Morrigan for the remainder of the meeting, remembering the role you had to play – the shy, pretty pawn of the Autumn Court. 

If you failed at this game, the results would be devastating.

————

After the meeting ended so terribly, you were hiding out in Eris’s quarters, avoiding the path of Beron’s temper. The pair of you were curled up in front of the crackling fire with Clove, your favourite hound, asleep in your lap. 

Eris has been quiet since returning from the Dawn Court. His mind was surely racing after the encounter with her. 

You turn towards your brother slowly, breaking the silence, “You never mentioned how beautiful she is. You never speak about her at all.”

Eris knew exactly who you meant. “What’s there to say?” He shrugs, “She’s free from the burden of being with me in this festering court.”

“You think so low of yourself, Eris. Someone will be very fortunate to have you doting on them one day.” 

Eris wraps his arm around you and kisses the top of your head affectionately. “Until then it’s just you and me, bright spark.”

You smile at his nickname for you, one he gave you when you were just a faeling. “Don’t forget Clove!” You exclaim, ruffling the hound’s coat.

————

In the months following the final battle against Hybern, Eris spent a lot of time in the Night Court, working to secure a strong alliance for Autumn. 

Eris was about to head off again, to a ball at the infamous Court of Nightmares. 

You hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Morrigan. 

You needed to see her again, but she’d never step foot in Autumn. 

You’d have to go to her. 

By the grace of the Cauldron, Beron said yes to you attending the ball with Eris. You were both so stunned by his answer, that you were lost for words. Before dismissing you both, your father had one order for Eris: Do not let her out of your sight.

And so you found yourself in the Night Court, deep inside the Court of Nightmares.

You did your best to bite down on your anxiety as you walked up the dimly lit hallway leading to the ballroom. The intricate carvings of beasts on the walls only add to your feeling of unease. 

You breeze through the large doors, arm-in-arm with your brother. The two of you are the epitome of Autumn. 

Eris wears a suit in a deep burgundy colour, much like the spiced wine you drink to warm your belly on a crisp evening. Your gown of burnt orange swishes around you as you walk, the sequins catching in the faelights, twinkling like the embers of a dwindling fire. 

All eyes turn to you as you walk down the aisle, but you don’t notice them. 

All you see is her, and that golden thread connecting your souls, sealing your fate.

Oh no.

Oh no no no. 

Panic floods your veins as you realise who you’re walking towards. 

Your mate. 

Your brother’s ex-fiancé. Your father’s enemy.

Not her, it can’t be her.

Not here, with so many people watching. 

Your feet slow to a stop halfway to the dais and you turn to Eris. Concern flickers on his face - he can sense something is wrong, he has no idea just how bad it is.

You drop his arm, mouthing ‘I’m sorry’, before disappearing into the air. 

You don’t know where you’re headed or what you will do next. All you know is you need to leave. Now. And get someone safe. 

The thought, somewhere safe, echoes through your mind as you appear in a clearing atop a mountain. 

The sun had just dipped below the horizon, making the sky glow a brilliant shade of orange. The air is cold against your skin, and you rub your hands on your biceps in an attempt to regain some warmth. In moments like these, you are thankful for the fire within your veins. 

You look around, attempting to glean your location. You spot a cabin on the other side of the clearing. As you turn towards it, the front door swings open. An invitation. 

You approach the open door and wonder if there’s a spell on the cabin, tricking you into a false sense of safety to lure you inside to your death. 

You glance around, the only movement you spy is the rustling of leaves in the wind. 

You peek inside and see the small dwelling is well-maintained, but there doesn’t appear to be anyone home. It looks comfortable and homey, with whimsical paintings of vines and flowers framing the door.

Whatever is inside that cabin can’t be worse than the wrath you surely face back in Autumn, so you step over the threshold. 

————

Rhysand

Rhys watches intently as his guests from Autumn walk towards the dais. 

Eris is his usual cocky self, strutting beside his sister. Every bit the High Lord’s heir. Y/N looks like a living fire, glowing as she walks beside her brother. Despite being siblings, there were clear differences between the two fae. Unlike Eris, who Rhys found to be insufferable at times, Y/N had a kind warmth to her. A sweetness that somehow hadn’t been soured by her father over the years. 

She was like the flames that dance in a hearth. The kind of fire used to warm a home or cook a comforting meal that chases away the cold and loneliness. 

Of course, those flames could still burn you if you got too close. 

Y/N stops in the middle of the room. Her eyes not moving from Rhys’s cousin, stood beside his throne. 

‘Something is wrong,’ Feyre says into his mind. 

Rhys quickly throws a glamour over his guests, shielding them and his Inner Circle from the rest of his court. 

Rhys glances at Mor, whose eyes are glued to the flame incarnate before her. 

The expression on Y/N’s face is pure terror as she disappears into a cloud of smoke. 

Eris grabs at the wisps of darkness but it’s too late. Y/N is gone. His eyes are filled with panic as he turns back to Rhys. 

“You Vanserras love to put on a show.” Rhys drawls. “How did she get out past the wards?”

Eris rakes his fingers through his hair, tousling the slicked strands. “I don’t know. I didn’t even know she could winnow.”

Rhys clicks his tongue, “It seems the little fox was hiding some tricks.”

Eris looks Rhys in the eye. “We need to find her,” He says. 

Rhys raises a brow at the Autumn heir. “We?” 

“Beron will kill us all if she’s gone missing. His only order was not to let her out of my sight.” Eris shakes his head in shock.

‘Azriel, go. See if your shadows can find her.’ Rhys orders his spymaster mind-to-mind before the male vanishes into the shadows.

“If she’s still in this court, we’ll find her,” Rhys says calmly, expertly masking his concern that the Jewel of Autumn vanished while in his court. “Let’s go, we can continue this little chat somewhere without an audience.” He rises to his feet, dropping the shield and addressing his court. “I’m afraid I have to leave you to play amongst yourselves. Keir, don’t make too much trouble while I’m gone.” 

Rhys strides out of the ballroom with Feyre by his side. Eris follows behind closely with Cassian and Mor on his tail. 

————

Once out of view, Rhys takes Eris’s hand and winnows him to the Moonstone Palace on top of the mountain. Rhys heads straight to one of the living rooms, opting for somewhere more comfortable to continue the conversation. He silently requests Nuala bring up a tea service as he sits comfortably in one of the plush armchairs. 

Eris slumps down in the chair opposite Rhys, rubbing his temples. His complexion has paled to a colour much like the white stone walls of the palace. Eris’s usual swagger and charm disappeared with his sister. 

“I shouldn’t have agreed to bring her,” Eris sighs, hands ruffling his red hair.

“I’m surprised Beron let her out of the palace,” Rhys admits. As much as he detests the male, he can’t help but feel sorry for him. 

“No one is more surprised than me,” Eris says. “She was the one who asked to come. When Y/N really wants something, not even my father can say no.” Eris smiles softly, as if picturing his sister’s compelling arguments.  

Rhys nods in thanks to Nuala as she sets down a tea service. He starts pouring a cup for Eris as he turns towards him. “What happened then?” Rhys asks. “Y/N looked as if she’d seen a ghost.”

“The bond snapped,” a female voice says from the doorway. 

Both Rhys and Eris’s eyes snap to Mor as she strides across the room and sits across from them on the sofa. 

“What bond? And who with?” Cassian asks from behind her. 

“With me,” Mor says quietly.

Rhys can’t keep the shock from his face. “But you’re…” He trails off, gesturing at Mor’s figure. 

Mor just sighs, “Cousin, I’ve always known that I preferred the company of females. That’s why he, you know.” She risks a glance at Eris who is meticulously masking his real feelings as he sips on his tea.

“Cauldron, I didn’t think I was that bad,” Cassian jokes.  

Mor rolls her eyes and nods her head towards Eris. “He knew. That’s why he didn’t touch me.  That day on the autumn border, Eris gave me my freedom. I let you believe him to be horrible because I wasn’t ready to embrace that part of myself, truthfully I’m still not.” Feyre places her hand on Mor’s arm as she makes her admission. 

“We’d never judge you for that, Mor,” Rhys says sincerely. 

“It’s been instilled in me since I was a faeling, the fear is not something one forgets easily,” Mor shrugs.  

“When did it snap for you?” Eris asks, his face still void of emotion. 

“At the High Lord’s meeting,” Mor responds. “That’s the only reason I came today, hoping to see her again. I know Beron would never let her be with me, but I still had some shred of hope. Clearly, he’s poisoned her view of me…” 

“He hasn’t,” Eris interrupts. “You’re not a frequent topic of conversation, and Y/N never asked about you until after that meeting. She never said, but I suspect it’s why she wanted to come today. In some ways, she’s lucky that she’s been so sheltered. She’s still kind. She saw how all of you acted that day, she saw through the masks. My father’s only weakness is her. Beron is completely blind where Y/N is involved. He will start a war if we don’t find her.” 

“We’ll find her,” Rhys says. “Do you have any idea where she would go?”

Eris rubs his chin as he contemplates. “She doesn't ever go anywhere unsupervised. She loves being in the forest, but there’s no way she could transport herself that far.” 

“I’ve got Azriel searching,” Rhys says. “There’s not much more you can do right now. You can stay here, I’ll show you to your suite.” 

Eris nods, “Thank you, but if you think I will sleep while my baby sister is missing, you are sorely mistaken.” 

Rhys smirks back at the male. “Oh I know, but this way you can sulk in private.”

————

Eris

Eris is pacing in his room when there’s a soft knock on the door. He exhales before opening the door to the blonde female in the hall. Eris folds his arms across his chest and inclines his head, inviting her inside. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell them the truth,” Mor says. “I’ve been lying to myself for so long, I’d convinced myself that part of me didn’t exist.”

“There’s always got to be a villain, I understand why you did it. But thank you for apologising.”

“This bond... It is not going to go well with your father.”

Eris nods, agreeing with her. “We’ll deal with that later. When I’m High Lord, you’ll be welcome in Autumn again, if you ever wish to return.”

“Will you have me over for tea?” Mor scoffs. “I don’t know how this will work with Y/N or if she even wants it. But I’d like to try if she does.” 

Eris straightens defensively. “I’ll support whatever will make her happy,” He says. 

The pair stand in silence for a few moments before Eris smiles sadly, shaking his head. “I should’ve known,” He laughs. “When she was a child, she never wanted me to play as a prince, we both were princesses… As she grew, she never took much interest in courting anyone. If Beron had forbade me or my brothers there would’ve been a riot on his hands. But Y/N was never phased by it. Truthfully, I think she was relieved.” 

Mor returns his smile. “I’m glad she has you. We’ll find her, don’t worry too much.” 

————

Reader

In the cabin, you stare at the eyes on the wall. You would know them anywhere. 

You knew your mate had been here, maybe it was even her cabin. Deep down, your heart knew you’d be safe here. 

You feel so tired, right to your core. You didn’t know you could winnow, your leash had been so tight you never even tried. Mother knows how far you just travelled. 

A steaming cup of tea appears in your hands, the scent of cinnamon and chamomile reminding you of home. Somehow, the cabin knew what would calm you down.

