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separatist-apologist · 3 months

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The Acolyte

Summary: When a mission on the planet Umbara goes wrong, Jedi Padawan Feyre Archeron will come face to face with the one creature the High Republic has believed long extinct: a Sith Lord.

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Note: This is a collaboration between the beautiful, smart, perfect, all-around talented @velidewrites who, upon watching the previous episode of The Acolyte, said, "Qimir is so Rhys coded." This has been our brain rot ever since.

DO NOT REPOST SITH RHYS

Drumming her fingers along the arm of the chair, Feyre waited with little patience. She ought to have it—it was unbecoming for a Jedi Padawan to be so antsy, so fidgety, but she couldn’t help it. It felt like years since she’d gone anywhere outside the temple besides hunting down street food. Master Tamlin wasn’t over their last mission.

Reckless, he’d called her.

Efficient, was how Feyre would have described herself. What was the point of tradition if it resulted in the deaths of so many innocents? Rules, protocol—it was all meaningless to Feyre in the moment. What mattered was the lives of innocents, not making sure Master Tamlin was satisfied she did everything by the book.

Tamlin loved the code, loved rules, loved everything except doing things the way Ferye wanted to. It was tempting to wonder why, of all the possible Padawans he could have had, he’d chosen her. They were a strange match even by the Jedi’s standards. Tamlin said the force had called out to him, urging him to take her under his wing.

Feyre sometimes thought he merely saw chaos where order ought to reign supreme, and made it his personal mission to bring her to heel. He was holding her back—Feyre wanted to be a Knight and free herself from Tamlin’s hold and he refused, telling the council she wasn’t ready.

She was, though. Feyre was stronger, faster, better than her pupils, a good number of whom had already graduated and were working under the watchful gaze of all Masters rather than just one.

Let him take me on this mission, Feyre thought, sending it out into the world. One last mission—I can prove I’m ready.

Tamlin appeared from behind arched, hissing doors, his white robes swishing around beige boots. He’d tied his shoulder length blonde hair half off his face which made him look more severe, somehow. Green eyes pinned her in place, keeping her from standing even when she wanted to. Something about the hard set of his mouth made her think twice.

“The council wants you to join me,” Tamlin said, a muscle flexing in his jaw. “It’s a bad idea.”

“Who are we to argue with the will of the Council?” Feyre asked breathlessly, finally standing. It was good luck, the first of many, she decided. “I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

“This is too dangerous and you’re too reckless,” Tamlin said, turning for the long stretch of hall between them. Feyre’s long braid swung from her shoulder, tracing a path along her spine as she worked to keep up with his fast strides.

“I’ll do as you say, Master,” she swore, truly believing she would. Tamlin only shook his head because he knew better. Feyre could be impulsive—it was one of her worst qualities.

“You never do,” Tamlin replied with a heavy sigh. “It’s a mistake to bring you to Umbara.”

Umbara? Feyre practically vibrated with excitement, swallowing to keep her feelings in check. She’d heard of the Shadow World, seen it in the archives when she studied. She’d never been there, though. It felt like a waking dream, too good to be true.

“What’s happening on Umbara, Master?”

“Deaths,” Tamlin said, eyes cutting toward her as he carved a path through a gathered crowd of awed younglings. “Jedi deaths. That shouldn’t be possible.”

“Perhaps they were caught by surprise,” she said, though Feyre, too, found it troubling. What was the point of training if a regular blaster bolt could end them, same as anyone else? She’d always imagined her death would be more spectacular. A fiery inferno, likely as she jumped in and out of hyperspace while Tamlin shouted at her.

Oh, but what a way to go.

“We’re only investigating,” Tamlin said, turning so abruptly that Feyre tripped over her own white and gold robes in her haste. “Remove all ideas of grandeur from your mind.”

“I will,” she promised, but it was too late. This would be her test, she decided—one last mission to prove not just to Tamlin, who would likely never believe her ready, but to the Council themselves that she should be elevated to Knight. Tamlin had held her back for the last time.

They parted ways, Tamlin mumbling under his breath as Feyre practically skipped her way out of the temple. She wanted to tell her sisters what she was doing and knew if Tamlin realized she still had this connection, he’d march them right back into the Temple and demand she be put back in the Archives.

Feyre swore she’d tell them she couldn’t read if he did.

She, like all children, had been taken to the temple before she had a chance to truly know her family. And either by luck or the force or some other cosmic entity, she’d stumbled into Elain first—and then Nesta. How many women in the galaxy had the last name Archeron, after all? Elain was a rising politician, unhindered by an overbearing Master and Nesta the head of a Bounty Hunters Guild. There was no denying the relation—they all had the same heart shaped faces, the same cheekbones, and the same whip-fast wit.

Nesta ought to be back by then, though if not, Elain would be in her little office working hard to make a name for herself. Nesta had explained their family had once been wealthy before a few bad investments ruined it all. Sending Feyre away had been a mercy, and when their mother died, well…that was one less mouth to feed.

Nesta learned to fight with vibro weapons, Elain with words. If their father was still alive, they’d never said and Feyre hadn’t dared to ask. Deep in her heart, she felt a small amount of resentment for the man who’d sent her away, depriving her of the connection with her family. Even if it had been selfless—even if he’d wanted to give her a better life.

On climate controlled Coruscant, Feyre found herself standing amid a sunny, breezy day. Tilting her face skyward, she swore she felt a phantom breeze caress her skin. Turning, she decided she’d get something to eat, first, and to see him. It was wrong, the strange attachment she had to the man who ran the turbo dog cart closest to the Jedi temple and yet he remembered her name. Remembered the things she told him.

He was her friend.

Feyre’s feet began moving of their own accord, body slipping into the throngs of people that lived on the planet. The cacophony of smells and noise—the chaos of it all—made her blood thrum with excitement. Feyre never felt more alive than she did just outside the Temple. Here, Feyre could pretend she was just like anyone else…ignoring the slice of hair woven into the traditional padawan braid, separate from her own thick, long hair she’d refused to cut, and the purple saber clipped to her belt. Still, she was practically bouncing as she made her way down the steps toward rows upon rows of shops advertising anything a person could ever want. Somewhere among the madness was Nesta’s little cantina, run by her friend Emerie most of the time. Feyre might stop in for a drink if she was feeling bold, though Tamlin wouldn’t approve.

What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, she reasoned. She’d just have to be careful to drink slow as alcohol went straight to her head.

Most things did, in truth. After a lifetime of denial, anything heady was practically a drug.

Feyre fell into line, catching sight of the man handing out turbo dogs. Rhysand.

He’d appeared one day—or perhaps she’d merely never noticed him, though it seemed impossible that she could have walked by and not noticed him. His hair was so dark it gobbled up all the light around him, gilded blue in the late afternoon sun. Piercing blue eyes seemed practically violet when the shadows fell over his face just right, with brown skin that looked warm to the touch and just the shadow of a beard gracing the cut of his jaw.

Not that she’d dare. She was definitely forbidden from that, though all the teaching in the world couldn’t truly stop her wanting. He looked up right on cue, smiling when he saw her just like he always did. There were people in front of her, so Feyre waited, schooling her face into careful neutrality when all she really wanted was to bound up to him and tell him everything.

What did it matter? Who was he going to tell? Feyre imagined, when she needed to temper some of her interest in this stranger, that he told stories of the Jedi Padawan to his friends in whatever local watering hole he frequented. Perhaps they all laughed.

But maybe he didn’t.

“There you are,” Rhys said when it was finally her turn, large hands deftly putting her dog together. He was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. And Feyre considered herself rather well-traveled. She’d seen a lot of faces. Rhys’ was all sharp angles and graceful lines, drawn together just so—on anyone else it might have made them seem too severe or perhaps lopsided. Not Rhys, who seemed blessed by some otherworldly entity despite his rather humble profession.

There, in a black tunic, she caught sight of the familiar black tattoo crawling up his neck, half hidden beneath the white shirt just beneath. What did they mean, she wondered? She’d never dared to ask.

“I was looking for you,” Rhys added when Ferye didn’t speak. Heat stole over her cheeks, causing her to duck her head.

“I’m where I always am,” she replied, grateful there was no one behind her to hurry things along.

“Still trapped in the Archives?” Rhys asked sympathetically.

“Not for long,” she said, unable to contain her excitement. “I’ve been assigned to Umbara.”

His dark brows rose. “What business do the Jedi have on Umbara?”

Feyre shrugged, wishing she could tell him the truth. It was a betrayal, even if he was harmless enough. She’d tell him everything when she returned, besides. Likely with some embellishments to make herself seem more heroic and more skilled than she was. As if he knew the difference.

“I thought Umbara was supposed to be dangerous,” he continued, quickly turning the sign on his stand to read closed. Another elicit thrill raced up her spine. He wanted to walk with her while she ate, dragging out their conversation just a little longer.

Feyre wiped sauce from the corner of her mouth quickly, hoping he didn’t notice how the red stained her sleeve. “It is,” she said through a mouthful, hoping Rhys found her charming and brave rather than young and a little pathetic. “But nothing I can’t handle.”

“Oh, I’m certain of that. Is your Master still angry with you?”

She nodded, swallowing her bite quickly. “He thinks I’m reckless, but…” Biting her inner cheek, Feyre thought of the children who would have been swallowed by flames had she not intervened. Tamlin, and many other Jedi, would remind her it wasn’t possible to save everyone. She couldn’t let herself become so attached to simple strangers.

Feyre could feel them all in the force, just like every other Jedi. Their fear overwhelmed her, and try as she might, she simply could not block it out. Feyre let it all in, let their emotions rush over her like water until they clouded her judgment. And then she acted, honed by instinct and twenty one years of training.

“But?” Rhys prompted, slowing his steps so Feyre didn’t have to work so hard to eat and breathe. They walked further from the temple, descending into one of the lower levels where the Jedi were unlikely to venture. He lived down there, somewhere. Did he see sunlight from his windows, she wondered? Or was he, like so many others, trapped in darkness?

“It was wrong not to help,” she said fiercely, flooded with righteous emotion. Rhys smiled.

“I agree,” he said, running a hand casually through his hair. Feyre tried not to notice how a lock flopped into his eyes just as she tried not to imagine what it would be like to brush it away with her own fingers.

“If I do this by the book, though, I think I can go around Tamlin to the Council and ask to take my trials,” she said, confessing to Rhys something she hadn’t even told her sisters. Again—it was harmless to tell him. He was just a man on Coruscant, her friend, truly. He had a passing interest in the Jedi and a passion for turbo dog meat.

“What will you do then, once your Jedi Knight Feyre Archeron?” he questioned, eyes sliding to the padawan braid draped over her shoulder.

“I don’t dare to think about it, just in case,” she said, finishing the rest of her meal and tossing the trash into a nearby bin. “I don’t want to jinx it.”

“Smart,” Rhys praised. “Who knows what’s waiting on a planet like Umbara.”

“Something dangerous, I hope,” she said with more bravado than she felt. If he guessed, he didn’t say.

“You should be careful,” he warned, just like he always did. It didn’t annoy her as much as when Tamlin said it, perhaps because Rhys wasn’t asking her to remain behind on Coruscant for safety reasons. Sometimes Feyre thought Tamlin wanted her to remain a Padawan until she died despite the early conversation they’d had all those years ago about her hopes and dreams. He’d been so supportive when she was younger.

Now he felt like a tyrant.

Feyre left Rhys not long after when he said he needed to pick up a crate of meat, disappointed they never managed more than about ten minutes of time together. What she would say if she ever got more eluded her, though sometimes she conducted long conversations with him in her mind. At least there she was always witty, always charming, and he was always impressed with her.

Feyre went to see Nesta and Elain, told them of her mission hastily, and promised she wouldn’t be gone too terribly long. How much time could it reasonably take to investigate the murders of a couple Jedi? They weren’t Masters, after all—it had been a trio of Knights she knew in passing, their bodies still missing. All that had been found were parts.

A hand here.

A torso there.

Weapons missing.

Feyre had a nightmare that evening, her mind grappling with what could have gone wrong to take out three Jedi in such a manner. Perhaps a bomb? A sniper hidden on a roof, cloaked somehow?

Or, more thrilling and terrifying all at once, a long-extinct Sith somehow rose from the grave. Feyre had only ever heard stories of the legends—unlike Jedi, who were numerous, their Sith counterparts moved only in groups of two. A Master and Apprentice. Having spent so much time in the archives, Feyre read that once an apprentice finished their training, they’d kill their own Master and take an Apprentice of their own, thus repeating the vicious, cannibalistic cycle in perpetuity.

The Sith were extinct, hunted to nothing centuries before Feyre had been born. If one managed to pop up, they’d be cut to pieces before they could manage to find and corrupt an apprentice, nevermind how they’d manage to truly immerse themselves in whatever perverse culture the Sith claimed. Still, it was an interesting fantasy and even after Feyre woke in a cold sweat, mind still racing from the shadows that seemed to press against her temple, she let herself imagine what it would be like to encounter one.

To cut one down.

Feyre bet they’d let her skip her trials if she did. Not that she wanted a Sith running around, of course. It was merely the wistful imaginings of all padawans hoping for glory. Feyre wanted to make a name for herself.

Old resentment bloomed in the morning as she packed her things into a sack, careful not to fill it to the brim. It would irk Tamlin, resulting in a lecture about how materialistic she was. Was it materialistic to not want to wash her robes every single night? In the sink, no less, while they were conserving water for drinking and washing? Tamlin would tell her to wear her tunic and robes more often between washings but Feyre got sweaty sitting in the cramped quarters of the ship. They started to smell like onions and while Tamlin might not mind, she certainly did.

Rolling them tight, Feyre packed three sets, closed up her knapsack, and made her way toward the shipyard just as dusk broke over the horizon. The light bounced off the metal buildings, half blinding her as she walked.

What she wouldn’t have given for some shadows right then.

Tamlin was waiting, handing over credits to the dock worker along with his clearance papers while they worked out which lane they’d take and what time they’d leave. It was all terribly boring, though she supposed it was important that they didn’t make the leap to hyperspace while another ship came out, obliterating them both in a fiery inferno.

Why did the thought amuse her? Feyre suppressed the smile forming as she clenched her fingers into fists, nails biting against her palm. Tamlin turned, eyes drifting toward her back at the pack slung over one shoulder. He didn’t say a word—he didn’t have to. Feyre could feel his disapproval coming off him in waves.

Silence was its own blessing, she supposed. Better than having to defend herself and submitting to the eventual lecture that would go on for what felt like ever. Still, she could feel his disappointment as they took their seat in the small, sleek craft they’d be in for only the force knew how long. Tamlin did the preliminary checks while Feyre settled everything in, finally sitting in the co-pilot's chair.

Not a word was spoken until they jumped to hyperspace. Feeling his eyes burning holes against her skin, Ferye finally sighed with exasperation. “Just say it.”

“I think it was a mistake to involve you in this,” he said in that measured way of his, unaware of how deep his words cut. “You’re not ready for this kind of mission.”

“You don’t trust me.”

It wasn’t a question but merely a statement of fact. What other conclusion was she supposed to draw? Tamlin balked at every outing, especially as of late. Feyre had heard it a million times before and though she considered herself relatively tough, she thought she might cry if she had to listen to him list her faults again.

“When did I say that?”

“You didn’t have to say it,” Feyre snapped, swiveling in her chair to face him. Multicolored lights lit up the otherwise dark cockpit, while the console separated them. Feyre could see the saber resting lightly against Tamlin’s thigh and knew if he ignited it, she’d find the familiar green blade humming before her. It had once been a comforting sight.

She didn’t know what it was now.

“I think I do need to say it in order for it to be true,” Tamlin replied, infuriating as ever. She wanted to wring his neck, an inappropriate thought she couldn’t shake.

“No, you don’t, because you say it a million different ways. I’m too reckless, I don’t think, I’m impulsive and every other little thing. And when you’re not constantly saying that, you’re arguing passionately to the Council that I don’t belong on missions and you refuse to help me prepare for the trials—”

“Have you considered that I am not ready to let you go?” Tamlin asked in a low voice.

Feyre paused. Oh, that was a dangerous thing to admit and they both knew it. Feyre’s eyes slid to the windshield before them, suddenly nervous. “You have to.”

“I know. I know,” he said, unaware that the low, urgent way he spoke those words angered her. He’d hold her back because he liked her? Even if it wasn’t forbidden—and Feyre had to believe that any kind of relationship between a Master and a Padawan was—it was downright cruel. She could be his peer, at least, and in a position to have this conversation with him without worrying he’d drop her in the archive again while avoiding her so she had no one to practice with.

“I want to be a Knight, Tamlin,” she told him, fingers twisting in her lap.

“There’s time—”

“You’re wasting it!” she burst out, rising from her chair so quickly she slammed her head against the low ceiling. “For the sake of feelings you know we can’t act on!”

“It’s only attachment that’s forbidden,” he argued, as if he hadn’t just admitted he was holding her back to satisfy his own desires. Feyre wanted to scream—wanted to wrap her hands around his large neck and squeeze until his eyes bulged and a raspy apology split from his lips.

She’d take it too far if she didn’t get away from him. There was practically nowhere to go—down a ladder and into the hold, Tamlin right behind her.

“Feyre–”

“No.”

Her heart thudded rapidly, lodging itself in her throat as she spun around. Tamlin’s tan skin paled at whatever he saw looking back at him, palms raised in defense.

Take a breath. You are one with the force. Take a breath.

“Feyre, can we talk about this?” he pleaded. There would be no avoiding it, and Feyre, never known for her tact, would have to figure out a way to navigate the conversation without throwing a wrench in her entire future.

“Not now,” she said, exhaling through her nose. “I need—I need to think.”

Hope sprung like weeds in his eyes as Feyre tamped down her fury. Feyre knew, looking up at the man she’d once loved like a brother—respected like a father—and knew he would hold her hostage until she agreed to his terms. Lying felt wrong, deceiving him worse. If she went to the council, would they listen? Would they believe her over a Master?

Tamlin nodded, mouth opening and closing like a fish as he tried to find the words he wanted. “I just…I’m not ready to say goodbye.”

Feyre could think of a dozen Masters and Padawans who continued to work alongside each other. Was he not ready to say goodbye to her, or to the power he had over her? The thought chilled her, filling her with fear.

“You don’t have to,” she replied in a careful, measured tone though every inch of her vibrated with panic. “Very little has to change.”

Tamlin offered a humorless laugh. “Even you don’t believe that, Feyre. You’ll race off on a dangerous mission by yourself the first moment you get.”

