#Feyre is Prythian's saviour

[highlord-rizzand]

Feyre is a good painter. She has a studio where she teaches others how to paint.

She painted in a magical cabin which can clean itself, so if the cabin didn't like the painting it would have cleaned itself. Also people keep forgetting the fact that Mor also painted with Feyre. So the ic is not mad at her for painting because they know what it means to her, how her painting signifies that she is overcoming her trauma. Besides Rhys would give her a hundred more cabins for her to paint

[certifiedfantasyreader]

Cassian: I saved Feyre and Lucien

Elain: I saved Nesta and Cass

Azriel: I saved Mor and Elain

Nesta: I saved Feyre and Nyx

Feyre:

[tsunami-of-tears]

But Daddy I Love Her

Mor x Vanserra!Reader (sapphic)

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

Wordcount: 4.4K

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

Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To describe her as breathtaking would be an understatement. 

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

The Morrigan.

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

You’d have to go to her. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh no.

Oh no no no. 

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

Your mate. 

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

Not her, it can’t be her.

Not here, with so many people watching. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

Rhysand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“With me,” Mor says quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

Eris

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” You say. 

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

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

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

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

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

————

Eris

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

Reader

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

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

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

“Just Mor if you like, can we talk?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head. 

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

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

You stand, moving to sit closer to Mor.

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

————

You’re convinced your brother is a genius. 

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, Mother.

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

Feyre smiles warmly, her eyes twinkle with anticipation. 

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

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

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

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

[litnerdwrites]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[elrxiel]

a fanon Gwyn is a phenomenon that should be studied

because how can you have a canon Gwyn, a completely secondary character whose main purpose is to be Nesta's friend and you somehow get to make her to be another starborn, heir to the dusk court & Feyre's equal in power apparently since some also believe she will be the high lady of said court, Azriel's mate, someone who will wield Gwydion / use the troves (especially harp), Rhys' future bestie and his son's favourite auntie, night court spy, saviour of the entire Prythian & Mother only knows what more

and what's phenomenal about it is that she is literally surrounded by characters who have way more interesting personalities, stories & power to be explored - not to mention, other characters that will more likely be who some readers want fanon Gwyn to be - that are obviously linked to the plot way better than she is - and yet so many people believe that she is the next chosen one

... while actively neglecting other female characters, may I add (coughforexampleEmeriecough)

there is nothing in canon Gwyn that could carry the next book - there is nothing about her that could move the plot forward

canon Gwyn's story is complete

[lilith-13x]

it’s so wild that none of the other worlds would exist without feyre. she’s the it girl fr

if she hadn’t have freed prythian and rhys specifically from under the mountain, they wouldn’t have been there to slow aelin when she’s falling through worlds during kingdom of ash

and bryce would’ve never had access to the dead trove to save lunathion without feyre’s story (again same reason of freeing prythian and also rhys)

like feyre is the saviour of multiple worlds and she doesn’t even know it. i love her sm

[high-queen-feyre]

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

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

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

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

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

[soopsiesdaisies]

i mean, technically (y)our marriage is saved - 7

Chapter summary:

More frustration happens. Difficult times are ahead.

Read on AO3 + Tumblr Chapters Overview

General warnings: Tamlin, Rhys, 7.6k

~*~

The burns on the table were nothing new, of course. Those weren’t the deepest source of my horror. I’d done it before during moments of anger, as if the sheer heat of the emotion stoked the fire Beron had unwittingly given me; my silk slipper, the table in the Night Court, the bent fork that sat smoking on a tablecloth. I knew of it already.

But the mind-magic—and the air shield, too. That was new. 

I thought about it as Alis tended to me, combed the tangles out of my hair, braided it neatly for the night, helped me climb into a nightshirt. The movements helped me remain calm as I reasoned with myself about what, exactly, had happened: though I’d initially hoped only Beron Vanserra had given me more than he meant to give me, it was clear that more High Lords were victim to whatever higher power had taken a scoop of their magical recesses. The air shield I’d created out of fright and a need to protect myself—that had to be from a High Lord who’d mastered air magic. And the deamati powers came, of course, from Rhys; coincidentally one of the two High Lords who would gladly give me more than I required, if only to help me cling to life. 

And I’d managed to perform it, climb into someone’s mind, because I wanted Lucien to do what I wanted him to do. 

Fire, wind, control. Anger, fear, and willpower. 

What else was I capable of doing?

“Insatiable hunger is the curse of the water-wraiths,” Alis said, as she took out oils and creams for my face. It appeared she’d decided on the skincare after spotting me cringe at my reflection—the gauntness, paleness, bloodlessness of my face. The purple smudges below my eyes that seemed permanent now. “The jewels you gave her—they won’t last her the week.”

My jaw jutted out and I said nothing. Alis smiled, handed me the oil so I could cleanse my face. 

“But she’ll never forget what you did for her, not for the rest of her life,” she added. “She will be in your debt until she returns it, no matter what you told her.” Alis smiled once more and her long, spindly fingers reached under my chin, tilting my face up to meet hers. “Too many faeries have experienced hunger these past fifty years. Word of your actions and kindness will spread; I know so.”

And was that, perhaps, the crux of it? My kindness? Feyre Cursebreaker, the saviour of Prythian—Feyre Cursebreaker, who’d been human once, who’d been tortured by the fae, offering an insatiable fearie the chance to repay her debt, free of charge? 

As I laid in bed that night, wide-awake and thinking, some small, firm part of me said yes. I couldn’t pinpoint where in my body it hid, where it’d nestled in my bones… the self-righteousness that often teamed up with my outrage, my annoyance, my memories of being a girl stuck in a place of despondency. 

Perhaps I deserved the droplets of the High Lords’ magic after all I’d done for Prythian. Perhaps I deserved it more than the leaders who looked down upon their subjects and let them starve. 

Perhaps I was, indeed, no-one’s subject. 

I’d been musing on my powers and the right I had to them for a handful of hours, tucked in bed, when the sliver of light that always emerged from under my door was interrupted by twin shadows. The floorboards creaked as the person halted, and I watched apathetically as the person — Tamlin, I knew, I could feel him — deliberated about going inside. 

He knocked. And I did not do anything, did not move, or breathe too loud, or throw back the covers to slip out of bed to open the door for him. 

It took many silent breaths, many blinks, before he turned and trudged off to his own, or our, room. I couldn’t help but feel relieved that the confrontation was put off for at least another day; I was far too high-strung to have a reasonable and calm conversation.

I didn’t sleep. Not really—I experienced moments in which my blinks felt just as brief as others, but the shifting shadows cast by the night sky would tell me differently. My rest was restless and exhausting, but at least I did not fall into night terrors or wake needing the puke up bile. And at last, when dawn had come and Alis entered my room, I didn’t even feel the groggy sluggishness of a sleepless night. 

“Lord Tamlin wishes for you to go to his office after you’re dressed,” Alis whispered, though her voice rose in volume upon seeing me fully awake. “Shall I run the bath for you?” 

“Yes,” I replied, “a quick one,” and then I said, annoyance lacing my tone, “before breakfast?” 

“He seemed agitated,” Alis said evenly, which told me he was seconds away from snarling and pacing. “I believe he wishes to resolve your spat as soon as possible.” 

Spat, she said. I bit back a scoff and rose, waiting for Alis to draw the bath before I washed myself swiftly. After she asked which dress I’d like, I replied I’d rather be wearing trousers and a tunic. 

“I’m rather done with dresses for the time being,” I explained, when she looked at me as if I’d grown a second head. “And besides, at this point it’s a gamble on whether I’ll even become the Lady of Spring.”

If Alis was shocked by my declaration, she didn’t show it: she did little more than incline her head before fetching the clothes I requested. After washing I dressed swiftly, asked she did nothing more than braid my damp hair, and was out and walking towards the study less than fifteen minutes later. 

The study had been rebuilt, debris swept up and windows replaced. There was a new table with a map, a new desk, and Tamlin’s desk chair had been replaced as well. Everything looked the exact same as it always had; it was as if nothing had occurred. 

Tamlin sat on his desk, long legs just barely dangling. A flat, sleek, wooden box laid in his lap and he was fiddling with the clasp, a clear tell of nervousness. 

“Hello,” I said, stalking into the room and stopping opposite him with my arms crossed. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” he croaked, and I saw him observe me, eyes flitting over my tired face. He was putting no effort into masking his true feelings; I did not either. “Have you… have you slept?” 

“A bit,” I said honestly. “Not much. But that’s normal.” 

“Right,” he said. “Right, I—me as well.”

Something in me cracked. Yes, of course—Tamlin too suffered from the nightmares, the sleepless nights. He was so unbelievably worried and anxious all the time. It wasn’t a wonder that his fuse was so short. 

