#and i really liked the idea of tamlin sharing part of her name

[goforth-ladymidnight]

A Mother Always Knows

For Tamlin Week 2024, Day 1: Heir of Spring

@tamlinweek

Summary: Rosalin, Lady of the Spring Court, gives birth to her third son and discovers that the High Mother has chosen him to be the future High Lord of the Spring Court.

Rating: Teen and up

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.8k

Read on AO3, or read on below:

“It’s a boy,” the faerie midwife announced proudly, before swaddling the squalling babe up and delivering him gently into the arms of his mother. “He has a fine set of lungs indeed,” she said over his wailing cries, and there was an amused twinkle in her eyes when she added, “Just like his father.” She chuckled fondly when the babe settled in. “The wee little beastie.”

Lady Rosalin gave her a grateful, though tired smile, then turned her attention to her newborn son. His face was still swollen and red from crying, but he had a tuft of hair that would turn out to be as soft and pale as thistledown. Time would tell if he inherited her blue eyes or his father’s green ones. He had a fine appetite already, though, and latched quickly to her breast. As he drank, she stroked his downy cheek and gently rocked him. While she had hoped for a girl, she could not help but fall in love with her newest little boy.

She had already given Magnus two sons, Angus and Fergus. Twins. Births among High Fae nobility were already a rarity, but to bear twins that lived past infancy was a miracle. Or a curse, though she would never dare say so.

For only one son could inherit the High Lord’s mantle, while the other would have to serve him in a lesser capacity. As would the third, one day. She did not look forward to that day, when she would lose her husband and be forced to witness one son challenge the other for his title. The magic of the Cauldron always chose the Heir, but few were willing to accept the High Mother’s will, let alone their own mother’s. If she had her way, she would choose the eldest and be done with it, but Fergus was only five minutes younger than his brother. It was hardly fair. And now they had another brother to contend with, no matter how young and innocent.

Such was the nature of the Spring Court, ruthless and fierce despite its inherent beauty.

Rosalin sighed and let her head fall back against the pillows as the servants helped the midwife take away the bloody linens and clean up the room, preparing for the High Lord’s arrival. No doubt he was already being informed of a successful delivery and was on his way to see her.

She turned her head to look at the bouquet of roses by her bedside. Her mate had had them delivered the day before, freshly cut from the garden he had planted for her. He knew that she would be missing them, and had included a single rose of every color in the bouquet. She smiled. For all his fierce, overprotective habits, he did love her.

Her vision was beginning to turn double as she drifted off, then she lifted her head with a start.

She wasn’t seeing double. There were now two roses of every color blossoming in the vase. Her mouth fell open as she realized that new roses were budding and blooming right before her eyes. She glanced around, but the midwife and the servants didn’t seem to notice. As quickly and as carefully as she could, she shifted the baby to the other breast. He let out a small growl at the interruption before latching on again in earnest.

The sound should have made her laugh—the wee little beastie—but it only made her want to weep.

Did the midwife know…? No. She couldn’t know. Not when Rosalin herself didn’t know. At least, not yet.

With her heart in her throat, she reached out and carefully turned the cut-crystal vase to see if her suspicions were correct.

Her heart sunk to the depths of her aching womb as she saw what she had not hoped to see.

One half of the bouquet had continued to bloom, while the other half had not.

Only the roses closest to her had grown despite being cut from the bushes outside.

No… Only the roses closest to the baby.

Her son.

The High Lord’s son.

The true Heir of Spring.

She made sure no one was looking, then, with a pained groan, shoved the vase off the table.

The crystal shattered, and the roses scattered.

And her innocent child began to cry.

The servants swarmed around her, fretting as she tried to soothe her squalling babe.

“It’s all right. It’s all right,” she told them as well as her newborn.

She hoped it would be. By keeping his secret, she could keep him a little longer.

If anyone found out that the High Mother had chosen the third born son as the Heir of Spring, he wouldn’t live to see another sunrise.

Such was the nature of the Spring Court.

After all, her husband had once had a brother, too.

As if the noise had summoned him, which it probably had, he appeared in the doorway like a thunderclap.

Rosalin cradled the baby against her breast and prayed that Magnus wouldn’t notice how the roses he had picked for her had doubled since their son was born. No such sign had appeared when the twins were born, even though there should have been, but the magic knew better. She knew better.

A mother always knows.

“What happened?” he demanded, stalking closer. Although he was normally quite handsome, even for a High Fae, with his long brown hair and sun-bronzed skin, he was terrifying now. His green eyes flashed, and his claws and teeth were already long and gleaming as he searched for the threat to his mate and newborn child.

The servants fell back, trembling as they swept into deep curtsies at his approach. Only Oona, the midwife, stood by Rosalin’s bedside, staring the High Lord down.

“A vase broke, Your Lordship,” she said firmly over the baby’s cries. “It was an accident. Nothing more.” When the High Lord stood there, growling skeptically at the mess on the floor, she added, “So, unless you plan on cutting the mischievous sprite responsible into ribbons, I suggest you put those claws away before you hurt someone.”

If Oona hadn’t been the one to deliver the High Lord himself, she might have felt his claws for her audacity, and borne the scars forever to prove it.

Magnus growled again, but he curled his claws into his fists to hide them. “Is that what happened?” he asked his wife roughly.

Rosalin quickly nodded, although her heart was still beating fiercely. “The vase slipped. That’s all.”

In the tense silence that followed, the baby hiccuped then snuffled against her shoulder. Rosalin gently patted his tiny back. It had been a long day for both of them.

Magnus’s fierce demeanor softened as he silently waved a hand over the shattered mess. The crystal vase reformed itself on the table, but the fallen roses remained scattered on the floor.

“Fresh roses from the garden,” he told the servants. When they bowed their heads and stood to carry out his command, he continued in a much gentler voice as he looked at his mate, “And make them red, for my Rose.”

She breathed a sigh of relief, and gave him a warm, glad smile. Their son’s secret was safe, at least for a little while.

Magnus stepped over the fallen roses to sit beside her on the bed. When he lifted his chin to kiss her, there was no sign of his claws. “And how are you, my Rose?” he asked, tenderly stroking the sweaty curls from her brow.

Tears filled her eyes at his gentleness. If only he could be this gentle with their sons. “As well as can be expected,” she said softly, then shifted the baby away from her shoulder so that Magnus could see him. “Look. Isn’t he beautiful?”

Magnus frowned, but he reached out a finger to stroke the baby’s rounded cheek. “He’s so small,” he murmured.

Oona spoke up before Rosalin could object. “He will grow, as you did, my Lord,” the midwife said, then gave the royal couple a short curtsy when Magnus turned his annoyed frown on her. “I will go and speak to the nursemaid, my Lady,” she said, ignoring the High Lord. “Then you and the child must get some rest.”

“Thank you, Oona,” Rosalin said before the High Lord could scold her. She was only doing her duty, after all.

When the servants had gone and left them alone, Magnus at last reached for the baby, and Rosalin reluctantly handed him over.

His secret is safe, she reminded herself as she watched her mate’s spring green eyes sweep over the face of his future heir.

“Another son,” Magnus said quietly, even though no one else was around to hear.

“Are you disappointed?” she asked, hoping that the answer would be No. Their child was less than an hour old, and didn’t need to grow up under the shadow of his father’s disapproval.

Magnus sighed. “Only for your sake,” he replied, giving her a tight smile. “I know how much you wanted a daughter. Someday, I shall give you one.”

Rosalin let out a weary chuckle, despite herself. “Someday,” she agreed, decorously sliding the collar of her shift back into place. “For now, I am content with you, and Angus, and Fergus, and now our newest little one.”

Magnus’s frown softened as he chuckled. “You are so easy to please, my love,” he said, then kissed her again. He might have lingered had the baby not let out a small gurgle and began to squirm in his father’s arms. Magnus pulled away and addressed his son at last. “I suppose you shall need a name, as well, little one,” he remarked.

“What about Tam?” Rosalin offered.

“Tam?” Magnus repeated, clearly surprised that she had come up with a name so quickly.

She smiled shyly. “After my father, Tamhas,” she reminded him. “You did say I might use his name one day.”

Magnus’s brow furrowed as he pursed his lips, remembering. “So I did,” he conceded, though gruffly. “Although I had hoped for another little Rosalin…” He sighed and handed the squirming baby back. “I suppose it can’t be helped now.”

Rosalin smiled sadly as she nestled the baby in the crook of her arm. “He will make you proud, Magnus. I promise.”

The High Lord of Spring looked into his young son’s face. “Tam,” he repeated softly. “Tam-lin.” He smiled at her surprised expression. “After his mother.”

Rosalin beamed. “Tamlin,” she repeated as the baby cooed and reached for her. “I like it.”

Tamlin’s tiny fingers barely wrapped around one of her own, but his grip was strong.

It was then that she knew that he would live, and live a long time.

He might even inherit the High Lord’s mantle without bloodshed.

Tamlin. Her Tamlin. Future High Lord and Heir of the Spring Court. He would be a fine ruler someday. She could feel it.

A mother always knows.

[salmonthestoryteller]

Shannara Chronicles

So I finished both seasons of the Shannara Chronicles. Love season 1, mixed feelings on season 2.  Spoilers ahead!

I did grow up reading the books, but it’s been forever since I read them. So overall that didn’t affect most of my opinions on the show.  My one exception is I love Flick, and was unhappy about his lack of screen time or mention in season 1. I was super salty about Eventine not being the one to tell Wil that Flick fought in the war.

I was watching the episode going:  “Wow, Eventine, you hear the name Ohmsford and don’t even ask about the man who went behind enemy lines to save your sorry ass during the war?? Wth, dude. Not cool.”

So I actually did appreciate getting more Flick in season 2, and Wil finally learning his uncle had fought in the war. The scenes between Bandon and Flick were well done, and even his death worked for me.  Because Flick fought a war to stop the Warlock Lord, watched his beloved brother lose his mind after that war, and there was no way he wasn’t going to do everything in his power to prevent his return.

I will also say, I do feel that Bandon should have said “Flick was right”, not “Allanon was right” in his final scene. Not just because I’m a Flick fangirl, either. Flick was the last person to try to reach out to Bandon emotionally. I also would have accepted “Wil was right.”  Because Wil was his friend in season one, so if he’s going to think about who he should have listened to in the end, it should have been the people who did try their best to help him and show they cared.  And the facts are, Allanon never showed Bandon he truly cared.  He admitted himself that this situation existed because he pushed Bandon too hard and didn’t think of what was best for him.  Because he treated him like a tool to use and not a person.  So I’m not fond of them giving Allanon that moment. It’s understandable Bandon wouldn’t want to listen to Allanon. But he should have listened to Wil and/or Flick.  And that’s what he should have said when facing the truth.

I actually ended up liking Eretia/Wil/Amberle in season one. It starts out and you're like - oh, god another love triangle. And by the time they’re reaching Safehold, you're like - holy shit. Not a love triangle. This is totally poly, and I’m down for it. Of course, then Amberle becomes a tree, so… But I felt like it was still addressed in season 2.  Wil is jealous that Amberle talked to Eretia and didn’t talk to him, Eretia calls out Mareth on her feelings for Wil while admitting she knows what it’s like to love him.  The year apart has led Wil and Eretia on different paths and to different people, but they don’t write off their history, or their shared love of Amberle.

Okay, just insert all the squeeing about the Eretria/Lyria romance in season 2 here. Because it’s gorgeous.  Their fights are understandable, but not for a moment do you not think they aren’t in love through every moment of it. I just wish they’d let Eretia keep Lyria’s ring.  It’s made more than obvious she will return to her, so why have her return the ring?  I am so disappointed in that choice.

On the flipside, what the heck was with the Ander/Catania romance in season 2?  It made no sense.  It did nothing for the plot. Let’s be serious here. Given that Catania was with Bandon in season 1 - is the very reason he is on the loose - and is probably a little traumatized over her boyfriend turning evil, and the love of Ander’s life - Diane, the woman he pined over for ten years, remember her? - just died last year, the idea that they suddenly fell so madly in love Ander would consider giving up a marriage of alliance for Catania is ridiculous.

Not to mention that Catania is killed so quickly it barely matters that they’re together anyway.  On that note, why did we have to kill Catania exactly?  It felt so pointless to murder her. I really hate deaths that are just for drama and not for plot.  And before anyone says “they had to stop her from giving Eretia’s message to Ander”: So Edian had the chance to kidnap the woman the King of the Elves is supposed to be in love with to use as a hostage against him - which would make way more tactical sense - but chose to just kill her and offer a lame excuse even Ander didn’t believe?  With geniuses like this as spies and leaders, it’s a wonder The Crimson is succeeding at anything.

Sorry, but the whole Ander/Catania thing felt like it was there because

“Women and Men can’t be friends”

“We can’t have the only couple kissing in season 2 be w/w”

And nobody is ever gonna convince me those aren’t the backwards opinions that made the writers put them together in season 2, as opposed to just having her be a friend and advisor.  Ander could have hesitated over the marriage cuz he still isn’t over Diane’s death and Catania could have been like, “She’d understand.  She’d want you to put our people first.” And they could have kidnapped her instead of killing her and then that would explain her presence in the Crimson stronghold when Bandon took over, rather than having the Warlock Lord raise her from the dead.  Edian could still have given the excuse, “Catania left cuz she disapproved of the marriage.”  And Ander could still have frozen and been like, “Wait, what?  She encouraged me to accept the marriage.”  Almost nothing would have changed by them not being a romance and not killing Catania. (Twice at that.)

(They could also have also just… not killed Diane in season one.  Just saying…)

On the note of deaths that make no sense.  Let’s talk about having Ander survive the battle against Dagda Mor, witness the death of pretty much his entire family and the woman he loved, only to have him killed in season two by an antagonist who dies an episode later.  Purely for drama and audience pain. Not because it makes one spit of sense for the story.

Remember how Slanter only agrees to the alliance in season one because of Ander?  Because Ander was willing to let him out of the prison he’d been kept in.  To make the choice as a king that, despite Slanter killing the brother he loved so much, if he wanted this alliance - then he needed Slanter.  He also was willing to respect Slanter’s culture when they found the dead gnomes.  If Eventine had still been in charge, Slanter would have told him to go eff himself for asking for their help, but Ander had shown Slanter he had more depth and understanding and Slanter was willing to risk his people on him being the man he hoped he was.  The evolution of their alliance and tentative friendship was a great story.  And then they threw it away for what?

If they killed Ander so Eretia and Lyria could be together, first Ander already knew Lyria loved Eretia and this was strictly a political marriage so he wasn’t in the way in the first place. Second, they still didn’t end the season with them together, so what was the point?

The elven-gnome alliance exists for exactly two reasons and their names are Slanter and Ander.  It is not going to hold with Ander dead.  For that matter, the alliance with Leah will probably not hold with him dead either.  Lyria is the daughter of the woman responsible for the death of the last known (Cuz nobody knows about Mareth) member of the elven royal family. (Queen Tamlin is a fascinating and complex character, but the truth remains Ander is dead because of her machinations). In a world that has been set up as misogynistic from episode one (Amberle wasn’t supposed to run the Gauntlet because she was a girl ringing any bells?) there is no way Lyria would be able to keep the peace under these circumstances.  Not because she wouldn’t be a good queen, but because she was just handed a political nightmare.

That’s before considering that part of Ander’s story both in season one and the struggle with the Crimson in season 2 is because he had spent the last ten years avoiding his duties. He wasn’t taken seriously as king because of that. Um… Lyria has the same issue.  She literally was “missing” for the last year and has a history of running away. She’s going to have the same struggles Ander had in getting her people to put their faith in her, let alone other kingdom’s people.  Realistically, someone would rise up, seize the throne in Arborlon - probably go for Leah first before attacking the gnomes. Or possibly vice versa.  Even if Ander had lived, he and Lyria would have still had a giant mess on their hands - killing him only makes this “Yay, party, everyone’s going to stick to the alliance this time” ending feel super unrealistic.  Sigh.

In a lot of ways it would have made more sense to have the Crimson’s defeat be the end of season 2 and Bandon resurrect the Warlock Lord in the finale.  Not bring the Warlock Lord back for - what? 2 episodes and defeat him?  It made him look really weak by comparison to Dagda Mor, and that was a bit of a disappointment for me.  He’s the Warlock Lord. His defeat should have taken a whole season.  I guess considering we won’t get a season 3, I get why they made sure to wrap it up in season 2. At the same time though it feels rushed after the build up.

All and all, I still enjoyed the show a lot. And I would have come back for a third season if we’d gotten one.

[thegoddessofliterature]

A pretty long spoiler-filled reveiw of ACOMAF

-posted this reveiw on my goodreads around June and decided to share it now on Tumblr.

Reread this gem and love it even more than the first time. Of course, reading a good book for the first time is always special and you don't know any of the plot twists and turns. Not knowing what is gonna happen in a story is my favorite thing about reading. Sarah blew me away with her captivating writing style and amazing world building that left wanting more .The is the first book that made me cry and I don't easily cry in books which just proves my love for this book. Rhysand stole my heart. I just love him so much. I know most of you probably didn't like him in the first book but once you read this one you will change your mind. You can thank me later.

Moving on, let's dive straight into spoilers, if you adored this book as much as me. Most just me gushing over our precious bat boi.

Sarah did a great job at fooling me. Just like Feyre, I was blind to the red flags that displayed the unhealthy and toxic relationship between Feylin. Upon my second read, I could clearly see all the signs and read between the lines and kept thinking "why didn't I realize this sooner?''

I really liked the lesson that the author taught us about unhealthy and healthy relationships. You usually don't see the latter in most NA or even YA. And I despise Tamlin. He is everything that I hate in a man,controlling,abusive and anti feminist. I was so pissed at him for lying to Feyre that Rhys killed his family. The tool himself, had murdered Rhys family and I will never forgive him for that

Me to Tamlin “ I hope that burn..”

I could write a whole essay on professing my love for Rhysand but even that wouldn't be enough for me.

I LOVE HIM SO MUCH. He is no 1 on my fictional boyfriends list. No other male character can compare to him.

Just like Feyre, I wasn't expecting him to be the good guy. And, just as she was unaware of falling for him,I was too. I didn't even realize how attached I grew to Rhys until I got a spoiler that he was going to die. I legit got an ache in my heart and felt like crying. That's the beauty of books when a character feels real even they sadly aren't. Thankfully, he survived and if he didn't then I wouldn't have been able to forgive Sarah/

Why do I adore the Highlord of the Night Court?

He is so precious and a major feminist. He is humble and strong ( even when he has been through so much). My heart breaks for him. His story is too emotional for me to read without crying (on my second time reading). Not only did he lose his parents but his sister too. We never got to know how old she was but she was young. We never got to see his mother and baby sister. That makes my heart shatter in a million pieces but as if that wasn't enough, He didn't see his friends for 50 years. He was trapped under the mountain for so long and raped by that bitch and he endured it just to protect his city and family (the inner circle). As if he didn't have enough on his plate, he watched Feyre be taken away from him twice. He watched the girl he loved be in love with another man (his enemy who had killed his parents and sister) and yet he let her be happy (even if she was mate). After all of this torture and pain, he is still so kind and sweet and caring. He still think he isn't enough even though he sacrificed so much. He would rather put himself in torture than let something happen to Feyre or the Inner Circle.

And what I love most about him, is the freedom he gave Feyre. He isn't controlling like most men. He trusts Feyre and believes she can fight for herself but he will be there to protect if she needed him. Of course he cares for but isn't overprotective. Their relationship is so pure and healthy and I love it. I love how humble he is. Being the most Powerful HighLord of all the seven courts, you would expect him to be a rich snob but he is far from that.

I loved how much Feyre grew from that naive girl to a strong and badass woman. I could barely recognize her while rereading Acotar. It felt as there were two seperate girls in the two books. This is one of the best character development I have ever seen. My heart broke for what she went through. I could relate to her about some stuff minus the under the mountain scene (ofc). And I was so happy when she survived her depression and ptsd all because of Rhysand.

And I got so attached to whole inner circle, as if they were my family too. And I love Mor more than Amren because I could relate to her too besides the fact how sweet and strong she was

The whole book was a pure joy to read but my favorite parts were Starfall, The Summer Court and Court of Nightmares.

Starfall: It was such a beautiful celebration. Unlike, the ones in the spring court despite its pretty name. I loved the idea of stars falling down from the sky. Everyone was at their happiest. It was also sad to read knowing this was the first Starfall Rhys had after Amrantha. The fact that she knew how much it meant to him and yet she made him service her without his consent and on purpose. My hatred is like a burning sun. Moving on, I squealed at the moment when Mor and Feyre were talking and then Rhys came up behind them. My heart burst of joy when Feyre heard his voice and turned around. He took her to the balcony for her to experience Starfall at its prettiest. They had their cute moments and it was the moment when they were falling in love but didn't admit it yet to each other. Rhys hadn't laughed like that in ages, pure and a real laugh like Feyre hadn't smiled filled with pure joy ever since she was turned into a fae.

Summer Court: I loved Tarquin too. And I enjoyed the feysand moments at the court. Their constant back and forth banter and flirting. That's where the famous quote " To all the stars who listen and the dreams that are answered came from.

Court of Nightmares: This scene was so sexy and made my cheeks turn a deep shade of red. I loved how Rhys gave Feyre a choice whether she wanted to join him and the play the part or stay at home. It was her own choice that made her say " I wanna do it" and yet Rhys still felt guilty. Even when it wasn't like he forced or anything. He would never do that. I enjoyed them teasing each other. I was captivated by Rhys beauty. I love the real Rhys but I lust for the "evil" Rhys, the mask that he wears to protect his loved ones.

And that ending, I wasn't expecting that. I feel bad for those who had to wait a year or more for the next book esp after that gripping yet lovely cliffhanger. I didn't had to since the whole serious was already out. It was emotional even when Feyre was pretending to be in Rhys control. They work well so together. Rhys understood her plan through that bond and he acted so well. ( he actually deserves an oscar for his great acting of a bad guy). Tears rolled down my cheeks when the bond snapped and Feyre fell down to her knees, screaming in pain. Even Rhys. Sara tricked us but I was so grateful for that. That chapter in Rhys pov (the only chapter) was so precious. I was shook when he declared that Feyre is his Highlady and equal and the bond was never broken. It was just the bargain. And I loved how cunning Feyre. She is so smart and badass. Pretending to be in love with Tamlin (her ex), only to take him down along with his court.

This book brings me pure joy and reading it for the second time gave me a different perspective. I noticed things I didn't before. This time, I knew about Rhy's backstory so it was more emotional than the first time. And I didn't think of this sooner but I have a theory that Jurain knew all along that Rhys wasn't Amrantha's whore but was raped by her (sobs and gets angry). Esp, when he mentioned that he was forced to watch everything that bitch did due to the ring she made out of his eye. And he was the only one who was shocked when Feyre was pretending to hate Rhys. He knew since he screamed "What?'' when she told the king to break the bond.

Damn, this is the longest review I have ever written. No regrets though.

If you have read this far, be sure to follow my goodreads for more reviews. Link in my bio.

[flowerflamestars]

Fate and Fervor

PART ONE  PART TWO  PART THREE  PART FOUR  PART FIVE  PART SIX  PART SEVEN  PART EIGHT

For the first time in five centuries, Cassian watched the sun rise over mortal lands.   Raw as a new recruit he let the blizzards frigid wind breathe its secret’s around him, nearly so cold as his mountain home. Pink and blue, the world was superficially still in this hour before people began to move, but still here Cassian was, looking for something.   Nothing he could name or place, but Cassian trusted his instincts above all else.   There was something here- Not the something that resolved itself from the shadow of an open door to twist into the body of his brother, but the look on Azriel’s face gave agreement to Cassian’s  wordless tension.   Az ruffled his own hair, crossing the room in two strides and making a face that managed to silently convey he disagreed strongly with Cassian’s need to have every single window- four, imported glass every one, this room alone worth more money than he wanted to think about- to lean on the other side of the threshold where Cassian sat, between propped open balcony doors.   “Amren raided the hall of records- twelve Archeron generations.”

