#lucien already sees tamlin in a very different light than most and I need that to stay

[yaralulu]

Lucien’s care and protectiveness over tamlin is something that has been so evident and obvious throughout this entire series that if sjm tries to change that narrative once we get lucien’s pov and we’re inside his head, I’ll actually blow myself up.I see some bullshit line about how tamlin has always sucked and I’m out of hereeeee.I know sjm hates tamlin and will take every opportunity to shit on him but at this point there is no need to obliterate their friendship/tamlin’s character any further.Let us have this one thing woman 😭.

Lucien’s inner monologue about tamlin should be less “i actually hate this man” and more “damn he looks like shit rn i kinda wanna hug him”.Get the vibe right sjm.

[starbornsinger]

Elriel/Gwynriel/Elucien Theory Time :)

Ok so in regards to the Az POV chapter, I have some thoughts. This is super long and detailed and also tearing down ships, so uh, beware.

⚠️ACOSF spoilers (duh)⚠️

So I was re-reading the thing and as I was reading the conversation between Az and Rhys, it kind of hit me. I used to be an Elriel shipper until ACOSF, and I was really all for it.

But I don't think they're in love.

See, earlier in the chapter, Az is thinking about how jealous he is of the other couples. We know he isn't very lucky in love, and seeing Elain and her mate and their mating bond upsets him. I think he fancies Elain because she's beautiful and sweet, but I don't think he's in love with her. I think she's another thing he can't have, and he feels frustrated and it only makes him want her more. Because he thinks, why shouldn't he have her? Why is the Mother so cruel as to deny him love? And he thinks, "well all my other brothers have Archeron mates, why don't I? It must be a mistake!"

I think what Azriel's biggest issue is though, is that he wants love so bad, he's willing to risk it all for the first girl he feels attraction too. It also feels relevant that the primary thing we see in his POV is his physical attraction to her, his sexual attraction. We don't see much of how he thinks she's so sweet or so clever or so gentle, but instead how nice her tits are and how badly he wants to kiss and fuck her. I think he doesn't particularly want Elain, and while he likes her, I think what he really wants is love. True love, just like his brothers and friends. He thinks the Mother must be wrong because they both got Archeron sisters while he didn't, and his attraction to Elain makes him wish they were Mates so he could finally have that true love that's entirely his own.

But she's not. And he can't. I think what Azriel wants most isn't Elain. He wants her sexually, and he admires her and has a crush on her, but the thing he focuses on and gives him the most emotion is that she has a Mate and he doesn't, and that everyone does but him. I think he wants someone like Elain and wants to feel happy, but I think he doesn't exactly want Elain. When he thinks of her, he doesn't seem to be truly in love as we've seen other SJM couples are. And sure, it's early, but it's also been like— 2 years. I don't think they're in love sadly, I think Azriel just wants to move on from Mor and finally find love. He has a type, and when he found someone who loosely fit into the mold of his ideal partner, he jumped at it because he's desperate to have someone love him. All his life, he's struggled with self-love and love from others, and I think that it's deeply affected his relationship with love itself.

Physical attraction and desire and interest isn't love. And the idea of her being mated already only makes him mad— that of course the first girl he likes for the first time in 500 years, of course the girl that could help him move on from Mor, is mated. I think that only makes him feel more passionate towards her; and Rhys notes how he seems to think he has a claim to her, when he doesn't. It makes Az angry, not because Rhysand thinks he's being possessive and reckless, but because it's true. He genuinely can't have her.

As for Elain, I think she's far too hesitant to be with him. She reminds me of Daisy in The Great Gatsby, and how she claims to love Jay but she won't leave Tom, or jilt him. Now this is a different situation, because Daisy was selfish and didn't want to give up her comforts and stability and fame. Elain, on the other hand, doesn't seem ready to have a serious relationship with Az. I think she is still severely affected by Graysen's rejection, and is still clearly not over him. I don't think she's ready to accept Az fully and be with him, and I also don't think she's ready to reject her mating bond with Lucien.

I don't know 100% what's going on with Elain, but what I do know is that clearly she is intrigued by Lucien in some capacity. Ok Elriel shippers, don't come for me, but there are several scenes in which Elain seems to want to talk to Lucien, or whatever the heck. But also seems disinterested, like when she dismisses his Solstice gifts and doesn't speak to him.

However, I don't think she's resentful towards him exactly, or at least that isn't the main reason she's like this. While we know he was helping Tamlin lowkey, Feyre and the IC all understood he was on their side, and was their friend. So it seems kind of odd to still bear a grudge against him, but who knows.

But funnily enough, she has yet to reject their mating bond. If she's so disinterested, or hates him so much, why hasn't she turned him down? Mother, she's barely spoken to him at all. I think the obvious reason behind her disdain or distancing from Lucien is her connection to Graysen and her human life. Of all the sisters, Elain has not yet adapted to or accepted that she is Fae— or if she has, she's sure as hell not happy about it. Even Nesta in ACOSF mentioned how she actually likes her ears now, and we know Feyre has totally accepted being Fae. But with Elain, she had the most human connected life of them all, and to have it taken away from her is shitty.