“I won’t,” Feyre protested. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she hated being alone. A mission by herself seemed like a particular brand of hell. Every moment Feyre got she was looking for company—seeking out the other padawans, her sisters, hell, even the turbo dog guy when she could catch him.

But rarely Tamlin. Not since he’d begun to sideline her and her resentment had grown like one of Elain’s gardens. When had that begun, anyway? Racking her brain, she realized it had been around the start of her nineteenth birthday. Two years—how foolish not to realize the underlying problem. There was so much wasted time and too much ground lost.

Tamlin only shook his head. “Let's table this for now. You rest—I’ll keep watch.” She nodded, swallowing all the words she wanted to say as a plan began forming in her mind. She’d petition the council, she decided as she watched Tamlin climb back up the stairs. Either they’d believe her or they didn’t, but she was entitled to another Master if she wanted one.

The thought didn’t give her peace, though. As Feyre slid into the small bed hidden within the wall, her anger burned hot in her chest. This was not the Jedi way—she needed to find a way to forgive him for what he’d done to her.

But she couldn’t. Even in sleep, Feyre did not find peace. Her dreams were tinged red and shadowed, as though her anger had been made manifest. She woke to the sound of light beeping and Tamlin pulling open the small door so light flooded in.

“Can we trade?”

She only nodded, rubbing at her eyes as she scooted out of the narrow space. His fingers grazed her collarbone as she hopped to the ground, narrowly avoiding his hands reaching for her waist. Feyre had to resist the urge to slap him away, to not bark out, don't touch me. Tamlin merely watched, his disappointment obvious. What he thought was going to happen, she wondered? That he’d admit she’d been purposefully holding her back and hobbling her self-esteem simply to meet his own needs and she’d swoon? Fall into his arms? Abandon all the tenants of her teachings for him?

Feyre let him sleep longer than he had—Tamlin had only given her four hours, but Feyre gave him the remaining eight. She flung the door open just before they were about to burst out of hyperspace, and only because she was required to. He was still the Master, she his student and her whole future was in his hands.

“You’re angry.”

Feyre flipped the switches that would pull them just outside the atmosphere of Umbara, the neon blue of the stars fading as they slowed their descent.

“I’m frustrated,” she admitted, not wanting to give him any honesty at all. He was manipulating her, using the teachings of the Jedi against her and Feyre didn’t know how to fight back. She wasn’t equipped for these sorts of games, didn’t know the rules to even play.

“I’m sorry,” Tamlin murmured, as if that was enough to erase two years of wasting her time. “Do you want to discuss it?”

“Is there any discussion we could have? Am I allowed to say no?”

“Stars, Feyre, I’m not—of course—” Tamlin set his jaw, grinding his teeth together loudly. “Of course you can.”

But everything in his body told her that he’d be angry if she did. It was written all over his face.

“Can we just wait until we’re back on Coruscant?” she asked, forcing herself to speak softer, lighter, to avoid whatever was brewing in his gut. “You don’t feel it?” Tamlin demanded.

“Tam,” Feyre breathed, invoking an old, familiar nickname. It was enough to settle him, the tension between them evaporating. “We’re in the atmosphere. Let's do our mission, go home, rest, and then we can discuss…us.”

She didn’t dare look at him. Could he taste the lie? Did he suspect she intended to speak with the council the minute her feet were back on Coruscant? Could he stop her? Feyre had too many questions as they were plunged into shadowy darkness. Umbara demanded her attention, pushing everything else to the side as Feyre stared. The local star was simply too far for its ray to penetrate, its reach beyond even the Republic.

“What were they doing out here?” Feyre wondered aloud, breath curling around her face like shadow.

“I don’t know,” Tamlin replied, deftly landing on the landing pad in the local ship port. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

“Where do we start?”

Tamlin knew, of course. They’d been too busy arguing over the state of their tattered relationship to discuss the mission, and now Tamlin had all the clues and all the control, just like he always did. Feyre would be given information piece-meal, rewarded when she pleased him and iced out when she irritated him. It had been that way between them for a while. At least she understood that part of the dynamic, bothered as she was by it.

“This way,” he said, disembarking with barely a glance back. Fingers balled to fists, Feyre followed after him, eyes searching the dark hungrily. Umbara was hardly some backwater planet that barely had running water, let alone civilization. Umbara was advanced in a way that would have made the cosmopolitan Coruscanti residents weep. Towering buildings tried to banish the shadows, bathing the surface in artificial lights. If she strained her eyes beyond the urban sprawl, Feyre thought she could see rolling hills rising like mist in the distance.

Maybe that was her imagination filling in the gaps.

What was beyond the gloom, where not even technology and light could touch? What secrets did the shadows hold? Perhaps it hadn’t been anything sinister at all, but merely the wildlife that had gotten the Jedi. Feyre shivered in spite of herself, wishing she could step closer to Tamlin without it being uncomfortable. In one fell swoop, he’d wrecked the delicate bond between master and padawan.

Her resentment reignited, hot as any flame. Her emotions were all over the place, though carefully guarded to keep Tamlin from sensing them. She’d learned to do this as a youngling, annoyed that she broadcast her every feeling to anyone who happened to be near, but perfected it when she found her sisters. Feyre didn’t trust the Jedi not to make them leave, even if it was a little unfair. Maybe they wouldn’t have.

But maybe they would have. And Feyre simply couldn’t take the risk.

On the busy streets, Feyre kept her eyes straight ahead even as she examined the people from the corners. Umbarians were near human—their skin pale and bluish from the lack of sunlight, their hair white or silver, though sometimes so impossibly black that Feyre wasn’t sure if it was hair at all. Pale blue eyes peered through the gloom and she’d heard they could see colors regular humans couldn’t, though who knew how true that really was. Feyre wished they could linger and she could spend some time immersed in the local culture, but Tamlin walked quickly, determined to get them both in and out. Whether that was merely to conclude his investigation or bring their conversation to the fore, Feyre couldn’t tell. He was inscrutable that way.

Along one of the neatly laid streets stood a rather shady looking cantina, even by Coruscant's standards. Feyre felt a thrill of excitement as Tamlin walked through the hissing steam of the door into the smell of liquor and sweat.

Feyre’s eyes snagged on the chrome bar and the two impossibly large men seated on too-small stools. They likely would have fit a regular man perfectly fine—Tamlin could have sat with no issues at all. These men were built like warriors, with warm brown skin so at odds with the milky paleness of the locals and strange, scrawling tattoos inked in black. They both turned, their hazel eyes nearly gold as they landed first on Tamlin, and then Feyre.

The larger of the two had his wavy, dark hair pulled half off a face marked with scars, confirming her theory he was a warrior. The other, more classically handsome, with shorter hair and sharper features, seemed entirely unblemished. That didn’t mean he looked less lethal. Feyre reached out with the force, trying to get a sense of these men but nothing but oily cold greeted her. Likely mercenaries, she decided as they turned back to their cups and the beautiful blonde woman wiping down the counter with a stained rag.

She had familiar eyes, though Feyre couldn’t quite place them. Was it the dark brown, or the shape? Blonde hair cascaded over fair skin, neatly curled either by her own hand or good genetics. Tamlin’s eyes lingered for a moment, too, before his lips pressed in a severe line. He didn’t speak as he approached—he merely swept his robe to the side to reveal his saber hanging from his belt.

The two warriors sitting at the bar grinned. Feyre didn’t think Tamlin noticed. Around them, people of varying species sat at tables, the hum of chatter enough to drown out their own conversation.

“I wondered when your lot was going to turn up,” the blonde said, offering Feyre a smile that felt less menacing and warmer than what she’d given Tamlin. “Might as well sit down.”

Feyre did before Tamlin could stop her, hand on her shoulder as she slid next to the massive, long haired man.

“We’re not here to drink. Three Jedi were slaughtered nearby, and the last place they were seen was here. In your cantina.”

“I’m Morrigan, though my friends call me Mor. You, I think, can call me Morrigan—you don’t seem like you have a lot of friends and I don’t see that changing anytime soon,” the woman told him, filling up a tankard of ale as if Tamlin hadn’t said anything. She slid it right past him to Feyre and somehow it felt like a test.

Antagonizing the locals wasn’t going to help them, Feyre reasoned. They needed information and they sounded like police. Relax, she wished she could say to Tamlin. But he was too rigid, too set in his ways and too proud to ever admit there might be a better way to get things done. His disapproval frustrated her even as she raised the spicy brew to her lips.

It earned Mor’s approval.

“Look,” she said, cutting Tamlin off just as he was about to speak. Her eyes were still trained on Feyre as she pulled out a holo disc. “Your friends were here—I never disputed that fact and I’m not now. They came in for a few drinks, as you can see here…and then they left. Alive.”

Feyre did see that. The holo, sped up, showed all three knights order a drink, sit at a nearby table, and eventually leave with all their limbs in tact.

“It’s a rough planet,” the man next to her said, obviously eavesdropping. “Plant probably got them.”

Feyre rolled her eyes. It was possible, of course, though it seemed unlikely.

“Did they say what they were doing out here?” Tamlin demanded, his irritation plain.

“Bet they were following the rumors,” the other man said, his voice icy and dark. Feyre nearly choked on her ale at the sound, eyes sliding of their own accord back to his beautiful face. He wore fingerless gloves, revealing horrific scars over the little skin he had revealed. What had happened to him?

“What rumors?” Tamlin’s temper was rising, his force signature warming Feyre’s cool skin.

“Is this a local ghost story?” Feyre asked them, offering up her most charming smile.

“Something like that,” the man beside her chuckled. “They say he’s some kind of force user. Powerful.”

“Impossible,” Tamlin dismissed.

“Cassian. Azriel,” Mor murmured, though there was no displeasure on her face. It was merely an order to mind their own business. Despite her more diminutive stature, both men returned to their drinks looking a little shamed.

“Do you think they’re true?” Feyre asked, ignoring the waves of frustration rolling off Tamlin.

“I know three Jedi walked out of this bar alive, and met something in the dark,” Mor said, leaning forward so her hair spilled across the bar. “The wildlife and fauna here are dangerous if you’re stupid or careless. I didn’t think Jedi were either.”

“They’re not,” Tamlin all but hissed.

“Then maybe you ought to start there,” Mor said, eyes still only on Feyre.

“They say he’s just outside the city,” Cassian added, nosing his way back into the conversation. “Lives on the edge of a mountain.”

“Or was it in the mountain?” Azriel asked with a sharp grin. Feyre knew they were trying to scare her and Tamlin, but she was genuinely intrigued. A dark force user seemed unlikely, but perhaps some kind of equivalent ability, like the Nightsisters were said to have. She wanted to know more than she wanted to unravel the mystery of the dead Jedi.

“This was helpful,” Tamlin said in a tone that suggested the exact opposite as he tossed a couple credits onto the bar. Thanks for nothing, she swore she heard him say, though his lips never moved. Feyre gulped down the rest of her drink while Cassian and Azriel went back to studiously looking anywhere but at the rest of them.

“Take care,” Mor said only to Feyre, offering a pretty smile. “I’ll see you around.”

Cassian and Azriel both turned to look at her with those unnerving eyes, their smiles suggesting the same thing. No one looked at Tamlin at all, who half jerked her off the stool and toward the door. Feyre stumbled, looking over her shoulder to find their smiles gone, replaced by some other emotion that almost looked like fury.

“There was something strange about them,” Feyre said the moment they were back in the dark. “Didn’t you think—”

“Why didn’t you let me handle it?” Tamlin demanded, rounding on her so quickly that she did fall back then, her ass hitting the ground hard enough to rumble up her spine. She scrambled to her feet, eyes smarting with embarrassment. “They were making fun of you!”

“They—they weren’t,” she insisted, swallowing the urge to cry. She thought of how Mor had looked at her with respect, pulling out that puck so Feyre could see the Jedi had left unharmed.

If she’d been crueler, she would have told Tamlin the truth. They spoke with derision because they didn’t like him.

“Let's go,” he said, his eyes like ice. “We can circle back in the morning.”

“Fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. Feyre stewed as they walked toward the inn they’d be sleeping in, grateful for the two beds that were provided rather than one. If she had to sleep next to Tamlin, she thought she might have flung herself out a window. They still shared the small space, dodging the other as best they could, tempers still high. He kept sighing, waiting for her to ask him what he was thinking like she often did in the past. She didn’t, though.

Feyre fell asleep thinking not about Tamlin, but what Mor had told her. Of the man who supposedly lived in or around the mountain and the power he commanded. It seemed more like a children’s story meant to keep them from wandering and yet…had those Jedi gone looking? It would be tempting, certainly, especially if that man had been framed as a force user. She wanted to go looking, too, even if Tamlin didn’t, though she didn’t know how to convince him of it.

Feyre woke to darkness and Tamlin already dressed. He was standing by the door, hair left around his face.

“You’re awake. Good. I’ve been thinking about last evening,” he began, hand reaching for the control panel on the wall. Feyre sat up, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm.

“What about it?” she asked.

“I think it’s best if I conclude this investigation on my own. You’re…you’re safer here, I think.”

Feyre’s mouth fell open of its own accord, snapped shut as she processed his words. “Safer?”

“I want you to remain in this room until I return—”

“No!”

“I’m sorry, Feyre. But things will move much faster, and go smoother, if you just let me handle this.”

“Tamlin!”

She scrambled out of bed, but he was quicker, reflexes sharper. He offered one last glance back, eyes hardly apologetic at all.

“Tamlin!” she yelled, but the door hissed shut just in time for her palm to smack against the cool metal. She screamed his name twice to no avail. He’d locked her in the room. Feyre turned toward the window, too small for her to crawl out of even if she shattered it.

Think, she ordered herself, but the walls of the tiny room seemed to close in on her, the darkness heavy and oppressive. Tamlin was a lot of things, but at their foundation, he was her mentor. Her teacher.

Her friend.

Did she mean anything to him at all? Or was she merely an object for him to protect with no consideration of her own wants, needs, or desires? Feyre’s hurt shifted into anger, her mind replaying the argument in the ship. The realization he had been holding her back because he wanted to keep her around longer, that he would derail her entire life to satisfy himself. He was supposed to put his padawan above himself and yet…

Feyre went back to the door, reaching back into the force. It was wrong—so, so wrong—to use it the way she was. The once warm air chilled as she embraced, just for a moment, the hatred she felt. Metal crunched and snapped, the bolts whining before they broke entirely. When Tamlin returned, he’d know what she’d done and how she’d done it.

Let him, she thought as she gripped tight to that anger. It was a lifeline right then, antithetical to her teachings as it was. Hatred, anger, fear—all led to the dark side of the force. She needed to let it go.

All Jedi touch the dark side.

She’d read that in one of the books in the archive. Well, here she was, touching it too. Feyre stepped from the ruined wreckage feeling more powerful than she ever had in her life. She’d atone when she returned to Coruscant, would tell the Council everything and hoped they understood her reasons, her feelings.

But right then, Feyre didn’t care about any lesson Tamlin had ever taught her. He’d betrayed her many times over, so thoroughly that it couldn’t be repaired with centuries worth of time. It was tempting to hunt him down and confront him, but Tamlin was a Master who’d been trained by someone who valued his education. He’d beat her easily—smugly.

No.

Once outside, Feyre’s gaze turned toward the darkness and the mountains she assumed lingered just beyond. For only a moment, Feyre took stock of herself. Was she afraid of what she’d find?

Was she afraid to die?

No.

Feyre stepped with confidence, unafraid of the darkness around her. Maybe it was unchecked hubris that guided her, or some sense that the force would protect her. Feyre didn’t bother thinking too much about it, vanishing out of the city toward the mountains that loomed overhead like great, craggy fingers. All at once, Feyre understood why people would imagine a monster lived here—who else might survive it? It occurred to her, as she got further and further from the city, that this was foolish—she ought to go back to the ship and send a message to the Council before Tamlin knew what she had done.

Feyre nearly turned back—she should have. If it hadn’t been for an overwhelming tug in her gut, she might have abandoned her plan entirely. Feyre kept moving, her body knowing the way even as her mind raced. She could feel the presence of something—someone—watching, waiting. The wind picked up, ruffling her hair around her face and too late, Ferye realized she hadn’t bothered to braid her long hair, nor had she changed from her training pants and tank-top. She’d merely run out, caring only that her feet were laced up in her white boots and her saber was clipped to her belt. It should have felt cold but Feyre was warm as her speed picked up, eyes trying desperately to cut through the dark.

It never occurred to Feyre she might be running straight into a trap until a strong, bare arm wrapped itself like a noose around her neck. Clotheslined back, Feyre gagged as her fingers attempted to pry the grip off to no avail. She twisted, catching sight of a strange, angular mask in the gloom and familiar black tattoo’s scrawled up her assailant's strong bicep and Feyre swore smoke trailed off him, creating massive wings just behind him.

The man was strong, but Feyre was quick, kicking behind her to catch him in the knee. He grunted through the mask as she spun, heart racing, and ignited her purple blade. Whatever he was, Feyre was certain he was no match for an armed Jedi. Feyre didn’t wait for him to regain the upper hand, swinging furiously with all the skill she’d earned over the years.

Her breath caught as his own blade ignited, a brilliant, bleeding red, to block her strike. For a moment they were deadlocked, her staring up into that eyeless mask while their sabers hummed with anticipation.

“You’re—”

He pushed back though he didn’t come forward to strike her again. Instead, he cocked his helmeted head as though curious to see what she’d do next. Feyre couldn’t breathe fully, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

“That’s a Jedi’s weapon.”

The dark, mechanical laugh that sounded in response made her heart stumble.

“Where did you get it?”

She didn’t expect an answer, though Feyre could force one from him. He wasn’t a Jedi—she’d never seen a blade that color before. Lunging, Feyre struck again, expecting to reveal his inability to truly wield it. A lightsaber belonged to a Jedi the way a person’s arm did—it was instinctual, innate. Not just anyone could pick it up and wield it. You needed a connection to the force and this person…

This person had it. He blocked her with skill, moving quicker than he should have been able to. Feyre was all offensive strikes, hair whipping around her face until she could smell the singed edges on the wind mingled with the sweat dripping from his skin.

“Who are you?” she panted when he forced her back, just hard enough to put six feet of space between them.

He didn’t answer, head snapping up to look behind her as something rough gripped Feyre around the navel and wrenched her back so forcefully it stole the remaining breath from her lungs. Tamlin has used the force to remove her from the fight, stepping around her with his green blade ignited. Feyre wanted to scream, though if it was to warn the assailant or Tamlin, she didn’t know. She couldn’t move, dazed and pinned by Tamlin’s superior use of the force. All she could do was lay there, desperately gasping for air, as Tamlin spoke words she barely heard.