You pull a blanket around your shoulders and sit on the lounge, worn with decades of use, admiring the colourful paintings adorning the walls and every surface. You can tell this place is well-loved, and many happy moments have been spent here. 

Exhaustion nags at you and you fight your drooping lids until you can’t any longer. You slip into the darkness of sleep, wrapped in the blanket, with your mate watching over you. 

————

You’re woken by a cool sensation on your ankle. You look down and see a wisp of shadows wreathing around. It circles a few times before disappearing into the air. 

It’s early in the morning, the first light creeping over the mountains outside. You’re still wearing your ball gown, the fabric creased from your slumber. 

Your head spins as you remember the events of the night before. 

‘How long have I been sleeping? Oh gods, Eris must be going out of his mind…’

A sharp knock on the door pulls you from your thoughts. 

You stand slowly, stretching your stiff limbs and go to answer it – for a moment you forget it’s not your house.

One of Rhys’s winged friends stands on the porch. “Y/N, are you okay?” He looks you up and down, taking in your dishevelled hair and wrinkled dress. “You’re not injured? And how did you get inside?”

“I’m okay, I guess. The door opened for me. It felt safe.” 

The male nods, “Eris is worried about you, I’ve just let Rhys know I found you and you’re unharmed.”

“Thank you,” You say. 

“Mor wants to speak to you, is that okay?”

You nod in answer, “Yeah, we probably need to have a chat.”

“She’ll be here soon, can I get you anything?” He offers.

You shake your head, pulling the blanket further around you. 

“Okay, stay inside, she’ll be here soon.” 

————

Eris

Keeping to his word, Eris didn’t sleep at all. He was watching the sunrise breaking over the mountains when he heard a knock at the door. “Come in,” Eris calls out. 

Rhys enters the room. “Azriel found her, she’s safe, Mor has gone to bring her back.” 

Every cell Eris was tensing is released at Rhys’s words. He tries to roll his shoulders but they are stiff after a tense night.  

“Are you sure that’s the best idea?” Eris asks. “She ran because of the mating bond.”

“Mor wanted to speak to her privately. They are the only ones who understand.”

Eris nods, feeling relieved that his sister has been found. He’ll be able to rest once he lays eyes on her again. “Thank you, for helping,” He says. 

Rhys waves a hand dismissively. “It does work in my favour to return her safely,” Rhys drawls. “But I would do it anyway.” He turns to leave, “You should eat something, it’s been a long night and we have much to discuss now.”

————

Reader

You do your best to freshen up while you wait. You smooth out your hair and change into some fresh clothes summoned by the cabin – a soft v-neck camisole, cropped at the navel and flowing harem pants, more skin than you’ve ever shown outside your bathing room. The matching set is a brilliant shade of forest green that perfectly complements your hair. 

A knock sounds on the door, announcing your mate's arrival. 

“Hello Morrigan,” you say stiffly, unsure where to look or where to put your hands. You settle with holding them clasped at your front to stop their trembling.

“Just Mor if you like, can we talk?” 

You nod and sit across from each other, the air hangs heavily around you.

Mor sighs, breaking the tense silence. “I guess it snapped for you?”

You nod, the words not making it past your lips. 

“This is a cruel twist of fate,” She laughs darkly, leaning forward on her knees.

“Do you not want it?” You ask, trying to hide the hurt in your voice.

“No,” Mor answers quickly. “That’s not what I meant. With my history and our fathers, I don’t see how it could work.”

Why beat around the bush, you suppose? “What happened, with my brother?”

Mor looks at you curiously. “He never told you?”

You shake your head. 

“We were amicable, not quite friends, never lovers. I confided in him about my preference for–” She waves at you. “Female companionship… and that I didn’t want to be someone’s wife. Of course, my father had other plans. I ruined them by… sullying myself, and my father dumped me on the border of your court. I’ll spare you the grizzly details right now, but your brother gave me my freedom. I wasn’t ready to tell people the truth, so I let my friends believe Eris to be a monster. In truth, I was the monster all along.”

You allow her candid words to wash over you. What your brother had done, allowing himself to be the villain when nothing was further from the truth.

You stand, moving to sit closer to Mor.

“I never believed the things Beron said about you,” You admit, looking into Mor’s warm brown eyes. Eyes that are full of hope. 

“I know that I’m sheltered, but I see the way he treats people. Even my brothers, Lucien especially. I do love him as a father, but as a person… he is awful. I long for the day when Eris takes over Autumn, and I can finally be free. Until then, I will dream of a better world.”

A tear falls from the corner of Mor’s eye and you rest a hand on her knee. 

You steady your breathing before continuing, “I’ve never had much interest in males and never allowed myself to consider alternatives. I’d like to try this, if you want to. I know courting in secret will be difficult, but I’m willing to give it a go. I’m ready to start building the world I’ve been dreaming of.”

Tears stream down Mor’s face and she pulls you into a hug. You savour the moment and for the first time, you allow yourself to hope. 

————

“ERIS!” You call out, running towards your brother and jumping into his arms. 

He catches you easily, wrapping his arms around you. “I was so worried, bright spark,” He says softly into your hair. 

“I know. I’m sorry to do that to you. I panicked. I didn’t even mean to winnow, it just happened.”

“I’m just glad you’re okay. But maybe don’t show that trick to anyone else,” Eris puts you down and stands back, taking in your appearance. “It seems this court suits you, Y/N,” He smiles. “Come now,” he extends his arm for you to take, “We’ve got business to discuss with Rhysand. We need to figure out something official so that Father will let you return here with me.” He winks as he walks you to meet with the High Lord.  

————

You’re convinced your brother is a genius. 

He told your father that you and the High Lady got on well and that your presence allowed him and Rhys to get on with business while the females ‘talk about fashion and whatever else they like to discuss.’ 

You had batted your lashes at your father, insisting that the High Lady needed some help with fae etiquette and that she was seeking your help on how to be a proper lady. 

Beron scoffed at the thought of the ‘wild human harlot’ ever being considered a lady, but he couldn’t say no to your wide-doe eyes. Especially not when Eris mentioned that the friendship could give Autumn more sway in political discussions. 

Eris winnowed you both to Rhysand’s Moonstone Palace for your regular ‘meeting’, where Rhys, Feyre and Mor were waiting for you. 

Mor looks ethereal under the starry night sky. Her hair flows like liquid gold in soft waves down her back. Her dress is a deep wine red, paying homage to your home court and hugs her curves perfectly. Your eyes linger on her figure for a few moments before moving back to her face. 

Thank you, Mother.

Rhys steps forward. “Welcome back, we won’t be staying in the Court of Nightmares this time,” He explains. “We thought it was time to show you our true home.” 

Feyre smiles warmly, her eyes twinkle with anticipation. 

Rhys takes Eris’s hand and Mor takes yours, winnowing you into the sky above a sparkling city. 

Wind rushes around you as you free-fall. The stone floor of the balcony getting closer and closer until it hits your feet. You steady yourself, feeling grateful for your fae reflexes. 

Still holding Mor’s hand, she leads you to the balcony's edge. You look out at the city sprawling below you, alive and bustling. The humming sound of life below is like music in your ears.

Mor smiles widely at you. “Welcome to Velaris,” she says. “The Court of Dreams.”

[litnerdwrites]

Cassian thinks Prythian would blessed to have Feysand as High King and Queen yet the dude can’t even govern his own territory properly. If he can neglect and disregard two thirds territory and justify it without complaint, from the ic, then he has no business taking over more territories for any reason! Do you know what would happen if he did?

It’s safe to assume that Winter, Summer and Day would receive preferential treatment. Mostly due to Mor and Amren’s ties to Vivienne and Varian, but also because of how valuable Helion is with his libraries and skills. However, it's likely they'd be extremely weary of him at the same time, for those exact reasons. Maybe they'd even convince Nesta to dance with him as a form of manipulation?

Meanwhile, he’d probably be indifferent to dawn, though their aerial legions may be forced to join with the Illyrians so they’re be able to fight cohesively together. It would also mean they'd be able to keep an eye on the Peregryns that way, with the Illyrians keeping an eye on them to prevent revolt, if Rhysand has any fear of that.

It's been mentioned that Thesan only has a 'small legion' of them, and while small doesn't necessarily mean fewer than, given that Rhysand's armies seem to be made up of darkbringers and Illyrians, with no indications of anyone else. And after what Amarantha did to them, along with how pregnancy is really rare for fae, it's reasonable to assume that their numbers have thinned even more, meaning that the Illyrians likely outnumber them by a decent amount.

Meanwhile The Spring and Autumn courts will be the new Illyria and HC. Or they’d serve the same fundamental purpose at least. They'd be the ones who suffer and are stuck with the role of monsters just to promote Rhysand as a hero/saviour/victim/whatever else he needs to appear as that week. It's likely that Tamlin, Beron and Eris would be forced to give up their titles and authority, along with whatever wealth they have, if not imprisoned all together for whatever crimes the IC accuse them of. They likely wouldn't even acknowledge the abuse of Eris and his brothers, simply chalking it up to him being just as bad as Beron and straight up killing them.

Plus, there’s no telling how the land would react and what would happen to the symbol or station of High Lord. If they are no longer leaders, are the ambassadors to the high king? Will that become an inherited position? I mean, given the kind of power the HLs have, letting them remain private citizens is unwise, while giving them power as aristocracy makes Rhysand seem like somewhat of a figurehead, bringing whatever authority he claims into question. Meanwhile, having the jobs of ambassadors or advisors be inherited positions based on who the land choses to give power to as opposed to skill, and ability seems just as dangerous and foolish.

All it would do is prove that Rhysand is every bit, if not more, the monster that they made him out to be. There's no way they'd agree to it, so Rhysand would have to use force. It would mean a period of civil war, before any semblance of order or peace was regained.

They'd have to Force Nesta and Elain into another war, even if they don't end up wanting anything to do with one, given that it's through their, or even mostly Nesta's, powers that Rhysand is to take his supposed to take this throne.

Would Varian still be able to have feelings for Amren, knowing that she put this idea into Rhysand's head, encouraging him to do it? How would Vivian look at Mor and still consider her a friend after such a betrayal? Would Rhysand and Feyre even care about the innocents that died during that war? No. To all of the above, no.

Typing all of this out, makes it seem like Feysand becoming HK/Q would result in the Nc basically becoming Panem. They even have a mock Hunger Games through the blood right, while Velaris is basically The Capital. Anyone who's watched/read THG can tell you how that ended.

[elrxiel]

What baffles me most about gw*nriel is people giving Gwyn traits that are not even close to the canon.

It's like for them Gwyn is an empty canvas they can pour themselves or their fantasies into. They paint her as a badass warrior, as the next heroine, as a saviour of Ilyiria - not to mention some of them give her traits that are canonically held by Elain such as indicators of her being a good spy or her being associated with roses. There are so many theories and fics I've seen where the idea of Gwyn is not nearly what she was portrayed by SJM. It's very interesting that nothing like this happens with Emerie but when it comes to Gwyn - a side character who's not even that relevant to the plot, at least not yet - some people seem to paint her as the most important character in the whole series and really believe that she will be the next main, even before Elain (who has so many possible ways of development or versions of a story that can be told that is based on what is actually in the books).

