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mommyofkittens · 1 year

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A Court of Fallen Heroes -Chapter 5: Haunted

Author's POV:

Amren abandoned herself in study, after the phenomenon from a few nights ago. She went through manuscripts after manuscripts, emptying her library, and still didn't find any explanation to satisfy her. She couldn't imagine how something of such magnitude was not felt by Rhysand, with his incredible powers or Feyre. Her High Lady travelled the underworld when she was only a human, she should be touched by this kinds of changes, especially because of her variety of assets brought by the courts.

Why was Amren alert? Why did she wake up? Was this something to do with her old form?

It was precisely the reason she took this mission upon herself, feeling responsible for excluding any danger that could threaten the Night Court and her loved ones. Even more, she felt that the message was addressed to her, that she could play and important role in what was to come. Amren enjoyed feeling important, actually, but she wasn't quite ready to go through the same trauma in such a short period. Destroying The Cauldron and dying, it wasn't something easy to do, she didn't want to sacrifice anything anymore, she couldn't give anything else but herself.

The information shown by the sun was bothering her more than she admitted. Amren found it useless, considering that there was no village or person in the region who bears this name. It lead nowhere, dead end. She asked for the registries of the population nearby, where parents go and write their child's name, so she can be sure. She hadn't yet resorted to the somewhat darker methods, but that was because she didn't give Rhysand any report about what she discovered. Mostly because she didn't feel like her restlessness had a sure cause.

Her High Lord had enough on his plate, the fact that a grimoire sent a message was not something to bother him with.

He was far too preoccupied with rebuilding the kingdom after the war, his illyrians, the continent and even Feyre, he felt her pain caused by Nesta, so it was his problem to deal with too. On top of that, he always disliked the type of magic brought into the world by witches. He believed that the powers that came from within a person were as pure as his intentions. Instead, what the witches did was absorb the energy from the environment and then use it. The final result consisted largely in the type of charge that energy carries, positive or negative.

What Rhysand didn't know was that witches were connected to the chaos of the universe, and the most experienced ones could transform even the evil charge into a good one.

" Kingdom comes first. " His father used to say, when a group of lesser creatures came to his palace, searching for protection in exchange of their services. Even if what they offered was a great help for the court, he drove them away: orcs, witches and a handful of fauns. He didn't want to be associated with such beings, lesser fae.

But right now, this was a matter that could involve The Night Court, sooner or later. She felt it in her bones. Although the name was meaningless, it held a great weight when whispered, melting on your tongue and poisoning your mouth.

As second in command, even now, that she'd lost her powers and was no longer as useful as she liked to think, Amren still had a word in the concerns of welfare of the Night Court. Regardless of his opinion, she had to seek the meaning of what the universe revealed to her. He had Feyre by his side, and if her husband wouldn't approve the search, she would be willing to do whatever it took to win the peace.

Sipping from her glass of dry wine, she savored the sour aroma on her reddened lips, trying to remember of how blood used to taste. She tapped her dark fingernails on the time-worn pages and closed her eyes for a while.

The thought of getting back to the River House was unpleasant. The last time she was there was actually the last conversation she had with Nesta, when their sliver of friendship dissipated in front of her. She didn't have any burning desire to return, but it was necessary. Amren had to present this issue to Rhysand and Feyre and see what the next steps are.

She had to let the fear aside: the name had nothing to do with her past.

Or was she mistaken?

Angels used to take names crowded by Cyrillic and symbols, with a hard pronunciation, often leaving you deaf just by hearing them. On the other side, the evil entities wouldn't reveal themselves in the sunlight, but rather in the rays of the moon.

Vesper. Vesper.

If she was to go to Rhysand, might at least boast with a somewhat more accurate discovery.

An idea suddenly dawned on her as she watched the light reflect in the dictionaries of dead languages. Amren blinked a couple of times and stood from her burgundy chair, a decisive look written on her silver eyes.

Did she not read those first?

She grabs the manual covered in green leather and inspects it for a second, taking in the waves that elevated in the rays of sun. It was not dust, she kept her books cleaned and tried to protect them from the destruction of time. Smoke, diaphanous threads of white smoke, as if the pages were burning.

Amren quickly noted near ' Vesper ', the word ' Sun ', linking them, then opened the pages of the dictionary at the V-Y interval.

As relief flooded her posture, relaxing her limbs, she couldn't believe her eyes. With her fingers, she searched numerous sentences, until she reached the word that brought a victorious smile to her tanned face.

Vesper – lg. old, used in the Asf. Kingdom, æcləstīąstiķ - Vespą. Def. Star, evening star, prayer raised by ' The Eyes of The Mother ', unused.

Amren's smile disappeared. She didn't need to write down thin information. She knew what the books were talking about. ' Vesper ' was passed down as a mere word in literature, but her manual about the future didn't see it, which was rather bizarre considering the powers her grimoires held.

She also remembered this sisterhood, a group that divined The Mother and were versed in prayers, protection and healing. They were fierce and scary and nothing stood in their way when it came to protecting the ruler of the kingdom. The sisterhood had no scruples and didn't care about the costs. They were capable of anything.

But they weren't the only one capable of unleashing massacre on earth if they were stepped over. Even the Illiryans couldn't compete with their wrath and vengeance. But for the sake of everyone, they disappeared, all of them, all gone long ago, together with the land and many more sisterhoods who fought for peace.

Guilt poisoned her mind, creeping deep enough to reach her soul. She angled her body over the desk, supporting herself in her hands and dropped her head. Amren and her battalion were to blame for the eradication of the women, the land and their religion.

A great power had been lost with the rebellion of angels, with hers, a great betrayal had occurred and stained her hands, her reputation. Many orders, as well as thousands of people from that court, suffered. They never recovered, and so they died, buried underground, lost and never to be revived.

Amren had to compose herself. This ' Vesper ' did not represent any danger at the moment, it seemed like it wasn't born or formed yet.

Quickly rearranging her stuff on the table, she hid her books in the secret drawer and took a few notes with her, before leaving the room. Immediately after closing the door, she found herself staring in Varian's brown irises.

He was wearing his traveling clothes, all blue and green, with the emblem of his court embroidered on his suit. A serious expression hardened his dark features.

" Varian. Is everything alright? " Amren greeted him, unprepared, forgetting to use her senses, " I didn't expect to find you here? "

" Amren. You didn't expect to find me in our house? " The man chuckled stoically, with a slight delight on his chocolate skin, " I would say you look as beautiful as every morning, but unfortunately, I didn't have the pleasure to wake up with you next to me, lately. "

" Well, I feel productive in the morning, so I try to help Rhysand with some political issues. " Amren avoids spilling the whole truth, smoothing out her gray, two-pieced suit, " Looks like I've lost plenty, considering you're ready to go back to the Summer Court. " She points out, leaning her small hips against the wall adorned with valuable paintings.

She wasn't much of an art collector, but Varian was, and she liked to please him by bringing him all the oil portraits, vases and woolen rugs she found. Moreover, she had her own gain: many of them, such as the frames and carpets, were sewn or painted with gold and precious stones.

" I didn't plan anything. A situation occurred back home and I came to talk to you about it. " Varian reaches out and grabs a strand of Amren's brunette hair, twirling it a few times before kissing it.

Her heart raced at the sight of the romantic gesture. He did it quite often when it was just the two of them, and she was starting to like it more and more each day.

" Tarquin sent me a letter about some strange events that took place across the land. He didn't mention much. He's probably cautious considering how often the messages ended up being intercepted. " Varian pauses for a second, brushing his fingers to Amren's chin, " However, he told me enough. The sea is agitated and brought to the surface some ancient creatures. They started to kill the fishermen and the people who have houses near the shore. And... on the night of the solstice, Tarquin was nearly killed in his sleep. "

Amren blinked, barely able to digest the information. " An assassination attempt? "

" I'm not sure. As captain of his guards, it is my job to protect him. I failed this time. " He clenched his jaw and his eyes narrowed, a sparkle of guilt darkening his brown eyes even more. " The Samsars, his secret guards, his shadows, slept soundly, all night. "

" I thought The Order of Samsars disappeared with Tarquin's father. "

Amren rummaged her memory for the information about this group of men. They where trained in an underwater legion, a small group, willing to sacrifice much more that their life to protect the High Lord of The Summer Court: their voice, their shadows, every sound they made, sold to the Old God of the Sea.

" Not really. A handful of them are still alive. Tarquin tried to make them go and live their own life, but they already lost too much to go back. He said he's never going to make another generation, they're training is... brutal. "

" But some are still willing to become Samsars, right? "

Varian shook his head, a silent approval. Amren knew the capacities of The Shadowsinger: stealth, silence, efficiency, loyalty. These were only a few of his assets, but a whole group, devoted to this kind of work... They might catch up with his power.

" I still don't understand how they fell asleep. The oath they take at their final test takes their ability to ever sleep again. "

A restless eternity in exchange of an open entry to the God's underwater domains.

" A spell hit the palace. A damn powerful one. Half of the servants went to sleep and some never woke up. Tarquin escaped. That is why I have to go, urgently. "

She knew he was afraid: for his court, his cousin and his sister, Cresseida.

" How's Cresseida? Did she escape? " Amren remembered her dark features, a more sensual mirroring of her brother, Varian, with her fierce face and complete devotion to her home.

" She took care of my position while I was gone, but she slept as well. "

" I'll talk to Helion, he could be able to help us. I have a suspicion it might be related to the Summer Solstice. "

" If you want do discuss this with him, do it without attracting too much attention, please. " Varian withdraws his hand and smoothes his short, white hair. He take's Amren's palm in his own and starts walking towards the entry of their home. " The Summer Solstice is an occasion of joy, a moment of rebirth and overcoming our deepest fears. The light at the end of the tunnel. It shouldn't unleash on us like this. "

" Varian... " Amren cut him off, sensing his tension from his muscles, " You have the best astrologers from the area, ask them if they saw any... curious event on the sky, that night. "

She knew she wasn't being totally honest with him, that a part of her, the one bound to the Night Court, was using him to gather this piece of information for her own plans, but it was something innocent. Moreover, if the events from the Summer Solstice had repercussions over them too, maybe what she found was also including them.

" I will do as you asked, Amren. " Varian replied, his words a soft whisper of devotion to her, " Now, come on, let's get you to your friends and then I'll be on my way. "

They shared a short kiss, their way of saying ' Goodbye ' and ' I'll be waiting for you ', then left, holding their hands.

When they arrived in front of the River House, Varian spoke again, " I know I'm asking a lot, but please don't mention anything to Rhysand for the moment. " His brown eyes locked into hers in a silent plea, " At least not until I know for sure what happened inside the castle. Tarquin still feels betrayed and he'll think only the worst if he finds out you knew about this. "

" The thing we did to him was necessary. " She commented, only to satisfy her desire of having the last word.

" My cousin would have given Feyre the book. She only had to be honest about her intentions. "

" Are you lecturing me? " Amren paused, striking him with her grey eyes, " The last time someone dared to hold me a moral, he lost his minds. "

Varian offered her a cunning smile, leaving two dimples to stain his cheeks. That was one of her weakness, right there, written on his face in plain sight.

" You already made me lose my mind, Amren. " He said, before disappearing slowly in cloud of steam.

He winnowed without another word, leaving her in front of the tall house. She felt weak in the knees. An effect Varian had on her every time he used his humorous come backs to try and calm her down.

She smoothed her short, brunette hair and took a deep breath, still smelling the sea salt and lime fragrance up in the air. She watched behind, to the buildings that were slowly reconstructed by their inhabitants and the stone path that still held holes in it after the attack on Velaris.

She had to prevent something like this from happening ever again.

When Amren got to the front door, she didn't waste energy on knocking, but made herself welcomed into the large dining room. She instantly sensed that something was off with the atmosphere.

The mint green walls were the same, so were the windows and the furniture. An unknown fragrance floated in a very limited portion of the air particles, giving their house an unfamiliar buzz of energy. As usual, there were flowers, lilac, for the most part and jasmine, but also mist and... something spicy. No one she knew had this particularity.

She took a few steps around the room, lifting several objects and inspected them carefully, testing their weight and how they felt when countered by her senses. The fireplace held another odd resonance. She let the perfume settle on her tongue. Here, it wasn't spicy and sweet, it tasted like pain, like burned flesh.

Amren blinked a couple of times and studied the grey mark a knife let on the marble that surrounded the fire. She wiped it, then rubbed her fingers together, bringing them to her nose.

Someone else set foot insider their home. An outsider.

Leaving the dining room, she inspected the rest of the house. The sweet cologne lingered lesser and lesser, totally extinct by the time she reached the kitchen. Here, something else overpowered it, something more soft, a forest of coniferous trees. Cedar.

So, Azriel felt it too and searched for an answer.

Nuala and Cerridwen greeted her with a head bow, as they glided pass her. Two barely felt specters, visible to the eyes only if they had the desire to be seen.

Elain's sugar-coated tone resonated like a breath of spring within the walls, barely audible even for the fae ears.

" Nesta refuses to train since she went to Windhaven. " Feyre informed her sister with a barely restrained irritation, trapped between her vocal cords, " She stands in the middle of a rock with her unsatisfied face and humiliates Cassian in front of his subordinates. "

" I heard. " That was all that Elain said, her only focus being on moving the purple flowers from the table up to the window, where the light shone more brightly, " At least she started to eat and went easy with the drinking. It is a win, too, Feyre... "

Her High Lady did not seem satisfied with the so called ' achievements ' of Nesta, considering the way she had been self-flagellating in the past few weeks. Her vehement refusal to eat anything other than crusty bread and restaurant leftovers was getting her nowhere. Sometimes she took a step forward, not eating anything at all, days after days, as if the punishment was for their sisters, and not on her body.

Her hobby was worse: drinking and going to pubs where she gambled on Rhysand's money and after all that, she fucked all the men she found agreeable.

Feyre didn't know what hurt more: either that their older sister became a wreck after the war or that their relationship completely fell apart. Their last night as a united family took place in a tent, all cuddled up together in each other's arms and the moment they said their last ' Goodbye ' to their father, now buried meters underground.

Elain, on the other hand, was not so torn between pleasing the court and loving Nesta. For a long time there was only her older sister, protecting and loving Elain like no one else ever had, although Feyre was the one to sacrifice herself for the family, for their well being. The bond between Elain and Nesta was deeper.

The fact that Nesta refused to meet Elain, to see her, was crushing. Only because she begun to resemble the Inner Circle, their habits. It hurt her more than the transformation from human to High Fae.

" I trust Cassian. " Feyre recovered, getting ready to leave the kitchen, " He's trained a lot of illyrians, some even more difficult than my sister. And of top of that, he cares about her. It's so much more in the middle. "

" Feyre... " Elain cut her off, rustling her dusty pink dress between the legs of the chairs, " Is there another way to bring Nesta back? I fell like we’re limiting her decision-making power. "

Amren remained frozen in the room next to the kitchen, carefully pricking her ears. Elain didn't talk nonsense. Nesta was more or less constrained by other people's decisions, but only because hers were made out of grief and suicidal desire.

Guilt made her stomach hurt. She took part of that, too. In fact, she was one of the people who refused to meet with Nesta again, her friend, out of desire to make her suffer enough to get a reaction out of her, to make her reach back.

' Keep reaching your hand. ' She advised Cassian, a mistake she learned from something she didn't do.

Amren had no idea at that moment that Nesta was unable to see the full part of the glass.

Feyre, on the other hand, was aware of the kind of help she received from the circle, in a similar circumstance. The only problem was the type of character they both inherited: while she was more understanding and ambitious, Nesta was a whirlwind that destroyed first, and then regretted. The same strategy wouldn't have worked.

" We are all different and we all suffer in the way that brings us enough healing to make us forget. I didn't want to allow Nesta to destroy herself, so I did the most thoughtful think at the time. It was out of love... "

" It's not very thoughtful of us to let her train among the creatures she dislikes the most. " Amren spoke for the first time since listening quietly, sharpening her smoky irises as Feyre's head appeared from the kitchen.

Her chestnut hair was twisted in a high curled ponytail, no jewelry to adorn her features. She wore her monotonous clothes, designed to be worn outside, in the village, while she tried to help the citizens to restore their broken goods. Amren was bored instantly by the dark colors. She had her bag with her, the one where she transported her pencils: she was going to her new painting studio, as well.

" The discussion ends here, Amren. Nesta needed a way out and we offered her the best option. "

Amren pursed her lips at her High Lady's scolding tone. She had enormous respect for the girl, after what she's done for their realm, breaking the curse and doing what she could during the war. Amren knew it was mutual for Feyre, too. But this line, this limit, never prevented her from calling things out when she knew something was wrong. Not even when it came to Rhysand.

Feyre avoided the tall dining table, and left the house without saying anything.

For a moment, the room stood silent, an uncomfortable cloud falling over the two remaining girls. Amren ignored Elain as best as possible, never having a problem with her presence, but always trying to avoid their interactions. It wasn't like the youngest sister ever created issues inside their house, she was always silent and obeying. But that was the problem, her lack of response, the absence of fighting in her.

The little creature was speechless at the sight of Amren. Her hazelnut eyes wide and her pupils constricted. Elain didn't move at all, her hands still suspended in the air, over the flowers. It seemed like she hadn't gotten used to Amren's terrifying presence and it didn't look like she was going to anytime soon.

Amren grimaced slightly at the extravagant chastity that Elain exuded from every pore. Maybe that's why Azriel was head over heels for her, he felt like he needed to shield her from the world, to save her and keep her away from every creeping looking man. Just like a baby.

She cleaned her teeth with her tongue and shifted her weight from one leg to another. Oh, how much she hated the people unable to protect themselves.

" Have you seen Rhysand by any chance, today? " She asked, willing to break that weird look that was passing between them.

The girl's hair had come lose from her top knot, secured behind her head with a golden clip, falling elegantly over her eyebrows. " No, not at all. " Elain spoke in a broken voice, wiping her hands from the cream apron tied around her. " Feyre said he's gone for a few hours. He'll be back by sundown. I can... I'll send him whatever message you need, if it's urgent. "

" No, I'll manage. Beautiful flower, by the way. " Amren complimented, then set off to the library.

Maybe she'll find some answers there.

◇□◇□

A few hundred miles away, Azriel watched vigilantly as several messengers left the court of the human queens, all of them taking a separate path than the other. A pretty diversion for a newbie, but he was no beginner in this art.

He passed easily from branch to branch, dematerializing and jumping through the shadows. This was the maximum of his powers he could use here, just a droplet of it, so close to the palace and the Queens wards. It wasn't the first time they detected someone's magic, so he needed to stay as low as possible.

His whiskey irises searched the five men, all dressed in the same black outfit, spreading like ants.