Cassian huffed a laugh. Six in the morning and Azriel already sounded exhausted by the surprises and sisterly infighting. “Can you believe she didn’t know? Fey would think having royal blood didn’t matter.”   His brother’s lips twitched. “It does explain a few things.”   The wind twisted around them, silent to ears not Illyrian, keened, keened keened- somewhere, some thing, fire without flame. Cassian let his head thunk back against the door. Nothing here was as expected.   Not just Feyre’s beloved and difficult sisters, or Lucien Vanserra in the heart of things, but this estate. Lavish, but-   “You catch the double wardings?” Cassian asked.   Azriel sighed. “Everywhere. This whole damned place is a blood magic deathtrap.” Respect was heavy in his tone, and Cassian could understand it. Lucien had to have brought himself to near death to put the wards in place. A Courts heir, high fae, bleeding for two mortal girls.   Illyrians also had a long history of protecting what they loved at any brutal cost.   And here was a far more dangerous world than Feyre had described; not desperation and cold waiting for them, but magic and secrets in their place.   “How’s the border?”   Cassian sometimes forgot how remote Az could be in company. A messy youth of laughing when the other option was despair had grown into a silent expressiveness that still made Cassian grin.   As he did now, watching Azriel’s whole face twist in a near-comical horror. “Blown to shit,” He ran a hand through his hair again, pulling on the curls. “No, Cas, it’s gone.”   “Tamlin hasn’t?..”   With perfect silence, Az stepped around the sprawl of Cassian’s body in the doorway, pointedly clipping one wing with his hip. He followed, snow immediately drifting in his hair, landing featherlight on Cassian’s bare shoulders.   The view was uninterrupted by anything so spartan as walls or coverage, the house a defensive nightmare. Just long sloping lawns and gardens broken up by magic rich, absurdly dense patches of forest. He’d hide Illyrians in those trees, have to rely on surprises and traps.   “Straight shot less than a league from here to Spring,” Az tilted his chin toward the dark and snowy forest, “Archeron land goes right to the Wall.”   What had possessed humans to build, to live, so close to the cursed thing?   “The borders down, Feyre’s sisters have been here this whole time,” Cassian didn’t like the odds, half wanted to go over each of their sprawling magical traps himself. It wasn’t, couldn’t be safe here. “Is Tamlin that afraid of Vanserra?”   Az shook his head. “He was dying, when he came here.” Cassian didn’t have to ask for explanation; secrets and history were the ken of Azriel in their every shape. “The magic at the border wasn’t a fight, he shattered it. Walked on foot through the woods, burning so hot it went to the bedrock, stopped half dead there.” He pointed with one scarred hand to a snow-buried rose garden.   “They saved him?”   “Something happened,” Az replied, “Something made him live.”   Cassian recognized the tone, gave into the urge to drum fingertips on the iced over railing. “Something like being the son of a high lord, or something like Rhys keeping Feyre alive?”   “I can’t tell,” Azriel admitted, with a grimace.   The wind sang around them with that phantom scent of fire, something, something just beyond reach. Cassian didn’t ask if Az could hear it too. —- The breakfast room was a masterwork.   After an hour of talking that turned to plans to slowly letting themselves be utterly savage at the very idea, much less the reality of syrupy, utterly untrustworthy charming Rhysand, the eldest Archeron sister’s had come downstairs.   The empty house benefitted them. No maids to watch and try to help as they hauled in new furniture, no footmen insisting they could carry the vast rug the sisters dragged in between them.   No eyes to see where they stored the family secrets.   Nesta rolled out the thick carpet with one hard kick of a dainty foot, and huffed. “If he lies to our faces I’m going to stab him.”   Elain, comparing fine porcelain patterns with each hand, snickered. “Even if he does, Feyre will want to know why.”   “I think,” Nesta said, utterly even, “She’d believe his word over ours.”   Elain didn’t throw down the plate, but she was later grateful this particular pattern, covered in silver stars and ever-blooming poison flowers like an alchemists eden, was charmed against breakage as it slid to the ground.   Nesta was a perfectly straight pillar, staring down at the plush green and purple pattern beneath her feet. Trying to hide the full scope of her hurt, even from Elain. High walls and grace and rage- but underneath it the largest heart of them all.   It had gone unspoken between them, that they’d silently imagined Feyre in their number again someday. The things they’d done- building her spaces in the house, signing her name for the Councils seal: a Lord Archeron might technically always be in legal charge, but it’s beneficiaries were his three, precious daughters.   Nesta had made sure of that.   Their father would never pass them the title- but everything else was theirs: Feyre, Elain, Nesta, the last of their storied bloodline.   A home, a place, a fortune. All Feyre’s whenever she should want it.   Their land was dangerous too, growing more worrisome every day- but they’d missed their sister. They’d broken laws too numerous to count to stay safe and powerful, to maintain a corner of the world she might one day live in with them.   Elain crossed the room to take her elder sister’s hand. The triplicate strand of pearls that lived on Elain’s wrist now that their home was full of fae had to have been cold, but Nesta didn’t flinch. “Feyre loves us,” Elain said, softly, “I don’t know what she wants now, but it had to have been her idea to bring the High Lord here.”   “A reckless, stupid idea,” Nesta grumbled.   Elain laughed, “So stupid it’ll probably get us killed. But she’s home.”   The laugh was what made Nesta look up, her shining eyes so completely like their mother’s Elain savored the sight. She’d been taller, her blue grey gaze more metallic and the fine boned cheeks she’d blessed them all with more inclined to smile; but Nesta was utterly the child of their most beloved parent.   “If we die, we’ll die together,” Nesta sighed. “Do you think that if you kill a High Lord you can really steal the power?”   There was just enough dry humor in her voice for Elain to laugh again. “We could test it on Beron.”   Nesta ran her hands down her skirt, flaring the fine faery velvet to shake off ash and dust. They’d dressed for conquest together, every inch rich merchants daughters. “We’ll be beat to it, I’d imagine.”   They would be, Elain was sure. Sorcha, who deserved her revenge the very most, would have it. Already had in some way- stolen essential, ancient power, given Lucien back a part of his birthright Elain couldn’t fully comprehend.  Nesta had spoken wryly, but the furrow between her eyes returned. They were thinking the same thing; wouldn’t say the Lady of Autumns name aloud in these spaces now shared with a Shadowsinger. Couldn’t speak to each other of what was to come even alone, in their newly invaded house.   Like Elain, Nesta believed in an absolute form of justice.   Beron was going to die.   Unbidden, lean brown lines returned to the forefront of her thoughts. Lucien’s clever hands- that Elain should not be letting herself long for- riven with burns at the touch of that crown.   Autumn-born, but cast out. Power. A chance, revenge, the war to come- they had plans for it. Plans upon plans: for if they could hold the estate, for evacuation and weaponry. The three of them together took care of separate spheres, but Nesta held the most in her head.   Elain didn’t wonder how far they’d have to go; there was no too far, not to keep their family safe.   Even if they had to be kept safe from the very people their sister had made a family of. - Cassian counted windows and clear views, walking on silent feet behind Feyre through her families home.   Even motion was a struggle, the third shift of his wings loud enough Azriel was looking at him. It wasn’t the luxury- not the quiet or beauty of this place putting him on edge. Not even the conflict- coming here was a bad idea, and he knew it.   Cassian didn’t even know what he was looking for.   Until Feyre swung open yet another beautiful door, and Cassian stopped breathing.   Bathed in bright morning light of a wall-sized window, Feyre’s sisters had beat them to breakfast. Arrayed in finery, at the head of the table sat Nesta, steaming porcelain cup in her hand so fine Cassian could see through it.   How he made it from the doorway to the seat at her right hand was a dangerous proposition- Cassian didn’t know how. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, but the deep steadying breath was a mistake.   The pearls in her hair alone were worth a fortune.   He wanted to dismiss her beauty, the vanity as it juxtaposed with things Feyre had said. The sister whose heart was an ocean, vast but unconquerable. The same sister who hadn’t protected her.   But Cassian was too much himself, too long a dearest friend to Mor to dismiss any woman based on appearance.   Not braided in to show off the shining darkness of her hair, but affixed loose to the ends of pins like water drops. The pearls moved when she did, a chime through the still, tense air Cassian wasn’t sure anyone else could hear.   It wasn’t a question he’d ask.   Cassian wanted- he wanted to stop staring at her. Wanted her to look back at him so badly he’d bitten a hole in his cheek, the copper tang of blood not enough to forget the smell. He wanted an excuse to get up from this lavish power play of a breakfast table, to have a reason to walk past her again and catch Nesta Archeron’s scent.   Velvet and pearls and ink- past that, herself: fire, mixed with the cold tang of high mountain air.   It was intoxicating. The ink she’d scrubbed from her hands didn’t show, but it complimented completely that raging smell, like a tundra forest fire. Cassian could tell too that she was armed- knives under that velvet dress, a stinging scent that could only mean ash wood somewhere on her person.   The danger only increased his racing heart. And then Nesta Archeron turned her pale, perfect face on him. Impossible cheekbones, full lips, sharp jaw, keen eyes.   “What,” She snarled, “Do you think you’re looking at?”   Her voice rang like a bell through his skull.   Cassian was not High Fae. Not even low fae, really- Illyrian’s were so different as to be considered outsiders to even the rest. Savages. He’d never needed anyone to explain to him what bullshit it was; but, Cassian was Illyrian to his bones, blooded and born of open skies.   He was different, and so was capable of realizing he was looking at a fellow threat.   The ash was in her hair- pins? It had to be, had it been anywhere near her skin Cassian wouldn't scent it the way he was now. The fire and iron of her rage and arms, growing stronger with the uptick of Nesta’s heart.   It hit him all at once, the commonality of this entire spread.   He couldn’t make himself look away, but there was something familiar even about the silk in Elain’s hair.   Nesta was looking at him like she wanted to rip out his throat. Beautiful- the bones of her proud face were as flawless as the pearls, paler than their sheen. Cassian, still hearing her voice in the air, only to his ears, wanted to see how close he could push her to doing it.   Her pale gaze bobbed down to his lips for a scant second, and then out. Look at me, Cassian thought, before realizing her furious eyes were following the line his wings made around his body. Black in this light, the scars hidden. Was she measuring? The out of body insanity he’d been feeling since he walked past her shouldn’t leave room for pride, but there is was, leaving Cassian light headed.   If Nesta wanted to go for his throat, she’d have to touch him. Human- her teeth were like his, bruising, not faery pointed. Her mouth-   Like a door slammed shut in Cassian’s face, every bit of Nesta dismissed him, every bit of her attention forward once more.   She smelled like fire and every fine thing in the world- Cassian was burning.   Distantly, he listened to Feyre snap something toward her oldest sister in offense, Elain’s sweet voice chiming in. In the distraction of the conversation he heard the rustle of Az’s wings, but Cassian ignored his brother’s subtle turn in question.   Without permission or a conscious plan, Cassian leaned right over the table corner into Nesta’s space, like they were the only people in the room. “You know about Sangravah.”   Nesta stopped speaking mid-sentence. She’d moved toward him, not away. This close, he could see the pulse beating in her throat, and fought not to stare like a madman. Savage, Cassian thought again, with very different bitterness.    “Do I know the Night Court was invaded, a city leveled, and within a day it’s High Lord showed up on my doorstep?” She hissed, meeting his gaze. “Yes.”   Nesta had known, and she’d laid a trap.  A brilliant jab, after Rhys’ speech about strength and the war to come. Everything in this room came from the North- imported china, but painted in the Rainbow. Night Court silver. Wall hangings, the kaleidoscopic silk of Elain’s clothes, the very rug beneath their feet: Sangravah.   Cassian had seen with his own eyes the smoking ruin Hybern had left of half the city.   “I had no idea the merchant network worked so quickly,” Rhysand drawled mildly, sipping tea like they were having a casual discussion.   Cassian had the quicksilver thought of smashing his fist into his beloved brother, trusted High Lords face.   The Archeron sisters were not going to be handled.   But Nesta was still looking right at him. Cassian knew that expression on Illyrian faces- a predator that had smelled blood. She was good, too good. After all, he’d fought with Rhys for a full day about this particular direction: bringing danger to Feyre’s human family, taking the war over the Wall prematurely if things went sideways.   They were her sisters, it was ultimately her call. That didn’t mean he had to agree with it.   How did Nesta know?   “The families,” Nesta said, matter of fact and deadly, “Lost good sailors to the fires. When the stone burned, the water did too.” Feyre had opened her mouth in horror, but Nesta plowed on. “If we can’t keep people safe in your land, what makes you think we could provide for you safe haven to hide from your war?”   Cassian wanted to reach out and touch her.   “No one,” Rhysand said, “Is hiding.”   Feyre leaned around his wings, mouth twisting. If she took note of the electric bubble of space Cassian had accidentally created and Nesta had taken over with sheer rage, it didn’t show. “We’re sure father couldn’t have been on any of the ships? He wasn’t there when it happened, right?”   They were so close a pearl hit Cassian’s nose as Nesta’s attention snapped left, the back of her braid stabbed through with a pin long enough to double as a dagger. A faery killing dagger, gleaming ash wood- Cassian couldn’t have backed away if the room were on fire.   “Feyre,” It was Elain who sighed her name. Resplendent in pink and pearls of her own, she showing a whole different face than the woman who’d stabbed Azriel yesterday. “Father is not working the trade routes.”   Feyre shook her head, already glancing back at Rhys, “Can we find out for sure? Send someone in case”-   “He’s in the City of Gods,” Nesta said, flatly. “Or he was a year ago, getting arrested for gambling debts. I doubt he got much further.”   Feyre’s face crumbled. A scream would have drawn Rhy’s attention less quickly, and Cassian himself hated to see her hurt, but he was busy struggling to breathe. If he’d been less close the sorrow that emanated from Nesta would have been hidden. Anger was one thing, an unholy terror in her rage, but-   But the urge to rip apart whatever had hurt Nesta was overwhelming. It rattled in his veins, terrifying to even himself. What was wrong with him?   “I’ll find your father, wherever he is,” Rhys promised Feyre is a low voice. She leaned into the touch of his hand, blue eyes over-bright.   Late, too late, Cassian caught Elain watching him. He knew she was armed too, under all that silken beauty. She was softer than her sisters, a gentle ghost in Feyre’s stories. Giant eyes and winsome dimples seemed to only reinforce that vision- but she’d stabbed Azriel. Loved and absolutely trusted from her every gesture one of the most dangerous unaligned faeries in Prythian.   Twisted her face in an expression of total wickedness that belonged on Feyre’s face to raise brows at Cassian- at the lack of space between him and Nesta.   Cassian sat back in his chair, clenched hands hidden by the table.   Not fast enough to miss the impossibly quiet rattled sound of a breath leaving Nesta when he moved. Not a bit of it showed on her face- for all that Cassian could smell sadness, a cool unmovable rage, beautiful to see, was all that reached the world.   A queen, riven of ice and pearl.   The next youngest might have been flounced like a princess, but Cassian couldn’t imagine she wasn’t just as controlled. Courtier and queen then- quick poison and vengeful crusade, hand in hand. Feyre had failed, on a cataclysmic level, to describe her elder sisters.   They should have seen it coming- an impossibly young human woman who’d freed them from Amarantha. She’d come from somewhere, for all that most days she seemed more like a sister, a friend.   Instinctive deep breath burned his lungs with Nesta’s scent all over again. If he pulled on that murderous dagger, would the whole thing unwind? He wanted with a stark insanity to know how long her dark hair was. Could he fill both hands with its softness, breathe in her scent?   Cassian hadn’t missed it when he’d scooped her out of the fight the day before. But her fear had clouded everything- a fear of him so complete and overwhelming he’d felt sick- left no room for the wildness that pounded his skin- and then of course, all he’d smelled was his own blood.   “Fey,” Began Elain, her deceptively soft voice carrying, “Father has made it clear he doesn’t want to be involved. We can send sailors to check on him, but it would be easier to plan if you told us why you’re here.”   He wondered how old they were. From Feyre’s stories, Cassian had been sure Elain was the youngest. But old enough to wed- old enough to be entangled with Lucien bloody Vanserra- and Nesta was clearly an adult in her prime.   The Cauldron-gifted savior of Prythian was the baby of the family.   And making a guiless younger sibling face that made the long-scarred wounds where Asteria had lived ache. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”   “Bullshit,” Nesta snapped.   Cassian bit his cheek again to stay silent, mouth twisting without his permission. She was a nightmare- a beautiful nightmare that wasn’t going to let this already messy plan come together without a fight.   A small noise had escaped Elain- not even censure, tiredness? Before the two older- he was sure of it- Acheron’s were meeting eyes in a silent understanding that scrunched Feyre’s face into a scowl.   “You both think that?”   That they exchanged glances once more before Elain tried again was enough to audibly set Feyre’s teeth.   “You can always come home,” Elain told her, staring down the table with it’s gleaming crystal and china, utterly sincere. “You have a place here with us, no matter what, Feyre. But”-   Nesta interrupted, hurt buried from her voice but not Cassian’s senses, throat burning at her pain. “You let us think you were dead. If not for Lucien, we would have no idea what happened to you.”   “And,” Elain went on, like Feyre didn’t look like she’d been slapped, like Rhysand wasn’t staring at Nesta with a thunderous, barely contained danger, “We understand these are very dangerous times.”   It was all wrong- Cassian had fought against this plan on the basis that mortals over the Wall killed faeries, killed those who associated with them. It was still the greatest danger here, but how thoroughly had they misunderstood what they were walking into?   These women were already involved in their own way, all the more in peril because of it; they weren’t going to be able to contain this situation, they were only going to make it worse. Cassian was going to make it worse if he didn’t get a hold of himself, if Rhys kept looking at Nesta like that.   It was an effort to be still, to stay silent. Every instinct in Cassian’s body was telling him to move: to reach out and find some way to soothe that raging pain in Nesta Archeron, who he’d known all of a day, to put himself bodily between the bright flame of her mortal beauty and the anger of a High Lord. His brother- who would never-  Despite the overwhelming tension in the air, Feyre scoffed. “How did Lucien know I was alright?”   Trapped at the corner of table Cassian got the full view of Elain’s eye twitching before her whole face smoothed.    Nesta had no such compunctions. “I believe he was somewhat aware of whatever has put that crown on your head.”   Moonstone today- like a distant echo to Nesta’s shower of pearls. Cassian knew damn well what Rhysand was doing, giving his emissary a crown, but Feyre didn’t. Equal parts marveled and self-self-conscious at the splendor, she’d refused- not ready or too stubborn, he didn’t know- to look at Rhys’s affection for what it might be.   With a long, slow breath, Rhys finally set down his tea cup. “We’re not here for refuge. The tragedy at Sangravah was not the first attack, nor will it be the last. We need to call on old alliances if anyone is going to survive.”   Silken- not gentle, there was the voice of the woman who could love the lost heir of Autumn- Elain breathed, “Human alliances?”   Feyre nodded, and Cassian wished there were some way to stop her before she went on, painfully earnest. “I’m the emissary of the Night Court, I need to speak to the Council of Queens. If they’ll listen, help, we all might have a chance. Hybern won’t stop”-   No one had to explain further, as Cassian imagined few people ever did speaking to Nesta. The look on her face had been icy, now she might as well have breathed frost. “And you’re High Fae, so you cannot set foot in the sacred palace. You want to bring the Council of Queens here?”   Breaking his silence with clear regret already on his face, it was Azriel that answered. “We have been unable to infiltrate the council. It’s a deathtrap, to our kind. It might only be safe to engage here, on mortal land.”   “It’s a deathtrap for a reason”-   “Hybern,” Rhys cut in smoothly, “Has been preparing for this war for millennia. The king aims to take this entire continent, and there will be nothing to stop his march into mortal countries. If we cannot band together now, we’ll fall, one by one.”   “No,” Nesta growled, a nearly-faery noise. “No. Hybern has declared war on the Night Court, I will not let you bring that violence south.”   “It’s the only safe way,” Feyre said, voice cutting. “I just need your house, just for a few days. The message is sent. But we should plan together. We’ll keep you out it, keep you safe, Rhys can”- Not Nesta, who’d stood from the table to yell all the better, but Elain, her pale cheeks drained of color who didn’t let her younger sister finish. “What do you mean, the message has been sent?” Feyre, Cassian thought, you didn’t. One hand on Rhysand’s forearm, Feyre raised her chin. “I invited the Queens here. We don’t have time to argue, they’ll have the message by nightfall.” — Elain had told herself not to be surprised by her younger sister’s actions anymore.   One High Lord, two High Lords- the Lord of nightmares and shadows- breaking a curse older than all of them, fighting monsters, becoming fae.   Nothing had truly disappointed her before this moment. Feyre, who wanted so badly to do the right thing, who was trying to protect her new family: but who would protect them? Their vassals, their land, the fragile, infinitely valuable legacy of their blood that Elain and Nesta had lied and committed treason to hold onto?   She’d been right- Nesta had been right.   There were a hundred moving pieces before them: the household staff, who’d return in a day, if that when the blizzard ended. Their vassals relying on them- the extra gold and food they provided in winter, the orphanage full of children who had no idea how dangerous or precarious their world was. The Crown of Autumn in a hatbox, the slight of hand involved to keep their ships sailing and their goods sold.   Her engagement ball, the invitations sent. Lucien’s safety, Sorcha’s plan. That the war starting might be here- that those battles wouldn’t have a chance to kill them if the Queens decided to take their lives themselves, as was their legal due.   Elain needed to breathe. To think.   All she could do was look at her sister- not Feyre, not now- at Nesta, and understand the sorrow, the anger that spooled between them.   Trapped, once again.   Elain didn’t realize she’d risen until her skirt snagged on the chair, stopping her progress to Nesta’s side for a split second before the dark-eyed shadowsinger to her left freed it with an inclined head.   Later, she would think about how this court- family, so clearly a family- didn’t seem to agree either.   But first she rounded the corner to take Nesta’s hand. Shoulder to shoulder, they wouldn’t flinch. She wanted Lucien.  Colder than the ice gathered at the windows, Nesta’s voice was clipped. “You invited the entire Council of Queens to meet the High Lord of the Night Court, under our roof?”   Before Feyre could answer the hulking Illyrian who had been staring at Nesta like she were both miracle and doom interrupted with that whiskey warm voice of his, “Feyre, you didn’t ask?”   Nesta didn’t look at him, didn’t move her focus from the High Lord whose unnatural gaze was on them both, but Elain felt her hand, hidden by their skirts, spasm.   Humans had told stories of his kind for generations. The true of heart, warriors whose honor was life, whose promises were magic, who protected the innocent at all costs. Myths, surely, but this was the Commander of the Legions.   Honor was perhaps something they could lean on.   “We don’t have time to fight,” Feyre insisted, a transparent lack of understanding on her face, “Hyberns next attack could come at any time. I can do this, we can do this.”   Smoothly, the Lord who they feared even across the sea nodded, spread his hands in a very human gesture of compliancy, wrong to behold. “I know that you don’t trust me, don’t know me. But please believe I won’t allow any harm to come to Feyre’s family.”   Feyre’s family- their fate’s bound together inescapably.   Elain had had more than enough assurance for one morning.   She didn’t need to look to know Nesta felt the same, to guess from her thrown back shoulders and rigid body that Nesta wanted nothing more than to be out of this room. Time to think, to plan, to be alone- but she wouldn’t, couldn’t back down from the fight.   And Rhysand wasn’t done.   “We’ll shore up your defenses, guard your home for as long as needed. Feyre’s letter is the first real message we’ve gotten to the Queens, but our interests align. We”-   Elain shook out the heavy woven silk of her skirts, rainbow shimmer settling under her steady hands. Ignoring the whole lot of them- winged warriors, Feyre’s confusion, Rhysand’s false straightforwardness, she turned to Nesta. “Tea?”   Nesta cocked her head, in step, the graces that served them again and again. “Of course, I’ll see you this evening.”   Time then, she needed time as well. And long enough for them to wait for Lucien.   Elain addressed the room at large, like Rhysand hadn’t spoken. “Please do enjoy the comforts of our home. The kitchens are stocked, if not staffed, and the library is down the hall. You’ll find extra clothing in the scullery and more firewood in the closets of all the greatrooms. Avail yourselves to whatever you need, we’ll see you tomorrow.” “Elain”-   Nesta made it to the door first, holding it open for them both before the satisfactory slam rocked the entire wall.   In low tones, Nesta asked as they reached the stairs, “Do you know where Lucien is?”   Elain shook her head, “He was talking about checking on the outlying farms.” Nesta sighed, on the step above as they’d been braced to head in opposite directions. “Later,” she said again, reaching out quicksilver fast to squeeze Elain’s hand again. “We’ll figure it out.”   She managed to smile in return before stumbling down the stairs, fast enough to trip. It was longer way outside, down twisting marble and across the grander spaces of the house, but Elain still managed to pull on her fur cloak and step out into the crisp, bright world before she had company.   She strode into the snow regardless, ducking around the house on slick stone paths, cold clear air her greatest companion.   “Elain,” It was Feyre, of course.   For a half moment, Elain contemplated just ignoring her. When they were children, truly young, the only thing that made Feyre angry was to lack for attention. It wasn’t normally a problem; even at their most desperate, their father had affection to spare for his youngest, precious daughter.   It would be almost fair, she’d ignored their qualms, the very circumstances of their lives.   But no, Elain was better than that. No matter what, she’d missed her sister and there were things that had to be said.   “Elain,” Called Feyre again, sliding into step beside her on those longer faery legs that Elain couldn’t get used to. Always gangly, little Fey now moved with perfect, silent grace. “You can’t refuse to plan with Rhys because of the letter. We need the Queens to”-   Gently, gentle as she could manage, Elain interrupted. “The problem isn’t Rhysand,” She said, trying and hoping Feyre would actually listen. If Nesta had this talk with her, it was going to end with screaming. “You wrote that letter, Feyre.”   Familiar and still utterly different blue faery eyes blinked widely a her. “I was,” She stumbled over the words, “I was a human and now I’m fae, and the emissary of the Night Court. The best choice to write to the Queens.”   Five steps from the haven of her solarium, Elain stopped walking. “Feyre,” She said again, and this time she couldn’t hold back the anger in her voice. “You wrote the letter. You signed it with your own name too, didn’t you?”   Feyre stopped too, set her feet wide and stubborn.   Through the glass, Elain could see her orchids blooming. If she made it to those doors, there’d be no Night Court. Just soil and moss only she’d ever touched. Potted lemons blooming, the air warm and moist, some actual damned quiet- but she had to have this talk.   Elain sighed. “Rhysand, none of them know any humans. Not in recent history, anyway,” Feyre opened her mouth as if in protest, but Elain held up a hand, “You grew up here. You know the punishment for associating with faeries in this land is death, Feyre.”   No one cared the original Acheron fortune had been built on the back of wrangling a deal with a faery smith. That even now, Nesta, under the auspice of their father’s authority, kept faery bargains on the continent.   What mattered was this: the wild land along the Wall had no ruler. It belonged personally to the Council of Queens, but with true governance more than an ocean away, human lords- whose estates might as well have been tiny kingdoms, for their absolute power- had to keep the peace. Faeries came over the Wall- not faeries of the continent, whose gated kingdoms and vast reaches had always interacted with humans in some way- but faeries of Prythian who played by different rules.   Killing. Stealing maidens in the night. Hunting humans like prey.   So the highest echelon of Lords, Flatha and Tiarna, petitioned the Queens they traced their own bloodlines back to and it was written into law: death, usually at the hands of your very own liege, at the word of your neighbors.   Human slow, Feyre touched Elain’s arm. “The meeting will stay secret,” She told her, wide eyes sincere, “There will be Illyrian’s to guard if anything goes wrong, and Rhys will keep you and Nesta safe.”   Lucien, markedly, was not included in the count to be protected.   All at once, Elain was exhausted. She didn’t want to be angry. Not at her naive and beautiful sister, all of nineteen years old, who’d fought and died and been transformed. Little Feyre, a true hero, who’d always had a good heart.   Tired too, that for all that goodness, Feyre really thought Elain was afraid for herself.   “You signed it Archeron,” Elain snapped before she could stop herself. “Just because father bankrupted all of us doesn’t mean he ever stopped being a lord. Ua Flaithbertaig, Feyre. These people lived without a leigelord for a generation, we’ve only begun to fix things. They will be punished, we will be punished.”   “When the Queens meet with us, they won’t punish you for being present.” Feyre said lowly.   “If they meet with you, Feyre!” Elain found herself shouting and stopped, breathing out her nose. She’d been wrong; maybe Nesta should have had this conversation- maybe she’d have been sharp enough for Feyre to take her seriously.   “Nesta is not Banfhlaith, Fey,” Elain tried very hard to say evenly. “She can’t petition for clemency. Lucien is living under a false identity- there’s no one to protect us, no one who can intervene.”   “But Rhys,”-   Not for the first time, something prickled in Elain’s palms at the sound of Feyre’s familiarity with the High Lord of the Night Court. There was more there than a bargain, whatever that binding tattoo meant. Feyre loved him.  Elain knew she didn’t mean harm, wanted to trust her sisters new friends- but that was just it.   They were new- foreign and horrifically powerful. Good intentions wouldn’t protect human lives in a violent game that had spanned centuries.   “Rhysand,” Elain managed to say normally, calmly even, “Is not going to stop a war with an enemy that held him captive for a half a century to protect three hundred human vassals who have nothing to do with the conflict.”   The stubborn set of Feyre’s stance had become kinetic with anger. “Nothing?” She shouted back, flawless immortal hands flung into the air, “War is coming. People are going to die, Elain. During the last war”-   She sounded just like Nesta, when she was angry. But then again, Nesta never talked down to Elain. “The last war was almost six hundred years ago,” Elain snarled back. “The Queens hate the High Lords, Feyre. Our country is allied with the faeries of the continent, humans live in the Glass Mountains, go to university in the Weeping City- the world has changed.”   “The world changes, but you don’t, right?” Feyre said, brittle with anger. “You have Tamlin’s riches, so you get to play lady again.”   Elain had a hundred reasons Feyre was wrong- that without a leigelord, an Archeron in power, their people had nothing. Bound to their ancestral land without protection. No divorces, no founding of new institutions, they couldn’t even pick new crops to grow on estate land without their lords word. With their father out of power, they were trapped- and forced to pay the crown tax individually, more than twice what the estate under Elain and Nesta took.   The fiefdoms of their slip of human land weren’t fair- but the sisters were lucky enough the Queens had never awarded the ancestral Archeron lands to anyone else. Their father might not have given a damn, but the least they could do was try to make things better.   But none of that came out of her mouth as her sister kept speaking. “What’s the plan? Say the war never comes. What, you’re really going to marry Lucien? Lie to everyone. Let him pretend to be your human husband for a hundred years until you die?”   When Nesta was younger, she used to panic. It would crash over her, hold her fast in it’s grip- she told Elain it was like a vise in her chest, all the time, but sometimes it squeezed so tight she couldn’t breathe. The world went white.   Elain had promised her to help hide it- for Feyre to never see- but she’d vowed to herself to find a way to hold Nesta’s hand when the world tried to crush her.   The world was white now.   “Get out.” Elain said, colorless.   Surprise visibly interrupted Feyre’s anger. “What?”   Elain didn’t pause to say it again. She started walking, those last five steps strangely light, as though the ground were further away. But two of her steps was one of her sisters now.   “Elain,”-   “No,” Elain said, refusing to look up, lest Feyre see her burning eyes. She wasn’t going to cry. “What’s done is done. Whatever danger is coming, I’m not going to face it having slapped my own baby sister.”   The brightness of the icy day dazzling her eyes, Elain lurched away and into those safe glass walls. Humid heat and the smell of smoke hiding behind green growing things wrapped around her like an embrace. Lucien had laid some magic over this place, kept her plants safer even than the expensive glass provided. I’ll have to thank him, Elain thought, the orchids lush before her.   But she passed their shelves, went all the way to that back until she was screened from the outside world by potted palms, and sank to the stone floor.   Twenty five.   Elain was twenty five years old- how long would it be before she looked older than Lucien? Three years, six years, ten years? How could she know how things would progress?   He’d never mentioned leaving. Seemed, not just as his human guise, but in those quiet moments that were Lucien and nothing else, to perhaps love the land the same way she did. He might change his glamour with time- human faces change- but Elain knew the real ageless beauty. He belonged here with them.   She didn’t know how she would change.   They had to survive- it wasn’t all a lie, hadn’t ever been, and maybe, maybe, if they lived, Elain would make sure Lucien knew it. — Despite the moonless night, Cassian found Nesta Archeron outside.   He’d resisted all of ten hours.   He shouldn’t have gone looking for her. That he knew- there was no way she'd come out into a dark and frozen night for company. In fact, Cassian wasn’t sure Nesta liked anyone’s company.   But he couldn’t talk himself into staying away, anymore than he could get her burning scent off the back of his tongue. Like something had possessed him, Cassian couldn’t stop tasting it on the air. Even in the sky overhead, his lungs burned with mountain cold and raging fire. Like home.  Nesta didn’t make sense to him.   The older sister who’d failed to protect Feyre. The wrathful pillar of ice ready to challenge a High Lord without a trace of fear. The woman who seemed determined to go down fighting- not just for her sisters- but for every single human in these lands.   The spitfire who’d broken his noise, and come back for more.   She looked at him like he was dirt beneath her boots- and Cassian couldn’t stop thinking about her.   So like the Cauldron damned masochist he was, Cassian found himself waiting in a dead garden, struck dumb by the play of false firelight over her relentlessly beautiful face.   Magic- of course- Vanserra’s raw power intermingled so deeply into the Archeron’s land that it was beginning to take on small characteristics of faerie. Will-o-whisps were old Autumn magic- and inclined to lead mortals and faeries alike to their death in their original form. Those bouncing around the Archeron’s dormant garden seemed more interested in the roses.   Or perhaps the woman sitting beside them.   “Is it common Night Court manners to sulk in the dark?” Nesta asked, back to Cassian as she faced the sky.   “It’s not a good time to be alone at night.”   Nesta remained silent. The will-o-whisps drifted closer, painting red over the old gold of her hair. Cassian fought the urge to smack one away from her fragile mortal form.   An itch was starting his veins-  familiar dismissal in her silence that seemed to reach right down inside him. What was Cassian doing? This woman didn’t need- or want his attention. Cassian liked fighting, but that didn’t mean he needed to take a few extra kicks to the ribs.   He was just rocking back, silent even on the frosted ground, when Nesta turned to look up at him.   One eyebrow rose. Cassian fought the urge to tuck his wings tight and shift, to lessened the impact of his sheer size standing over her. He settled for crossing his arms.   And there was the other eyebrow, gods damn him.   Her voice had razor edges. “Why hasn’t your High Lord told my sister they’re mates?” High Lord rolled out of her mouth like a curse, briefly catching him before Cassian caught up with her words. What? “What?”   It wasn’t that Cassian hadn’t guessed the same thing. It wasn’t even that the rarity or the impossibility- the ten thousand childhood stories that clenched beneath his sternum to damn him with the very word mates- but Nesta had known Rhys for two cauldron damned days.   “It effects her just as much, Feyre should know why there’s a crown on her head.” Nesta had continued.   Something about her- gods, that face- the sharp tilt of chin, that she still hadn’t bothered to rise, the unremitting aggression in her tone that left no quarter- boiled the blood in his veins like this was a spar he’d have to fight to win. The battles he actually remembered.   She looked even better without the gems and pageantry. A sword unsheathed, ready for devastation.   “You don’t,” Cassian began, locking on eyes whose color he’d lost in the dark. “Get between a male and his mate. You won’t like the consequences.”   That had Nesta shooting to her feet. Blue- her eyes were blue. Cassian could see it in the will-o-whisp fire now; lighter than Feyre’s, dawn rather than high noon. He’d been closer to her this morning. Now, alone, it was a world of difference to breathe the same air.   “I wouldn’t want to be between Rhysand and anything,” Nesta spat, face up to meet him, “But Feyre deserves to know.” How was she so small? Petite- Cassian couldn’t call her delicate with that gaze that wanted to set him on fire. But she barely, hardly, came up to his shoulder, and that didn’t seemed to concern Nesta one bit. She’d stepped right into his space. Aggression- not violence- dominance. Nesta Archeron fought like a faery.   No, a gods damned Illyrian.   “They’re not”- Cassian tried to say, but Nesta cut him off.   “Am I wrong?”   Horribly, suddenly, all Cassian wanted to do was laugh. She wasn’t wrong at all, and he’d bet his entire fortune she rarely ever was. He swallowed it down to a smile, but Nesta saw enough for her eyebrows to spike high once more.   “Mates are rare beyond measure,” Cassian said, before she could interrupt. “But it’s not instant. Permanent, but the bond takes time to snap into place.”   Time to find, if you were Illyrian, equal parts damned and lucky as he was.   Her quick, clever eyes were following the gesture of his hands- Cassian was grateful for half a heartbeat before he paused, and that beautiful gaze was back on his face.   “If- if- Rhys is feeling the bond, but it hasn’t snapped into place for Feyre, then he’s probably trying to give her time.” Nothing about Nesta’s face changed, but the tilt of her head leveled. “Mate bonds aren’t- they’re resolute, completely.” Cassian didn’t have the words- or the desire to tell Nesta- that he thought Rhys was being an idiot. That Feyre needed all the information to choose. But he could also understand his oldest friends fear. Rhysand would take the rejection, no matter what, no matter what it did to him. He had only feeling, not the song on the wind to lead him. “And this is really none of our business."   And Nesta laughed. “When she finds out in the middle of a war zone and tries to throttle him, it’ll be our business.”   Again, Cassian agreed with her. He’d didn’t think it would be a real rejection- anyone with eyes could see how in love they were falling. Gods, he’d had to live with it, both of them set off like sparks every time the other entered a room.   Feyre was going to be furious at being kept in the dark.   But he couldn’t admit that. “Is violence how all human women show their affection?” Cassian found himself drawling. He’d leaned down into her space again without realizing it. The fast beat of her heart- ash still bound in her hair- the light of her eyes- Cassian could take an awful lot of violence.   She smelled like a storm. “Or is Vanserra just that lucky?”   Not just a storm- lightening, as her eyes flashed. Cassian wanted to take back the words immediately, but some stupid impulse kept him frozen. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips, in his wings.   For all that Cassian was drowning in the sweep of rage like so much heavenly fire that had driven him from skies time and and time again, Nesta smiled. “Wouldn’t you like to know, General?”   She turned without another word and swept away, will-o-whisps following, to leave Cassian in the dark that rang with her voice.   His hands were shaking. What was the gods damned point?