The warrior with the red blade made the first strike, moving in a blur of color that made her stomach roil. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might have been toying with her and yet watching him match Tamlin blow for blow, Feyre knew with sickening clarity what was coming.

“Let me go,” she whispered. His pride would be his downfall, would get them both killed. “Let me help you.”

If he heard her whispered plea, Tamlin didn’t respond. He moved just as quickly, dodging rocks half hidden beneath the soft grass. The pair vanished over a hillside for a moment before they were back, dodging and striking like two masters determined to see the other one fall. For a moment, Feyre thought Tamlin had the upper hand when he kicked the warrior in the chest, his blade slipping from his grip. Tamlin attacked three in a row, bashing the assailant over his mask until it was cracked-useless.

Tamlin raised his own saber to make the killing blow but she knew, somehow, what was coming. The assailant reached out, his own blade flying back into his hand. He pulled, turning one red blade into two.

Tamlin couldn’t react fast enough. With one hand, his green saber was blocked while the other humming red blade drove neatly through Tamlin’s throat. His grip on her relinquished and Feyre scrambled to her feet, noting that Tamlin had managed to cut open the warrior's helmet.

Tamlin fell to his knees, turning his head to look at her before he died. If he truly saw her or not, she didn’t know.

He was dead before his shoulders touched the ground.

Feyre made her way over, holding her own blade with something akin to fear. Blinking, it didn’t register who was standing in front of her until she heard a familiar voice.

“Surprise.”

Exhaling a shaking breath, she drank in the sweat soaked onyx hair now falling into violet-blue eyes. Rhys cocked his head again to look at her, a half smile playing on his lips.

“You killed Tamlin,” she whispered.

“Was that its name?” he replied without remorse. “You brought him here.”

“I—” Feyre didn’t know what to say. Rhys continued to look at her with that cold amusement. “You didn’t kill me.”

“I didn’t come to kill you, Feyre.”

Her grip on her blade tightened. “Then why are you here? You…you pulled me here.”

His smile widened as he stepped over Tamlin’s still warm body like it was little more than trash. Perhaps to him it was.

“Just as you pulled me to Coruscant,” he said, peering down at her with curiosity.

Feyre yielded a step, keeping distance between them. Her mind was screaming static, unable to string together anything coherent. Feyre couldn’t figure out what was happening. She wasn’t adrift, but she didn’t feel awake anymore. This was a dream, somehow, and Feyre would wake up still angry with Tamlin, who would be alive.

She hadn’t wanted him to die. She’d just…she’d just wanted to be free.

“What do you mean?” she heard herself ask, her own voice taking on a dream-like quality.

Something soft pulled against her—not the force, or, not exactly. It wasn’t like when Tamlin had pinned her to the soft grass, the force a boulder against her chest. This was more muscle memory, something that lived within her.

“You’ve been calling me for a long time. When I was a boy, I used to dream about skies the color of your eyes,” he murmured, tilting his head again to study her.

“You’ve been watching me.”

His grin widened. “Yes.”

“You’re going to kill me.”

He shook his head, hair sliding along his forehead. “You know that’s not true. I feel it, you know. Your pain, your anger…your hatred. I feel it all, Feyre. I could take it all away from you.”

She stumbled back another step. “No,” she whispered, unsure if she was telling him, or herself. He only smiled, his face still illuminated beneath the hum of his vibrant blade.

“The Jedi are holding you back, Feyre,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. Feyre swore she could feel the words caress her cheek like a phantom kiss, cool against her overheated skin. “They refuse to see how magnificent you are and are afraid of the power you hold. They will never give you what you want.”

A strange, half-sob, half breath escaped Feyre. All she could do was shake her head back and forth, still stumbling back. She shouldn’t have come, she should have stayed in the room. Tamlin—Tamlin had been right. “This is my fault,” she managed, panting as she continued to move away from Rhys.

“Feyre,” he warned, stalking forward for her. Feyre broke into a sprint he interrupted with the force, lifting her off her feet and dragging her back to him. Feyre’s toes skimmed against the grass and though she could not move, Rhys wasn’t hurting her, either. He merely held her gaze, searching for something she prayed wasn’t there.

“What do you want from me?” she whispered. “What are you?”

He stretched his neck left, and then right, his tattoos catching in the light. Too late, Feyre realized she’d seen them in the cantina the day before—Cassian and Azriel had sported the same ones. They’d told her about the force user, they’d lured her here. But worse, even, was the knowledge that they’d only been able to do that because Feyre had told Rhys before she’d left. She’d told him she was going to Umbara. She’d laid her own trap for him.

“There is no name for what I am, though I think the Jedi call me Sith,” Rhys said, his voice low and cold. “I want you, Feyre. Join me. Let me train you, teach you—not as an apprentice or acolyte. An equal.”

Sith.

Fear won, in the end. Feyre pushed against his hold, shoving him so far back that he spun several times through the air before landing far from her in the distance, his saber finally sheathed. Feyre didn’t wait—she took off running as quickly as she could. There was no escaping him on Umbara, but if she could warn the Council, she could—stars, she didn’t know.

Feyre made it to her ship, closing it up and turning it on before she managed to catch her breath. It was a betrayal to leave Tamlin’s body on Umbara, to not give him a proper burial befitting a Jedi Master and Feyre was afraid.

She should have been. The moment Feyre made the jump to hyperspace, she heard him.

“Feyre, darling,” Rhys murmured, appearing seemingly from nowhere. He had her cornered in the cockpit, his larger body blocking the only way out of the ship. Anger replaced fear as she screamed, launching herself from the chair with such force she didn’t feel pain when her thigh clipped the edge of the dash. She and Rhys went plummeting into the hold, tumbling to the hard, cold steel in a tangle of elbows and limbs. He groaned when her knee connected between his legs, causing her to slam it against him again, just because she hated him.

Straddling his waist, Feyre hit him so hard a small amount of his blood splattered against her cheek. Raising her fist to hit him again, Feyre realized he was grinning with red stained teeth, eyes watching her not with anger or horror, but delight.

“Do it,” he said, pushing his hips into her as his hands held her firm against him. “Hit me. Hurt me.”

“I thought you were my friend,” she accused, trying to writhe free of his grasp. There were a pair of stun cuffs hanging just beyond the door to the sleeping chamber and if she could grab them, she could restrain him. Could at least force him to face justice for what he’d done.

“I am your friend, Feyre. You just haven’t realized it because you’re so indoctrinated,” Rhys replied, still holding her tight.

“Let me go,” she ordered and to her surprise, he did. Feyre scrambled to her feet, careful not to look at the stun cuffs even as she inched close enough she could have snatched them. Rhys, too, stood, wincing slightly. Good. She hoped he hurt, that he had bruises in places he couldn’t even mention. That they reminded him of her when he was alone in a cell buried on Coruscant.

“I’m not going to join you,” she threatened.

Rhys only shook his head. “You will.”

Feyre backed away slowly as he approached, letting him play predator for just a moment. She wasn’t sure she liked the look in his eye—the same she’d seen on Tamlin’s face when he admitted why he wouldn’t let her take the trials. Rhys reached for her face, fingers curled to brush her cheek and Feyre struck. Quicker than he expected, she slid the cuff around his wrist, chaining the other to a nearby beam.

Rhys only laughed. Even when she pulled his sabers off his belt he still laughed, watching her like she was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen in his entire life. “Feyre,” he all but crooned, still looking exactly like a predator. His eyes seemed to shift right then, the violet shifting to red and back just long enough for her to see what the darkside had done to him. “Feyre, darling. You’re acting as if I am not exactly where I want to be.”

“In a prison cell on Coruscant?” she hissed in response.

“Oh, I don’t think we’ll make it that far, do you?”

“Yes. I think I’ll testify at your trial and watch them behead you.”

Rhys only grinned. “We’ll see.”

Feyre left him there to gather her thoughts, strangely calm in the wake of the restrained Sith Lord in her hold. No one had prepared her for this—she’d never been trained for this situation. She shouldn’t be angry with Tamlin, who couldn’t defend himself, but if he’d just taught her like a Master should have, she might know. Everything Feyre knew, she’d taught herself and it showed.

Her fingers hovered over the console, hesitating when she went to dial the code to reach the Council. She didn’t need Tamlin’s advice to teach her that, at least. They could advise her.

Tell them.

Feyre’s indecision cost her. She was exhausted, her adrenaline ebbing as she sat in the cockpit, warring with herself on what to do, how best to act. What even to say. How to explain that this was her fault, that she’d kept secrets even when having friends outside the temple wasn’t forbidden. She should have known, though. Should have sensed him.

Why hadn’t she?

Feyre’s fingers pulled back against her chest, her decision made when she felt him behind her. She barely had time to turn before Rhys raised his hands.

“Forgive me for this,” he murmured before he ripped the force over her head like a blanket. The world went dark, and Feyre was lost to slumber.

To peace.

Feyre woke with a start. The air was warm and she was in a rather large bed, still clothed in her tank top and trousers, though her boots were missing and her feet were bare. Reaching beneath the heavy silver blanket, she found her saber, too, was gone. Feyre kicked off the blankets and made her way across cool marble for a door that was, predictably, locked.

A note on a table just beside, in elegant cursive, read,

Feyre,

You are not my prisoner, though the door may suggest otherwise. Please relax until I return.

I will explain,

Rhys

Would he explain why he’d disarmed her, too? Feyre crumpled it in her fist before stalking for a set of large windows overlooking an amethyst river winding down the mountain peaks. Certain he was about to give her some lecture about how she was his guest who simply wasn’t allowed to leave, Feyre took herself first to the ‘fresher to wash the blood, sweat, and anxiety from her skin before putting on the only clothing available to her.

He was a bastard, offering up those satin cuffed pants in a pale blue color, alongside a matching top that tapered to a point just above her navel. No shoes, no socks—nothing but bare feet and an exposed collarbone that offered far too much real estate for him to damage should they come to blows again.

There was nothing to do once she was dressed but pace and ruminate. Feyre tried to hold her anger over what had happened on Umbara, and in her own way, she supposed she did. Only, instead of seeing Rhys cutting down Tamlin with ruthless efficiency, she saw Tamlin’s face as he admitted he didn’t want her to take the trials because she’d leave him. She saw his dismissal when he told her she couldn’t complete the mission with him.

Saw how he’d died because he refused to let her fight alongside him.

And in her heart, Feyre knew that if she’d been allowed to join the fight, Rhys would have backed down. Wouldn’t have fought them both as hard because she was important to him for some twisted reason. They could have destroyed Rhys. They could have walked back to the Jedi as heroes who’d seen the faces of other Sith and could better hunt them back into extinction.

He didn’t trust her. Hadn’t viewed her as someone who could help.

Now he was dead and she was somewhere she shouldn’t be. Feyre turned as the door hissed open, her thoughts settling as Rhys strolled in.

He, too, had showered, his dark hair pushed off his face and his beard a mere shadow clinging to his jaw. The faint red of his eyes shifted in the light, slipping into violet as he came fully into view.

“Is there some sort of dress code here?” she asked, noting his sleeveless black attire once again.

“Blue looks wonderful on you,” was his reply. “You look well rested.” “No thanks to you,” she snapped.

Rhys shrugged his broad shoulders. “Someone ought to attempt to take care of you.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me! I need you to let me go.”

“Where will you go?” he asked casually, glancing at the door still open behind him. “Back to Coruscant.”

Feyre opened her mouth to tell him yes, but the word didn’t come out. She’d hesitated on the ship and she was hesitating now.

A smile spread over sensual lips. “Ah. See? You don’t want to return.”

“That’s not true.”

Rhys reached for his belt where her saber was clipped and tossed her to her with ease, eyes tracking the movement. “No, you don’t. You could have cut me down—”

“I can’t,” she said with an air of breathless desperation. “I’m only a padawan.”

His brows crinkled. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I’m just a student. I…” Feyre didn’t know how to explain it to him. “You didn’t have a Master?”

His grin widened. “Once. For a time, I suppose.”

“Did you kill him?”

Rhys only continued to smile, his silence answer enough.

“I couldn’t have killed you,” she repeated, trying to get her point across. “You spared me.”

“I had no intention of taking your life, but I wouldn’t have stopped you from taking mine. To die at your hands…that would have been an honor. To see you take up my helm, lead my warriors…” His smile was almost dreamy.

“I thought Sith only moved in pairs.”

“I am no Sith, Feyre,” he said, cocking his head so a lock of dark hair fell against his eyes. “Those are Jedi terms, not mine. I never said I was Sith, nor do we put labels on what we are.”

“But you are evil,” she shot back.

Rhys arched one dark brow. “Am I? From where I’m standing, it seems I did you a favor. I freed you from the shackles of a man who warped his teachings and traditions to keep you under his thumb for his own selfish desires—”

“And what do you call all this?!” she demanded with a shriek.

“Liberation,” he replied easily, as though he’d practiced this very speech and it was going exactly as he hoped. “You can be free of Jedi doctrine and dogma, can do whatever you like. Feyre, your power, I—”

He ran a hand through his dark hair as he stepped toward her, more cautious than he’d been on Umbara. “I could show you.”

“Sith don’t do equals,” she said, well aware she was really asking with curiosity rather than slinging accusations. “Only Masters and Apprentices.”

“I am Sith only by your standards,” Rhys replied with more earnestness than he had any right to express. “Dark, light…it’s all just the force.”

This was dangerous and she knew it. Rhys’s eyes flashed red for just a moment, reminding her that the Sith were liars by nature. Master manipulators. It was working, though and he must have known it. When had he gotten so close? Rhys reached for a lock of her hair, curling it around his fingers.

“I feel your pain, Feyre. I’ve felt it for a long time. You’ve spent a lifetime trying to meditate it away but what if you embraced it?”

“I’d be a traitor to everything I believed. Just like you are,” she repeated, stepping away from him before she could get too lost in his words. They tempted her, pulling her down as though he were some great, all-encompassing current.

Back turned, Feyre only heard the hiss of his ignited saber. “Fight me, Jedi,” Rhys snarled, his voice laced with condemnation. “Fight me so I can show you what you really are.”

Feyre whirled around too fast, forgetting to think about what was happening. With a pushing leap in the air, Feyre’s blade was lit and crashing against Rhys’s before her feet touched the ground again. He grinned savagely, blocking the blow like it was nothing to him. Who cared how she killed him, Feyre reasoned as she lifted her blade again. So long as he was dead.

Rhys dodged her in a flurry of swings, but didn’t move to attack her back until Feyre got a little too close to his throat. Her blade singed over his cheekbone, sparing his facial hair, drawing a neat line of blood over his otherwise immaculate skin.

He was brutal, then, eyes a burning red as he spun on her, forcing Ferye to take on the defensive position rather than the offensive. Her wrist ached from the effort to keep that saber in her hand, though Feyre did not back down, either. Feyre, perhaps, should have realized what he was trying to do when the backs of her knees hit the side of the bed, but Feyre hadn’t put Rhys’s plan together until he’d wrenched her blade from her hand, tossed it across the room, and pinned her beneath his body and the mattress.

“You hate me,” he panted, sweat sliding down his forehead. His dark hair was soaked again, falling into those unnatural eyes like branches of a willow. He was beautiful right then, unfairly so, with his cheeks flushed and his wild eyes. “Say it.”

“I hate you,” she replied, gaze drifting toward his mouth. She shouldn’t want someone like him.

“I almost believe you,” Rhys replied, chest heaving from the exertion of their fight. She hadn’t realized she was panting, too, until he leaned close enough she could practically taste his breath. Feyre hitched her leg up over his hip in an attempt to roll away, but Rhys grabbed her thigh, holding her so she could feel how uninterested in fighting her he was.

“I’ve waited,” he murmured, lips caressing the side of her jaw as his other hand came to her throat. Rhys pinned her by her neck, fingers squeezing just enough to make her dizzy. “You’re the only woman in the galaxy I’d pretend to serve turbodogs for.”

“You think turbodogs are beneath you?” she asked. Feyre would have laughed at the realization that this brutal Sith Lord spent years on Coruscant pretending to be little more than a vendor if she hadn’t been so turned on right then.

“I think pretending to be something I’m not was beneath me,” Rhys said, mouth touching hers. It was brief, a whispered breath before he pulled away to look, but Feyre felt it. His touch was electric, waking up a slumbering piece of her soul she hadn’t known existed at all. Rhys saw it, his smile triumphant.

“You’re mine, Jedi,” he murmured, cocking his head to the side as he arched a brow. Tell me I’m wrong, that arrogant look seemed to say.

She couldn’t and he knew it. Rhys had known it the moment he turned up on Umbara because Feyre had been telling him so since they’d become friends. She’d told him her frustrations, her hopes, her irritations…Rhys knew it all. Could sense her even when she’d been too clouded to sense him. Maybe this dormant part of her had always recognized him.

Or maybe she merely liked the man hovering over top her, his eyes giving away his plan. Feyre met his gaze. Rhys stopped playing his games, mouth slanting over hers with a heady, desperate groan. Feyre kissed him back, tasting the sweat and heat on his tongue mingled with the left over copper from their fight. Feyre learned quite quickly that kissing him was a lot like fighting him.

He wanted to break her down until she gave in, and this was a far more effective battle in which Feyre yielded too much too soon.

After all, it was her leg he had hitched around his waist. She could have pretended he was driving the whole thing but Feyre was rubbing against him like a cat. It felt good, his hand around her throat, his cock between her legs, his tongue in her mouth. Worse, even, were her hands slipping from where he’d pinned them over her head, stuck thanks to the heaviness of his body laid across her own. Distracted by the kissing, Rhys didn’t notice until Feyre had them against his chest, not to shove, but to run them down the smooth material of his tunic. Rhys sighed, his thumb pressing against the hollow of her throat for only a moment.

Feyre gasped, arching her neck for a deeper breath. Rhys pounced, kissing her deeper, more fervently. She’d done exactly what he’d wanted, opening entirely so he could

“You really didn’t know it was me?” he breathed, a lock of hair falling over his forehead. “Not even deep down?”

Feyre fisted her fingers at the nape of his neck, wanting him to just shut up, even for one second. No, she thought to herself as their teeth collided in a frenzy of need, the darkside clouds everything.

But she’d been clouded by her own anger, her frustrations with Tamlin and the lack of movement in her career. Feyre wouldn’t have noticed Rhys was sith if he’d worn a badge printed to the front of his chest declaring him such. Surely he knew it.