Follow the small one, master...A shadow whispered, peeking over his armored shoulder, then circling the sword he held on his back.

Azriel didn't hesitate, he trusted his companions more than anyone. He had not changed his position for more than four hours, waiting for the committee to break, and the muscle fever in his thighs had begun to impose it's point of view on his body. But he would never allow himself to jeopardize the mission just because he was numb.

Things had been hectic here, too. The last surviving Queens had moved their army closer to west, near the line that separated the borders of the faeries from the human ones, but none of the females had left their palace since they bathed in The Cauldron. His spies had informed him about the fact that they often all gathered in one room and stayed there for hours.

The Shadowsinger glided easily through the trees, silently taking every step so he could stay as close as possible to his target. It was like hunting a deer. He studied the prey, noted their habits, their day to day lifestyle, their weakness, planned his way of approach, and barely after that came his favorite part, the chase. The primal instincts it rose inside him, the way it made him feel glorious and in control, the satisfaction it brought when he took them by surprise, their terrified looks. Everything made him feel alive.

The veiled movements the Queens made could only mean three things: either they were preparing to be invaded by Vallahan, an agreement was signed or maybe they were plotting something else. All suspicions were put under the question mark: why would regions like Montessere and Vallahan accept the Mortal Lands? Where did they have resources from, and if they had some, who made this offer to them? Mor still tried to get a peace treaty with the Vallahan region, but they didn't seem very eager to grant it to us.

What seemed even more suspicious was the desire of the stronger regions to unite with the humans, a species they believed to be inferior. With Hybern now out of the game, there were two other forces left to worry about. And most importantly, they didn't recover from a war.

The political situation in Prythian was no better, either. The Night Court was still somehow halved into that of Nightmares and Rhysand's actual kingdom. With Keir leading the army of darkbringers, a strong bonus in every fight, his High Lord couldn't control something that wouldn't submit to him. The Summer Court also suffered, even before Tarquin, but their situation was somewhat better, materially speaking. With the help of their ships, they managed to do enough trade to support their economy.

The problem was the relation between Tarquin and Feyre, who had stolen the Book of the Breathings from under his nose, and he sent them back those blood rubies. Of course, there was Helion's court, still prosperous by nature and with whom they were on good terms. He would always ally with them in case of trouble. The Winter Court was in the same situation, with Kallias as High Lord.

Then, there was Beron, the inept Beron, who would rather see his whole land burn than make peace with Rhysand. The Spring Court was the worse, becoming a ruin of that it used to be. Tamlin lost control, and with that, everything went downhill, becoming a ghost in the flesh. The population dropped drastically, leaving only those who had no families in other places.

Azriel couldn't say he felt sorry for Tamlin, not after he'd put Feyre into a depressive episode and stolen Elain from under his nose. His jaw clenched, the only sound he made for several hours now being the grinding of tooth enamel.

Thanks to his excellent memory, he could recall even the smallest patches of dirt that stained Elain's body, during the moments when she had been kept in chains. His pupil dilated, the black swallowing his hazel iris, and his nostrils flared. The mask he wore was suddenly too much to bear on his face. She was not a suitable subject to think about in a mission, so he focused instead on the steps the tiny man made, travelling through the forest.

Still shrouded in shadows, trapped between the thick branches of a tree, he watched as the emissary came to a halt, carefully assessing the terrain. Azriel froze as the man raised his head and studied the blue sky on his direction. He knew he couldn't see or smell him, he diminished his own fragrance and absorbed the habitat's perfume, totally sheltered by the rough smell of blooming buds and wet leaves, trampled in the path.

The mortal was around forty, short legged and stuffed into an unfitting suit. With Azriel's trained ears, he could hear the man's rugged breathing, like he just finished running a hundred miles, not only two. A gust of wind made him stumble on his bloated feet, raising particles of sweat and burned chicken in the air. The Shadowsinger didn't even flinch when the unpleasant smell rose up to his nose.

Another figure came into view shortly after the Queen's emissary stopped in the middle of the woods. Azriel couldn't say that he had seen Vallahan's people often, but his features seemed far too common for someone who spent his time by the ocean.

The Fae doesn't belong to Vallahan, he bears the fire ot the Autumn Court. A bolder shadow curled around his ear and crept under the mask covering his mouth and nose.

Though so... Azriel responded in his mind, blinking once, letting his companions know he understood the message.

The stranger was tall, but slender enough so that his indigo attire would be lacking at the edges, leaving his wrists visible. His blonde hair had a reddish undertone outside the sun's rays, betraying the place he came from. On his silver decorated jacket, lied the three-triangle Valknut, symbol of Vallahan.

The Shadowsinger sensed the stirred state of the human, as he rubbed his hand over the leather bag he held under his arm. He probably administered a few doses of sedatives, so as not to be suspected if he was going to betray them.

Azriel remained silent, like a beast lurking in the dark, with his lips pressed roughly together. Only his eyes glowed, like molten gold, underneath the black hood that covered his brunette hair. If he went a step further and kidnapped any of the emissaries, it would mean a warning that Rhysand specifically ordered not to send, yet. He could knock them both down in the blink of an eye, without them even having the time to realize who hit them and from where.

There was no point in a war declaration after they just came out of one.

He couldn't infiltrate the palace personally, either. The land around the kingdom was fenced off with an old spell, uniquely designed for faeries. When they stepped on that patch of cursed area, uninvited, it could turn them into stone, permanently.

This inconvenient didn't scare Azriel off. He was a man full of resources and too ambitious, he liked to have his mind put to work. Through his web of spies, he contracted old acquaintances who owed him their lives, and they put him in touch with a group of human mercenaries, willing to do anything for the fair price: jewels and money. The work? Five men managed to break into the kingdom, each positioned at different distances, so if any of them was ever caught, the information would reach the last one, near the gate. Some became guards at the entrance, other maids, coachmen, salesmen and servants, and all were glamoured by a spell Amren created, so that their thoughts could not be read and their intentions sensed.

Information flowed much more easily that way: humans were always unconscious by nature, that's why inappropriate knowledge always slipped out in the presence of a maid or a servant serving them coffee. Then, there was and awful lot of work to do: laundry to be washed, carried by a coachman and taken to the store where they took care of the items. Because they don't have a sewer for water, the workers from the magazine left, obviously bypassing the guards, and collected the amount of water they needed from the river.

This was the way the data came for Azriel. All roads were open to him, just as he pleased.

A crease appeared on Azriel's tanned forehead when the man offered a letter, alongside an iron box, inscribed with symbols.

The Fae man asked the Queen's emissary to open it.

" Show me the emblem. " The human said.

The Shadowsinger sharpened his senses, looking intently at the stranger. When he opened his dark blue tunic, on his left pectoral was imprinted the symbol that all the warriors of the Autumn Court received at the end of their initiation: a leaf made with a fireplace poker.

His suspicions were correct: the Mortal Queens were not only flirting with Montessere and Vallahan, but also with Beron. The question remained the same: why?

When the man finally opened the box, a small map, tied with a velvet ribbon, lied inside.

It's bewtiched. His shadows whispered, slowly wrapping around his contracted torso.

" These are the instructions to find what you need. "

After they parted, Azriel left out a loud gasp, glad that he could finally move from that irritating position. The leathers he wore blocked the splinters from entering under his skin, but didn't helped much with the rough terrain he had to sit in. Flexing his wrists and ankles, the tension begun to loosen up, enjoying the pain that came with the movement. He put his elbows on his knees, taking the amount of rest he craved before flying back to Velaris.

Pulling his mask down with a gloved finger, he savored the forest ambiance, rainy and green, helping him calm his nerves and quiet his mind. He remembered he still hadn't talked to Rhysand, or anyone else, about the nocturnal visit from a few days ago. Not because he had anything to hide, but because he wasn't sure if he'd imagined it all.

Remorse stained his pride. He made a mistake. He fell asleep and wasn't aware that a stranger came inside. He didn't even rest. What if someone else was in the house with him, Feyre or Elain, and they suffered because of his carelessness? He is the one who should take care of them, to assure no one got hurt under his watch. If someone was going to suffer, Azriel should take it all upon himself.

Physical torture was something he had gotten used to a long time ago. The only thing that disturbed him were the mental and emotional agony, which he had no idea how to manage.

He ran his palm over his face and pressed two fingers to his eyes. Azriel uncovered his veined wings from the shadows, and flexed them a few time before setting off, feeling their enormous weight on his large back.

No one else mentioned feeling strange on the evening of the Summer Solstice, and he didn't want to alarm anyone with the nightmares he grew used to. It was an issue that Madja could solve with a sleeping potion of some kind. No, not a sleeping potion. But something that could prevent dreams and nightmares. That would be more useful than a deep unconsciousness that a sleeping pill would have brought him.

The smell of magic evaporated by morning, as his sleep. Azriel patrolled the whole night, searching every centimeter around the River House, then flying over the sleeping city. But as the sun begun to shine and the people to appear, reopening their stores, he knew that the peril was gone. He was left empty-handed.

The imprint the nightmare left on him felt as heavy as if the whole sky fell on his back and dragged him underground. Captive behind invisible bonds. His mind was always full, always calculating and planning, and when a small moment of peace found him, the same pair of green eyes came back, haunting, and his nostrils were filling with a ghostly smell of amber, intoxicating him.

He hated that fragrance. It was far too strong, too spicy for his preference, which leaned more towards something floral, like jasmine. Especially when it came to women.

Of course he prefers flowers, for fuck's sake.

He snorted and sharpened his movements, fleeing as fast as possible from the Human Realm, as if he could leave his problems behind.

The dull ache in his chest remained. It wasn't a sensation to get used to. Every night, the loneliness became more intense and the bed colder. The urgency for a body to lie next to him, to hold and to squeeze until morning, was unbearable. This was a different kind of punishment, it could drive him crazy, it made him more unpredictable, fiercer than before. Even he was aware of that change in his behaviour.

Azriel spent the following nights inside the ring, hours on end, until the skin on his knuckles cracked and bled, and the number of destroyed swords began to increase. His body acquired a more defined shape than usual, being subjected to tougher and longer training. He had muscles before, but were more lean, more specific for the kind of job he had, but now, his waist grew larger, his shoulders more round and his abdomen started to created the pack most of the warriors who used brute force had.

All this just to feel free from those damned shackles that bound his soul.

Was he bewitched?

Amren could answer most of his questions, but was he willing to address them? No. The little devil had a big mouth and was too sly for his taste. No matter how competent she was in this matters, Amren wouldn't have helped him with anything other than to annoy him.

The next solution was the library. He could either ask one of the priestess or document himself. Amren was an extreme choice.

" Azriel. " Rhysand's voice filled his brain.

He didn't feel like answering right of the bat, he still had that tinge of guilt for not telling him about what happened that night. His High Lord should have been the first to sense that something was off with Velaris. After all, Rhysand created the city.

And yet, perhaps Azriel's powers made him more sensitive to these small changes in the atmosphere. Even the shadows, his trusted guardians, were sedated that night. The next morning, they hummed on and on, attracted by the last remaining energy in the living room.

Green amber...

Come back...

They chanted, as if an electric field sustained them, called them in a hypnotic song.

" Azriel, hurry up, Amren found some interesting information to share. "

" I'm on my way. "

And with that, the buzz produced by Rhysand's ability retreated from his head, giving him the peace he needed.

It doesn't take much longer until the River House comes into view and he lands on the arched balcony. Fortunately for him, the living room was free, no mating smell, no cringe interaction with others. The tension made his muscles spasm rhythmically and his jaw to twitch.

He moved silently, gracefully skirting the couches and wooden floorboards that he knew creaked under his weight, and waited a second outside Rhysand's office door. Ever since he passed the barriers surrounding Velaris he knew who awaited him in the room: Amren, his High Lord, and his protégées, Nuala and Cerridwen.

However, he didn't feel ready to face people. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't escape the irritation boiling in his blood and the overwhelming need to get it out.

Is rooted in our existence... A shadow snaked on his bicep, and snarled, making Azriel's head to spin

Let me find her ...Another begged, the same brave one who often climbed into his ear and whispered truths he denied feeling.

Shut up! Azriel howled in his own mind, showing his clamped teeth.

Impulsively, he walked in, interrupting the conversation.

" Are you well, Shadowsinger? " Amren's flat tone teased him, waking him up from his madness.

Her smoke like eyes nailed him to the ground, trying to decipher his unreadable expression. They were both bent over Rhysand's desk, reading a pile of old books that impregnated the room with naphthalene.

He suddenly felt dumb. He never made mistakes like this. Azriel pulled up his mental shields and hid his scent, then shifted his weight from one leg to another and came closer.

" I am good. I have something to report. " Azriel informed, using his frozen mask.

" You felt it too, isn't it? "The little devil spoke again, her voice a hollow echo between Azriel's temples.

The room seemed too small to keep three people inside, the atmosphere to oppressive, as if in their palms was the most crucial discovery. They exchanged looks between them, and it was enough to understand the answer. An obscure presence seemed to infiltrate among them, listening intently to their conversation.

The Shadowsinger searched the room, expecting to find some ghost in the far corner, but no one was there. Did Amren experience the same nightmares as his? Or the amber smell?

Even the sunlight dimmed, obstructed by the thick window of Rhysand's office. His companions grew thicker, swirling around his tense shoulders, tightening around his massive chest in an attempt to shield his heart. He took of his hood, revealing his structured features. In his amber eyes, the only readable thing was caution, alert, as if someone could discover his secrets.

" Amren noticed an incident, a rather special one, on the night of The Summer Solstice. " The High Lord broke the silence, frowning his violet gaze at the mountain of papers on his desk. " A comet crossed the sky and landed to west from our position. "

" Hybern. " Azriel concluded, quietly approaching the ominous manuals, " How did you get your hand on this information? "

" Varian helped me. I asked him to have his astrologers look for events that took place on the sky in the past week. " Amren explained, pointing with a red nail at the calculations and the estimated position of the crashing.

" Something tells me this isn't all. " He muttered under his breath, more to himself, grasping a torn piece of sheet between two gloved fingers. " Vespertus... "

He rubbed his teeth together, feeling the hair on the back of his neck rise. His shadows deepened, darkened, becoming sharp tongues around him.

" What's this? " Azriel asked again, feeling his voice choked.

" The Vespertus is a prayer. " The gray clothing, adorned with intricate patterns of red, fussed as Amren turned her tiny body towards him, showing a paragraph from a thick book called ' Darkness of Days '.

" Sounds promising. " He let his humor out, unfazed by the doomed title. It sounded like they had to confront another life threatening situation, and he wasn't very happy about this.

" It is, actually. " Rhysand chuckled, brushing the dust from his sleeves.

" So, some bored individual really prayed for a comet to hit us? " Azriel wondered, a wrinkle becoming visible between his dark brows.

" No. Vespertus is a prayer that is not spoken, it's a type of salvation that occurs when people in unison feel the need for deliverance, for freedom, cleansing and peace. " Amren clarified, showing him a symbol with a group of women, all dressed in robes, like the priestesses.

Their open palms were raised above their covered heads, praying to a seven-pointed star that sat imperially upon them.

" Meaning this isn't the last war we've faced. Something worse is coming, and this comet is here to help us. " Rhysand added, crossing his arms over his black tunic, covered with the symbol of the Night Court, " Or, in the worse case scenario, condemn us all. "

So, Azriel wasn't the only one who went on mission today, his High Lord also had his own role to play, considering his impeccable suit and the heavy crown placed above his hair. The fatigue played over his cheekbones, the only sign of the weight he had to carry since the end of the war: gatherings, the illyrians and the ones they lost, their families, the women who were still subjected to inhumane treatments from those bastard. Everything rested on his and Feyre's backs, and everyone from the Inner Circle contributed as best as they could to ease their work.

" The Vespertus is in the middle of a scale. " Amren began, showing them another drawing of a balance, with a feather on one end and a drop of blood on the other, " A prayer can be directed either for good or for evil. It depends on the people around: those who use it, those who raise it to the sky and most importantly, the ones who form it. "

" How do we get to this comet? " Azriel questioned, still holding the note in his hands, looking at it intently, as if it was going to combust, " And how can we be sure that someone else hasn't discovered it yet? "

The room went quiet again. Nobody was sure of anything. The Shadowsinger wished Cassian was here to lighten up the atmosphere, but he was caught up in other problems, the ones with a sour face and long legs.

" That's the issue, we don't. " Rhysand huffed, looking at Azriel, then at Amren, " The thing is, this comet might be a human being. "

" Why would that be a problem? It's much easier to catch and carry a man that a real comet. " Azriel argued, clenching and unclenching his left fist, still sore from the training. He still hadn't used his power to heal himself. The throbbing pain was a welcomed distraction from the world around.

" Because this person may not have been born yet. Spiritually speaking. " Amren smiled, proud of herself, and showed them another page: a naked woman, kneeling before a bloody sword. " For a Vespertus to be born, to be formed, it takes a tragic event to radically change the way she sees the world. The kind of event that sets her on her journey to become was she was sent to do. Her spirit wasn't broken, she is not a revenging prayer yet, but a mere mortal. It is very difficult to trace her, we don't have her name or anything connected with her, something that belonged to her. "

" Are you telling me a woman fell from the sky and survived the damned crash? " Azriel asked skeptically, the wheels in his head starting to spin, " And mortal, on top of that... "

Not even the illyrians, trained in all types of weathers and under all conditions, would not come out unharmed.

" Yes. " Amren approves decisively, placing a hand on her hip. " It was a rift in time. Her fall was cushioned enough for her to escape without fatal wounds and with minimal damage. It's possible that the place where she landed to turn into an artifact: an oasis, a temple, a forest. Anything of this kind, but with unimaginable powers. "

Azriel remembered how time felt that evening – like tar, unbearable. But that didn't explain the tension he felt, the fact that someone had broken inside their house and sent him to sleep, then hexed him.

" If she fell into Hybern's territory and they get there before us, then it's not just Montessere and Vallahan we should worry about. Such power would help them establish their army. " The worry on Rhysand's face seemed to age him more than usual.

" Maybe we're lucky. Maybe they didn't feel the phenomenon, yet. " Amren said, flipping through the pages, " It's not something many people experiment, only special ones are affected. "

" What do you mean, Amren? " Azriel asked, his interest being caught even more.

" The High Fae will be immune or maybe they'll notice something common enough to overlook. " She picked up her wine glass and finished it in one gulp before continuing, " Those who feel the pressure in the air or the fact that hours pass differently are creatures made somewhere else, not the ones created by The Cauldron. "

" You observed it too, didn't you? " Rhysand spoke, affected. " I only know that it was too warm and I craved sleep. "

Amren shook her head, before answering, " I couldn't breath. I might be more receptive to these changes due to the form I had before. "

" Where do we begin the search? " Azriel broke the little devil's embarrassment, placing a hand on his hip. The illyrian skins hung heavy over his body, as did all the weapons he carried all the way. He was used with a large amount of equipment, but now he felt exhausted and still had information to give to Rhysand.