“Why’d you call me in here, Tamlin?” I asked eventually, keeping my voice gentle and timid. He looked caught, eyes large and round, and I attempted a smile—but my mouth wouldn’t even twitch. “We haven’t even eaten yet, you know. Are you going on a diet?” 

He huffed out a laugh, some of the tension slipping from him. “No, no—I just thought this would be more prudent.” 

I remained quiet. He fiddled once more with the clasp of the box, then slid off his desk and stood straight. 

“I’d like to apologise,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have—lost my temper again. I shouldn’t have said what I did to you and Lucien. You—”

“I was right,” I murmured. 

Tamlin twitched. “Perhaps, yes. I was… I wanted things to go back to normal. How they used to be. Adamant to get it, I believe, and—” 

He took a breath and extended his hands, holding the box up to me. A peace-offering, perhaps. Or a placating gift. So I would be too thankful to be angry with him. 

“For you,” he said, and I took it from him, fiddled with the brass clasp like he had. “Please, open it.” 

I wondered briefly what it could be. Jewels, perhaps, or a diadem—if it was that, I wouldn’t speak to him for the rest of the month. 

But I opened it. And I saw little glass bottles of paint, labelled and sorted by colour; charcoal, of all sizes; sheets of thick, rough paper; and brushes. High-quality brushes. I slid my hand beneath the box to balance it and used my other to stroke the bristles: soft yet firm. 

It’s worse, I thought, tears pricking my eyes, than a diadem. 

The red paint was so bright, so crimson, that my throat began to close. The blue was the exact same shade as the fearie female I’d murdered. 

“You enjoy painting,” Tamlin said. “I thought—I thought that perhaps we would be nice for you to have a lighter set. Travel size. So you’re not dragging the bags around the grounds like you always do.”

I’d doodled, when I was distracted enough—simplistic mountains and birds and that horrible blob-like little drawing of Rhys that I wished to bully him with. Colourless. Just black ink on paper. 

I took a breath. Tried to smile again. It wouldn’t come. 

“You don’t like it,” he whispered. 

My gaze snapped up. His face was blank—so blank, nothing in his eyes, face emotionless and expressionless and nothing. 

“It’s wonderful,” I said, because it was. Because the thought behind it was. “It really is.”

“But you don’t like it,” he said. “It’s wonderful, but you don’t want it. I just—I thought, if you started painting again…”

He didn’t finish his train of thought. 

“Do the patrols, the paperwork, the leading—does that help you?” 

Tamlin looked away, jaw clenching, the first crack in the expressionless mask he’d donned. “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you.” 

“If I paint,” I said quickly, voice hardening, “let’s say that if I decided to pick it up again. Would I be able to paint where I wish? Or would I be accompanied by an escort?”

He remained silent. A no, and a yes. 

Fire flared within me, combined with that sudden apathy I’d been feeling around him lately. And there, intertwined with the quick-paced dance of anger and indifference, sparked something dark and menacing. 

“I can’t live like that, Tamlin,” I said. “The constant company of sentries, the suffocating keeping, I—I can’t breathe sometimes, when I’m here. I need to breathe, Tamlin, and I can’t just ignore the guards stationed around me day and night, not when their oppressive presence squeezes my damn throat shut!” 

He rumbled—or growled, deep inside his chest. It only served to infuriate me more, and that dark and menacing nightshade flower bloomed. 

I wanted to hurt him. 

He didn’t get it. He just didn’t get it—either was incapable of it, or simply didn’t wish to even try. The pressure, the suffocation… I’d been granted a kind of freedom that was nothing more than a large cage. An enclosure that would’ve satisfied me for only a short time, so long I was happy. And I wasn’t. 

“I am safe,” I continued. “I’m safe here, according to you. You said so yourself—no war will come. There is no need to guard me like a precious stone people wish to steal—”

“You got stolen,” he snarled then, and I recoiled at the force of it. “You did! Rhysand grabbed you, and saving you was entirely impossible because of the bargain you made!” 

“I made it because I was going to die of infection,” I whispered.

“I know, I know,” he bellowed. “You had to—I know you did, but he’s allowed to take you now, isn’t he? In a few weeks,” he spat, “he’ll arrive again, and search for you, and find you—and, and that’s the danger, Feyre!” 

His chest was heaving, and he was obviously fighting to reel in the animal—the very thing that seemed to lurk below the surface of most fae, but was so much closer for him because of his very nature, his shapeshifting magic. And I stood there, watched, as his hands clenched and relaxed repetitively, as he breathed through the urge of descending his fangs. 

“Do you know,” I heard myself ask, “why Rhys took me away when he did?” 

Tamlin gripped at his hair. 

“He got me, grabbed me then at that moment, because the rose petals scattered along the aisle,” I said, “were the colour and pattern of blood spatter. And I panicked.”

I wasn’t sure why I admitted it, why I told him now. Perhaps I should’ve earlier, before he gave me a gift I had no use for, that I couldn’t use, not now and maybe not ever; before he went on and on about my supposed safety that he couldn’t offer the way he wished, though I was safe, though everything pointed at me being safe in his territory.

“I panicked, and he heard. I was about to say no,” I continued, and Tamlin began to shake his head, “and he heard, so he got me. Saved me, you, the embarrassment and the hurt. Because the rose petals sent me spiralling into a bone-deep fear.”

Tamlin looked gutted. Gutted, then angry again, then gutted once more—both, simultaneously. His hands squeezed into fists and the weight of his breathing worsened, increased; so much so that for a second, I thought he was hyperventilating. 

“He took you away from me,” he whispered, trembling with emotion. 

My next words slipped out before I could stop them. “He made me feel safe.”

And that, I think, was the last straw for him. It didn’t burst out of him in a wave of destructive power, though it could’ve, as I was already bracing myself for it. No, it only appeared to move inwards. He crumpled to his knees, roared, pained and confused and furious—and I walked away. 

By the sound of the ensuing explosion of anger, every piece of furniture in the study would have to be replaced once more. 

^^

The next weeks were spent walking on eggshells. The other inhabitants around Tamlin, around me—and us, around each other. 

He wished to reach out. I could see it, noticed it in everything, in the way he stared at me from the other side of the dining table and how he halted in front of my bedroom door each night, as though he considered crawling into my bed and showing me he loved me through the only way he knew how. 

I didn’t want sex, however. I felt no urge to touch him or let him close. My nightmares continued and each night I woke, sweating and shaking, hurling into the toilet. Some part of me wanted him to see it, wanted to know whether he’d rise and hold me through the shaking, the tears, the sickening roll of my empty stomach—or if he’d ignore like he had before, thinking that I required a kind of space he didn’t know how to give. 

It was fine. Everything was fine. Soon, Tamlin disappeared during the day; patrolling, fighting off intruders and danger, visiting towns and communities to check whether everything was alright. I knew he rarely slept a full night and often, after I’d spat bile into the toilet bowl and cracked open my window to calm myself with cool night air, I’d catch flashes of a golden beast strolling along the perimeter. 

He was terrified. And then my own worry rose, because I understood his fear—understood it ardently, wholly. He was a protector and I had been one too. I thought I still was. I knew he could only calm his anxiety and terror by doing what he thought he needed to do. 

I got him. But that didn’t mean I’d forgiven him. That didn’t mean that I could stand it. 

I yet again spent my days in the library, practising my reading and writing, strengthening my wall of adamant, trying to see if I could summon my magic outside of situations of intense emotion. I couldn’t, not really—though I thought I had been able to heat my fingers a bit more than they naturally were. 

Then again, the melted wax may as well have been because of extended exposure to my natural body heat. I wasn’t sure. 

I spoke little those days, and sometimes not at all—not even to Alis, and especially not to Lucien. He’d attempted once, during my days of silence: sat down opposite me in the library and watched me write. 

“He’s just scared,” he said. “He’s scared for you. Please, Feyre, be patient with him.” 

I didn’t reply. I was being patient—I hadn’t left the territory yet, after all. I was being patient, and I was being lenient. All I needed — all I wanted — was for Tamlin to approach me and stay calm whenever I pushed back, whenever I called his logic into question. That was all. A conversation he began and didn’t allow to spiral. I didn’t even need an apology. 

“I know you’re angry,” Lucien continued, “but he—he means well. You know that, right?” 

I did know that. But ‘meaning well’ did not exempt anyone from actual consequences. I’d meant well, when I went Under the Mountain to save Prythian; I’d still killed innocent faeries. 

Lucien gave up after minutes of silence from my side and a variety of attempts at starting up a conversation from his. And I continued to write and read, letters becoming smoother with every word; continued to build and drop my mental shield, stronger and quicker by the hour. 