“I need you. Right now,” Rhys breathed, his mouth sliding from her lips to kiss a path down her jaw. His teeth caught on her earlobe, tugging just a little rougher than she thought he meant to, though Feyre enjoyed it. The hand on her thigh moved toward her bare stomach, teasing the thin material as he pushed it higher and higher.

“I don’t—I’ve never—”

“I’ll talk you through it,” he promised, taking his other hand off her throat as he slid himself down the length of her body to settle on the floor between her legs. “I’m going to lick your pussy now.”

Feyre blinked, her mind frustratingly blank. Rhys took advantage, removing the pants he’d provided for her with ease to toss them over his broad shoulders like they were nothing.

“Peace is a lie, Feyre,” he murmured, once she was bared before him. Callused fingers slid up her thighs, parting them wider and wider until she was spread obscenely.

“No peace,” Rhys repeated, his gaze burning as it raked over her half naked form. “Only passion.”

Rhys did exactly as he promised, licking up the center of her body while holding her gaze. It felt like there was some kind of magic there, something hypnotic that kept Feyre from looking away. Maybe it was simply her need for control that kept her eyes pinned on him. Whatever it was, Feyre panted as she watched, her arousal burning through the last remaining defenses she had.

No peace—only passion.

Peace had always been hard, even with hours of mediation. Feyre understood passion well, though—she’d been battling it her entire life. Swallow her anger, swallow her frustration—swallow everything in an effort to find some higher purpose. She’d failed over and over.

Maybe a better teacher could have shown her a clearer path.

Maybe she’d always been destined to fall.

Feyre arched her hips as Rhys drew her closer, eyes fluttering shut as he continued to tease his tongue over her clit. Over and over, in rhythmic circles, until she felt like she might die. Feyre was too hot, the desire burning through her from the inside out.

Rhys moaned against her skin, fingers spreading her wider before teasing her sensitive opening. Inch by agonizing inch he went, pushing that finger further and further until Feyre was whimpering, hips rolling against his hand and mouth looking for relief. Rhys only chuckled.

“Needy,” he taunted, his voice strained. “What will you look like impaled on my cock?”

“Please,” Feyre replied, though she wasn’t sure if she was asking him to return to licking or shutting up. “Rhys, please.”

He lowered his face again, eyes rolling back into his skull before he resumed his attention on her swollen clit. Feyre barely noticed the way he worked that second finger into her body until he pulled away again, swearing softly about the tightness of her body. She was so close to finishing and desperate for it.

He knew it. Rhys began pumping his fingers in and out of her body rougher, his mouth sped up until Feyre’s head hit the mattress, staring upward at the dark ceiling. “Rhys,” she pleaded. Her body was on fire, electric and aching. Her arousal wound its way up her spine, settling at the back of her throat and in her lower belly. He sucked, fingers curling so they found some secret spot only she’d ever known about and Feyre was undone. She screamed without meaning to, half plea, half prayer—the only word that escaped his name. Rhys didn’t stop until Feyre whimpered, boneless and exhausted on the bed.

“You’re not done yet,” Rhys said, rising up to his full height. Feyre could only watch as he peeled off his clothes, head cocked like a predator once more. “I won’t rest until I’ve had all of you.”

“And then what?”

“Then you’re mine,” he breathed, fingers unclasping the button on his pants. He’d already removed his top, revealing a toned body worthy of the arms she’d seen during their fight and more muscles than she’d known one person could reasonably have. The tattoos were on full display, unbroken by clothing though still just as indecipherable. She started to ask him what they meant, but Rhys’s pants fell to the floor, revealing the thick, hard length of him and Feyre forgot about everything else.

“You can’t put that in my body,” she whispered as he crawled toward her, the muscles of his back shifting with each graceful movement.

“I can,” he murmured, lowering himself over her flushed body for a kiss, “and I will.”

Feyre let him, forgetting for a moment what was going to happen. He tasted sweet after having his tongue in her body and his hands managed to take her top off before Feyre registered how he did it.

“You’re remarkably unobservant,” Rhys breathed, shifting his hips so the tip of his cock brushed against her wetness. “We’ll work on that.” Rhys slid himself inside her just an inch, though it was enough to draw a gasp from Feyre, fingers digging into his biceps.

“Breathe,” he ordered, eyes searching her face. “You’re doing so well, Feyre, darling.”

“I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted, pushing deeper. “You will.”

Even if she’d wanted to escape him, it was too late. Rhys made good on his threat from earlier, slipping deeper and deeper into her body until Feyre was certain she couldn’t take it. But he’d been right—by the time he bottomed out, she’d begun to adjust to the stretch it required to accommodate him, her discomfort turning to pleasure.

“Look at you,” Rhys breathed, the tendons in his neck strained from keeping himself still inside her. “You take my cock so well.”

Rhys pulled out and thrust back in with the same brutality she’d come to associate with him. Feyre gasped, not out of pain, but desire. It felt good to be treated like she could handle something rough. Like she wasn’t fragile—like she was strong.

Rhys kissed her again and she realized she was practically screaming her thoughts at him through the force. “You’re mine, and I’m yours,” Rhys breathed, nose nuzzling her own. “Those are our own tenants, the only code we live by now.”

Feyre met him thrust for thrust, kissing him rather than answering. She could feel the cold of the dark sliding through her, washing out the light that had once existed. With each new slide of Rhys’s cock, Feyre fell further and further into shadow.

Where she belonged.

“Take it,” Rhys moaned into her neck, teeth scraping sensitive skin. “Take all of it.”

As if she had a choice. Rhys gripped her hips, pulling her into him harder and faster, until all Feyre knew was the taste of the salt on his skin and the sound of his breathing in her ear. His hand found her throat again, pinning her beneath him as Rhys thrust over and over. His fingers squeezed just enough to leave her breathless without hurting her.

Feyre came again, surprised by the intensity of her orgasm. Her teeth sank into his shoulder to suppress the urge to scream again as Rhys moaned her name, whining ever so softly before slamming himself entirely into her body so he, too, could release himself.

He collapsed a moment later, face nuzzled into her neck. Sweat slicked down his back and over his forehead, making his golden skin glistening beneath the lights.

Rhys rolled over a few moments later, one powerful arm thrown over his eyes.

Feyre sat up, ignoring that she could feel the proof of his desire sliding out of her body. “What do these mean?”

Rhys glanced down at his tattoos inked over the top of his chest, arms, and shoulders. “Luck in battle,” he murmured, tracing one of the swirling lines with his finger. “According to the customs of my people.”

There was no point in asking if they worked. So instead, Feyre held his gaze as she said, “He locked me inside.”

Rhys leaned up on his elbows, hair half falling in his eyes. “I know. I know. Never again, Feyre. Never. Again.”

There was rage in his words—a promise that they would make themselves strong no matter the cost. Feyre wanted that. She wanted to be untouchable. Not a pet, not the delicate woman some man loved, but fierce. Strong.

Feared.

“Never again,” she whispered, lacing her fingers through his as he brushed a kiss over her knuckles.

“Sleep, first,” Rhys murmured, opening his arm in invitation. “Then we train.”

“And then?”

Rhys offered her a sleepy smile as Feyre pressed her head to his chest. “Revenge.”

#feysand #pro feysand #feyre archeron #rhysand #feyre x rhysand #someone dies (not of fun but of murder)#evil rhys

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withclawandvine · 2 months

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GOT LOVESTRUCK, WENT STRAIGHT TO MY HEAD — the wrong place at the right time

summary: Elain was supposed to be in paradise with her fiancè, not alone at an airport bar, held hostage by a storm. Lucien was only supposed to be in Las Vegas for a few days on business, before flying back home on the Vanserra jet. They weren’t supposed to meet, but fate is funny like that.

ao3 link: coming soon, i promise! [i am literally posting this from my phone at a bachelorette weekend lol]

author’s note: happy @elucienweekofficial !!! i had SO MUCH FUN writing this one. it’s all a modern au, obviously, but the other prompts are woven in! i had every intention of posting a chapter per day(ish) this week, but i went to the george r.r. martin school of writing, so…. that didn’t happen lmao but here’s the first of the planned five parts to get the ball rolling !!

The moment the wheels of the 757 traveling south from San Francisco to Las Vegas touched down, the sky split open, unleashing a seasonal monsoon with wind speeds and torrential rainfall surpassing any other that year.

Most people would consider it a stroke of good luck — a small miracle, even — that plane hadn’t been struck from the sky by a bolt of lightning.

Elain Archeron knew better.

She knew this storm was just one more incident in the chain of mishaps shackled to this vacation.

First, there was Graysen unceremoniously breaking their engagement two months ago, leaving Elain with a voluminous white gown taking up all the room in her closet, a box of unaddressed invitations collecting dust, and a nonrefundable booking for an all-inclusive luxe resort in St. Barts — the Christmas gift Gray had insisted she take for herself and a friend, all with that heavy dose of that new money condescension he was so versed in.

If she’d been smart, Elain would have given the tickets to the retired couple next door, but instead, she’d called Feyre.

Her little sister had suffered her own heartbreak earlier in the year, and although she pretended to be over it, Elain knew she was still reeling. Tamlin would have never let Feyre leave the country without him. Or, more accurately, Tamlin wouldn’t have let Feyre leave the backyard without him.

So it felt exceptionally cruel when Ferye called, voice weak and miserable, to tell Elain she had food poisoning and wouldn’t be able to make the trip. Hell, she’d lamented. I’ll be lucky if I make it out of the bathroom anytime soon.

With her plane departing in a few hours, Elain knew her only choice was to either call the whole thing off, or go it alone.

She enjoyed solitude; she liked gardening alone, and was a lunchtime regular at the little cafe down the street. But in the weeks since moving out of Graysen’s townhouse, she’d been spending most of her time confined to her new apartment, and if it went on for much longer, she’d evolve into a Gothic heroine.

She knew she needed a change of scenery, lest she start clawing at the wallpaper.

A man taking a sharp corner without looking up from his phone narrowly avoided a head-on collision with Elain; instead, he clipped her suitcase, wrenching it from her hand. It clung to the stranger’s carryon for a few paces, then dropped to the floor.

Before it could get swept up by the chaotic and restless crowd, Elain snatched the handle of her suitcase and righted it. The bag wobbled, then settled crookedly to the right. Within seconds of realizing he small, black wheel on the ground near it did in fact belong to her luggage, someone’s foot sent it skittering over the tile.

Elain watched it pinball out of sight, unable to contain her sharp, deranged laugh.

Just like that, the trip had gone from unfortunate to downright cursed — that little wheel was no mere inconvenience. It was an omen, just as powerful as any broken mirror or bolt of lightning. Clearly, the universe was trying to tell her that a hurricane was foredoomed to materialize on the first day of her stay, and wash her away by the third. Or that the long-inactive volcano would spontaneously erupt. Perhaps the plane would evanesce into the Bermuda Triangle.

She should have stayed home. She wanted to go home. Spend the next ten days of her hard-won PTO rewatching Bridgerton. Make a batch of her famous death-by-chocolate brownies and an espresso martini. Get petty satisfaction out of knowing how much of Graysen’s money was being wasted.

But as it was, Elain wasn’t on her way to an island or her Bay Area apartment; there was only one place she could go right now.

She all but stomped, her suitcase limping awkwardly behind her, in the direction of the nearest bar.

Elain collapsed onto a barstool and ordered something sweet, tropical, and strong. The bartender looked annoyed by her lack of specificity, but had the good grace not to say anything about it as he shook up then presented her with a mango mojito with an extra shot of rum.

Elain closed her eyes and took a sip, imagining she was basking in the sun as the tide lapped at her brightly-pedicured toes.

Her conjured serenity dissipated when she felt someone settle into the stool beside her.

A man in a perfectly tailored suit flagged the bartender. It was the kind of suit that spoke of money and importance — the kind of suit that ordered top-shelf whiskey, neat.

So Elain couldn’t help but look to him in surprise when he said, “I’ll have whatever she’s having.”

Sensing her attention, he turned his head to flash her an easy smile, shrugging as if to say What about it?

He was captivating; his sharp suit so at odds with his long hair, tied back in a way that was almost thoughtless. Artfully messy, with a few loose strands framing a face made up of pointed features that screamed mischief. A scar, now faint with age, was carved into the left side of his face from brow to jaw, pulling slightly at the corner of his mouth. That mouth — the only soft part of his face.

Elain watched him take a hearty drink of his cocktail.

“That’s fucking delightful.” He said this to Elain as if she’d been the one to make it for him, not just put the idea in his head by sipping on her own. To the bartender, he said, “We’ll need two more of these, please.”

She blinked at him. “We?”

“What?” His smile was a little lopsided and a lot teasing. “Do you have somewhere else to be?”

When Elain gave the waiting bartender a thumbs-up, the man’s smile grew.

God, he needed to keep that thing in check.

He extended a hand. “I’m Lucien.”

She took it, letting his fingers engulf hers. “Elain.”

He repeated her name to himself softly and fondly, like they do in the movies.

“Well, Elain, where are you supposed to be right now? Assuming a bar in the Las Vegas airport wasn’t your final destination.”

Maybe it was that second mojito, but telling Lucien the story about Graysen dumping her within weeks of their big, romantic getaway, and months of their wedding was surprisingly easy.

“So yeah,” she shrugged, stirring the melting ice and crushed mint around the glass with her straw. “Here we are.”

“Here we are,” Lucien agreed, pushing a water she didn’t even notice him ordering at her.

“What about you? Were you in town for business or pleasure?”

“First it was business.” He flashed her a secretive smile, “Now it’s a pleasure.”

“Well, it must have been one nightmare of a business trip if this is your —”

Elain’s phone buzzed on the counter.

ATTN: Flight MAF608 LAS to MIA has been POSTPONED until 6:00 AM PST. For more information, reply HELP

Elain set her phone back down, then, without uttering a word, slid the water away, giving herself enough room to let her forehead fall to the countertop with a dull, defeated thud.

“Everything alright?”

She turned her head enough to look at Lucien with one eye. “I am going to die in this airport.”

He picked her phone up. “You’re going to die in the next…” he squinted at the screen, “ten hours?”

“If I’m lucky,” she grumbled, “it’ll be in the next two.”

Lucien’s laugh was rich and bright. Elain wanted to be annoyed at him for laughing at her misery, but the sound was so perfectly joyous, she could only manage a half-hearted pout.

“You’re laughing,” she said. “I’m going to spend the night on this barstool and you’re laughing.”

A prospect that still somehow seemed more dignified than calling Graysen to ask for money to cover a night in a hotel. The only reason she could go on this trip in the first place was because of his fancy tech job and guilty conscience.

“The business I was in town for,” Lucien said, making a show of snuffing out his laughter and becoming serious. “It was with a hotel on the Strip that my family does business with. I can make arrangements for you to stay there.”

Elain smiled, even as she shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, but —”

“Please,” he insisted, sweeping up her tab with his own, and placing a black Amex on top. “It would be no trouble at all.”

#elucienweek2024 #elucien #elucien fanfiction #my writing: acotar #ship: elucien

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the-lonelybarricade · 1 year

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A Ripple, A Tidal Wave - Part I

Summary: An AU where Feyre encounters a very different faerie in the woods. One she decides not to kill.

A contribution to @officialfeysandweek2023. Starfall = fallen star = sad, injured bat, right?

Read on AO3

The forest had become a labyrinth of snow and ice.

Feyre flexed her fingers. They’d gone stiff from the cold. The worn leather from her father’s old carving glove hardly fought off the chill of the gusting wind that cut through the clearing, lashing against the thicket of trees at its parameter where she had been crouched for the better part of an hour.

It was impossible to keep her hands from going numb in these conditions. Still, she flexed them, praying for the blood to rush back into the fingers she had curled around her drawstring. Feyre had overheard the village’s hunters in the marketplace, talking about the wolf tracks they had seen. Pawprints as large as your head. An embellishment, surely, but that didn’t change that the wolves would only come this close to the village for the same reason that Feyre would delve this deep into the woods.

They were hungry.

Winter was harsh for everyone. Even the forest was restless—too quiet, too still. She wouldn’t have risked coming here, knowing there were wolves, if her family wasn’t desperate. As far as they were concerned, Ferye would either return with food, or be taken by the forest so that they had one less mouth to feed. It was favorable for them either way.

Unless Feyre returned empty handed, which was looking more and more likely the longer she crouched in the snow, watching the sun’s slow descent across the horizon through gritted teeth. Only a few more hours left of daylight. Soon she would need to turn back lest she try to navigate her way in the dark and double her chances of getting eaten by wolves.

In the back of her mind, she could already hear Nesta’s disapproving snort. The way her vicious eyes would cut immediately to Feyre’s empty hands, how she’d cross her arms over her chest and hurtle all number of accusations without saying anything at all. Nesta had a gift for communicating her every hostile thought with one single, withering glance. Feyre had witnessed her sister grind men to dust without so much as opening her mouth.

Sometimes, pinned beneath that look, Feyre wanted to cry to her, then why don’t you do it?

But Nesta wouldn’t. And neither would Elain. And their injured father couldn’t. So it was Feyre, stalking through the woods, letting the ice soak into her bones. One day, someone would ask what had turned Feyre Archeron so cold and she would point to the forest. It was here her heart had frozen over. It was here, she’d traded her innocence for survival.

Here, it was kill or be killed.

Feyre began rising from the snow-heavy brambles, stifling a groan at the protest of her stiff limbs. She froze, mid-way through stretching, as a great, terrible noise erupted through the forest. It was pure, blood-pumping instinct that threw Feyre’s body back to the ground, covering in the bramble like she expected blowback from the sound. Like the warning rumble of thunder before the lethal strike of lightning.

The howling wind stilled. There was no mass retreat of wildlife, no birds escaping to the skies. It was like everything held its breath, terrified of being caught by the creature as it bellowed another anguished roar.

It wasn’t like any wolf Feyre had ever heard.

She needed to leave. Now.

Still ducked beneath the bush, Feyre angled her head towards the forest, eyes darting across the tangled roots and underbrush to chart the best path back to the village. One that would offer coverage, would give her a fighting chance if the beast—whatever it was—decided to pursue.

The noise came again. Softer, now, more wounded. Had it been attacked? Or was it mimicking injury to lure its prey closer?

Her heart was beating so quickly that each beat leapt into her throat. The brush rustled on the other side of the clearing. It was coming towards her. It was too late to run. She drew her bow, ignoring the tremble in her fingers, how the air was collecting in front of her in short, breathless exhales.