@breath-of-sindragosa

@flxwer-petals

@ladyvanserra

@illyrianinterrasen

@missanniewhimsy

@tntwme

@ourbooksuniverse

@pitterpatterpot

@thestarwhowishes

@abillionlittlepieces

@my-fan-side

@the-eightofswords

@wonderland–memories

@ourbooksuniverse

@cohen-theeleven

@donnarosemary

[rosegoldannie]

I'm a sucker for Feysand, Elriel, and Elorcan so something starting with a fight between them? Idk like they're already together but something happens and one of them thinks they gonna end it or somthing. All angsty and such that ends with fluff because I dont want my heart broken that bad. That make sense and/or sound interesting?

Uh YES!

please send in any prompts you think of, this was sosososo fun! Sorry it took awhile, I just wanted to get it right.

Feyre glanced across their shared living room to see her boyfriend of two years typing away on his phone. As of late, this had become the norm; she would arrive home from work, and he would either be exactly as he was now, or in the middle of a call.

Whenever she asked what he was doing, he would give a half-answer, never really telling her much. At first, she had been unbothered, and assumed that he was speaking with clients from work. But after nearly three weeks of this, she had begun to grow somewhat hurt, resentful even.

She had attempted to distract him, even going to far as to wear some new lingerie to bed, but he had been uninterested, and told her that he was tired, and didn't feel well. Feyre had been disappointed, but ultimately climbed into bed with him.

Turning back to her sketchbook, she continued working on her newest piece: A portrait of her boyfriend, as she had seen him these last few weeks -- almost exactly the same, but with a certain guardedness to his eyes. A closed-offness that concerned her. With the exception of his recent personality change, he was exactly as he had always been: loving and affectionate, constantly showering Feyre with praise and love. And while the logical part of her brain screamed that it was something else, a small, small part whispered that it was because Rhys had tired of her, that she wasn’t enough..

The longer that thought sat in her mind, bouncing around, the more velocity it gained, until it was the only thing she could hear above the roaring of her heartbeat. Not enough, not enough.

Before they had begun dating, Rhys had been somewhat of a womanizer. Always respectful, but also always seeking out a nighttime companion. Had she really expected him to give that up for-No.

No. Rhys loved her. Feyre knew he did. She also knew that he would never cheat on her. Not after Tamlin, therefore it must have been something else.

That stupid, wicked thought still rumbled. Not enough, not enough. Tired of you. 

The lead of her pencil snapped with a loud crack!

Feyre blinked in surprise, holding it up for inspection. Rhys glanced up, his gorgeous violet eyes meeting and holding hers. How she loved his eyes, the way they caught and reflected the light, that little spark of wicked humor that flared whenever he told a joke. The way they softened when he smiled, that shimmer of joy and life that was a balm to her weary, broken soul. Gods, she loved him. She would have happily spent eternity gazing into his eyes. Something seemed to shift in their swirling depths, as if he had come to a decision. He motioned to the setting sun now streaming in through their bay window. “Walk with me?” He murmured. His words sent a slight tremor of fear through her, but she forcefully shoved it back.

“Sure,” Feyre replied, tossing her sketchpad onto the table, and pulling on a hoodie.