" The only direction we have is an approximate one, searched as accurately as possible by the Summer Court. They are among the few who can measure this coordinates. " She pulled another piece of paper from her pocket, with several village names on it.

Ozana

Nyzim

Thaibar

Valencia

Bismezym

" I want you to go find her, Azriel. " Rhysand demanded, putting his hands on the table, " I can't leave the court right now due to our political situation. Amren must gather more information on this Vesper and the amount of power is in the game, and Cassian... he has Nesta and Vassa to worry about, and above all of that, this mission is not of his competence. "

" I am spying on the Mortal Queens. I can't leave my people alone and risk their lives. I won't be able to communicate with them. "

" I know. Find a way do deal with them, you are the only one prepared and mannered enough for this. I can have Morrigan come with you for any future political issues that may arise with your arriving. "

" I need some time to think. " He cut his High Lord off, irritated.

Rhysand blinked often, caught off guard by Azriel's refusal to please him, then nodded, giving him his free will.

The Shadowsinger stuffed the two papers into the pocket of his jacket. With this gesture, he already knew he accepted the order, otherwise he wouldn't have taken those objects for further studying. Maybe this woman was going to take him out of his dark thoughts, for a moment or two. Not her, per se, but the search to put his hands on her, planning the abduction and the infiltration, surveying the territory. He had to meet with Morrigan as well, think further through any problems with the palace. If they entered the land, after they just killed their king, it wouldn't have been a sign of peace.

But he was already thinking like he was going to leave.

" Give me an answer tomorrow. "

" I have news for you. " Azriel changed the subject, putting his hands behind his back. "The Mortal Queens exchange information with the Autumn Court, not just Montessere. One of their people came dressed in the formal tunic and the symbol of Vallahan, but he was asked to show the mark and on his left pectoral was the leaf their army gets after they finish the training. "

Two shocked pair of eyes studied him.

" Beron has always been a leech. " Amren spat, gathering her books and preparing to leave. " But I didn't expect him to make a deal with someone he was at war with. "

" What do you know about Eris? "

" Nothing at the moment. Cassian has a meeting with them in a few days. " Rhysand clarified, sitting back in his black chair. " These waters aren't going to calm down anytime soon. "

" They exchanged a note and a map, closed in an iron box with several symbols on it. "

" A map? Did you see how it looked like? " Amren pursed her lips, covering her body with a cape.

" Very small, old, wrapped in velvet and it smelled peculiar, sweet and muddy. In the coming days I'll meet with my spies for more details. "

" Our problem is that Prythian is in the middle. If we are attacked from all three sides, we will get down faster than we anticipate. " Rhysand took off his crown and threw it on his desk. " Let's hope it doesn't get there, we're not even at half of our capacity. "

" Maybe the Vesper will help us. "

" Let's not put our hopes in myths. " Azriel snapped, preparing to leave. " We're not sure we'll find her or if she's still alive. We don't know where she came from and how she looks, if she's mentally sane or not. We don't know if she's willing to help us. This woman could very easily be tortured now and we wouldn't know. "

" Then hurry, brother. Help us gain this small advantage. " Rhysand whispered, bringing his fists together at the level of his mouth, watching him with his purple eyes, like he was trying to read Azriel's mind.

The Shadowsinger made a small gesture with his head, then turned on his heels and left, with Amren following after him.

" I know you want to ask me something, Shadowsinger. " She caught him, her ancient voice echoing down the long hallway. " I know your shadows sensed it. "

" My shadows were sedated. " He turned to her, enveloped in the darkness. " And so was I. "

" What did you see? " The little devil pressed, taking a step forward, " An entity? Did she bewitch you? " Amren's deep red lips stretched into a smile, " Don't worry, whatever effect the solstice had, it will pass. Even I feel uneasy, like I'm being watched. "

" Everything was fine, I checked the whole house. " Azriel's heart pounded between his ribs.

" Really? " She continued, stopping a few steps away from him, enough to let him smell her ancient perfume. " I suppose you were aware of the scent of burning flesh or amber. I know you didn't tell Rhysand someone was inside. "

" I don't have to explain anything to you, Amren. " He replied, entering his room and roughly closing the door behind him.

Azriel pulled out the papers from his pocket and studied them in the light of the candle. His breath hitched as he felt the familiar fragrance on his fingers. His blood roared inside his veins, furious, then smashed the pieces on his nightstand.

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songofthesibyl · 7 months

Text

Grotesque

A few weeks ago I got a request to write the scene of Feyre’s arrival Under the Mountain (chapter 34 of A Court of Thorns and Roses) from Tamlin’s POV:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/51222193

It was becoming tiresome. At a distance, everything flashed, blended together. Already. He had done his work well, he was safely inside. He imagined the sun on his back, curled up as a dog before a fire, the smell of warm earth and roses. Light rippling on the surface of a starlit pool. He smiled—inside still, always—he could see it in the play of light and shadow, how she had used color to show the glassy surface, and the silver, and the entirety of the spectrum that was held within. Limitless possibilities, wishes granted, happiness unending. An eternity of freedom, immortality of impression. Long after he was gone, he thought, her paintings would endure. Perhaps some future High Lord would find them. Or, after ages, when Prythian was finally ruined, and wild, every Court like the Middle, through walls of blackened, twisted bramble, a curious human would bravely venture inside, and come across his gallery, and know the works that had been done by human hands. Perhaps a descendant, or—not so far. A son, a daughter. Perhaps she had found Isaac waiting, and over time, as the glamour faded, her feelings would deepen, and she would find some measure of happiness. She had painted Isaac in a manner that did not belie pain, or fear. Maybe he would come, and find them, and save them from destruction. He would take the painting of the glen, for its beauty, and the one of the two of them—but perhaps. Perhaps he would leave her painting of the winter woods behind. Such a painful time, surely she would not want it. And it, and she, would endure somehow, until the end of time. When this mountain crumbled on top of them. Just as his mask would endure, while he rotted underneath.

He had never been so close to Rhysand, for almost five hundred years, as he had in the days since had been here. It was disarming at first, however much he did not resemble the male he had known so long ago, who had shown him such kindness that both now sorely regretted. He had earned a certain freedom here, enough to go abroad, if only in her service, to torment and murder. The price paid, for getting close to an enemy. And he wore his mask well, yet it was thinning, and in their closeness he could begin to see what lay underneath. He had noticed before, in his manor. How sallow his skin had become, a hollowness around the eyes. A wasting sickness, like the one that affected humans—he was being consumed by this place. If he were allowed to show his wings, if he were inclined to, he imagined they would be tearing at intervals. He wondering if he would still be able to fly.

If he himself could. If he would be able to sport fangs, and claws again. If Rhysand, in almost fifty years, had not found one moment in which to release his talons and slit Amarantha’s throat. He felt Rhysand’s power at his manor, too—felt it here, greater than his own. And yet nothing. He almost wanted to listen to Lucien now, and make one great last stand as Summer, Winter, and Day. It would be suicide, though, with no plan, no one willing to stand with him. Rhysand, or anyone else. And so instead, for the past few days since being brought Under the Mountain, he had sat. And been contented to be numb, and distant. But it was already blending together, the screams of torment further and further away, himself deeper. And he looked at Rhysand’s skin, his eyes, and bemoaned it happening to him. But it was already happening. He could not endure it otherwise. And he was already tired of Amarantha’s sadistic smile, the endless parade of depravity and pain. And Clare still on the wall, rotting. And how relieved he was that it was not Feyre. And what that made of him. It was already happening.

It would happen again. Suddenly, everything in his body seized up, every animal that had made its shelter in him squawked and howled and roared, a beating of wings and a baring of teeth. He had expected another boring night at Amarantha’s side, of blankly watching soulless revels, listening to jarring, dissonant music. Rhysand’s fawning and preening. He had imagined himself becoming him and thought it was his worst fate, only a few days in. And he had prepared for it, and now, as the possibility ebbed away forever, he desired it back. Let him be hidden, let him be taken piece by piece, let him rot away under his mask. But not this. Anything but this.

He silenced the menagerie inside himself, thought that Amarantha’s monsters must have gone back, and found something of Feyre’s to taunt him with, now that he had disappointed Amarantha by not giving her any sport with Clare. A tunic, her Solstice dress, something from her room. Or perhaps they had gone and taken her paintings, knowing which ones had been done by human hands, seeing their place of honor on his walls. Now, they would go beside Amarantha’s self-proclaimed work of art, that she would, that they would now all see daily. And Feyre’s paintings hung beside. That was it. It was not her. She had not been found. They had not realized. Rhysand had not told them. The human being brought before them was one of the poor, misguided Children of the Blessed—Amarantha had taken so many of them over the years. It was awful, and terrible, and he was already sick of it. But it was not her. He did not see her. She was not here.

The animals stilled at his command. The boredom he had felt weigh on him only a moment before, now affected. He was not as good at the performance as Rhysand. But he thought he might turn into him now, instead of in weeks, months, years. Be convincing. Let nothing show, of what was underneath. He had made his peace. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Feyre was not supposed to be here.

“What’s this?” Amarantha said, unimpressed, uninterested. Feyre looked to him. He felt her, everywhere, her scent penetrated every part of him that he had taken such pains to lock away. But he stared at nothing, listening to Amarantha and her Attor speak, and not hearing. And Feyre’s eyes, and his feet unmoving. She was so close he could almost touch her. He wondered who had shown her the way here.

She rose to her feet, terror in her bones, as there should have been, but resolve, and defiance in her eyes. He caught a glimpse of Clare behind her.

“I’ve come to claim the one I love.” A steady, but quiet voice. She looked at him again. A shudder went through him, just as his heart filled. It was all over now.

“Oh?” He saw Amarantha lean forward out of the corner of his eyes. A predator, leaning in before it pounced on its prey. There was a quick calculation if he could rip her head off before she realized.

He couldn’t.

“I’ve come to claim Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court.”

An intake of breath, silence in the hall. Amarantha laughed, and looked at him. Looking, they were all looking at him. He had so disappointed her with Clare. She would get nothing now.

It took a moment of her insulting him on his taste in women before she realized. He sensed the pleasure in her, delight naked on her face, in her voice. He wanted to recoil from it.

“Oh, you are delicious. You let me torture that innocent girl to keep this one safe? You lovely thing! You actually made a human worm love you. Marvelous.”

She clapped in her delight, and the sound echoing through the room shook him, and he faltered, turning away from her. It had seemed so long ago. But Clare was still there, looking down on all of them, waiting.

“Let him go.” Feyre’s voice began to waver.

Another laugh stilled him again, and he righted himself. She would see. See what he had already become here. What she had forfeited her life for.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t destroy you where you stand, human.”

“You tricked him. He is bound unfairly.”

Amarantha continued savoring each word, drawing it out—but eventually, she pointed to the spot on the wall, and Feyre turned, and looked. And his crime was laid bare.

“Perhaps I should have listened when she said she’d never seen Tamlin before. Or when she insisted she’d never killed a faerie, never hunted a day in her life. Though her screaming was delightful. I haven’t heard such lovely music in ages. I should thank you for giving Rhysand her name instead of yours.”

Feyre stood still in horror, until the Attor turned her back around to face them.

“Come now, precious. What have you to say to that?”

Feyre’s eyes went to him for a moment. He willed her. Yes. You see now what I am. What I have become, so soon in your absence. Now run. Even as he knew it was pointless, he pleaded, he begged her. Run.

“Do you still wish to claim someone who would do that to an innocent?” Amarantha went on.

Feyre turned from him. “Yes. Yes, I do.” Fight remaining in her voice. For him.

“Well, Tamlin,” he wanted to flinch as Amarantha put a claiming hand on his arm. Everything fled, recoiled from her touch. But the animals held him still. “I don’t suppose you ever expected this to occur.”

She indicated Feyre, and he heard a ripple of laughter through the hall that he longed to silence.

“What do you have to say, High Lord?”

There was a silence then. A waiting. He made himself very, very still. “I’ve never seen her before. Someone must have glamoured her as a joke. Probably Rhysand.”

A desperate attempt, after Clare.

“Oh, that’s not even a halfway decent lie.” She paused for a moment, and he sensed the shift, the realization. And how it would condemn Feyre. “Could it be—could it be that you, despite your words so many years ago, return the human’s feelings? A girl with hate in her heart for our kind has managed to fall in love with a faerie. And a faerie whose father once slaughtered the human masses by my side has actually fallen in love with her too?” She croaked with laughter, and he felt the venom behind it, the salivating of her mouth. “Oh, this is too good—this is too fun.” She lowered her head, and spoke to Jurian. “I suppose if anyone can appreciate the moment, it would be you, Jurian. A pity your human whore on the side never bothered to save you, though.”

He ignored her, looking at Feyre, from within the layers sheltering him. A long howl in the wilderness, alone in winter woods. He saw her pleading, her not understanding, her seeking for some sign. She was alone, and he was the father who sat and did not fight, and shaped wood. He was stone. A grotesque warning her to flee. But she wouldn’t. And he would find out, if the salivating on Amarantha’s tongue would be enough to sustain her, for now.

“Things have been awfully boring since Clare decided to die on me. Killing you outright, human, would be dull.” His heart strained inside him. “But Fate stirs the Cauldron in strange ways. Perhaps my darling Clare had to die in order for me to have some true amusement with you.”

He would kill her. He would kill her.

“You came to claim Tamlin? Well, as it happens, I’m bored to tears of his sullen silence. I was worried when he didn’t flinch while I played with darling Clare, when he didn’t even show those lovely claws…But I’ll make a bargain with you, human.”

His hands, his mouth, ached. His throat burned. They wanted to come out, it wanted to come out.

“You complete three tasks of my choosing—three tasks to prove how deep that human sense of loyalty and love runs, and Tamlin is yours. Just three little challenges to prove your dedication, to prove to me, to darling Jurian, that your kind can indeed love true, and you can have your High Lord.” She turned to him. “Consider it a favor, High Lord—these human dogs can make our kind so lust-blind that we lose all common sense. Better for you to see her true nature now.”

He might have said something about Feyre’s true nature already being shown here, but she spoke instead, drawing Amarantha’s attention back.

“I want his curse broken, too.”

He could see Amarantha’s teeth gleaming even out of the corner of his eye. This attempt from a human to outwit the female who had managed to subdue all seven High Lords—ten, counting those she had murdered. Feyre had spoken to someone—Alis, perhaps—she had an air of confidence, she considered her words carefully in the now deathly-silent hall. The details of the bargain, Amarantha’s addition of a riddle that would free them all immediately if answered correctly. Breaths, all of time, stood still as this human considered—this human girl with no power, no magic, no real sense of what she had stepped into, or what she faced, but for the body behind her, another grotesque, an omen, a promise. There was fear, but a resolute bravery, as one who faces certain death on the battlefield and yet forges ahead all the same. She did not cow, or beg. Instead she stood tall, and faced Amarantha fully. For him. The part of himself he would not yield grew until it filled him, struggling against his bonds, un-glamoured, threatening to break through and fill the darkened space with golden light. But then Feyre looked at him, and it would not burst through, the stone remained intact, and as they bargained, the horror crept back, forcing him back into himself. He felt flush from the strain. Feyre had already revealed her true nature, but Amarantha would only use it to destroy her. He had told her. He had sent her away. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Look at me. Look at my mask. Remember Clare. And do not bind yourself to her killer.

“If I complete your three tasks or solve your riddle, you’ll do as I request?”

“Of course,” Amarantha replied, her voice calm and even. “Is it agreed?”

No. Don’t do this. He looked at Feyre, the strain overwhelming him, and his eyes widened, a momentary lapse. The stone is supposed to stay a stone, as it warns. But he saw the slight shift in her demeanor. Still the weight of her decision, but it had already been made. If he spoke now, if he moved, it would be nothing but pain for her. But the desire ached in him, as teeth struggling to grow, as claws scraping under skin. Feyre was strong, she was insanely brave, braver than all of them, and he loved her. But she would be bound. To torture, to suffering, to this forsaken place. And he did not want her so, because of him. But if she agreed—there was nothing he, or anyone could do, to undo it.

“Well?”

Feyre looked at him one more time before she said the next word. “Agreed.”

And he was too late. Amarantha snapped her fingers, and it was done.

Magic rippled through the hall, the world. Bound. She was bound now. Perhaps—perhaps it had given her time. If she passed the first two trials. If she could solve the riddle. And, he knew—if she hadn’t agreed, she would be up on the wall now.

Amarantha settled back on her throne, satisfied. “Give her a greeting worthy of my hall.”

He made himself watch, without flinching. What he had done, what it had all led to. Clare, and Andras, and Lucien dropping at his feet, and frightened sisters and their crippled father stock-still as Feyre faced him full in the eyes.

Get out. Get out and begone.

And he had roared and bellowed in his fury. At Andras. At himself.

And he was so quiet now. And he was so still. He was her sisters, her father, crouching on the ground in his feebleness. A heart that could not work as it should weighing him to his chair, sinking him into the earth.

And the truth was laid bare before him, before Amarantha, before everyone in the hall. Echoing beyond. The Attor struck her, and she reeled, thrown by its power, right into another one of Amarantha’s monsters, who got the other side. She twisted, and tried to evade them, but a third caught her. She could say what she would, be brave, but she was still human, and would break as a human. That was the lesson. That was Amarantha’s settledness, her confidence.

Feyre cried out in pain as she was passed between them, blood starting to pour from her nose. And with each blow, the layers that he had curled around himself—so painstakingly, he was so safe and secure within—fur and scale and tail, fell from him, one by one, cowering, afraid, prey. They leaped, and scattered, peeled from his flesh, until only one layer remained, that he struggled with everything he had to keep intact.

Finally, Feyre went silent, and limp, falling to the floor.

“Ugh. Disgusting. Remove her, and clean the floor. And start the music again, I never told them to stop. You all act as if you had never seen a human before.” Amarantha smiled, looking at Clare up on the wall.

“Oh, Tamlin,” she said indulgently, not moving her gaze, her voice dripping with pleasure and satisfaction as he watched Feyre’s body being dragged from the hall, her face bloody and bruised. “And here I was worried it would be boring. That I would have to get a little…” She swayed from side to side. “…creative to get you talking. I have waited for so long, and yet now that I have you—“

He tensed. She did not have him yet, and she knew it.