For Elain, her happiness seems to come from a love of gardening, of family, of people. She has very little human things to hold onto, and adding a Mating bond to the mix right as she's made Fae is like she's had all her humanity stripped. She doesn't hate Lucien, she hates the bond. She dislikes that it's chained her to someone and taken away her choices, which we know is a big deal for the sisters after being imprisoned, kidnapped, and Made. I think Elriel is an infatuation, because even though she doesn't love Az, he's helping her rebound from Graysen (and giving her control and power over her love life). He's a choice she (can't really) make, but a choice nonetheless. With Lucien, she feels she has no choice with him, and no control over her obvious attraction I say obvious because mates have a primal attraction of some level to each other , and is probably afraid that accepting the Mating bond will remove any last connections she has to who she used to be, and the human she feels she really is.

But she also hasn't rejected it, because I think she realizes that Lucien is a genuine and kind and hot guy, and that rejecting him would be a stupid idea. He's been very patient and very kind and accepting, and has always given her the freedom of choice when it comes to the bond. I think Lucien is the kind of guy that would be very easy to fall in love with, and I think Elain sees that and knows it.

Also, I think with ACOSF, it feels relevant that Cassian pointed out specifically how Elain looked beautiful in black at the ball, but it looked horribly wrong on her. With SJM the devil is always in the details, and I think it was a clearly accentuated bit of symbolism. Although Elain looks beautiful, the black dress wasn't for her. And although Elriel is very sweet, it won't work out. She won't thrive in the Night Court, or with Azriel. Az doesn't challenge her or meet her as an equal (like all other SJM ships), and they don't push each other to be better or to accept themselves or whatever etc etc.

And I really used to like Elriel, but I think that surprisingly, Elain will be the one who says "stop, I can't do this" to Az. I think she knows she isn't ready, and I think she knows they aren't meant to be. Even if a Mating bond was put in place between her and Lucien, I still think their relationship wouldn't work because they're both too insecure, too closed off, too non-communicative, and too stagnant together to be a healthy or good match. I think with Elain they would struggle to understand each other even if they were fond of each other and can relate on some level, but at its rawest form I think they won't truly be able to be themselves with each other.

With Elain, Azriel's shadows— a key part of him— disappear. While I initially thought, awww that's so cute, she's a light in his life, I soon realized I was wrong. Az's shadows are not just a part of him, they're an extension of him, of his will and subconscious and emotions. So Elain chasing them away, while chasing away the shadows and darkness seems cute, isn't a good thing. Most of the time with shadows, we think "ew bad!" Because they have an inherent connotation of negativity or sorrow or depression or darkness etc etc. And while this is partially true, Azriel's shadows and darkness are a part of him. His sadness and struggles are a part of him. And his shadows aren't just representative of that, they're also a representation of how he overcame his abuse and turned that fire (pun unintended) and anger and trauma into something beautiful and powerful and a weapon. I think they can serve as an armor and a shield, and while that's not good, I also don't think they should fully disappear.

More on that: with Azriel's shadows, we know they're a part of him, right? So I think an important part of self is self-regulation. Rather than be consumed entirely by shadow, or totally exposed to the light, I think he just needs his shadows to be calm and present, but not controlling or hiding. I think the whole "Elain bringing him out of the shadows" bit sounds cute at first, but then you have to think of it like this. In order to be with Elain, he would have to change. He couldn't be a spy or a shadowsinger or a torturer, and he couldn't be dark and introverted. With her, he has to push that aside. Those are key parts of him, key parts that would have a big impact on their relationship. Elain can't be with someone with so much blood on their hands or a history of violence or darkness. We know that, because we know that sort of thing upsets her and she doesn't like it.

Azriel can't just be himself with her, he has to become someone else. And while he's attracted enough to not care, after awhile, that grows exhausting. Being in love and not being your true self, all of it, is exhausting. And while some might argue "why can't he be his true self?!" well my slime, I think we both know that even if we wanted him to, Elain would be silently resigned about it. I don't think— no, I know— Elain can't be with someone like Azriel. Even if they have feelings, even if they have lust or affection, it isn't love. They aren't in love, and they won't work out no matter how much we want it to.

Onto Elain: with Elain, this all ties back to what Cassian said in Hewn City. She looks beautiful in black, but it's wholly wrong for her. The Night Court is wrong for her, and darkness is wrong for her. While some yin-yang relationship tropes can work very well, I don't think this will. She doesn't like the darkness or accept it, and she doesn't want to be a part of it. I think the Night Court is good and happy for her when she makes her own little garden world, and only then, really. It's like living in the middle of the desert and only thinking of the beach: it's not the right place for her.

I think the Spring Court needs her, and I think she needs it. Here's more on that.

So we've seen the set up and execution of the fall of the Spring Court. We know that it's in shambles and is weak and needs a new/better leader than Tampon. I feel like SJM is setting things up for a new book focused in the Spring Court, because in a lot of ways, it's becoming the centerpiece for action in Prythian (aside from the Night Court). I genuinely believe that as Tamlin's second, Lucien will take over the Spring Court as High Lord. He doesn't fit in with Autumn, didn't fit in with Night, and wasn't really a part of Spring. But with Spring, it was where he was happy, where he felt safe, and the home he chose. Chosen homes and chosen families are a big deal for SJM, and I think that Lucien will return to the Spring Court to try and help it, because Mother knows it needs it. I think Elain belongs there, not only because she needs to be in an environment suited to her, but because she needs to heal.