Rhys gave her a smile. Not huge, but something.

~~~

The setting sun turned their city aflame in gold, as if it had been just pulled from a forge. It turned his normally tan skin alight, as if he glowed from within. Feyre fought the urge to ask if she could go back and grab her sketchpad.

Rhys was near silent as they walked, a noticeable sheen of sweat on his brow. A sickening feeling settled in her gut. He’s going to break up with me, Feyre thought, shoving her hands deeper into her pockets. 

Several times, they each tried to make conversation. It always failed, sending a jolt of sadness into her heart. It had never been this way between them before. They had always flowed seamlessly together, always anticipating what the other would say or do next, but completely surprised all the same.

Keeping a slight step ahead, he lead them to their favorite park, where they would sit together and watch the families, sometimes joking about how marriage was undesirable, or planning what they would name their children.

He stopped beside the fountain by which they always sat, and motioned for Feyre to take a seat. She did so, albeit suspiciously. Her fists clenched in her pockets, blue-grey eyes tracking his movements. Waiting.

Despite their relationship beginning as purely physical, those moments in the park with him had allowed her to simply imagine a future in which she was married. Rhys had resurrected a part of her that had perished years prior at Tamlin’s hand. And now she savored every second before he inadvertently destroyed that part of her.

“Alright,” He began, pacing back and forth. Feyre braced herself for the heartbreak to come. “Feyre, we’ve known each other for years, and I swear that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me.” A warm feeling spread through her, a shy grin on her lips, even as that blasted voice returned. But you are not enough. Not enough. Her grin vanished, but Rhys continued. “I-honestly, I don’t know where I would be without you.” He took several steps toward her, until Feyre had to lean her head back to see him, his voice lowering. Gods, did he not know how his words affected her? How every word was both a balm and a shiv to her broken and fragile heart?

 “You brought back a part of me that I was certain had died long ago. Feyre, you made me want to live.” An aching tightness began in her throat, spreading to her chest. Feyre clenched her eyes shut, waiting for the final blow. The blow which would shatter her soul, the soul they had worked so hard to mend. But you are not enough. “You made me become the person I never knew I could be. Without you… Without you, Feyre Archeron, I am nothing. My heart has been yours since before the Universe was created.” He dropped to one knee, hand going to his pocket. “And I will love you until the end of time, regardless of your answer.” He pulled out a small, velvet box. “Feyre, I would crawl across miles of broken glass, swim through lava, anything to see you happy.” He popped the lid open to reveal a simple, sapphire ring. “Feyre Archeron, will you marry me?”

Instantly, her hands flew to cover her mouth. “WHAT?” she hissed, leaping to her feet. This wasn’t a breakup...he hadn't brought her to their spot to break her heart. He had brought her here to declare his love. Rhys was...proposing to her? 

Suddenly it all clicked into place. The few times she had managed to catch a glimpse of his phone, he had been searching for rings, or texting Mor about a ‘surprise’. A long forgotten memory surfaced, of when they had first moved in together. 

In between carrying boxes up countless stairs, he had pulled her aside, away from their friends. And Rhys had sworn to her that he would never break her heart, that if the relationship were to end, it would not be from him.

Rhys was everything she had never known she wanted: Someone who loved her dearly, supported her passions. He listened to her, he supported her ideas, and called her out on bullshit. He held back her hair when she was sick, and rocked her back to sleep when she awoke from nightmares.

And so Feyre barely had to think before she replied clearly and truly, “Yes.”

[thesurielships]

New Girl meets the Court of Dreams Part II (Feysand AU)

I know I already said this in my part 1, but this is my first time writing a fanfic, and though I have a general idea of where it’s going, the chapters may be messy, and the characters not perfect. I feel like Feyre got too comfortable too soon with them, but dammit she doesn’t need to suffer in every single universe.

Part I, Part II, Part III

The next morning, Feyre was roused from the most fulfilling sleep she’d had in months by unfamiliar voices whispering.

“Az, come over here!” a first voice whisper-yelled. “Rhys has been turned into a girl!”

Footsteps came into the room.

“Don’t be stu- oh. I can’t say I mind,” said a second voice, this one a quiet murmur.

Feyre decided to ignore them till they went away, and snuggled deeper into her citrus scented blankets, eager to go back to sleep.

Another pair of footsteps shuffled into the room.

“Cassian, get out of my room.” It was Rhys’s voice. Feyre smiled into the pillow. “Az, you too?” he added in disbelief.

“I must say I liked you better as a sleeping beauty,” replied the quiet voice, which she guessed to be Az.

Obnoxious laughter erupted in the room.

“Cassian,” Rhys hissed.

Feyre sighed, accepting that her sleep was over, and peeked over her blankets.

“Why, Rhys, you’re more uptight than my mother.”

The laughter got even louder, and she glanced at its source. A tall, muscular guy with shoulder length dark hair and mischievous hazel eyes was currently doubled over, slapping his knee. She turned towards the quiet chuckle in the other side of the room. Az, she guessed, looked a lot like Cassian, with the same dark hair and hazel eyes, but where Cassian’s features were strong and his expression open, Az exuded soft elegance and stealth and grace. He was glancing between her and Rhysand, who was looking at her with a half-smile on his lips.

“This is what I get for trying to let you sleep in?”

She snickered and sat up, still unwilling to leave her warm cocoon.

The sight hit Rhys in the gut. He wished he could wake up every day to her in his bed, her golden hair fanned across his pillow and a languorous smile on her face.

“So, was Rhys’s performance so unsatisfactory last night that you kicked him out of bed?” Cassian asked, wiping the tears that had escaped from his eyes.

She smirked. “I didn’t even get to kick him out. I fell asleep.”

Rhys’s jaw dropped.

Cassian grinned. “I like you.” He extended his hand. “Cassian.”

“Feyre,” she smiled back, shaking his hand. When she made to let go, he pulled her closer and mock whispered, loud enough for the entire room to hear. “If you’re still… unsatisfied, my room is just next door.” He winked at her before releasing her hand.

Rhys grinded his teeth.

“Hello, Feyre. I’m Azriel.”

“Nice to meet you.” They shook hands.

“Now that introductions are over,” Rhys interrupted before his other brother got a chance to flirt with her, “I think we should start the screening process.”

Cassian and Azriel looked at him then, eyes wide.

“You mean to tell me that our roommate is gonna be a girl?” screeched Cassian.

“I know models,” she offered.

Cassian’s expression immediately went from disbelief to excitement. He clapped his hands and all but squealed, “our roommate is gonna be a girl!”

“Easy,” Rhys chuckled. “She still hasn’t passed the interview.”

Cassian looked at her. “Are you going to set us up with those models?”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

“Then it’s a yes from me.”

Rhys sighed. He opened his mouth to put an end to this mess of a conversation, and to give Feyre a chance to freshen up before she had to deal with the hurricane that was Cassian, but Azriel spoke first.

“Do you know how to make a hangover cure?”

Feyre’s eyebrows rose. “I guess?”

“From a scale of 1 to 10, how messy are you?”

She chewed on her lip, thinking. “4? Except for when I paint, then it’s a solid 8.”

“Is there something specific you don’t like eating?”

“Not really.”

‘Do you shed hair?’

She stifled a laugh. “I’m not a dog, Az.”

Rhys was a little jealous that Azriel got her to call him by his nickname so fast, and without even needing to ask.

“How many hair products do you use?”

“Shampoo and conditioner.”

“How long do you take in the shower?”

“About half an hour.”

Rhys was rapidly getting uncomfortable with the direction this interview was taking.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

She opened her mouth before processing the question. Her cheeks heated, and Rhys grunted. Azriel looked at him, assessing, then smirked triumphantly, and Rhys realized he’d just been tricked.

“Okay. I cook and clean. Rhys takes care of grocery shopping. Cassian fixes things around the house. You can be home decorator. Mother knows this house needs a woman’s touch.” A loud crash sounded somewhere in the apartment, followed by a yelp. “Welcome to our house, Feyre,” Azriel concluded, and then left in a hurry, no doubt to go fix the mess Cassian was making in the kitchen.

Rhys sighed and went to lean against his desk in the edge of the room.

“What do I need to do to get my third yes?”

He smirked at her, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. She chucked a pillow at him, which he caught inches before it hit him in the face. “How about-“ he was interrupted by another one smacking him in the nose. He lowered the pillow, his movements slow and his smile slower. “You wicked thing.”

Feyre barely got a glimpse of his indigo eyes twinkling before she was hit with such force that she fell back on the bed. The prick had thrown both the pillows at once. She grabbed one of them and aimed blindly, but she only heard it thud against the wall, followed by a dark chuckle and retreating footsteps.

“The toilet is two doors down, to the left. Welcome to our home, Feyre darling,” he said by way of goodbye. And though she didn’t quite realize it then, it was the first time she’d felt at home in a long time.

***

Rhysand joined his brothers in the kitchen, only to find it all coated by a thick layer of flour, and smudged in places by puddles of raw eggs.

“I wanted to make pancakes for our new roommate,” Cassian pouted.

“So is she going to take Kallias’s room?” Azriel asked, picking up the cracked egg shells from the floor. “Or is she going to share yours?”

Rhys was careful to keep his face blank. “What do you mean?”

“He means,” Cassian smirked, “that you could’ve easily put her in Kallias’s room yesterday, but you put her in your bed instead.”

“I figured she wouldn’t be comfortable sleeping in a stranger’s sheets,” he lied smoothly.

“She did seem very comfortable in yours,” put in Azriel.

Rhys felt heat creep up his neck, so he tried to change the subject. “Are you sure you two are okay with her living here?”

He was met by two sets of knowing eyes and teasing smirks, but thankfully they decided to let it drop. For now.

Cassian shrugged. “As long as she pays the rent, I don’t see why not.”

“Are you okay with it?” Azriel, ever the observant one, asked.

“As long as she pays the rent, I don’t see why not,” Rhys repeated with a half-smile.

Approximately half an hour later, the time it took Rhys and Az to clean up the flour and egg explosion, Feyre appeared in the doorway. She had just showered and her hair was still a little damp, but what really got to him was the shirt she was wearing. It was his favorite shirt.

Feyre noticed his gaze and grinned. “I hope you don’t mind.” She passed by him on the way to the sink to get a drink, and he got a whiff of his shampoo. Gods above, she even smelled like him. 

Rhys’s voice was strangled when he said, “make yourself comfortable, Feyre darling.”

Azriel shut the fridge he’d been scouring for food. “Someone finished all the eggs, so I can’t bake anything for breakfast. Velaris?”

Feyre immediately perked up at the name of her new favorite restaurant. “Velaris makes breakfast?”

Cassian’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ve been there?”

“Yeah, Rhys and I had dinner there yesterday.”

Cassian was shocked. Never in the long years he’d known Rhys had his brother taken a girl there. It was his sacred place, and he never showed it to strangers. He considered the girl standing in front of him in Rhys’s shirt in a new light. She was pretty, he supposed. And feisty. He was glad he liked her because one look at how Rhys was staring at her like she hung the moon and he knew that if his brother had any say in it, she would be with them for a while.

***

Feyre was once again at awe. Velaris not only made the best pasta she’d ever tasted, they somehow also made the best pancakes. She was on her fifth pancake when Rhysand asked her, “so, where are your clothes?”

She coughed. “About that… I don’t really have clothes?”

Silence. She was pinned by three pairs of eyes, and she struggled to swallow her bite of pancake. “I left everything behind at Tamlin’s.”

“By Tamlin, you mean Tamlin Rosefield?” Cassian asked, disbelief coloring his words.

“Won’t you go get them back?” Azriel asked quietly.

She could feel Rhys’s gaze on her face, cool and calculating, as she mumbled something along the lines of yeah, later, and scooped another pancake into her plate, digging into it before they could question her any further. 

[nomattertheoceans]

My time without you

This is set between the end of ACOTAR and the wedding scene in ACOMAF. Basically, Rhysand’s few months when he came back from Under the Mountain (so not really a very happy time for our boy...)

This came to me yesterday at night, so I kind of free-wrote it and I hope you’ll enjoy it!

He was going to drown. As Rhys winnowed away from the Mountain to the living room of the townhouse, where Mor was waiting for him, he knew he was going to drown on this thought. She's my mate. He'd known it, of course, but he hadn't expected it to rattle him this much when he saw her. He'd never experienced anything that strong before, nothing could compare to the feeling of wanting her, he could feel it in every bone of his body, singing to him as if in an ancient song, older than the world itself. She's my mate. Thanks to a tiny still rational part of his brain, he'd managed to get out before doing anything stupid. But it was all he could do not to go back and snatch her away to Velaris. The instinct was so strong, it was hard to control his winnowing.

Finally, he managed to solidify on the floor, and his cousin was in front of him immediately. Untouched, unharmed, beautiful. But still, his thoughts wouldn't move away from her, the most important person in his universe. And when he tried to speak, to greet Mor and make sure she was okay, the only words that came out of his mouth were:

“She's my mate.”

“What? Who? Rhys, are you okay?”

“She's my mate,” he only repeated, the words like a balm to his aching soul, aching at the lack of her by his side, aching because he'd forced it away from her.

“Rhys, calm down. Talk to me. Who are you talking about?”

“Feyre,” and her name was the most beautiful music in the world. He knew right then that he could spend his days thinking only of her name and he would be content for the rest of his life. Her name, her wonderful name that answered every question he hadn’t been aware of. He stayed silent for the longest time after that, and Mor didn't say anything either, both of them seated on the floor. Finally, his lips parted, and everything poured out of him in somewhat inconsistent sentences:

“She's a human. She was human. She's High Fae now. She saved us all. She freed Prythian.”

“Rhys I don't understand, please can you try to be clearer?”

The concern in his cousin’s voice helped tethering him to the ground, long enough to pull his thoughts together and form more logical sentences:

“Feyre. She was human, and she was brought into Prythian through the Spring Court.” He couldn’t say his name. “I had been seeing her in my dreams for years, and she was here to free us.”

“A human? How would a human free us?”

“There was a curse. She could lift it with the right words but she didn't. She made a deal with… Amarantha. And she won and freed the magic, but Amarantha killed her,” his skin recoiled at the memory of her dead human body. “We brought her back, all of us.”

He fell silent and Mor stared at him:

“And she's your… mate?”

“Yes.”

“Then where is she? Why didn't you bring her with you?”

The questions his entire being wanted to acknowledge: Where is she? Why isn't she with me? Why? Why? Why?

“Mor, she was here with… Tamlin. Years ago he told Amarantha he'd rather bed a human than her, and with what happened between Jurian and her sister… The curse was that she was supposed to fall in love with him despite her hate for our kind. And she did. She's with him.”

The idea of his mate with him almost made him vomit, or winnow to her to get her away, and he had to look right into Mor’s eyes to stay where he was.

“She's with Tamlin?! Oh Rhys…” her voice died away and she took him in her arms. He didn't need words, he needed her. Feyre. He would never stop needing her, longing for her presence beside him. But he hugged Mor back, as he was starting to take in his surroundings. He was in Velaris, Mor was here, alive and well. He was home. He wriggled gently out of her embrace to look at her:

“Morrigan,” the semblance of a smile formed on his lips as he realized it was all real. She was real, there in front of him. His dear cousin he'd spent hours dreaming about when the torture had been too great, when Amarantha had been too much for him to want to go on. And all of the sacrifices that he'd made for his family, his city… Looking at Mor’s happy face, he knew it'd been worth it. They hugged again, and Mor spoke:

“Azriel, Cassian and Amren are on their way, do you want to delay for a bit? I mean, if you don't feel well…”

“No, no it's fine, I'll be fine.” And he would be. After all, a mating bond was not necessarily a synonym for love, and he didn't know Feyre that much. And he couldn't have her anyway, so there was no point moping about it. He would be fine. His family was on the way, all of them safe and sound, and real, after 50 years apart. “I need to tell all of you what happened.”

Mor nodded, and he realized that in his panic, he'd told her more than he’d intended. There was no point telling anyone about the mating bond, not when his mate was in love with another male, and thinking of him as an enemy. He had decided to keep it to himself before leaving the Mountain, but seeing Feyre had shaken him so much the words had come out without filter. So now, Mor knew. But there was no reason to tell the others.

“Mor, can we keep what I told you between us?”

“Alright.”

A knock on the front door, and his brothers entered without waiting for an answer. In seconds, he was surrounded by them, and they were all laughing and crying into each other’s arms. Amren stood in the entrance of the room, and greeted him with a soft but somewhat joyful “High Lord” before sinking onto a chair. He let go of Cassian and Azriel and said “There is a lot I need to tell you.”

The atmosphere of the room changed at that, and everybody sat down to listen to him. He didn't know exactly how to start, how much to tell them about his suffering and his actions during those last fifty years. But Cassian helped him:

“So are you going to tell us how you were freed? Azriel went looking for answers those last few hours, but nobody seems to know what happened exactly. Is Amarantha actually dead?”

“She is. Tamlin killed her.” Oh, how much he regretted not being the one killing her, not watching the light go out of her eyes, as he'd dreamed it for years when she was in bed with him. But it was done now, and at least she was dead.

“Rhys,” Azriel started, his voice methodical and calm, “We know very little of what happened those fifty years. Since yesterday I just managed to gather which High Lord was alive, which had been killed, which Court was spared or not. The informations are very shady, it seems that Tamlin had a big role to play? Also, some human girl I didn't get the name of?”

That was it, he needed to tell them the story of Feyre and how she'd saved them all. His soul was still crying out to her, trying to reach her through that bond they shared. But his voice remained miraculously calm when he spoke:

“Tamlin didn't do anything. But he was part of what freed us. Years ago, a few months after she'd stolen our powers, Amarantha threw a party and cursed Tamlin. She had wanted to take him to bed but he'd refused, and had told her he'd rather bed a human. You can imagine how pissed she was at that. She cursed him, told him she'll give him his powers back if he could make a human woman fall in love with him. The woman needed to hate our kind enough to have killed a fae, and to tell him she loved him. He had 49 years to win. But he did nothing. Until about a year ago when apparently he started to send males back across the wall in the hope to break the curse. And it worked. This woman you heard about Azriel, she killed one of his sentries and Tamlin brought her into Prythian.”

“So did she fall in love with him? Did she break the curse, is that what happened?”

“Yes,” and the next words stung his tongue, “she fell in love with him, but she didn't break the curse in time and Tamlin was taken Under the Mountain. But she came back for him, and she made a deal with Amarantha. If she managed to complete three tasks of Amarantha’s choosing, Tamlin’s court, his power, would be free.”

“That's a fool's bargain,” Cassian interrupted.

“It was, but Feyre won all her tasks nonetheless. And Tamlin killed Amarantha on the spot after she broke Feyre’s neck.” The words were killing him. Her name, the image of death in her eyes, the joy of seeing the light come back,... It was all too much. “But we were all there, all the High Lords, and we brought her back.”

“Like Myriam. So there's three of us now,” Amren said, her voice no more than a whisper.

Mor must have seen the look on his face, the difficulty he had talking, because she rose and said:

“Rhys, you can give us more details later about all of this. For now, we need to get organized. Azriel, tell him what you learned.”

“While you were gone and we were stuck in Velaris, it became a bit chaotic in your territory. Keir is still ruling the Hewn City on a pretty tight leash, so they stayed within their borders, even though I'm sure he won't be happy to see you. But the Illyrians took advantage of the lack of commands to expand their territory, initiate wars between camps, take up clipping their females again,... we'll have a lot of work to get them back like it used to be.”

“Alright,” Rhys said after considering this information. “There's also the matter of Hybern. The King was preparing for war fifty years ago, and I doubt he's abandoned the idea. We need to have spies there as soon as possible, as well as in the other courts. He's going to take advantage of our weakness, we need to be prepared.”

For a long time nobody talked, until Cassian said with a smile:

“It's good to have you back, brother.”

***

Two weeks after Under the Mountain

Amarantha was smiling at him, straddling him in a way that he could not move, couldn't do anything but look at her as she took her pleasure on top of him, her fingernails scraping his tattoos as if to rip them off. He wanted to kill her, the world was twirling around him until there was only Amarantha left, until even she disappeared but he still couldn't move, strapped on the floor, the only sensations the ghost of her body and his rising nausea. But then the setting changed, and he wasn't in her room anymore, he was in the Throne Room, and the female High Fae was kneeling in front of him, reciting prayers. Except when the hood was taken off, it wasn't the dead Fae. It was Feyre, her beautiful face contorted in pain and covered in tears, but he didn't hesitate as he plunged the dagger into her heart.

Rhys jerked awake, his eyes wide in terror as he looked at his hands and realised he wasn't killing his mate. He was awake, he knew it, but yet the vision didn't leave his mind. He saw from her eyes as she got out of bed and ran to the bathroom, got on her knees and started puking. For a second he wanted to join her and caress her back to help her through the pain, but the rational part of him reminded him that she was in the Spring Court, not here, and she would not want to see him. Plus, her dear High Lord was probably on his way to comfort her himself. It wasn't the first time he'd woken up to visions of her retching in the middle of the night. It had started mere two days after his return and had happened nearly every night since. But the dream… it had been her nightmare, he was sure of it. Did she really have dreams in which she killed herself? The thought was unbearable to him, the idea that she might feel bad enough that she might not have the will to live anymore... His heart skipped a beat at that. He went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, the images of their intertwined dreams still fresh. It was going to be a long night.

***

One month after Under the Mountain

He didn't know how he had been able to spend fifty years without flying. As he roamed alone through the Illyrian steppes, enjoying the currents of warm air tickling his wings, he wondered again how he had endured it for so long. The faces of his brother sprang to life in his mind, the face of a few citizens of Velaris too: the owner of that lovely restaurant across the Sidra, the couple of High Fae living across the street, that he'd seen the day before with their newborn youngling, Amren’s face during their last meeting, eyes closed and drinking heavily the blood he'd brought to her. It had been worth it. Because if he hadn't suffered fifty years of Amarantha, the restaurant might have been ash and cinders, ad the youngling might have never been born.

But he was free now, free of her wretched body and free to fly through the skies again. In his waking hours, at least. Sleep still escaped him, his night tormented by nightmares of being pinned down on a bed, of his wings being torn off, of Feyre’s neck snapping again and again without ever coming back to life. Tormented by her nightmares too, killing the two High Faes, the blood of a Nagga drowning her, the bloody pelt of an enormous gray wolf turning into human skin… Every night he woke up to her thoughts, and every night he wanted nothing more but to winnow to her and hold her. It was another form of torture, the longing for her, the need to talk to her and touch her and kiss her. The week before, Cassian had asked him to tell him in great details the first task she'd had to endure, and Rhys had been more than happy to talk freely about her for so long without having to come up with an excuse, or without having to seek out Mor. His thoughts drifted constantly to her, whereas he was alone in bed, or in a meeting at the Hewn City, or listening to Azriel’s daily reports. Sometimes, she even sent him images and thoughts, when she felt too much all of a sudden - the rush of fear when she entered a room too small or saw a glimpse of Lucien’s hair unexpectedly.

As if he'd summoned it, one of those feelings came to him through the bond. But it was not horrified for once, it was almost… joyful. Almost. He felt his heart warm up at the idea that she was getting better, but then the images flooded his mind. A meadow under the Spring light, and Tamlin, kneeling in front of her, a golden and emerald ring in his hand. Rhys came back to his reality and had to land in a hurry, incapable of forming a rational thought. She was going to marry him. That had been a wedding ring in his hand. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think outside of the ring.

Hours later, he winnowed back to the camp, and listened to Azriel’s report. Among other news of the different Courts, Spring had announced the engagement of Tamlin, High Lord, and Feyre Cursebreaker.

***

Three months and a half after Under the Mountain, two days before the wedding

Two days. Two days before she was bound to his enemy forever. Rhys was seated at the desk in his bedroom, alone except for a bottle of liquor and a large glass. As time went on, everything was becoming harder. He didn't want his family to see he wasn't recovering, so he kept the moments of weakness contained to his room. They didn't know. He hadn't told them what Amarantha had made him do, what she’d used him for. He didn't see the point in telling them, not when there was nothing they could have done to help him while he'd been forced to kill and torture, and tortured and fucked himself.

A flash of images took over his vision, along with waves of… pleasure? He saw a bedroom in the night, saw a pair of female legs moving against the sheets. And between those legs, a blonde head moving, while broad hands ending in claws were holding on to the thin thighs.

He got up and ran to the bathing room. A second later, he was vomiting. The retching continued as he kept on seeing flashes of bodies interlaced together, as he kept hearing moans and whispers of love, incapable of blocking them out. Finally, the visions and the puking stopped, but Rhys didn't get up. He stayed seated on his bathroom floor, head in his hands, trying to calm down. He let his head fall against the wall behind him and looked at the stars outside, his vision blurry with tears he didn't bother to stop.

It wasn't fair. He knew he didn't deserve her, knew he could never be with her. He'd spent a considerably large portion of time trying to forget her those last few months. But did he have to endure images of his greatest enemy having sex with her?! If he was to forget her, why did he have to suffer through this? Maybe he sounded like a child, but while the tears kept on rolling down his cheeks, he thought again: it's not fair.

And outside the images of sex, she was sending him so many mixed messages that he didn't know what to make of it. She seemed to enjoy nothing these days, not the preparations of her wedding, not the walks on the garden, not the painting. It broke his heart a little every time he felt her panic or sorrow and could do nothing to help her. But it wasn't his place, Tamlin was the one blessed with her presence and her love and the honor of helping her get better. And two days from now, it would be his for the rest of their life together.

He needed a drink. Or a hundred.

***

Three months and a half after Under the Mountain, the day of the wedding

Rhys grabbed a second bottle of liquor and passed it down to Cassian. It was nearly night already, and he knew he needed to be passed out in the next two hours if he wanted to avoid the visions of Tamlin making love to his mate.

In about five minutes, she'd be lost forever, married to the male she loved, bound to him for the rest of eternity. Maybe the visions would stop afterwards, maybe he could try to think less about her. Highly unlikely to happen, he thought as he sat down again and listened to an already kind of drunk Cassian ramble about the new assortment of knives he'd gotten for the Winter Solstice. He was about to answer when his vision blurred.

Red everywhere. On the floor, a pool of rose petals marking a path. On her hands, blood dripping down on the white wedding dress. And then words: murderer, liar, unworthy, shackles, mixed with more images of the crowd at the wedding, the crowd Under the Mountain, and Tamlin, magnificent and a hand extended to her. And finally, her voice, more afraid than anything, praying: Help me. Save me. Get me out, end this.

He winnowed without thinking twice about it, leaving Cassian to the liquor. As he appeared amidst darkness and thunder - a cheap trick, but he wanted the crowd to disperse - he saw her, the female lacing his every thought, finally here in front of him. But she was not looking good. She was so… thin. So, so, thin.. It looked like her arms could break at the faintest touch for how weak they looked. Her collar bone appeared at the front of the hideous dress, and her face. As she turned to him, he saw the violet circles under her eyes, covered by makeup but still there. And the dress didn’t do anything to help her look less sickly. It was an awful piece of tulle and chiffon and gossamer, with enormous skirts and puffed sleeves that seemed to swallow her whole. Gloves had covered both her hands, going up to her elbows. They had chosen to cover the tattoo up, hiding away every piece of her that didn’t fit the tale they wanted to show to the world: the blushing bride she was supposed to become didn’t bear marks of a bargain she’d made with a High Lord from another Court. Nevermind that she’d bargained with him to save her life because she’d almost died, trying to free Prythian. Nevermind that the tattoo was a reminder of what she had endured to save them, they had hidden it away, dressing her up in that hideous wedding dress, and she looked… She looked like a doll, a precious, beautiful and quiet doll, a gift. For him. Rhysand couldn't stand the idea of it. Of this brave and powerful female trapped in a gilded prison of eternal Spring for the rest of her life. He wanted to take her in his arms, help her, but he remembered the role he was supposed to play if he wanted to get her out, and, straightening the lapels of his jacket, he purred:

“Hello, Feyre Darling.”

[courtofsapphiresandshadows]

Chapter Ten- Sasha

The soft cries of prisoners and the clanking of chains were the only things Sasha could hear as she paced the length of her cell, the stone floor cold under her feet. She would kill for a pair of socks- shoes would be better. But this was the Prison, and such luxuries didn't exist.

A guard passed by, the flickering light of his candle briefly illuminating the cell she was stuck in. 'Nothing had changed' she noted as her eyes skimmed over the walls before the light faded, and she returned to the darkness. At one point, it had been a comfort- it usually meant that Aegan was nearby. But now... The voices around her drove her mad. It was never truly quiet in the Prison, but if it were, it would probably scare her more.  

Another guard marched by her cell, pausing to glance inside the cell. She stared back, the chains preventing her from getting any closer to him. "Are you Sasha?" He asked, daring to venture closer to the small peephole on her door.

Sasha. No one had called her that in a long time. Only other names- bitch, the mercenary, and the Red Death. Now that one was her favorite. She had loved the way dying fae had gasped it as blood trickled from their lips. Had relished the way the Illyrian males screamed it when she drew near. But that had only landed her in the Prison, with no hopes of ever finding out what happened to her best friend.

So the spark of power that she felt earlier had been a wave of pure ecstasy. 'Aegan was alive', was all she thought then. 'Aegan is alive.'

Sasha had used the thought as a comfort blanket as she wasted away in the cell, but as time passed, that blanket had started to get tattered. She didn't know how long it had been since Aegan's power had been announced. And Sasha knew that she wasn't the only one who had felt it.

The guard remained at the peephole. "Are you Sasha?"

She merely inclined her head. Yes.

Before she had time to react, the chains constricted her body like a snake, and the guard marched in, flanked by two others. "Under the High Lord of the Night Court, I hereby free you from the Prison, and relieve you of your sentence", he declared, before slamming the hilt of a blade on the side of her head, Sasha unable to fight the unconsciousness that quickly consumed her.

~Rhysand's POV~

It didn't take quite as long to find Sasha as Rhysand had previously thought. The day following Aegan's acceptance of the deal, both High Lord and spy sat down across from one another, a map of the Night Court rolled out in between them.

Aegan traced her hand over the Illyrian mountain range, as she told him of all the places that she had searched for her friend. It was impressive, really- she had flown for miles, even daring to venture out of the Night Court once to see if Sasha had disappeared south, but to no avail.

They had just began planning on what they should do, when Cassian, once again, burst into his office.

"May we help you?" He asked, feeling slightly irritated that now he had do deal with both Cassian and Aegan in his office- again.

The Commander leaned over the desk, gazing down at the notes the two had made. "Still looking for this girl?"

"It's only been a day, Cassian." It seems Aegan shared his irritation. "And her name's Sasha."

"Sasha..." He muttered to himself, running a thumb over his lip. "Sounds familiar. What does she look like?"

Aegan and Rhysand shared a look. "She has red hair, dark brown eyes..." She trailed off, eying Cassian as the male paled drastically. "You know her?"

He tried for a grin, only to look more scared than relaxed. "Well, I might have met her once or twice..."

"Cassian..." That was his only warning from her. "What aren't you telling us?"

Cassian glanced over at Rhysand, a look of desperation in his eyes, but he merely arched an eyebrow. If he had intel on where Sasha was, he might as well tell Aegan. The sooner they found that blasted female, the sooner Aegan could fulfill her end of the bargain. Azriel had once again gone back to Ironcrest, and the reports yet to rely any good news.

Upon seeing that he would be getting no help from his friend, Cassian turned back towards Aegan, who had sent him a very pointed look. "Well, do you know where she is?"

And that was how they ended up at the Prison's entrance. Aegan stood at one side, Cassian at the other. Feyre had stayed behind to oversee Velaris, however was really trying to interrogate Nesta more about Aegan. She had been inquiring about their new guest, and since her mate had not told her anything (due to Aegan’s request), Feyre had decided to satisfy her curiosity herself.

“Are you sure she won’t kill us all?” His commander asked once more as they watched a set of guards enter the Prison.

“For the last time, yes!” Aegan snapped. “If you keep asking me that, I’ll kill you myself!”

“Enough Aegan, before you work for 6 months instead.”, Rhys told her calmly. “Sasha will be delivered to you unharmed, just as I promised.” Fidgeting with his Illyrian armor, he exhaled sharply through his nose. “Did it take this long to release Amren?”

“Amren had been a prisoner here?” Aegan inquired, but her question was left unanswered as the two black doors opened, groaning loudly. They were only used for releasing prisoners, and that was a rarity.

Sunlight penetrated deep within the Prison, but it did quite reach the lone figure standing within the shadows. All Rhysand could make out were limbs that were too thin, and a source of power that seemed to snuff out everything around her.

“There she is”, Cassian muttered beside him, his knuckles white as he clenched the hilt of his sword. Rhysand wondered if it was a good idea bringing the Commander along- he was the one responsible for Sasha’s capture, after all. Aegan didn’t seem to care that he had decided to come along, or Azriel for that matter. The Shadowsinger was waiting patiently at the treeline, just in case things got out of hand. Considering where they were, and who was with him, he doubted things would go smoothly.

“There she is”, Aegan echoed back, her voice catching slightly. “There she is”.

Sasha, as if waiting for her cue, stepped out of the shadows. Red hair whipped around her, her pale skin seeming to glow as she walked into the sunlight. She looked familiar- too familiar. His fingers skimmed over the pommel of his sword, sharing a look with Cassian. He seemed to be feeling the same unease he was- perhaps for a different reason.

The three Illyrians walked closer to Sasha. His instincts screamed at him to turn back, but he forced his feet to keep moving, even if each step felt like another leap towards death.

Cassian suddenly grabbed his arm. “Rhys, I don’t think it’s a good idea to go see her”, he whispered hastily. “Maybe you and I should wait here while Aegan meets her.”

Rhysand yanked his arm away. “I think I can handle one prisoner, Cass”, he assured, grinning at him. “She can’t possibly be worse than Amren.”

The commander merely lowered his eyes. “Suit yourself”, he muttered, before his breath hitched slightly.

“What’s the matter-”, Rhysand began to ask, as he followed Cassian’s gaze. Sasha was much closer now, and- Mother above.

He found himself taking a step back. Another step. Cassian said something to him, but it was muffled, like everything else around him. Heart racing, he was dimly aware of Feyre shooting something down the mating bond. She must’ve sensed the panic eating away at him- no, he wouldn’t let her see the fae in front of him. Feyre had already suffered too much.

“You’re supposed to be dead”, Rhysand whispered, as Amarantha’s face stared back.

Panic. Dread. Anger. He fought the urge to lunge at the Amarantha look alike as she drew near. Rhysand knew that the Queen had died by Tamlin’s hands, but… Sasha had an uncanny resemblance to her. And the power rolling off of her was all to familiar.

Besides Feyre, Rhysand had never told the Inner Circle all of the details of what happened those 49 years. What Amarantha had done to others, to him, his words always fell short. Staring Amarantha in the face now, he felt the memories resurface. Every night, everything that she had made him do swarmed through his mind.

‘Not Amarantha’, he thought to himself over and over, forcing himself to take deep breaths to calm down. ‘She’s dead, not alive and in front of me.’

As he repeated those thoughts, he began to notice subtle differences between the two. While both of them were warriors, Sasha actually looked the part. Her nose was too crooked to be natural, and a wicked scar slashed through her eyebrow and across the bridge of her nose.

The prisoner paused midway, her whole body stiffening as she muttered something so softly that his fae hearing almost didn’t catch it; “Aegan?”

“Sasha”, Aegan sobbed, before hurtling towards her. Laughter and crying quickly erupted from the two, as they crumpled to the ground, clinging to each other tightly. No, not Amarantha. The way her eyes crinkled, her smile- it separated the two.

Aegan twisted her body so that she could face Rhysand. “Thank you.” Her voice wavered, tears streaming down her face. Her eyes then narrowed, Aegan sniffing once as she ran her eyes over him. “Are you okay?”

No. “Yes, I’m fine.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I- I need to get back to Velaris. Feyre needs me”, he lied, kicking himself for being so pathetic before glancing down at Sasha. “Forgive me for not being able to properly introduce myself.”

The redhead fixated her eyes on him, and something hot and sharp slid through his mind quickly, and was gone as soon as it arrived. Her eyes widened slightly, before nodding her head. As if she understood the real reason behind his early departure.

“Cassian, go back to the war camps when you see fit”, he told his commander, before flaring his wings and flying away.

~Aegan’s POV~

Aegan watched Rhysand fly off, slightly confused, before turning back towards Sasha. “I still can’t believe that I found you”, she told her softly, a smile etching its way across her face.

She grinned and pulled her close. “Same here.” She then pulled back, frowning. “You have some serious explaining to do, young lady. Where did you go?”

“Later”, Aegan promised, feeling Azriel and Cassian’s hard stare on her back. “I’ll tell you everything, I swear. Let’s just bring you home.”

Relief flooded Sasha’s beautiful face. “I’ve been waiting to hear those words for forever, you know.” She wrapped her arms around Aegan’s neck, shooting her a grin. “Take me away, my winged heroine.”

Aegan snorted, before launching into the air, clenching her friend tightly to her as the ground disappeared beneath their feet. “You’ve gotten awfully light, Sasha. What have they been feeding you?”

“Only the finest cuisine of nothing and stale bread, deary”, she joked, her breath tickling Aegan’s neck. “I was hesitant about eating anything they served- I have seen what the food could do to people.”

Anger flooded her veins, before she forced it down. ‘I will destroy Ironcrest, and then that foul place’, she thought to herself as she glided on a warm jet of air.

Sasha poked her on the shoulder. “Hey Aegan?”

“Yeah?”

“Did two Illyrians accompany you to pick me up?”

A brief glance over her shoulder showed Azriel and Cassian’s form flying above them. ‘Do they really not trust me?’ Aegan pondered to herself before loosening a sigh. “That’s Cassian and Azriel. Those two brutes have been following me around ever since I bumped into the Commander.”

The redhead snorted. “Are they your entourage or something?”

“More like nannies”, she commented, earning a giggle out of the redhead. Angling her wings, she swooped down from the clouds, narrowly dodging trees as she flew towards Sasha’s cabin. Despite Sasha’s imprisonment, the wooden structure remained undisturbed, however ivy had been to cover most of the doorway. “How long has it been since you’ve been home?” She had asked once they landed on the soft earth.

“300 years,” Sasha muttered softly, her eyes roaming over her cabin. “It’s been a while.”

300 years. “How long was I gone?”

Her eyes darkened. “500 years, Aegan. You’ve been gone for 500 years”, she told her, her face crestfallen. “Where did you go?”

She had been gone for that long? No wonder she didn’t recognize anyone, save for the Ironcrest war lord. “I’ll tell you once we’re inside, and you can tell me how you managed to imprison yourself.”

“It’s a deal.” The two made their way to the door. Placing a hand on the doorway, the redhead muttered something under her breath, and the ivy retreated from the doorknob. “I’m surprised I even remember any spells.”

“Well, you do have an amazing memory”, Aegan remarked, as she twisted the doorknob, ramming her shoulder into the door when it wouldn’t budge. “You really need to oil these door hinges, Sasha.”

“Oh, shut up”, she told her jokingly, before marching into the cabin, a layer of dust wafting up into the air as a gust of wind made its way inside.

Stepping inside herself, Aegan’s eyes scanned the room, before landing on a large black trunk in the corner. “Wait, is that-”

“Your trunk? Yes”, Sasha told her, grinning as Aegan lunged for it excitedly. “I managed to snag it from your tent, in case Ironcrest tried to get rid of it.”

Wiping dust off of the lid, Aegan peered inside, and gasped as she pulled out two Illyrian swords. “My babies!” She cried, planting a kiss on each blade. “How I’ve missed you two!”

Placing the swords gently on the ground, she rummaged through the trunk, pulling out clothes, armor, and even more weapons. Finally, her fingers brushed against smooth leather, and Aegan pulled out the thick green journal her mother had kept. Flipping through aged pages, her eyes skimmed over the detailed watercolor paintings of songbirds and flowers she had grown to love. Her mother had been an avid painter, and for the longest time, Aegan had grown jealous of her paint sets, since they seemed to be getting more attention than her.

But now, she would kill for her mother to be alive again, using those paint sets as she had before.

Aegan shut the book, placing it on top of the now closed trunk. “Thank you”, she told Sasha, “for everything.”

Her friend knelt down next to her, wrapping her arms around her. “For you? Anything”, Sasha whispered, pressing a friendly kiss to her temple. “I heard about your mother’s death- I’m sorry.”

Aegan smiled grimly. “It’s in the past now”, she told Sasha softly, patting her hand. “We have to focus on the future.” She should listen to her own words- she had been stuck in the past for awhile now. And look where that got her- pretty much nowhere, save for finding Sasha.

They sat on the floor for a while, flipping through the green journal, a comfortable silence between the two. Suddenly, Aegan remembered what she had been meaning to give Sasha. “I have something for you”, she began to say, unstrapping the knife from her thigh, and displaying it to her. “I figured you have been looking for it.”

Sasha squealed excitedly, snatching it away from Aegan. “I’ll finally have a complete collection!” She exclaimed, before crawling across the floor on her hands and knees, thumping against the wooden floor. “Ah, here we are”, she muttered, prying a floorboard loose to reveal a small compartment. Sticking her arm in, she pulled out a leather bandolier, eight throwing knives already tucked away neatly. She slid the last one in, sighing happily. “Much better.”

“Are they still sharp?”

Sasha took two out of their sheathes, grinning slightly. “Well, there’s only one way to find out”, she began to say, before chucking them at the top of the doorway, where Cassian and Azriel were standing. Clearly, they hadn’t expected knives to be thrown at them, for their siphon shields, red and blue, flared up immediately. Thankfully, the two knives had hit the door frame instead, wobbling slightly.

Azriel looked on the verge of either sighing and screaming, while Cassian merely grinned. “You missed.”

“I don’t miss”, Sasha shot back, before sending him a smile that was just short of feral. “Hello Cassian.”

The Commander crossed his arms, as he glanced around the cabin. “Nice place- could use some dusting”, he told her, swiping a finger along a cabinet.

The redhead scoffed, before flicking her wrist. A sudden gust of wind blasted into the room, dust swirling around before being escorted out of the door. “What about now?”

“Whatever”, he grumbled. “Aegan, you are to leave for Ironcrest with Azriel today. Rhysand’s orders.”

“Well, isn’t he all high and mighty?” Aegan grumbled, pushing herself to her feet. “How much time do I have?”

The commander shrugged, before glancing at Azriel. “10 minutes”, the shadowsinger told them, his voice no more than a whisper. Did his voice ever rise above a murmur?

“10 minutes my ass”, she muttered, before turning back towards Sasha. “I’m sorry we can’t spend more time together.”

Sasha smiled grimly. “I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you in the near future”, she assured, before grabbing her by the shoulders. “But seriously, may I at least see where you were?”

Aegan felt her whole body tense up. The last time someone looked into her mind, it did not go well. But that was Rhysand- this was Sasha. Surely things were different now… she hoped.

“Just make it quick”, she muttered, glancing at the two males, who had decided to wait outside. Thankfully, the two were too engaged in conversation to notice the two females staring at them, but the shadow curling around Azriel’s ear was all Aegan needed to see to know that he was listening.

Steeling herself, Aegan felt the quick jab in her mind as Sasha slithered in. She was daemati, just like Feyre and Rhysand. However, while the high lord had mastered sneaking into someone’s head, Sasha, whether she liked it or not, made her presence known. A sharp pain between her eyes throbbed as her friend shuffled through her mind, memories flashing violently.

It didn’t last long. Sasha, keeping her word, withdrew, tears streaming down her face. “Hybern-”

“Like I said, it’s in the past now”, Aegan told her, fighting the urge to break down. “He’s dead now, and I’m fine.”

Sasha’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t seem fine.”

“I’m fine”, she seethed, feeling her frustration and anger burn. Normally, people would cower slightly at her anger, terrified, and decide that it would be unwise to continue their conversation with Aegan.

Sasha merely arched an eyebrow, opening her mouth to shoot something back.

“Aegan?” Azriel called out from outside, cutting the redhead off. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, Azriel. I’ll be out in a minute.” Suppressing a sigh, Aegan bent down and picked up the twin swords and the armor she had discarded on the ground. She strapped them to her back, the movement pure muscle memory as she smiled grimly at Sasha. “This is where we part”, she told her softly, tucking her Illyrian armor under one arm. “Please try to stay out of trouble.”

Sasha grinned wickedly. “You have so much faith in me, Aegan dear”, she joked, before pulling her in for one last embrace. “If you need anything”, she whispered in her ear, “let me know. You know how to find me.”

Aegan grinned back. “I’ll see you around, Sasha.”

Her friend smiled, a twinge of sadness lingering in her eyes. “Stay safe”, was all she said before winnowing away, leaving Aegan embracing only thin air.

Her eyes fell to the small green journal lying next to her feet. “Couldn’t hurt to bring it along”, she muttered to herself before gently picking it up. Taking one last glance at the cabin, she stepped outside, making sure to shut the door behind her. As soon as her hand left the doorknob, ivy immediately began to grow over once again. The cabin appeared undisturbed once more.

“About time”, the shadowsinger commented, Azriel leaning against a thick oak tree. “I was considering just dragging you out of there myself.”

“Do you think that would a wise move?”

“Are you challenging me?”

Aegan shot him a pointed look. “Now’s not the time to bicker like an Illyrian toddler, Azriel”, she shot back smoothly. “Ironcrest awaits.”

The shadowsinger merely flared his wings, before launching himself into the sky. Cursing, Aegan quickly followed, clenching the journal and armor tightly to her chest as her wings beat furiously to catch him. “That shadowy bastard”, she hissed under her breath, making a point of bumping into him as soon as she caught up. “You did that on purpose.”

Azriel remained silent, however a hint of a smile played at his lips as the two soared higher and higher above the ground. As if he was actually amused at his own joke. Now that was a first.

“This is going to be a long 6 weeks”, she grumbled, as the cabin and the Prison became nothing but a small dot in the distance. As Illyria called her home.

They had made camp a few miles from Ironcrest’s boundary, the faint calls of the nocturnal wildlife mingling with the small crackling fire they had constructed. Aegan, tasked with finding firewood, grunted as she dropped a load of logs off near the base of the fire. “How much kindling do you need?” She asked, feeling her back pop as she stretched.

Azriel looked up from the report he had been reading. “That should be enough for the night.”

She whistled lowly. “What are you going to do- burn the whole forest down? Because if you do, please warn me so I can get out of the way.”

He rolled his eyes, before going back to his report. “If you want, I’ll watch over you as you sleep.”

“That’s not creepy at all”, Aegan muttered, laying down on the hard earth nevertheless, shutting her eyes. “So, tell me about yourself.”

Azriel groaned. “Can’t you let me focus?”

“You can focus when I finally fall asleep”, she told him, cracking open an eye to peer up at him. “So, what’s your favorite color?”

“That’s a stupid question.”

“Interesting choice. Mine’s black”, she told him, shifting onto her side to face away from him. “Although blue is a nice color too.”

He had fallen silent, Aegan officially giving up on her attempts at a conversation. Besides, the drone of crickets and the shuffling of papers had become a soft lullaby for her. Despite her efforts to stay awake, her eyelids had began to droop more and more. Exhaustion had finally caught up to her.

The sound of rustling papers stopped. “Blue. My favorite color’s blue”, Azriel muttered to her, but Aegan was too far gone to respond.

@callie-bear15

@thisgryffindorlllyrian

@nestaarcheronwillkillme

@dreamworld-1997

@rairrai

@deezrmuhsheeple​

@my-fan-side

@homicidalbaker

[illryian-blackbeak]

Thoughts on ACOFAS

Overall I think the book did its job. I think a lot of people forget that this novella was meant to bridge the series with the new novellas that Sarah is going to be writing.  I liked the book, I liked the writing, I liked that we could see into the characters lives when they were just relaxing - for the most part - and just living their lives. 

I’m super excited to see what happens in the next book, and to see how some characters develop, change, and overcome some very difficult obstacles. 

If you’ve read the book, feel free to message me I want to discuss this with people that might not share the same point of view as me. Also, I know that the book isn’t perfect, but I’m not going to bitch about it, or send Sarah hate for it and I don’t think any of you should either. 

Spoilers Below

Nesta

I’ve seen that a lot of people are excited for Nesta to go to the Illyrian camp and that they want her to participate in the Blood Rite.... but I think people forget how unbelievable it would be. There are Illyrian’s that train for years, and they still don’t come out of the Rite alive. So let me ask you this; how in the world is Nesta - who doesn’t have any training with magic and just normal combat - going to do the Rite in this upcoming book? I’m sorry but it’s a no for me. I would much rather see Nesta grow, and see her overcome the challenges that she’s facing. I struggle with depression and to see that such a badass character is facing the same problem, and to see what she does to try and get better, it makes her all that more relatable. And can you imagine Nesta standing up for the girls in the camp, and training alongside them! That’s what I’m looking forward to, if I’m being honest.

Cassian and Nesta

I understand that a lot of people what these two together, but I said it before and I will say it again, I don’t. Yes what happened in ACOWAR made everyone want to ship these two more, but I want Nesta to be able to figure herself out and to do what she wants, she doesn’t owe Cass anything, especially when he doesn’t want to be seen talking to her by the others. And I get that he’s attracted to her, but Nesta has let him know what she feels, and I think that if Cass likes her he should let her heal first before anything, ya know? And I don’t know maybe something will happen that will change my mind but until then, I’m not a big shipper of these two.

Cassian

Delivered some of my favorite lines, and he’s a dork. I thought it was a little bit dumb that he threw the gift into the river, but at the same time, I understand. I see why Nesta might be a sore subject after the war and all, but come on dude, the fact that it gets to the point to where no one mentions her name around you...I think you’re the one with the issue here. I love Cass, I love that he feels things on such a deeper level, but my dude. If your friends can’t say someone’s name around you I think you’re the one that has to suck it up. But off that topic, that scene where he was flying around the peaks, and landed on an old Illyrian camp and talked about his past, I think that gave a lot of insight on his character and what he’s willing to do for the ones that he loves, and it revealed a lot about him in my opinion. 

Elain

I’m so happy that she has started to heal, though I’m sure that she still has things that she wants to work out, and things she still needs to wrap her head around. I dunno it just made me happy to see that she was happy. She still hasn’t accepted the mating bond, and I’m glad that she hasn’t. Not because I don’t want her to be with Lucien, or whatever but because I want her to do it because she wants to and not because she feels pressured to do it. 

Elain and Azriel 

These two are so cute and I love it. It’s either going to be a very good friendship, or it might develop into something more and honestly, I’m okay with either one. The gifts were cute, and the laugh made me so happy you have no idea. Just seeing these two together is so cute, and I hope we get to see more of them in the upcoming book, but I’m okay with just reading fanfiction if not. 

The Band of Exiles

Lucien was one of my favorite characters because he had that sass and I dunno he became more relatable to me than Tamlin and Feyre at one point. I’m glad we got to see a glimpse of him, and know how he, Jurian, and Vaasa were doing. The mating bond is still a sore subject, and I understand why it would be. I honestly want to see more from these three, to see what they’re up to and all that. 

Rhysand

Oh boy. First off, I love him I really do, so please don’t get this twisted and say that I hate him or whatever. Rhys my dude, my homie, why do you still hate Nesta so much but yet place no blame on Elain, like Feyre said if you blame one you have to blame the other. Is there a deeper reason as to why you can’t forgive Nesta? Because Rhys says to Feyre that he can’t forgive those that have hurt her, and yet he forgets that Elain also did nothing but sit in the cabin while they starved and yet he has managed to forgive her. I dunno, I think this was my biggest issue with him, I know others have different opinions but those didn’t really bother me. 

Feyre

I love that she’s healing and you know, living her best life. I understand that not everyone knows how to handle loved ones that are mentally ill, and she tried to get Nesta out of her shell and to seek help. I know people are upset about the money thing and Feyre saying that she won’t pay for Nesta’s rent if she didn’t go to the party; however, I don’t believe Feyre would have let her sister get kicked out. If anything after the party she would have paid for the rent, was it still a crummy thing to do? Yes, it was. I can also see why she did it though; Nesta isn’t in a good place as we saw throughout the book, and I know that she doesn’t want to be around the Inner Circle, and I think that Feyre wanted her to go to the party as a way of showing her that she isn’t alone. That she has people there that are willing to support and help her. Feyre found them to be family, and the Inner Circle helped Feyre overcome a lot, and I think that because they were her support system, and that’s how she coped and got through everything, she wants Nesta to have something like that. It’s hard to put this into words, so I can only hope that those reading understand where I’m coming from. The baby thing was, in my opinion, sort of forced, however I can see where Feyre is coming from and honestly it’s Sarah’s book so she can do whatever she wants with it.

Mor and Amren

I really wish we would’ve seen more from these two. The snowball scene with Amren being an angry snowball was easily one of my favorite scenes. Mor when she faced her father and Eris I really felt for her. I know the damage that they have done has left a permanent scar on her and I hope that we see her destroy them, slowly because I feel like Mor is really good at weaving things together and then watching them crumble

[azrielsiphons]

Shadows and Darkness: One and the Same (ch. 2)

<< Previous Chapter   Next Chapter >>

This fic is meant to be read in connection with my Azriel-centric prequel stories. I would highly suggest reading those first to get the full reading experience of this fic. 

Make sure to reblog and leave comments and fun tags! I hope you guys like this chapter, this should help you guys get a feel for how Lena has changed over all these centuries. 

Enjoy! 

“They never told you my name?” Her voice hadn’t sounded so weak in almost five centuries. Feyre shook her head. “It’s… it’s Lena. My name is Lena.”

Feyre continued to stare, but smiled softly. Lena couldn’t find it within her to return it.

She pulled up her hood in one smooth motion, hiding her face once again as Tamlin and Lucien burst into the room.

“Feyre,” Tamlin gasped. He flinched at the sight of Lena — or rather, at the sight of Hybern’s nameless, faceless weapon he had only heard of — but strode to Feyre all the same, taking her face in his hands and checking her up and down. “The guards came running, they said you shouted my name. Are you alright? Did he hurt you?”

Feyre could feel Lena roll her eyes from beneath her hood. Of course they would think the infamously powerful creature beneath the cloak was a man.

“Jurian is unconscious,” Lucien observed, his hand trembling slightly but hovering over his blade all the same as he stared at Lena. “You’re… him, then? The one the King sent?”

“He doesn’t speak, Lucien,” Tamlin snapped, continuing to check Feyre up and down.

“I’m fine, Tamlin.” Feyre pushed his hands away with just enough force. His eyes widened at her tone and she forced herself to play the part. “Jurian was… being facetious,” she said. “This man — or woman here, knocked him out. I was afraid so I called out for you and Lucien. But they didn’t touch me. Or speak to me. We just stood here.”

Tamlin growled, whirling on Lena. She only cocked her head to the side beneath her cloak.

“You will stay away from her,” he hissed. “You aren’t here for her, you’re here to keep an eye on him and the other two.” He jerked his head at Jurian on the ground. “You touch her, or even look at her or breathe near her, I will personally—”

Tamlin froze, his face turning red as Lena filled his lungs with night that knew no air. He made to lunge at her but his feet couldn’t leave the floor.

“What are you doing to him?” Lucien asked, paling. He pulled his sword but Lena only turned her head towards him lazily. “Let him go! Feyre.”

Feyre jumped, remembering the part she had to play. She had been so in awe at Lena’s powers — this really was Rhys’s sister. Only someone like him could do that to a High Lord and not even break a sweat.

“Please!” She cried out, rushing to Tamlin’s side. “Let him go, he didn’t mean anything by it, just let him go!”

Lena released Tamlin immediately at her High Lady’s words and Tamlin fell against Feyre, gasping for breath. His talons had emerged, and his face was full of rage.

“Why you little—”

He took a step forward only to freeze.

Smart move, Lena thought to herself. The only noise she made was a low, deep chuckle that sent chills down everyone’s spine.

Without another word, Lena walked right out of the dining room, making sure to bump Tamlin’s shoulder on the way out. She didn’t even glance back at him when he snarled loud enough that the entire manor shook.

“Well then,” Jurian spoke suddenly, sitting up with a groan and staring at the other three. “I see you’ve met the King’s secret weapon. They’re not very talkative.”