Feyre peered through the thorns.

The wings stood out to her first. Large, membranous bat-like wings. They had been what caused the rustling, for they dragged against the ground, catching on the underbrush.

More startling than the wings, however, was that they belong to a man. No, a faerie. He was too far away to glimpse his pointed ears, but the wings certainly gave it away. He was stumbling forward, an arm slung protectively around his bleeding stomach while the other pushed aside the wayward tree branches. His entire body slumped inwards, around the wound at his center that trekked blood in a ruby-red path behind him.

When he made it to the center of the clearing, his knees gave out, and he stumbled face-first into the snow. Feyre held her position for several breaths, eyes fixed intently on his shoulders, watching their shallow rise and fall as pool of blood collected beneath him.

Her arrow was still notched, still aimed at him through the brush.

He was a faerie. She should have killed him for that fact alone.

His body twitched, then stilled.

Maybe he was already dead. Maybe she should shoot him, just for good measure. Put him out of his misery.

It would be a waste of an arrow, she decided. He looked dead. Besides, there was still the threat of whatever had done this to him. She pushed her aim higher, monitoring the thicket he had come from. She should be running. She should be gone.

Her aim dipped back to the male lying helpless in the snow.

Snow-tipped wind nudged playfully at the wisps of his blue-back hair. It was the color of the night sky when no stars touched it.

From the amount of blood coloring the snow beneath him, he was almost certainly dead.

Feyre lifted from her crouch. The icy snow crunched under her fraying boots. Her mouth felt dry.

He looked so… so still.

She drew her knife and edged closer, more of him coming into view. Those wings were so much larger—so much more stunning, more horrific—up close. Now, she could see the sun warming their leathery surface, glinting off the sharp claw that rested at each apex. A useless part of her stirred, the part that was fascinating by colors and shadows and the way the sunlight illuminated the veins in his wings. She felt oddly tempted to reach her hand out and touch them.

Except they twitched, and Feyre faltered a step back, nearly stumbling.

Not dead yet, then.

Her grip on the knife tightened. It was difficult to tell with his face in the snow, but Feyre thought he looked young, not much older than Nesta. Though the fae were immortal and he could just as easily be centuries old.

For a creature that could defy time itself, he didn’t look very intimidating now. If she looked past the wings, she could almost pretend he was just a wounded man. Someone who was suffering with every slowing breath. Someone who… someone who needed help.

Inwardly, she was screaming at herself, wondering why she didn’t just bury the knife in his back and run. Or better yet, the asharrow that had sat unused in her quiver for the last three years.

She touched his hair. It was soft, silken yet damp from the snow. She tightened her fingers and used that grip to, as delicately as she could, turn his head to the side. He groaned, a barely conscious sound that told her he was still alive.

For a moment, Feyre could do nothing but stare at the face before her. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, even with the sweat and snow clinging to his skin, and the way his face pinched in pain. He had full, sensuous lips that she ordinarily might have been tempted to study, were they not parted open to expel slow, shallow breaths.

His eyes were shut, and behind his eyelids she could see his pupils moving rapidly.

It wouldn’t even be necessary to stab him. She could leave him here and he would undoubtedly be dead by morning, buried beneath layers of snow. No one would miss him, certainly not in the mortal village. And judging by the mortal wound his own kind must have dealt him, Feyre doubted he would be missed beyond the wall, either.

She stared at him, feeling an unexpected sense of dread, of pity, rise within her. Objectively, she knew that it was absurd to feel bad for him. He was a faerie, and if he weren’t gravely injured, it would likely have been her blood seeping into the snow.

But no one would care if she didn’t come out of the woods, either.

It could have been her laying face down in the snow. No one would have bothered to come looking for her. No one would have helped.

Praying for mercy from the long forgotten gods—as if they would even indulge her for being so foolish—Feyre sheathed her knife. Their options were limited. Sundown was fast approaching and he was… he was ginormous. It wasn’t as if she could run to the village for help, they would sooner finish the job. And he was too heavy to carry back to the cottage. Not that she would. Nesta and Elain would never agree to help him.

No, she needed to take him somewhere close and out of the snow so that she could take a closer look at his wounds. The only thing that came to mind was a small, deserted hunter’s shack further in the forest, leftover from a time when humans felt comfortable enough to venture that close to the wall. Or a time when they were desperate enough to risk it.

The first difficult task would be getting him onto his back. She’d need to drag him a way’s through the forest and she couldn’t risk the dirt and undergrowth catching in his wound. With the wings, turning him over would be a cumbersome task—especially given that they looked heavy.

After several moments of deliberation, puzzling over the best approach, Feyre decided to forgo caution and just move him. It was better than letting him bleed out in the snow. But the second her hand curled around the edge of his wing, his eyes snapped opened.

Feyre dropped it immediately, letting the massive appendage fall back to the snow with a soft smack. He groaned.

His eyes fluttered shut again, giving her the confidence to step forward. “I’m trying to help you,” she said to him. “I don’t… I’ve never met someone with wings before. So you have to be patient with me.”

He made a gurgling noise in the back of his throat, like he was choking on something liquid. Then a moment later his wing fluttered, trying to lift it, and Feyre decided she could meet him halfway. With the faerie taking some of the weight off, she was able to fold the wing to the side.

“Thank you,” she said. Then, “If you thought that was bad, this next part isn't going to be very fun.”

Feyre could almost mistake his answering grunt for a laugh. She took that as permission to haul him upwards from beneath the shoulder, trying to both lift and roll him onto his side. He hissed—a weak, agonized sound that raised every hair on her arms.

“You’re almost there,” she said, not letting the noise deter her movements. If she did, it would only prolong the pain. “Just suck it up a little more.”

It felt like pushing a boulder up a hill. Feyre was panting by the time she got him propped on his side, and from there it was only a matter of letting gravity do the rest. She rolled him, inelegantly, onto his back, wincing at the way his wing had folded under him. It wasn’t perfect, or comfortable, but nothing about this experience would be.

He slumped into the snow once it was done, tilting his head back in exhaustion like he had been the one to lift a male twice his size. Though, from the wounds splitting across his torso—the worst of them a deep gash stretching from his sternum to his naval—Feyre supposed she shouldn’t be complaining.

The sight of the gore made her feel dizzy. She turned away, pressing a hand to her mouth like it might do anything to ease the rising bile in her throat. Feyre swallowed, trying to steady herself. Would whatever creature that had done this to him come for her next for trying to help? Would they come for Nesta and Elain?

“Rh—ys.”

It took Feyre a moment to register that he had spoken. Or tried to, at any rate.

“What?”

“Rhys,” he choked out, eyes opened to barely-there slits.

“Is that… your name?”

He just huffed, which Feyre took to mean yes.

“Well, Rhys,” she said, stepping around his body to kneel at his head. Her arms slid under his shoulders, securely his body beneath his armpits. “I hope those wings aren’t sensitive, because you and I have a long journey to make through those woods.”

#A Ripple A Tidal Wave #Feysandweek2023 #Feysand #Feysand fic #Feysand fanfic #Feysand fanfiction #feyre x rhys #rhys x feyre #Feyre x Rhysand #Rhysand x Feyre

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voidcommascreamintothe · 11 months

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Maiden, Mother, Crone - The Archeron Sisters as reincarnations of the Three Faced Goddess

Part 1

Elain, Ferye, Nesta. Three humans, turned Fae. Made magic. Or perhaps only awoken?

No I will not be normal about this, it is you who should be more weird about this.

It has always been clear to me that the three Archeron women have magic in their human blood. They are descendants of an acient deity, that once ruled over the lands alongside The Bone Carver, The Waver, and perhaps many other Deathless and Nameless gods. It is very much so confirmed by the Bone Carver themself that Feyre resembles and old god, powerful and cunning, who sought to hide herself and her magic, for reasons of a mysterious nature. This is just contextually picking up on the inherent meaning of the statement. In book 1, a big plot detail is that Feyre can taste and smell magic. She uses it to her advantage a few times during the events of book 1. This isn’t something that normal humans can do, seeing as how a lot of the village folk live in fear of magic and cant understand its working. The Human Lands are baren, cold, and stripped of all magic, and yet- Feyre can taste and smell it. And yet, Nesta remains of sound mind, immune to glamours, a type of magic that effects the mind. Elain only needs a little push to snap out of its influence.

These women are of magic descent, and to me this was a well established plot point. I interpreted the events above as the author just plainly telling this; although its entirely possible that i have been overthinking this because i have never been normal about these books, not once since i started them.

Feyre is the Mother, she is Mother Life, vindictive and vengeful; aggressively protecting her own kin, going and hunting down threats. She is the Mother; passionate and inclined towards the arts. Calm in the face of fear, and with a strong sense of duty. She claws, bites and rips out throats. A wild mother wolf, a wild beast. Feyre has always been inclined to go nuclear on her revenge plans. Sabotaging and undermining a religious leader, Ianthe, and plotting and successfully executing her revenge over an entire court of - lets be honest here, entirely innocent people, is very Aelin Galathyneus of her. Standing up to a magic wolf, with her throat exposed, she stood her ground and bargained. In the face of the heinous lie about her pregnancy, she was calm and brave and coping, only so that her son would not feel those things as he grows inside her womb. It is my headcanon that she went scorched earth on Rhysie’s ass afterwards.

Elain is the Maiden. She is Mother Nature. Ambivalent, and yet omniscient. Seeing all, reacting only just so.

When it comes to Elain, I don’t have much to work with; she has yet to have her books after all. However, I am confident in saying that he is not as mentally checked out of reality as I originally thought. She is a seer, one who sees the future. But this must also come with the immense strength to resist altering it. She either must not intervene, or do so incredibly delicately. She does also see the reality of what their situation was, in regards to the Archerons loosing their money, but she is rather unbothered by it. I hesitate to say she does not care, because again, we have not see her perspective yet, but she is aware how bad it was for them. In book one, there is a distinct moment when after Feyre comes back fro the Fae Land, Elain remarks on how the rich people treat them as if they didn’t loose all of their money, as if the last however many years did not happen. Its either cognitive dissonance, or Elain just does not.. care? Again, we have not seen her story, so I am speculating; and also resisting hating her for being docile and passive, and seemingly disinterested. Altho she is not a favored character of mine, I shan’t repeat history and hate on her as I did Sansa Stark.

That being said, her ambivalence and lack if action reminds me on nature and of natural disasters. Elain, the gardener, Elain the Mother Nature, The Maiden. A storm does not care if the levies might break and cause a flood, a mountain does not want anything, does not act on changing the outcomes of future events. Elain is a living being, who loves her sisters very much, so of course she reacts and saves them. But she was to be a young bride, in love and idealistic, yet she never consummated the marriage. Never got to be the bride, in fact. She seems to be stuck in this perpetual state of maidenhood, not quite moving on, remaining innocent, and maybe not yet ready to do anything else but ignore the happenings in front of her. She ignores Lucien, perhaps still grieving the loss of her old life and her old love.

Nesta is the Crone, The Mother Death. She is Lady Death. Meeting the Lord of Bloodshed at every step, a loyal companion to her friends, she is always there, inevitable as a rising storm. She is passive. She stays and guards. A mirrored image to Feyre in every way. She Makes objects of immense power. She creates and yet her power is pure death. But she creates. She does not want power. She creates, she seeks peace. What is more peaceful than Death’s embrace? Nesta has the power of the eternal flame. Her power coming out in silver flames perfectly encapsulates the power of fire: giving and taking life. Nesta is not vindictive. Don’t misunderstand me, she is actively cruel in Book 1, and a whole part if her journey was owning up to that. She recognized where she was wrong and made amends.

She is not nice, she was never taught to be nice. Her mother taught her how to read and manipulate people, not how to be kind and nice to them. She learns those things on her own. And again I ask, is Death nice and kind? It is peaceful and passive. A power that inspires awe. She is broken and rebuilds her self. She is Made, and i suspect that in order to be Made, she needed to die first. She inherits the most power out of all three sisters. Her dying during her Making means that she inherits Death itself. She experiences it, so she wields it because she understands it. She has lived many lives and appears older than she is. I personally thought that she was 30 in ACOSF, not 26, only 5 years older than Feyre. The narrative presents her to us as The Crone. She reads as someone older, harsher, someone who is also Death herself.

Where Feyre, Mother Life, is active, Nesta, Mother Death, is passive. Feyre hunts, Nesta guards. A mirrored image of eachother, they represent the cycle od life. The symbolism attached to them shows just how connected life and death truly are. Feyre and Nesta are always invoked in each other’s inner monologue. It is also entirely plausible that they each had an almost pathological need to keep Elain safe and innocent, because that was the only way to show that one cares for the other. Nesta loves Elain, but she keeps her safe because that is what Feyre would want. This fact, that Nesta would do anything to keep Elain safe, is very clearly stated by Feyre in both book 1 and 2. They both love Elain, no doubts about that. But Nesta’s and Feyre’s relationship was so burdened and volitale, that the only way for them to show affection was through the unspoken rule that Elain stays safe, is kept safe, at all costs. Nesta and Feyre, Death and Life, two sides of the same coin.

For me, it has always been reasonable to assume that the sisters represent one of the three faces of The Three Faced Goddess. Its buried in metaphor and vague statements, but it is there regardless. The more I read the books, the more obvious the comparison was. Having read Throne of Glass as well, the sisters also remind me of the Three Faced Goddess worshiped by the witches. After all, it was an ancient Witch God that hid her power and herself in the human lands; a place without magic and entirely mundane.

I intend to elaborate further in part 2 of this essay, but for now, let us enjoy quite a unique take on the Goddess Hecate. The Greek goddess has had many a modern interpretations, but I have not seen one done as subtly as this one. Having three separate people represent her faces, and therefore phases of a woman’s life, is new to me at least. Maas doesn’t really reimagine the old greek myths in a 1-to-1 recreation, but rather a loose inspiration taken from the core of the story. I quite enjoyed placing it all together.

More on how Nesta is the one to Bless Aelin’s blood line, and even how she might have started said bloodline in part 2.

Bonsoir.

#nesta archeron #pro acosf #cassian acotar #acotar #nesta acotar #feyre archeron #pro nesta #pro feyre #pro elain #acosf #acomaf #acowar #tog #throne of glass #sarah j maas #sjm #sjm books #maasverse #acotar fan theory

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kvitkapaporoti1 · 1 year

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I really wanted to draw Archeron sisters in head scarves, so I decided to use Slavic setting.

So here is Ferye in her winter outfit. She has turned out looking grumpy, I guess she doesn't like cold weather😂 And Nesta in traditional Ukrainian clothing.There should have been Elaine, but I didn't have the energy to draw her.(maybe later)

#acotar #fan art #kvitkapaporotiart #nesta archeron #nesta art #nesta supremacy #nesta acotar #feyre cursebreaker #feyre archeron #feyre fanart #nesta and feyre #acofas #acotar fanart

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carmasi · 1 year

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Some thoughts

I really want to see Elain end up with Lucien as the romantic that I am, however, I know Az is the obvious choice and it a whole thing with 3 and 3 the power of 3 okay Charmed ones. ahem.. back to the topic.

Both Az and Lu had ben through a lot. and both deserve happiness and i was a full on why not a Throple? kind a gal, until I read Az extra chapter.

I understand his pain, and I understand his frustration gosh darn it I’ve experience this feelings more time than I WISH TO admit , but there is a lot of ways to go about it, and the way he Spoke with Rhys about it ain’t it given, but Rhys was reaching too though.

We have not gotten Lucien point of view on this either though, for all we know he most be feeling the same entitlement that Az felt, we never expected those things from Az what's to Say Lucien didn’t feel the same. For what Lucien shown so far we know he’s giving her time to process.

He understand she’s not Fae and she’s been through a lot with Grayson, we don’t know what Lucien experience with papa ARCHERON what was talked about. all we know is that he’s just waiting, he told Ferye , he wanted to see if she was worth fighting for.

We don’t know what he decided, he’s still making that decision, and Elain bless her heart she hasn’t rejected the bond, who known if it is because she wants to safe Lucien from the pain Mor explain can drive a male mad, or just because she doesn’t know better, or because she also want to know if HE is worth it.

All and all is up to SJM to decided, and I am here for any decision she makes.

#luscien vanserra #azriel #elain archeron #elain x lucien #ELUCIEN #elriel #elain x azriel

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szalonykasztan00 · 2 years

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Papa Archeron's story??

First of all, I have a question:

Does Papa Archeron see to anyone else like the ACOTAR version of the finance bro?

That is sooooo rich but the moment he lost some money he starts panicking and making stupid decisions and then live/die in obscurity?

That kinda guy?

I saw the post discussing the ✨speed ✨ of the Archeron family losing everything. That got me wondering and creating my theory. There were many awesome ones in comments and reblogs (I will link the thread at the bottom for y'all to read and give credit to everyone involved). Now to the main part of my post:

Warning it will contain spoilers for the book "The doll" by Boleslaw Prus

If you want to read the XIX-century polish social and moral novel please skip this post. (I don't recement, the internal monologues of EVERY character are fucking irritating and more cringing than the most cringing thoughts Ferye have in all 3,5 books.)

So my theory is that Papa Archeron was like the main character of The Doll - Stanislaw Wokulski. Mrs Wokulski was a nobleman but his family lost all land and fortune long before he was born and because of that no one from the rest of the nobility remembers that he was, in fact, a noble. When he was young he marries an old merchant's widow, for which he work, to get money, a business and a house. She die because she wanted to be pretty for her young trophy husband. And now Wokulski is ✨rich✨. Then he goes to make some good business decisions and more money (it took him a couple of years). Now he is ✨super rich✨. But all the nobles think he is not noble and rich ☹ just rich and they don't like him, belittle him (not openly of course) and don't let him for the "salons". So he diced to marry a young aristocrat from a falling house name Izabela Łęcka. At that point, he is like 45 and Isabela is like 25. She plays with his desire for that marriage for some time. During that time he buys out her family from falling (more or less). Then he learns English for her (at that time it was a cool thing for young and rich aristocrats to do) and learns from overhearing a conversation she had with some other suitor that she thinks he sucks. That kicks him to leave the girl alone.