We've seen a theme of helping others heal in order to heal ourselves, and I think a good book idea (and what I think an Elain book would be about), is healing the Spring Court and helping it. Elain is a gardener. She wants to see things grow and blossom, wants to get her hands dirty and dig in! But she can't do that in the NC. I think she needs something new and fresh and blossoming that she can help and tend to, and I think the person that can be at her side for that is Lucien. I think with Azriel, she can't see growth and life and flowers. He's a different kind of person, far too different, and the two wouldn't mesh well. Elain isn't like Persephone and Azriel isn't like Hades; although she's flowers and he's death and they're attracted to each other, they don't fully accept those roles and cross into each other's. Elain could never be a killer or someone who wears black or thrives in a darker place, and Azriel couldn't be someone who is in the full heat of the light and wear bright colors and be cheerful and flowery. In a dream world, yes, but I think in this one, no. SJM loves to create realistic relationships and realistic relationship conflict, and I think we'll see this here. Even though they want it to work, and in theory it should, it won't. I think they know it too. Azriel's shadows vanish when she's around, and Elain struggles to feel comfortable in the darkness and Night Court, and fit in with the others in the black dress that is wholly un-Elain.

I also think that this relationship doesn't bring development to the table. The forbidden love concept is adorable and a trope I love, but this love isn't one that will push them to grow. Azriel can feel loved and happy, but can he feel fully accepted? Can he stop being ashamed of his shadows, of his violence? Of who he is? Can Elain break out of her shelf and be more assertive, and truly grow and change? Can she be herself and be happy? The answer is a sad no. Their relationship is sweet and cute, but it won't truly work. I genuinely believe Lucien is a better match for Elain, and while the Cauldron isn't always right (like Rhysand's parents), it usually is. If he isn't, then I'm all for independent Elain.

Now onto the moment you've all been waiting for: who should Az be with?

Gwyn. :)

[flowerflamestars]

Nesta Under the Mountain part 3: acomaf, the later half

So while some extremely painful flirting is happening, so is plot. Azriel periodically disappears to try to infiltrate the Queens palace. Morrigan splits her time between Velaris and trying to keep Keir remotely in line. Amren and Lucien teach Nesta how to use magic, Cassian readies the legions for war.

So Nesta, unlike Feyre, has multiple sources for her most important questions: What the hell is Hybern doing? Trying to build an empire of old. Reaching for glory that isn’t there, because Prythian is wealthy.

Why Amarantha? Why was she so powerful?

It’s Rhysand who answers her, one day when they’re alone. He’s drinking on the roof- Nesta is inclined to make a comment about lordly behavior but doesn’t because she knows, she knows, from the look in his eyes, that he’s going to answer for real.

Amarantha liked to talk in bed. And Rhysand had, eventually, put the pieces together: Amarantha was the invading force alone, because Amarantha needed to earn Hyberns favor.

What did Hybern have? A kingdom crippled without its slaves. A King who’d ruled so long the world forgot his name. No heir, no other ruler. No son, only daughters.

Amarantha sought to earn her place in succession- with her father’s stolen magical secrets and a taste for vengeance.

Nesta accepts this, and has a drink.

There’s an interim of weeks, while Amren relearns a dead language and Azriel tries his last, worst plans. Nesta is so ready to tear out of her skin- Morrigan succeeds in getting Nesta to go out with her.

Morrigan pulls her over cobblestones to Ritas, and Nesta absolutely doesn’t tell her Lucien had found the place on his first city walkabout and been toasting their bitter victories there every one since.

Cassian, as he tends to wherever Nesta is, appears. They haven’t spoken since she came back with the book. Lucien trickles in with glitter in his hair, Azriel silent, offensively handsome drawing the light by his side.

And Morrigan watches. Cassian will spend the night quietly pressing fresh drinks into Nesta’s hand and glaring like absolute murder at any stranger who tries to get near. She sees how Cassian, her friend for five centuries, is contextualizing this: service, gladly rendered.

Understands he will make it small in his head and it means the opposite- the very opposite- that Nesta is letting him do either of those things for her. That she trusts him, to be near at all.

Morrigan and Nesta have a very different talk afterward than her and Feyre would have. Mor thinks it might be a good idea to make it really clear she herself doesn’t ever want Cassian, in case, that too, is standing in the way.

(Nesta also just...so clearly doesn’t have a single negative thought about Lucien doing...whatever Lucien does. They’ll get insouciant and mean and discuss the attractiveness of anyone. Nesta, unlike Feyre, reacts to queerness without even blinking)

So Mor and Nesta might not enjoy each other, exactly, but they respect one another. When Rhysand poses his insane Nesta you were mortal, let’s meet the Queens on mortal land plan, Morrigan, more than anyone, is the one who listens when Nesta explains that the Queens hate faeries.

Hate magic. Hate, even, it seems, the mortals that live along the wall for existing in proximity to Prythian.

It’s like letting go of a dream- for the chance of something real. Five centuries have passed, and that’s not much for Mor, but it’s everything, to mortals. Their bright lives are so quick, so valuable in an eyeblink- and that’s why Nesta’s here at all.

A mortal heart.

Azriel and Nesta team up- she scoffs that infiltration has fails, laughs outright at the idea she should be a diplomat, and proposes something else. They veritable army of spies, why are none of them mortal? Hundreds of humans work in Court of Queens. Voiceless, unrecognized. None of the magical protections would stop them.

So instead of Keir, or the Veritas, or her sisters- we bring back the lady mercenary. We bring in a whole bunch of lady mercenaries. A new network of information, passed from overlooked woman to overlooked woman, carried in shadows, all the way back to the Court of Night.