Two weeks after the Tithe, Tamlin was seated at the dinner table before I was. It surprised me; he’d usually rushed in last minute, ate whilst staring at me in silence, and then left again. But he was early this time, lifting a goblet of wine to his mouth. 

“Feyre,” he said, “please, sit.”

I sat, apprehensive but relieved. He’d reached out again. This was good—this was potential progress. 

“I’m…” he began, and he swallowed. “I’ll be here all day tomorrow. I thought we could maybe…”

He paused again, jaw working, looking altogether quite nervous. The anticipation that filled me, the hope, was more than enough for me to soften further. I leaned forward. 

“Yes…?” I urged.

Tamlin took a deep breath, and said, stiff and hopeful: “We could spend the day together. Maybe a picnic on the grounds?” 

I blinked. My heart was racing—I felt jittery, fluttery. Excitement. 

“Yes,” I rushed out. “Yes, I’d like that very much.” 

Tamlin smiled at me, relief crystal clear. “That’s… good,” he said, taking a large swallow of his wine. “I’m—I look forward to it. To having a picnic with you.” 

My mouth twitched and I gazed at him fondly. There he was: my Tamlin, awkward and sweet and hesitant, careful and desperate not to scare me off. Someone so bad at human interaction it was hard to not find him endearing. 

“I do too,” I said. “It sounds delightful, Tamlin.”

He smiled at me once more and I dipped my chin, feeling almost happy. This—this was progress. It was potential. He’d calmed, he reached out, he wanted to try for me: an entire day of just us two, loving each other like we were supposed to be doing in these weeks between the terms of the bargain. 

And perhaps—perhaps, when I spoke my mind this time, he’d listen to me without growing irate. He’d consider my words, my request. 

Perhaps all would be okay.

But perhaps I’d been too rash in feeling so hopeful, because I woke the next day to not one, not two, but three loud male voices, each familiar in varying degrees, with an added cacophony of frightened, hissing murmurs. 

It had been three weeks. Our time was up. 

I laid in bed for a few more moments, attempting to parse through the emotion that flooded me. Frustration, yes, and dread—Tamlin and I were on the verge of reconciling, and now I’d leave before we could, likely setting us back a few more steps again. Rhys’ timing was so unbelievably inconvenient and I wished he’d waited until the evening, or tomorrow morning, or had at least sent a warning so that I had ample time to prepare myself. 

But he hadn’t, of course, because he was Rhys, and he was the most self-centred male I’d ever met. He enjoyed the havoc and chaos he was causing right now, I knew it for a fact. 

And still, despite my annoyance and displeasure, I noted that a not too small part of me looked forward to another week in the Night Court. A week, I mused, and I almost felt gleeful at the thought—a week without throwing up. 

I rose and decided against bathing, rummaging through the armoire for trousers, boots, and a tunic. I could come out in my nightshirt, if only to show Rhys that his timing was dreadful, but I knew that it would only give him more fodder to be annoying. So I dressed, slipped into underwear and outerwear, tied my boots tight. My hair I left messy and braided as I didn’t feel like rebraiding it. It looked like a bird’s nest, but at least it’d tell Rhys that he couldn’t have come at a shittier time. 

The hall was flooded with visibly nervous sentries who didn’t know what to do; servants flitted about, melted into shadows and walls, jittery with fear. And as I walked to the top of the great staircase and looked down, I saw the High Lord of the Night Court standing smugly, arrogantly, in the middle of the chaos. 

Tamlin was snarling, elongated teeth snapping uselessly in the air around Rhys. Lucien stood a little to the left of the two, hand on his weapons. 

“I told you already, Rhysand,” Tamlin bellowed, loud enough that the windows shook, “leave!” 

“And I told you that only my enemies call my Rhysand,” Rhys replied pleasantly, flashing Tamlin a grin. “But don’t worry, I’ll be out of your golden locks soon.” 

Tamlin’s head reared back, nostrils flared with his loud, violent exhales. “Then go.”

“I said soon,” Rhys said, “not immediately. I’m not leaving without a souvenir.” 

I was said souvenir, of course. Anyone would know that. And Tamlin did too, as he snarled again and took a handful of steps closer, growling all the while. 

Bristling yet worried about a more physical altercation, I hurried down the massive marble stairs. 

“No,” Tamlin said. “No—no, you’re not. You’ll leave empty handed. You’re not taking her from me again.”

Rhys clicked his tongue, one eyebrow raised. “It’s only for a week.” 

“You will not…!” Tamlin started, roaring, but I saw what he possibly didn’t see in his rage: Rhys’ body tensing, his eyes narrowing, and his top lip only beginning to curl back.

I was quite certain that Rhysand was more than capable of obliterating Tamlin where he stood. I was not certain about whether he would or wouldn’t. So I slipped through the mass of sentries and servants, heart racing, and barrelled into Rhys’ side. 

“Could you have come any earlier?” 

Rhys’ head tilted down so he could take a good look at me. A vaguely pleased and surprised expression slid over his face; he smiled, dipped his chin. 

“Excited to see me, are you?” 

“Your wild imagination truly knows no bounds,” I said, stepping back so I was no longer touching him. Just my hands against his arm was enough for Tamlin to shake with fury and alarm. “I had plans for today, you know. It would have been better if you didn’t come until after dinner.” 

Tamlin’s growling kicked up a notch and Lucien whispered an audible, obvious prayer to the Cauldron. I didn’t care if the banter was a stupid decision; I’d do anything to distract him from entertaining the option of turning the Spring Court to dust. 

I stood awkwardly as Rhys’ eyes slid over my form, observing. This time, his lip did curl back in full: the grin he offered me looked more like a silent snarl. 

“If I had, it appears I should’ve waited indefinitely,” he spoke quietly, though his tone belied his anger and disgust. “Do they even feed you?” 

“They do, if you must know. My appetite is simply rather low,” I replied, before Tamlin could roar and charge. I knew what I looked like: gaunt, my tunic hanging off me like a potato sack, my collarbones jutting out like knives. “There’s plenty offered to me.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Rhys said, “but you look like utter shit.” 

“Well fuck you too,” I retorted sharply, spotting some of the tension in Rhysand’s form fall away. “You look—”

I halted. He actually looked fantastic, the prick; full of colour and healthy muscle, sturdy and strong. It was appalling as much as it was appealing and I hated every bit of it. 

“Yes?” he crooned, leaning closer. “How do I look, Feyre darling?”

My mouth thinned. “Let’s just go.” 

Delighted and smug, Rhys extended his arm for me to take. 

Before I could grasp it, however, Tamlin’s own arm shot out and he grabbed my wrist tightly. I flinched.

“No,” he said firmly. “No, Feyre, you don’t need—”

“The bargain’s terms are clear,” Rhys interrupted. “One week a month in my Court, no exceptions, and the three weeks are up.”

“Shut up!” Tamlin bellowed, spittle flying from his shifted maw. The words came out slurred and growling, as if the change in his anatomy prevented him from speaking properly. “I don’t want you here. I told you to go, and this is my Court, my manor! You’re not taking her away from me again!” 

“You’ll see,” Rhys said, a tight smile gracing his face, “that I actually will be. It’s in the bargain.”

“Fuck the bargain,” Tamlin replied. “You’re just doing this to get one over me!” 

Rhys barked out a laugh and looked at me. “And you call me egocentric, darling?” 

“Feyre,” Tamlin cut in, and he stepped in front of me, cradling my face in his clawed hands. “Feyre, you don’t need to go with him. You don’t. I’ll—I’ll manage, we’ll manage, we can get through the consequences—”

I said nothing. His anger and desperation was clear; his eyes looked bright, furious, and oddly glassy. 

“I don’t think the consequences would be good for this Court,” I said quietly. 

But Tamlin ignored me, or didn’t warrant my reply important enough to properly respond to, or simply didn’t know how to respond. “You don’t need to go. You shouldn’t. You should stay here with me, and I’ll—I’ve relaxed the presence sentries, haven’t I? I’ve given you the space you wanted. I’ve been…” 

Better, I finished in my head, though I hadn’t witnessed the fruits of his metaphorical labour, seeing I’d barely left the manor and he’d spent more time outside of it than in. 

“I think it’s better to just let me go.” The sudden gutted look on his face left me scrambling to clarify. “You don’t want actual trouble with the Night Court, do you? With what’s coming? It’s just a week.”

Tamlin’s intake of breath was shaky, but the animalistic features retreated: soon, within seconds, he looked like an ordinary high fae male once more. The male I’d fallen in love with. 

I hoped the expression on my face was comforting and placating as I slipped out of his grip. His arms fell to his side, and he turned with me as I approached Rhys again, linked our elbows together. 