Seeing her as a more interesting character than Elain is a matter of personal opinion and it's not what this post is about. But if you truly see Gwyn as a better partner for Az, a better main character of the next book or overall, a better character, please at least stay true to the canon. At least use her actual personality while speaking about her.

I don't think her character is meaningless or pointless, I would actually love to see her involved in the upcoming war. I just hope that maybe her further showing up during the story will finally clarify her personality more and people will actually stop treating her as someone she clearly is not, stop giving her traits that belong to other characters just to justify their poor theories and see she is enough the way she is.

I feel like the only reason gw*nriel is a thing is because some people cannot stand the idea of a slightly different character than Feyre, Aelin or Nesta leading the next book. They cannot stand not having a warrior girl but a soft, feminine woman. So they chose Gwyn to make her the next Aelin or Feyre in their head. It's really sad tbh.

[jennyarchibald]

Uhhh okay granted I only know bits and pieces but.. Feyre destroying an entire court because she wanted to destroy Tamlin? Really? For perspective, this is what is called collective punishment. And sjm is ok with her "saviour" doing that. Something to think about, hm hm.

[selesera]

I’ve got nothing to believe unless you’re choosing me

hello! I go by Sel here and I am sharing my first piece of writing with you, tumblr. I want to dedicate this to @the-lonelybarricade because she is the kindest person online and she immediately saw my other post saying I was proud of myself for writing this and said she -sobs- wanted to read it 🥹

This is a short drabble that came out a little sad and angsty but I am a diehard elucien so have hope dear reader! This was inspired by You're losing me by my queen and saviour tswizzie. I'm so sorry in advance for any typos!

__________________________

Lady Elain, 

I write this in the hopes that you will agree to speak with me upon my next visit to Velaris.

It is important and urgent.

Cordially,

Lucien

Elain smoothed out the folded lines of his letter again. Her fingers lightly brushed the letters of his elegant penmanship, terrified of blurring the ink and erasing the way he had written her name. She knew what his “important and urgent” topic was. He was tired of being shackled to her. She could feel his exhaustion, his self hatred, his desperation. Not through the bond, no. She kept her side of that golden string firmly closed. No…she could see his dreams. 

She saw night after night how he confronted her, told her she had to choose. Begging her to choose him. To love him. Or to free him.

Some nights, he would dream that she accepted him and the dream would devolve into a flurry of kisses, wandering fingers, moans and sighs of pleasure. 

Other nights, he would dream she rejected the bond. In those dreams she would stare at her own face, hardened by indifference and disdain. Watch herself coldly stand by as he wept at her feet. Scream at herself to comfort the man - male - that loved her.

She wished she could say those were the worst dreams but she had had the misfortune of seeing his other dreams too. His nightmares. Beron beheading a beautiful fae named Jesminda, wearing an expression on his cruel face much too similar to her own. Hot spikes descending on him. Standing firm against the whips against his back. Screaming as blood red nails dragged down his face. 

The truth was that Elain didn’t know how she felt about being able to see his dreams. On one hand, she felt lucky that she could see the pieces of his history that influenced who he was but that he did not let define him, even as her heart broke at the horrors that he had endured. On the other hand… if she was being honest with herself… it made her angry. 

How dare he make her care about his future? How dare he make her want to soothe and heal every jagged wound to his heart? She was independent. She was not his keeper. She was not the plaything of the cauldron. She would make her own life or die trying! 

At least that’s what she kept telling herself she would do. 

Truthfully, she was scared. How could she be independent in her baby sister’s house? Enjoying all the luxuries that her money bought? She loved Feyre. So much. Had finally created a true relationship with her sister but she still felt stifled. Bored. She couldn’t help thinking that a little distance might do them some good...

One of these days she was going to be able to control her traitorous thoughts… one of these days in her interminably long life.

This is why she hated thinking about him. He always made her question everything about herself, about her life.

Elain looked down again at the letter in her hands. The time had come to respond.

Two pathways emerged in front of her. The first, a path where she chose to stay in her quiet life and let her fear win. The second where fear was still present but sunshine and wildflowers lined the path and a love like no other awaited her.

She put her pen to her paper.

Lucien, 

Please accept my regrets. I will be unavailable during your next trip to Velaris. 

I will endeavour to make myself available on your next visit.

Elain Archeron

[highladyofterrasen7]

Ok nesta and feysand and the pregnancy plot:

The whole point of the pregnancy was for it to advance nesta’s “redemption arc” (you can’t argue with me on this)

Like when nesta told feyre that nyx’s wings would kill her it was so she knew she’d gone too far and (surprise surprise) your actions and hateful words can affect people

Now this wouldn’t’ve worked if feyre knew- aka if Rhys had told her- so maas HAD to write it like this and villainise rhys for nesta to make her look better (like some sort of saviour almost) so that it would kickstart her “changing for the better” the whole thing wouldn’t’ve worked otherwise. So while I recognise rhys wasn’t completely innocent in the secret, it’s still more of a reflection on sjm

Which effectively spilt the fandom in half and- in the eyes of some- “ruined feysand”- and in the eyes of the others- made us hate the book (and sjm) bc of the wasted potential and the way those characters were portrayed

With the final scene in which feyre and Nyx die (like give them a rest) again maas HAD to write it like that to effectively “mend the bridge” between feyre and nesta, without nesta actually being held accountable for her actions (which is not cool because she said some fucked up shit)

I have a theory that Bloomsbury wanted Maas to make more books in such a successful series as a money grab (which is why it was “finished”) and in order to do that maas felt like she needed to make nesta worse so she could make nesta better (probably because she was stuck because like with the end of a series, the loose ends were tied up), but she had no clue how to actually do it (when she could’ve focused more on a relationship and actually thinking about a better plot or… written another feysand book)

Therefore she made something that should have been so joyous for the couple (and fans) into an extremely traumatising and controversial experience

Again I remain adamant that the pregnancy could’ve been an interesting plot for a novella where it actually told Rhys’ pov and what he was thinking and cleared up any misconceptions about the book (and shut up his antis instead of giving them fuel for the fire) and showed them like racing against the clock to save feyre. And have a way to save them without nesta losing her powers. Also for some action they could’ve been trying to find bryaxis.

I still find it really strange she wrote rhys like that, a character she has explicitly mentioned to be one of her favourites, so either she didn’t think about his actions when writing, or just thought we would ignore it (we’re trying)

The redemption arc didn’t even fully work because there are a lot of people who still dislike nesta

The fact is that if maas had’ve thought out the plot and the effect it would have on fans and had a different way of making nesta more likeable, the book would’ve been so much better and not been a lost cause

Feel free to add some more points

[pinkrasberryfish]

I feel like a major part of Elriel is just like… the matching vibe. This is something we see in our other ACOTAR couples, and it’s partly why Elriel makes so much damn sense as endgame.

Let’s draw some comaprisons.

So baby Feysand. Feyre and Rhys have obvious compatibilities in their motivations, desires, and beliefs. They both give major Saviour Main Character energy by being self-sacrificing, fearless, and driven by morality and goodness above all else. Their love is centered around the themes of fate and destiny while their personalities share the same competitive spirit that binds them as friends AND lovers. They also both struggle with feeling “other,” and have overcome major trials to become stronger. In short, they carry the same compatible energy.

Then Nessian. Nesta and Cassian also share a similar energy even though they seem extremely different at first glance. When dissected, this pairing has similar drives, vibes, and goals. Firstly, they both have STRONG personalities. Nesta is outwardly chilly and confident, matching Cassian’s bold and gregarious energy. He is intense enough to match his mate, and the pair of them both share an extremely protective edge. Both tend to be overconfident and willing to charge into a fight they might not win, physically OR verbally. These two like to be opponents—to each other, to life, and to obstacles. They’re both always on the hunt for a fight, and share the same themes and desires.

Finally, we have Elriel. Elain and Azriel share similar themes, personality traits, and goals, just like Nessian and Feysand. They are both are observant, reserved, and easily contented. They have a quiet type of humor and seem to enjoy the small and simple things that others take for granted, like the freedom to fly or a quiet afternoon putzing around a garden. They’re never jostling for power amongst their siblings or trying to get prestige for their names. They both seem motivated by a strong inner desire to remain true to who they are, though they never hesitate to help or serve others. They seem motivated by love and the pursuit of a peaceful life, but are very quick to sacrifice their own desires for the greater good. They match!

This is why it feels so absurd to imagine Nesta with Rhysand or Feyre with Azriel or Elain with Cassian. Cassian needs a verbal sparring partner: Elain couldn’t be that for him. Azriel needs someone to listen without trying to problem-solve: Feyre couldn’t be that. And Nesta and Rhys would just kill each other. I know it’s pointless to say all this, but I’m just showing that we can see a romantic mismatch way quicker than a romantic MATCH.

Love stories that make SENSE and tickle the soul are the ones where the pair desire similar things while ALSO desiring each other. It’s not enough to have a sexy enemies-to-lovers or teacher-student premise. You need a couple that WORKS. Compatibilities are what makes characters drawn to one another even more than being beautiful or sexy or rich or whatever. Because all these characters are sexy and eternally gorgeous. That’s not enough to fuel the tension and draw and chemistry in an entire story. You need them to be chasing the same things and viewing the world in a way where they can understand how the other views it.

So anyways… Elriel is coming.

[high-queen-feyre]

“What do you know?” Nesta breathed. “You’re just a half-wild beast with the nerve to bark orders at all hours of the day and night. Keep it up, and someday—someday, Feyre, you’ll have no one left to remember you, or to care that you ever existed.” She stormed off, Elain darting after her, cooing her sympathy. They slammed the door to the bedroom hard enough to rattle the dishes.

I mean damn... Feyre said they have nothing to give Thomas' family and this is how you react?

Also didn't you just say Issac was marrying someone who paid him a handsome dowery? Chapter two Nesta are you scared someone might offer Thomas more money and his "love" for you would go away?

Also to say "no one would rember you" to your little sister who gave up everything for you doesn't really sound that nice, does it?

I also love how Chapter two Nesta says this and at the end of the book everyone celebrates Feyre as Prythian's saviour and Cursebreaker

[beansidhebumbling]

His heart tripped, stumbling in his chest and he heaved a breath at the painful tug at his ribs. A burning tightness felt in the gaps between seconds and there! Deep in bone he felt the twining braid of fate tugging at him, linking him, in life and beyond to the female that stood before him.

Nesta Archeron.

Nesta.

Nesta.

His heart righted itself and began beating anew to the rhythm of her name. 

The two sisters arrived at the townhouse in a flurry of blood, broken wings, and tears. The rain pounding on the shingled roof was too similar to the hammering in his skull for Rhysand’s liking. Feyre was beside herself, collapsing in his arms, a bundle of salt water and regret bound in a slight frame. Nuala stood nearby, expertly bandaging Azriel who gave a nod at Rhys’ cocked brow. His focus so torn between consoling the Saviour and calculating exactly how fucked they were, meant he only registered Nesta and Elain as two shadows of his own follies in his periphery.