There’s no meeting. Because Hybern is already there. 

And Nesta thinks its the most insane thing she’s ever heard- they want to live forever?

Morrigan tries to comfort her, Lucien tries to stop Morrigan, because he knows- Nesta doesn’t regret. And she tells them all that, looking over the war map, each grim face and strange shred of sympathy. 

Nesta says, I know I’m a monster and I’m glad of it. I will never belong to just one Court, never go home. I cannot, because that life was taken from me and I am glad, because it will take a monster to protect the humans from other monsters. 

And Rhysand says, oh so very quietly: You can belong. 

But it’s lost, completely, in two things- the way Lucien has stepped around Azriel to let Nesta, not lean- Nesta, sober, leans on absolutely no one- but to be there, close, in her orbit, and Cassian standing up. 

It’s the Queens Meeting promise, dark chocolate version. Cassian wipes away that one tear on her perfect face. Says to her and her alone like no one else is there, that he’d done monstrous things his entire life in the name of what was right. But he’d become something worse, unleash a whole ocean of blood, to protect the innocents who needed it. Die a monster, in defense of those mortals with her.

And Nesta just looks at him. Like she can see all the way through to his aching soul, and nods. 

One commander to another. Absolute, perfect, understanding.

So what happens, if the mcguffin of the book cannot work?

Nesta says, like Cassian isn’t still staring at her, like she isn’t leaning into Lucien’s bodyheat like a refuge- the book is to control the Cauldron, but why can’t we just go after the Cauldron?

Steal it? Break it? Use it ourselves.

No ones answers particularly satisfy her- they can winnow. They can move unseen. There’s more power in this room than whole kingdoms possess, why the hell can’t they just break in, touch the Cauldron, and winnow away?

Cassian says it’s suicide. The castle is a deathtrap. Guards, wards, magic.

And, Rhysand adds, the Cauldron might not play along. It’s too powerful, too old to just treat like an object. The Cauldron itself could resist.

They’re all piling out of the townhouse, after the unsuccessful meeting, when Lucien goes white. Freezes.

And Nesta knows.

Knows that despite every precaution, the words that have never, ever escaped her lips in Prythian. Despite Tamlin dead- someone, somehow, found out that Prythian’s vengeance has two vulnerable, mortal sisters.

Nesta is grabbing onto Lucien to winnow away before anyone can ask what is wrong. Because something is wrong, so, so wrong- at the last second, Cassian snatches her hand, and ends up dragged along.

The Archeron estate is on fire.

There’s no time to ask- no time to talk. Cassian starts killing Hybernian soldiers left and right, no one here that can actually stop him.

Nesta runs straight into the fire, Lucien on her heels, keeping the flames away. Not that he needs to- Nesta is shimmering with power, every Court’s strength right on the surface, teeming to be used. She kills six men before she finds Elain, kicking and screaming in a soldiers arms. 

That soldier loses his head- that man, Lucien turns to ash.

It’s Cassian who finds Feyre, hidden in the kitchen, standing on top of table having just dumped a small ocean on lye on her attackers. Despite making short work of the burnt, pissed off faeries, she’s still throwing shit at him when Nesta, screaming her name, is finally close enough to be heard.

Nesta almost stabs Cassian in the back getting to Feyre. Fey jumps off the table, straight at her sister- there’s no pause for thought, no flinch at her faery face and bloody hands, just an armload full of her taller baby sister, an easy weight to carry now.

When they make it out of the collapsing house, Azriel and Rhys are waiting.

It’s Rhys who says, in that tone of voice that makes Nesta want to beat him to death, the voice that insists, I understand, who says, you have a family?

Nesta doesn’t answer. Nesta doesn’t say a goddamn word to anyone at all except for Feyre and Elain as they take them back to Velaris. As she settles them in the roaring warmth of one of the palatial sitting rooms, wraps them in blankets. Conveys, solely with a head jerk and a glare, that Cassian should make himself useful and provide hot beverages.

Nesta doesn’t say anything until the burns are healed by Lucien, her sisters understand where they are, and what has happened.

It’s Feyre who snaps first and bodily pulls Nesta down on the couch between them. Elain who leans hard, shoulder to shoulder, and wipes the blood off Nesta’s face.

They love each other- they still love her, don’t blame her, and that is what makes Nesta’s choice.

She introduces them to Lucien, her friend. To the others without explanation, the odd bedfellows of war Nesta really is starting to like despite herself. Except Rhys. Rhys can fall in the damned ocean. 

It’s a long, long evening, and they all get settled eventually- Feyre, in particular, with a shy smile and an extra mug of Cassian’s hot chocolate. 

Everyone goes their separate ways, and Lucien, quietly, slips off to find Nesta in the dark.

He knows what she’s going to say. Hybern came for her family- Hybern almost killed her sisters. Nesta doesn’t give a fuck about the book, about Rhysand’s alliances, or hangup on the mortal queens- Nesta wants Hybern to pay.

Lucien sometimes looks at his life now- free, safe as he choses, the dark eyed smile of man who fears no part of him- and thinks it’s all because of Nesta Archeron’s heart. Nesta, who believed in loyalty enough to buy his safety. Nesta, who had every reason to hate Spring and still been the only person to look close enough and see, that Lucien was just as trapped.