“I had become impatient. When Clare didn’t work.” She laughed as the music swelled. “Oh, but I know why now. You love that one.” She glanced at him, then turned back to Clare. “Don’t try to deny it again. You sent her away. You didn’t just condemn this poor thing, you tried to save that—oh, what’s her name?” Not waiting for an answer from him that she knew would not come. “Never mind. I’ll ask her when she wakes up. I’ll have to have a word with Rhysand, too. Hmm…” She tapped her fingers on her chair. He felt Jurian look at him. Out of hatred, or pity, or both, he could not tell. Suddenly she gripped the chair. In it, he saw with the eye her blindness. Her hatred. That had cost her the war. That had made her bind herself to a human, of her own free will, for centuries. That she bound her fate to now. Her sugary words. Her darlings, and sweets. They hid, but barely, a great malice. And jealousy.

“She looked quite hideous leaving, didn’t she? Not much different from when she arrived, though. You fell in love with that?”

Trying to figure it out. To understand. Life flickered in him, even as he burned with fury. Humans had always been her downfall. Would be now. He knew this, listening to her. She was angry. She was trying to get to him, but he—Feyre—had gotten to her. That in itself was dangerous, though. He knew better now than to antagonize her further. But they had already won. Amarantha had kept Jurian for five hundred years. Now she was keeping Feyre alive.

“You think I spared her? You think she got a reprieve tonight?”

She looked at him again. “You saw how easily she broke. You think what I have in store for her will be easier than what you let Clare endure? You think that’s the last time she’ll scream?”

He said nothing, and looked at Clare. Suddenly he felt Amarantha’s hand on him, grabbing him by his chin and roughly pulling him to her, forcing him to look into her black eyes.

“You sit here, so proud in your defiance. It’s been but a few days. You know what I can do. Just listen for the beating of your heart. I’ll find such delicious ways to torture her. Maybe I’ll ask Rhysand—he’s so good at that sort of thing. How he could make her scream and beg. I don’t even have to ask with him. He’ll gladly do it. And you’ll beg for her to get Clare’s treatment. You’ll wish you had given me her when you had the chance.” She pulled him closer, until they were almost touching, her nails digging in. “That pathetic worm will fail, and suffer, just as all those who get close to you. And after she does, then you’ll be a good pet, and I’ll get this silly little mask off, and taste the flesh waiting for me underneath. By the time this is all over—sweet Tamlin—I’ll have you on your knees.”

She let him go, throwing him back in his seat, and settled back in again, a mask of smug self-satisfaction on her face.

He reeled, and looked at the floor, a wave of nausea at the thought of Rhysand touching her, at the knowledge of what Amarantha would do if Feyre did not answer her riddle correctly. What she would do before then. He thought of Feyre, away from him, and what she would wake up to, and the hurt already done to her, the suffering already, because of him. His mind spun in desperation of her promised torment, panic rising in him that he fought to still.

He thought of the words Amarantha had used to describe Feyre—worm, dog. Beast. Used as insults. The same that had been used against him. All the accumulated shapes, everything he had ever been and shifted into—all had left him, and now only the Beast was left, under a skin that was not sallow, not rotting underneath, but thinning, thinning. Soon, there’d be nothing left, only this tension so great it would break through the stone surrounding him.

And then she’d see his lovely claws.

#tamlin #acotar #feylin

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aho-dapa · 11 months

Note

Beron and Jurian

Some anti sjm and anti rhys comments because it's my brand

Hmmm, actually, this is super interesting fr

But quick imagine hot dilf beron for a sec, okay, cool

This can go a few ways, the first one is during ACOMAF:

maybe Beron is canon typical and is just a very logical thinker that puts his court above his family (while still caring? for them, idk canon beron is literally better than rhysand, you heard me).

Or it could go with Beron doing a Tamlin and siding with Hybern while working against them

(Maybe Lucien’s past can be reworked and stuff for this angle because I don't think Jurian would get above a hate fuck level with Beron if he knows about the Jesminda stuff) and maybe Beron has only been going with the tide in terms of humans and just not really caring about human slaves and just adapts to keep his family afloat

But Beron definitely meets Jurian with this set up and it's definite enemies to 'I will never admit I love you' type dynamic at best, at worst... it's real bad

Or it could turn into mutual erotic torture porn who knows

But I do find this relationship to be temporary and very tempting to the both of them

Very brief and passionate of them like a flickering candle flame being blown out (is that a pun??)

The second option is more romancey and morally gray Beron + LoA:

Ya'll, morally gray Beron is giving Eris and I need you to know because you're missing out with the crackship possibilities fr fr

Beron and Jurian actually know each other from the War with Hybern and maybe tweaking it so that the human rebellion also happened at the same time

Cue High Lord Beron being mates with human Jurian (or make a poly couple with LoA or have LoA have an open relationship with Helion that Beron knows about because they could have been forced to marry each other due to political schemes)

I actually find a tough, stone faced Beron being absolutely mortified at Jurian being his mate and Jurian not knowing to be completely hilarious

Imagine Beron and LoA just having a conversation about this and Beron just hands in the air, astounded that his mate is literally the leader of the human rebellion?? And betrayed Clythia, and cut her up into pieces in revenge?? The way this man might be a little weirded out for thinking that's hot, anyway

Also Beron and LoA aren't perfect parents but they're definitely the winning parents of the millenia

Also, maybe they've slowly been working together to weaken the power the nobles of the Court have over them and do a little bit of spring cleaning cough and they use this power imbalance between the fae and humans to gain more power and advocate for facing Hybern and siding with the humans because of the threat they pose (maybe humans could use magic but it was dwindling by Feyre's time) and maybe Beron and LoA just have personal distaste for cruelty and have been trying to fight for power so they can make better lives for their citizens and children

(Also instead of magic choosing the successor, it goes by typical lineage bloodline, that way Beron and LoA's position in the court is not as secure)

In this, maybe Jurian was a slave and servant to Clythia who took her along her war campaign as entertainment and company, and this is when Jurian kills her after gathering the othering human slaves they brought with them

Beron plays an active role in the rebellion and LoA acts as the High Lady of the Autumn Court during his absence and that's where we get Jurian and Beron shenanigans with them falling in love and whatnot

Cute stuff until Amarantha kills Jurian and Beron finds out about it after the victory of a battle when his magic suddenly twists on itself

So he doesn't know that Amarantha kept Jurian barely alive as an eyeball in a ring

Beron continues to fight in the war in grief and rage and is about to attack Amarantha when the KoH orders their surrender and agreement to sign the treaty (this treaty is only effective in Prythian and Hybern, not on the Continent where human slavery is still practiced into Feyre's time)

Beron returns home and grieves and eventually finds comfort in the life he builds with LoA and his children

But then Amarantha comes back, and curses them, and Beron plays double sides to protect his family and kill Amarantha in revenge

Only to find out she's been keeping a part of Jurian in a fucking eyeball for centuries and his goals shift

He's the one that ends up taking the ring once Feyre breaks Amarantha's curse (might just have there be no curse) or do something completely different

And Beron actually sides with Hybern again as a ploy to destroy from within because 'the tides have changed once again' and I love to characterize Beron as someone whose seen as someone who acts with their court in mind first to protect his own standing

So temporary truce with Hybern and then he finds out about the Cauldron and brings Jurian back to life

But fr, because we're talking about dilfs

Papa Archeron / Rhys with neslin and feyris, just IMAGINE

Tam mentally having the thought that this technically makes Rhys his father-in-law and Eris his brother-in-law by human terms and Rhys just spits wine across the table

No because that's it this is a fic now, I'm gonna write it fr

#anti sjm #i spiraled into this #acotar era

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the-lonelybarricade · 3 years

Note

Loved your latest chapter and Im so excited to see what happens under the mountain!

I was wondering if I could request a one-shot?(up to you how long and you can do it in your own time)something along the lines of:

Feyre( from either ACOWAR, ACOFAS or ACOSF) time travels back to ACOTAR, but instead of finding herself back in her human body i the spring court, she's still in her fae body and ends up trapped in velaris, having to explain to the rest of IC who she is and why she cant go free their highlord(add some mistrust from the IC)

🙈🙈Id its very similar to what youre doing rn with your other fic but, if you find the inspiration sometime could you please do this? Ive wanted to read a fic for ages were feyre rime travels and meets pre-acomaf inner circle who dont know/trust her, but Ive never found a fic like that

Thank youuu

Hi lovely anon! It makes me so happy you enjoyed my latest chapter! I’m supposed to be working on a project for uni, but I couldn’t resist gratifying my lovely friends (because you're anon and won't be notified I was getting sad at the idea of you checking my blog and not seeing me respond) <3 I’ll admit I’m a bit scatterbrained at the moment, so I hope it’s okay!

I was having trouble brainstorming a reason for Feyre getting sent back in time because I didn't want to borrow the reasoning from ACoFD. So I was vague and twisted the pre-existing rules around the Ouroboros, and ended up getting quite carried away with the story since I don’t like not giving things a happy ending (even though it’s a little cheesy, sorry)

Anyway, I hope this is what you were looking for! I know you wanted the angst of not being able to save Rhys but... I couldn't just leave my poor bat-boy behind, you know? ;)

Also if this didn't quite scratch that itch, I'm always happy to take more requests

Word count: 4,446

The Ouroboros.

It was a massive, round disc—as tall as Feyre was. Taller. And the metal around it had been fashioned after a massive serpent, the mirror held within its coils as it devoured its own tail.

Ending and beginning.

From across the room, Feyre could not see it. What lay within.

She forced herself to take a step forward. Another.

The mirror itself was black as night—yet… wholly clear.

She watched herself approach. Watched the arm she had upraised against the wind and snow, the pinched expression on her face. The exhaustion.

She stopped three feet away. She did not dare touch it.

It only showed Feyre herself. Nothing.

Feyre scanned the mirror for any signs of… something to push or touch with her magic. But there was only the devouring head of the serpent, its maw open wide, frost sparkling on its fangs.

Feyre stared and stared, but all she saw was herself. There was nothing else. Then—

Feyre woke with a gasp, sitting up in bed to shake away the cobwebs of sleep and the strange, foreboding feeling that felt draped around her shoulders like a weighted cape, pulling her down. It hadn’t been a particularly horrifying nightmare. In fact, it was perhaps of the tamer dreams she’d had in the last year.

Yet something about it clung to her, perhaps a lingering agitation that she’d yet to retrieve the mirror the Bone Carver had requested. That must be it.

The bed space beside her was cold. The sun peaking through the window was not high, it couldn’t be long past dawn. However worrisome her own dream, her mate’s must have been worse to draw him from sleep so early. Worse still for him to sneak away.

Feyre rose from the bed, reaching absently for Rhysand’s dressing robe to wrap around herself. She always loved to steal her mate’s clothes, to be wrapped in his scent.

With gentle steps, she made her way to the study, where she could only assume Rhys had sequestered himself in the lone hours of the night. She’d noticed the weary draw to his shoulders, the dark circles under his eyes. This war was weighing on him heavily, and he was nervous. Feyre wished he didn’t insist on shouldering the burden alone.

“Rhys?” Feyre called softly as she got to the study, knocking on the door before she cracked it open.

Peeking her head around the door, she was met with the sight of Rhysand’s abandoned study. The scattered papers and war maps that had become characteristic of his desk space were surprisingly missing. In fact, the whole space had been cleared away and there was a thick layer of dust on every surface as if no one had been in here in years.

Feyre frowned at the sight, and how different it had been just the day before. Where had all the dust come from? And more importantly, where was Rhys? Perhaps he’d taken a morning flight to clear his head.

Where are you, love? She called to him through the mating bond, but was met with silence.

“Who are you?”

The voice was cold and venomous. Feyre turned, coming face to face with Mor, whose face was twisted into a threatening scowl.

“Mor?” Feyre asked, confused by her friend’s cold demeanor. “What do you mean? Have you seen Rhys?”

Mor’s face turned deadly, a look Feyre had only ever seen from Mor in the Court of Nightmares. “Is that some kind of joke?” she snarled.

Then, before Feyre could process what was happening, Mor had gripped onto Feyre’s wrist and they were enveloped in darkness. They stepped into the House of Wind, into the dining room where Cassian and Azriel abruptly stood up.

“Mor?” Feyre questioned when the blonde didn’t release her steel grip. She looked to Cassian and Azriel quizzically. “Guys? What’s going on?”

Cassian crossed his arms, assessing Feyre with a hostility that put her on edge. “Who’s this, Mor?” he asked gruffly.

Feyre frowned as she watched Azriel reach for Truth-Teller.

“Is this a joke?” she asked, flitting her eyes to each of her friends. Where she sought that friendly warmth in each of their gazes she was met with hard stares, filled with distrust, ready for a brawl. She couldn’t make sense of it. Was this an act Rhys had put them up to?

“I found her in the townhouse,” Mor said. “I don’t know how she got in there. She was in Rhysand’s study.”

“And she’s wearing his dressing gown,” Azriel noted dryly. Cassian did a double glance, his eyes going wide, then narrowing with a rage Feyre had never seen from the male. Certainly never directed at her.

There was a whisper of shadow, then suddenly Azriel was behind her, Truth-Teller poised at her throat.

Feyre startled. “Azriel!” she said sharply. Even if it was a joke, Feyre couldn’t imagine Rhysand would sanction this kind of threat. And the energy in the room was off, the tension too thick. “Stand down.”

“And who are you,” he breathed in her ear, his voice coated in shadow and nightmare, “to command the Shadowsinger of the Night Court?”

“I’m your High Lady,” Feyre answered steadily, not letting Azriel’s shadows, nor cunning voice, shake her resolve. “Now, I don’t know what is going on with the three of you, or what strange joke you’re trying to pull, but you will listen to what I say. Put. Your. Knife. Down.”

“High Lady?” Cassian repeated with a snort of disbelief. “You’ve got balls, little girl.”

Truth-Teller danced across the skin of her neck, pressing lightly enough to intimidate without breaking skin. “Do you even know to whom you speak? You should be bowing before the acting Queen of the Night Court.”

Too stunned to properly resist, Azriel kicked his feet out to knock Feyre to her knees in front of Mor. His fingers slid into her hair, gripping it tightly to pull her head back as Truth-Teller resumed its threatening position at her throat.

“Breaking into the High Lord’s personal residence, impersonating a high position within the Night Court, lying to the Morrigan’s face,” Azriel listed, increasing the pressure of the blade with each transgression. “You throw our High Lord’s generosity and protection in his face, something we as his acting Court do not take lightly.”

“Acting court? Acting Queen?” Feyre repeated, feeling as if she’d woken to a different reality. “What are you talking about? Where’s Rhysand!?”

“We’re the ones asking the questions here,” Cassian growled.

Feyre looked to each of her friends, studying their faces. Beyond their militant expression, she could see their grief. Could smell it. She repeated, “where is Rhysand?”

She felt the snarl that rumbled through Azriel’s chest behind her, vibrating against her back. When the question was once again unanswered, Feyre abandoned all sense of patience.

Darkness exploded through the room. She heard Mor gasp as the walls of the House shook from the might of her power. Feyre folded into the shadows, winnowing out of Azriel’s grasp so she stood in the center of the three of them.

“Az, Cass, Mor, you are my friends and I do not want to hurt you. But I am also your High Lady and you will answer me this instant, where is Rhys? Where is my mate!?”

Siphons gleamed red and blue through the thick tendrils of night, illuminating the Illyrian males’ faces. Cassian’s jaw had fallen open, while Azriel was studying her through narrowed eyes, wisps of shadow surrounding him. Feyre wondered what they were whispering to him.

“Mate?” Cassian echoed, the first to break the heavy silence.

Mor took a cautious step forward, her countenance completely changed. Her pupils were blown wide, twin brown depths churning with sorrow and gentle astonishment. Azriel went rigid at Mor’s approach, but no one moved to stop her as she came face to face with Feyre.

“Where did you get this?” she whispered, taking Feyre’s left hand, eye fixed on her mating band. On the sapphire-star ring that once belonged to Rhysand’s mother.

All eyes befell the subject of Mor’s attention. Cassian swore softly in recognition.

“It’s my mating band,” Feyre answered measuredly, still puzzled that the inner circle, her family, didn’t seem to have any memory of it. Nor of her. “I won it from the Weaver, as was the task set by Rhysand’s mother. But you were all there for that. I don’t understand what’s going on. Where. Is. Rhys?”

“Under the Mountain,” Mor whispered, her voice soft and pained.

The darkness ebbed away like a receding tide. Feyre felt her heart sink as she tried to process this information. “He—What?”

“He’s been Under the Mountain for the last 50 years,” Mor said, firmer this time. “And if you were his so-called mate, you would know that.”

“No,” Feyre said, shaking her head vehemently. “No, that’s impossible. We got out. We—”

This was a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare, and she just hadn’t woken up from it.

“Amarantha’s dead,” Feyre insisted, mostly in an attempt to console the unparalleled grief and panic that were raging inside her. “She’s dead, and Rhys and I got out.”

The grim faces of her friends said otherwise. They stared at her, in unbearable mixtures of pity and horror.

“I think she’s having a mental break,” Cassian said, not unkindly. “Should we get a healer?”

“Let me show you,” Feyre said meekly, casting her magic out to tap on their mental shields.

They all tensed, clearly not aware they’d been in the presence of a daemati. Trained well by Rhys, they all cracked their shields just enough for Feyre to send her conjured memories through. She showed them going Under the Mountain as a human, winning the trials and being resurrected, falling in love with Rhys, and eventually becoming High Lady of the Night Court. In turn, the three of them pushed back their own memories, of the current state of the world. Of Rhysand sacrificing himself so that his Court and Velaris would be safe.

A sob broke out of Feyre. “How is this possible? How am I here?”

It was Azriel who immediately went for the jugular. “More importantly, if you’re here as a High Fae, how is Rhys going to get out? How do we stop Amarantha?”

Feyre fell to her knees, grief-stricken by this realization. She was no longer human. She couldn’t stride in as Tamlin’s human lover and undergo the trials. Feyre had her powers, but they were untested. Would she be able to take on the whole of Amarantha’s court?

“What do I do? How do I save him?” she whimpered, staring in mute horror at her mating band.

Mor tentatively reached forward, laying a comforting hand on Feyre’s shoulder. “Rhys sacrificed himself to keep the people he loves safe. He wouldn’t want you getting yourself killed trying to save him.”

“I have to try,” Feyre answered desperately. “Amarantha she’s…” Feyre couldn’t bring herself to say the word, rape. Not to his family, who wear his sacrifice for them like an open wound. “She’s doing unspeakable things to him. He’s suffering so much. I can’t leave him to that fate. I have to try.”

With renewed conviction, Feyre accepted Mor’s outstretched hand and picked herself to her feet. “Rhys said it himself once. Amarantha’s biggest weapon is that she keeps the High Lord’s power contained. She can’t access them herself. But I… I have access to all the High Lords’ powers. And that bitch has my mate. My wrath will be plenty to take her down.” She faced her friends, who watched her warily. “You have my word as your High Lady,” she swore to them. “The High Queen of Prythian is going to fall by the night’s end.”

