#also : and at last I see the light feels VERY Rhysand about his starlit wife

[separatist-apologist]

Rapnuzel Feysand?!

Rapunzel Feysand!

Combing out Feyre Archeron’s hair was a task that took the entirety of the morning. Every night, before she fell asleep, she’d braid it loosely hoping to avoid tangles and knots and every morning she woke half trapped in the floor length hair she was desperate to cut. It left her to the chore of washing her hair with the scant bucket one of the black guards occasionally sent up—their once imposing, constant presence had lessened over the years to the point that Feyre was lucky to see them once every two weeks.

Today was lucky. There, at the bottom of the large window she often sat in, was a bucket and a basket of provisions- and more paint.