When Cerridwen arrived with steaming tea, he handed Feyre off to Mor and made his way to the Shadowsinger, who had stationed himself by the rich velvet curtains of the sitting room window.

Casting a bubble of privacy around them with the wave of his hand, he turned his ire on his brother and growled,

‘What in the Mother’s name happened, Azriel?’

The Spymaster huffed, one scarred hand raising to tug at the ebony curls of his fringe. His shadows agitatedly moved in whisps and turns around his body, the same coordinated dance as flocks of birds in flight.

‘We walked right into a trap is what. I had no clue…’

He paused for a moment to stare at the storm that raged and scattered oak leaves along the small front garden.

‘Nes…We need to discuss some things privately Rhys, the Cauldron-’

An unyielding grip on Rhysand’s silk clad bicep halted Azriel, whose mouth clamped in a tight line. Rhysand turned, scowl adorning his face to shoo away the intruder when, like walking into an April shower, he was caught in a cloud of jasmine, and freesia, and something intoxicating he could not name, as he came face-to-face with her.

Hair freshly washed and braided framed a heart shaped face. Whiffs of fresh florals and a sticky sugar sweetness trailed like vines in the air. She was glaring at him with a wrath that seemed depthless, churning in the misty eddys of her glorious eyes.

His heart tripped, stumbling in his chest and he heaved a breath at the painful tug at his ribs. A burning tightness felt in the gaps between seconds and there! Deep in bone he felt the twining braid of fate tugging at him, linking him, in life and beyond to the female that stood before him.

Nesta Archeron.

Nesta.

Nesta.

His heart righted itself and began beating anew to the rhythm of her name. 

*

    Feyre had once told him they looked alike.

She had been flattering herself Rhysand thought unkindly. No living being could compare to the harpy that stood, stony-eyed and iron-spined before him. For she was beautiful in the way only those made of blades could be.

‘You’re Nesta, Feyre’s sister.’

His unimpressive observation was uttered far too breathily. Azriel’s eyes burned hot on the side of his face. His lungs were too busily engaged with supplying air to his brain as it ran in circles because she was his-

‘You’re the bastard Feyre is engaged to.’

Drenched in acid and seeped from behind gritted teeth, the quiet words still caught the pointed ears of the Saviour.

‘Nesta! Don’t you-'

Feyre started from her seat beside Mor, lit with indignation on his behalf. Her strange loyalty to him received so quickly and nearly entirely undeserved… the human in her remained. How long before she lost that? Before her emotions cooled in the way of fae who had centuries to ponder and simmer on feelings? Was her forgiveness obtained as quickly as her loyalty? Rhysand knew with a sickening surety he was guaranteed to discover the answer to the last question.

He held up one hand never glancing at the Saviour, for he had no will nor ability to look elsewhere, not when the rest of his life stood before him seething so prettily.

‘Feyre darling. It seems your lovely sister wants a word with me.’

The words charmingly uttered did not temper Nesta’s ire in the slightest. Unable to resist the chance for time alone in her all-consuming presence even if it meant to face the full force of her rage, he offered hastily,

‘May I suggest we talk in my study Nesta? So you may express yourself unencumbered by an audience.’

‘Rhys, there’s no need for that..’

Again he cut Feyre off growing impatient with her continued interruption. Did she not see the chess pieces were toppled around them, the plans so carefully formed crumpled and tossed?

Three steps ahead was still two steps behind his father had advised.

What would he say to his son now when it all seemed irrelevant? Now that his heart was threatening to leap from his throat to land at the slippered feet of his-

‘Feyre my darling. Please.’

He allowed some authority to leak into his tone. Feyre stiffened slightly, eyes open and pleading but after a few strained seconds she nodded her head slightly, moving to Elain’s side even as silence reigned.

Nesta’s eyes had only narrowed further throughout his interaction with the Saviour and when he extended her his arm, she looked pointedly at it, draped in the finest black silk woven by the Mothfae of the Elfeisian Valley, before ignoring it in favour of gliding from the room. With her chin held high, gaze higher still, she threw a scathing look at the Morrigan who whispered something to Cassian as she left.

He followed hurriedly, eyes glued to her, the dastardly pull, making her rejection of his proffered arm sting. She was a mere human not a day ago, a scornful shrew by Feyre’s account, a thorn in his side demanding security and protection below the Wall, when, if not for his vested interest in appeasing the Saviour of Prythian, he would have happily eaten her heart, and that of her doe of a sister too. Now she was a goddess who gazed upon him with such loathing that it tickled some perverse part of him.

If attention borne from hatred lit his skin aflame he could only imagine what such intense focus borne from more amiable feeling elicit in him. 

*

    As the door swung closed, the quiet hush of voices within could be scarcely heard, and mattered little, for she stood, arms folded before him, rendering him dumb as power eeked from her like rays from the sun.

He needed to say something.

Make some move.

Fall to his knees in a plea for marriage or forgiveness. Too slow at contemplating his options he lost his chance for action when she snapped,

‘Lead the way villain.’

His tether.

His entrancement.

The bond was pulled taut between them. Rhysand wondered could he see it shimmering if he squinted. And that chant continued in his pulse, catching his breath and breaking the rotten meat that lay in place of a heart.

Nesta

Nesta

Nesta

His mate. 

*

    Upon entering the study, Nesta made a beeline for the cushy leather chair in the corner and while arranging her full skirts gestured for him to take a seat at his desk, in his study.

Outside lightning struck and the sharp outlines of their shadows rose to almost kiss along the wall. The impertinence of her action, the arrogance, bit like venom at the back of his mouth.

But with it came the recollection he had pulled the exact same move on the eldest Vanserra not two years ago, making him almost shivery in anticipation. He had always revelled in a battle and here before him stood his equal who seemed to possess his playbook also.

So, he sat.

‘To what do I owe the honour of your anger?’

The languid drape of his frame, the jeering tone of his voice belied that he meant it. It was an honour and the way her power suffused through the air, cloaking him in blessed heat was driving him slightly mad.

It licked at his blood. His power hungered for her, the fantasy of her coated in the obsidian hand of night taunted him. Would she fall drunk when encased in his blanket of stars and gloom? Would she beg for a taste of eternal darkness?

Nesta shifted in her seat unaware of his more desperate musings. She did not waste time and spit out,

‘What have you done to my sister?’

Rhysand felt his jaw clench slightly despite himself. A slight flaw in his poker face. His composure shaky in the face of jasmine and freesia and the thought of burying his head in the curve of her neck and inhaling.

The tell was enough.

She could smell the answer in the scent of his posture, had clearly played the liar's game before. Those sharp eyes catalogued the slight fluttering tension in a beat. In response her fists clenched and the black of her pupils slowly began oozing out to coat iris and sclera, until like the gods of old her eyes were two obsidian holes in her fine face.

She had taken from the Cauldron. Azriel’s most grave fear, conveyed mind to mind, confirmed.

Mother save them all. 

*

    Even as his self-preservation screamed at him, to fight, to flee, the ribbon between them sung because..

.....because she was looking at him.

He wanted to swim in pools of eternal death, to bask in the creeping rot until he was but molecules. Molecules of a male, floating, drowning, dreaming in her.

‘So it is you who taints her ribbon of gold with decay, who has forged a chain of darkness to tie you to each other. Did you think you could get away with that?I could smell it on you. On her. Polluting the atmosphere with its wrongness.’

A predator on the hunt she rose from her seat to circle the desk, leaning in until he felt the sharp press of her nails against his throat as she squeezed her hands around his neck.

He caught the moan of ecstasy that carried from deep within.

Beautiful.

Vicious.

Witch.

His.

She had to be. He was hers.

*

    Would she mark him with a cut if he begged?

Let red drip onto her fingers, stain them. Hope that some of it might seep into her skin, so he could be part of her, so that his darkness could rest easy amidst silver death.

His eyes fluttered, fighting to stay open and not submit to the scratching loveliness of her touch.

‘I will ask once more and then I will not again. What have you done to my sister?’

Her hands tightened for a second before loosening to let him reply,

‘What will you do if I do not answer Lady Archeron?’

He taunted.

He leaned into her, even as she recoiled, hands retreating to hidden pockets in her skirts.

In the icy absence of her touch, some form of sobriety presented itself.

From the simple cotton confines her right hand rose wordlessly and she held a clenched fist before him. He stretched his palm out to receive the silent offering.

A grey acorn dropped, scattering into ashes upon contact.

Her left hand braced on the arm of his chair so eye contact was unavoidable. She craved his fear, to see it surface in the violet gleam of his gaze, he reckoned.

He craved things far more precious than fear from her.

The dust marked his palm, etched itself between crevice and wrinkle, as she whispered calmly,

‘I did this on the way in. I felt the surge of life that it held. What would have been an ageless oak in the garden of the fae-scum that reside here. I felt life and I pulled. I pulled all that could be from it.'

She bared her teeth in a horrifying facsimile of a smile and hissed,

‘Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.’

An old ditty from some human plague.

He steadied himself, searched for the spine he was fairly certain she had not ripped from him yet.

‘I am no acorn, Nesta.’

‘No. But when I scatter your dust along the Sidra who will be able to tell the difference?’

There was a beat of silence.

She had a point.

Nesta tilted her head, tapping her foot in anticipation of an explanation.

‘Do your human tales mention the Weaver?’

She scrunched her fine arched brows before stating in a distant voice,

‘A Witch of Waste and Middle... who threads the tapestry of fate.’

‘Clever little thing aren’t you?’

Her eyes flashed.

‘Clever enough to know to mind my manners when someone could turn me to dust.’

His lovely mate, all bark and bite.

‘Touchy, touchy.’

He sniped but when she snarled and her hands started to glow silver, he held up his own in surrender.

It wouldn’t do for her to kill him before she had a chance to fall in love with him. With this in mind he spoke carefully,

‘I made a bargain. A fiddly thing they are, love. Like thread, so many loops to be found. Dangerous business to mess with loops and the Weaver. Only the brave or foolish do so.’

In a voice drier than the sands of Day she retorted,

‘A tragedy then that you are both.’

A small laugh burst from the rising corners of his mouth. It was his true laugh, high and cold and utterly inhuman, not the warm gravelly one he created to enchant the Saviour.

‘You flatter me.’

She did. She flattered him every second she spent in his company.

He wondered did she find him pretty? Did she admire the sharp angle of his jaw, the sheen of his hair, the lean muscle of his frame?

‘I’ll flatten you if you don’t get to the point.’

‘A bargain with the Weaver to alter the bonds. Break and remake.’

Feyre’s bond to Cassian now a fraying string, a red primrose strangled by bindweed. A new one built of night and darkness and Winter’s blood. Nesta released a strangled scream, storming to the other end of the room as hot blush painted her cheeks and the pieces clicked together.

‘Oh you heinous piece of shit. You didn’t just break whatever bond she had, you tied her to you.’

A simple plan. Bond with the most powerful fae in Prythian. On the infinitesimal chance his mate appeared he would kill them. So simple and yet…

He had miscalculated.

A rare occurrence.

A fatal mistake.