Now to put it to Papa Archeron. His family were nobles but lost money and were forgotten when Papa was born. Since mortal realms in ACOTAR are basically like Africa (after thousand in the ACOTAR, hundreds in our world YEARS of slavery), they have to figure themselves out on the new. That usually means bad economics, wars etc. it's not hard to believe that this situation + politics, religions or others means whatever money they have just ✨puff✨ gone. He (20) marries the old merchant's widow for business. She dies. He tries to live and do business but fails due to other nobles. He (25) goes to make more money (lucky for me, others may think it's a talent). Make friends and contacts. Comes back (30). They still don't like him. He contacts Scythia's friends that tell him about mama Archeron (20). They meet, fall in love?, and marry for her status (he (33) gives his now family an absurd amount of money – he is now not ✨super rich✨ just ✨rich✨). They come back to Prythian. They (+/- 22 and +/- 35) have Nesta then the rest. He makes BAD investments for some time (30 - ….) and his other business fall due to what is happening in mortal's realms. They try to keep it up for a few more years. They keep the appearance good enough for the duke. But there come the final bad investments and the fall begins. He is now +/- 44. His wife dies (+/- 36). Then they move to the hut (Papa Archeron's childhood home).

That makes him at the beginning of the first book +/- 60. He is old, with a broken and will never fully heal leg and (my private head cannon, which I got since first reading) probably have dementia (that's why he is better after Tamiln messed with his memories – he got accidentally healed from that).

That doesn't excuse him in any way, shape or form. It's just theory.

If there is evidence in the canon that proves or disproves my theory, please don't hesitate to let me know. Link Check the reblogs and comments.

#acotar #papa archeron #theory #acotar theory #mama archeron #acotar analysis

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ao3feed-tolkien · 1 year

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A Court of Rings and Power

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/OjMk1Q7

by P0kkaa

Clare Beddor is not who she seems, being older and far more powerful than anyone expected. Story begins when Rhysand is ordered by Amarantha to bring the woman who could end her rein to her court. Rhysand knows Amarantha wants Ferye, but his soulmate gave a fake name much to his relief and Rhysand is willing to let an unknown mortal take her place.

Words: 2321, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas, The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power (TV 2022)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Characters: Feyre Archeron, Rhysand, Tamlin, Lucien Vanserra, Amarantha (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Attor (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Galadriel, Clare Beddor

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Book 1: A Court of Thorns and Roses, Pre-The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power (TV 2022)

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/OjMk1Q7

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #Tolkien #JRR Tolkien #Tolkien works #ao3 #fan fiction

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once-i-was-hopeful · 4 years

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Currently rereading ACOTAR just because I really want to reread ACOMAF, but I don’t like to start from the middle.

#acotar #acomaf #sjm #ferye archeron #rhysand #feysand #just waiting for feysand to start

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vidalinav · 6 years

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FluffMass Day 2: Wrapped in Silver

Summary: Nesta gets sick on Solstice and pretends with all her might that she’s not, family one-shot ft Caring Cassian and sick-emotional Nesta

Read on AO3, FluffMaas Masterlist

This was a fic-request. I don’t know who sent it, but here it is. Happy December!

Song: Winter Wonderland by The Sweeplings

The lights gleamed from storefront windows. Small stars lit above tabletops, shining on grins so wide she couldn’t help but do the same.

Nesta looked through the window of a restaurant she passed, her own image staring back at her. Saw her flushed face and red nose kiss each person’s cheek at the dinner table, long and ascending. Watched them pass the food to her and her to them, never doubting where she belonged.

She walked as her gaze lingered, trailing her fingers along that family’s love. The image of little boys and girls sitting between parents, uncles, and aunts made her wish. Loved. All of them.

Nesta imagined herself surrounded by a chorus of conversations. The fire from the kitchens warming her body better than any coat.

She wouldn’t have noticed her in the window either, if she was as cared for as they were.

Nesta turned to look back at the Sidra. The water frozen and immovable. Nesta watched as people skated on top of it, dancing with winter, itself. Captured in snowflakes and song. She wondered if it would feel like that, as if she were walking on water.

Another day when the city looked like this, dazzling and bright, maybe Cassian could take her. Nesta could almost see him leading her onto the ice. She’d squeeze his hand tightly—to keep her balance, she’d tell him. He’d smirk because he’d know it was a lie. And maybe it would snow, just like today, and they’d buy hot chocolate, spicy and dolloped with whipped cream, and take a walk along the bridge lit up and glowing.

She knew why they loved this place, knew why they protected it like treasure. The streets of Velaris were magical. Greens and golds and silver blues dancing with pale snow. She let her palms capture the waltz of snowflakes, the intricate patterns sitting on the dark fabric of her gloves.The smell of bread and cinnamon wafted through half-open doorways. The frost nipped at her face. But the sounds, the smells, the sights made her feel alive.

People walked hand in hand along the cobblestoned streets, and children laughed as they played in the snow. It hadn’t stopped snowing, since this morning, when Nesta swung a bag over her shoulder and perused each storefront with an intriguing eye.

Nesta took it all in, breathing the fresh winter air, almost walked right past the store tucked into the corner.

It always did look smaller on the outside, than what she found on the inside. The red brick welcoming her, even as her stomach churned. The doorbell jingled as her gaze trailing along the front sign.

Maven’s & Mable’s was a mess.

When Nesta had entered a few weeks back, she’d thought she saw more dust than things, more empty cloth than the furniture it covered. At first, she’d been spectacle, had looked at the store with disdain and a heavy need for a broom. She chided herself for being so snobby, even now.

Maven waved her over as she entered, bumping her hip into one of the tables. He was a curious sort of male, collecting everything and anything, though she could hardly tell in the mess. He owned the shop with his wife, Mable. Had owned it as long as Velaris had been marked and shielded. She tried to maintain her smile in her grimace.

“Hello, Miss Archeron. What can I do for you today?” He asked pleasantly, a chipper step to his voice Nesta had yet to master. She couldn’t help but dance on her toes.

“Well…” She tapped her fingers on the counter, heard the click of her nails along the glass. “I hoped the shipment came today.”

He pushed his glasses closer to his face, and the look her gave her made her apprehensive. “Ah.”

He walked to the back, the shelves in such disarray she wondered how he found anything in them. It didn’t stop him though, from coming back with a smile and a box in his hands.

“I think they can all be accounted for.”

His grin was wide, as he set it on the counter, and opened the lid.

They were beautiful. Shimmering golds, metallic silvers, sands, and blues. Such pretty blues, Nesta could imagine the lands the paints came from, with seas so bright they could only be captured by color and a skilled artists hands.

She was lucky she knew such a fine artist.

Nesta shut the lid tightly, gently setting the worn box in her bag. Nothing some wrapping couldn’t fix. She remembered passing a stand with such pretty silver ones. Maven simply nodded at the grateful look she gave him.

“A gift for our High lady, I presume. I hear her paintings could rival any of our most skilled.” Nesta wondered how Feyre would feel about that comment. She almost imagined the way she’d roll her eyes and sweep it under the rug. Her sister never was the prideful sort.

“Yes, and you’re shop was the only one who could get them here on time…” She shook her head, at her sudden jitters. “This year has to be perfect.”

He merely smiled gently at her, like Nesta thought a grandfather might do, doting on his granddaughter. He had told her he had three of them. “I’m sure it will be.”

She bid the male farewell and emphatic thanks, rushed to ask him to wish his wife well. The door bells rang sweetly, as the winter wind kissed her cheeks. She was by no means finished.

Nesta would spend the rest of the week finding every gift, dressing them in pretty paper, with as much as much Solstice cheer as she could drum up from her body. She’d be worried about everything else after each present was sitting beneath the tree. Not a minute before.

This year was going to be perfect.

For them and for her.

The townhouse was warm as she gathered the tinsel and wrapped it around the banister, directly parallel to the trail of red ribbon. Nesta had checked—four times.

The rest of the house looked just like it, a present all tied and waiting. All they were missing was the tree. Cassian, Feyre, Mor and Rhysand had volunteered excitedly. Nesta staying behind to help Elain with baking, in part because Cassian insisted and partially because Elain had looked at her so excitedly at spending time with her.

With a soft kiss to her forehead, Cassian promised to be back later in the evening. It was the right decision in the end, since the prospect of traversing through the forest only seemed to make her tired.

She wiped at her forehead, blowing the bangs from her face. The staircase wound down into the living room, and though Feyre decorated the townhouse to seem more homelier, the staircase yelled its opulence.

Nesta had only finished half of the railings by the time lunch was ready. She blamed it on her meticulousness, none of it seeming exactly right until it was set flawlessly. Though, the idea of climbing up the stairs again to finish the rest made her want to hold onto the rail and crumble into a ball at the bottom.

She did just that, crouching low, touching the red with her fingertips.

“Nesta, do you want to take a break?” Nuala asked. Nesta turned to face her, as she distantly heard the buzzer sound. She wondered how long it had been going off, before she noticed.

Cerridwen came down the stairs and stood next to her sister. She could hear Elain in the kitchen, the pans banging against granite countertops. She shook her head slightly in answer and tried to stand.

Nuala looked at her skeptically, as she hung to the railing. Nesta’s gaze traveled to the half-finished decoration and wondered if they both thought ill of her for not having it done already… or Mother forbid, she did the whole thing wrong. Maybe, the tinsel wasn’t supposed to go there, or the ribbon was the wrong color. Were there traditions? She didn’t know.

It wasn’t exactly her holiday, she didn’t even want to do it. Nesta was trying for the sake of them. This was their day, anyways. What did she care about any of this?

It was just like the cookies she helped Elain with this morning. She forgot to set the timer, fell asleep before they were even finished. They were rushing to open the windows before she had even woke up, a smoke cloud hovering throughout the kitchen.

She sighed. What if she was doing this wrong?

Nesta was too afraid to ask. She could feel her temper flicker like a flame on a candle. Mother forbid she start crying.

“No—I… I’m okay. Is this okay?” They nodded to her enthusiastically, their eyes crinkling at her nervous ringing. Nesta pretended not to notice their cautious glances towards each other.

The look made something awful appear in the pit of her stomach, bury itself deep inside of her and jostle around. She was holding her mouth by the time the feeling sunk in.

Nesta just hoped they weren’t acting this way because they didn’t want her here.

Elain poked her head from behind the doorway, gesturing with her bright eyes to come. The sleeves of her dress pulled up to her forearms. The glances didn’t stop as she made her way to the kitchen. Flour scattering on the counters like dusty snow.

She had taken off her coat this morning when they arrived, but the heat of the kitchen was sweltering. Nesta took off her sweater, thankful for the thin shirt she wore underneath and her planning skills. At least she wasn’t totally out of it.

Elain laid out the sandwiches, the second batch of cookies cooling on the rack. “They should be here soon.” She acknowledged, a sweet blush on her cheeks.

Nesta took a moment to look her over, glancing through the window of their lives. Her sister always did seem to fit in where ever she was placed, a perfect mold. A cookie cutter, though Nesta never judged her on that—just wished that it came as easy to her as it did Elain.

“Are you okay?”

Nesta blinked up at the question.

“What?”

Elain shook her head and gestured toward the table. “I called your name and you just looked at me sort of dazed.”

“Oh.” Nesta looked at the food and felt the feeling rise again. She grimaced as the thought of eating it, her appetite sitting drily on her tongue. Her eyes zeroed in on the trashcan near the stove. As long it was close, she’d be okay. She’d just have to do it discreetly, Elain had worked hard on this lunch for all of them.

“Nesta.”

Nesta, Nesta, Nesta. She heard it over and over again, like she was drowning in distant memories and the words had plugged her ears. Only when she resurfaced did she realize she still hadn’t moved to sit at the table. Elain grasping the back of the chair, her eyebrows furrowed, and her face withdrawn.

The room felt warmer, which had to be impossible since the window was still cracked open. She had barely made it to the table, when she grasped the counter top, coughing until she thought she could feel her lungs.

Elain held her as the air came and went, rubbing her back. Nesta felt Elain lay her hand on her forehead; her icy fingers cool against her flushed skin.

“Nesta, why don’t you sit—”

Elain jumped at the booming footsteps. Nesta rushed to the door, as she heard them. Ran like she was a little girl again and her father had come back from one of his trips. She was always so excited to see him, jumping into his arms when affection didn’t seem like a mask.

Her father would have loved this place—loved them all.

Cassian carried in the tree, Feyre cheering him on in the background. Her eyes were wide as she blinked back stars. Where a light ball of worry lifted, a gold gleaming bell settled in her chest. It rang at the sight of him, the song so lovely against the distant noise.

The tree may have been magnificent, deep green and full, but Cassian was something else to behold. His eyes carried a sheen of splendor, golden amber skies. Carefree and warm. His hair was pulled back into a beanie. Nesta wanted to take it off, run her hands through the dark curly locks, all ruffled and messy.

When he saw her, his face lit up. She couldn’t imagine the Solstice tree with all its decorations could ever compare.

Nesta felt the cough come back up and swallowed it behind laughter. But nails scratched at her lungs, and she couldn’t stop herself from hacking. Nesta grabbed the wall, leaning on it as her eyes dropped heavily.

She felt Cassian’s hands on her skin, the tree lying on the floor, abandoned. She didn’t even notice him dropping it.

Feyre craned her neck to see the fuss, still outside wearing her coat and gloves. The winter wind felt amazing, the door wide open so all she could see was winter’s story. Nesta imagined the tales she would tell later about this day, when her sisters and her had finally gotten past their silent…war, became family with traditions and holidays and love.

Nesta pushed Cassian away, wanted to feel the touch of snow by herself, to be greeted by her sister’s gleaming smile and her twinkling laughter.

As she moved, he followed; she wondered if she seemed odd to him that he looked at her like the others had. Cerridwen, Nuala, Elain, and now Cassian. She heard the laughter, though, outside where snow danced with wind and she wanted to feel it all. Wouldn’t miss a part of it.

She unhooked her coat from the rack, ignored Cassian’s soft grip on her arm, continuing forward. Winter called to her so lovingly.

“Sweetheart, I don’t think—” She didn’t hear the rest of his sentence, before she was swept up by flying snow.

Mor threw that one, and then Feyre back at her, and they laughed so sweetly. She wanted to laugh like them, wanted the snow to bloom along her skin like fresh poinsettias.

They gestured towards, Feyre grabbing her hand, running to the nearest mound—their castle, their lookout tower. Feyre grabbed the snow, packed it in between thick mittens, and threw cannonballs towards the enemy. At another pile where Mor and Rhys were surely hiding.

She felt the spirit burst in her, felt the ice whip across her face and sink into her knitted gloves, as she followed Feyre’s wordless instructions. Feyre looked at her and laughed, smile so wide Nesta thought it might have been a dream. Where nothing bad had ever happened, and everything was perfect and beautiful and safe.

Nesta threw the snowballs until she could feel her arm tire and her body sink into to the ground. She watched as Feyre gestured for her to follow, quietly crawling to the center. A sneak attack, one she’d surely win. She’d protect all of them, like she so often did, like she had done since the very beginning.

Her eyes felt heavy, the snow falling on top of her, building snow castles where her body laid. Maybe her sister would always be the warrior, and Nesta would always be the one trapped in a tower she could never escape from.

Feyre laughed, wiping the snow off of her long coat. The whole ordeal didn’t last long, but in that moment time didn’t exist. Neither a high lady or a queen, she was just Feyre and an abundance of possibilities. She huffed out a breath, as Rhys put his arm around her. His body heat warming her more than the fire she could feel from the door.

Cassian pushed his way out, trampling his way past them. “Where’s Nesta?”

Nesta? Nesta was there with her, and maybe that’s why she had felt so alive. So, loved. That she was there with them, and it didn’t feel forced or horrible. She was fighting alongside her, a bright sheen to her eyes Feyre had never seen before.

She hadn’t even noticed Nesta was gone.

Feyre pushed Rhys away to run after him. The concern welling up inside of her. Cassian got to her first, she was lying next to their snow pile.

What Feyre didn’t noticed then, she noticed now. Nesta’s skin was red, she could see the sweat gathered at her sister’s furrowed eyebrows. She turned towards Rhys, who looked as concerned as she felt.

“Call Madja! Now!”

Cassian picked Nesta up, her body limp in his arms, and Feyre saw the image again. The one she often saw in her nightmares, when the cauldron didn’t let her sisters live, and they laid there dripping wet and lifeless.

Nesta was not lifeless, she could hear the strangled breaths coming out of her. Small coughs as her head lulled.

Cassian led her to his room—their room—and set her on the blankets. Surprising gentle for looking panicked and terrified.

She helped him tug off her jacket, her gloves. She wasn’t wearing much underneath and Feyre wondered if Nesta had felt this way the whole day and no one had noticed. By the cauldron, this was not the first time they had seen her today.

Feyre crawled to the spot next to her on the bed and swiped her wet bangs away from her face. Elain rushed in with a tub and a towel, handing the latter to Feyre. She dabbed at her face, placed her hand where the cloth had been. She was burning up.

“Oh, Nesta…” Feyre whispered, her sister breathing quietly. The worry balling into a tight fist she couldn’t release. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Feyre remembered the quiet, the fierce anger, the arguments, the disastrous camps and the consequences, the words she just didn’t hear in Nesta’s silent screams.

She couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Nesta had told her, and just like all the times before, Feyre just didn’t listen.

Madja told them it was just a bad case of fairy flu. She’d come back tomorrow to make sure it wasn’t getting any worse. She gave him a blue bottle, told him to wake Nesta every few hours and give it to her. She’d need to finish the whole bottle today if it wasn’t going to get any worse.

Cassian clenched the bottle at her words, the worry building in his chest like the crescendo of a Solstice carol. Every minute her eyes were closed, and the coughs wracked her body, made his own physically ache.

Half the day had passed, when she finally opened her eyes, just slits, like cracks on broken windows. Cassian rushed towards her and held up her head, bringing the blue bottle to her lips. When Nesta swallowed the worry ebbed only slightly. She coughed as he caressed her cheek.

“Hey, Nes.” He whispered lovingly. “You had us all worried there. We had to call Madja in, she just said to give you this.”

He set the bottle on the counter next to him, never taking his eyes off of her, as she stared at him blinking slowly. She’d need to sleep the sickness off, miss most of Solstice probably. The thought made a fist clamp around his heart and squeeze.

Nesta only nodded, her eyes drooping as she laid her head on the arm he rested on her pillow. He swiped the hair away from her face, matted from sweat. Her skin still feverish.

When he was sure she was sleep, Cassian looked around the room, empty and bare. He wished it had been different, wished for a million different things at once. He hated that it was going to be another year Nesta tallied in her mind—another wish that didn’t come true.

He took another look at her and the blank room and decided. He’d make this room their Solstice.

Cassian, after tucking Nesta into the thick woven blankets, set out. For lights and flowers and pine. She’d have this tradition, at least.