~~~~~

Lena could hear Feyre pacing in her chambers. The moon was high in the sky and that prick Tamlin was fast asleep in his room thinking the world would be alright now that his possession was back.

A twisted part of Lena would always be both grateful to and jealous of Tamlin for laying the killing blow on her father. All the same though, she hoped she had the chance to see Rhys kill him one day. It would be quite entertaining.

She stepped up to Feyre’s door silently — as she did everything since she was dead after all. After listening to Feyre pace for another minute or so she made her breathing just loud enough to be heard by the Cursebreaker. By her High Lady.

The door swung open not even a second later.

Lena’s hood was still up. Up until that day she had never taken it down or revealed her face on a mission except for one time.

A century and a half ago. On a terrible mission for the King to the Middle of Prythian where the worst beasts roamed. A group of Hybern extremists that the King had sanctioned were there torturing humans and trying to track beasts.

And then he had shown up...

Come in,” Feyre said softly, startling Lena out of her memories.

Lena nodded, stepping in silently. She only removed her hood when the door clicked shut behind them. A second later she had settled a noise cancelling shield around the entire room. Only when she was confident that they were completely concealed from the rest of the manor did Lena release a deep breath and roll out her shoulders. Feyre watched her carefully, cataloguing every movement.

“You’re staring,” Lena deadpanned, perching herself on the edge of the desk.

“How do you do that?” Feyre asked curiously. “Control two shields at once, I mean. I still can’t smell you so you must be in control of both. Isn’t that… taxing?”

Lena glanced around the room and grimaced at the decor. She reached out and flicked the fringe hanging from a lamp. “No.” She said simply. With the extent of her power, not much at all was taxing to her. “I’ve gotten so used to shielding my scent, I forget sometimes that I’m even doing it. I don’t want anyone to smell me and realize it’s so similar to—” She cut herself off, glancing at Feyre sidelong.

“Similar to Rhys’s scent,” Feyre finished for her. She gave Lena a smile and the genuine kindness in the gesture made Lena flinch and look away.

Feyre cleared her throat, playing with her hands nervously.

“You haven’t told anyone about me, have you?” Lena asked suddenly. “You haven’t used your bond with my brother and told him that I’m here? Or… who I am?”

“No,” Feyre said instantly. Lena released a relieved breath. “The bond doesn’t quite work like that with us at such a distance. It’s… hard to communicate. And something like this, telling him that his only remaining family is alive, well… that’s not exactly something I want to tell him without being there at his side.”

“You’re not going to tell him at all.”

Feyre blinked. “What?”

“You cannot,” Lena said with emphasis, “tell my brother that I am alive.”

“But… you revealed yourself to me,” Feyre argued.

“I did, and a part of me already regrets it,” Lena said simply. “You have no idea what I’m risking by showing you my face and telling you who I am to Rhys. And apparently, telling you my name.”

The bitter laugh that escaped her didn’t do much trying to cover Lena’s hurt. Feyre’s mouth parted in understanding, but she could only look down at the ground. She didn’t know what to say.

“Don’t pity me, Feyre,” Lena said suddenly. “I have accepted my lot in life and accepted it well and I will continue to do so in order to protect those that I love.”

“Well if you’re not planning on going home to those people you love, then—”

“That’s not what I said,” Lena smoothly interrupted.

Feyre stared. “So… you are trying to go back to the Night Court? To reveal yourself to them and escape the King?”

The smile that Lena gave was borderline feral. “Well considering that I’m face to face with the Cursebreaker herself, I think that you and I together might actually have a shot.” Feyre’s face broke out into a grin. “But I won’t risk it unless I’m absolutely sure it will work. If I think for even a second that this will fall through, you still can never tell them that I’m alive. You’re getting back to the Night Court no matter what Feyre, understand that well.”

“Yes, but—”

“I am guaranteed nothing and that’s alright,” Lena continued. “But Feyre, my first priority is getting you back to my brother. Back to m— back to your Court. If I can go with you, that would be… everything to me. But if I can’t, you have to swear to me you’ll never tell them that I am alive. Or you can just give me permission to wipe your mind of any memories of me.”

“No!” Feyre cried. “I can’t… Lena, you’re his sister. They deserve to know you’re alive. It will bring them so much joy and—”

“They never told you my name,” Lena snapped suddenly, darkness flaring out of her. Feyre froze. “Feyre, they… they never even told you my name.” Her voice was a mere whisper. “They’ve moved on. They survived, which is all I ever wanted for them. If I can’t get back to them, then at least let them keep surviving. They don’t need to be burdened with this knowledge and quite frankly it could get them killed.”

Feyre gulped. “Fine,” she said. “I give you permission to wipe my mind of any memories of you if whatever plan you have doesn’t work, but it doesn’t matter because it will work. I’m making sure that you get back to them, Lena. I swear it.”

Lena laughed humorlessly, but Feyre still caught the flash of real emotion on her beautiful face even if only for a moment.

“I can’t believe you’re my brother’s mate.”

“What? Why?” Feyre asked, slightly offended.

“Because he’s a colossal idiot and you seem to have a fairly smart head on your shoulders. And you’re much prettier than him.”

Feyre choked on her laughter. “I’m prettier than him? I think we might be talking about two different Rhysands.”

Lena shook her head. “Nope, same one, I’m sure of it. Tall, black hair, stupid arrogant face? That’s my brother.”

The two females laughed together until Lena froze, her smile turning into an expression full of sorrow.

“You know that’s the first time I’ve laughed in… almost 500 years.”

Feyre gasped softly, staring at the female that shared the same blood as her mate. Who had been stolen by evil itself after watching her own mother be killed right in front of her and then forced to stay away from her family to keep them safe. Who had done just that — and never wavered.

This was Rhys’s sister. And she had suffered more than anyone Feyre knew — more than herself exponentially.

Feyre was High Lady of the Night Court and she loved it more than anything in the world save for her mate. But Lena… she was the Night Court. It belonged to her first. Feyre couldn’t even imagine what it must be like for Lena to see this young female, only recently made High Fae, bear the tattoo that perhaps she herself had expected to wear one day.

Before Feyre even contemplated what she was doing and how Lena might perceive it, she was striding across the room and embracing her.

Lena tensed, arms at her sides in fists. A tear slipped from Feyre’s eye as she realized that this might very well be the first time Lena had been held or shown any real kindness in five centuries.

Lena cleared her throat. “What are you doing?”

“I’m hugging you.”

“…Okay. Why?”

“Because I wanted to. And because you needed one.”

Lena didn’t say anything to that. Slowly, she raised her arms and gently patted Feyre on the back. But Feyre felt it, even if just for a second, the sigh that Lena let out.

“Okay that’s enough of that,” Lena said uncomfortably. Feyre pulled away and wiped at her eyes. “I know you’re my High Lady now, but could you warn me next time you want to do that?”

Feyre laughed and nodded. “Of course.”

“So do you have any… questions for me?” Lena asked cautiously, looking away from Feyre’s gaze. It had been a very long time since she had been vulnerable with anyone, but if there was anyone left in the world she could be herself with at that moment without endangering them, it was Rhys’s mate.

“I thought that you would be the one to have questions for me?” Feyre asked curiously.

“Of course. But none that I can ask you.”

Feyre’s face screwed in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Just ask me any questions you have, Cursebreaker,” Lena said exasperatedly.

“First of all,” Feyre snapped, “don’t call me Cursebreaker anymore. My name is Feyre. We’re basically family now so call me my name.”

Lena flinched. “Alright, fine. Feyre. Ask whatever you want.”

Feyre bit her lip, sitting on the edge of her bed.

“How exactly are you not dead?”

“When Tamlin’s father killed my mother he had made a deal with the King of Hybern to steal me away on his behalf.”

“But Rhys said they delivered your heads in boxes.” Feyre gave an apologetic smile when Lena flinched. “Sorry.”

Lena waved her hand at the apology. “The King killed some innocent girl from my court and glamoured her intensely enough to somewhat resemble and smell like me. Rhys didn’t think to look twice.”

“And your wings? Rhys said they were somewhere in this house—”

“Different question.”

Feyre blinked. “What?”

Lena’s power flared once again, but remained in the confines of the room’s shield. “I said, ask a different question.” Her tone left no room for argument. Feyre swallowed.

“Okay. Well, you’re clearly powerful.”

Lena smirked, her anger gone in an instant. “Clearly.”

“How did Hybern keep you trapped? You have all of that power and you couldn’t get away from him at all?”

Lena’s face fell, transforming into what could only be described as pure rage and bitterness. And a hint of sorrow.

“The King has been putting me to sleep anywhere from a few weeks to a few decades at a time whenever he doesn’t have use of me,” she said simply, her hands shaking. “He uses ancient magic-cancelling chains to keep me secure—”

“I’ve seen those,” Feyre interrupted. Lena blinked in shock. “I’ve seen them, Hybern’s men used them on Rhys once. There are more?”

Lena’s eyes flashed then and stroms seemed to rise behind her violet. She took a deep breath, calming herself down before her magic could escape the room. Feyre held her breath, releasing it only when Lena spoke again.

“Many more,” she said. “Whenever the King needed me for something, he would wake me up. Send me on an... errand or two. Then back to sleep for me.”

“And those times when you were awake you couldn’t escape?” Feyre asked. Lena glared.

“Judgmental much?”

“I’m just trying to understand how the sister of one of the most honorable people I know just held herself back and didn’t at least try to get back to her family.” Feyre paused, expecting Lena to lash out at her, but she didn’t, only waited for Feyre to continue. “I wasn’t even alive when your mother died, or when Rhys thought that you died. But the sorrow that he has now over you… it must have been infinitely worse in the beginning. He had to become High Lord all on his own after losing you, your mother, and your father.”

Lena looked away. “You don’t know anything,” she said softly, almost inaudibly.

“I know enough,” Feyre hissed. Lena’s eyes flashed once again. Feyre was walking a fine line. “There must have been something — something that you could have done, could have tried.”

“There wasn’t.”

“All that power of yours and you couldn’t even send a message? Write a note?”

“It was impossible.”

“Why?” Feyre shouted.

“Because if I did then he would die!”

Lena had moved so fast Feyre hadn’t seen it, the female’s scarred face right in front of her own. Feyre’s breath caught in her throat and in the back of her mind she realized that Lena’s eyes were a shade darker than Rhys’s.

“Rhys?” Feyre asked softly. “Rhys would die?”

Lena froze for a split second before jerking away, turning her back on Feyre.

“I’ve been willing to do whatever it takes to protect my family and my Court for almost five centuries,” she stated simply. “I’ve done things that you could not possibly imagine. It has wrecked the very essence of my soul and I have learned how to accept that about myself. But I have kept my family safe. The best that I can.”

“You weren’t keeping him safe when he was trapped under that mountain with her,” Feyre snapped. She regretted the words the moment she said them. “I’m sorry, I—”

Lena silenced Feyre, whirling on her. “What do you mean?”

“When… when he was with Amarantha.”

“What do you mean with Amarantha?” Lena was in Feyre’s face once again. “I was only woken by the King a day ago. I was put to sleep right after Amarantha drugged all of the High Lords, what — what did she do?” Feyre was silent, her mouth agape as she searched for the words. Lena grabbed her by the shoulders roughly. “Feyre what did she do?”

“She made him her whore,” Feyre spat, her voice barely more than a whisper. Lena went completely still. Everything in the room froze — even the dust particles in the air came to a halt. A tear slipped down Feyre’s face. “She confined him to her bedroom, made him…” She took in a shaky breath. “He was playing a part, he played along to try and win her trust, to keep Velaris safe. He had erased everyone’s memory of the city, kept it completely safe. He used the last of his powers and charged the protection of Velaris to Mor, Amren, Cassian, and Azr—”

Lena finally reacted then, pushing away from Feyre and bracing herself against the desk, gasping. She clutched at her chest, squinting her eyes tightly shut.

“Don’t,” she choked out. “Don’t say his name.”

“Who?” Feyre asked, running to Lena’s side. “I don’t understand, Lena. Cassian? Az—”

“I said don’t,” Lena hissed, whirling back on Feyre, who stumbled away at the sheer rage on her face. A beat passed and that look transformed to one of pure sorrow — and longing. Silver lined her violet eyes. “Please don’t, I can’t… I just can’t.”

Feyre didn’t understand what was there. What the sound of Azriel’s name did to Lena, but she nodded all the same. Lena slumped in relief, softly murmuring her thanks.

“There are a great many things you don’t know,” Lena whispered, leaning her back against the wall before sliding to the floor. Feyre gingerly moved to sit beside her. “And if I somehow, by the Mother’s grace, make it back to the Night Court with you, I will tell you every story there is to tell about my family and I. But until then,” she turned and looked Feyre dead in the eye, “you must swear to me that you will never tell them who I am.”

“I already—”

“I know you already did,” Lena interrupted. “But I need you to understand, Feyre. I don’t care if my brother himself has a sword at my throat, you can never tell them who I am. You must let me be the one to tell them.”

“Why?” Feyre asked softly. “Why keep them in the dark?”

“Because it will destroy them,” Lena said simply. “If they find out that I’ve been the King’s prisoner all these centuries, forced to kill and torture and kidnap, it would wreck them. They never even thought to look for me because they assumed they received my head in a box. No, I need to be the one to reveal myself to them if I’m given the chance. They need to see my face and hear it from my own mouth that I’m still alive. Do you swear that to me, Feyre? That you will let me do it?”

Feyre hesitated, but nodded. “I swear.”

“Thank you.”

The two females sat side by side, staring out the window at the moon.

“So you were really in love with Tamlin?” Lena asked suddenly. “Before you met my brother?”

Feyre sighed, but nodded. “I think I fell out of love with Tamlin when he locked me in this house. I didn’t fall in love with your brother until—”

“Wait, wait,” Lena interrupted, whirling on Feyre. “He locked you up?” She asked incredulously.

“Yes, that was when Rhys came and took me to the Night Court apart from our bargain, when I decided to stay. Well actually Mor was the one who came and saved me, but—”

“Okay stop,” Lena cut her off once again. “Clearly I have gotten some misinformation — I’m going to need you to start from the beginning. With details, please.”

And so Feyre did. She told Lena the whole story — the real story. She respectfully avoiding using his name, but Lena’s eyes flashed with sorrow every time Azriel was alluded to all the same. And when the story was done, Lena loosed a heavy breath and leaned her head back against the wall.

“So the Suriel was really the one who told you that you and Rhys were mates?”

Feyre chuckled. “Yes.”

“Figures. And now you’re here, and you’re all pretending that Rhys manipulated your mind to get you to stay in the Night Court and the King successfully broke your mating bond.”

“Also yes.”

Lena huffed. “When I see my stupid brother, I’m going to smack him so hard.”

“For not telling me about the mating bond?”

Lena scoffed at that. “Well I can’t exactly yell at him for that when—” She froze, shaking her head as if to clear out unwanted thoughts. “No, I’m going to smack him for everything else. That idiot has always believed he has to sacrifice himself for everyone all the time.”

“Well it seems to me like that’s a family trait,” Feyre shot back softly, looking at Lena to gauge her reaction.