“Good choice,” Rhys said brightly, though I could tell his cheer was fake. “Let’s go—”

But Tamlin gripped Rhys’ shirt and stared him down. Rhys’ eyebrows jumped up, Lucien murmured another prayer and added a curse, and Tamlin did not retreat. 

“You end her bargain right here, right now, and I’ll give you anything you want. Anything.”

I gaped at him, heart stuttering. “Are you out of your mind?” 

Rhys did not look phased. He didn’t look calculating, or considering, or anything of the sort. He just glanced at the fingers gripping his tunic, raised his eyebrows, and flicked Tamlin’s hand off his person like it was a piece of lint. 

The silence in the hall was pressing. Lucien was hunching, the sentries were shaking, and Tamlin’s face was shifting back to the monstrous features once more. With a humourless, sharp smile, Rhys slipped his hand behind my back and firmly tugged me against his form. 

Said, “I already have everything I want. Toodaloo, Tam-Tam.”

And he winnowed us away in a snap of shadow without any further pleasantries, throwing us into the wild, dark unknown of the distance between realms. I somehow did not feel particularly frightened despite being conscious of its teetering, unsteady nature; Rhys remained a solid and dependable presence at my back. I could use him for stability, keenly aware of the fact that he’d rather die than let me fall. 

Despite the reassurance, an annoying inkling of anxiety pressed the idea that this time he’d winnow me to a cell. That he’d abuse my expectations, use my memories of the first visit and my unguardedness to his advantage. The Spring Court’s insistence that Rhys had been putting ideas in my head when my guard was low had… well, been putting ideas in my head. 

As if sensing my nerves, Rhys pressed the tip of his nose against my temple, tightened his grip, and dropped us into the bright, jasmine-scented palace of moonstone. His arms slipped from my body; I barely felt his grip lingering as breathed in the light air and looked around the large, open expanse of the space we’d consistently taken our meals. 

A tension that I hadn’t been fully aware of, likely having formed the moment he’d dropped me off at home or taken me away again, dissipated in my chest. 

There was a squeal from a little ways away. Then a blur of cornflower-yellow and purplish auburn raced towards me, footsteps so quick they sounded like a rapid drum. The first thing I registered was the scent of cinnamon and citrus—then hands on my shoulders, loose yet excited, and Morrigan twirled me, laughed, face bright and happy.

“Feyre!” she called out, “don’t ever leave me with that grump ever again!”

“I’m—sorry?” I tried, attempting to wrap my head around the situation. I didn’t remember ever having had such a delighted greeting; not from my sisters, my father, Isaac, or even Tamlin and Lucien. “I had to go home for a while.”

“Yes, but now you’re here again,” Mor said, drumming her fingers on my shoulders, and she added in a lower tone: “Rhys was so annoying the whole time, truly, glowered through everything the rest of the month—”

A throat cleared from behind us. “Rhys is also here and still doesn’t appreciate being spoken about as if he isn’t.”

“Nobody cares,” Mor replied, not even looking his way. “I’m catching up with my friend. Go slink off to brood and have sad, pathetic wanks in your bedroom again.”

I bit down on my lip, mouth twitching. Her enthusiasm was infectious; to my own shock, I found that I’d missed her. 

“Don’t talk about my—” Rhys started, infuriated, but he cut himself off. Likely realised how childish it was. “Let’s just have breakfast.” 

“Yes,” said Mor, and she went to stand beside me to properly tug me along. “Let’s!” 

I followed easily, taking the familiar path to the breakfast nook near the large veranda. Mor’s hand slipped off enough for her to throw an arm over my shoulders; she squeezed, gently. 

“You feel bony,” she noted. “Have you been eating?” 

“As much as I could manage,” I said honestly. I didn’t say that I’d spent most of my nights throwing up. 

“Feyre mentioned her appetite’s been low when I fetched her,” Rhys said, pulling out his chair and slumping down on it. He sent us both a tight smile. “Perhaps a change of scenery will help.” 

It would, I knew, but I also knew it wouldn’t be enough. Not in a week. Not when the weight was falling off me so quickly I was turning into a sack of skin and bones. But I nodded, hesitantly, and something in Rhys’ face softened; he gestured at a chair and snatched the plate in front of it, piling it high with pastries and fruit. 

I slipped out of Mor’s grip and sat. Mor for her part hesitated for a second — her glance at me was calculating, knowing, and I briefly felt laid bare — before she sat down as well and began to pour us all tea. 

“Eat,” said Rhys, sliding the plate over. There was an underlying note to his voice that reminded me of worry and desperation. “Please.”

I dug in. 

Fresh, sweet, firm melon; grapes that crunched under my bite and berries that popped between my molars. I tried not to eat too quickly, as my stomach was still tight with lingering nausea and a lack of food, but the sheer simplicity of the meal made it all too easy to stuff my mouth. And the pastries—Rhys hadn’t only given me the cherry ones I preferred, but ones stuffed with meat, cheese, and greens as well. 

The two cousins waited until I sat back, taking small sips of the tea, before they spoke. 

“So how was the Spring Court?” Mor asked casually. “I haven’t visited in over a century, I think.”

I sent her a look. “Are you curious about how it looks, or how they treated me?” 

Mor instantly looked sheepish. “Well…”

“It’s Spring,” I said. “There’s flowers. Greenery.” I paused, set my cup down. “They held a Tithe.” 

If either of them noticed that I’d said they, not we, they didn’t show it. Rhys merely swallowed his mouthful of fruit and arched a brow. 

“And were people able to pay?” 

I sighed through my nose, chewed on the inside of my lip. Yes, most had as far as I could recall — I hadn’t been there for the last couple of hours, after all — but the plight of the water wraith still weighed on me. Her faked bravado, her tears. Her promise. 

“Most,” I said. “There was one—”

I paused. 

“Yes?” Rhys pressed. 

“A, erm, water wraith,” I said hesitantly. “She and her sisters occupy a lake near the manor. The lake was empty of fish, so she came empty handed, and I… gave her my jewellery. To pay the debt, and purchase food. Asked Tamlin to replenish the lake, but he wasn’t happy with me helping and said hand-outs aren’t useful in the long run.” 

Mor and Rhys glanced at one another, seemingly having an unspoken conversation with just their eyes. Then Mor asked: 

“Wasn’t happy how?” 

The concern on her face was clear as day. And I bristled, without even thinking about it, because I could protect myself, thank you very much. 

“That doesn’t matter. He apologised for his conduct,” unsuccessfully, “and perhaps the next Tithe will be different.” 

“I doubt that,” Mor muttered, before she yelped and, with narrowed eyes, kicked out so hard the table rattled. 

Rhys cursed under his breath and retaliated, mouth tight and nostrils flared, and Mor repeated the motion. It vaguely reminded me of my sisters; the sudden emptiness in my chest was too painful linger on, so I spoke again. 

“Regardless, I’ve been told the water wraith and her sisters now owe me a debt,” I said, as the two fae kicked each other until the table. “Maybe that’s useful.” 

“It is,” Rhys said. He ceased kicking after Mor got one last shot in, hissing. “It won’t be forgotten. Talking about things that are useful, have you practised?” 

The change in topic had me shaking my head. I glared at him. 

“No, Rhys,” I replied. “I twiddled my thumbs and picked flowers the whole time, because I have no interest in learning how to read and write—”

He struck before I could finish, tendrils bouncing off my mental shield. Only the smallest wrinkle of his nose told me he’d felt it; Mor sniggered.  

“Prick,” I said, with feeling. 

Rhysand grinned unrepentantly. “Just keeping you on your toes. They look gorgeous, by the way. And your magic?” 

“Only presents itself when someone is being really annoying.” 

He ignored the jab, hmm’ing thoughtfully, and rested his chin on his hand. The other fiddled with the tablecloth. 

“Heightened emotion can trigger your instincts,” he mused. “If you train it—”

“Tamlin doesn’t want me to train,” I said quietly, resentfully. 

“—you could control it even when you’re upset.” Rhys dropped both hands and braced himself on them, leaning forward, eyes twinkling. He also soundly ignored Tamlin’s opinion. “I did feel some sparks of panic and anger while you were gone. Did anything happen?” 

He looked excited at first glance, that stupid, infuriating smirk of his firmly in place. But I could see — tell — that he was worried; considered telling the whole truth for just a breath, just one. Mulled it over, like I still needed to decide whether I liked the taste of a fruit or not. 

Rhys was clever. Intelligent. He’d figure out what might have happened if I told him what I’d exactly managed to do. 

I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to know. 

“You were right,” I said eventually, and Rhys sat a bit straighter, satisfaction curled into the upturned line of his mouth. “At least two more High Lords gave me more than they intended to.” 