⟡⟡⟡

Winter had not yet fallen in the Mortal Lands. Feyre wondered if across the world, there was a version of herself curled in a bed with her sisters, clinging to any shred of warmth and survival.

That version of Feyre was very different from the version who strode up the sloping hills of the Spring Court with Azriel by her side. Rhys would be furious that Feyre had allowed him to accompany her. Should anything go wrong, it would destroy her mate to know his family had been put in harm's way after everything he’d done to protect them. Which was why it was only Azriel who came with, the only compromise she could reach with his Inner Circle, who insisted on coming with.

Who better to sneak into the Mountain with than the very soldier who taught Feyre the art of stealth. He was the obvious choice, since Mor needed to stay to rule the Night Court and Cassian was too heavy-handed to handle such a delicate task.

Their footfall was silent. Feyre wrapped them in the shadow of Night as they winnowed through the cave network. Her heart hammered in her chest, panicked to be back in the source of so many nightmares.

But Rhysand was more important than her fear. For him, she would not falter.

With the Shadowsinger by her side, Feyre snuck through the winding tunnels until she came to a familiar passageway. They slid into a massive, dark bedroom, lit only by a few candles.

To attack Amarantha in the throne room would be too messy. Too many variables to contend with, should Amarantha have enough wit about her to use any faeries as a shield. Especially Rhysand.

After several hours of waiting, the lock on the door clicked and swung open. Darkness swirled around the room as Rhysand took in the sight of Feyre and Azriel on the bed.

Immediately, the door slammed shut.

“No,” he whispered, voice dripping with horror. “No.”

“Rhys—” Feyre started, but her mate wasn’t paying any attention to her. He was looking at Azriel as if his whole world had shattered.

“Leave,” he said, his voice cold and commanding. This was no happy reunion between brothers. This was Rhysand’s worst nightmare. “Leave this instant, you stupid fool. That is, if you’re lucky enough to have avoided detection when you passed under her wards.”

“I took down the wards,” Feyre said. They weren’t particularly strong, either. Amarantha had gotten lazy, perhaps thinking herself secure with the only spell-cleaver under her control. Or so she believed.

Rhys turned that quiet fury towards her. “And who are you?”

“Your mate,” Feyre answered steadily, tipping her chin up.

Rhysand laughed. A desperate, humorless sound. “Then you are just as foolish as my idiot brother. And you have both sealed your deaths by being here. Do you understand that?”

Feyre scratched along those familiar adamantite shields. Rhys’s eyes flickered in surprise, but otherwise he looked unruffled as he cracked a sliver open for her.

It would be unwise to underestimate me, mate.

I wouldn’t be going around boasting about such a thing, if what you claim is even true, came his icy response. And I wouldn’t count on a few party tricks to save you, either.

And what if I told you, she purred, that I possess the power of all seven High Lords?

That, at least, garnered a reaction from the stoic male. He narrowed his eyes in disbelief, studying Feyre carefully. His gaze caught on her hands, at the lace tattoos that flowed to her fingers. And the mating band she still wore.

Feyre watched those violet eyes go wide, the silver constellations dancing in astonishment at the sight of his mother’s ring.

Where did you get that?

It’s a long story, love, but you’re going to have to trust me. She lowered her mental shields completely. Have a look for yourself. I’m telling you no lies. I am your High Lady, and I am here to free my husband.

She felt those familiar talons wrap around her mind. A foolish thing to do, to give a daemati unrestricted access to her mind. And if it were anyone but Rhys, it would have been. But his touch was gentle, and he took only the information he needed.

“I don’t understand how this is possible,” he whispered, breaking the silence of the room. Azriel had been waiting patiently, but looked relieved to be included in the conversation once more. “And I hate that you’ve put yourselves in danger for this, but it could work.”

Rhys considered for a long moment, then he looked between Feyre and Azriel and said, “do it when she’s sleeping. That bitch has been playing dirty for 50 years, you might as well level the playing field to give yourselves the best chance. Let’s do it tonight. I’ll leave the door unlocked, wear her out, and signal you once she’s asleep. Her spell prevents me from harming her, but I’ll make sure she’s restrained. All you have to do is drive the ash dagger through her heart, but have your magic ready for damage control.”

⟡⟡⟡

Feyre and Azriel waited in Rhysand’s bedchambers for his signal. There was a revelry tonight, as there was every night Under the Mountain, and Rhys was expected to be in attendance. Afterwards, he’d join Amarantha in her bed and make sure she was, in his words, “thoroughly exhausted”.

It was torturous for Feyre. To know exactly what the implication in those words were, to have to use her mate’s body in such a way. She wanted to roar at the Mountain, at the Cauldron, at anything that would listen, but instead she was next to the quiet, brooding Shadowsinger, and lamented in silence.

She’d begged Rhys to reconsider, to perhaps help them stage a more physical encounter that didn’t rely on his own suffering. But he’d denied any plan but the one he’d proposed, insisting it would cause him more anguish to but Feyre and Azriel in harm's way.

So they waited the long, agonizing hours until she felt a delicate pull at her chest. She’s asleep, Rhys called. Be on your guard.

He sent her directions to Amarantha’s bedchambers. There were guards outside, but Feyre and Azriel winnowed past them, cloaked in night and shadow.

Amarantha’s bedchambers were huge. Feyre had never been inside them before, but she was unsurprised to see they provided any luxury a High Queen could wish for.

Atop a large bed of red, silken sheets, lay her mate and Amarantha, both stark naked. The smell of sex clung to the air, Rhysand and Amarantha’s scents intertwined. Feyre thought she might be sick.

Even more sickening was the sight before her, of Amarantha’s arms restrained to the headboard in cloth. A clever way for Rhys to restrain her under the guise of sex, but horrifying nonetheless, to see the proof of what they’d been up to. The female was fast asleep, so convinced of her authority that she could fall asleep tied-up and not feel vulnerable doing so. How satisfying, Feyre thought, that such arrogance would be her downfall.

Feyre warded the room, putting up a shield of darkness so that no sound would break through to alert the guards. Rhys watched their approach warily from where he perched beside Amarantha, so still Feyre was convinced he held his breath.

He wouldn’t risk moving to wake her up, which terrified Feyre. Should something go wrong, her mate would be susceptible to Amarantha’s wrath. Naked, vulnerable, and completely under her control. It was such a dangerous game they were playing.

The room was as quiet and still as the bewitching hours of the night, their footsteps silent as they picked across the room. Azriel held the ash dagger. If Rhys could not kill Amarantha, his brother wanted to do it on his behalf. Meanwhile, Feyre summoned tendrils of night that carefully wrapped around Amarantha’s legs, slithering up her body like a snake, ready to constrict and restrain.

The female stirred in her sleep, perhaps feeling the ghostlike touch of Feyre’s magic. But she did not wake. Not as Azriel raised the dagger over her chest, and not as he plunged it down.

Amarantha’s eyes shot open as the dagger pierced her chest. She let out a shriek of agony and ire, moving to claw at her attacker. She raged against the restraints, spewing obscenities until they died at her lips as the blade sunk into her heart.

Rhysand’s chest was heaving as he watched the female still, then slump. He looked from her dead body, to Azriel and Feyre.

Feyre’s heart sank as she watched her mate process that it was truly over. There wasn’t a trace of elation in his eyes at being liberated, but she understood why. Rhys would finally be returning home, but as a much different man than the one he had been. He’d survived, but not unscathed, and he’d need time to process this.

Feyre came to him, reached towards her mate with the hand that bore his mother’s ring. Rhys looked to it, then up to her. His eyes were clouded with sorrow, with a melancholy she could only hope to chip away at in time. But she could see stirring beneath it was a breath of hope, perhaps the first he’d allowed himself in a long time.

“Let’s go home, Rhys,” she said gently.

Slowly, Rhysand nodded, moving to grasp her hand. She felt him jolt at the touch and, as she glanced at him questioningly, she saw his lips part in wonder.

I suppose you weren’t lying about being my mate, he whispered, the words a sensual brush in her mind. Thank you for coming to rescue me, High Lady.

Feyre grasped onto Azriel, and together the three of them stepped into darkness.

Then, they were above the House of Wind, tumbling through the night sky. Feyre unfurled her wings before Rhys could move to catch them, worried that her mate would struggle after 50 years without flight.

Both males stared in astonishment at the sight. Rhysand’s eyes danced in awe as Feyre, albeit clumsily, carried them to the training ring on the roof.

Rhys snapped his own wings open as they landed. Feyre watched him tilt his head back in rapture as he felt the wind against his wings for the first time in decades. Then he opened his eyes, his expression shifting to reverence as he beheld the night sky.

“I was beginning to think I’d never see it again,” he whispered, his voice a heartbreaking blend of exaltation and disbelief. “And for this gift… for my salvation to be courtesy of my mate and of my brother… I’m a bit overwhelmed,” he admitted sheepishly.

Feyre hesitated. If this was the Rhysand from before, the one to which she was mated and married, she would come to comfort him. But this version of Rhys had only just been freed from enslavement, and she didn’t know what he needed.

As though sensing her hesitation, Rhys cast his eyes back to the sky. “I know they’re all waiting for me downstairs, but I’d like a little bit of time with the stars. Will you let them know, Az?”

Azriel nodded, though he seemed conflicted. His reunion with his brother was perhaps not as merry as the male had expected. But right now, she knew the Inner Circle would hardly deny Rhys anything. Perhaps for a long while yet. So Azriel headed downstairs to inform their friends, who were sure to be anxiously awaiting their arrival.

Rhysand regarded Feyre carefully once the two of them were alone. “Mate and High Lady,” he mused. “You seem to wear many hats.”

“You forgot ‘wife’,” Feyre said lightly.

“Yes, and ‘Salvation’, ‘Queen Killer’, ‘Most Beautiful Female in Prythian’, it seems there’s many things I could call you. Could we start with your name, perchance?”

Feyre was shocked. She’d assumed he’d taken such information out of her mind earlier, but it seems he’d been even more respectful than she’d expected.

“Feyre,” she answered. “My name is Feyre.”

He looked wonderstruck. “Feyre,” he repeated, testing the name on his lips. A gentle smile curled at the corners of his mouth, the first she’d seen from him yet. He extended his hand towards her. “Would you like to watch the stars with me, Feyre?”

It was an offer she couldn’t refuse. Her hand found his with all the casual grace of a dancer, as if it were a routine they’d been perfecting their whole lives. Their fingers interlocked and as one, they stared up at the dazzling night sky.

This reality wasn’t perfect, Feyre thought. This Rhys was different from her own, and he still had a lot of healing to do. But if she could be there for him, to help him in a ways she hadn’t before, then she would be grateful to the strange eddies of the Cauldron for bringing her here. For allowing her to end his torment early. For giving them this extra time.

She watched a shooting star dart across the sky and smiled as it passed. There was nothing she could wish for except that her mate find peace in all that he’d endured the last half century.

His deep, velvety voice cut through the silence. “Do you often wish on stars, Feyre?”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was watching her with a heart-wrenching wistfulness.

“Only when I have a wish worthy of the stars.”

“And do you?”

Feyre looked to the northernmost star, which shined brightest in the sky. “I wished for a light in the darkness,” she told him. “I don’t think the stars would ever begrudge such a wish.”

Rhysand nodded solemnly. “It’s true that they would be begrudging themselves in doing so. But I see no need for you to wish for such a thing.”

Feyre looked to him. He was still watching her, but something in him had shifted. He was smiling at her gently, that lingering sadness already receding. “Why’s that?” she asked cautiously.

That gentle smile widened, showing off his brilliant teeth. “Why, Feyre, to find such a thing, all you’d need to do is look in a mirror.”

#prompt fill #anon request #Feysand #Feysand fic #Inner Circle #Feysand fluff because I can't help myself #mentions of rape #Mentions of SA #acotar #acotar fic #time travel

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sapphicneverafter · 3 years

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a fix-it fic/drabble (???? i might write more if people want it and post it to ao3) for acosf because i got through 7 chapters and gave up. it was that bad. i worked really hard on this so feedback is very much appreciated <3

Exiles of Light and Flame

Nesta was being sent to the human lands as punishment by her sister and her mate. No, she was being banished. Banished to a place where she was feared and forced into isolation. Her sister hadn’t even bothered to drop her off herself, she’d had Morrigan do it. The blonde hadn’t made the trip pleasant, to say the least. She knew that Lucien and his human friends had taken up residence in the area, she just didn’t expect it to be so far of a walk. Nesta rubbed her hands together to keep the biting wind at bay. Perhaps she should’ve worn a thicker jacket.

“Nesta.” Lucien greeted her with a guarded nod, stepping aside to allow her in. He didn’t ask why she was there or how she got there. He simply led her to the sitting room where Jurian and Vassa were sitting on an atrocious pink couch. The couch was gaudy and loud and unlike anything Feyre would’ve chosen to decorate with. Her lips upturned in a small smirk at the thought. Maybe a banishment to the mortal lands wouldn’t be the torture she’d first imagined.

“That’s an ugly couch. I like it.” It was the first thing she said. Blunt and rude, something her sisters found disgraceful. Jurian barked a laugh at her comment, obviously not taking it to heart. She tilted her head to the side in calculation, gauging their reactions to her presence.

“Nesta Archeron. No longer welcome among the Night Court, I presume.” Jurian was more perceptive than he let on. Nesta wondered if spending all that time on Amarantha’s finger had taught him how to find hidden emotions and intentions.

She’d heard Feyre speak of the three of them before, disdain evident in her tone. Lucien and his new human friends called themselves the Band of Exiles. It was a better name than Court of Dreamers but Nesta knew better than to voice that opinion to her sister and her temperamental mate. Sometimes she forgot that her sister had once been human. That she had once been human. That life seemed so far away now, not that it was only two years prior.

“Do I get a room?” Nesta had decided she’d stay awhile, if they’d have her. Though she was fairly certain none of them actually owned the home they were residing in. Jurian and Vassa exchanged a look, with each other and then Lucien. Lucien who had only said one word to her, her name.

“I’ll show you to it.” He finally breathed, his auburn hair resembling living flame beneath the faelight. He wasn’t what she expected, what she remembered. His steps weren’t deep and commanding like the Illyrian males of her sister’s new family, instead they were quiet and calculated. She followed him silently, unbothered to find conversation to fill the silence.

Nesta nodded a thanks as she entered her new room, shutting the door and catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She ran a finger through her long hair, it surprisingly still holding a semblance of shine despite her horrid eating habits. It was the High Fae genes she now had that kept it so. Her pointed ears came into view, a stark contrast to the ears she had grown up with. She wasn’t sure she would ever get used to them, to her new body. Nothing felt like it was her own anymore, especially not the power she’d stolen and kept buried deep inside. She needed a change, something to take control of.

It was Jurian who found her digging around in the kitchen searching for scissors, arriving just in time to see her hold them up triumphantly. He chuckled at the sight, his eyebrows raised in question.

“I’m cutting my hair.” Nesta explained, not that she owed him an explanation. She didn’t owe explanations to anyone. Her sister and her husband didn’t agree with that sentiment. Hence, her banishment. “Well, I was going to ask Vassa to do it. I saw that she cut hers.”

“I cut her hair.” Jurian corrected, holding his hand out for the scissors. Nesta clutched them closer, unsure at the prospect of the former general cutting her hair. “Her Majesty would hack your hair, you think she’s ever lifted a pair of scissors herself? There’s no one to cut hair for you on the battlefield, you learn to do it yourself.”

Nesta nodded, handing over the scissors and plopping herself into one of the dining chairs. When Jurian asked how short, she pointed to halfway up her neck. She wasn’t expecting how much lighter she felt the more he snipped away. It was like she had been tied to a weight upon the ground and she was finally freeing herself.

Elain would have fainted at the sight of most of her hair upon the floor. What Cassian would think of it briefly drifted across her mind before she shut it down. He had agreed to send her here, to uproot her small sense of normalcy and send her away. She wouldn’t forgive that. She couldn’t forgive that.

If Lucien was surprised at her dramatic hair change, he didn’t show it at breakfast. She was surprised at the comradarie he shared with Jurian, treating the human as an equal. She still remembered how her sister and her court had looked down upon her when she was human, how they still did. How they reviled her with fear and distaste. An embarrassment to our reputation, Feyre had said. As though the Night Court wasn’t already hated long before her.

“Your eggs are getting cold.” Lucien reminded her with a surprisingly warm tone, taking her out of her thoughts once again. Jurian had since left the room, something she hadn’t even noticed. She pushed around her eggs and took a small bite.

“Thank you, for breakfast and for letting me stay here.” She forced a small smile, taking another bite of the eggs before pushing the plate away. Lucien didn’t comment on her barely touched plate, he simply took it and added to the pile of dishes he was washing.

“It’s no problem, wouldn’t want you out on the streets.” Lucien shrugged as he washed the dishes, looking up to meet her eyes. The scar across his metal eye was striking in a surprisingly handsome way. It was only then that she’d noticed he had tied back half of his hair. It wasn’t a bad look on him, he almost looked relaxed. “There’s a library in the house, second door on the left from the foyer.”

The red-headed male remembered how she had spent most of her time within the House of Wind. She was so sure no one was paying any attention to her there. Although his reasons for remembering could have to do with the fact that she was often with Elain then. She nodded and headed towards the library, it was empty when she stepped inside but magically warmed like the rest of the house.

Nesta ran a finger along the spines of the books, feeling which books were more worn than others. Whoever had previously owned the home had an extensive collection. It had been a while since she had read anything, too busy trying to bury her thoughts beneath alcohol. She picked a random one with a worn spine, her dress falling over her feet as she curled up in one of the chairs.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed but soon she noticed the laughter coming from the living room. Vassa must have returned for the evening. A glance outside confirmed it, catching the end of the sunset. It was her plan to avoid her new housemates and retreat to her room but then there was a knock at the door.

Somehow the knock sounded and felt so familiar, but it couldn’t be. She hated herself a little for hoping that maybe it was the person she thought it was. That he’d come to save her. That he had defied his High Lord and decided she was worth it, even after how she’d treated him since the war.

Lucien got to the door before she could make herself move, opening it to find a broad shouldered Illyrian male. Nesta peered over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of him. When Lucien stepped aside, she saw what he was holding and the hope in her heart shattered. Cassian was here, but he wasn’t here for her. He was here to bring the last of her things and to be rid of her. Nesta didn’t need to listen to any explanations or ramblings, she didn’t have it in her. So, instead she turned her back on Cassian and walked away.