Lena only laughed, bumping Feyre’s knee with her own. “You know what I take it back. I definitely believe that you’re my brother’s mate.”

~~~~~

Azriel shot up with a gasp, groaning at the lingering pain in his chest. Mor and the other healers had gotten all of the poison out of his system days ago, but the lingering effects made the healing process much slower. 

With a glance to his left, he loosed a breath of relief that Cassian was still fast asleep. His brother lay on his stomach, wings stretched out behind him with coats of healing salve on the membrane. He swallowed as he remembered once again how Cassian had sacrificed his own wings to save him.

With a grunt, Azriel hauled himself out of the bed, pausing as he waited to see if the healers heard him moving. When he believed the coast was clear, he walked slowly to the open window. 

He breathed in deeply, wincing as his chest expanded. But he needed to smell the air, to smell Velaris, to smell home. 

He hadn’t had a nightmare like that in decades. Since before Rhys had been taken Under the Mountain. They came sporadically, sometimes months apart, sometimes decades apart, but he could always count on them to happen. 

He would see her face. Lena’s face. Peaceful, asleep, as beautiful as ever as she lay at his side. And just as he would reach out to touch her, it would explode in flames. The floor would give way beneath them and she would scream, reaching out for him.

But he never caught her. He failed her every time. 

Azriel shut his eyes even tighter, blocking out the sound of her screams still ringing in his ears. Some days he wished he could just forget her altogether, but then the guilt would eat him alive.

He didn’t want to forget her. He just wanted the pain to be gone, he wanted to finally heal. It had been centuries since he had lost her. Since they all had lost her. And while he loved Feyre and was glad she was part of their Court and his High Lady... she wasn’t Lena.

Azriel would never forgive himself for the slightest bit of resentment he felt that the first High Lady of Prythian was Feyre and not Lena. She was supposed to be the one to have brought real change. She was supposed to be the one that broke down barriers and made a way for love and kindness and dreams to prevail. That was supposed to have happened 500 years ago with him at her side, or at the very least watching her from afar and holding her hand all the while. 

But she had died instead. The Cauldron had taken her, deigned the world better off without Lena in it. And that was something Azriel simply couldn’t accept, it was the reason he didn’t pray to the Cauldron anymore. 

He looked up at the moon and hoped that somewhere in whatever life comes after death, Lena was perhaps thinking of him too. 

~~~~~

After leaving Feyre’s rooms, Lena stepped outside of the Spring Court manor silently, the guards jumping as the infamous Hybern weapon appeared without a sound or scent. She laughed to herself at their fear and didn’t spare them a second glance. 

She made her way through the gardens with a grimace. She hated flowers. 

Well out of sight from any of the guards, she tilted her face to the sky. The only thing that gave her comfort anymore. Because no matter where she was, no matter what horrors she faced or was forced to commit, the sky remained constant. It was the same sky he looked at. 

And as she stared up at the stars and the moon, she hoped that wherever he may be, Azriel was perhaps thinking of her too. 

[wildfirewritings]

Just Something I Can Turn To (Somebody I Can Kiss)

Summary: Maybe what Tamlin doesn't see is her need to just talk to someone, to feel like an actual normal human being, to not feel trapped in a cage. He never sees it, and she doubt he ever will.

This stranger, though, seems to understand, and somehow sees through the image she's expected to keep.

Rating: General Audiences

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Tamlin

AO3: Here

Feyre hated parties.

Not necessarily the parties that she attended in her later years of high school, with red solo cups filled with cheap beer and students were found making out in every nook and corner—even though she preferred not to go to those either. But she meant the parties she was forced to go to shortly after Tamlin slipped a ring on her finger. The “fancy gown that probably costs more than both of her kidneys, ballrooms with floors so clean she can see her reflection, and wealthy CEOs, heirs of multinational corporations, and higher-up government officials that all examined the area like vultures searching for the weakest prey” parties.

Sure, Feyre loved dressing up every once in a while. And yes, she thought the space around her was absolutely breathtaking.

But she hated wearing a gown that had the color of Tamlin's business, almost like she was just another property of his. She hated having to look interested at all the nonsense everyone spewed about problems that didn't even matter. She hated all the high-class, privileged, aristocrats that talked about raising prices, buying out land, lowering employee salaries, all the things that would negatively affect people in the lower-class. She hated acting brainless, like she had no idea how the world worked, despite having been a detective at one point. She hated just having to stand there, smiling and nodding, acting like a socialite who knew nothing about politics or business. All problems that she would never share with her fiance.

She sighed before taking a sip from her champagne glass. The dinner had ended only a few moments ago, and now most people were mingling and exchanging small-talk, fake smiles plastered on faces. She stood with Tamlin, Lucien, and two friends of theirs—Bron and Hart—all of who were talking and bantering like old friends. When everyone else laughed, she did her part and smiled like she was listening. Every now and then, when questions were directed towards her (mostly about the wedding), she would just nod when Tamlin answered for her instead. It was always like that, she stood there like a puppet while he did the talking for her. He hardly let her speak to anyone outside him, Lucien, and occasionally Ianthe now. Not since—

She took another sip.

The smell of overpriced perfume, champagne, and their recent, gourmet dinner danced around the room. These days, it felt like it was all she ever smelt, oddly enough. That or the ever present scent of roses and flowers from the garden at her and Tamlin's house. Most of the time, she wouldn't even notice it anymore. Now, though, it filled her nose, surrounding her so much that it almost suffocated her. It made it harder to breathe, and for a flash of a moment she wasn't there anymore—

“I'm going to get some fresh air,” she blurted. She couldn't find herself to care that she just snapped them out of a deep conversation, blinking at her in shock. They hadn't been expecting her to speak the whole night, probably. Feyre just forced on the most pleasant smile she could manage.

“Okay,” Tamlin said, concern he wouldn't share with her evident in his eyes. He reached to grab her arm, raising his other hand preparing to wave goodbye to his frineds.

No, she didn't want him going with her. All he would do was smother her and drag her back inside.

“I can go alone,” she said lightly, but she could hear the slight point to her voice. “Really, it's fine. I don't want to interrupt anything.”

Tamlin stared at her, and he opened his mouth, no doubt preparing to refuse.

“It's fine, Tamlin. I'll be fine. I'm just walking to the balcony,” she continued before he could say anything.

A beat of silence passed. “Okay,” he nodded, he reached out to give her heard a squeeze.

“I'll be back here soon,” she reassured. Before Lucien or Bron and Hart could say anything, she retreated. Eventually, she heard their conversation start back up, but she knew Tamlin's eyes wouldn't leave her back until she would be on the balcony, out of his sight. A server passed by her, carrying a tray of champagne glasses. She set down her empty glass on the tray and plucked a full one, saying a small thanks before leaving.

It looked like she wasn't the only one who wanted to flee from the gathering inside.

Upon stepping into the balcony, the stiletto of her heel echoed into the night sky. A stranger that was previously leaning his elbows on the stone rail, staring outside, turned around at the sound of her entering. And he was probably the most beautiful man she's ever seen.

Short black hair, twinkling eyes so dark they were almost violet, tan skin, and a sculptured face that would have her reaching for her paints, months ago.

She took another greedy sip from her glass before making her way deeper into the night, light green gown swishing around her ankles, until she was leaning right next to him.

Those violet eyes were still on her, but she just stared at the twinkling stars around them. Somehow, it made her breathe easy, easier than she had in months. The smell of dew, citrus, and the sea filled her system, releasing tension that she hadn't even known she had.

“Dare I ask why you wanted to escape the party inside?” the stranger's sensuous voice reached her ears, and she almost shivered at how beautiful it was.

“I can ask you the same thing,” she countered, tearing her eyes from the view to stare into his teasing, relaxed orbs.

“Touche.” He grinned.

She hummed, and turned her head back to stare out again.

Comfortable silence passed between them. He eventually tore his gaze from her to watch the night sky too. And somehow it felt...easy. Right. Like somehow, she knew this man and they had done this before.

“I'm here,” he said after a while—Feyre had to run through her memories to figure out what he was talking about, until she remember what they had said to each other only minutes ago, “because I'm not a fan of these parties.”

She raised her brows, but still didn't look at him. They continued to look forward. “Not a fan of aristocrats staring you down like they're going to tear you apart, CEOs practically ruining the lives of those in poverty, and billionaires that probably don't know the price of dish soap? What's not there to like?” She snorted to herself, and took another sip.

He turned to look at her. She glanced back, and she couldn't place the expression on his face.

“Something tells me that you don't like them, either,” he joked, a grin forming on his lips.

“What?” she placed a mock hand on her chest. “What gave it away?”

He chuckled, then nodded towards her glass. “How many of those have you had?”

“Not enough,” she grumbled.

His grin grew. “I don't think I've seen you around before.”

She frowned. “Is it that obvious that I stand out?” All she did at these things was stand next to Tamlin and smile and nod to whatever everyone had to say. The mindless future wife of a CEO that everyone expected her to be.

“I would definitely remember seeing you,” he purred. She fought the urge to shiver.

“I haven't seen you around, either,” Feyre said instead. Truth be told, she had only gone to about two of these parties previous to the current one. But, as cheesy as it sounded...she would have probably remembered him, too.

“I tend to miss as many of these as I possibly can.”

“Lucky.”

His grin turned into an actual, genuine smile. The breath was almost knocked out of her. “May I ask what you're name is, darling?”

Alright, this was dangerous territory. She didn't feel drunk, not at all, but she suddenly wished she was so she could have an excuse for not caring about how she should not be talking to this guy.

“I'm sure you'd like to know.” She drained the rest of her drink.

“Ever playful, aren't you?” he asked, amused.

“Ready to throw in the towel yet?”

“Not even close.” I'll play with you all day his eyes practically said.

She hummed again, feeling more light than she had in months. Maybe all she needed, that Tamlin didn't understand, was someone to just talk to. Someone she could joke and dance around verbally with.

“Rhysand,” he said. It took her a moment before she realized what he was telling her. “Your turn.”

She opened her mouth, but someone cut her off.

“Feyre.”

She almost flinched at the way her name was said. Like a master demanding his pet to behave.

She whirled around. There Tamlin stood, glare focused on her companion. “Rhysand,” he said curtly, and Feyre's brows shot up.

“Tamlin,” Rhysand said in reply. Cool amusement twinkled in his eyes, but only hostility rested in her fiance's gaze.

He turned his eyes from him and strode over to her. He grabbed her arm immediately, not hard enough to hurt her, but firm enough to remind her of who she was supposed to be. The wealthy man's brainless, pretty wife, who only exchanges pointless small talk and is attached to her husband's side the whole night, even if they weren't even married yet.

Rhysand glanced down at where Tamlin gripped her arm, and she could have sworn something flared in his gaze. But it was gone by the time he blinked.

“Let's go,” her fiance told her before she had the chance to say anything. He began to drag her out, back into that room of aristocrats, socialites, fancy citizens who could ruin lives with a snap of their fingers—

She turned to look at him one last time. He was already looking at her, sadness and gentleness swimming in his gaze. He mouthed one last thing at her before Tamlin tugged her far enough that she couldn't see him anymore.

Fight it.

A/N: Alright so like...I was super bored, my data ran out, I had no internet connection, my phone died, and I was stuck in a car for eight hours and this idea kind of just came to mind so I wrote to pass the time.

[flowerflamestars]

Pearl and Bone

PART ONE  PART TWO  PART THREE PART FOUR  PART FIVE  PART SIX

The silence was a fractured thing, icy in the air of a palatial human parlor full of fae.   Lucien wasn’t sure which would prove more dangerous; the utter stillness of the Illyrian warrior on the other side of Elain poised for some cue. Rhysand, utterly blank in shock or warning, the air around him promising death and darkness.   Or Feyre, whose face had crumpled at the word mates. “I didn’t”- She shook her head, braid swinging. “Tamlin said it might take time, for a bond to snap in place between us. That we could be married first and the rest would come.” Blue eyes blazing found Lucien’s, “I didn’t know."   Elain scooted forward on the chaise, reached a hand out to her younger sister. “You couldn’t have known."   Feyre clasped her fingers across the low table, the difference between her shining immortal skin and the Elain’s pale grip apparent and painful.   “He was ruined before you ever met him,” Nesta told her, no less sympathetic for the different shape of the feeling. “You couldn’t have changed it.”   Feyre nodded, tight mouthed, looking between her sisters and powerfully managing to ignore Lucien himself, perched between them. After a long moment made longer by the tension that wasn’t leaving the air, for all that the sisters clear affection was there between them, Rhysand clapped a hand on Feyre’s shoulder.