He would never leave her.

The lights looked like sprites that danced with the flames of the fireplace, the crackling lulling into the soft laughter that he could hear outside the door. It meant little to him, as Nesta slept soundly atop his chest.

Her hair felt soft as his fingers ran through it. He’d have to wake her soon, even if he dreaded the thought, when she looked as peaceful as she did.

Nesta had woken up once before and had promptly held him close to her. She hadn’t said a word, but he knew that look. He gulped, his throat dry and scratchy. She would never say it, but he felt it like a sword to his chest.

He held her closer, drawing little patterns on her back. “I love you, you know.”

She had smiled up at him, eyes drifting as soon as she had found the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat. She hadn’t woken since. The sky having turned to soft oranges and violets, when he decided to pull the curtains back.

A soft knock on the door, made him raise his head slightly.

“Come in.”

The knob turned slowly. Feyre and Elain appeared carrying a plate of food and cookies.

“We figured you could use some food, while you wait for Nesta to wake up.” He gestured for them to enter, and they all but bounced in, happy to check on their sister.

The bed as it seemed, was large enough for all four of them… well as Feyre and Elain kneeled around Nesta.

“She looks sweet when she’s sleeping.” Feyre said, awe in her voice. Elain giggled, at that.

Their sister was a ferocity they could never control. A fireball of short-temperedness; Cassian was just relieved it was now mostly reserved for enemies. Her alliances deeply rooted in her family and their reciprocated love.

Nesta shifted slightly, and Cassian moved to accommodate her. Her eyes blinking drowsily. Her nose was still red, but her cheeks were now a blush rather than the red of the candy they had hung on the tree.

Feyre and Elain leaned to see her, Nesta craning her neck to see them.

“You’re awake!” Elain exclaimed.

Cassian helped Nesta sit up along the headboard. Cassian moved off the bed, Feyre taking his place on Nesta’s right.

Under different circumstances, he thought Nesta would have loved this. Being surrounded by them and their comforting hugs—even if Nesta pretended otherwise, she always wanted them near her, but never wanted to ask for it.

They fussed over her and Nesta stared back with disdain, wrinkling her nose at their concern. But her eyes were bright and he was happy to know many of Nesta’s looks, though some—like now—hit him with such surprise.

He went to the nightstand and grasped the blue bottle. Feyre took it out of his hands, and he knew that look, too. Go away. He only smirked at it, and looked at Nesta, leaning her head on her sister’s soldier. He rubbed his thumb on the soft skin of her hand, his fond smile saying more than his words ever could.

“I’m going to get you more tea. Some soup too, if you can stomach it.” She nodded her head lightly, grasping his hand and squeezing it in hers. Her grip was strong, and that’s what made the worry finally ebb into a dull throb. She was strong, alive, and fighting. Fighting with them, against enemies like fairy flu, or the ominous ones they could never be rid of forever.

They’d win because of her, because of them, together. Their love a sweet protection against any foe—even ones like doubt.

Nesta noticed the tree first, its reds and greens playing with Elain’s hair and Feyre’s eyes. So close to her that she could feel their bodies, warmer than the fire winking in the dim light. The silver presents nestled at the base.

“You know, Cassian decorated this whole place while you were asleep.” Feyre quipped. Elain jumping in to follow.

“You should have seen him, he practically stole everything from the living room. Azriel and Mor kept making fun of him, for the festive monster he turned into.”

They leaned their head on hers, their arms wrapping around her. She thanked the cauldron she was already flushed. “He turned into quite an irate bat at the sight of you sick, mothered you like a hen, too.”

“Though, maybe we all did that.” Feyre said, amused, playing with a lock of Nesta’s hair. Nesta turned towards her voice, as Feyre turned her body to face her. “Next time, Nesta, we’ll have a snowball fight when you’re not sick.”

Nesta still had the attitude to roll her eyes. “If others couldn’t win when I was half-dead in the snow, they’ll have no luck when I’m better.”

Feyre laughed at that. “No, I’m sure they won’t.”

The conversation lulled. Feyre resuming her position at Nesta’s side, adjusting the blanket so that she was covered. Nesta had never in her life been so coddled, but she found herself too weak to argue.

Nesta looked at the tree again, the presents simultaneously mocking her and cheering her on. She didn’t know if it was the idea or the sickness that made her want to puke.

“You can open them if you want—the silver ones… They’re for you and Elain.” She gestured towards them, wringing her hands in her lap. “For Rhysand, Azriel, and Mor, too. And of course, one for Amren, though I guess she’s probably with Varian right now.”

There was even some for the twins, though she suspected they knew that already. She watched as Feyre and Elain looked towards each other, softly. Nesta wanted to sink back into the pillows and hide herself away in the mattress.

There was one for Cassian of course, but she’d give that to him later. When she could do it properly, and she could get emotional without feeling like she wanted to jump out of her skin.

Elain tugged at her hand, tugged her back into the room and out of her head. “I’ll wait if you don’t mind… So, we can open the presents together.”

“Me too. Then you can open the presents we got you—we all got you.” Feyre smiled at her, assuredly, and Nesta’s heart tightened.

“You didn’t have to get me anything.” Her voice low, as if admitting it would somehow make it less true. Feyre simply squeezed her hand once more.

“Yes, we did.” She was family, after all. They cared for her, too. Loved her even though sometimes she wondered why.

It was a testament to how sick Nesta felt, because she blinked back tears, her ears ringing as the day spun out of her control. “I just wanted everything to be perfect.” Whispered words of truth ringing in their ears like the carols she could hear outside.

Her sisters cradled her closer, the concern back on their faces. “It is perfect.”

“You know, It’s not the same without you out there.” Feyre pointed to the door. “Rhys and Mor won’t stop belting out carols, and you know how bad they both are at singing.” Nesta laughed at that, as a stray tear made it down her face. She did know.

She closed her eyes at the soft voices, the noise muffled by the door. Nesta felt the spoon touch her lips, as if she were some small sick child. It slid down her throat like honey.

Nesta was almost asleep when she heard her sister again. A quiet lullaby to her roaring thoughts and beyond, where sleep rocked her gently.

“It’s perfect because you’re here.”

“How’s Nesta doing?” Azriel asked, as Cassian made his way to the kitchen. The wet rag and mug cradled in his hands.

“She’s a little upset.” An understatement. Nesta had been mostly sleeping, and when she did wake, she was quiet. Thank the mother, her sisters had come in when they did. Her face lighting up at the comfort they brought her.

Mor walked up to both of them, Rhysand short behind. The only one missing was Amren, though probably not for long. Varian had only planned to stay, this year, until tomorrow.

Mor took the mug from him, setting it on the counter as she filled the kettle with water.

“She was looking forward to it this year, wasn’t she?”

Cassian grabbed the pot of the table, filling it with the soup he had made yesterday, when they had all explained they had wanted something warm to eat.

“You don’t know the half of it.” He answered, stirring the soup as the kettle sputtered. He supposed she probably didn’t want him to tell the others, though he wanted them to understand, too. It wasn’t just supposed to be another Solstice. He swallowed as he continued.

“Nesta spent the last three weeks hounding me to fly her places or to ask you guys what you liked or wanted. I told her a million different stories about you all, until she felt she had enough information. She said she wanted to get the perfect presents… ones that she’d hoped meant something.”

The townhouse was quiet as he spoke. He took great care not to look at them, not to give himself away at the strings in his chest that continued to knot and unravel and knot again. “Nesta said she’d have to try harder this year—to make up for all those other years. That this time she’d get it right.”

Cassian took the pot of the stove, poured the soup into a bowl and hoped that Nesta would eat something. She hadn’t all day.

When he looked back up, they were staring at him. Concern and something else written on their faces, something like contemplation and a little like love. He got angry all over again, that she couldn’t see what she did to all of them. How much they cared.

“It makes me upset, too, that Nesta can’t catch a break. She worked so hard—to be here, to get to this point. It isn’t ever enough.”

He grabbed the bowl, and the tea Mor had poured, set it on a tray, while Azriel placed the newly wet wash cloth on the wood. Next year, he’d spend every last minute making it the best Solstice of her life.

Cassian walked towards the room, the door shut tight but the occupants loving and warm.

“Oh, I almost forgot—” He gestured toward the bigger tree in the living room. “Nesta placed your presents under the tree. Silver paper. She said you guys could open them if you wanted.”

Mor walked toward it, grabbing one and looking at it softly. She looked at him, before he even had the chance to open the door, like she still didn’t believe that Nesta had done this. That she had cared so much for them.

Cassian could only lift the side of his mouth in answer. Perhaps, they had finally seen what he did. Nesta’s heart was just sometimes too expressive for the words she couldn’t say.

Two days passed before Nesta was well enough to get out of bed. Solstice had swiftly past them all by, her sister’s birthday spent without her… again.

She changed out of her nightgown and into a new dress. Her hair shown lighter, the bath ridding her of the last of her sickness. She looked around the room, the decorations still ringing with joy.

Nesta supposed they should take the lights down now, and though it hurt, it only hurt a little.

Cassian had stayed with her. They played board games when she wasn’t sleeping, and when she was, she was nestled in his arms, his body warming her comfortably to the chills that sometimes wracked her body. Of course, her sisters came in frequently, too. They laughed with her and kept her updated and included her even if she couldn’t be out there with them.

They had made her feel so light, she was grateful that it had turned out pleasant. Well enough to last her until next year, where it probably wouldn’t go as planned, but maybe didn’t include her coughing up her lungs.

Nesta slipped out of the room before she could think anything more of it. It’d be better next year, she promised.

Feyre rushed towards her, grabbing her arm. Elain wasn’t too far behind. They came at her like a whirlwind and Nesta had to brace herself for the way they looked: too spirited and definitely out of breath.

“Okay… Close your eyes.” They blocked her path to the living room, and she looked at them curiously. Nesta shook her head.

“Why?”

Feyre spoke next. “Please. Just do it.” She gave them on of her patented Nesta looks. “I promise you’ll love it.”

Nesta assented, her eyes drifting shut, as Elain held one arm, and Feyre grabbed the other. She could hear rustling in front of them. They didn’t lead her far, just a few feet, where she could feel the carpet in the living room.

The air tasted like cinnamon, the air warm against her palms. “Now open.”

The living room was still decorated, reds and greens and greenery. It wasn’t that that surprised her, it was Cassian who stood near the dinner table, and gestured for her to follow. They were all seated around the table, and Cassian moved to open the chair for her. She looked around, and Amren was here today, even Nuala and Cerridwen sitting beside them all. She didn’t think they ate this kind of food, but she was glad that they were there.

The table was filled to the edge. Turkey, ham, four different kinds of potatoes, and pie. Chocolate Mousse pie that sat in front of her chair—her favorite. She looked at all the food, suddenly starving, wanting nothing more than to dig in. Her gaze settled on all of them, noticed that they were watching her as she sat down.

She wrung her fingers at their looks, the light in their eyes friendlier than she had ever seen them. Cassian clasped his hands on her shoulder. “We couldn’t have a Solstice feast without you… They wouldn’t even let me eat any of the pie.”

Nesta couldn’t believe that was true. Cassian wouldn’t dare eat her favorite dessert without her. He winked like he knew what she was thinking.

Mor titled her head at them, at her, and she hoped she wasn’t going to ask anything she couldn’t answer in front of them. She imagined her asking an array of questions, from why did you try so hard to why do you look so surprised. Nesta couldn’t answer any of them, the words not even slightly what she’d want to say.

She raised a hand to the pie. “We had to make a new one, since someone…” She gestured toward Amren, who held her hands up in innocence, “decided to knock into the table this morning. Thank Mother that Nuala and Cerridwen still had the ingredients.”

Feyre came and sat to her left, Rhysand sneaking glances at her from Feyre’s other side. Nesta didn’t know if she wanted to gush or grimace. Her sister was never shy of being affectionate. It was a part of her she loved.

“Can we eat? Or are we all going to sit here in silence?” Mor rolled her eyes at Amren’s outburst, and Azriel merely took a knife from the center and started cutting the meat. Cassian sat next to her and she leaned her head on his shoulder.

“When were finished, we’ll open presents.” He said, his smile wide and gracious as he looked at her wide eyes. “I have one for you… but I’m saving it for later—when were alone.”

He kissed the side of her head, her eyes stinging as she grabbed his hand on the table and squeezed. Hoped beyond all reason that this wasn’t something new, that she turned into a blubbering idiot every moment that she spent with these people. Her people. Her family.

“You didn’t open them?” She asked Cassian, asked all of them.

Rhysand spoke first, scooping mashed potatoes onto Feyre’s plate. “None.” He looked towards her questioning gaze, and merely shrugged a shoulder. “Solstice will be there every year, but the people around us…we have to appreciate them while they’re here.”

He rolled his eyes and pointed the spoon towards Cassian. “Because some people, as you know, try so hard not to be here.” Cassian merely lifted his glass, his eyes sparkling.

Nesta laughed with the rest of them, as Cassian piled food on to her plate. She ate with reverence, as they joked with her, told her stories. And, when they were finished, Rhysand and Mor once again sang carols—badly.

The presents stayed under the tree, blinking up at them with silver eyes, waiting and watching. They took their sweet time, enjoying the setting sun and the flickering lights of color.

Nesta didn’t think about the presents at all. Solstice wasn’t about the presents.

She sang with Mor and Rhysand, laughed with Feyre and Elain, danced with Cassian, as the snow fell outside.

The warmth of the fireplace seeped through her sweater, Cassian’s arms woven around her from behind. Feyre and Elain kissed her cheek under the mistletoe. The room glowing in effervescent color.

It was perfect. All of it.

Remind me never again to write a fic this long. Ignore typos please, I was bored of reading it over and over.

PS> I moved things around in the masterlist slightly, just to make these first three make a little more sense.

Also WELCOME new followers! If you like Nessian as much as I do, you’ll fit right in ;)

Happy Reading! Like, comment, reblog, and/or come chat with me!

#nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #cassian x nesta #nessian fanfiction #acofas #acotar #inner circle #ferye archeron #rhysand #mor #elain archeron

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a-court-of-messy-break-ups · 3 years

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The Archeron Sisters!

And heres my attempt in making Elain, Nesta and Feyre! Sorry if its not accurate I'm still trying to get used to art breeder. Next up will be the batboys!

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separatist-apologist · 1 month

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I Knew You Were Trouble

Summary: After a disaster on Earth sends humans to live on colonies on different planets, Feyre Archeron's life has become impossibly difficult. The Federation meant to protect and provide for human refugees has abandoned them on a hostile planet that forbids them from hunting and has segregated them from the rest of the population.

When her older sister starts an accidental fire in an attempt to revitalize the barren land, Feyre comes face to face with one of the infamous, dreaded Horde Kings. They strike a bargain- her servitude for her sisters life. Now, trapped in his horde, Feyre has to acclimate to a new life and the demands of the man who took her- and hope she can survive him.

Based on the book Captive of the Horde King.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Read on AO3

The ride back to the encampment was heavier than it had been on the way there. Feyre nearly forgot about the hard scales between her legs, so focused on the male behind her and what he’d pressed against her spine. She’d seen him naked before, had seen him erect, even. Somehow, this felt different.

Real.

He didn’t speak the entire way back, nor did he say a word when they arrived at the pyroki enclosure. His fingers lingered on her skin when he helped her down, drawing goosebumps over her skin.

She’d half expected him to throw her over his shoulder and take her back to their tent, but Rhys merely walked as though he were content to be beside her. Feyre was nervous, fidgeting with the dress clinging to her body in the cool night.

In the distance, she could see the faint, flickering lights of the pyres, could hear the pounding of the drums echoing around her. Her very blood felt alive, thrumming in time with those drums. Feyre couldn’t help but look up at her husband, eyes gleaming in the dark.

What was he thinking? She was too much of a coward to ask. Rhys led her in to their tent, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Have you done this before?” he asked, his voice sounding deeply strained. Like he was holding himself back, forcing himself to stand at the entrance as Feyre went in deeper. She halted at the edge of the bed, wondering if she was supposed to lie.

“Yes,” she whispered. He’d figure it out, so there was no point in lying. He might own her now, but he hadn’t owned her for her entire life—whatever she’d done before she met him was none of his business.

Rather than anger, Feyre found relief shining on Rhys’s face. He nodded, still rooted in place. “Remove your clothes, kasikkari.”

It was like someone else took over her limbs. Where was the woman who would have fought him tooth and nail? Who wanted to go back to that horrible village where everyone hated her and she was starving more often than she wasn’t.

Feyre pushed the gown off her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet. Rhys growled softly, the sound fading to a whine as he kept himself utterly still. Was she supposed to do something? Feyre reached out, which seemed to shatter whatever spell held him. The powerful warrior stumbled forward, eyes locked on her face. Had he done this before? Ferye waited until he was standing before her to ask.

Rhys threw his head back and laughed loudly in that rich, warm voice of his. “Yes, I have been with females before. None like you…none that were my wife.”He said the word with such obvious pleasure. “Wait,” she whispered, watching as his hands stilled over the laces he’d been undoing. “I have a question.”

“Can it wait?” he asked, though she saw his interest gleaming back.

“You want a wife.”

Rhys waited a moment for her to finish her statement before realizing that was all she was going to say.

“Yes?” he asked, clearly thinking she was trying to trick him.

“I’m not a burden?”

Rhys blinked. “You are a gift. I have been waiting for you since…” he turned his head, raking a clawed hand through his hair. “My whole life.”

Feyre could have told him about the jokes human men made. How they called them balls and chains, how they made comments even after the wedding about running away. How women were considered burdens and girls a waste of resources. She didn’t, though. Feyre only nodded, staring at his face rather than his lower body.

He wasn’t having it.

“Look at me,” he ordered, taking a step back. Rhys ran his hand down his broad chest and over his stomach, halting just before the trail of dark hair that led to his cock. Feyre did as she was told, swallowing hard. “I am your husband.”

Feyre nodded her head.

“You belong to me, now,” he continued, closing the gap between them. Feyre felt his tail brush between her thighs before curling around her leg, holding her tight as if he expected her to try and escape. Feyre wondered if he let her.

“What about you?” she asked him.

“I have been yours for as long as I’ve existed,” he told her, reaching out to cup her face. “And I will be yours even when my bones are made of ash.”

Feyre didn’t know what to say to that. There was some emotion to them she didn’t dare name, couldn’t answer. She didn’t want to answer. So Feyre just stood there for a heartbeat while he waited. If he was disappointed she didn’t say anything in response, he didn’t betray it. He merely touched her face, head cocked as he studied her.