He could not kill this creature of mercury and boiling burning anger, whose blood was dripping from clenched fists onto the well tufted carpet.

She had no such qualms however.

‘I’m going to murder you.’

Vow uttered she prowled towards him, stopped in her tracks as his low warning reached her.

‘I really wouldn’t recommend that if you value your sister.’

‘Is that a threat, you fucking monster?’

She thought him a monster. Strange for it to hurt so, an apt descriptor, one he had revelled in now sat heavy in his chest coming from her.

‘I’d prefer you think of it as sound advice. How about a deal?’

She scoffed, her disgust apparent.

‘Now why would I make a deal when I could just kill you before you hurt my sister or anyone else?’

True fear laced his voice as he responded,

‘Because your sister’s life is tied to mine.’

And only the Mother knew what possessed him to attempt to lighten the mood after such a confession.

‘I do so like a bargain.’

Nesta recoiled in horror.

‘Your lives are tied. What would possess Feyre…’

She trailed off. The answer hung in the air between them but he vocalised it all the same,

‘Love.’

There was no glee in Rhysand saying such a thing. Feyre’s love, adoring and fragile, still young and wild, a toy he’d played with for his own amusement, would eliminate whatever slim chance he had with Nesta.

His best laid plans would soon be his ruination. His heart could not be ignored, nor the screaming writhing bond that made his ribs ache. He had to salvage something from the wreckage of his greed and ambition.

‘Stay in the Night Court and I’ll break the false bond with your sister.’

‘I’d sooner drown myself in your river than vow to stay in this court under your rule, to be used for whatever evil you concoct next.’

‘A century. Stay here a century and Feyre can go where she pleases, free from the bond. I’ll fund her travels and comfort.’

Nesta let out a derisive snort.

‘Oh that is a given. She is the Saviour of you and your rotten kind. You fooled my sister and you brought myself and Elain into this mess with your carelessness and arrogance.’

She shook her head sadly.

'And a century? Not a chance.’

‘Need I remind you, you are one of my rotten kind now. Fifty years.’

The sharp intake of breath from her was all he got as she turned her back on him and did not deign to answer. No hostile party had ever turned left back open to him before. It pleased him that he did not frighten her.

Silver linings to cling to, as like ice melting, she sought to slip from grasping fingers.

‘Twenty and you live in the Townhouse and work under my employ.’

‘So you can exploit my powers? So I have to suffer your miserable presence?’

So he could see her face each day. So other Courts would cower before them. So he could offer her the world if she asked.

‘Consider Rhysand that if I figure out how to get to the Weaver myself I will fashion my own bargain with her.’

He was bombarded with different horrifying visions of Nesta. Hanging from one of the great oak trees that grew in the Middle, the Weaver hacking off limbs from her corpse to make wax and soup, her bronze hair matted with blood as her skull cracked like a runny egg, leaking all she was onto damp grass. Nesta with her newly burgeoning power was too weak yet for the Witch of the Middle. A dread settled in his bones and panic eroded his voice so it left his chapped lips in a rasp,

‘No.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Please... just five years. You will stay in the Townhouse and your time is your own.’

He held no cards, not at her own unwitting threat to her safety. She seemed to sense it, the gambler’s instinct gleaming in the twinkle of her eye.

‘Three years. I will live in Velaris independently on the condition you break the tainted mess that connects you and Feyre before the year end.’

He went to agree and was stopped by her voice continuing a pitch lower and finely sharpened like a dagger.

‘If not I will leave and make it my mission to take your court apart brick by fae-damned brick.’

*

    Three years.

He was glad the bond hadn’t snapped for her yet so she did not know a bargain was unnecessary. He would throw himself off Ramiel to make her smile.

Three years to convince her he was a male she could love. Three years to earn Feyre’s forgiveness and qualify for Nesta’s consideration.

Three years.

A blink of an eye, especially when he had no clue how to break a bargain with the Weaver.

But Rhysand had faced worse.

He extended his hand.

At the very least he could touch her, feel the soft skin of her pale hand meet his, at least once more, relish in the sparks that flew and the marks they’d share.

There were silver linings after all.

[natasha-reads]

I'm like 100 pages into ACOMAF and y'all... I can't tell you how much I love Rhys. Like this man IS SUCH A GREEN FLAG. When he notices Feyre has lost weight he literally asks her to have breakfast with him. He faces all of Tamlin's bs to save Feyre from the wedding and takes the fall for it. Yes, he's a saviour of sorts but he's also the kind of saviour that respects that Feyre knows what she wants. He's not easily defined as either good or evil.

I know Tamlin fancies himself as a protector, but Rhys was the real protector. He gave everything to protect Velaris and his people.

I love how he breaks the stereotypical "bad guy" trope because he never shies away from showing he cares, from showing his feelings. He's very open about his concern for Feyre and his affection for his inner circle.

Peak male character writing, Sarah J Maas is such a queen for giving us this man.

[a-court-of-moonlight-and-ire]

I just remembered, I kinda touched on this in one of my posts where I talked about how Feyre being objectified for being The Saviour of Prythian would make more sense than her being objectified for being a woman but theres something else about it that I forgot to mention, so Im mentioning that now

Its so weird to me how Feyres accomplishments from the first book just straightup dont matter in ACOMAF, which is such a feminist move on sjm's part btw. Like, in the very first chapter theres a thing where shes like "theyre calling me Feyre Cursebreaker now, not too bad for a last name I guess" like shes upset that people are putting her on a pedestal and dehumanizing her for being a living martyr but then that never comes up again, and everytime shes dehumanized after that point its because people think of her as a "prized broodmare" because shes a woman

And when anyone talks about Feyre, theyre only ever calling her "the bride of spring" or "tamlin's bride" when realistically she should be "The Great Cursebreaker of Prythian" and command more respect than the high lords while Tamlin should be "that cringefail guy that got all of our asses cursed" in the eyes of your average faerie. Like, obviously its not his fault that an insane woman fell in love with him and did all that shit, but if I was a non-spring court fae I would still be kinda bitter and dislike him I think

[ae-neon]

Okay I'm rereading some beginning chapters of acotar and Feyre says Alis and the two other servants look human/high fae. Like humans with pointed ears. Specifically described Alis as a brown haired woman.

It's probably the glamour, but a very interesting take on it.

Also Tamlin "plops" down into his chair as a horse sized beast AND THEN shifts back to high fae form??? ��� Sarah what are you talking about?

Credit tho, this is probably the best Feyre is written. Smart, observant, thinking - still panicked but not making stupid mistakes. And kinda funny, she thinks Tamlin is wearing the mask in solidarity with Lucien since Lucien probably wants to hide his scar.

Lucien is a bit weird? In retrospect, he knows about the curse, about the sentries going despite Tamlin's reluctance but he's acting like Tamlin traded Andras's life for Feyre's?

Also sjm's manipulative writing. At no point has Tamlin done anything to save Feyre or earn her trust but she mentally starts switching from captor to saviour out of nowhere. It's only chapter 5 or 6. Be serious. She hasn't even been there a day and she's saying the humans were wrong about Prythian.

Alis and the other two servants cut Feyre's hair, why? Also Alis telling Feyre to take Lucien down a peg lol.

Alis says Feyre will be safe at the mercy of their master and just before she left the dining room Feyre saw Lucien bow to Tamlin as well as be talked down from throwing Feyre out. How does she not know he's the High Lord?

Lucien to Tamlin: you have zero rizz, my boy

Also Lucien: "we're not going to bite." Teeth gleaming in a way that suggested otherwise. Cassian stole this man's whole flow 🙄

Not Tamlin saying it's an honour for a human to be served by a High Fae, stfu.

“You look … better than before.”

Was that a compliment? I could have sworn Lucien gave Tamlin an encouraging nod.

“And your hair is … clean.”

HAHAHAHA

(Lucien muttered, “So typically human.”) racism.

Lucien was seriously upset about Andras. That hurts.

Tamlin immediately assures Feyre that he's helped her family with income. It's chapter 7. The tension is sucked out of the situation and Feyre's motivation to leave is nullified by the author. That's kinda bad writing. Narratively it makes sense for Tamlin to use this against her trying to escape tho.

Tamlin has magic ropes? Hands? That can just hold Feyre in place?

Feyre: he's lying. Also Feyre: faeries can't lie.

“Why be so generous?” Lucien gave me a look that suggested he had no idea

They literally just finished making sure she wasn't in love with anyone back home so she could fall for Tamlin easier. So Lucien knows exactly why???

Feyre misses sleeping next to her sisters 🥺

Nesta must be stretching her legs and smiling at the extra room. She was probably content imagining me in the belly of a faerie—probably using the news as a chance to be fussed over by the villagers.

She legitimately doesn't know anything about Nesta.

...maybe the villagers would turn on my family, not wanting to be associated with people tied with Prythian, and run them out of town.

acotar Feyre would punch acomaf Feyre in the mouth

"Your hair is … clean. A pathetic compliment." 😭😭😭

(“What in the bottomless depths of the Cauldron is—”) so you're telling me sjm actually used to use real lore and incorporate it into worldbuilding. Wow. Like this is such a good line and flows so naturally from an upset Alis because of course that is how fae see the world.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at my slightly uptilted eyes. I knew I’d see Nesta or my mother looking back at me.

I’d sometimes wondered if that was why my sister had insulted me about my looks. I was a far cry from ugly, but…

I bore too much of the people we’d hated and loved for Nesta to stand it. For me to stand it, too.

The dynamic between Nesta, Feyre and the ghost of their mother could have been one of the realist, rawest elements of this series...

[theladyofbloodshed]

The story that nobody asked for. Imagining Nesta has a crush on Jurian and that he's around in the war camp before they fight against Hybern. 18+.

‘Who taught you to throw a punch like that, princess?’

Nesta ignored the deep voice. Mostly, the Illyrians called her witch. One called her sweetheart. Still, if names were the worst thing Illyrians dared to throw at her, Nesta would take it.

The war camp was quiet. The deep breath before the plunge. Some dozed in their tents, others still raised theirs as the camp rose and stretched towards the horizon like a great beast. The sounds of mallets striking pegs into the ground was the only noise Nesta could hear. She continued slicing her muslin into strips for the healers ready for the inevitable bloodshed that would come.

‘Now, I know a good girl like you wasn’t raised to be ignorant.’

Girl?

Nesta refused to give this male the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. He’d get bored and prowl after another female soon enough. This work mattered more. It was better to be overprepared with excess material left than scrambling to cut more as wounds bled. Still, Nesta couldn’t help but sneak a look at the shadow looming over her.

No wings. Not Illyrian then.

Knees clicked as the male squatted down in front of her.

Creaking joints?

Dark brown hair reached his chin in loose waves. Days-old, rough stubble lined his jaw and Nesta had the altogether impression that he hadn’t scrubbed himself properly in a few days. The hands that rested on his knees were dirty, the fingernails were short but still had grit wedged beneath.

‘Showing my age when my knees make that noise,’ he said, a smirk quirking his lips to the side, revealing a dimple.

The man was Nesta’s age. Was.