“Why don’t we take a break,” The High Lord suggested, looking only at Feyre. Her nod was enough to break up the talk.   Immediately, Nesta rose from her seat. She strode to the farthest window, eyes away from Rhysand and her baby sister as he gripped her shoulders in comfort and clear affection- enough like how she acted when Lucien and Elain found themselves deep in conversation he wanted to turn back over a thousand afternoons for new context.   Lucien rose himself and drifted to lean near the other window as Elain joined her, the motion unsubtly putting his body between them and the Illyrian. In an odd echo of the motion Elain came to a stop perched sideways, nearly empty teacup clinking faintly as she screened Nesta from the rest of the room but for him.   Approvingly, intrigued- were the Acheron’s ever not up to something?- Lucien slouched into a lazy repose, flashed teeth at Cassian’s watching face.   In meetings between Courts, in stories whispered between the soldiers Lucien had trained for Spring, the High Command of the Illyrian Legions was a goliath. Savage, blood thirsty, fiendishly strategic; a stone cold killer capable of taking out armies single handedly.   No matter how much Rhysand was hated, particularly in the South, no on wanted to tangle with the legions led by this male.   A warm smile for Elain, didn’t make up for hauling Nesta from a fight like a sack of grain. A cup of tea was not a parley- the General was smart enough to be watchful, but he was looking the wrong way.   Feyre had called him a friend.   Then again, Feyre was sniping at the most powerful High Lord in history across the room.   Her laugh rang out, clarion. Had he ever heard her real laugh in Spring? Never after the Mountain. There was a palpable steadiness to her- even angry, even tense, Feyre seemed finally settled in her own skin.    Rhysand’s grip on both her shoulders had softened to an upward caress, tattooed hands tracing her arms. Lucien could practically see those silver bright ties between them without trying- gleaming like stars, chiming and pulling tight as Feyre swore, demanded Rhysand tell her more of the countries involved with Hybern. It was easy to see- and deserved, utterly deserved- that Tamlin could be forgotten.   Neither seemed able to look away, to see anyone else in the room but each other.  But Elain and Nesta weren’t paying attention to the growing heat.   On a napkin pulled taut in Elain’s white knuckled grip, her fingertip smeared with tealeaves, Nesta was writing the same word over and over again.   Velaris. Velaris.   VELARIS. Undeniably a fae name, but Lucien had never heard it. As the High Lord and Feyre discussed the human queens in such passing detail he wondered if Rhysand really knew anything about them, or just wouldn’t share the whole picture, another name joined the list, spilling onto the fine linen border. Rhysand. And then, barely legible and a thousand times more damning: Rhain. Lucien pulled the napkin into a nowhere space, heart thundering.    Neither flinched, acknowledged the sudden disappearance of the cloth from Elain’s hand. The surety- they’d grown utterly comfortable with magic, with how fae Lucien was- did nothing to assuage the roaring danger.   More importantly the sharp edged curiosity as it mixed with pride- they knew something.   And it started with the name of Rhysand’s long dead, deeply feared father, scrawled in tea for some harried purpose.   Lucien had made himself look out the window, but he felt every step Elain took toward him, skirt hissing over cool marble and plush rugs. She still smelled like blood- his, and Illyrian too. The slow drifting flakes of ice outside had ceded to a heavier fall of  snow, blanketing everything in blinding white. It’s light cast her pale as she drew up beside him. Velaris. Rhain. Rhysand.  Twelve generations of Acheron merchants had traded with faery countries. That nothing came and went over or under the Wall was by political ruling, and magical defense. Humans, without a faery presence, were physically repelled. All that could pass between mortal countries and Prythian came by sea.   The Acheron fortune now and historically, lay in a veritable armada.   Nesta and Elain owned ships. Enough for a small army; technically bought in their father’s name and secretly deeded back to them. Inspected for appearances by Lucien’s eyes when they came to port, but handled by Nesta in all the real ways.   Faery goods were the Acheron specialty.   Elain touched the icy glass, as though she could reach through and catch the snowflakes.   “We’ll lend out horses in the morning, try to get the roads cleared,” She said. “I sent anyone who could be spared out to the furthest tenants with food this morning, hope everyone was prepared.”   This Lucien could do: hide what he wanted to say in their human life, wait.   He blew a gust of heath fire air over her, no pause in surprise before she smiled. “I’ll bring around cider, keep off the chills.”   That their old apple trees now grew fruit that could cure many small human ills was an unintended blessing. Warm the hearts of the sorrowful, sooth the coughs from a child’s throat- once memorably, drug Elain and Nesta into a giddy, giggling joy Lucien hadn’t imagined possible- it was worth the danger of magic.   Cool fingertips tapped the back of Lucien’s hand- their signal for talk later- and lingered, Elain’s palm bracketing his wrist.   Her brown eyes were bright when he looked down in surprise- too many emotions tangled in her scent for Lucien to know anything but that Elain Archeron had another secret to tell; tension, excitement, earlier rage running embers through it all.   She simply looked back, smile growing keener.   Lucien thought of blue missives- not written in ink, but something much more flammable. News of the Night Court borders, Nesta burning letters, the sisters dropping the impossible idea of going after Feyre- and grinned.   “Is that a wedding ring?”   Feyre had shouted, looking at Elain’s hand like her sister had accrued some fatal disease.   “Engagement,” Elain replied, perfectly even, perfectly pleasant as she unhurriedly returned to her seat facing Feyre and the High Lord. Anger was a grace about her shoulders- did Feyre really not see it?   “You’re getting married?” Feyre repeated, looking at Nesta. “You’re letting her get married?”   Lucien managed to hide his wince, but only just. He knew Feyre felt responsible for her sisters- that their different skills had created an imbalance that haunted Nesta, especially.   “No,” said Nesta, flatly, “She doesn’t need my permission.”   The blow Lucien was waiting for didn’t come. It should have been easy- Nesta could have stopped Feyre’s fears with a few words: it’s not real. Elain could have explained the lie, the act they’d construed between them for safety.   He himself could have said something but- but, whose idea had it even been? Nesta had told him, but Lucien was sure the sister’s had spent the entire night before that meeting planning. She’d presented him a name, a life, a purpose.   That that life was at Elain’s side was a gift. Feyre was staring at his hands, eyes narrow. The urge to wave the left was neigh overpowering- Lucien rarely even thought of the slim gold ring he wore. He hadn’t chosen it- wouldn’t have picked a confection of pearl and diamond for Elain either. It wasn’t that wedding rings were a thing foreign to fae, or even that he didn’t want to touch that co-mingling of dream and reality.   If Lucien bound himself to someone, it would be impossible to ignore. He was high fae- the bond would live on their skin, show in their eyes, begat power and danger.   A ring was just a glimpse- one that audibly set Feyre’s teeth on edge. — The High Lord of the Night Court had purple eyes.   Not blue, not violet, a true rich, royal purple with shadowed depths in which what looked like actual stars gleamed, twinkling. Eyes where the night sky and dreams lived- across the sea, they called him the Lord of Nightmares.   Rhysand, whose whole body seemed tuned to her sister like a song.   She could write his name now- speak around the binding of Acheron blood. Had their ancestor struck a bargain to a High Lord with those same eyes? He set her teeth on edge, brought goosebumps to her skin if she looked too long.   And if he didn’t remove the violence of that purple gaze from Lucien soon, Elain was going to do something she’d regret.   Elain dug her nails into her palm, and prayed for patience as she faced her baby sister. “Feyre.” She said, “You came here to tell us something, why don’t you finish.”   Surely one stabbing was enough. Surely, despite her real, true joy at seeing her sister’s face again- whole, happy, immortal- they could manage to keep this from being a fight. Much less a fight about Elain’s engagement ring- a false engagement ring- when Feyre herself had fallen in love with not just two faeries, but two High Lords, one after the other.   Feyre, with the stubborn line between her brows as familiar as childhood tantrums, had no such compunctions. “What the hell are you playing at Lucien?”   Nesta set down her tea cup with a crash. Elain didn’t need to see her face- to know well that only Nesta was allowed to spit Lucien’s name like a curse, anyone else was damned for it. She stomped to stand behind Elain before speaking.   “What are you playing at, Feyre?” Her hands were white-knuckled, gripping the back of the chaise. Elain reached for one. “You brought the most powerful high lord in Prythian to our home. Do you know his name cannot be written by mortal hands? That we couldn’t even say the name of the city where you were safe in without choking?”   All Elain really heard was the breathe that left Lucien like he’d been punched.   One more secret- they hadn’t been sure they’d ever be able to tell him. Something about being in the room with Rhysand had allowed the gheas to shift- the promise of secrecy from a fairytale city, told to them by their father, as he learned it from his.   One thing at least, they could thank him for besides their name.   Feyre scowled. “What are you talking about?”   Elain let herself feel the sheer anger- there was so much danger here, she couldn’t even just talk to her sister, whose face alive and well was a happiness complete enough to wound. “Velaris.”   That made the High Lord look at them, finally. He ran a hand through his hair, made a rueful noise out of place in the utter stillness that had taken over. If Rhysand had been playing for human when he walked in, a watchful predator had replaced the obviously false guise. The quietude of that menace took all the air from the room.   “Merchants?” Rhysand drawled, one eyebrow raised.   Nesta squeezed Elains hand and stared right back at the High Lord, head held high. “You’ll find our blood in your charter. Under the High Lord Rhain, on the sanctuary moon.”   “Rhys?” Feyre hissed, her hatred of being left out alive and well across the extreme beauty of her faery face. She looked more like Nesta now- sharper- old features carried over oddly: the freckles on the bridge of her nose bright, but gone from her hands. Taller, more graceful.   Still their baby sister who wanted to protect them, no matter what it did to them all.   But she also wasn’t looking at Elain or Nesta for an answer. “Acheron is one of the merchant families bound to the city?”   Like he’d known it all along- the smug prick, as through he knew anything about their family- Rhysand inclined his head.   Nesta’s glare was going to light the High Lord on fire if they didn’t change the subject soon, and Elain wasn’t particularly inclined to help. This was going to go the way so many talks with men- with lords did- if they couldn’t aim for understanding staying quiet and listening would have to do.   Elain painted on her most charming smile, widest eyes.   “Ships stopped getting passage before we could really learn more,”  She said, real frustration in her voice she didn’t force out, “Is it really as beautiful as they say?”   Feyre visibly softened.   Like a flower opening, Nesta and Lucien slid into the roles they’d made together to deal with the world, symmetry unspoken. Elain had never truly hated it before.   A week previous the hostess of a ball had referred to Nesta as a matron, like she was some guardian of the young, and Elain had explained to Lucien that it was a good thing.   It meant the nobles were accepting that Nesta- a beauty, an heiress, the real heir to their House in a just world- would never marry one of them. Matrons might usually be widows, but they didn’t have to be. Like Elain’s engagement to Lucien, Nesta was safe.   They’d all been safe, until her sister had brought home her new friends. Elain immediately stomped on the thought- Feyre didn’t mean them any harm. It was both the exact homecoming Elain had dreamt of, and feared. Her sister, so damned different and utterly the same it hurt.   She didn’t need to look to see Nesta’s perfect posture or quick steps bringing her to Elain’s side- that cold grace that high born humans took as impugnable. Anger only showed in her eyes, and from the day they’d had so far, wouldn’t be questioned.   At the same time, Lucien slouched closer, with confident insouciance that brought every eye to the room on him. Drawing fire.   “Beautiful,” Feyre agreed, perhaps grateful for the question, “The walls have stood for thousands of years. It’s safe, not like anything on this side of the Wall.”   “I could show you,” Rhysand offered in that silken voice, “In your mind, if you’d like to see where Feyre has been living.”   She was forcefully reminded of Luciens words. Rhysand is practically to faeries what high fae are to humans. Like her mind were a door he could walk through. Feyre was smiling at the offer, but Elain heard the threat.   “No,” Elain said, lightly, “Perhaps I’ll see it for myself someday.”   The huge bay windows were fogging with heat. No matter the ironclad control of his face, Lucien’s power was showing; no ice left in the air, just heat that smelled like a fresh lit fire and felt like the sun on her skin.   He was, after all, a singular listener.   They all had to be as Feyre began speaking in earnest. It was a story vast and tangled as the knot in Elain’s chest; loss, beautiful potential, and disaster on the horizon.   If the Night Court was to be believed, war was coming, and it would spare none of them. — Six hours into Feyre’s homecoming the bulk of the Acheron staff went home early, baskets of extra food in their arms and bottles of Lucien’s cider pressed into their hands, the promise of a warm, cozy night before them.   Elain watched them go and sighed.   It wouldn’t rouse any suspicion- Nesta and Elain had been in circumstance’s different from their birth for such a long time their ways had been set. It was fact- lauded, if sometimes laughed at- that their shared ladies maid was critically underworked, the entire staff of maids and footmen, gardeners and kitchen staff wildly overpaid.   That Elain would insist the first beautiful snowfall of the year should be time spent with family wasn’t a surprise.   Only those who lived on the estate remained. The head of the stables who bred horses as quick as they were clever who wouldn’t leave them to the storm. The gardener’s, settled in cottages made fairytale pretty with the weather.   Their head cook, who’d watched the proceedings with steely eyes before touching Elain’s cheek and taking her staff down to the head gardener’s house for a huge meal. She’d left behind food for them of course, as well, grumbled in her throaty burr to stay warm. If Rhysand wanted more potential human witnesses farther away, he could drag them off himself.   It was a strange thing, to sit before a High Lord whose very presence colored the air with menace- whose spymaster, she could not ignore had disappeared to somewhere-and listen to him describe that the Courts had to unite.   That Feyre might be a key- the child of every magic in their land.   Her sister spoke to him like a lover, treated him like a best friend, but laughed and said she worked for him. With a crown on her head.   It was very obvious, at least to Elain, that finding Lucien here- finding them less than ignorant to danger in their world- had thrown off whatever plan Feyre had for them.   A part of Elain wanted to scream. To demand a real answer of Feyre, to make it very clear they had plans and hopes of their own. But she also wanted to drag Feyre upstairs, to the plush, lovely bedroom she and Nesta had built for her. Show her the glass walled painting studio the next room over, ask every question she could think of about the life Feyre had build in the Night Court.   Never return to the sitting room where they other were still gathered- Nesta, frustrated and suspicious, Lucien treated like a threat. Friendly Cassian and revoltingly charming Rhysand. Feyre, who thought they were innocents to be shielded.   Alone, finally, Elain sank back against the long oak counter in the center of the kitchen, and let herself simply breathe and watch the snow as it fell through diamond-pained windows.   “Do you trust a word out his mouth?” Nesta growled from the doorway.   Elain sagged further down, allowed herself a long sigh before replying. “Not a bloody one. Lucien going to be okay alone?”   Waving a pale hand, Nesta sagged beside her. “He got Feyre talking about Spring. You know she never saw any of the territory but Tamlin’s house?” Much like Elain, Nesta could only manage to spit the High Lord of Springs name. It sounded like a curse, under this roof. “She’d forgive anything if Lucien keeps answering her questions. And stops flashing his ring at her.”   Tiredly, Elain found herself laughing, shoulder bumping Nesta’s as the shared slouch of comfort brought them to equal height.   “You didn’t tell her it was your idea.”   A single wave had escaped the braid wrapped around Nesta’s head. Darker than Elain’s hair and straighter than Feyre’s, it gleamed in the half light. Nesta curled it back in place before speaking, sharp face half shadowed. “You didn’t tell her you the two of you met in a garden and you invited him to tea.”  It felt like a century ago- Lucien’s careful concern and sad eyes. Stealing his weapons in a rush of madness that didn’t go away; she saw him every day, and still, Lucien’s presence was adrenaline and comfort in one.   Life without him seemed impossible.   “Could have told her I’m not going to marry him.” Elain pointed out.   “Aren’t you?” Nesta hissed, not angry- triumphant.   The word that escaped Elain was not one for a ladies vocabulary. All their plans- trade, hiding, protection- hinged on the three of them together. But the marriage itself was not something they spoke of.   Engagement traditions in gentry were ironclad.   They’d exchanged flowers and then rings in public. Lucien had ceremonially dueled Nesta for Elain’s hand- both in front of people and again in private, for the fun they got out of the mock sword fight. Already planned in a scant five days time they’d be handfast, in a month, married to follow.   It was the one thing Lucien and Elain never, ever, talked about.   Nesta, not unkindly, laughed. “He’d die for you, Elain. That’s not friendship.”   “I’d kill for him,” Elain whispered back, before straightening. “Gods know we might have to. What does Rhysand want?”   “Right now, all he’s getting is dinner.” They hadn’t spoken of it, wouldn’t in this unwarded room, but the High Lord felt dangerous. And Feyre was quite clearly in love with him.   Was a war that had nothing to do with them really more of a threat than illegal consorting with faeries the High Council of Queens were known to despise? — Lucien wasn’t sure Elain would be waiting for him.   On the scale of dinners Lucien had experienced with Feyre Archeron, the family reunion might have been just slightly more comfortable than her first night in the Spring Court. She’d been furious then- tonight, all three Acheron sister’s were sharp enough to wound.   Despite Elain directing the conversation with grace, Nesta restraining herself enough to snap only once at the Illyrian watching her with rapt attention, it went badly.   Badly enough Lucien was out in the snow, circling their summer meeting place in the foolish hope Elain would think of it, and come looking for peace. For conversation. For him.   It was six long paces before he found her, face tilted up into the snowfall, ice on the edges of her fur lined hood.   Lucien found he didn’t need to speak, simply held out his arm like a human galant. With an inclined head that he knew was both acknowledgment and joke- that reached down into the fire of his blood and sparked- Elain curled a thickly mittened hand above his elbow, returned his smile.   They didn’t speak until they’d crossed out of the garden. When the words came they were fast and shared: Elain thought Rhysand was a smug bastard, Lucien didn’t fully believe a word he said.   “He doesn’t mean Feyre harm,” Lucien mulled over how to explain, the word mates lead on his tongue, “But”-   “But keeping us alive for her and keeping us safe are different things?” Elain interrupted.   The empty road was thick with snow when they reached it, the whole world buried in quiet when the moon finally showed. They hadn’t run out of observations to trade, but the touch of Elain’s bare hand- freed from mittens to lace her fingers through his- was enough to stop the words in Lucien’s throat.   He took a deep breath, and warmed the air around them.   No laughter, no surprise, no reaction to magic at all anymore but to squeeze his hand.   The quiet held for an infinite time, Elain’s curls white in the moonlight. Could have been Winter fae but for the freckles, Spring but for the genuine depth in her eyes. Autumn, if they lived in Lucien’s dreams.   It was a spell itself, after this fraught, endless day. Magic, until they crested a hill and looked down upon an old millpond, frozen over, the ice gleaming with golden light. Faelight. The sound of their steps raised the face of the women who sat before it, bloodred hair impossibly bright in this white night, pale hands clutched tight. Lucien knew the shape of them- they’d smoothed his hair through childhood nightmares, pressed the first blade he’d ever possessed into his hands.   Lucien’s dead stop pulled Elain closer to his side.   The question was just shaping her mouth when he could speak, surprise and horror and happiness spearing right up under his ribs.   “Mother.” —- The Lady of Autumn rose.   Lucien still hadn’t moved, his grip on her hand frozen. It hurt, to look at his face just then- stripped bare, so surprised the shape was more of pain. She looked so much like him.   A breeze that smelled of apples roasting and the roar of fires blew back Elains hair as Luciens mother closed the distance between them, moving with liquid grace. She was the queen of a lost kingdom, might as well have been a story Elain had been told as child.   Beautiful. Beautiful as her son- red, red hair a ripple past her waist, wide golden eyes, skin like moonlight- but sad too.   A sadness that went deeper than that of her gaze locked on her long lost youngest son.   “You’re not really here,” Lucien said, utterly quiet.   For the first time, Elain realized the light pouring off her skin might not have simply been some part of her own being, but an act of magic. Lucien glowed like that too, a star held somewhere deep inside. It burned whatever it touched, but the Lady of Autumn emitted no heat.   She shook her head. “It’s a small piece of borrowed magic.” Close enough now to touch, her less than solid form dwarfed by Lucien. “The High Lord is otherwise occupied.”   “Mother,” Lucien breathed, and Elain saw the iron control he always had- the charm he slid on and off as easily as she did, the everyday centeredness that lived in Lucien’s sharp smile and dauntless eyes- give way to something old. Something agonized. “I don’t understand. How,” He shook his head, the faintest of tremors running down his arm to Elain’s hand. “How”-   Elain sprang into action. “My lady,” It was hard to execute the bob of a curtsy without moving further from Lucien, but Elain managed it, skirt held in one hand. “It’s an honor to meet you.”   Liquid golden eyes finally turned to her, gleaming like an owl, palpably, gloriously inhuman.”Well met, mortal,” She breathed, the faintest smile on her perfect mouth, everything and absolutely nothing like her son. “I am Sorcha.”   “Elain.”   “I believe I met your sister, once. The curse breaker.” Under the Mountain and held in sway of a sorceress who’d taken an entire country with her wiles- the pieces seemed impossible to fit together. Bowed or even bent, no hesitation or defeat was imaginable for this female. Sorcha, sorrowful or not, felt like power, an arcane, otherworldly danger, much like being in a room with Rhysand.   Elain fought to not look away from her ancient face. The taut tension of Lucien’s body was so complete she could feel it beside him. A moment needed, and Elain could give him that.   She inclined her head. “Yes, I believe your gift served her well.” No matter the depth in her eyes, the smile grew. “I would have been able to do more had the curse ended but a year later. She was lucky to save us, but worse is coming.”   “Mother,” Lucien’s voice was soft, so terribly soft, “You risk yourself to warn me of war?”   Ghostly, that hip length red hair brushed Elain’s arm, the illusion allowing no feeling. She hadn’t realized, caught in the moment, how close Sorcha had come.   “Oh, my little star,” The Lady of Autumn breathed, “Many things are about to come, not all of which I can tell you yet. But my binding to Autumn is finally at an end.”   Elain knew only pieces of the story; Lucien’s mother bound too young to a savage ruler. A marriage contract written in blood, the heirs that followed. And Lucien, finally, the one who among all the rest solely inherited her burning gifts.   Lucien’s hand convulsed in hers. “You’re going to be free?”   Sorcha’s wicked expression was every bit his too, for all that her features were honed more delicate and less lush. The air smelled like smoke, like herbs burning- Elain couldn’t identify a single one. “My darling, no Vanserra can be held forever.” She brushed a hand over Lucien’s cheek, sadness and hope endless between them. “You deserve the entire story, but time runs short, and there are things you must know.”   “Hybern is coming,” Elain said, her voice too sharp to her own ears.   The Lady of Autumn no more sounded like birdsong when she laughed, flashing a fanged mouth. “You are much more than a curse breaker’s sister, aren’t you?”   A warm hand landed between her shoulder blades, familiar. Still holding her hand, turning was required to make the motion, trading the grip of one hand for the other so fast Elain only tracked it with the change of calluses against her palm. Ridiculous- and comfort, perhaps not just her own.   “She’s Elain Archeron,” Lucien said, like her name meant something to this ageless queen.   “Indeed,” Sorcha raised her other hand to Elain’s cheek, the ghost of a touch. “The House of Oak embraces you, Elain Acheron. Hybern will ruin this land if given a chance. I’ll send word when I can, but if you need refuge- either of you- go to Day.”   Lucien frowned, but the light that made the visage of his mother pulsed, returned fainter.   “Remember what I told you Lucien, and live.”   Like she’d never been there at all, Sorcha faded into nothing.   The sounds of the night crept back to them- wind through the folly, the distant sound of horses calming for the night, followed by the new and faraway boom of Illyrian wings. Loudest of all, Elain’s racing pulse as Lucien didn’t move, barely seemed to so much as breathe.   Still as he’d been the day they’d found him, bleeding into their soil.   Slowly, heart not so much pounding as having settled sick in her throat, Elain leaned into the broad chest before her. Slower still, she settled her cheek against his fine mortal shirt, silk impossibly heated. She’d seen that warmth transmute, watched things catch fire by unintended cause of simply being near. It was a long, long time before Elain felt Lucien’s lungs fill again.   “She left something in your hair,” He finally said, voice so rough and deep that even the warmth of proximity didn’t keep goosebumps from Elain’s skin.   “What?”   Elain reached a cautious hand up, and felt- petals? Silken, dewy, full blooms bound in vine and something smoothly foreign, a circlet wound in her hair. Head tipped back, she didn’t have to ask the question to find Lucien looking down in answer, face stripped bare.   The hand on her back made the soft trip upward until Lucien was directing her fingertips. “Wild rose, monkshood, clematis, poison ivy,” Leaf and petal brushed her hand, until Elain was touching the shape of the loop itself, cool even beneath Lucien’s knife calluses, “Bone of the wild hunt,” Onto the other side, his eyes on hers, “Iron from the heart of the last great wyrm.”   “Bone and wrym?”   Lucien dropped her hand to scrub a palm over his face. Gold and wheat and bone gleaming in his own hair, he laughed, curling into her space as the sound carried relief and wildness from his ribs to hers.   “Elain,” He whispered, hope and reverence in one, “She left you the crown of the High Lord of Autumn.” — An hour later, sparks ricocheting in his veins like so much adrenaline, Lucien was behind the locked door of Elain’s bedroom, warding a hatbox with enough magic to destroy a city.   The two circlets his mother- his mother alive, escaping, unhurt- had left behind sat on Elain’s bed, nearly at eye level where he was crosslegged on the floor, burning symbols into cedar. The usual occupant of that unslept-in space was sprawled nearly as close, fingertips hovering over the crown Lucien had pulled from his hair like it might burn her. “Gold?” Elain asked, echoing his own thoughts with a painful clarity. “As in Day Court gold, for Day court asylum?”   “I don’t know,” He admitted, the last twist of fire arcing between his hands. “Day court gold, Autumn bone. It doesn’t make any sense."   Gold and wheat like the crown of the High Lord Lucien had never met, a territory he’d never so much as set foot in, bound to the rowan and bone he’d worn as Beron’s unacknowledged heir; earned, with the magic in his veins and death of his touch.   A rightness, a horror in Lucien’s hands- a missing piece it was hard to look away from, even now.   Elain passed it to him, scarred wrist silver in the living glow of the gold, like sunlight. Not like- actual sunlight, the gold forged by Day Court’s hand, the Spell-cleaver’s bloodline.   It wasn’t until he’d dropped it in the box, lid shut and magic locking with such finality that Lucien managed to look up and find those infinite brown eyes on his face.   “They’re both yours,” Elain said. She was sliding off the bed and onto the floor before he’d even finished shaking his head, skirt spilling over them both. “No. Lucien, it’s your birthright. It’s yours.”   She was feeling enough- not bothering to contain herself around him? Comfortable, the fire sang, and Lucien swallowed it down- to speak with her hands, pale fingers waving as she gestured between them. How many hours had Lucien spent with that careful grip on one arm? How many times had he kissed that palm over the last year, for the benefit of an audience?   He could have found the freckles blind.   “I was never really heir,” Lucien said carefully, waiting for the painful sympathy of her dark eyes.   Instead, Elain growled, so near a real snarl he swore for a heartbeat he could hear the reverb that could one only come from a faery throat, before grabbing his hand. Fearlessly- like those weren’t fire starters hands, like Lucien’s skin wasn’t still hotter than any living things should be.   “Beron’s fault is not yours,” Elain whispered back, utterly fierce. “You told me the power chooses the heir. Nothing that ancient prick does can change who you are.” Who he was. A faery who’d never belonged to anything or anywhere but here; with these mortal women, with this family right on the edge of war. Autumn undeniably- Lucien could call down the Wild Hunt from the sky, hear the wind through the bone trees even now if he tried, find a bloodlines heir with instinct alone- he was Autumn.   He would always be Autumn.   But he’d never wanted to rule, never really thought he would. The most powerful of Sorcha’s sons; but the gentry of that court had been shaped by Beron’s cruelty for eons, Lucien was not enough one of them to be High Lord.   Not an heir, not an emissary, not even the Acheron Lord: just Lucien Vanserra.   It was settled, he’d realized, as deep as the immortality locked is his bones, the fire pounding in his blood; Elain Acheron wore the crown of Autumn and leaned into his touch like she’d been born for it, and Lucien didn’t want anything else.   Certainty felt like bravery.   “It could still choose me,” He admitted, leaning closer, slowly enough that the entire motion was telegraphed. Elain sighed, the noise all temper, drifting through Lucien’s hair as it slid to curtain them both. “But she gave it to you for a reason, it’ll keep you safe.”   Impossibly, after this day of conflict with Feyre, with the cauldron damned Night Court, after this surreal magic drenched last hour and despite the exhaustion he smelt, clinging to her skin, Elain looked comfortable.   Curious, frustrated, eyes roaming his face- but utterly comfortable spilled on the floor, curved so close together their legs touched, the lamplight only reaching her face through a screen of red hair, glamour long forgotten.   “You don’t want to be High Lord,” She finally said, close enough he felt the words on his own mouth.   His lips quirked up without conscious permission. “I wanted to be heir,” Lucien said. “To be recognized. I wanted enough power to keep others safe- and that couldn’t be taken away. Autumn’s borders won’t accept me, but I could call on those forest’s from here and be answered.”   “To keep us safe?” The way she said it didn’t feel like a question.   There couldn’t be a way she didn’t know- Elain Acheron, a thousand times more clever than most realized. His lungs, his heart. And Nesta, his left hand, a sword and shield before them both.   Careful, like a child’s promise, Lucien hooked one pinky through hers. “I’d turn Hybern to ash if he looks our way.”   A joking tone had taken over, self protection if there ever was any. But Elain heard the truth.   She swung their joined hands, for all that there was barely room to move between them. “I’ll stab him in throat, you can burn the body,” Elain promised, looking down. “I imagine even faery kings can’t wield magic if they’re choking on blood.”   She was a savage in lace and velvet, her quick mortal heart loud in his ears.   Before he could weigh the action, Lucien snatched up the other crown, feeling the biting sting as it rejected him, burn sinking into his palms in the second it took to place that bone wreath on Elain’s head.   “Wear it,” Lucien whispered, feeling as though he were under enchantment himself, “And it will give you the strength to defeat your enemies.”   Her smile didn’t break the spell, but changed it to something softer. “The wheat,” She began, leaning back to see him fully. “The gold, it smelled like fire.”   What did Autumn and Day have in common? Nothing, everything- courts of old magic and deep nature, a power that could burn and bind.   He knew it before she said it. “Like your acorn.” Like his magic. Lucien didn’t know what it meant, anymore than he could say what was coming. They’d hide the crowns together, he knew. Wake up tomorrow in different beds, try to understand, to thwart whatever asinine plan Feyre and her chosen High Lord wanted them dragged into. Tell Nesta they’d been warned, try to plan for war and conflict.   Tuck away this secret between them, until it had meaning.   Autumn Court, Day Court, gods-forshaken Night Court- what did it matter?   Lucien belonged to Elain Archeron, and that wasn’t ever changing.

@breath-of-sindragosa @flxwer-petals @ladyvanserra @illyrianinterrasen@missanniewhimsy@tntwme@ourbooksuniverse @pitterpatterpot @thestarwhowishes @abillionlittlepieces @my-fan-side @the-eightofswords @wonderland–memories @ourbooksuniverse @cohen-theeleven

[wiselemonpie]

Loyally Mated Part 3 {Feysand Fic}

This is part 3. Thank you for reading. I love writing. You can find Part1 and Part2 here. It may take longer for part 4, because my exams are starting next week, they are weekly. So… we will see. :)

@the-bookish-soul

Feyre woke up in the forest a little disoriented, how did she end up here? She couldn’t tell what was happening. She stood up and started walking in a slow pace, it was dark, and the sun hadn’t risen yet. 

She tried to focus and find her way out, looking at the stars for guidance. Feyre always looked to the stars for wisdom, strength, fearlessness and guidance. She never knew why, it was an automatic response she had. Then she heard footsteps, somewhat close to her.

Could it be Rhys? she thought. Maybe he was looking for her. Feyre had to see, and look for him. But something stopped her, what if it wasn’t Rhys? She needed to be sure, before giving her location. After all, she was a warrior too, she knew how to fight in hand to hand combat. However she hadn’t master a weapon yet. 

Feyre listened closely, she needed to remember how Rhys moved in the forest, when he found her in the river after the mating ceremony, she barely heard his noise, and she only smelled him when he was close enough, the smell of starlight and mist. That was it, she had to smell him. Moving light and soundlessly she started sniffing. Nothing, Rhys was not here, then who? Then the smell of red roses and the movement of forest magic hit her so hard, she froze.

She didn’t know what to do. Could she run? Could she escape? Did he see her? Did he felt her? He probably did, he was so close to her. She had to run, find haven, and be free. Because if Tamlin took on a hold on her, everything will be over.

So, Feyre did the only thing she could do, she ran and ran. She didn’t care her legs protested, she wouldn’t stop. Not now, not ever.  She cursed when she heard Tamlin growl. Feyre twisted her head, to see how far he was, but she only saw him shift to a wolf-like animal, with antlers and three tails. Fear gripped her as he came closer, she screamed as a paw brushed her ankle.  She heard him calling her in her mind.

Come, Feyre.

You can’t escape.

You never will.

I will always have you.

Come Feyre.

Tears stung her eyes, but she wouldn’t cry, not to him or anyone. She covered more ground and then she turned around and positioned herself in her fighting stance and when he drew near, she lifted her leg and hit him hard on the face. The animal yelped as he shifted back into Tamlin. He seemed unconscious, Feyre was breathing hard, she closed her eyes, for a second and she heard:

Feyre

Feyre

Feyre!!!

She quickly opened her eyes and a body was close, too close to her. She thrust her arm with all her might and hit the body in the eye. He staggered back, cursing, apparently he was a man. That gave her the time to move away.

“Get away from me,” she growled. 

A soothing voice emanated from the man saying, “Feyre, calm down, it was a dream, you are alright, you are safe, and you are free.” He said it emphasizing every word.

Dream, but it was so real, she breathed and took in her surrounding; she was in a room, a bedroom. She could see the armoire, the bookshelf, the balcony. Rhys, Rhys’ room. Feyre tried to recognize the man, a smell hit her; mist and starlight with the magic of darkness. 

“Rhys?” She asked slowly. 

“I am here, I will always be.” He intoned so soothingly. 

She breathe and relaxed. Feyre moved closer to him, taking small steps. He didn’t hesitate, he move gracefully and pulled her in into a hug, comforting her. She gladly took it. It was a dream she told him and he kept saying she was free. She could feel her heart racing or was it his, she felt? Feyre moved away first. Then she remembered she punched him hard on the face. 

“Rhys, your eye, it’s bleeding.” She said worriedly.

“Well, you did punch me hard, may I say good technique you have there. I see promised.” Rhys’ voice was full of glee. 

“Don’t joke with me Rhysand, if could get infected.” Feyre said as she moved to get a small towel for his face in the night stand.

“Oh, now we are going to full names, are we Feyre, darling.” He said as he followed her, as if he needed her heat as much as she did his. 

“How did I manage to hit you any way, aren’t you a highly trained warrior?”

Feyre move closer to him with the towel, cleaning his face. 

“I am, but whenever I am around you, I get distracted by you.” He stated boldly.

Thank the Gods it was still dark so he didn’t see her blush. Just then, did she realized that Rhys didn’t have a shirt on. That she hugged a man, her mate without a shirt. That, that same man told her she was distracting. Did the Gods hear her before, when she was thinking about him without a shirt? She tried to act normal, finished cleaning his face and then she asked.

“Why are you naked?” Her voice was a bit too out of breath. Damn, she cursed herself. That beautiful torso and the pectorals with the swirls tattoos coming and going from his front to back. STOP she said to herself if she continued, she would faint–

“I am not naked, I have pants on." 

"I meant, why do you only have pants, where is your shirt?" 

"Do you like what you see?” He winked.

Feyre only looked at him, using all her force not to nod and keep a blank stare. Gods, he was a hand full. 

“Okay fine, I heard you screaming and I ran like hell thinking you were in danger.” Rhys explained, then she noticed he was holding a sword very tightly. 

“Well that explains the lack of clothing and the sword.” She took a sit at the edge of the bed. He followed her, he seemed as if he were to say something, but he stopped and froze. Feyre looked up and said, “Rhys?” However he wasn’t looking at her but past her. 

Rhys was at a loss of words. He kept stammering and didn’t know what to say.

Feyre turned around to see what was he looking at, but she actually had an idea what was it. She saw it, it was Rhys’ special book, and she probably tossed it while she was in the nightmare. She turned back to him and pursed her lips. He seemed mortified, ashamed and afraid at the same time. She never thought she would live to see the day where Rhysand, Heir of the Northern Tribe was afraid.

Feyre cleared her throat, “I—umh— I found the book on your bookshelf. It was quite…” She tried to look for an appropriate word. “—explicit” she said at last.

Rhys eyed widened, he was still processing this it seemed. “Cassian gave it me.” He finally blurted out. 

Feyre couldn’t help as her lips quirked upward, she couldn’t believe he was so flustered. She thought the book was weird at first, now she just thought it was funny. “Yeah, I could tell, I read the dedication,” she mused. “Quite a friend you have." 

He seemed about to explode. Feyre couldn’t help it anymore, she burst out laughing. Rhys now seemed confused, but he started to laugh a long with her, because her laugh was contagious. When the laughing ended she asked what she wanted to ask him earlier in dinner. 

"Do—do you want that?” She said in a low voice. She was surprised she asked, she thought it wouldn’t just die in her throat. Did she really just asked that? What kind of question was that? She had to know, though. It was imperative she know. 

He stammered again, but a little amusingly he said, “Feyre, darling, I have as much experience with that as you do. This is all new to me.” For emphasis he showed her his forearms, with the mating ceremony. If he had experience he wouldn’t have been able to mate.  For now, the mating lines were still just lines, once consummated those lines would swirl around into intricate patterns. 

“You know,” Rhys said breaking the silence. “You have a beautiful laugh. It’s really contagious. I never thought I actually hear it." 

A small smile was forming in her lips. He never thought he would hear her laugh. "Why,” she said curiously. “Why didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t the best gentleman towards you before, I treated you wrongly and you didn’t deserve it. I thought you would rather mate with any other than me. I tried to push you away, mostly because of Isaac, I didn’t want to hurt him either. But you were so devastatingly beautiful, strong willed, braver than I’ll ever be, that I kept following you and kept falling more for you. I couldn’t stay away and I wanted to make it up for everything I did to you. I am so sorry, could you ever forgive me?” His voice was so truthful, her heart broke as she look into his eyes and his eyes never left hers.

Feyre thought of all those mood swings Rhys used to have. When he was caring at first and cold the next. Like if everything they shared was nothing. All those days thinking what might have triggered his detachment. Not just this past day, but two weeks before, when she first arrived at the capitol. Before she lived in town close to the Western Tribe; Isaac’s tribe. Where they met all the time. Ever since she got here Rhys was all she could think about. But the constant detachment made her steel walls grow. But now, everything shattered, she was bare, he was bare. They could see each other utterly and entirely. 

“I forgive you, Rhys.” She told him.

Feyre couldn’t believe what she felt in her own heart, what she felt emanating from him as she spoke her words. She could feel his magic, the darkness shifting, from the stiffness, nightmare warrior to the soothing, dreamer knight.  His magic added up to hers so thoroughly, she felt the soft caress of it, as it expanded to her and filled the room. Her own magic danced and twirl around his. Feyre was conscious that he could feel it too, so Rhys’ magic grew, but her magic wasn’t left behind.  She threw her magic to take a hold of his, their tattoos brighten turning gold, that was the only light in the room. 

Rhys reached for her hands, “Gods, Feyre,” he said breathlessly. As a powerful cooling darkness flew through her and swooned. “It feels do good to hold your hand,” he finally said. 

Now it was her turn to be at a loss of words. She didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t last long because he continued, “Feyre, darling, I never heard a more beautiful name, I feel as if I could not go on with my life with you in it. May— may I court you Feyre?" 

His eyes glittered and shunned, he was serious she thought, more than serious, he was hesitant, expecting her to turn him down but also expecting her to say yes. She couldn’t believe the uncertainty in his eyes, in those dark violet eyes, that resemble his magic. So she just said showing him her arm, "Don’t you think you are doing this, the other way around.” A smile forming in her lips, at the little teasing.

But he didn’t grin, or rolled his eyes or replied with a snarky remark. He look as he had his answer and was ready to leave. He didn’t know she was teasing, she couldn’t believe it. Then he took a step back, trying to release her other hand. Feyre wouldn’t take it, she held firm, as he once had. To save him from making a mistake and leave, she took steps toward him. She was so close, she heard his breath ragged, heard the pumping of her own heart. Feyre wouldn’t let him leave, he had to know. 

“I would love that very much, Rhys, Fy Seren.” My star. That is she told him, his eyes widened, Feyre seized him by the cheeks and kissed him deeply. Rhys didn’t stiffened at her touch, as if he was waiting for her to just that. He kissed her back, as first slowly not wanting his magic to drown her, but she didn’t hold back and sent all of her into him. Rhys smiled as he felt the sparks, the darkness, the obliteration of everything, with every touch, so he deepened the kiss. She became oblivious, to everything but him. He pulled her close, as their bodies were now so close it looked like one. 

He was still without a shirt, but she wasn’t going to protest anytime soon. Rhys lifted her up and walked towards the bed, not once breaking the kiss, she longed for gods knew how. He lounged slowly, still sending more magic towards her and her magic singing in his pattern, and only his. She could live like this she thought, every day, waking up and seeing Rhys, kissing him so deeply that she couldn’t get enough, just living with Rhys. 

Feyre broke the kiss to look at him, just to look at him at her friend, her husband, her mate.  She realized she too couldn’t go back to how things where before, that she couldn’t move on, not without Rhys. He appeared so undeniable happy, “Sleep, darling.” His lips moved slowly in her ear. 

“Stay, Fy Seren, sleep with me.”

“With pleasure,” without shifting to much, he settled next to her and held her close. She scooted closer, she never felt like this before, like she belonged, like she was free to make her own choices. Being mated to Rhys was not the most horrible thing that happened to her. It was a gift, a gift to her and Rhys all of it. Feyre close her eyes and was drifting to sleep, as she heard him whisper, “My mate." 

[claryaastark]

Would I love me?