“Who was the male who touched you?”

“Why? Going to kill him?” Feyre asked.

Rhys’ grin was savage as he pushed her to the bed. “Maybe. He did touch my Morakkari. Tell me…did he please you?” The predatory look on the horde king's face told Feyre that this was a challenge now. If she said Isaac had been an incredible lover, he’d be wanting to outdo him. Why lie?

“He was a distraction.” Rhys crawled up the bed, clawed hands sliding up her bare shins. She was naked. For a moment, Feyre had nearly forgotten that fact, lost in whatever magic he possessed. She remembered it now, especially when her eyes found not his handsome face but his rigid cock. The bulb at the base had begun to swell, and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask what that was.

What it did.

Rhys distracted her, once again, by pushing her legs wide open. This was happening, and what was worse, when he used his knuckle to touch just between, Feyre was wet. Their eyes met, his excitement plain. She could lie and say she didn’t want him all she wanted, but without ever touching her, he’d aroused her.

“Keep your eyes open,” he murmured as he lowered his face. “No distractions, kalles.”

And then he put his mouth on her with a heady, loud groan. Rhys said something, muffled against her body. Feyre might have asked what, but his tongue found her clit and she simply lacked the words.

Isaac hadn’t done this. He’d touched—teased. Not with his mouth, though. Theoretically, it shouldn’t mattered but his mouth was wet and soft and most importantly, practiced. When this was all over, she was going to make him tell her all the females he’d bedded.

Feyre shifted when he gripped her hips, pushing her back to the bed. She hadn’t realized she’d been squirming until his claws pricked against her skin. The pain of it brought Feyre back to reality just enough to focus. To breathe.

Their eyes met.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, wondering if he was waiting for something.

Rhys groaned again, pulling her so close he couldn’t watch her watching him. Feyre wasn’t convinced he could breathe, truly. Rhys seemed fine, his mouth working against her cunt, messy and frantic in equal measure. Feyre tried to focus, but the sight of him crouched between her legs, tail swishing behind him, had her panting as she clutched at the furs beneath her.

He was relentless and she was inexperienced. What had once felt like a slow exploration now felt desperate, like he needed to do this before he could move on.

Rhys pulled back, lips glistening in the moonlight, and bit off the tip of his claws on his first two fingers. Feyre could only whine, arching her hips in the air.

“I know,” he breathed before coming back down. “Need you ready.”

Whatever that meant. She didn’t care, relieved when his mouth was back on her. Feyre cried out when one his fingers slid into her body, causing her to clench around him. Rhys swore, pulling back once again to look, eyes entirely black. He held that position as he slid in his second finger, watching the entire time.

“The things I need to do to you,” he whispered, sliding both fingers in, and then out. “The ways I want you…”

“You have me,” Feyre reminded him, but uncertainty shadowed his gaze. He didn’t believe her, but Feyre knew she wasn’t leaving. She didn’t want to go back. Life had been miserably gray before, and though he’d kidnapped her and made decisions unilaterally, he spoke to her. He was willing to have his mind changed. He cared about her enough to potentially alienate his entire horde by marrying not just an outsider, but a human at that.

Rhys returned his mouth to her body, licking and sucking as he pumped his fingers in and out of her body. The sensations melded together in a confusing symphony of what was what. That was enough to override her loud brain and Feyre found herself building higher and higher so quickly she couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t draw it out.

Feyre was grateful the horde wasn’t nearby given the way she screamed. It was an embarrassing, strangled sound that ripped out of her throat as her pleasured dragged her into a place she’d never been before. Feyre felt alive, incandescent and free. Was she glowing? She felt like she must be. Feyre could scarcely breathe, having come apart in a million pieces only to be glued back together by whatever magic he possessed.

Though, right then, Rhys was taking advantage of her pliant demeanor to pull her up on her hands and knees. Was this how they had sex, then? Feyre wondered if the Drakkari ever did it face to face the way humans did—she’d ask later.

“Breathe, kasikkari” he said, the only warning before he buried himself fully within her. She wasn’t prepared for the fullness, for the length and size of him. All the air expelled from her lungs, cheeks pressed in the furs as he drove himself into her a second time.

She ought to have told him she had no experience at all. Feyre now understood how woefully unprepared she’d been. For a moment, Feyre kept herself as she was, breathing through her nose as she reveled in the feel of their bodies. As pleasure began to crest again, Feyre raised herself up on her elbows and arched her spine to take him deeper.

It was all experimental to her—fun, too. The horde king groaned when Feyre tightened the walls of her body around him, though truthfully there was very little give. Was there a salve for this, too? Feyre knew she’d be walking bow-legged in the morning.

“Is this what you like, horde king?” Feyre asked, surprised by how sultry her voice sounded.

His response was guttural, claws digging into her tender flesh. “Yes, Morakkari.”

Feyre recalled the struggle it had been to finish with Isaac right then. He’d told her women weren’t supposed to have so much trouble finishing, and suggested that last time that maybe something was wrong with her. Feyre hadn’t sought out another partner after that, in part because she was simply too tired.

But partly because she felt broken.

It had never occurred to her that maybe she wasn’t the problem. Feyre had always been the problem. Not then, though. Not as the horde king drove himself into her, holding her close, his fingers sliding beneath her for her clit. It took practically nothing for Feyre to tighten around him, arms giving out beneath her as she came so hard she couldn’t make any noise at all.

He did, though. Gods, he was so loud that for a moment, Feyre couldn’t hear the drums in the distance. She figured he was done—that was how it worked, right? He came, he rolled off, he went about his life.

Rhys did pull himself out of her, though only long enough to flip her to her back. He had himself buried back inside her, unconcerned about his mess as he pressed himself against her for a brutal, claiming kiss. “You’re mine,” he whispered, mouth brushing her lips so she could taste his words. “You have always been mine.” Feyre held his gaze, but didn’t return his words. Was he hers? She didn’t know—it was a question for Mor when her friend returned and Feyre could ask her questions. She wanted to trust what was happening and she just…she knew what men were like. Men with power always took too much, more than they deserved, and gave far too little.

If it bothered him she wouldn’t say it back, he didn’t betray that. With his tail sliding between them, wrapping itself around her wrists to pin them over her head, Rhys drove into her again. “I’ll never tire of this,” he whispered, face buried in her cunt.

Feyre intended to tell him she liked whatever was happening when she felt something hot buzzing against her clit. She gasped, trying to pull from his grasp, but Rhys only smiled.

“Take it,” he murmured, lifting himself off her just enough so she could see that bulb at the base of his cock.

“I don’t think I can,” she whimpered, pressing closer all the same. Rhys’s hand curled around her throat, forcing her to look up at him.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he told her, kissing her again. Feyre liked when he did that and didn’t know how to ask him for it. He was driving this interaction, taking what he wanted with concern that she was enjoying herself, and so when he stopped kissing her, hips still thrusting inside her, Feyre simply sank into the warmth of his body and the heady pleasure coiled in her belly.

It was slower this time, and by the time Rhys finished, the drums were silent. Had the horde begun filing back into camp? Could they hear him? Feyre doubted they cared, but she did in that strange, human way of hers. No one was going to say anything—hells, they couldn’t even look at her, let alone him. And when Rhys came in that loud, roaring way of his, Feyre was only greeted with silence in response.

“Rhys,” she whispered, bone tired and utterly wrung out. “Rhys, lay down with me.”

But the horde king was licking a path down her navel, eyes bright with intention.

“I can’t,” she told him when he settled back between her legs.

“You can,” he replied, taking a taste of her body with a shuddering groan. “You will.”

And in the end, he was right.

Rhys crashed close to dawn, pulling her against his sweat soaked body before falling into a deep, unbothered sleep. Feyre did, too, and when she woke, she was surprised to find him still beside her, still asleep. Feyre was quiet, used to slipping out of a shared bed without anyone noticing her.

She’d been right about the ache between her legs—Feyre had to exhale softly, squeezing her thighs together in an attempt to alleviate some of the hurt. Rifling through some of the clothing Mor had brought her, Feyre put on a well made dress, trimmed at the sleeves and hem with fur, slid her boots over her feet, and made her way out into the crisp air.

The horde was alive, moving around in their different tasks and jobs. Heads turned as she approached, though no one dared to look her in the eyes. It was more a curiosity that prompted them to look and when each one did, Feyre offered them a smile. I’m friendly, she hoped that smile said.

Only the children smiled back, toothy grins that made Feyre strangely happy. The children back in her village were gaunt and starving, too focused on their hunger to smile like that. For a moment, she let herself imagine them living among the horde, playing with the children, bellies full. It seemed an impossible ask—even if Rhys agreed, the humans weren’t likely to accept. She wondered how feeding them had gone. The warrior assigned would have been back by then. Who was he?

Feyre scanned, but saw no one who seemed as if they’d been talking to her sister recently. If they’d spent any significant amount of time with Nesta, they’d be slightly traumatized. Dazed as they processed the sharpness of her words.

Feyre didn’t get far—she’d found Mor, who was wide-eyed and yet delighted when she saw Feyre making the rounds—only for Rhys to come storming out of his tent. He’d thrown his pants and boots on, but no shirt which Feyre appreciated. The muscles gracing his stomach flexed as he stood there, half obscured by other tents and the horde itself. No one seemed concerned by his presence.

“Did you tell him you were leaving?” Mor whispered, looping her arm through Feyre’s. “Males can be awfully possessive.”

“I was letting him sleep,” Feyre replied, delighted when his eyes landed on her. He raised a hand, beckoning her toward him.

Absolutely not.

She turned her head to look at Mor, who seemed surprised—and amused—when Feyre didn’t immediately trip forward. “You should go.”

“Is he coming?” Feyre asked breathlessly.

“Yeah,” Mor replied, taking a step backward. “Just for the future, at least in public, you should make a show of doing what he wants.”

“Why?”

“It’s our ways. If his own queen doesn’t respect him, why should the rest of us.”

“I do respect him,” Feyre complained, frustrated by all the rules. “But I’m not his servant.”

That was the last thing Feyre got to say before Rhys’ strong arms swept her literally off the ground, swinging her through the air to land on his shoulder.

“Am I in trouble?” she asked him, running a finger along his spine. She bounced with each step he took, though it wasn’t totally unpleasant.

Rhys said nothing, taking her back to their tent only to drop her to the bed. Feyre expected another lecture about obeying him, but Rhys merely fell on top of her, bracing the bulk of his body weight on his elbows.

“I woke up cold, kasikkari,” he mumbled, pulling her into his chest. “I woke up alone.”

“You seemed tired—no don’t tickle—”

He’d slid his fingers into her ribs, curling them until Feyre was silenced by her laughter until she was breathlessly begging him to stop.

“You don’t laugh enough,” Rhys murmured before he lowered his face for a kiss. “But I like the sight of your happiness.”

It was hard to argue with that. Feyre kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his neck to pull him closer. This was easy—pleasant, too. Everything else was difficult as Feyre tried to assimilate, but right now, kissing Rhys, it felt like peace. It felt like home.

“I didn’t think the Drakkari kissed,” Feyre whispered when he pulled back, brushing her fingers over his cheeks.

Rhys grinned. “Why would you think that?”

She shrugged. “You didn’t when we…and I just assumed…”

“I didn’t think you’d appreciate it,” Rhys admitted, head propped up on his fist. “You’re like a wild pryoki. I have to be cautious and careful or you might unsheath your claws.”

“Are you saying I’m feral?”

He didn’t blink. “I am.”

Feyre poked him in the stomach. “I can’t help what I am. What this planet made me.”

His expression darkened. “I want to discuss this with our king. He needs to know the condition of the human settlements.”

Feyre turned to face him. “And what then?”

“We can help—but the hordes can only do so much. If all settlements are as bad as yours, how long before the gertuan realize? Surely it’s our responsibility to care for them?

Feyre’s heart was in her throat. Ask him if they can come to the horde.

“When ah…when the frost is gone…could my village come and join the horde if they want?”

He paused, clearly surprised. “This would please you?” To have her sisters with her? Feyre hesitated for a moment, thinking of how Nesta could be. She’d balk at all the customs and traditions of the Drakkari people, would hate the expectations that Feyre found difficult to navigate. She didn’t think Nesta or Rhys would like each other, either.

But Elain would come—Elain would enjoy herself, Feyre thought. She’d get along well with Mor, if nothing else, and the horde warriors would surely find Elain interesting. She’d always been so beautiful, so kind.

“It would,�� she decided, remembering the horde children. “Maybe this is the way forward.”

Rhys considered this. “Perhaps you’re right, Morakkari. When the frost ends, we will extend an invitation to your village. All those who wish to join and who wish to respect our traditions may live among us.

“Maybe we could blend our traditions,” Feyre suggested, deciding to push her luck a little. “We have a lot of holidays.”

That interested him. Rhys perked up. “Oh?”

“Eating holidays, even,” she continued, catching the gleam in his eye.

“And you would eat?”

“I would gorge myself,” she promised, earning another fevered, passionate kiss. Rhys seemed content with that, dreaming of all the ways he’d fill her with food. It was strange the way he wanted to take care of her. Stranger, still, that Feyre liked it. No one had ever cared for her this way. Even when both her parents had been alive, she’d been the last and they were exhausted.

They’d never said, but she often wondered if she hadn’t been an accident and they simply lacked the attention needed for a child. She’d run wild—feral hadn’t been a lie. She’d always been filthy, resisting the frigid water she was supposed to bathe in. Always last—Nesta and Elain went after their parents, and once they died, Feyre still maintained her place as the lowest member of their family.

She was lost in her thoughts, only half paying attention to what Rhys was doing until she felt her pants slip over her hips. He was already naked, his cock already rigid. Feyre lifted the blanket, peering down to find that bulb at the base of his cock half swollen again.

“What is that?”

Rhys took his cock in his hand, stroking himself almost absently. “My dakk?”

She shrugged. “Humans don’t have one.”

He peered down. “No?”

Feyre shook her head. “What’s the purpose?”

Rhys shrugged. “Pleasure? What is the point of this?”

She hadn’t noticed his other hand, too preoccupied with his cock, but Rhys had found her clit and stroked, causing her hips to jerk as air rushed from her nostrils. “I don’t know,” she breathed.

The horde kind’s satisfied smile was all she needed to see. Feyre didn’t bother to mention that her body was set up for her pleasure, while his seemed to also be set up that way. What did that tell her about Drakkari males?

Nothing she couldn’t have guessed by that point.

“Can I?” she asked him, rising up on her elbows.

Rhys nodded, flopping on his back as he gestured down his large, muscular body. Feyre sat up, fingers hovering as she tried to decide where to touch first. She settled on his golden tattoos, running her hands over his chest.

“You’ll get matching markings,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut. “Tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?”

One eye popped open, a grin warming his handsome face. “Soon,” he amended. That seemed more likely. Feyre couldn’t imagine he was going to want her out of his bed anytime soon, which suited her perfectly fine. “I will walk you through the horde tomorrow, though.”

“I would like that,” Feyre said, reaching the base of his cock. She touched his daak, which hummed pleasantly beneath her fingers. Rhys exhaled just as she had done, arching up just enough to convince her to touch the rest of him.

Feyre was learning his tells. When he liked something, the muscles in his thighs tightened for a moment, and when he was close, they trembled.

Feyre stroked his cock, delighted to find her fingers just barely encircled him. She didn’t know why she liked that—only that she did. The largeness of him was nice, reassuring. He made her feel safe.

“Rhys?” she whispered, well aware this was not the time for a conversation.

He grunted in response, peeking open a violet eye to look at her.

“Will you still teach me to fight?”

“Yes,” he breathed. “Not now, though.”

Fair. Feyre stroked again and Rhys’s eyes fluttered shut. He wasn’t paying her any attention, which gave Feyre the ability to lean closer and lick the long length of his shaft.

Rhys gasped, eyes wide open all over again.

“Fey—”

“Shush,” she murmured, thinking it was bold to tell a horde king to be quiet. He did, though, staring her down with the same intensity he’d once had when they first met. Feyre wanted to repay him for the night before—he’d spent a lot of time with his face between her legs.

Feyre licked again before taking her in his mouth, gagging softly about a third of the way down. Rhys moaned loudly, raking his fingers through her hair. That must mean he enjoyed it, though truthfully Feyre wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing. She merely mimicked what she’d done with her hand, sliding up and down his cock while using her tongue below.

He gave her about a minute and a half before he had her flat on his back. Feyre opened her mouth to whine out a complaint, but quicker than she could speak, he had his cock in her body.

“You didn’t like it?” she asked, knowing full well he had.

“Too much,” Rhys whispered, pulling her into his lap. “I like your mouth too much. How will I ever leave knowing how it feels?”

“Poor tormented horde king,” Feyre said in a breathlessly mocking tone.

“Smart mouth,” he replied, silencing it with a searing kiss. Feyre clung to him, forgetting what they’d been talking about. He slid his tongue in her mouth, the taste of him cool and a little smokey. She’d never tire of it.

Never tire of him.

The stretch, however, took a moment—Feyre was still sore from the night before, still getting used to what it was like to be with him. He wasn’t as rushed, slower in his movements until Feyre was drowning in pleasure. With each new roll of his hips, Feyre felt his daak rub against her clit as if his own lips hummed against it.

Feyre couldn’t escape the vice that was his arms wrapped tight around her body, nor could she squirm away from his cock and the blunt head that rubbed over and over against that same spot. Feyre was breathless, forgetting that it was still mid-morning and everyone was awake.

She cried out before clapping her hand over her mouth, only for Rhys to snarl, “Let them hear you, Morikkari. Let them hear how well your king fucks you.” They surely heard him say that, too. Feyre whimpered against his skin, desperation clawing at her throat. It was never going to be enough—she’d always want more. Feyre ground herself against him until the buzzing never left, drawing her higher and higher and higher—and this time, when she came, she let herself be loud.

Just for a moment, because the next breath was dedicated to sinking her teeth into his shoulder while Rhys let himself go, too. She felt his orgasm before she heard his own cries of pleasure. The sound could have shaken the nearby mountains were they just a little closer, his orgasm rocking through her, reverberating through her very bones. Right then, she felt as if her soul were tangled alongside his own.

Feyre could barely breathe as he laid her out, pressing kisses alongside her neck. He murmured words she didn’t understand, repeating them over and over and over. Feyre didn’t dare ask what they meant, was too afraid to get clarification. She merely carded her fingers through his hair and let him take her away.

#feysand

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