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kimsnnn · 3 years

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Part 2

Disclaimer: This post is in favor of my ship, Elriel. No hate, just an opinion. This is what makes sense to me. If this isn't your cup of tea, and it came up on your feed, no worries just skip please.

With all this in mind Elriel to me just seems so clear.

The enemy is Koschei and Vassa is the only one to be directly linked to and affected by him so she will be the one to defeat him, plan and give us insight from the inside because she is the one who is captive. She has a personal interest in defeating him and that victory and moment is rightfully hers to own.

She will get a book. Her being a firebird means nothing? why would people assume she won't have a conscious while in that form when Rhys, Tamlin and Helion do? Why do people believe that a story cant be developed and moved along as a firebird? Has any one ever read a werewolf book? Im soooo confused. I mean why is that a end all? Even as a firebird she can see and reveal so much, and as a person even more.

The main original characters that have a direct link to Feyre from the very beginning before Hybern, Amarantha, and ACOWAR are Nesta, Elain and Lucien. Those are the characters that make the most sense to have their own book. Not Tamlin who is of no importance to Feyre anymore. Who is of importance and who where her first family Lucien basically becoming her first brother. She is always concerned for these people. If you take a look at all of Feyre’s POV in ACOFAS its always showcasing her concern or confusion for Her sisters, Lucien and even Mor (possible novella). These three individuals (N&E&L) are the ones she has an original relationship with and the most history, a shaky relationship that has room to be improved on. These are the wildcards, the ones who have wronged her in some way, the ones who’s stories NEED to be told. Three different people three different stories.

If you also take a look at Rhys’ POV in order, you realize he talks to or refers to 5 people usually:

Cassian, Azriel, Mor, Tamlin & Lucien

Each of these first 5 POV also directly touches on what issues exactly are pertaining to them or could be pertaining to them if that had their own book OR how they may contribute to the whole over arching plot.

If we conclude everything from those first 5 chapters ( I'm not including the rest because its too much, and they also include these 5 characters regardless) of importance this is what we have and what each book may touch on.

1st POV: involves

-Cassian - Illyrian dissent, inequality, Nesta, queen Braiylln, training female Illyrians,

-Cassian’s role

2nd POV: involves

-Azriel-shadows/powers strength, Az’s past, confusion on shadowsinger abilities, Illyrian dissent/hate, Human queens, Hyberns people, Human lands, Vassa’s situation,

-Az’z emotions (& concealing of emotions) on : Lucien, Elain, Possibly Az’s mom and her whereabouts (Rosehall).

3rd POV:

-Tamlin/Lucien-SC and Tamlin current state and down fall, alliance with Tamlin, peace/future, Lucien’s and Tamlin’s relationship, Anger/Hate/Remorse/Defeat/Hope/Empty, Feyre

-Feyre-Tamlin, Rhys’ actions and remorse

-Jeweler(Neve)-no jewels for Feyre, Neve’s background

4th POV:

-Velaris estates along the Sidra before and after hybern,

-Mor: Rhys and mor’s relationship currently, Kier/Eris/CoN

-The CoN people occupied the Velaris estates (they left Hewn City before the division of the NC)

-Kiers upcoming visit to Velaris in Spring (the hewn city’s containment and curiosity)

-Mor’s Mother/ desire to leave the NC

-Mor’s Role

Rhys’ 1st POV which included Cassian and Cassian’s following POV/Chapter was a foreshadow to ACOSF completely. Everything touched was basically addressed in ACOSF. Rhys basically told Mor and Cassian to assume different jobs and roles (to lessen Azriel’s world load) in their chapters which came true in ACOSF.

A bond between Elain and Lucien does not mean they will have a book. If I'm honest they remind me a little of Nesyrn and Chaol who seemed like with time something could blossom between them but in reality just weren't for one another and were better off as friends. All that connects these two is an unwanted bond, a person they both have wronged yet care about (Feyre) and an incident that resulted in Elain’s trauma. Everyone thought Elain who is literally everything to Nesta, who Nesta would have sacrificed everything for, would be more involved, yet she wasn't even present in the majority of Nesta’s book, at least not as present as we thought she would be. But she was mentioned throughout ACOSF nearly in every chapter because Elain does and has impacted Nesta’s life completely.This is something I expect to happen for Elain’s book as well. Yes Lucien will appear but perhaps the purpose of his appearance would be to get closure and fill in questions left unanswered. If ACOTAR 5 is an Elriel book and not ACOTAR 6 then her book will also serve to set up for his book with Vassa.

Feyre’s relationship with the IC is fine and any issues can be resolved in the books of the others (like for example as Love interests) or in a novella.

Cassian had a POV, the second main role in ACOSF but.. ACOSF was Nesta’s story.

The same can be said for Elriel’s book as well as Vassien’s.

And yes a male can have a book like Chaol did but in my opinion it won't be Az with Gwyn being the second main POV. It will be Lucien with Vassa who has far more ties to the IC and to the over arching plot. Vassa at least has met Feyre the main character of the whole ACOTAR world.

Hypothetically speaking lets say Az does get a book and ends up with Gwyn and the plot is about the Illyrian camp. Their story would most likely be written as a novella if anything not an actual book, there is not many ties that Gwyn has so far to the whole plot at least not yet. But getting a novella still wouldn't make sense when we have characters, who are not only closer to the plot but also provide an opportunity to get info/support to win this war, like Mor who is spending time in Vallahan, and Tamlin who’s literal court is not only in shambles but unfortunately detrimental to the success of attaining peace.

I do think Gwyn is more important to this plot then most give her credit for but I dont believe that necessarily means shes due a book or a main POV especially over Vassa. And Emerie.

Vassa who has direct link to koschei the main issue, point and villain of the plot and Emerie who has a direct link to Illyria and its backward ways in everything most importantly on its stance of women and their roles.

SJM Set Elriel to be endgame because it just makes the most sense. Not only because of their connection, moments and relationship thus far but because that's what makes the most sense with this plot. There’s no spinoff in the works.

There’s no reason for Gwyn or ANYONE for that matter to be the one to defeat koschei over Vassa, no reason to have the hugest wedge between Elucien while building a bridge for Elriel, no reason to build and hint for Mor’s leave and put emphasis on Tamlin & the SC’s dire situation.

Has anyone considered if Lucien wants to even be HL ?

Lucien’s future as a highlord comes down to if he even wants to even become the Day Court’s High lord in the first place.

Lucien thought less of humans and was indifferent to them in ACOTAR yet now has found a home and friends among them. ‘

Truthfully the BOE’s work in the same way that the IC does and the Valkyerie.

Actually scratch that the Valkyerie work exactly like the BOE’s.

Yet can anyone imagine any of the Valkyrie leaving their group or be far from each other especially if one of their member’s is their possible love interest ?

They will choose each other and they will create a future where they are all together.

I don’t see lucien who has finally found stability and friends leaving the BOE’s to play high lord at Day court unless Vassa and Jurian decide to leave with him. Which seems unlikely. The only way I see that happening is if vassien truly becomes endgame resulting in Vassa going to Day court. But where does that leave Jurian.

I believe that after the Beron and AC issues are resolved, that Eris will ascend and become HL, Lady Autumn will leave to be FINALLY with Helion to be Lady Day 😍, and Lucien can enjoy his life in the mean time with his found family, stay as an emissary and possibly prepare to be Day’s HL down the line in the future.

#elain #elain archeron #elain x azriel #elriel #acotar 5 #vassien

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flowerflamestars · 3 years

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Main Issues with Feysand's leadership: it mostly consists on rather inmature, underdeveloped strategy that would in no way get a world leader very far in the real world (see: 'i schooled my face into a look of boredom'), seem content in making enemies left to right as long as they never have to step down from the pedestal that they've built, and see Illyria as a necessary evil, like wtf. In conclusion, Rhysand is a governor for Velaris, but is not fit to be the ruler of the Night Court.

Rounding caveat, because I know I’m going to get shouty: the dividing line between ToG and ACOTAR is that tog is a fantasy series with romance, and acotar is a romance series in a fantasy world. They’re not the same. I’d be totally fine with how the world building in acotar is v handywavy, because it’s still accomplishing what the books set out to do (tell a love story, hello acomaf) but- BUT, it’s not consistent. And that inconsistency wildly undermines the characters.

And god, if Rhysand as a ruler isn’t the heart of ???? spirit.

We’re not going to talk about how the plot of acotar only makes sense backwards (Hey, Rhys, why did you want to kidnap every month a powerless mortal girl???), we’re just going to talk about reputation.

So Rhys is a villain who we learn isn’t actually evil. A classic. He was made to do terrible things by Amarantha! He sacrificed himself to save his friends! Of course the High Lords hate him, they think he sided with the enemy.

That could have been the whole thing- the layers pulled back, Rhysand also a victim, a reason for the world to hate him but for Feyre to see otherwise.

OKAY BUT- then we learn? that Rhysand has been playing Evil Scary Jackass in all political situations? for his entire reign? that’s just what he does?

Round two: Rhys had to be Amarantha’s because he had to “shield the knowledge” of his friends and his capitol? city.

BUT- other people Under the Mountain, also accessible to Amarantha, know the IC??? have been acquainted with them for years? They’re not a secret. Mor was almost married out, Az and Cas are legendary, Amren is a story people tell.

And all those people are probably incentivized by the fact that, you know, they think Rhysand is an evil traitor.

Furthermore: guess who willing cooperated with Amarantha? The Court of Nightmares. Recall who, surprise in acowar, knows all about Velaris: Keir.

Round three: Sexy Evil Cosplay, wherein we learn that not only instead of just keeping it together in politics Rhys has adopted an entire secondary persona, we learn he also...uses this persona...to scare all the other highborn faeries into submission....so he? never has to talk to them?

BUT ALSO: this whole thing is undermined by, once more, Keir.

The whole game on the throne is to instill fear/ control of Keir. The whole Second Face. But Keir knows about Velaris? Keir knows exactly what Rhys stands for because Rhys and Cassian tried to rescue Morrigan from the Court of Nightmares when they were teens. Hell, Keir probably knew Rhys when Rhys was a kid.

It’s almost like eventually the person you pretend to be becomes who you are.

I think the Political Rhys vs Real Rhys started out as a plot point, but in character became this: not someone separate at all, but actually, Rhysand’s coping mechanism for making shitty choices.

See: if everyone in the Court of Nightmares bows, I’m ruling them. It doesn’t matter that women are being sold, that there’s servants and presumably totally normal people trapped in a mountain they can’t leave with people I think are monsters.

Let’s jump to Illyria.

How much easier is it, for Rhysand, half-Illyrian himself, to align wholly with the High Fae and say: no, it’s Illyria’s fault. They’re savages, they’re barbarians.

Easy as being a dick to other powerful men because it’s fun when they can’t fight back.

If the blame isn’t his, he keeps his army. He doesn’t have to fight a civil war that might swallow him whole, considering Illyria is the army he controls vs the High Fae soldiers left entirely under Keir’s rule.

If it’s Illyria’s fault he can successfully reimagine the past as he clearly needs to (someday, I’ll make a whole ass post about Rhysand’s mommy issues and how they creepily bleed into Feyre’s characterization, but one thing at a time).

If it’s Illyria’s fault, he can’t be mad about his Mother, daughter of a warrior race, offering him up for brutal, dangerous training. It’s the fault of Illyria. He doesn’t have to imagine he was learning those things, fighting in the mud, because it was the only way his mother could pass the legacy, could say, look, this is where I come from and someday you will have the power to make it better for your sister, for everyone.

He LOVED his mother. He wears the sacred tattoos, manifests wings, has Illyrian “brothers”.

But- It’s Illyria’s fault, so Rhys didn’t fail, Rhys is doing his duty by keeping them in line.

Which brings us to the war.

I’m unclear on why only the Night Court knew Hybern was coming, but let’s just accept that.

But it’s all about the Public Face, moving in the shadows, the two Rhysands. So for the months Feyre is wasting away with Tamlin, planning her wedding Rhys...doesn’t warn anyone. Doesn’t whisper to the other High Lords to shore up defenses.

He makes a plan contingent on 1)that creepy deal with Feyre that he can now both justify and doesn’t want to enforce knowing she’s his mate, and 2) long lost magical objects no one knows the location of, and that don’t belong to him.

Rhys got SO used to the All-Knowing Dickbag face, it’s like he started believing he was all knowing. He’s one of seven Lords, but he doesn’t talk to any of them, on the off chance they don’t do exactly as he says. He steals from Tarquin, a young High Lord kind enough to take a chance on him. He tricks Mor. He lies to...everyone?

And then it’s a big deal, a failure on their part, when at the FINAL HOUR AND LAST MOMENT BEFORE ALL OUT WAR, AFTER THE SECOND INVASION HAS ALREADY COMMENCED, when the High Lords don’t jump to trust Rhys.

A step back, a Feyre tangent: Feyre, younger, also deeply traumatized, falls into this hard. Rhys tells her he’s the underdog, and she believes it. He’s SO SO SO powerful he can take the voice of another High Lord, Feyre herself thinks he’s so magical the gap between him and his contemporaries is like that between humans and high fae-

But hey wait, they don’t trust him because he’s been a dick for five hundred years.

But hey wait, they came as their true selves, they don’t trust him while he’s WEARING ILLYRIAN WINGS- IT’S BECAUSE HE’S DIFFERENT-

No, it is not, but Feyre’s POV sort of wants us to think so.

And that’s where everything sort of falls apart.

The act of power has stopped being an act- it’s just their actions now. And they do not know how to stop.

Because they are in control, and they have to go on for the war. They have to keep making decisions, even if they’ve lost the thread, because they want to survive.

But they do survive.

And it turns out, even after that, they can’t put down the masks fused to their faces, because the act is the only thing keeping them together.

So the balls to the wall, We Must have the High Ground Even at Our Own Dinner Parties, The Center MUST Hold shit just keeps going: tearing down Lucien because he chose something that wasn’t their Court. Letting Illyria crumble because they don’t need the army right now. Banishing Nesta because she’ll never bow to authority.

All the weird, incestuous feeling inter IC drama.

But they’re the underdogs! the Heroes! It’s not their fault!

So they spend their time in Velaris, charmingly hanging out like they’re normal people, thinking they’re better because power is wielded on an unimaginable personal scale.

Rhys loves his people! Rhys sacrificed!

Rhys...careened from one war/disaster to the next, and then settled down to play house?

The narrative cannot decide: is Rhys really an underdog, devoted to his people? How about he helps every other city that Amarantha destroyed?

Is Rhys a Normal Guy who just wants to walk on pretty cobblestone and have a cute, happy family? Maybe, there should be a government so he isn’t solely responsible for everything?

Is Rhys the Lord of Darkness Redeemed by LOVE? Cool, let’s have him maybe he honest with Feyre exactly once, OR, at least talk about how him dying made her go off the rails and try to fix that with a bandage that isn’t baby shaped before Feyre’s 22nd birthday.

Canonically, becoming High Lord is a mystical, magical endowment. That then, for the most part, functions as some kind of mashup Monarchy/ Feudal Lordship.

If that’s what it is, why can’t we lean into that? Rhys who does want a normal happy life with Feyre, trapped by the weight of immovable magic destiny.

King Rhys, duty bound to his bloodline and his people, torn between different ways to rule.

Hell, Rhysand who really is a monster, because maybe Faeries are monstrous by human standards, who shows Feyre the beauty that lies beneath the brutality in a magic, surreal world where everyone is terrifying, but even monsters love.

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feysandfeels · 3 years

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Which TS songs remind you of the different couples in SJM’s books???

Boy do I ??

You are a blessed soul for asking me this, and know that I adore you.

There is now a part II to this.

Feysand:

Begin Again: “I've been spending the last eight months Thinking all love ever does Is break and burn, and end But on a Wednesday in a cafe I watched it begin again” Baby Feyre finding that love is not toxic, that love is supportive, that love can be wonderful. “You said you never met one girl who had As many James Taylor records as you But I do” but think of is as “he said he never met a girl who wasn’t afraid of his power, but i do”. Also also “Walked in expecting you'd be late But you got here early and you stand and wave I walk to you” because Feyre’s used to T*mlin’s mediocre ass but Rhys surprised her by being a decent human and treating her with respect, which makes her realize that she was starved for respect and that T*mlin was not giving her what every decent human being should get from the get go from their partner.

Ivy: Feyre slowly falling in love with Rhys, thinking about Rhys in the Spring Court between Night Court visits Also throughout ACOMAF how she battles with her ever growing feelings for the Lord of the Night, while feeling guilty about T*mlin, because they *just broke up*: “Oh, goddamn My pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand Taking mine, but it's been promised to another Oh, I can't Stop you putting roots in my dreamland My house of stone, your ivy grows And now I'm covered in you” and “I wish to know The fatal flaw that makes you long to be Magnificently cursed He's in the room Your opal eyes are all I wish to see He wants what's only yours”.

End game: I can practically see Rhys singing this in the shower thinking about Feyre, when she decided to work with him and him thinking like “YES THIS HAS TO BE A SIGN”. His reputation precedes him and in rumours he’s knee deep, him and Feyre would be a big conversation, he has enemies, he has heard about her and she has heard about him. He thinks “she’s so dope that he might overdose”. She’s been calling his bluff on all his usual tricks so here’s the truth from his red lips!!!!!

Dress: “Even in my worst times, you could see the best in me Flashback to my mistakes My rebounds, my earthquakes Even in my worst lies, you saw the truth in me And I woke up just in time Now I wake up by your side My one and only, my lifeline”. Need I say more? I think not your honor.

Call it what you want: “I said you don’t need to save me, but would you run away with me?” That’s Feyre’s whole arc, I rest my case.

Nessian: the happiness I feel about the fact that these two are together is just enough to make me smile on a Monday

False God - The song literally opens up saying “We were crazy to think Crazy to think that this could work Remember how I said I'd die for you” HELLOOOO?? NESTA THINKING ABOUT THAT SCENE IN ACOWAR?? but also feeling that she’s unworthy of Cassian and that there is no way in hell that he will love her with all that she is.

Don’t Blame Me - The power of this song lies in the I unapologetic- powerful-full on I give myself to you and I will do it over and over again energy it has. And this is the energy that Nesta has for Cassian (even when homegirl really tries to pretend otherwise lol boo you tried). The “through your love I found salvation” religious aspect of Don’t blame me is Nesta, because through Cassian’s love and presence she found the perspective she needed on herself. Also this book was a religious experience for me. Jesus fuck.