062418

Isn’t it strange? To look at someone and see yourself. Not the virtual but the real image of you. Isn’t it strange? To see your thoughts on someone, to feel your emotions on someone, to see the things you admire on someone, to have a taste of your favorite food on someone. To have a sip of your favorite coffee on someone. To fight the ideas that you believe on someone. Isn’t it strange? To have a glimpse of your soul on someone, someone who isn’t you, and someone who is different from you.

Well, perhaps yes, perhaps no.

It was a very long and tiring day. I was on my way home, thinking about how bad I am on fixing the right format of my final thesis output. I really suck at revising. But instead of thinking about acads, I divert my attention into the bustling city. All I hear were the loud blasting sound of the vehicles, the gossip of two high school students on the right part of the bus. The gentle utterance of the woman in front who wears a red polo shirt with a coca-cola logo on the left side. And judging her looks, I think she is some sort of a saleswoman, maybe a manager? Or simply an employee as she talks to someone over the phone. Meanwhile, on the back part of my mind, it feels weird but I can also hear the clicking of coins as the bus’ conductor collected our fare. I hate being this meticulous and observer sometimes.

I almost throw myself in front as the driver stepped on the break. A hint, either someone will come down or someone will ride. And the latter thinking was right, a man on his mid-20s I guess? I looked away and focused myself on the street lights which are unsurprisingly blurred because of my myopia. Without looking, I felt that the man sat beside me, and for no apparent reason he pushed himself beside me. Wtf?

“You’re occupying too much seat and with the right comprehension, I regret to tell you that this seat is for two passenger, and YOU ARE OCCUPYING TOO MUCH.”

He repeated his first statement with diction and sarcasm.

“I’m sorry,” that’s all I said, I want to argue because of his reckless and improper behavior but I’m too tired to fight with an arrogant stranger.

But he rolled his eyes instead. And for the second time, I ignored his disrespectful behavior. It was a one hour ride to reach the street of our home. So I busied myself on scrolling the gallery of my phone.

“Are you okay?” He said out of nowhere.

“Huh? Me?” I said while pointing myself awkwardly.

“No, I am actually talking to myself” he said sarcastically and he rolled his eyes. For a man, this one is really arrogant.

“Uhh, I’m doing good I guess, and why do you asked?” I said awkwardly.

It was weird, after he freaked out because of the seat, he is now asking my current state like we were close or something? What’s with this man?

“Nothing, is it bad to ask? You should be thankful that I asked if you’re okay. You seem stressed and by looking at you, I can already tell that no one really cares for you, and everybody is ignoring you. Like you don’t belong anywhere”

And he laughed. He fucking laughed. First he mocked me, and now he is insulting me? Which I found very offensive. I’m dealing with too much stress right now, and I can’t even breathe properly because of so many reasons, and now, a stranger is insulting me like he knows what I’ve been dealing with? I felt a sudden pang on my chest. I am offended.

“Fuck-off” I said bravely, despite the fact that I nearly cried.

He was shocked, I can tell.

“Ooh. I’m sorry, I was just joking, and... I thought that it was the most unique way of telling sorry. I’m sorry for freaking out”

And that’s where we started. I do not know as well, what power of Gods and Goddesses had put us together. He was an arrogant man, disrespectful and talks a lot of offensive things, so am I. But I loved him anyway, and I admit, that I learned a lot of things from him. We were mainly pragmatic. He is no sweet, gentle and showy. But he was pure, sincere and mature.

But just like anyone else, he left. He came for no apparent reason, and he left for no apparent reason as well. Maybe, just maybe, on a scientific basis, what happened to us is repel. He is he and I am me, we are the same and attraction is really not working with us. I guess?

It was a normal Sunday afternoon. I was bored, and the only thing that gives me comfort during tedious times on this very dull life is : coffee. I made my way on the nearest coffee shop downtown.

The aroma of sweet vanilla and bitter cocoa welcomed me. The dream catcher that was hanging on the door had clicked, a signal that someone is making their way in or out. I look for my favorite spot, where I can peacefully sit and be drowned by the deafening silence. I ordered my favorite matcha coffee, and a piece of custard cake. I pulled the Young Adult novel series that I was reading since last week, I am on the third book of the series. It was Sarah J. Maas’ A Court of Wings and Ruin, and damn, I just love the character of the God-like Rhysand. Most of the time, I wished that I was like the protagonist or the fictional characters on books, and movies. Might at least get a happy ending despite of struggles. But the fuck, no matter how good you are on escaping reality through arts and fictions, at the end of the day, you will sleep and wake up on the bitter slap of reality.

I put my earphones on, browsed my phone and look for my favorite app, the spotify. I am no great person, but I can brag that I got a very good taste when it comes to music. I can enumerate a lot of artists, genres, bands, albums, and the likes all day if someone would let me to. Though I’m bad at singing, at least, I got a big contribution through appreciation. I got them all! I played Movements’ Feel Something, one on the lists of my Album of the Year. Then here we go, my kind of escaping shits in life. What a very peaceful moment for me.

I was sitting alone and peacefully for almost one hour, in fact, I was halfway on finishing my cake and coffee until I noticed a man who’s staring at me. I faked a cough and tilted my body on the other side, to at least stop him from staring at me. But ugh! I can see on my peripheral vision the he’s still looking at me.

“What are you staring at?” I put my book on the table, loud enough for him to hear.

I didn’t get a verbal response, instead, he pouted his lips, a sign that he was pointing on something. Then I waved my book upward.

“On the book?” I asked with irritation, he is damn lazy. Can’t he speak?

“Yup, I love Feyre since day 1, and I didn’t trust Tamlin since then, that psychopath-sex-addict-obsessed-and-pseudo-lordshit.” He said coldly.

Ohh. So he read Maas’ ACOTAR?! My irritation suddenly turned into amusement. I removed my earphones and smiled at him. I patted the seat next to me, inviting him so we can talk more about this series. I mean, it is odd, to find someone who reads the same goddamn book that you are reading. Reading is a cool interest after all.

He sat hesitantly. I pushed the lock button to see what time is it. It’s 4:35 in the afternoon.

“Woaaah, man?”

I was taken aback when he spoke.

“You listen to Movements?”

Then I forgot that the album is still playing on my spotify app. And I guess, he saw it on my lock screen. But wait...

“Yup, and you too?” I said with amusement on my voice.

“Yeah, damn same man! Patrick is a wholesome piece of shit!”

And we laughed. Those laughter turned into weeks, months and years. A stranger that I met unexpectedly, is now a person that I used to know. Again, someone left my life.

We had the same interest in almost everything, we attended a lot of book signing, book launch. We bought a lot of albums from our favorite bands. We attended concert, gigs. We watched countless movies, we drank a lot of coffees. We travelled places to taste various delicacies and kind of foods. We jogged at sunrise, and walk at sunset. We were happy. Or... should I say, we were almost happy?

It is weird but he was totally just like me. We share the same interests, we fight the same ideologies, we have the same belief in almost everything. But again, he came to me, without me, asking for it, and now he didn’t even give me a chance to ask again, to ask why he left. I loved him, and I guess, things won’t really work on the way that we want them to be. So is us. And it’s sad.

It’s almost the end.

The end of the semester. And after all the hardships, sleepless nights, frustrations, failures, we are finally wearing the black toga! It’s the graduation season.

“Congrats, B!”

It was Kat, one of my thesis group mates. I returned her congratulations with a nod and smile. I’m too lazy to speak, it still overwhelms me that I survived and finished College with a Latin honor. Not to brag though.

I’m so excited to share this to him. I smiled, my heart is beating fast as I make my way to our favorite spot : under the mango tree.

It was a peaceful and underrated spot. Underrated to the point that we’re the only people who knew this place. I guess not all accidents are bad, because I found this place accidentally, so is he.

I smiled as I saw him playing the guitar again. He seems too preoccupied that he didn’t notice my arrival. I pouted my lips then a silly idea entered my mind. I tiptoed carefully then I cover his eyes from behind. He stopped his fingers from moving along with the guitar strings, and I felt him smile.

“Uhm, since I don’t want to mess with your tricks, let me pretend that I didn’t know it was you. So, who’s this?”

He joked.

I kissed his cheeks from behind and whispered.

“Your future wife saw her name on the final list of graduates and guess what, a Cum Laude!”

“Wow! Congrats, B! I’m proud of you. You finally made it!”

He hugged me tight.

I opened my eyes with the bittersweet memory. It’s been a year since I graduated College, and it is the first time that I visited this place again. Still peaceful, the only different thing is that, the people who used to own this place, are now the people who used to know each other.

For the third time, someone left me again. He is one of the kindest persons that I know. He brings out the kindness in me. A responsible man, very family and school oriented. He’s the one who makes me realize the essence of being responsible. He taught me to appreciate little things, and the most important thing that he planted me is, I realized that I am not bad. That we’re like each other.

He used to sing me a lot of songs, he motivates me to always do better not just for myself but for my family. I was happy. We were happy. But I guess, happiness is not enough to bind people together. There are things that are more important than being in love.

And that’s my biggest realization.

The stories that I’ve told you is just a piece of a whole. I didn’t tell you the hardships, the pains, the sleepless nights that I experienced when they left. It was hard, to be left behind. With or without explanations, it was hard.

I started asking myself what’s wrong with me. I started doubting myself, I hated myself. And I started feeling afraid of taking risks. I began to wonder, do these wrong people deserve my time, invested feelings, and love?

I met a stranger on a bus, and I took a piece of him. I was an arrogant, sarcastic and disrespectful being sometimes, so is he. We were the same. I saw my bad sides in him. And I fell in love with those evil. I learned to accept that there is good in every wicked.

I met a stranger on a coffee shop. I took a piece of him. I saw myself in him. The things that I admire, my interests, my ideologies and all the stuff that makes me happy. He will always be my real life reflection.

I met a stranger under the mango tree. I took a piece of him. I saw my good sides in him. I was kind, compassionate and I realized that I really care for those people around me. He made me love my soft spots.

I always see myself in them. They are like a reflection of my different sides. It was bitter, that they made me doubt myself. They made me feel insecure for leaving me behind. They made me hate myself. But after all, it was all about me. Piece by piece, I assemble myself into whole.

Funny because, I just fell in love with myself. That they are just the representation of who I truly am, that they are me. I was the stranger in the bus. I was the stranger in the coffee shop. I was the stranger under the mango tree. Every piece of them is equal to the remnants of myself that I was trying to build.

If I were them, would I love me? And I got the answer, yes, because I just did. I fell in love with myself.

© to owner of the photos.

️

[getalittlecountry]

Shape of You

Alright so here’s the start of a new AU!

Nesta hasn’t seen her sisters in almost a year. When she’s invited back to their lake house for a long weekend, Feyre insists she brings the boyfriend she’s told her about. The only problem is, he doesn’t exist. 

So out of desperation, her friend sets her up with Cassian. Somehow a weekend filled with fake hand holding and kisses, turns Nesta back into the girl she was before Tomas had destroyed her and the relationship she had with her sisters.

Chapter 1

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck," I slammed my laptop shut as I threw my pen across the room. Of course my sisters would decide to have a start of summer weekend at the lake. And of course they would call me out for the lies I told them about the boy I met while here in the city.

It had been almost six months since I had last seen my sisters. I moved to the city as soon as I could, as soon as I found a job that would help me pay my half of the rent. I wanted out of that small town, I had to walk away before the memories, the ghosts haunted me forever. The city was my fresh start and even though neither of them understood, they let me go.

Feyre and I talked at least once a month on the phone. She kept asking me how I was doing and she told me that Tomas still asked about me. What she didn’t understand, even though I always changed the subject, was that I didn’t want to know about Tomas. I didn’t want to know about anyone in that small ass town because they were the reason why I left. The only reason I talked to Feyre was to check up on her and Elain.

They were the only family I had left. They were the only ones who mattered.

Sure I missed them. I missed my sisters, but it wasn’t enough to make me go visit home. I wasn’t homesick, I was content here in the city, in this new life I had made for myself. I loved my job at the bookstore. I loved the fact that I could walk everywhere and that things were open well into the night. But most of all I loved the fact that no one knew me. They didn’t know the secrets that had been whispered behind my back. They didn’t know how Tomas had tried to ruin me.

They didn’t know that he had almost won that war.

I read Feyre’s email again. Our lake house, the only thing our father had left to us. The lake house that had sat unused for years until we were old enough to realize the benefits of having that big house that sat right there at the water. The only reason we still owned it was because it was completely paid off. That and somehow Feyre and her fiancee were able to keep up with it.

The lake house where so many things had happened. So many things hadn’t happened too. There had been parties, there had been underage drinking. But mostly there had been tears. From me.

I pushed away those memories and looked at my computer. What was I supposed to do? I had started the lie to make my sister feel better. For her to think I wasn’t all alone out here in the city. Because she didn’t understand that I wanted to be alone. I didn’t want to be with someone who hurt me, who could destroy me. Not after I had been with Tomas for so long.

But I couldn’t tell her that truth. Not when I had fed her enough lies to make this boyfriend seem real. She was happy for me, she didn’t worry about me because she thought I had someone taking care of me. I didn’t need someone to take care of me. Just like I knew Feyre didn’t need her fiancee to take care of her. But it was nice knowing she had someone steady. She had someone real after the horrors that Tamlin had dealt her.

My sisters didn’t know about Tomas. They didn’t really know much about why I wanted to leave. It had been different when our parents died. I could’ve left and they would’ve understood. But I stayed until they were finished high school and then when Feyre announced she was getting married last year I up and left. I didn’t even say goodbye I just left a letter explaining I needed to find my own way now that they were both able to take care of themselves.

I pulled my hair hard, trying to stop the tears from filling my eyes. I didn’t cry, not easily. But I got teary eyed when I was frustrated. I couldn't tell them the truth. So what was I supposed to do? I squeezed my eyes shut and the door to my apartment opened.

“Fuck me this can’t be happening.”

"Nesta!" I jumped at Rita's voice, "you seem agitated.”

I met my roommate Rita at the bookstore. She was leaving for another job and I said something about needing a place to stay. We hit it off right away and I didn’t hate living with her. Sure our apartment was small, smaller than the home I had shared with my two sisters. But it was ours, I paid rent and I had my own room. Rita didn’t nag me about my mess and I didn’t nag her about hers.

We were good roommates. We got along and we left each other alone when we knew the other needed space. We were friends, but we were almost roommates. We didn’t get in each other’s business unless there was a reason to. I had gotten lucky.

I groaned, "my sisters want to have a long weekend at the lake."

"Oh fun!"

"Not when you've been lying about having a boyfriend. And they want you to bring him along."

Rita laughed, "oh shit I forgot. Damn what are you going to do?"

I shook my head, "I'll think of something."

I leaned back in my chair and Rita watched me. She raised an eyebrow and smiled, "I might know someone who can help."

"No. The last guy you introduced me to was disgusting."

His name was Adam and he was a hipster to end all hipsters. His hair was dirty and his glasses were round. They didn't even have frames, and he spoke in riddles. I didn't even spend five minutes in his presence. I found an excuse to leave, I texted Rita and told her to call me, and up and left him high and dry at the coffee shop we met at.

Rita laughed, "I'm sorry okay. I thought you'd get along. But you'll like this one. Should I have him meet you? Even if he's not the brightest, he's easy on the eyes."

She wiggled her eyebrows at me and I couldn't help but laugh. I bit my lip, was I that desperate?

“Really? Your advice is that I hire someone to be my boyfriend for the weekend?”

She shrugged as she set her bag on the counter, “it’s either that or tell them the truth, Nes. I’m not sure which is worse since you seem so opposed to letting your sisters believe you have someone in your life.”

I winced. Rita never told me what to do, she never scolded me for lying to my sisters. But I knew she was right. If I was so okay with being alone, and I swore I was, then why did I feel the need to please my little sister? I’m sure there was some therapist who would say I really wasn’t okay being alone and that some part of me wanted someone around.

But I wouldn’t believe them. Because I didn’t need anyone, I only needed myself. But I didn’t want my sisters to worry. I didn’t want them to think I left them because they were a burden. They are my sisters and I will always be there for them. But it’s my turn to have a life. It’s my turn to find where I’m supposed to be.

I looked at Rita, she was texting someone. She sat down on the couch and I looked at the picture of the three of us. The only picture I had on my desk of us when I was five and they were babies. I was always there, always taking care of them. They were my best friends, before that night drove us apart. Before that night pushed me so far away from everyone else that I couldn’t find my way back to them.

I didn’t want them to ask about it. I didn’t want them to think they needed to figure me out. If I had someone with me they would direct the attention to him. They would ask him about his life and how we met and what we did, instead of berating me with questions about why I left.

I let out a slow breath and Rita looked at me. She smiled slightly, like she already knew what I was about to say. My cheeks were red as I let the thoughts settle and I nodded my head slowly.

“Fine,” I gritted my teeth as I looked at the clock, "tell your friend to meet me at Luke's diner in five minutes."

“He’s already on his way. Trust me you’ll like him. He’s big and handsome,” her eyes got wide as if she had a crush on him herself, “he’s just your type.”

I rolled my eyes and stood up, “if he’s a hipster I swear to god I’ll kill you.”

Rita’s laugh followed me as I grabbed my purse and headed out the door. I walked down the steps, my heart pounding as I opened the door to our building. The sun was warm, the weather had already started to turn to summer. But goosebumps pricked my skin as I thought about hiring someone to lie to my family.

It wasn’t lying. It was pretending. My sister would bring her fiancee, I’m sure Elain had someone. I couldn’t remember if she told me about someone important. His name started with an L? Or maybe it was a C. She didn’t talk much whenever Feyre put her on the phone, but she told me bits and pieces of her life. Elain was the most upset when they found me gone.

I felt guilty every time she called.

But I knew with Feyre came Rhys and with Rhys came his friends. Azriel the quiet one who followed Rhys’s cousin everywhere she went. Feyre told me they were finally opening up to the idea of dating and while I was happy for them all, they were one big happy family, I knew that meant I would be the odd one out. I always was the odd one out, the one who didn’t fit in. The girl who stood alone and never had someone there beside her.

I wanted this weekend, now that I knew about it, to be fun. I wanted them to see me as the Nesta I always was, not the girl I had turned into after that terrible night. The night I was running from. The night I would do anything and everything to forget.

I rubbed my hands up and down my arms as I rounded the corner and the diner came into view. I realized as I walked towards it that I wanted to go home. I wanted to go to the lake and see my sisters and the family they had made for themselves. But I didn’t want to go alone.

Sue me I still had some feelings. I still had some pride I suppose.

I walked into the diner and the bell above the door sounded. Luke, the owner, stood behind the counter and smiled at me. I nodded in greeting, my eyes sweeping the tables. I knew which one was waiting for me as soon as my eyes landed on him. I stood there for a moment too long and contemplated turning around.

He was a big hulking man, his dark hair was long. He looked warm, his skin glowing in the harsh lights of the diner. His black shirt fit perfectly over his arms and his chest. He took up enough space that my eyes couldn’t wander away from them if they tried. My heart stopped, his eyes landing on me before I could make a run for it. Before I could decide this was a terrible choice and I should just tell my sisters the truth.

"Well hello sweetheart," he stood up and half his mouth tilted in a smile. He could've been attractive, if he cut his hair.

I pulled my chair out, "I'm Nesta."

He licked his lips, "you can call me Cassian," his eyes sparkled. Like they were hiding something he was dying for me to find out.

"Right well. I take it Rita told you why I'm here."

He coughed, "something about you being in need of a male escort to the lake this weekend."

I winced, "a friend," I tried wondering if I could go through with this, "to make my sisters stop asking me why I don't have a boyfriend okay? Can you do that? Pretend?”

Amusement filled his eyes. He tried to fight the smile that tugged at his lips, but when it didn’t stop he ran his finger along his chin. He looked down at his hands and I could tell he was thinking about more than just agreeing to helping me. Hell we didn’t know each other, we had just met and I asked him to date me. Even if it was fake, even if he was helping me, this was still weird.

Me and my stupid pride. I was about to take back the offer and tell him to forget it, that I had a mental breakdown and this was all just the biggest embarrassing moment of my life.

But then Cassian nodded slowly, “you know I’m surprise you don’t have a boyfriend. You’re cute and I know a few guys who like bossy.”

I rolled my eyes, “wow that was super helpful,” I glared at him, my hands were shaking. I shoved them under my legs as I waited to hear his answer, “you can just say no. Rita said you were single and I thought maybe you’d want a free trip to the lake for a weekend. I thought maybe…”

I stopped. I almost thought we could be friends. But I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood, stopping myself form wishing for something I could never have. I didn’t let myself get close to people, not after Tomas wedged between me and my sisters. Not since that night when he destroyed all the threads of trust I had ever had.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you. I just said I’m surprised you aren’t taken,” he smiled then, he liked watching me squirm. He leaned back and stretched his arms over his head. His shirt rode up slightly and I saw the dark markings of a tattoo that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

“Cassian.”

He wiggled his eyebrows, “well how can I say no when you say my name like that?”

He watched me for a moment as relief flooded through me. As much as I hated this I felt better once he said he would help me. I hated having to lie because everyone thought I couldn't handle life without Tomas. Except I broke up with him. And I moved here, far away from my family to have the life I wanted.

"What do I get for helping you?" He finally asked, his deep voice smooth as he propped his elbow on the table, then leaned his head on his hand. He kept staring at me and it felt like his honey brown eyes could see into my soul.

I looked down at his hands. His skin was golden, a little darker. He looked like he was carved of stone, like he could've been a Greek god in another lifetime. A piece of brown hair fell in his eyes and I wanted to push it back. I let out a breath. I hadn't thought this far.

"I'll pay you," I finally said. I didn't have a lot but I could do something, "it won't be much. But you'll get a four day weekend at the lake house. Meals and showers and everything included.”

Cassian seemed to think it over. He nodded his head, "how much?"

"$100."

"I know I look cheap, but I won't act like your boyfriend for a hundred dollars, Nesta."

"$200?"

He shook his head, "you'll have to do better than that."

I blew out a breath, "$500. That's my final offer."

He reached across the table and touched my hand. His skin was warm and a spark shot down my arm. He ran his thumb over the back of my hand, "well sweetheart you've got yourself a deal."

"Don't call me sweetheart," I snapped. My eyes narrowed.

He laughed, "well I guess we should make some ground rules."

“The first one is no pet names. Nesta," I pointed at me, "Cassian. Got it?"

He sighed, "sure sweetheart.”

He wasn’t going to make this easy. I could tell as he continued to smile, his eyes lighting up as I glared at him. It was like he thought I was a challenge, like he wanted to defy everything I was saying. He licked his lips, his fingers tapping on the table as I thought through what other boundaries we needed to establish. I didn’t realize this would all happen so fast. The weekend would be here in two days and somehow I had managed to find myself a boyfriend to fill the empty role.

Feyre would love Cassian. He was everything I would never want in a boyfriend. He was the complete opposite of Tomas and I couldn’t stop letting that sway me. He was big and dark, whereas Tomas was small and light. Cassian was full of mystery, but not the kind that Tomas carried with him. Cassian seemed honorable, Tomas had just been pure evil.

I let out a slow breath and pulled my hands off the table so he wouldn’t try to touch me again. I couldn’t stop feeling that spark going down my spine. I couldn’t stop wondering why exactly I had wanted this in the first place. I shook my head and finally brought my eyes back up to his.

“Okay so I’ve got some rules. First we hold hands if someone else is in the room. No touching if we’re alone, because honestly there’s no reason for it. You’re there to make me look good. You can kiss my cheek, but nothing more. We aren’t big on public displays of affection. My sister and her fiancé are, but that’s another story,” I rolled my eyes. Feyre and Rhys could barely keep their hands off each other. I hated being stuck in a room with them.

My cheeks turned pink and my mouth went dry, “we will probably have to share a room, you sleep on the floor. We don’t share the room if the other is changing. Make sure you bring enough clothes to sleep in and a bathing suit.”

Cassian nodded, "fine. But you want this to be believable. So you're forgetting one thing."

"What?"

He smiled and it would've knocked me to my knees if I wasn't already sitting. I had a feeling I wasn't going to make it through the weekend alive. I had a feeling this new friend of mine was going to try and climb the walls I had built this last year. Like he thought he could break down the shell I had surrounded myself inside.

HIs brown eyes danced as he looked at me, his crooked smile in place, ”the story of how we met."

[their-misplaced-wings]

ACOWAR and Last Names

Okay so this has been going around a lot, for good reason. I have a few theories and ideas that will be explained below the break as to why SJM chose to leave them out (other than not having any picked for them yet), save for Lucien’s. And because there will obviously be spoilers, read more: 

So what we can confirm is that Sarah j Maas hasn’t decided on last names for all of them yet, which is a big reason as to why she didn’t include them in this novel. Rather than just pick something because it sounds cool, she tends to find names that fit the characters, so of course she left them out here. 

She did include Lucien’s, and we get dialogue about his last name a couple of times so this leads me to believe she did it on purpose. So the scene reads: 

“I don’t know who looks more uncomfortable: Az or Lucien Vanserra.” I chuckled, glancing over my shoulder t where the shadowsinger carried my friend, both of them making a point not to speak, look, or talk. “Vanserra?” “You never knew his family name?” 

Okay so i want to talk about this bit a whole lot but I’ll refrain for now, other than pointing out that Cassian probably was never really friends with Lucien, so it makes sense that she would refer to him as his full name. Yes Rhys and Lucien share a background, but that doesn’t mean Cassian was any less himself back then. So OF COURSE he uses Lucien’s full name to piss him off, BECAUSE he know it’ll get under his skin. 

“Amren, this is Lucien…Vanserra.” Lucien stiffened. “I don’t use my family’s name.” He clarified to Amren with another incline of his head, “Lucien will do.” I suspected he’d ceased using that name the moment his lover’s heart had stopped beating. 

Alrighty! Here we have this little bit getting tied up and filed away for Lucien. And it makes total sense. His family treats him like absolute garbage, his father is a horrible person, and they killed the female Lucien believed to be his mate. Naturally he stops using their family name. I sure as shit would too! 

What also get from Lucien’s family name clarification is understanding of why Cassian, Azriel, Mor, and Rhys all have stopped using their family names. Each and every one of them have reasons to have abandoned that name and association. 

Cassian was a bastard-born Illyrian, dumped at the training camp and forgotten. He likely never had a family name, not one that he was permitted to speak. And with how incredibly informal the Night Court is I can see how they wouldn’t bother picking a new one. 

This applies similarly to Azriel. I’ll spare us the summary of his childhood but he barely identifies with his Illyrian heritage, let alone his family. 

Rhys and Mor both hold/held disdain for their fathers. Mor wouldn’t want to use her family name, obviously, and Rhys was always more attached to his mother anyways. So while we know SJM doesn’t have a name for Rhys, it also makes sense that he wouldn’t want the association.

Even Feyre in ACOTAR mentions that she hasn’t thought of her last name in YEARS. After they lost their wealth the name was meaningless. She didn’t want to use her father’s last name (seeing the theme here?) because he had given up. It isn’t until she shares it in the Spring Court that we are even given her last name as readers. 

Now the only part that I can’t really justify is Tamlin. Because yes he had father issues (and many issues on top of that), he holds strong and true to tradition and rules. So why wouldn’t he use his family name? Especially since he wants to appear strong and solid, always having been and always will be unified even after his father *died*. (Sorry about your luck with that one TimTam, maybe don’t gaslight ya lady). 

So I suppose, in sum, this series has always carried heavy themes of righting the wrongs of past generations. One of the ways to do that is by removing the reminders of those people and those times.