No one in his life had ever given him that, so easily. No one had cared. 

Nesta didn’t even think about it- he was in her corner and she was in his, friends. Best friends, only friends they had. Lucien would have still chosen her, every time.

Choses her now- Nesta says, I’m going tonight. I’m going alone. I’m not waiting any longer.

And Lucien squeezes her hand, and tells her, not alone.

They winnow to the castle like bone across the sea. 

Lucien might not know why he can break wards, why foul enchantment can’t touch him, but he knows how to use it. How to fight and kill, and does just that. Lucien stands guard, Lucien gets Nesta to the Cauldron.

No Book, no plan, just this- Nesta’s will do what is right.

Two hands on the Cauldron- and Rhysand was right. It won’t move. It won’t be winnowed away, it pulls her in and speaks. 

The story of the Cauldron is the story of a woman. 

Power, power, power- endless potential, utilized to create. A thousand children, a million voices. But then her children grew- into their own power, their own politics and ways. They forgot her voice, that forget she’d made them- and they trapped her. Broke her. Imprisoned her.

Forgot she was not a cauldron- she was their Mother.

But the Mother was also once the Maiden, the Mother always becomes the Crone.

The Crones watches, as the dark night comes, and all life eventually ends.

She’d been imprisoned all over again.

Nesta Archeron, drowning in power, communicates by sheer force of screaming, raging will. 

I was imprisoned, I stolen, I was remade against my will-

I was broken, and all I asked was that my family be safe- all I wanted- I am the child of every Court you made, I am the daughter of your power and i WILL NOT- I will not allow your sons to kill what is ours-

The Cauldron, seething, stills, if only for a moment.

Nesta thinks she’s won. Nesta realizes, too late, that she can smell blood. Lucien, stabbed and scrabbling, Nesta being dragged away from the Cauldron- the King had waited for her.

And how he crooned with joy- Nesta Archeron, the destroyer. Nesta Archeron, Prythian’s vengeance. Nesta Archeron you will be mine, you, you, you, finally, a worthy woman-

It’s a desperate, stupid ploy. Nesta can’t escape, Nesta can’t save Lucien, knows it from the blood dripping off his lips as he mouthes, a goodbye: love you, Archeron. 

Nesta jumps into the Cauldron.

What comes out is not what went in- young as a fawn, old as the seas- Nesta doesn’t have to steal eternity. She’s already eternal, she’s already powerful in her rage-

But the Cauldron, who’d slept so long. Broken in peices, cold, welcomes her fire like the fierce magic of her first children, and gives her a gift. 

Nesta’s no maiden or mother, but the Cauldron is happy to let the Crone out.

Death comes out of those waters, and mists the King of Hybern.

Scoops up her beloved companion, the fire that lights the way, and leaves the castle of the king unraveling behind her.

Nesta brings the Cauldron home. 

The bloody bundle of Lucien is pulled from her arms on the floor of Rhysand’s townhouse, the Cauldron quiet behind them. It’s to Cassian who is frankly patting her down, searching for injuries, that Nesta says:

She wasn’t the only sister, and then passes out.

[illyrianwingspans]

Do Not Go Gentle: Twenty Twelve

Link to song: Twenty Twelve by Matt Maeson (my babe)

Synopsis: Another dark and twisty bend in Feyre’s life.

TW: Mention of physical/emotional abuse, domestic abuse, self-harm and dark thoughts. If you're sensitive to these topics, please read with caution.

Ao3 Link

Chapter 12: Twenty Twelve

“You need to get off the couch.”

I dragged my eyes up to meet Lucien’s. (That movement alone was enough to tire me). He was staring at me, arms crossed, contempt making his muscles contract beneath his button down. I knew him being here was a sacrifice. Tamlin didn’t like him leaving the office. But he did so, most lunch times. I think it’d been Alis that sent him after me after she noticed I’d been docile for over two weeks now. The only fresh air I’d gotten was sips of it in the morning when I went to the balcony.

I never stayed long, though. Too tempting.

He’d cook for me and I wouldn’t eat it. He’d sit with me, talk into the open—it was fruitless, as I only had eyes for the TV, or for sleep. But he came every day, nonetheless.

“I’m tired.”

“Bullshit.” Lucien said, reaching his hand out for me to take it. “Get up.”

“I’m not in the mood, Lucien,” I meant to be forceful, but it sounded more like a defeated sigh than anything.

“Get up.”

“Lucien—”

“Get up,” he snapped, and my head finally whipped to meet his, a battle of wrath that had our gazes locked together.

“No,” I bit out. My chest heaved at the effort it took, the clenching of my teeth. “Stay out of this, Lucien.”

“I won’t stand idly by and watch you destroy yourself.”

Destroy myself. As if I had a say in any of this.

He must’ve seen the paradox of what he said, because his shoulders hunched and he said, “We both know how he can get. Everything is just getting too heated right now with Hybern—it’s taking a toll on him. On all of us. I’m trying to get him to let up.”

I stayed silent, unable to meet his gaze. Everything was always so focused on Tamlin—his stress, his business dealings, the pressure on him—and yet day in and day out, all I could picture him doing was sweet-talking clients, reading documents, making calls. Maybe it was my own selfishness that made me fail to see it, but I remained resentful, unable to respond to Lucien.

“Nothing will work, Lucien. I know him. You know him. I'm stuck.”