Sparks Fly: From Cassian to Nesta, with love. First of all Cassian would be a diehard swiftie (all of the bat boys for that matter, merch a the concert, what will we do if we get invited to the rep room?? fans. Az woud be like the quiet yet “no, speak one ill word of Taylor and that’s your end, she did nothing wrong she was framed and I have evidence”). Second of all “The way you move is like a full on rainstorm And I'm a house of cards You're the kind of reckless that should send me running But I kinda know that I won't get far” That’s him alright, that’s him knowing that Nesta is a force to be reckoned with and he wants nothing nothing but to be in that storm and live within the force of nature that she is. Thirdly “My mind forgets to remind me, your a bad idea You touch me once and it's really something You find I'm even better than you, imagined I would be I'm on my guard for the rest of the world But with you I know its no good And I could wait patiently But I really wish you would”

Elucien: This is an Elucien blog.

Lover - In all honesty wanted to give this song to Feysand, because they are my main otp and this song is the highest of the high from Taylor, but I can’t deny the fact that this song screams Elucien. “With every guitar string scar on my hand” I think is a beautiful parallel for Elain and gardening, “My heart’s been borrowed, and yours has been blue” this speaks of Gr*yson and Jesminda, “I loved you three summers now but I want them all” that’s Lucien speaking ma’am. “Have I known you 20 seconds or 20 years?”, both of them about the bond. “And you'll save all your dirtiest jokes for me and at every table, I'll save you a seat, lover” we all know Lucien has a mind for dirty jokes and sass and Elain would always save him the sit next to her because he is the one who truly saw her and, in his distance, was the presence she needed while she figured it all out. Finally, The fact that the song has very clear wedding tones I think fits the headcanon, that more than a mating ceremony, Elucien would have a wedding, because it feels like something Elain would feel more comfortable with.

Treacherous -“I can't decide if it's a choice Getting swept away I hear the sound of my own voice Asking you to stay”..... mmmmmm is this or isn’t it Elain getting closer to Lucien, but still wondering if it’s the bond or her, yet nonetheless surrendering to the fact that she wants him to stay. “This slope is treacherous This path is reckless This slope is treacherous And I, I, I like it” Elain doesn’t want an easy love, to simple do as the bond suggests she wants something that has twigs and branches and where she needs to question herself and truly ask what she wants out of life and this relationship. Also the softness of the melody juxtaposed with the vulnerability, brings a soft rawness that is Elain.

King of my heart: Neither of them expected to feel like they could love with all the hope and unapologetic free falling feel characteristic of first loves, yet here we are. They rule their kingdom inside the room because they are discovering their feelings for each other away from prying eyes and people that have expectations on how they should work with the mating bond and all that. “Late in the night, the city's asleep Your love is a secret I'm hoping, dreaming, dying to keep Change my priorities The taste of your lips is my idea of luxury” Again, with the love away from everyone, feeling their world shift around what they are starting to feel for one another. “Is the end of all the endings? My broken bones are mending With all these nights we're spending” did we say healing arc through love and support an “not expecting anything to come off this, but I just want to see you well” à la sjm?? I THINK WE DID.

Emorie: I’m working with crumbs here, delicious crumbs that will make a delicious emorie cake, but crumbs nonetheless.. I need more and I need it now.

I think he knows - My girl Emerie crushing hard hard haaaaaaaaard on Mor.

Cruel Summer - “I don't wanna keep secrets just to keep you And I snuck in through the garden gate Every night that summer just to seal my fate (oh) And I screamed for whatever it's worth "I love you, " ain't that the worst thing you ever heard” this is prime PRIME PRIME ANGST, we will get from these two.

Gwynriel: this is an edit because I'm not a hoe for these two (yet...trust me once I see Az heal this is the tag where you will find me) and I did not know which songs might fit them and then when I posted it I was like WAIT WAIT I KNOW.

Gold rush - Gwyn talking herself out of her crush on Az after finding out about the whole necklace and being like “I don’t want a gold rush”.

Daylight - Az is a Taylor hoe first, spymaster second. She just makes him feel things. But in all seriousness “Like daylight It's golden like daylight You gotta step into the daylight and let it go Just let it go, let it goI wanna be defined by the things that I love Not the things I hate Not the things that I'm afraid of, I'm afraid of Not the things that haunt me in the middle of the night I, I just think that You are what you love” this is Az healing and being in better place where he can reflect on how he used to relate to love and romantic relationships, he now understands that love is not black and white but golden. He stepped into this notion of love and through it he found a beautiful relationship with Gwyn, he wants to be defined by the love he feels for her and the love he feels for his family, not by the things that haunted him, not by his mistakes, not by his trauma. He is golden, he is daylight, shadows and all he is daylight.

Az + Elain: As a romantic end game they are not my ship, but I do stand by my pre-acosf position that these two would be really good friends

Out of the woods - Where we stand after acosf I say that it is not far fetched that they might hook up and then realize that it’s not for them and that experience helps them access a new part of their healing: “They lost each other, but they found themselves”. The anxiety that this song mirrors is the anxiety of them knowing something doesn’t quite *fit* right, that they are both in turbulent times emotionally and this relationship is not giving them the peace they thought it would. They are paper airplanes, because they know that it’s not the right call for where they are in their own journeys if they want to heal properly and that neither will get what they truly want from the other one. The monsters who turned out to be trees, they are in the woods in this relationship, they were built to fall apart.. are all images that speak of the dynamic we could see of them, they try it doesn’t work and then after, when they are in better places mentally they will look back and be like “we dodge a bullet there didn’t we”.

Bonus: His necklace hanging around her neck, the image is clear there and so is the commentary.

Az + Mor: formerly known as Moriel, the ship that used to reign my heart

Breath - This song is entirely from Az’s perspective once he and Mor talk about, well, everything. This is not how he had planned it, this is not how he wanted this to go, but “people are people and sometimes it doesn’t work out, but it’s killing me to see you go after all this time” referencing letting go of the romantic feelings he had for her. They were a crutch for him and now he has to face life and the things that torment him about it, without the protection and comfort his crush on her offered him. “And we know it's never simple, Never easy Never a clean break, no one here to save me You're the only thing I know like the back of my hand,” regardless of what you all want to think, they do love and know each other but shift in their dynamic will mean an adjustment for both of them... it’s not a clean break. “Never wanted this, never wanna see you hurt Every little bump in the road I tried to swerve”, also Idc about what you all think, Az never never never wanted to hurt Mor, if he knew his behavior was in someway affecting her he would have done something, and I think from the aftermath of him going after Eris on ACOWAR we can see that... also this might allude to him actually knowing that Mor is a lesbian and he has tried to make sure she feels safe around him and knows that he has her back agains the whole world if need be, regardless of her lack of romantic feelings for him.

Feyl*n: honestly who knew there would be so many songs that would fit these two. Such bops for a crappy dude like T*mlin.

Exile - “I never learned to read your mind (never learned to read my mind) I couldn't turn things around (you never turned things around) 'Cause you never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs)” He never even tried to learn to read her mind, he never turned things around and she gave so so many signs. The way he looks at Rhys like he’s his understudy, but no sugar he’s the principal actor and you got fired.

Getaway car - and I oop. Because that is essentially what they were both to each other. Feyre needed someone to give her security and financial stability, T*mlin needed someone to break the curse: “It was the best of times the worst of crimes”.

Bad blood - LOOOOOL. They used to be mad love and now they have bad blood.

Tell me why - Imma just leave a collection of quotes here that well allude to them through the first act of ACOMAF: “I took a chance, I took a shot And you might think I'm bulletproof but I'm not You took a swing, I took it hard And down here from the ground, I see who you are” Feyre seeing T*mlin for the abusive person that he is, from the ground.. where his behavior put her. Also “I'm sick and tired of your reasons I got no one to believe in You tell me that you want me, then push me around And I need you like a heartbeat But you know you got a mean streak Makes me run for cover when you're around Here's to you and your temper Yes, I remember what you said last night And I know that you see what you're doing to me Tell me why” The if he loved me, why did he do it and the “it’s not a question of if he loved you but how” conversation she has with Rhys.

I could go on and on forever placing all T-Swift songs around acotar characters, but I think this is getting longer than we all anticipated.. or did we? we all know I am not ✨concise✨. Anywho, thanks for sticking around.

Besos!!

BOOOONUUUUUUUUUSSSSSSS:

Obviously, Invisible String is for all my mated/soon to be mated boos, and I think Peace is a song that can apply to both Feysand and Nessian from Rhys’ and Nesta’s perspectives respectively.

#Feysandfeelsasks #Taylor Swift #Sarah J Maas #SJM #ACOTAR #ACOMAF #ACOWAR #ACOSF #Feysand #Nessian #Elucien #Emorie #not to toot my own horn but I think the Daylight one with Gwynriel is amazing #I will pat myself on the back.#Gwynriel #Moriel #and when I tag moriel i mean friendship moriel

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acourtofthought · 1 year

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I really wish his hidden talent was playing an Instrument which is preferable the piano. Now, singer Azriel ain't bad, but I can't imagine a scenario where it isn't so cheesy. Sarah did confirm that we'll get a singing Azriel and Idk how I feel about that.

Perhaps when they are on they way to falling in love, we'll get a scene of gwyn panicking after waking up from a nightmare and Azriel, not knowing what to do (his communiation skill are DEAD) he starts to sing? But I'm not really liking that headcanon 😂 It just needs to be well written and while I don't think Sjm is the best writer to take potentiel into good use, I kind of have a good feeling about her writing singing Azriel.

Or she may not actually write it down at all. Before Acosf she literally confirmed that we'll see more if the other courts but all we got is just a bog visit, human lands, spring court visits and continent visits (only one country anyway). We didn't even get much describtion from these so her world building is clearly amazing but she doesn't explore that at all. I'm also really tired of the NC- Idc about velaris, Illyria and the CON anymore because all we ever get from them is "Grrr Illyria and CON, bad people! Dark horrible place. Oh look, the high lord and high Lady being mean for the entire night! Anyway- look at all these nice shops in velaris!". I'm so curious of how the dawn court is doing since it's more beautiful than the NC (props for Sarah to at least admit NC isn't better at everything), I'd like to see the Vanserra drama party that goes on in the autumn court and surely Eris has been doing some great things for his people behind Beron's back. Count that with the day court, since they're kinda connected. I want to hear from Kallias and Vivianne in the Winter court and how the systems work there. Same with the summer court.

But I'm afraid we might not get any of these at all. I'm afraid Sjm will use the stupid High kind card on Rhys and we'll lose all the uniqueness and any other special thing that each court has to the NC. I'm afraid that Rhys would use the spring court as a dark place like the CON, since he barely does anything for 2/3 of his court that is in desperate need of help. I also find it so stupid from Sarah to think that each high lord would just agree and bow to him. I certainly wouldn't, I'd be so pissed as a ruler of a court having to turn my court in and doing whatever some wannabe darkling ask of me. If rhys isn't even able to take care of 2/3 of his court, he sure as hell isn't able to take care of 7 whole courts and I am very sure he will turn some places dark if they aren't to his liking and the people there aren't obeying him.

Wow, didn't think I would fall away from the main topic but 🤷🏾‍♀️

Seriously, the piano thing is now fixed into my brain and I don't know that I'll ever be able to let go of that one. I never know how much of what SJM says in interviews is to be taken seriously because like you said, there are things that were previously mentioned that have never happened. I remember her talking about wanting to write a novel that dated pre ACOTAR and there haven't really been hints of that. Or, whether something that is mentioned in interviews will happen but in a much more minor way than what we imagine it. As soon as she mentioned Az and singing, the fandom was going wild with theories but maybe it will be in the most insignificant of ways (like Cassian hearing Az singing in the shower once he starts falling in love with Gwyn). Personally, I don't think Rhys will end up has High King. Not only for some of the reasons you mentioned (and I like Rhys but I think the other courts would still be too hesitant to follow him after the last few centuries and especially with the amount of power he has) but because SJM doesn't usually state something point blank and have it happen exactly how she brought it up. Which is why I don't think E/riel will happen. Feyre said "why not make them mates?" in reference to Elain and Az to which Rhys responded that a bond can be rejected. But it's not SJMS style to actually have Elucien reject their bond so E/riel happens after she said that because it would be too specific, it's too "she told us exactly what would happen!" The information regarding a rejected bond is important but I think it's going to end up important for someone else. And I think that's the same thing regarding Rhys being High King. If he becomes High King, it is too obvious because of Amren suggesting he become High King and Cassian thinking he would be a great High King. I think the take aways are the lines that the Cauldron would extend it's benevolence to another and Cassian thinking, "he could think of no other male he'd trust more. No other male who would be a fairer ruler." That seems to be the flashing sign telling us, "THERE IS ANOTHER TRUSTWORTHY CHARACTER WHO'D BE A FAIRER RULER!" It doesn't tell us exactly who it will be, just that someone else will prove to be worthy of the title. I remember SJM saying she purposely left things off the map in SF because there were areas that she wanted to remain a surprise. I'm really hoping that means the next book will give us the chance to explore other parts of their world because I feel the way you do. I think most of us have loved the NC, the IC, and Velaris but with additional books comes the risk of burnout for some readers. Where the constant visits to the Hewn City, to the Illyrian camp, to Velaris and the River House, to them celebrating the same holidays together, feels repetitive. It would be amazing if the next book gave us the opportunity to explore other Courts and other characters (that are not so IC centered) before returning back to them in future books.

#ask and replies #anon ask #acotar series

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gwynrielendgame · 3 years

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Nyx x Tamlin’s daughter part 3

Y’all cannot stop me from writing this series 😭😭I want to write more gwynriel, but the thought of a love triangle has angered me once again, so my hyper fixation has transferred elsewhere.

If you have any suggestion for future fics leave a comment below.

"Do you think mates are as rare as the Fae say? Everyone in my life seems to have a mate, yet lore claims it to be rare." Nyx turned his head from his spot next to Isa in the meadow. They laid right next to each other as they stared up at the sky. Close enough to touch, yet not feeling it necessary in the moment.

"That iz odd that your entire family iz mated." She laughed. "Your family are the only mates I have ever met, so I would say it iz rare for everyone except them." He sighed deeply.

"What troubles you?" Isa turned her head away from the sky to look at Nyx.

"What if I never get a mate?"

"Then you never get a mate."

"Isa, I am being serious right now." He groaned as he lifted himself up onto his elbows, so that he could look at her without the grass getting in the way.

"I am too. It will happen or it will not happen. No point in fretting over it." She shrugged as if it truly did not bother her. Nyx did not understand her.

"You really do not care if you ever find a mate?"

"I do not need a mate to find love or pleasure."

"But what if you find your mate while with someone else?" He felt the need to point out. He could not love someone while his mate was still out there. Nyx thought it selfish to love someone with the knowledge they were not his mate. What would they do once he did find his mate? What would he do?

"Like my father and your mother?" Isa raised an eyebrow at this.

"Well not exactly like that, but yes I suppose." Nyx laid himself back on the grass and looked back up at the sky. Isa turned her head away after a minute as well.

"Well if they were truly my mate, then they would wait for me. And if the person I was with is not my mate, then fate has us ending at some point, no? I would let everything occur naturally I suppose."

"If you were my mom, would you have left Tamlin for my father if he had not been awful?" Nyx had always been curious about Isa's opinion on the matter. She always seemed so spiteful of Feyre that perhaps she had heard a different story than what Nyx knew to be true.

"Yes. I would have found myself unhappy with life as a wife. I was made for so much more than that." She let out a deep sigh. Nyx contemplated her answer. He supposed that to be true. He could not imagine Isa playing house wife to anyone, but especially one that expected her to pop out babies and display herself only when beneficial to them.

"Would you ever marry?" He asked. She seemed quick to offer a marriage proposal to Nyx when they first met, but that had obviously been a joke.

"For love?" She shrugged. "I am far more likely to marry for political power than I am for love. I am strides behind with alliances among the seven high lords. When I take power the Spring Court will be weak simply because I am unknown of. Other courts will test my strength and intelligence."

"That is strategic." He also felt it was sad. She clearly was not a romantic at heart like he was. "I want more from life than power. I want what my parents have. Is that too much to ask for?" Nyx found himself frustrated with the fact that he had not found his mate yet. He had to keep reminding himself that it took his father five hundred years and his grandfather nine hundred years. It might make him mad if he had to wait that long though.

"I shall pray to the spirits about it."

"About what?"

A noise interrupted them before she could respond. Both of them stood quickly to surveil their surroundings. They saw nothing, but moved to put their backs to each other so that they could not be blindsided. Isa pulled her two short swords from their sheaths as Nyx prepared his ax and shield.

"What was that?" He whispered to her. She shushed him as they turned simultaneously with their backs still firmly placed together.

"Let's get out of here." She finally responded back but before he could respond a figured winnowed right in front of each of them and blew a powdery substance onto them. They winnowed away again just as Isa lifted one sword.

"Shit." She muttered. Nyx tried to winnow only to discover that he could not. Fucking faebane he thought. Nyx's hand went slack around his ax, and then a group of six males approached them. They came at them from Isa's side so Nyx turned to face the males. He stumbled a bit. The line of Fae males stopped about twenty paces away. Nyx did not recognize them. It was possible that Isa did, but she did not say otherwise as they stood across from them. Each male was armed with a weapon and a shield.

"I will take the three on the left. You got the other three?" She asked. He did not respond as she ran towards them. He wanted to wait to let them make the first move, but after she started running, the assailants came forward as well.

He seemed caught in a trance, watching Isa fight. One of her swords clashed with the tallest male while she simultaneously swiped at another one of the fighters. The tallest one swung his arm out, almost decapitating Isa, but she bent backward at the last second. She sliced an artery in one of their legs before checking her surroundings. Nyx assumed she was looking for him, but he had not yet moved for some reason. The second of distraction allowed for the tall one to cut her arm. It was so deep that Nyx swore he could see the bone all the way from here. The only acknowledgment of pain from Isa was a grunt, and then she ran her sword right through him. Nyx was jostled from his trance by an approaching fighter. Surprisingly, he walked up to him at a leisurely pace. Isa, once again, glanced back.

"Nyx!" She shouted as the male lifted his weapon. Isa tried to run back towards Nyx, but was tackled to the ground as she started to flee. Right before the male delivered the killing blow, his face started to droop. Nyx stared in horror as his face appeared to be melting off. The assailant went to grab at his face as he stumbled away from Nyx. His screams would haunt Nyx's nightmares for a very long time after this. He looked for Isa again. She was slicing the neck of one of the males on his knees. To his surprise though, her tattoos were glowing. She used witch magic, he realized.

"Move your ass, Nyx." She shouted from where she engaged all three males.

He continued to find himself surprised that they focused all their attention on her. He was not proving to be much of a threat, he supposed. He willed himself to move towards Isa, but something stopped him. He wanted to help his friend, he truly did. Her use of blood magic made things complicated. He did not want to be associated with the mayhem that was bound to be the consequences of it. As she took out her fourth male, the last two winnowed away. He watched her take a deep breathe of relief. Their eyes made contact, but before she could start berating him, the males reappeared right in front of Nyx.