A young man who had lived as a slave, who incited a rebellion to lead his people to freedom. His sacrifices had ensured that humans could live freely beneath the Wall. Her people had poems of Jurian the Valiant. Jurian the Saviour. She had read books about him, this legendary figure from history. The man who had dared to dream of a better life for his people. A man who had dared to take it.

Then the fae had got their hands on him. Amarantha, the same female who had killed Feyre, had tortured him and forced him to live a cursed life for five centuries until the King of Hybern had revived him.

Slave. Martyr. Mad.

Nesta narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Do not call me princess.’

‘Nice to see you keeping busy. We all have a role to play in the war effort. I’m still keen to know who taught a good girl like you how to hit someone.’

She turned back to her white cloth to cut it with her scissors. She shrugged one shoulder absently. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Graysen. Pompous prick. Deep pockets. That beautiful punch nearly knocked his head straight off his neck. Unexpected from a good girl like you.’

Princess had annoyed her. Good girl made her skin tingle all over.

Yes, this man had played the cuckoo, nestling in with Hybern and throwing out his eggs from the nest before settling in with Graysen and the other mortals.

‘Have you eaten? I’d like a word with you. We can do it while we eat.’

Nesta exhaled through her nose. It wouldn’t take much to knock him into the mud. A hard shove in the shoulder while he still squatted beside her. He might be the mad general, but he was still only mortal. Nesta was now fae.

‘I’m busy.’

‘Be a lot quicker if you ripped it or used a knife.’

Nesta pierced him with a glare. Her strips had all been cut equal widths in a neat line with her embroidery scissors.

Before she could react, Jurian had wrenched it from her grasp, got to his feet and hacked at it roughly with his knife. It was faster, she could admit, but a mess. A point she made.

‘Do you think the dying care about how neat their bandages are?’ He shook his head. ‘Any fae will be healed by their healers. We’ll be left to take care of ourselves. Our wounds will be the ones still bleeding, still infected. As always. The bottom rung of society, the disposable force.’

Nesta gave Jurian a tight smile. ‘Well, I’m not mortal anymore. Am I?’

The man winced at her words. His brown eyes flicked towards her pointed ears, hidden away beneath her coronet. She still couldn’t bear to look at them, to admit that this was what she was. Forever.

‘Well, I’m hungry.’

He turned on his heel and lumbered forwards. He moved differently. So human. His steps were loud. His gait slow. But there was something below the surface, a predator luring its prey. Nesta did not doubt that Jurian, the mad general, was not someone to be trifled with. He had deceived the King of Hybern, mounted a slave rebellion against the fae five hundred years earlier.

Maybe that was why she followed.

The others would have chastised her for following him through to the small section of the camp where the mortals had set up their tent. She spied the flag bearing Graysen’s family crest and was seized by the urge to tear it down. Few mortals had come. Many had tried to flee to the south, to the Continent, to anywhere that would take them. She should have been one of them.

Nesta did not blame them. They’d be fighting against creatures they had been taught to fear. Creatures who were bigger, stronger, and faster than them. Ones with magic. Ones like her.

Nesta felt the stares on her as Jurian led her to where soup was being ladled out. She wanted to declare that she had once been one of them. Her heart was still mortal. It still beat for her homeland.

The soup was bland. The flavours did not exist. It was difficult to swallow due to her heightened senses. Any food from her home tasted of ash.

‘You were a casualty of the war. I thought I’d be willing to pay the price.’ Jurian fixed her with his dark stare. It was haunting. The stare of a man who’d seen five centuries of horror. ‘Your sister. Elain. It was easier to watch her go in the Cauldron. You.’ He swallowed. ‘You wanted so badly to live as you were. To be mortal. And I had a part in taking that from you.’

‘Wars are won with sacrifice. But you didn’t choose that sacrifice. I’m sorry. I’m sorry it happened to you. I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy.’        

This man had been a friend of Mor’s in the first war. A man who had been driven to insanity by the pain inflicted up on him. She had said she hardly recognised him now. But Nesta saw something in him. A glimmer of the man who had inspired thousands to follow him. A man with a good heart who’d fought to keep it whole.  

‘It doesn’t take back what you did.’

‘No. It doesn’t. You are not the only one changed by the Cauldron, Nesta. I felt your pain as acutely as my own.’

Nesta rose – as did her fury. ‘What a terrible experience. I’m so sorry you had to endure watching me put into the Cauldron.’

Faster than she thought he would be, Jurian had stood too. His fingers clamped around her wrist, preventing her from leaving. The grip was painful.

‘Let go of me,’ she hissed.

Regret washed over his features. His fingers loosened then brushed against the white marks they’d left. ‘I’m not a perfect man. I’ve never claimed to be. I’m not a man of fine words or poetry. I’m a soldier, Nesta. It’s all I’ve ever been. To gain the king’s trust, a sacrifice had to be made. There will be no forgiveness for me, not from you, but my apology stands.’

He swallowed and Nesta watched the bob of his throat. He was so… mortal. There were scars on his body. She could smell sweat on him. His brown eyes were dull. His body didn’t threaten hers. His armour, though polished and well-kept, wasn’t anything special. He was human. A man. Not a man she’d ever have interacted with as a woman either. Jurian had no manners, had no silver-tongue, or fortune. Just a man with the heart of a lion who wanted his people to be free.

His need to win the king’s trust had resulted in the loss of mortality of two human woman. His apology was genuine. He felt the loss just as keenly as she did.

‘How far would you go? How many regrets can you bear to carry?’

***

It was still early, the light barely bleeding into the sky but already the camp was waking. Nesta had slept little, curled beside Elain in a low-slung camp bed in a tent that they shared with Morrigan. The blonde had woken first, yawning and groaning in her bed as if war was simply another day, before heading out.

Nesta had helped where she could rather than remaining in the bed with Elain who pretended to still be asleep rather than face the world. She’d chopped fruit and added it to a massive vat of porridge. It was watered down to go around, but still, she filled a pot with it and carried it back to their section of tents with a stack of bowls under her arm. Nesta was not a fighter, but she would do her bit where she could.

There were voices coming from Rhys and Feyre’s tents, rough male voices bouncing through tactics and plans. She entered, announcing the arrival of breakfast as if that might save the day.

‘Thanks, sweetheart,’ Cassian said with a wink, taking the heavy pot from her to lift onto the table.

Cassian and Azriel were there, their enormous wings demanding space in the cramped tent. Rhysand poured over a map, his magic clawing up more room. There were other males – Kallias, the high lord of Winter with his chiselled features; Helion, the high lord of the Day Court with his swaggering confidence. But Nesta’s eyes snapped to one. Jurian was there. Again, she was struck by how mortal he was, especially compared to these fae. Each was powerful in their own right, but her body demanded she look at only Jurian. He was the reminder of the life she had lost. In a strange, new world, he was the constant.

Nesta ladled out bowls of porridge which Feyre passed around the group as they discussed where each army would press. She extended the next bowl for Feyre to take, but a rough hand enclosed around hers to accept it.

‘Thank you, princess.’

Something charged passed through them. Nesta found herself looking away, staring intently at the nearly empty porridge pot rather than face him. It wasn’t just Jurian’s attention. She could feel Cassian’s gaze boring into her skin.

‘It takes an army to feed an army,’ the man said sagely.  

‘Right,’ she replied, the pitch of her voice far higher than usual. ‘I need to keep feeding the army.’

Her tongue tangled over itself. Cool composure lost under Jurian’s intense stare. The corner of his mouth tipped up. That sinful dimple creasing into his cheek.

Don’t say it, Nesta thought.

‘Good girl.’

Blood scorched in her cheeks. Jurian might not have been able to hear the sudden increase in her pulse, but the others had. All of them turned to face her, even her sister.

‘This pot isn’t going to fill itself,’ she mumbled, hurrying from the tent.

Even the cold wind blowing through the camp could not cool the heat from her cheeks. The deep voice repeated on a loop in her mind. Good girl. Good girl. Good grief! Why did that make her knees give way? It was condescending. She was a grown woman. A female.

A pair of steps trailed her from the tent. She expected Cassian. Expected him to demand why another male had made her pulse quicken. Why she'd stared at Jurian like he was the only man who existed.

But it was Feyre.

‘What was that all about?’

‘It’s breakfast, Feyre.’

Her sister tilted her head to the side. ‘No. I mean why did Jurian send you scurrying out of the tent like a blushing bride. I’ve never seen you go giddy like that when a male speaks to you. You usually intimidate them.’

‘He’s a man. Not a male,’ she replied hotly, though that had nothing to do with the matter.

Feyre’s brows raised. A small smile played on her lips. ‘Nesta, do you… Do you find Jurian attractive?’

‘Of course not,’ she scoffed, swinging her porridge pot like a buffoon. ‘He’s rude. He has no manners. He’s dirty. His hair will soon have birds nesting in it.’

‘He’s also the reason you were put into the Cauldron.’

‘A sacrifice he made to gain the king’s trust.’ Nesta clamped her hand over her mouth. Surely, she wasn’t defending Jurian? Nesta took a steadying breath to try and cling to her sanity. ‘Jurian has apologised to me. I believe it to be genuine.’

‘Nesta, you cannot trust him. Mor said he’s completely mad.’

Mad? Perhaps. It certainly took madness to maintain his mask around the King of Hybern. Any quickening of his pulse or betrayal of emotions would have been sensed. Jurian had been steel – unbending, unyielding. A wolf in a herd of sheep. But Nesta had shared a meal with a man who spoke with an honest tongue. A man that mortals looked to for steadiness.

‘Feyre, I gave him breakfast. I certainly have no intentions to give him anything more. He is uncouth. With little honour. I care not for him.’

Feyre made a face suggesting she didn’t believe Nesta’s words. Hell, Nesta didn’t believe them either. He was rough around the edges. The sort of man that her mother would have stuck her nose up at. And that made him more enticing for Nesta. The fae males were, well, fae. Too unnatural. The wings still unsettled Nesta. But Jurian was a man. A man who knew how to chop wood and gut someone. A man who could cook war rations and fix a leaking roof. A man who knew what to do with his hands. A man who had seduced a fae female. Seduced her then chopped her into pieces.

Slave. Martyr. Mad.

Maybe he was all three.

‘Well, when you’ve finished delivering porridge, Rhys has asked if you’ll come into the tent.’

***

Nesta had begged the group who saw to the daily running of the camp for more tasks, more orders to keep her away from Rhysand’s tent. When there was no more porridge left do dole out, Nesta had helped chop vegetables for lunch, cut more strips of muslin, and cleaned whatever needed to be cleaned.

Even when she saw Mor striding towards her, she busied herself still. Mor’s boot tapped on the hard ground impatiently until Nesta demanded what she wanted.

‘We are all waiting for you.’

‘I cannot be at Rhysand’s every beck and call.’

Mor shook her head. ‘He is the high lord.’

Not mine, she almost said.

Begrudgingly, Nesta stowed away her basket of linen then followed Mor's weaving trail back towards the large, black tent. The brazier kept the tent warm. Each had a mug of tea clasped in their hands.