Trapped. I wanted to say trapped, because there may as well have been steel bars over the windows. But it was too blunt, too gory to equate my current lifestyle to a prisoner or a caged bird.

But that's exactly what it felt like.

“I'll talk to him,” he tried again, the hope draining from his face with each passing second.

“Don't stick your neck out just for me.”

“My loyalty is to Tamlin, Feyre,” Lucien said quietly, “but also to my friend.”

He left, and I burrowed deeper into the blankets, eyes closing from the burden of exhaustion a simple conversation now weighed down on me.

***

I didn’t know how I felt as Tamlin put his hand on my thigh, giving it a quick squeeze before we exited the car. New clothes always made my skin itch, and I fidgeted in the leather seat as the bright sun cast a glare in my eyes. A routine that’d been second nature to me felt as though I was walking in another person’s life. This morning, I’d brewed two coffees, one which I’d sipped and one that I’d packed in my bag, knowing that I’d definitely need all the caffeine I could get today.

And, the fact that I didn’t want to go back to that shop. I wouldn’t, couldn’t, go back into that shop. As it passed by in the lobby, I averted my eyes, refusing to relive the moment when the barrel of that gun pressed into my forehead.

We both waved to Alis on the way through reception. She took a double take as she saw me, clad in black pants and a checkered blazer, at Tamlin’s side on our way up to the last floor.

Lucien had pushed. He’d pushed, to his detriment, but Tamlin finally eased up. If I wouldn’t work in the coffee shop, and Tamlin wouldn’t allow me to go anywhere else, the best compromise would be to work with him.

Well, not exactly him. With Ianthe.

I wasn’t prepared emotionally nor physically with what today would involved. Not because I was exhausted—which I most definitely was—but because I hadn’t spoken directly to Ianthe in a month, since the wedding, and I liked it that way. Tamlin punched in the elevator code, the same one as our apartment, and I frowned.

“Did you change the codes at home yet?” I asked Tamlin. After Rhysand had waltzed in that day, I’d asked Tamlin to change them lest the dark-haired man would attempt to try again.

“Mhm,” he said, but his eyes were glued to his phone screen. I let out a silent sigh. Long day indeed.

As we got to the executive floor, Tamlin went directly to his office and gave me a kiss on the cheek before depositing me with Ianthe. She bade Tamlin a good morning, then her eyes turned to me. The look she gave me screamed that she was already frustrated, as though my presence alone were a burden.

“Alright, Feyre,” she said merrily. “Let me show you to your office.”

The elevator was two doored, so that Tamlin’s office was one wing and the board of directors and other chief officers were separate from him. This side of the wing was like a T, straight ahead being Tamlin’s office, a conference room to the left, and a very short, narrow hallway to the right. Ianthe diverged to the right and unlocked one of the creaky rooms, flicking the light switch with her long, brightly coloured fingernails.

“This is you,” she said brightly, though there was no way of making this situation any better: my ‘office’ was no more than a janitor’s closet. Long and narrow, with a small desk that barely fit a desktop a few files and a landline, with no windows. Beside the desk was a filing cabinet that Ianthe pulled open.

“In here are our old files that haven’t been digitized. For now you can start by entering these into our customer system and filing them with the information provided on the summary sheet stapled to the front.” She pulled one open and showed me the page, which was pretty standard. I nodded, and she pulled up the computer application for the filing data system they kept.

“That can probably keep you busy for a day or two, so we’ll start there for now. Lunch is at twelve,” and that was all before she sauntered out, closing the door loudly behind her.

I sighed, pressing my fingertips to my temples, staring back and forth between the files and the computer. This was going to be hell.

At least, I told myself as I began carefully, painstakingly reading the summary sheet, I’m not being gunned down.

***

It took me all week to finish all the files.

The words scrambled beneath my eyes, whether they be in the illegible hand-written notes or the glare of the computer screen. Every night I came home with a headache, and barely had time to force food down my mouth before I collapsed into bed. One night I woke up to pee and realized I hadn’t even taken off my work clothes.

From my desk, I could hear Tamlin and Ianthe chatting at her desk. Their laughter rang through my desolate office, making me cringe as I took another sip of my coffee, and tried to focus on the task before me. I thought it would be monotonous, repetitive, but each case and client had specificities that had me digging through the system—one I barely knew how to work—to ensure that I checked everything off. Names repeated themselves over and over again, and I always had to make sure that it wasn’t just a file I’d misplaced but actually already listed.

I think the worst part of it all was that this work wasn’t essential. They could’ve kept these files in the cabin for all they cared. They just wanted to give me something to do, like I felt important.

Every now and then, Tamlin would come and visit. For him, I’d put on a smile, pretend like this was the best idea we’d ever had, working together. I’d have lunch in his office with him if he wasn’t in a meeting.

One day he’d leaned over and kissed me, longingly, heatedly—it’d been a while since we’d been together like that. Every bone in my body was exhausted, but I’d kneeled before his chair. The day after, when Ianthe went to run an errand, he’d locked the door to his office and turned to me, eyes filled with lust. The wood felt cold against my cheek as he’d bent me over his desk.

In my office, though, the world felt obsolete. Every creak or flicker of shadow made me jump. One day, the lights flickered and I nearly broke into sobs. My chest tightened the moment I crossed the threshold, images of the trapped car filling my mind.

Friday night, we went home for the weekend, but Tamlin continued his work in his office. It left me back to my old patterns, holed up on the couch until I couldn’t tell the difference between the ends of my body and the beginnings of the plush leather.