"Fight!" Isa shouted. Nyx assumed his reflexes were worse than he originally thought because he did not move a muscle. The males smiled at each other and then they burst in flames. It horrified Nyx to watch them burn, to hear their pleas and screams. He could do nothing to stop it. He flicked his eyes to Isa as she intently watched the burning men. Her tattoos were glowing still, and she was reciting something. He could not hear her, but watched as her lips moved. After what felt like an eternity, the males were nothing but ash. He could hear their screams echoing in his ears though.

"Vat da fook vaz dat?"

It was the thickest he had ever heard her accent which meant she was spitting mad. He could not necessarily fault her for her anger, but he was in shock. Even in war, he had not quite seen brutality to that extent in a fight. Nyx continued to stare at the body with the face that Isa melted off. His eyes flickered back to her. She was breathing heavily and had a deep cut on her arm that she was now trying to twist around with a ripped piece of cloth from her dress. Her tattoos were no longer glowing, but several new ones appeared on her hands and fingers. They looked similar to her others, but now they were bright red and irritated as if someone had scratched them into her skin instead of tattooing ink. She wiped sweat and dirt away from her forehead and roughly pulled her hair away from her bruised face in a messy updo.

"Are you actually insane?" Isa asked.

She was more composed now as she slipped into strategic mode. She was planning on what to do now since Nyx was obviously going to be of no assistance and they could not winnow for probably a few more hours. He continued to stare at the bodies, thinking of how easy it seemed for her to do this. Even now, she seemed unbothered.

"I mean when Lucien said you were a mediocre fighter, I assumed that meant you vould at least fight. Not just stand there as I did all the work."

She was digging through all their pockets rather roughly. She was looking for any identifying information from their attackers, but it only managed to annoy Nyx. She did not have any respect for the dead if this was how she handled their bodies.

"You melted his face off." Was all he could say. Her head snapped up to glare at him harder than she ever had anyone else. She was upon him in an instant, shoving him by his shoulders.

"To save your unhelpful ass!" She screeched.

"You set these two on fire!"

"Well I apologize that in the heat of battle I did not consider more humane methods of death." She turned to walk away.

"My father was right." He muttered to himself. Isa stopped cold in her tracks, slowly turning around. Her face was void of emotion.

"Say that again." Her voice was deathly calm. It unnerved Nyx after what he had just witnessed.

"You have claimed that witch magic is not malevolent. Clearly, your definition is a bit skewed."

"I make no apologies for how I save the people I love. And you have no right to pass judgement when you just stood there and watched! You vould have let them butcher me, yet I am the immoral one?"

They both recognized what she accidentally admitted but neither of them was willing to call attention to it or address it.

"Why did it have to be like that though? You could have used any method."

"That iz not how it works." She grabbed at her hair, clearly frustrated. "I request the help from the spirits and they oblige. I do not get a choice in the manner of their help. But trust me, it iz not without a price."

"What is the price for this?"

She pursed her lips. She would not tell him what she must give for saving both of their lives.

"You have been waiting to throw this back in my face, no? Waiting for one moment where you could prove your parents were not in the wrong?" Isa was pacing back and forth at this point, but her tattoos had finally stopped glowing.

"Trust me, I never expected something like this from you." Nyx spat at her. He wanted to reel in his anger. However, he found it almost impossible.

"Do not zit on your high horse and pretend your father would not have done the exact same thing for your mother."

"We are not my parents." He reminded her. She tried to compose herself before Nyx could see her reaction. Unfortunately for her, she was not fast enough. Nyx watched her flinch at his vehement response.

"Vell you are certainly right about that. Neither of your parents would have stood and vatched as the other risked their life."

He had no excuse for why he stood there. Normally, he would have fought side by side with her. He had fought in battles before and he thought he had seen all the evils war had to offer. This was a completely different level. While they had been outnumbered, the males were unskilled and untrained. Isa could have held them off alone with no magic. It may have required more effort, but Nyx believed any magic was unnecessary. As much as he wanted to help, for some reason his body refused to move. The faebane the attackers used did not allow for them to winnow away, but Nyx had never heard of it impacting the body physically.

"You could have shape shifted." She laughed almost hysterically at that.

"If you knew what my other form vaz, you vould realize that death by it vould not be lezz brutal."

He shook his head and finally moved from his position. He started scouting the area to make sure there were no more assailants hiding anywhere.

"Oh, zo now you are helpful?" It was full of sarcasm as she rolled her eyes. She plopped herself down on the ground and closed her eyes.

Nyx was not exactly sure why he was so angry. Perhaps it was because he felt embarrassed that she saved both of them while he stood there like a statue. Perhaps he felt lied to like everything she had ever defended was really just a scheme to win over the Night Court. But truly? It had more to do with the fact that if he had aided Isa, she would not have felt the need to use her witch magic.

"Damn-ti your parents to come retrieve us." She demanded after laying down on the grass and covering her eyes with the crook of her arm to block out the sun.

Now why could he not think of that before? Just another thought to make him feel guilty. He almost corrected her enunciation like he normally did, but he stopped himself in the last second.

"Oh and next time, a zimple thank you vould suvice."

***

"What the hell happened?" Tamlin shouted as Feyre and Rhysand winnowed in Isa and Nyx. Isa was looking worse for wear, but since neither of the children were talking, the high lord and lady did not have an answer. Tamlin zeroed in on Isa's hands and the new tattoos that were present.

"Oh Isa," his voice changed and was suddenly much graver than it had been. "What have you done?"

"Vat I had to." She snapped as she dropped herself down on the couch in Tamlin's study. She was exhausted after the fight and just wanted to sleep.

"Well you look fucking fine." Tamlin turned his glare to Nyx from where he stood in front of his desk. "Care to explain why you leave with my daughter in perfect condition, and return her home on the brink of collapse?"

Nyx clenched his jaw. He did not want to say anything in front of Tamlin or his daughter. He wanted to go home and talk to his parents. Though, his parents kept giving him nervous glances, so he was unsure if they would be willing to do that right about now.

"Just leave it." Isa muttered. Her eyes were closed with her good arm thrown over her face. Rhysand scanned Isa's entire body. His eyes rested on her hands like Tamlin's had.

"What did you give? To protect our son?" His voice was soft and his eyes were sad. He must have known more than Nyx about potential consequences of witch magic. Feyre sat next to Isa on the couch to grab her hand. Nyx was confused by his parents change of heart where Isa was concerned. Previously, they had always been antagonistic towards her, but now they were being...soft.

"My first born." She muttered. Feyre sucked in a harsh breath as Tamlin closed his eyes in frustration. Nyx did not know how to feel. She was willing to give up her first child for him? He felt that only proved his point further. What kind of female was willing to give up a future child for a male she barely knew just three months ago? And one that was not even her mate? Nyx furrowed his brow.

"I never asked you to do that." He defended, but he was only met with three pairs of glaring eyes that told him to remain quiet. Isa must have been exhausted though because her response was understanding.

"I know."

Tamlin did not understand, however. He pounded his fist on the desk.

"Isabelle, you are my only offspring. It is your responsibility to continue the family line. There will be no one to succeed after you die, if you do not conceive multiple children. You know how difficult this is for the fae." Something he said ignited a fire in Isa. She immediately sat up from the couch to glare at her father.

"That iz not a fair responsibility to put on me! You could have more children! All you would have to do iz stick it in a different woman everyday until one stuck."

"Isabelle, watch your mouth." He scolded her as though she were a child. Tamlin walked back around the desk and took a seat. Isa took a long, deep breath before speaking again.

"I do not," she paused nervously, looking around. "Think I vant children." She finished. Isa rubbed her hands together in a way that she normally did when she felt anxious. Suddenly, Nyx felt his parents and him should not be here for this conversation. It felt private. Nyx never knew Isa may not want children. They had never really discussed it, but had assumed- as much as Tamlin did, apparently- that she would have at least one to continue the line.

"Oh." Tamlin awkwardly shifted in his chair. He made eye contact with Feyre and tried to motion to her to say some words of comfort. Feyre patted Isa's arm gently.

"You might change your mind once you find your mate?" Feyre offered unhelpfully. Tamlin put her on the spot and she was unsure what words of comfort Isa may be seeking. Those were not it if her reaction was anything to go by. She huffed loudly.

"Does not matter now, no? I cannot have children without sacrificing the first one which I vill not do. Besides, I am no mare meant for breeding. I vas meant for something more than being stuck at home caring for and nurturing a child."

"That is hardly a fair assessment of motherhood Isa." Feyre shook her head as she said this. "You can still do great things and be a mother."

"Are you to tell me that you took trips to the Court of nightmares to handle izzues while Rhysand stayed home and breastfed Nyx?" Isa raised her eyebrows at his mother. "That you vere able train amongst Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel while pregnant? Vould you have ever earned the title 'cursebreaker' if you had been a mother at the time?"

"Motherhood is not without challenge." Feyre once again defended.

"And that is what I speak of. I do not want challenge. I have too many obstacles to overcome as it is. I do not want to add the obligation of a child to that." Isa pulled at her hair. Nyx felt it best that he stay quiet. There were too many emotions flying as it was, no need to add fuel to the fire.

"Enough." Tamlin declared. "Isa, you are right. I should never have put that responsibility on you. I could just as easily have another child."

Isa let out a breathe in relief. Nyx could see that she feared disappointing her father. He wondered if she would have had multiple children if Tamlin had insisted on it. Luckily for Isa, Tamlin seemed to have changed his ways from when his mother and him were together.

"I think it is best if you were to leave." Tamlin suggested as he stared at Nyx's parents. "I need to check on Isa's wounds and continue this conversation...privately." Feyre nodded before walking over to where Rhysand stood.

"Thank you again, Isa." Rhys murmured before grabbing both wife and son and winnowing away.

"Thank fuck." Is all Isa managed to say.

#nyx acotar #tamlins daughter #tamlin #rhysand #feyre archeron #acotar

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arctic-comet · 3 years

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Osblaineweek2021, Day 2: Prose

I love book quotes. Looking at quotes is one of my favorite ways to to inspire myself to write more fic.

Here’s a small collection of book quotes (and recs!) of where I’ve “found” June and Nick.

This post contains spoilers for the following books/series:

- Lover Mine by JR Ward

- The Wrath and The Dawn duology by Renée Ahdieh

- A Court of Thorns and Roses series by Sarah J. Maas

Lover Mine by J.R. Ward

Summary:

John Matthew has come a long way since he was found living among humans, his vampire nature unknown to himself and to those around him. After he was taken in by the Brotherhood, no one could guess what his true history was- or his true identity. Indeed, the fallen Brother Darius has returned, but with a different face and a very different destiny. As a vicious personal vendetta takes John into the heart of the war, he will need to call up on both who he is now and who he once was in order to face off against evil incarnate. Xhex, a symphath assassin, has long steeled herself against the attraction between her and John Matthew. Having already lost one lover to madness, she will not allow the male of worth to fall prey to the darkness of her twisted life. When fate intervenes, however, the two discover that love, like destiny, is inevitable between soul mates.

It's basically a paranormal love story between two warriors. He's really young (although he's actually a reincarnation of a very old vampire warrior, but he doesn't know that), and she's like 300 years older than him. In this book, she's been raped and abused by a guy who also used to bully him. She escapes, but he saves her life. She's hungry for revenge and wants to die after achieving that goal, but of course eventually changes her mind. In the end he actually serves her rapist to her on a silver platter so that she can kill him (sound like anyone we know?). He literally holds the guy down while she kills him.

They're my ultimate favorite ship in this series, and IMO their relationship eventually develops into one of the strongest ones. This series is a bit of a hit-or-miss for most people, because the language and the writing style are pretty ridiculous in all seriousness. If you decide to read this, I recommend starting the series from the beginning because John and Xhex meet for the first time several books before this one, LOL.

Here are some of the quotes that make me think of Nick and June:

“Besides, the story of the two of them was written in the language of collision; they were ever crashing into each other and ricocheting away—only to find themselves pulled back into another impact.” ― J.R. Ward, Lover Mine

“As his ears rang and his heart broke for her, he stayed strong against the gale force she let loose. After all, there was a reason why here and hear were seperated by so little and sounded one like the other. Bearing witness to her, he heard her and was there for her because that was all you could do during a fall apart. But God, it pained him to see how she suffered.” ― J.R. Ward, Lover Mine

“...the only thing that had tethered her to the earth had been him and it was strange, but she felt welded to him on some core level now. He had seen her at her absolute worst, at her weakest and most insane, and he hadn't looked away. He hadn't judged and he hadn't been burned. It was as if in the heat of her meltdown they had melted together. This was more than emotion. It was a matter of soul.” ― J.R. Ward, Lover Mine

The Wrath and the Dawn duology by Renée Ahdieh

Summary:

One Life to One Dawn. In a land ruled by a murderous boy-king, each dawn brings heartache to a new family. Khalid, the eighteen-year-old Caliph of Khorasan, is a monster. Each night he takes a new bride only to have a silk cord wrapped around her throat come morning. When sixteen-year-old Shahrzad's dearest friend falls victim to Khalid, Shahrzad vows vengeance and volunteers to be his next bride. Shahrzad is determined not only to stay alive, but to end the caliph's reign of terror once and for all. Night after night, Shahrzad beguiles Khalid, weaving stories that enchant, ensuring her survival, though she knows each dawn could be her last. But something she never expected begins to happen: Khalid is nothing like what she'd imagined him to be. This monster is a boy with a tormented heart. Incredibly, Shahrzad finds herself falling in love. How is this possible? It's an unforgivable betrayal. Still, Shahrzad has come to understand all is not as it seems in this palace of marble and stone. She resolves to uncover whatever secrets lurk and, despite her love, be ready to take Khalid's life as retribution for the many lives he's stolen. Can their love survive this world of stories and secrets?

This is a young adult fantasy romance, and basically, Khalid is a lot like Nick. He’s made mistakes that he needs to own, but at the same time he’s forced to commit atrocities he doesn’t want to do. He hates himself and doesn’t believe himself to be worthy of love, and yet he falls in love with Shazi. He's viewed as the villain of the story by everyone aside from Shazi and a few other characters until almost the end of the 2nd book.

“I love you, a thousand times over. And I will never apologize for it.”

―Renee Ahdieh, The Wrath and the Dawn

“It’s a fitting punishment for a monster. to want something so much—to hold it in your arms — and know beyond a doubt you will never deserve it.”

― Renee Ahdieh, The Wrath and the Dawn

“When I was a boy, my mother would tell me that one of the best things in life is the knowledge that our story isn't over yet. Our story may have come to a close, but your story is still yet to be told.

Make it a story worthy of you”

― Renee Ahdieh, The Wrath and the Dawn

“In that moment of perfect balance, she understood. This peace? These worries silenced without effort? It was because they were two parts of a whole. He did not belong to her. And she did not belong to him. It was never about belonging to someone. It was about belonging together.”

― Renee Ahdieh, The Rose & the Dagger

“A boy who'd thrived in the shadows.

Now he had to live in the light.

To live . . . fiercely.

To fight for every breath.”

― Renee Ahdieh, The Rose & the Dagger

A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maas

Summaries:

Book 1

Feyre's survival rests upon her ability to hunt and kill – the forest where she lives is a cold, bleak place in the long winter months. So when she spots a deer in the forest being pursued by a wolf, she cannot resist fighting it for the flesh. But to do so, she must kill the predator and killing something so precious comes at a price ... Dragged to a magical kingdom for the murder of a faerie, Feyre discovers that her captor, his face obscured by a jewelled mask, is hiding far more than his piercing green eyes would suggest. Feyre's presence at the court is closely guarded, and as she begins to learn why, her feelings for him turn from hostility to passion and the faerie lands become an even more dangerous place. Feyre must fight to break an ancient curse, or she will lose him forever.

Book 2

Feyre survived Amarantha's clutches to return to the Spring Court—but at a steep cost. Though she now has the powers of the High Fae, her heart remains human, and it can't forget the terrible deeds she performed to save Tamlin's people. Nor has Feyre forgotten her bargain with Rhysand, High Lord of the feared Night Court. As Feyre navigates its dark web of politics, passion, and dazzling power, a greater evil looms—and she might be key to stopping it. But only if she can harness her harrowing gifts, heal her fractured soul, and decide how she wishes to shape her future—and the future of a world cleaved in two. With more than a million copies sold of her beloved Throne of Glass series, Sarah J. Maas's masterful storytelling brings this second book in her seductive and action-packed series to new heights.

Fantasy romance with explicit sex scenes, and book 2 is a lot better than book 1. Our main character Feyre falls for a really boring fae guy, but also meets the hottest guy she’s ever known. The first guy of course isn't the real love interest (this is a twist this author loves to do). They all end up as prisoners, and the 2nd guy saves her life when the 1st one is totally useless. He also makes her hate him as he does it because he has to. After getting out, she tries to make her old relationship work, but it doesn’t, and guess who swoops in?

I do see some Nick in Rhysand (in addition to his role in the love triangle). They’re both traumatized and prefer to keep a lot of their feelings to themselves. I also see some of the same selflessness in both of them. Rhysand wants Feyre to choose him because she loves him, but he’s willing to accept that she may not, and doesn’t tell her that they’re pretty much destined to be together (it’s a supernatural thing, and he will suffer a lot if she decides she doesn’t want him).

“Everything I love has always had a tendency to be taken from me.”

―Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Thorns and Roses

“It took me a long while to realize that Rhysand, whether he knew it or not, had effectively kept me from shattering completely.”

― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Thorns and Roses

“Regardless of his motives or his methods, Rhysand was keeping me alive. And had done so even before I set foot Under the Mountain.”

― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Thorns and Roses

“Because," he went on, his eyes locked with mine, "I didn't want you to fight alone. Or die alone."

― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Thorns and Roses

“He thinks he'll be remembered as the villain in the story. But I forgot to tell him that the villain is usually the person who locks up the maiden and throws away the key. He was the one who let me out.”

― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Mist and Fury

“And I wondered if love was too weak a word for what he felt, what he’d done for me. For what I felt for him.”

― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Mist and Fury

“I was his and he was mine, and we were the beginning and middle and end. We were a song that had been sung from the very first ember of light in the world.”

― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Mist and Fury

#osblaineweek2021 #osblaine #the handmaid’s tale #nick x june

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houseofhurricane · 3 years

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

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

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

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

-- T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They have their own power to shield them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Afterwards, her hands are covered in blood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which one are you, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Feyre has barely learned her powers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the world is full of air she cannot breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#vassien #vassien is goals #band of exiles #lucien vanserra #queen vassa #missing moments #mutual snark #mutual pining

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