“Good,” said Rhys. “And the upcoming war?” 

I scowled at him. “You know, I hadn’t actually agreed to become a messenger boy.” 

“But you did so anyway.” He waved a dismissive hand, face so faux-serene I briefly entertained smushing a pastry against his nose. “You’re far too curious. And I want to know what your dear Tamlin said in reply.” 

“You can shove that wish up your arse,” I replied sweetly. 

Rhys smirked, leaning in even closer. “Only if you help,” he purred. 

“Rhysand.”

“Cross with me again, are you?” he asked. His eyes twinkled. “You know, I can help you feel better… maybe if you made me cry—”

“Gross!” Mor interrupted, flinging a pastry at Rhys’ head. It hit him in the cheek with a splat, dropping onto his plate; he bared his teeth at her and hissed like an irate cat. “I’m literallyeating here, for your information. If you’re that horny—”

“You’re the one who talked about my supposedly sad and pathetic wanking.” He narrowed his eyes and leaned back. “Mor, if you throw that at me, I swear to the Cauldron…”

The pastry soared through the air so quickly that I could barely see it, but before it was halfway it seemed to… explode, dissolving into a cherry-and-butter scented mist. I gaped, swallowed, and stared wide-eyed at the sticky dust that now covered the teapot. Whatever kind of magic that was, it looked terrifying. 

Mor pouted. “You’re no fun.” 

“And you are over five-hundred years old, and therefore far too advanced in age to begin something like a food fight,” said Rhys, picking a piece of invisible lint off his sleeve. “Especially if you’ll lose.” 

“I wouldn’t lose if you didn’t cheat with misting,” she replied tartly. She grabbed another pastry and took a violent bite. “You’re the sore loser here.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Are too.” 

“Am not.” 

“Are too,” Mor repeated, grinning. “If you may cast your mind back to the chess incident of the day leading up to Starfall ninety years ago, when you lost a match against Az and upended the board—”

“He was cheating.” Rhys gritted his teeth. “I know he was, because he looked far too smug—”

“What’s misting?” I asked, before they let something slip that they didn’t actually want to let slip. I’d never agreed to spying for Spring, after all. “Did you do that to the pastry?” 

Rhys glanced at me, startled, like he’d briefly forgotten I was there, and physically pulled a very smug mask over his face. Mor rolled her eyes. 

“I did,” he said, leaning back in his chair with crossed arms. “Misting is the magical act of turning something, or someone, into mist. It’s a very rare ability,” he added, “so I, of course, am a master at it.”

“He’s actually not lying,” Mor said, when I fashioned my face in a distinctly unimpressed look. “The only other fae I know of who was able to do it was Rhys’ father.”

“I believe his mother could do it as well, but that’s neither here nor there,” said Rhys. “Considering they’ve both been dead for centuries.” 

“But it turns things or people into mist,” I said. I gestured at the remains of the exploded food covering the tabletop. “Like that pastry.” 

“Yes.” Rhys’ head tilted a little and a lock of his inky, immaculate hair fell across his smooth forehead. “The concept is simple, actually. You just… wait, let me—”

He grabbed an orange and peeled it with swift movements, tearing it into two and removing a segment. Then he leaned closer to me, segment in hand, and carefully pinched the already torn membrane covering it; pulled it back to reveal the sacks on the inside. 

“Any citrus has these small and long pearls of juice, yeah? Almost like a berry,” he explained, waiting until I nodded to continue. “Everything, and I do mean everything, is made up out of similar pearls, but far smaller. Even these pearls are made up out of those smaller pearls.” He carefully dug one out and presented it to me on the tip of his finger. “So this table, the chairs, that teapot, even us—we’re all just made of miniscule sacks of juice stacked on top of one another, to put it crudely. Misting explodes every last one of those sacks.” 

He threw the segment up in the air and just stared at it. When it reached its highest point, it burst into that mist, showering us in the scent of oranges. 

“It takes a lot of focus,” he said, as the small droplets fell and shone in his hair. “Small things like that orange carpel aren’t even a ripple in my magical reserves, but something larger and more dry — like the table — takes a bit more energy. People would ironically be easier than something like a carriage, though it weighs quite a lot heavier on the mind if you allow it to. My father, for example, misted a handful of soldiers for my mother as a mating present; as he was him, I doubt he lost even a wink of sleep over it.” 

“I also doubt you would, with what those soldiers were about to do to her,” Mor said, voice dry. 

Rhys inclined his head again and smiled a very small smile. “Point.” 

“Is it blood mist, when you mist people?” I asked, as I stared at the tiny droplets on my fork. It still smelled like oranges. 

I tried not to think too hard about the havoc and disaster Rhys was capable of causing. The deaths, mindless and easy. But did I allow myself to wonder what he would do if he discovered I’d made a shield of air to protect myself from getting skewered by wood splinters. 

It was a good thing that my wall of adamant was so firmly in place. 

“Blood, bone dust, human waste,” said Rhys. “It smells salty and metallic, and a bit sour and rotten because of what’s waiting in the guts. It’s rather unnerving.” 

I could imagine why, quite viscerally. My stomach rolled and I swallowed the sudden flood of thick saliva that began to coat my throat. 

“If it’s so unnerving, why did your father—”

“He was, to put it mildly, a horrible person,” Mor said blandly. 

When I looked at Rhys for confirmation, he just shrugged. “I suppose. He was who he was; never hid it, never lied about it. Always sharp and calculating, willing to kill if necessary. It was the way he was raised; the Night Court has never been looked upon favourably by the other Courts. It’s a miracle I turned out nicer.” 

Mor snorted. I raised my eyebrows. It took a beat of silence, but Rhys’ mouth fell open and he put a hand to his heart in exaggerated offence. 

“I’ll have you know,” he tittered, “that I’ve never misted as many people as he—”

“He also had quite a few centuries on you,” Mor countered. “Still does.” 

“But what happened is that he misted those soldiers because the mating bond had just snapped for him, and they were about to mutilate his mate.” Rhys shrugged once more and flapped his hand, as if mass murder was normal and expected. “As you can imagine, this filled him with unimaginable rage. He snapped his fingers, destroyed them, and as the blood rain still fell upon them he grabbed my mother and whisked her away.” 

He paused then, frowning contemplatively as though he was trying to remember the full story. I realised, rather horrified, that I found the thoughtful crease between his pretty eyebrows immensely appealing—even through my blood-pounding, repulsed fascination with the tale. 

“If I recall correctly,” he continued slowly, “when they arrived at his home, she hadn’t yet felt the bond snap and was quite unnerved about some strange High Fae male just grabbing her, despite the fact that he’d saved her from a horrible fate. I believe she threw a letter opener at his head.” 

I blinked. Looked at Mor. Looked back at Rhys. He caught my befuddled stare and gave me a saucy grin. 

“My parents’ bond was a bit more violent than ours is.” He grabbed an orange segment and wiggled it limply, like a juicy and thick flag. “I’m rather glad you launched a shoe instead. I was so drunk that you would’ve impaled me.” 

And with that banger, he popped the orange segment into his mouth, nodded once, and blew me a kiss. 

And I? As a true testament that Rhys was growing on me like mould, and that I’d perhaps missed him just a little bit, I only flipped him the bird. 

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

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

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

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

[curiousity-cell]

i’m very tired so i’m gonna post some of the scenes that made me fall head over heels for the archeron sisters 🫶🫶

gonna start with love of my life feyre archeron. the main character, boss bitch, saviour of prythian. for feyre’s scenes, i chose some scenes that proved how good of a high lady she was always built to be, even before being crowned as one. :)

i have always seen feyre as a blend of both elain & nesta (because you know damn well her mother & father werent parenting her). feyre at her core has always been kind, and brave, and so strong. she’s loving, and caring. as elain says, she is the foundation of the sisters.

she has some moments where she does - what i like to call - explode (like nesta). but that is okay. she’s always apologetic and understanding and the most important thing is that she /listens/. she listens and learns and that’s what makes her a good high lady. she’s open minded and enjoys learning. she absolutely deserves her crown, anyone who criticises her for “not being good enough” has not understood feyre’s character at all.

nesta archeron. tough, strong, passionate nesta. she is fiercely protective & fiercely loving. yes, she’s struggled. of course she has. as the other sisters have, but she worked through it (like feyre) and she’s healed now. here are some scenes that made me just Get her yk?

nesta i love in a different way to the other archeron girlies. elain and feyre i always see as my now-self. my semi healed self. or my “trying to be better” self (as in. trying to be kinder to myself and not push everybody away type of thing).