A few of the people had rotated. Kallias had been exchanged for Thesan, the high lord of the Dawn Court and his Peregryn commander. Devlon was in the tent along with a tall, blonde male from the Hewn City. Tempers flared. Too many dominant personalities in such a cramped space. Jurian held his own against the fae, his harsh voice scraping against theirs refusing to allow mortals to be on the front lines, refusing to allow his people’s blood to spill first. Devlon argued back that his Illyrians wouldn’t be the collateral either.

At Nesta’s arrival, they paused, glancing her way momentarily before Helion’s smooth voice rippled over them. He pointed at the map, gesturing to wear he’d position his forces.

Jurian’s eyes met Nesta’s. He took a slow sip of his tea then held the mug out for her. ‘Still warm.’

It was a test as much as any. Would she shed her heritage as a mortal, refuse to share a cup with a mortal man because she was a superior fae? All Nesta could think of was his lips against the rim of the cup, where else those lips could be. With all eyes still on her, Nesta took the cup and raised it to her mouth, drinking once.

Jurian winked at her. She found herself hurriedly looking away, a blush rising in her cheeks once more from his presence. What was wrong with her?

‘Nesta, we need to ask you a few questions.’ Rhysand’s address snapped her head back up. She stared at him with more conviction than she ever had before – anything to not feel the scorching heat of Jurian’s eyes or the pressing gaze from Cassian either.

‘Ask them then.’

‘Hybern is quiet.’

‘Far too quiet,’ Cassian added.

‘Can you feel anything from the Cauldron?’

It lurked in her periphery, an unwanted spectre trailing her. But there was no change in the shadow. It remained as it always did, a prowling beast just out of sight.

‘No difference than usual.’

‘You can always feel it?’ Azriel pushed.

She saw the flash of discomfort in Devlon’s eyes. The twist of his lips as his favourite insult pressed to the surface.

Nesta stiffened. ‘Yes. I ripped out its heart. It follows me.’

The tent dropped in temperature as wariness settled in.

Rhys shrugged a shoulder with indifference. ‘It could work in our favour – a blessing in disguise.’

‘A blessing?’ Jurian made a noise of disbelief.

‘Let’s not forget why Nesta has a connection to the Cauldron, Jurian,’ Mor warned, her fingers flitting to the knife sheathed on her hip.

Before the man could even respond, Nesta had opened her mouth. Without reason. Without considering her words. ‘Jurian made sacrifices just as Rhysand has. I was the casualty of it. It cannot be reversed but I will not pretend that there is some good in it. If I had the choice, I would be as I was.’

A strong hand came down on her shoulder, squeezing once in a gesture so human Nesta did not need to look around to know who was touching her, who she allowed to continue touching her in the tent full of fae.

The others noted it.

She fought hard in their meeting to stop looking at Jurian. To stop feeling giddy and light-headed every time their eyes met or he posed a question to her. It was useless.

***

There had been no movement from Hybern. They had not drawn their lines, their tents were still, almost as if the camp was in an enchanted slumber. It allowed their own camp to rest and ready themselves. Tomorrow, the fighting would start regardless of Hybern’s move. The waiting game was too tedious. More had been winnowed in from Illyria and the Hewn City, but tensions bubbled. Too much longer and the armies here would begin turning on each other. Too many egos in the pot. The mortal section of the camp was uneasy. For now, these fae were the allies – but for how long?

Nesta kept her hood drawn as she entered their camp.

Jurian had traded his armour for a dark tunic. He bounced between groups, trading stories by the fire before moving onto the next group. They drank cups of ale. Songs rang out. A last hurrah before the end.

She didn’t know why she was seeking him out. Didn’t pause to question herself. Her feet just kept moving over the solid ground until she reached the grey tents.

‘What’s wrong?’ He said in greeting.

‘We go to war tomorrow. I-’ Nesta stopped to take a deep breath. ‘I don’t know. Good luck.’

‘Good luck?’ His dimple appeared and Nesta nearly sighed at the sight of it. ‘Is that what the fae say before a war? I can’t talk now.’

Was Nesta seeing things or was it disappointment in his brown eyes when he said it?

‘My people will bleed for me, die for me tomorrow. The least I can give them is my time tonight.’

A good general, not a mad general. Nesta nodded in understanding although embarrassment fluttered in her chest. Infatuation had driven her here. She was caught up in the stories of glory of Jurian, the hero of her people. These stories were addling her sense.

‘I’ll come and find you in your tent tonight.’

‘I share a tent with my sister and Morrigan.’

He cocked his head to the side, grinning slightly. ‘Then I’ll bring you to my tent and show you exactly what mortals do on the eve of war.’

Dumbfounded, Nesta could only blink at him. Heat had pooled low in her belly at what he was insinuating. A buzzing sounded in her ears.

‘You have no manners.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ he replied. ‘And that I smell. And my hair is a bird’s nest.’

‘Feyre told you I said that?’

‘You seem to have spent an awful long time staring at me to notice such things.’

Nesta fumbled for a witty retort, but nothing came. Her brain was too busy lusting over his solid arms, the way he made her feel small, the beard coming through.

Traitorous body, she thought with irritation.

‘Good luck. Try not to die.’

‘See you tonight.’

‘You will not.’

***

Nesta could think of nothing but the quake of her heart as Jurian led her by the hand towards his tent. There had been no argument. No refusal to follow him. His hand had extended as the camp settled for the night and Nesta had taken it. There was no shame from him. He walked steadfast, head up, through his camp and into his tent. Nesta had made up a flimsy excuse to Elain that she had to speak with one of the healers and would be back. Elain wouldn’t miss her. Her sister had barely gotten out of bed that day, preferring the sanctuary of the covers. Still, if anybody questioned Nesta’s absence, Elain would mumble something about the healers and she would be forgotten.

The tent wasn’t small, but there was no elegance to the place like Rhysand’s. Jurian’s tent was given to him by Lord Nolan. Grey canvas stretched over wooden poles. A brazier burnt in the corner, giving much needed heat to the tent. A camp bed with a single blanket strewn on top took up most of the room. It was bare. The man had few belongings save for the weapons and armour dropped haphazardly in one corner.

Nesta seated herself on the bed, her lips pressed together.

He removed his wrist guards then the chest piece before pulling his tunic over his head. It was a well-practised dance for him, the everlasting soldier. There was something intimate about watching it. He strode from the tent before returning with a bucket of water he’d warmed over a fire pit.

‘So, I’m not dirty.’

Any words stayed on her tongue as Jurian dipped a cloth into the water then began cleaning his bare torso. His body was muscled and tanned, but unlike the fae bodies she had seen, Jurian’s glittered with scars, even bruises in varying colours from purple to fading green. And, surprisingly delighting her, dark hair spread across his chest.

Her mother would be rolling in her grave to see her eldest daughter in a war camp with a rough man whose only currency was violence.

But Nesta didn’t care.

For the first time, Nesta took control of her own destiny. Not a mother guiding her to a husband, not poverty stealing her chances, or fae shifting her future. She would make a choice. A choice she wanted.

Nesta reached for the cloth, taking her time to wring out the excess water then dragged it along the man’s shoulders, working it downwards across his spine then against his hip. She followed the track of the rivulets running down his tan skin towards his waistband.

‘Do you need to comb my hair too, so that I’m presentable, princess?’

‘Stop.’

She rolled her eyes then began cleaning his neck.

Jurian turned so his bare chest was inches from her. His heart beat loudly. Not fast, but loud. Loud to her ears. Had he been with a woman since he’d been revived, Nesta wondered.  

‘What about my absence of manners? Should I say thank you for this?’

Nesta flicked his mouth with the cloth. ‘You won’t be able to when I gag you with it. Stop talking. You ruin the moment.’

‘So violent.’

Seizing the cloth from her hand, Jurian dashed it back into the bucket. He held onto her as his own hand pressed against her chest, feeling the drumming of her heart. ‘This is mortal. This spirit, it will always be mortal. Don’t ever let it fade.’

‘Kiss me.’

The kiss was power sweeping in. Jurian held her face, tilted it up to him and pressed his lips to hers. More. Nesta needed more.

Her hand sought the laces of his breeches. She loosened them, let her fingers trail against the soft skin of his stomach. Let them explore lower.

Jurian tore off her shawl. He tipped her forwards into the crook of his neck while his fingers plucked at the buttons running down the back of her dress. It came off easily, pooled around her feet, so she stood only in a shift.

‘Are you cold?’

‘No,’ she whispered as Jurian lay her onto the bed, his hand running up her thigh.

He spread open her legs, exposing her before him. Nesta let out a small gasp as Jurian’s mouth licked at her sex. There was no hesitation from the man. He’d come to conquer.

Nesta’s legs wrapped around his back. At her eagerness, Jurian looked up, a smile quirked his lips. He exchanged soft kisses for spiralling his tongue at the entrance to her sex. It was languid, savouring each breathy moan it elicited from her.

Her fingers twisted in the blanket as Jurian’s fingers spread her open to access better with his tongue. Every pulse of it had her core curling tighter with a pleasure she had never known before. It softened over the most sensitive parts then sucked harder when she could take more pressure until Nesta was undone.

A sudden rush of euphoria flooded her body. Her legs quivered against the rough stubble on Jurian’s face as he kissed the sensitive skin of her thighs, riding through the last of her orgasm

He moved so his body was over hers. Lips, plump and wet, pressed to hers. She could taste herself on his tongue. Nesta’s fingers gripped his hair, kept his mouth against hers as his tongue sought entry.

She peeled away his breeches to admire his whole body. A deep, twisting scar ran across his thigh – but that was not what had caught her attention. His erection pressed against him, solid and ready.

‘I want this,’ Nesta whispered, reaching for his cock to position it at her entrance.

Jurian grinned. It was so human that it made her heart flutter. ‘Don’t be too loud or you’ll wake up the camp.’

The general ground his hips to hers, his length sliding in. There was a sudden, sharp pain of being stretched too quickly. His rough breathing in her ear as they grew accustomed to each other settled Nesta’s pulse.

Jurian kissed along her jaw, unmoving until Nesta gave him permission to resume.

Her shift was abandoned. The skin of their chests stuck together with every thrust. One hand gripped Jurian’s dark hair, the other dug its nails into the sweat-soaked muscles of his back. Breath hissed between Jurian’s teeth as he drew out his length then buried it to the hilt. Over and over, he thrust, setting a rhythm. Their foreheads touched, lips met, each one desperate for this purely human moment before a war.

He took care to clean her afterwards though he remained quiet at the small amount of blood spread between her thighs.

Jurian stood, proud in his bare skin, to stoke the brazier and add a few more coals.

All around them, the tents were silent. Only the poor souls on a watch duty remained awake.

‘Are you warm, Nesta?’

In response, she patted the narrow bed. He obliged her wish and slipped in beside her, arms wrapping around her body. Her hand rested on his chest, palm feeling the thump of his heart. Nesta found herself wondering if Jurian would age now. If, in fifty years, he’d be an elderly man. Or had the Cauldron changed him into a mortal who lived forever. There would no worse fate for him. A constant cycle of seeing generations rise and fall while he remained the same.

‘I should have realised that you would be a maiden.’ Jurian let out a quiet laugh. ‘I thought maybe... Being fae. I don’t know. Sorry.’