Ianthe didn’t know what to give me the next week. She resorted to having me file through emails, which was more mind-numbing work of rifling through spam and sorting business inquiries. Whenever I got bored, though, I dug through the application. I had unrestricted access—Ianthe assumed Tamlin wouldn’t mind—so I read through current files. When my eyes fell onto a name, my heart jumped.

Hybern & Co.

Hesitantly, I looked over my shoulder to the door and went to slide the lock. Only I sighed as I realized that this was a fucking janitor’s closet, and the lock was on the outside.

Instead, I angled my chair to black the door’s way, and began skimming the file.

It was long. Pages and pages of notes, probably annotated by Tamlin, as well as deeds of sale, co-ownership declarations and contracts. None of the legal jargon language made sense. Nonetheless, I dug around through my measly desk until I found a portable hard drive, then saved the lengthy document.

I swallowed hard as I looked down at the USB key. It burned in my hand as I pulled it out of the computer and chucked it into the depths of my purse.

Just in case.

Ianthe’s laugh carried out through the short corridor, and I immediately exited the program and wiped my history. There could be no room for any doubts about me in either of their minds. Their laughter continued, and I creaked my door open amidst the raucous to see what was so goddamn hysterical as to disturb the entire floor.

As I approached Ianthe’s desk, their chuckles erupted once more. Ianthe said, “And then Jensyn looked to her and said—” Ianthe paused when she saw me, eyelash extensions batting together once. Smiling politely, she asked, “Is there something you needed?”

Mouth open in confusion, my eyes darted between her and Tamlin, who also seemed to think that I had a question.

My cheeks heated. It couldn’t have been any more clear that I’d intruded in on their conversation.

“Um, I just wanted to know if you want me to empty the junk file once I’m done sorting.”

“Of course, go ahead.” She said. Silence ensued once more as the three of us looked to one another. Without another word, I turned around and headed to my office, face and ears pounding with embarrassment. From behind my closed door, I could hear Tamlin’s laughter pick up once again.

Tears threatened to fall over. But they never came as I buried those feelings deep down inside me.

***

I sighed for what felt like the millionth time as I read through the file again. Sweat collected on my lower back, and I gulped down another sip of water. The room felt too hot. Too enclosed.

Ianthe had me working on filing current clients within the application, which was a completely different system than the older paper files. Every computation had me squinting my eyes, looking between the codes that Ianthe had scribbled for me which were a dozen numbers long and the ones that looked up at me on the screen. A dull throb sounded throughout my head, so bad that I had to close my eyes and look away from the screen.

Instead, I punched in the extension to Ianthe’s desk, and she picked up on the first ring. “Yes, Feyre?”

“Hi, uh sorry to bother you I just needed to know if you wanted me to sort by lot number or last name of the beneficiary.”

“Oh, lot number, definitely. And don’t forget to update all the deposit certificates if you see that a new payment’s been made.”

I swallowed hard, looking at the dozen or so files that I’d already ticked off the list she gave me. “Deposit certificates?”

“Yes, the receipts that clients get after they put a payment down on the property. If there was a new payment, come to my desk and look through the deposit cabinet and find the right one, scan it, then upload it to the file.”

“Oh, um, I think I might need help with that.”

Silence. Then, “Alright, just come up to the front desk and I’ll talk you through it.”

It took everything within me not to slam the phone down. Then everything within me not to break into sobs as Ianthe taught me the process, step by step—which was extremely, banally simple—as though I were an incompetent child who couldn’t do simple math. After a half hour, I finally got the hang of it and headed back to my office, not bothering to close the door behind me as I knew I’d be wandering in and out to scan the files.

She’d told me I should be able to finish the updates in a few days. Only a week later, I was still running back and forth between her desk and mine, still puzzled as I continued working out nooks and crannies of the filing software. The worst part, though, was that I could tell she was frustrated with me. She wasn’t even trying to hide her scowl of disappointment every time I interrupted her work, nor her sighs as I asked question after question.

Tamlin peaked through his office every now and then, all smiles and jokes as he saw the two of us working together. “My real wife and my work wife,” he’d say, and Ianthe would laugh. I didn’t have the energy to correct him. I didn’t have the energy, either, to tell him I wasn’t in the mood when we ate lunch together and his fingers ran too far up my thigh. He did the work anyways as he had me over his desk time after time.

As I walked back to my office and plopped down on my chair, still trying to fix my ruffled hair after he’d pulled on it a little too hard, I kept the door open, unable to stand the feeling of it enclosed on me anymore. Ianthe’s laughter carried through the floor once more, and I rolled my eyes as I listened in on their conversation.

“So you remember what I told you about Jensyn and Marcia? Well, anyway, the other day in the meeting, Marcia outright called him out in the meeting about denying her vacation days, and he looked her straight in the eye and told her that next time she calls in sick, she better delete her instagram pictures of her in the club the night before.”

Rich, booming laughter followed as Tamlin said, “I knew I hired that guy for a reason.”

There was more office talk that I tuned out while checking and emptying the junk mail before Ianthe dropped her voice an octave. With the door closed, I definitely wouldn’t have heard, but she may have been talking right to me as she said, “Tamlin, I need to talk to you about Feyre.”

Ice filled my limbs. My fingers paused, poised over the keyboard, waiting for his reply.