but nesta was who i was. or rather who she was before acosf. nesta is who i was on my bad days. i’m not proud of it and neither is nesta. nesta says it herself, she would shoot out daggers with her words as a ward to keep herself from being hurt. to mask her hurt. this is, as nesta says in her book not a good thing.

she was cruel, she was unkind and she could be pretty fucking selfish and mean. but she learns. she is learning. that to me is the most important thing for anybody going through similar mental health struggles or struggles in general is that that person learns and is apologetic for how they acted. which nesta, at the end, is. that is why i love nesta. or rather why i came to love nesta. and i’m happy she’s found herself a place in the valkyries and a PURPOSE. which is super important to someone like nesta

that last quote is also really important to me because it shows true growth. seeing past her bitterness of rhys - as being someone who could offer feyre happiness and a safe space when nesta couldn’t - shows so much of who she wants to become. i love her.

finally, elain archeron. we know how i feel about elain. kind, soft, yet also strong, elain. often disregarded, often overlooked, but still powerful elain. as fiercely loving and protective as nesta, but remains gentle. here’s some scenes that made me fall for elain :)

the first scene i posted is one of my all time favourite elain scenes and i think it’s because it encompasses all that elain is in a single quote. elain’s trauma response is always frowned upon by some people in the fandom, because she shuts down, she cries, she isolates herself

this is something that i also do when i’m having a bad mental health day (now. used to be more like nesta but that’s not me anymore). but this scene in particular shows that all elain needs is a little bit of time. a little bit of time to adjust to new circumstances, time to mentally adjust to what’s happened to her & to understand what’s happening around her. which she does.

elain is the one that coaches feyre into thinking about what the next steps should be in helping her people heal. (which btw. it’s okay to ask for help and support from other people. feyre listening to elain and applying what she’s learnt is exactly what’s sometimes needed in a ruler. this is not criticism of either woman).

elain has always been kind at her core. during the poverty, which everyone pins against elain, she is said as being not herself. she is (as all the other archeron sisters are) at her worst. but, during her healing, she finds herself again. she recovers & she apologises for how she was & she is forgiven.

she’s so very strong. elain is so strong, just like her sisters. she’s so much more than “the soft one” and i can’t wait to get inside her head in her book when it comes out. so so so excited.

that’s the end of my thinkpost but i’ll leave u with some of my favourite archeron sister bonding scenes (slash them healing the broken bond between them)

[highladyofterrasen7]

It’s funny

At the beginning of acomaf feyre says things like “I was his reward” “[tam/in] was the saviour” (all wrong, but just ignore that)

Because when she got back prythian had dubbed her “feyre cursebreaker”, as SHE was the one to beat the trials SHE was the one to figure out the riddle, SHE was the one to break the curse

And yet by him, ianthe (and yes, Lucien) she was treated as the reward, the damsel in distress who was saved

When SHE was the one who did the saving, and the spring court was treating her like some perfect doll for them to dress up and ignore

The cursebreaker

The saviour

I can’t quiet put my thoughts into words but I hope this makes sense

[dysfunctional-nerd--lite]

acomaf chapter 18

*spoilers ahead*

having ptsd and trauma responses that you can't yet work through doesn't make you a coward feyre, i need you to know that

poor azriel, brothers are pretty shit in this universe

i'm excited to learn more about amren

creepy bone boy is creepy, but cool

he seems to be implying that dying means you can see or even travel to other realms like heaven ? or maybe other universes like the homes of those in the prison ? so they have to die to go home ? that would be a cool story/book

man has knee problems 😪

damn feyre, spitting truths, is this a therapy session?

so not only had she got her powers, but she also has the 'power' too use this book

so basically she's destined to be the saviour of prythian again ??

unless this foreshadowing is about someone else ofc

[reblogandlikes]

Tangent incoming.

The fact that this even needs to be literally spelt out is crazy, but what's new with this fandom who gobble every word SJM pick-me characters spew? Everything you've written is what I've picked up and have been screaming while reading the books.

I wasn't so much of a pro Tamlin person until Feyre/SJM turned me into one because i hate being lied to and manipulated in believing a character's wrongs are actually morally correct. I rather characters do wrong and know they are wrong, but then grow as the story progresses. Not becoming so self-absorbed when stuck in their own circle-jerk echo chamber whilst claiming others are rewriting the narrative when babe, that's literally you, it's painful.

Initially, I was giving Feyre leeway. She's the MC. She's young. She's gone through trauma and unable to see beyond it in order to recognise others. She literally DIED. But then her inner monologue felt exhausting and purposefully falsely reading the situation or people's words/actions. She painted everything negatively without consideration yet never fully overtly asserted herself or at least tries to understand how precarious the entire situation is with the dangers around or the political instability whlist also being attached to Prythian's Voldemort.

Throughout MAF the heavy distinction between Tamlin and Rhysand could make you choke. To make Rhysand become Feyre’s saviour by actively demonising Tamlin with the theme of "freedom" and "choice" instead of delving into trauma complicating relationships and finding common ground, whether the relationship maintains or ends. That they shouldn't be worked on, but discarded to replaced with something supposedly better. By WAR, even if a reader had yet to understand Tamlin’s motives (should have been obvious by the end of MAF) Feyre made it her mission to be his downfall no matter his intention or the logjcal reason why he felt fearful for her. That the Rhysand she "knows" isn't the one that Prythian has been subjected to.

She lied in ways that negatively confirmed Tamlin fears for her. She schemes, ruining relationships when a strong bond was needed. She manipulated the people who once praised her. Her actions forced Tamlin's hands in ways he wished to avoid. Her involvement literally fucked everything Iver when she little miss boss babe could have used that brain and put her daemati powers to use and scan Tamlin to understand him more. But her intention was understanding, but ruination because he...rightfully feared for her life which she herself realised later when the attor tracked her thanks to that wonderful mate of hers?

Despite Tamlin working to protect his court and Prythian by extension, Feyre’s fury has been justified and twisting the readers' objective opinion to become as biased as her. It doesn't matter that Tamlin's court trusted and respected him long before everything went down while Rhysand’s own court, 2/3, hates/dislikes him and continues to, but thats irrelevanti guess because ✨️Velaris✨️. It doesn't matter that Tamlin's actions actually had tangible results whilst Rhysand’s...hiding a place that was already hidden and was in no danger but gave the rest of his court up on a platter and still didnt get anything worthy against Hybern. Doesn't matter if Tamlin continued to save her and people she cared about time and time again; he's worthless, and this is displayed in FAS and again in their hostility towards him in SF when dude is just being depressed, minding his business while they are trespassing on his land.

I don't know which boyfriend Tamlin was based on that fucked SJM over, but even when she tried to write him to be horrible or toxic or violent or ✨️abusive✨️ (all these are traits in Rhysand and other Fae's) his actions remains the most understandable out of all her characters. And to then try to suddenly claim that his court was already failing and he wanted to work with Hybern or that he wasn't a good double agent...readers who think this are just being disingenuous.

Hijacked this post, sorry. The Tamlin slander is horrendous. Their hate, most inherited due to the social media content consumed mixed in with group think to sway opinion is crazy. Even with SJM's lazy writing, the villianisation of Tamlin despite his overall actions being a benefit to Prythian will forever leave me dumbfounded.

Long Post

I’m starting to feel people don’t understand what espionage truly means. I recently came across this post that said Tamlin was never a double agent and was only playing the good guy to save himself, and there was a list supporting the claim. So, here we go.

Fair warning: this is needlessly elaborate, includes many tangents and requires thinking from perspectives outside of the explicit narrative.

Before we begin, let’s get one thing clear, just because Night flaunts Azriel as their spymaster, it doesn’t mean that’s how spies operate. Revealing their identity risks compromising future missions and the people close to them. IRL spies lead double lives for decades for this very reason and only a select few are trusted with the knowledge depending on who they report to or who serve as their getaway.

‘Even Lucien was in the dark.’ Dagdan and Brannagh are daemati. Involving more people in the plan means more sources for the twins to exploit and more possible leverage for Hybern. Lucien could be held captive or threatened with death to force Tamlin into furthering the war. Their friendship was taken advantage of by Amarantha twice before. It isn’t a matter of trust but of protection, the way Feyre isn’t involved either. Besides, if Tamlin is compromised and found plotting against Hybern, the first step would be to check Lucien’s mind, leaving with no one in power left to protect Spring.

‘Tamlin let Hybern settle in Spring.’ Tamlin grants access to a troop to survey the Wall, which is different from allowing a whole army into his territory. With his defences intact, he still has the upper hand. Managing and controlling the movements of a troop within his borders is much easier than stopping an army, which is exactly what Lucien does—accompanying Jurian and the twins to the Wall. It is after Feyre destroys Spring that they are left vulnerable, allowing the rest of the Hybern’s army camp there. Moreover, denying access to his lands would be suspicious, not letting them inspect the Wall would be suspicious. It is part of the act, playing a willing participant in upholding his end of the deal.