There was no regret on Nesta’s part. War was coming like a wave they could not out run. Jurian might not see another night. Neither might she. Nesta had wanted to be with a man. Not a fae male. A man. A man who she should have spent a life with. If one night was all she could manage then it was better than nothing.

‘I’m twenty-three, Jurian. Nearly a spinster by human standards.’

‘A spinster,’ he crowed. ‘You’re only a couple of years younger than I am.’

‘You are more than twenty times my age.’

At that, Jurian squeezed her hip, making her jerk and squeal. ‘I spent five hundred years in a ring. It doesn’t count.’

‘Will you crucify me now like the last female?’

A dark look crossed Jurian’s face. Nesta didn’t know why she had said it. Other than to be cruel. To force him to push her away before she hurt her own tender feelings because she was barrelling down a path where the only ending was heartbreak.

Jurian sat on the edge of the bed, brown eyes falling to the glowing embers in the brazier. His hair hung forwards.

‘I hated every moment of it. Each time she touched me, each time I had to touch her. I hated it all. But I’d do it again. I’d do it for our people.’

Slave. Martyr. Mad.

‘How far would you go? What is your limit, Jurian?’

This man had lost everything. Death would have been a kindness for him. Instead, he had been tortured and maimed, forced to spend five centuries observing Amarantha’s cruelty. And then, when he returned, he had nothing, nobody. No friends. No family. No home. No belongings. Nothing. Nesta realised he had no limits because he had nothing more to lose. Everything had been taken from him.

‘Put your clothes back on,’ he said gently. ‘I’ll walk you back to your tent.’

‘And if I wanted to remain here?’

Nesta pressed herself against his back and wound her arms around his shoulders. The man sucked in a long breath. She was what he should hate. A fae. She should hate him for her transformation. And yet Nesta understood. He’d made an impossible choice; two mortals he didn’t know for Hybern’s secrets. Nesta would do the same for Elain, for Feyre. There were no limits to what she would do to protect her sisters.

‘This might be your last night,’ he said.   

‘Then let us not waste it.’

***  

It took all of Nesta’s strength to prise Jurian’s arms from her bare body as the camp took its first breaths at dawn. It would have been easy to remain there, feeling safer than she had in years. The man did not stir as she slipped out from the bed to dress. Without his body cradling hers, Nesta grew cold. The dawning of war sent another shiver rippling through her. Already, she could hear the sounds of the humans readying their horses, the smiths ensuring blades were sharp, armour was mended. Her section of the camp would be awake too, perhaps even wondering where she’d spent the night. Or with whom.

Nesta wasn’t one for goodbyes. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of pressing a kiss upon Jurian’s brow like two star-crossed lovers, parting for the last time, but she thought better of it. It would probably be more awkward than anything. Nesta did not want to see regret on Jurian’s features when he realised that he had bedded an enemy.

She was a silly girl with an infatuation with a legend. The eve of war had encouraged her heart to make a decision. They’d spent the night tangled with each other. Their fervour was as a result of passion and desperation, the final breath before war driving them to their coupling. He’d not been rough or selfish as Nesta expected, but tender and consuming, peppering her skin with kisses and catching every gasp and moan with his mouth. When they were both sated, and sense encouraged them both to steal a few hours of sleep, Jurian had asked her to stay. He had wrapped his arms around her, tucked her close to his body then they had slipped into slumber.

‘You’re not even dressed. I had leathers brought to your tent an hour ago.’ Feyre had her arms folded. She was already dressed in the black clothing the Illyrians were fond of. Her hair had been braided tightly down her back. Ready for war.

Nesta would fight if she had to. Not that she wanted to. She didn’t have a warrior’s heart, only the fear of consequence urging her into the tent to ready herself.

Elain sat on the bed sobbing, her leathers draped across her lap. Nesta steeled her own heart to be the strong one. She tucked her sister against her.

‘One day. We push through this one day and we will have a tomorrow.’

An eternity. A lifetime that neither of them wanted.

***

What was the point? What was the point in anything? Her sisters were alive. Lucien had come with their father, bringing an armada. But what was the point?

Nesta stood by as Feyre burnt their father’s body. The king’s blood was sticky on her skin, itching it. The Autumn Court were burning their dead too. Other courts claimed their bodies. They wrapped them in cloths to give them burials on their own land.

Nesta did not know who had prised the king’s head from her hand. Maybe Cassian. Maybe Feyre. She hadn’t even registered who had been standing before her, only that warm hands had loosened her fingers from his hair and taken it from her.

She had been alone, facing down the king. She’d thought of Jurian, of the sacrifices he made for their people – and Nesta had made her own. She had lured the king to her, to distract him from the Cauldron, knowing he’d take the bait. She would have died alone. Until Elain had stepped out from a shadow and driven a knife into his neck. The same knife that Nesta used to cleave his head from his body.

Like a phantom, Nesta moved through the camp. The Illyrians that she did manage to save from the blast didn’t keep their voices down as they murmured about her. Witch. She-devil. With the king's blood still staining her, it might have been true.

Nesta wasn’t seeking him out. In honesty, she didn’t know what she was doing or where she was going. Her feet just moved. Her mind had emptied. Any thoughts were gone. It was just a pain so raw it numbed everything else existing within her.

‘Can I help?’ She rasped to a healer. A mortal one who regarded her with fear. ‘I’ll cut bandages. I’ll collect water. Please let me help.’

There were no fae here. The mortals who were injured writhed on their beds, moaning in agony. The two healers they had were run ragged, stitching wounds, stemming the blood flow. There were wounds here that could have been healed in moments by the fae, but they cared for their own first – just as the mad general had said.

Without waiting for a response, Nesta collected fresh water. She cleaned wounds that she was confident in dealing with, bound bleeding limbs and trickled water into the mouths of the dying. Nesta caught a glimpse of Jurian on bended knee by a man with a gaping wound in his chest. As he spluttered for breath, Jurian held his hand. He stroked his face, spoke soft, loving words to him until the man’s chest fell still. Then he moved to the next one, stayed with him as he died. A mad general, but a good man.

A pink, dusty sky filtered through the darkness.

Nesta’s hands were blackened from tending to fires to keep the humans warm. Her own limbs were stiff and aching. She was stronger than even the biggest mortal man, capable of carrying more wood and buckets than them. The echoes of her power were felt in her marrow. An ancient, slumbering behemoth who had enjoyed its little venture out into the world and wanted more. There had been no respite; Nesta had not stopped all night. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Nesta couldn’t decide if she was hungry or thirsty or tired or broken. She had just kept going, helping where she could for her people.

‘Nes.’ A blanket was tucked around her shoulders. Cassian’s form stood over her. ‘We’ve been so worried. Why are you here? You should be with us. Let’s get you cleaned up.’

‘I want to go home.’

There was no home for her. Nesta had never had a home. She’d had a house. A cottage. A manor. Never a home. Never that feeling of belonging.

‘Let’s get you to your sisters.’

***

The cold air pressed against Nesta’s skin. Flakes of snow settled in her hair. Not snow. Ash. Ash from the humans burning their dead in a great pyre when they were unable to dig more graves.

Boots scuffed over the barren ground by the Night Court’s tents.

Strong arms wrapped around her, his chest pressed against her spine, holding her tightly to him.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner,’ Jurian murmured in her ear.

Nesta should have pushed him away. Anybody could see them like this – the witch and the mad general. Without his strength engulfing her, Nesta would fall apart.

‘I’m sorry about your father. And everything else.’

She blinked rapidly, chasing away the tears trying to form. Jurian had been on the northern flank. Hadn’t seen what had happened. Likely hadn’t heard until hours later.

‘Thank you for all you did for our people, easing them to the eternal realm, saving others from it. Your generosity did not go unnoticed, not by me. You are a good person, Nesta. You could have rested on a soft bed, but you came to our people when they needed you.’

Nesta turned in his arms to face him. A blackened eye forced his eyelid to droop and the eye beneath was bloodshot. His lip was split. A slash ran across his neck too. Her wounds had healed in a matter of hours. His would be there for days. Some would scar. Another scar to his tapestry.

‘You will have a new court. A new queen.’

Jurian nodded. ‘You will return to the Night Court.’

‘I am what you made me after all.’

His eyes screwed shut. ‘I keep telling myself that if you hadn’t gone in the Cauldron, nobody else would have had the power to stop the king. That it had to happen to stop a war. And I hate myself for thinking it. You asked me, Nesta, what my limit is. I found it.’

His hands tipped her face upwards, the heat of his palms pressing against her cheeks.

‘I am forever cursed. Fate laughs at me.’ Jurian kissed her forehead. ‘I find a woman who gives to my people as much as I do, one who I would want at my side. The same woman I sacrificed to the Cauldron and turned fae.’

***

All of them were to gather in a ruined manor – fae and human alike. It took Nesta a few moments to piece together the sitting room, with its smashed windows and cracked marble hearth. Her old home. Gifted to them through Tamlin’s wealth. This was the start of her nightmares. This hearth was where she had stood with a closed fist ready to protect Elain from three overgrown bats.

Fae filtered in through the doors. Each one bearing their wounds. Even Beron and his son, Eris, came to the meeting.

Feyre inhaled, ready to speak to each court gathered, then two more figures entered. Proud and tall, two men strode in followed by a contingent of mortals. Graysen sported a slash down his cheek. It would scar probably, marring his looks. Nesta did not need to look to Elain; her sister would have been gazing at him the moment she heard his steps. Beside him, Jurian sported his black eye like a trophy. He gave a smirk to Feyre, as if this was yet another game for him. Another war. Another period of peace. Like the never-ending crests and troughs of a wave that he would continue to ride.

When the firebird queen had spoken to Nesta, she did not respond. Throughout the meeting, Nesta remained with her back pressed to the cold wall, barely listening. It was only her and the king, her father’s discarded body at his feet. He hadn’t stepped over him, merely stepped on him to reach Nesta.

Sometimes she could feel Jurian staring at her. Feel the burn of his eyes, demanding her attention, but Nesta wouldn’t give it. She could not look towards the human contingent without feeling sorrow that she was not a part of it.

Then it was done.

Groups peeled off back to their courts. Some winnowed home. Others returned on foot to the war camp to continue packing away their tents. Nesta stood at the window as a silent guardian, examining each person as they departed.

She scented Jurian before she heard him. Sweat, smoke, human. He engaged Feyre in conversation, but Nesta remained at her vigil, her back to him.

‘Too bad the king was so spectacularly beheaded by your sister. I bet he could have found a way to break that curse of hers.’

Nesta turned.

‘Too bad indeed,’ Feyre muttered.

Jurian grunted his amusement. Another queen to follow. Another court to find a home in. Jurian was finding a future. He deserved it. Nesta had yet to figure out her own path.

‘Do you think we stand a chance?’ Feyre asked, motioning to the human figures still walking, far away, back toward the camp. ‘Of peace between all of us?’

Jurian was silent for a long moment. Nesta felt the heat from his gaze graze against her cheek. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. She looked at him, the words meant for her rather than Feyre. ‘I do.’