‘Tamlin didn’t warn the other courts.’ After Amarantha’s reign, while the other High Lords are rebuilding their courts and making allies, Tamlin is invested in freeing Feyre from her bargain. Among the six courts, one is Spring’s enemy for harbouring Lucien, one steals Feyre every month, and two are fairly new High Lords Tamlin doesn’t know. And if Night’s visit to Summer is common knowledge, Tarquin ‘allows’ Rhysand to parade Feyre again after witnessing everything Under the Mountain. Clearly, Tamlin doesn’t know who to trust.

Considering he chooses to warn them, a ‘Hey, Hybern is coming for us all’ isn’t useful enough when it’s already expected after Amarantha’s reign. In fact, it would have encouraged Hybern to act before the courts could recuperate or even unleash the Cauldron in whatever capacity. This is evidenced by the attack on Velaris when they attempted to gain the mortal Queens on their side. Hybern has been amassing armies for years, centuries even. In order to win, Prythian needs more than a ‘warning’ which Tamlin manages to obtain.

Moreover, the battle of Adriata occurs right after Feyre returns to Night (iirc a week or two). Since Spring is in tatters, Tamlin isn’t in a position to help anyone, especially as Hybern attacks from the seas and not Spring lands. Also, his emissary, Lucien, and every other powerful player on his side are removed from the board.

Besides, who would believe his words when not long ago he was running around like a depraved lunatic to save the woman he loves, and none of them cared? Who would believe it’s more than his paranoia or even a ploy to get her back without concrete proof?

‘Spring was already broken.’ From the beginning, it is clear that Tamlin has his people’s loyalty. His sentries beg to be sacrificed to free him from the curse. When the lands grow dangerous with not many left to defend it, the people flee. After the curse is broken, they all return—one of them being Alis. Despite the reduced population, with Amarantha’s cronies still at large and creatures roaming wild, Spring is recovering and the people are happy. Feyre herself notes how content they are to be in Tamlin’s presence.

When Feyre is kidnapped, Tamlin kills the sentries on guard, which is meant to turn everyone against him. But it’s not that simple. Feyre would have officially become Lady of Spring if she weren’t ‘stolen’ during the wedding. The sentries are entrusted to protect their Lady—whom they love and respect. They are aware of the bargain. They are aware Feyre was killed once. They are aware Feyre is a target—as an asset or Tamlin’s weakness. It is under their watch that she is taken from their home. When they couldn’t even stop his third-in-command from walking in, disarming everyone, and carrying Feyre away, how are they expected to protect her from the most powerful High Lord of Prythian?

And, Rhysand is not just an enemy of Tamlin. He has been the villain of Prythian for five centuries and possesses powers to twist someone’s mind. One outburst from Tamlin isn’t enough to make him a monster in the eyes of his sentries when Feyre is now Rhysand’s hostage. The people didn’t abandon Spring when Tamlin made a deal with Hybern because they knew there was no one to help them.

Everything that happens after Tamlin, Feyre and Lucien return from Hybern’s castle is a calculated move. Feyre admits that it is her goal to destroy everything Tamlin has, including his court and people. She never opens up about how she’s treated in Night, even during the one-week stays. Later, she accuses Rhysand of raping her over the past months and tricking her with the fake mating bond. She even takes the dramatic route with ‘if you peer into the darkness long enough, the darkness peers back’ (paraphrased) saying this to Lucien. There is no reason for anyone to doubt Tamlin’s actions when Feyre proves every one of their fears true.

Feyre doesn’t stop there. She exploits the people’s faith in her and manipulates them. During the Summer Solstice, she positions herself as more valuable and blessed than the people already claim her to be. With these new beliefs she creates, she becomes a bigger prize for the likes of Rhysand, Beron, and even Hybern. She constantly interrupts the conversations and corners Tamlin into decisions that are less than ideal, which he complies with to put on a united front. She exploits Tamlin’s trauma, abuses him, and pushes him to a breakdown in order to play his victim. She knows of Ianthe’s plans and lets the nagas attack using that to her advantage.

The lashings are pivotal in revealing who Tamlin is to the people, but there is a flaw in the narrative. Feyre was stolen from the mansion more than once. Rhysand and Morrigan proved that the mansion is not safe enough. Now, it is not even guarded against a few nagas and the sentry loses the keys after falling asleep? This is a question of their competence and loyalty. Even then, Tamlin waits till the morning to execute the punishment and Feyre controls the sentry’s memories until the very last minute, ensuring Tamlin has little chance to back out. She twists the scenario as Tamlin’s cruelty, when it is a High Lord’s home breached and their enemies are on their lands. Feyre exploits Tamlin’s fears, pushing him to take drastic measures and playing the saint who expected him to prove his goodness. If she cared so much about the sentry, why didn’t she force Ianthe to confess? Ultimately, she goes as far as manipulating them into believing that Tamlin let the twins hunt her. She breaks their trust in their High Lord. Everything Feyre does or says is a lie until Tamlin cracks (if you want to draw parallels, it’s exactly what Rhysand claims to have done Under the Mountain).

This is often ignored or used as proof of Tamlin’s failings. But, Alis leaves Spring because she knows that Hybern is not the only threat. Though she doesn’t hate or blame Feyre, she understands that soon Spring will fall because of her and Night.

So no, Spring was not broken. It was more put together than Night, where Rhysand has to threaten one half of his army and buy the loyalty of the other with false promises. Spring is loyal to their High Lord and their court until Feyre manipulates them. She admits to ‘priming Spring to fall’ and ‘baiting Tamlin’. She even wants to take over Spring with Night’s army after she destroys it. She is the reason for their downfall, not Tamlin, who is stuck in a no-win situation with everyone working against him—Ianthe, Feyre, Hybern, and even Lucien after a point.

The real question: Why is Night not held accountable for Hybern’s invasion, but Tamlin is?

Rhysand is aware of Hybern’s movements long before Tamlin makes the deal. He doesn’t trust other courts or warn them or ally with them—exactly what Tamlin is condemned for. Rhysand betrays Summer by stealing their most valuable relic and weapon. It’s only after he fails that he reaches out to other courts for support. In fact, his failure fast-tracks the war—Hybern was counting on Inner Circle’s martyr complex which they all played right to the T.

Even forgiving all this as good intentions, they still keep everything under wraps. None of the courts are warned, including Summer and Autumn, who share their borders with Spring, which Hybern is taking over first. For two months, all they do is wait for Feyre. For two months, they don’t attempt to unite other courts to stop Hybern or make Feyre’s escape easy. They don’t even rally their Illyrian and Darkbringer armies until Feyre arrives. They have the best spymaster and the best network of spies, but they also have the habit of always pulling his sources out at crucial times. They have the most powerful daemati who never uses his powers to find who his potential comrades are but has no problem invading minds to assert his dominance. In the two months, Night comes to the tough decision to hold a High Lords meeting after Feyre returns.

Besides, Feyre claims to spy in Spring but finds nothing useful about Hybern’s plans, which is proved in the meeting. Feyre is a High Lady who can’t keep her emotions in check and destroys the one court that shields the mortal lands from the rest of Prythian, leaving both sides vulnerable to Hybern. Tamlin could have stalled the infiltration with his army, exchanged information with the twins or Jurian, or negotiated his people’s safety in exchange for more access to his lands which would have been the strategic move here. But Feyre undermines every single leverage Spring has in this situation.

Tamlin siding with Hybern is similar to Rhysand working for Amarantha. No one knows of his intentions until the very end either. There’s no proof Rhysand was in favour of Prythian. He is the one who told Amarantha about the human girl in Spring only days before they ran out of time to break the curse. He is the reason Tamlin sends Feyre back to the mortal lands. He is the reason Feyre is abused, tortured, and killed Under the Mountain. None of his actions support his words. Then, why is it hard to believe Tamlin who delivers what he promised? He keeps his cover until Feyre is in danger again. He brings Beron’s forces to join the war. If he was merely playing a hero, he didn’t have to do any of this. Tamlin was a double agent and he did a better job than Feyre, who managed to notify her Inner Circle about the twins she killed anyway.

See, the issue is not with the character but the structure of the plot. Did SJM plan it thoroughly? No. Was it executed well? No, there isn’t enough foreshadowing to convince the readers. Despite this, it still works to some extent because Feyre is an unreliable narrator. When she arrives in Spring, she is determined to ruin Tamlin’s life and expose him as a monster. She nitpicks every one of his choices, words, and actions. She glosses over his good deeds and reassures herself that they are his manipulative tactics. Even if Tamlin laid his plans out to her, she wouldn’t believe it—that’s how far she is in her rage and vengeance.

The entire espionage arc doesn’t exist to redeem Tamlin, but it is a device for Rhysand and Feyre to magically have everything they need. Tamlin is not a character SJM cares about. He is a villain and will always remain a villain. Had it been someone she wanted to redeem, there would be a 12-page monologue in the High Lords meeting with tears and a sob story.

None of this is favouring one point of view over the other, but it’s important to consider the mentality of other characters in such situations instead of believing every word from the chosen narrator. This is a major problem in this fandom where readers take Feyre and Rhysand’s views at face value and treat it as absolute truth when the situation is much more complex. SJM doesn’t respect her readers’ intelligence and writes with complete abandon. As long as you lap up whatever she offers and glorify her books, she has no reason to write a better story. Instead of hating on the characters like Tamlin, maybe you should be questioning the writer for such an unconvincing and subpar plot.

[kirschenseeds]

I have so many issues with ACOTAR but what bothers me the most is the wings thing.

It's canon that Illyrians are somewhat POC. Everyone literally makes fun of their wings e.i overgrown bat (which is their most distinctive feature), everyone sees them as backward and savages, everyone has prejudice against them, their rulers only care about them as war tools. I mean, they are the text book example of what an indigenous community looks like to every white person. They are the stereotype.

And then there's fucking Feyre donning wings—which by all means and purposes, she has no right to.

This so fucking similar with artists today using spray tan to look like POC (remember the shadow and bone inej issue?), or big clothing lines inappropriating POC culture and fashion for money, or people using fucking chopsticks as hair accessories, or people inappropriating POC in general.

Feyre literally did nothing for these people. Her saving Prythian from Amarantha did nothing for Illyrians. God, she even gave a blowjob while Illyrians are dying wtf. She banged over the skies with her mate after a fucking war.

Think of every Illyrian women who will see her flying. The horror and anger. The self-pity and rage.

Here is a child high lady who did nothing for Illyrian females donning their wings while harboring stereotyped bigotry against their culture.

Did you all read Feyre making a foundation or charity work for Illyrian females?

Building a safe space for Illyrian females? Especially those who were abused, raped, clipped?

Did she ever authored a law for Illyrian females? Or even tried researching about how she can help them?

Did you all see her visit Illyria atleast once, understanding their culture, tradition, beliefs?

Did she ever offered to open a school for Illyrian females so they can learn how to read and write?

No. No. No. No. And no.

Because Feyre lives off with what her husband and his friends tell her, who obviously has great prejudice against Illyrian culture. Unfortunately, her husband and his friends are more interested in creating an army of female warriors than creating a better environment for Illyrian females.

As a POC whose culture and tradition has been looked down upon, torn apart, and erased by white people pretending to be saviours, as a woman of color who sees white people promoting feminism not inclusive for WOC, as a child who watched as her culture was appropriated over and over again—this fucking hurts.

[taylors-fourth-cat-meow]

If tamlin is not retconned in book 2 and rhysand is still a villain, what do you think the plot of acomaf would be?

Hi anon!!

Anon, you have no idea how happy it makes me that u want to know what I think, but u shud know this may not be good cause I am literally a teenager with no writing affiliation but yay I am so excited to share this! think it wud sort of go about like this: (srry this turned out longer than I thought)

The book should obviously start with Feyre and Tamlin dealing with their Trauma, TOGETHER.

(Amarantha did SA tamlin. He was ready to marry her if only she let feyre go.)

Tamlin having Feyre educated with private tutors cause no he can't have an illiterate as the Lady of his court and frankly Feyre agress.

NO IANTHEE. Instead Tamlin's court. Like his two best friends (who are secretly in love with each other) from his war camp days and His governess' daughter (she is like his sister) and a bi disaster lesser faerie (whose kinda my self insert) who owns a bar they all love to hang out at.

Feyre and Tamlin taking a tour of their court (more scope for World building) to introduce her to her a subjects

That's when she realises she has powers. And Tamlin trains her himself cause he doesn't trust anyone. (Lucien helps too)

So I would have it like Beron finds out Feyre has taken his power and there is an assassination attempt. (For the drama)

Lucien is triggered by this and breaks down. Feyre and Tamlin realise they have been so caught up in themselves that they neglected Lucien. So they take him to the Singing Willow and have a heartfelt talk. (Character building)

Tamlin, who has been working to minimize the potential threat of hybern, learns they are looking for the cauldron.

Feyre finds about the threat of war and is furious at Tamlin for keeping it from her (more drama)

Then they take a tour of the Prythian looking for the parts of the cauldron under the guise of the "Saviour Of Prythian wanting to meet see her new world" None of the high lords buy it so courtroom drama

Everyone literally fall to their knees when feyre walks in and she just smirks. 🤌🏼

Feylin fluff ☺️ and feylin smut 😏

I would have Lucien and Tamlin's sis trying to retrieve the parts of the cauldron from hybern that they already have.

Now rhysie had allied with Hybern cause they promised him to be High King. But he is infact Feyre's mate and has feelings for her.

So basically there is no IC. No Velaris. He is all alone. Tragic family backstory is still there. When Amarantha takes over, he proposes to her so that he cud be High King. But she is too in love with Tamlin. Instead she uses her power to use him as her boy toy. He doesn't want that, his intentions were different and he is being forced and not as some noble "sacrifice" (basically more complexity to his character rather than just having a big fancy dick)

He calls in the bargain and Feyre has to leave to go to him mid tour. The first week he tells her about the mating bond. Second week she learns that the piece of cauldron is in the NC and Rhysie is trying to bargain it to Hybern.

Then what she did to Tamlin in acowar only no mind-raping. Pretending to start falling for Rhysie. Getting the information and giving it tamlin. She feels bad tho because Rhysand's feelings are genuine. He does want a mate.

Cut to Tamlin arrives at Savgravah finds the piece. Feyre escapes and goes to meet him there. But she isn't able to because rhysie looked into Feyre's mind and is like super furious about the betrayal. Like tears and all. Calling him out on SA and him being unapologetic saying I did what I had to do (MORE DRAMA)

Rhysand and Feyre fight (which she obviously looses) but she gets a glimpse into his mind and what his plans for Prythian are. She's knocked unconscious.

Hybern then arrives with Lucien and party as prisoners (yeah they failed :/) Rhysie gives them the part. But they need to sacrifice a powerful Fey (among other things) to activate the cauldron. Hybern wants Tamlin because even tho his father was an ally, as soon as Tamlin became HL he cut all ties and well it hurt Hybern's ego so now he wants revenge.

Tamlin gives himself in exchange for Lucien and his sis [All this is in Lucien's pov]

Book ends with Feyre locked in Rhysie's dungeon, waking up to find Tamlin taken. And she's like "I'm gonna get my beasty baby back and kill that son of bitch (Rhysie)."

[stromuprisahat]

The doom of Feylin, pt. 1

I didn’t care about Tamlin or Feyre in the previous book. Nor about their romance. But since the beginning of the second one, their relationship turned into something downright toxic. The sad thing being it could’ve been avoided, or fixed with healthy amount of work.

ACoMaF- Chapter 1

Feyre doesn’t seem comfortable enough to share her fears and Tamlin shuts himself away in his animal form. Instead of talking about their problems, they ignore them. Not exactly a fundation of a healthy relationship.

Chapter 2

Logical solution would be to train Feyre in self-defense, but- as we learn later- we can’t have that.

Spring Court’s people worship Feyre as the saviour she is. Tamlin either didn’t catch up on how it makes Feyre uncomfortable, or he chooses to ignore it, since it offers him another excuse to keep her sheltered.

Clothes make the man. Feyre’s dresses mean she’s the housewife Tamlin and his people want. They also mean she can’t effectively run or hide, which is important for her, if she’s still calculating exit strategies, straight up unable to enter certain rooms.

Appreciating the crumbs. Tamlin might’ve seen both sides, but he’s the High Lord. I doubt Iante’s opinion would outweigh his.

Feyre’s obviously tired, in no mental state to be getting married. Why not wait a bit longer? Why not offer private ceremony and then something public, so she can have “Her day” in a way she wouldn’t hate?! Politics and appearances might be important, but surely Prythian’s heroine could have some concessions?! She has a status, why not use it?!

So far it seems like Tamlin doesn’t want to deal with All that shit™, yet he leaves it up to Ianthe and keeps pushing the semblance of normalcy and traditions.

Newsflash! You’re marrying into rigid partiarchy! In case you thought you’ve earned your place in this society... it’s a nurturing housewife! Your power will be extension of your huband’s power. You’ll have no agency of your own. Congrats!

pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4