“What about her?” Tamlin wondered, voice equally low. I held my breath, ears straining.

“She’s slowing me down, Tam,” Ianthe said, and heat flooded my face. “I can’t keep doing this. Every five minutes she keeps asking questions I’ve answered dozens of times.”

My ears were hot with embarrassment, and I took deep, even breaths, trying not to break down then and there.

“I know,” Tamlin admitted quietly, “but there’s nothing else for her to do. She needs this.” Tamlin sighed. “Give her simpler things. Getting coffee and lunch, answering the phones.”

Not defending me. As always, putting his employee’s productivity, his company, before me.

I couldn’t listen to the rest of the conversation. I sat there, slouched in my chair, waiting for the tears to come. Waiting for the pain in my chest to leak throughout me, for the tears to pour down my cheeks.

But as I sat there, I realized, I couldn’t feel anything at all.

***

“Spring Corporations,” I answered dully. The person asked to be patched through to Tamlin, and I punched in his extension code, waiting until I heard my fiancees voice before setting the phone back in its holster. It was the second call I’d received all day. The first was Ianthe, teaching me how to answer and send the call to Tamlin’s extension.

Besides that I sorted through the emails. Ianthe had sent me to get her and Tamlin coffee as well, but I stared at her blankly when she told me her order from Hum’s. There was no way I was going into that shop for her. Ten minutes later, a pair of footsteps could be heard. I heard Alis’s voice wishing her a good day.

I was back to square one. Doing fuck-all, all day, mind wandering as I was stuck in the office chair. I felt like a child playing pretend to feel important. At this point, there was no point in me even being here anymore. The couch at home was definitely more comfortable, anyways.

The phone rang, snapping me away from my thoughts. I cleared my throat, picked up and said, “Spring Corporations.”

Silence. “Hello?” I demanded.

Then, “Feyre?”

All my muscles stiffened at the sound of that voice. That voice, and that face, the one I’d been blocking out of my memory and mind for the past month and a half. “Why are you calling Tamlin’s office, Rhys?”

“Why are you working in Tamlin’s office, Feyre?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’ll transfer you to Tamlin.”

“No, no Feyre wait.” Desperation had seized his voice, and it was enough to pause my fingers before they punched in Tamlin’s extension. “I need to talk to you. I found something this morning and I really just need you to listen to me. Please.”

“Didn’t you get the message when I blocked you? I don’t care anymore, Rhys,” I said, not caring that my voice was cold and unfeeling, not caring that all he wanted to do was help.

“Somebody hacked into your apartment's mainframe system today. They are trying to get to you and Tamlin, and they're very close.”

I blinked, once, twice, not understanding how the statement didn't jar me. “Do you know who it is?”

“No,” he said, and the way he said it made me know that it was killing him, “all I know is that you're in danger, Feyre. Real imminent danger. You need to protect yourself—”

Closing my eyes, the throb behind my forehead worsened as I drawled, “Why can't you just talk to Tamlin, Rhys? There's nothing I can do.”

“Just tell him yourself, Feyre,” he said like it was obvious, like telling my fiancee that I've been speaking to the man whom he told me never to see again wouldn't get me in a pile of steaming shit. “This is about your safety.”

“He won't believe me.”

“Leave him.”

Silence. Then cold, twisting fury in my gut. “Excuse me?”

“As a matter of fact, you're not safe anywhere near that man, Feyre. Leave him. Mor has a place you can stay at—”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Rhysand? Leave my fiancee? Leave my life?”

“At least you'll be less miserable than the way you're living in that prison.” My mouth was wide open, unable to answer. Rhys said frantically, his voice laced with pain, “It's killing you, Feyre. How can't you see that?”

“You don't know me, Rhys, and you sure as hell don't know what's good for me. Stop pretending like you have a say in any of this. I made your fucking coffee, that's it. So please, just—”

“Who the fuck are you talking to?”

The phone dropped from my hand.

Tamlin stood in the doorway, fists already clenched at his sides.

My fingers shook as they clenched the arms of my chair, pining my wrists down in his vice-like grip. His golden hair was hanging haphazardly around his face. He was a beast incarnate as the anger swelled within him, ready to explode.

“Tamlin,” I breathed. “I was just telling him to stop calling. He kept going on—”

“Why didn't you hang up?” he growled. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I flinched. “Tamlin—”

“And to top it off,” he smiled, and ugly gut-clenching smile, “he's telling you to leave me? Is that how it is? You want to leave me, Feyre?”

“No, Tamlin, I love you,” my voice trembled. “It wasn't—it's not—”

From the phone dangling in my lap, faintly I could hear, “Feyre—”

Tamlin's eyes widened with flames of rage. One moment he was towering in the doorway, the next he reached over and tore the phone from my desk and threw it across the room, the sound of plastic splitting and scattering all over the ground filling the small space. I wasn't breathing as his hands then slammed down on the arms of my chair and he slammed it back against the wall, my head hitting the cold hard cement as the wheels creaked and groaned beneath me. Pain bloomed across my scalp, and a sob squeezed out of me as his nose was up against mine.

“I told you never to speak to him again,” he spat, “and still, after everything you don't listen to me.”

“Tamlin,” I sobbed, “I'm sorry.”

“Downstairs. Now. Lucien's driving you home.”

***

I pulled the hood of my coat over my head. I'm pretty sure it was bleeding.

My arms were covered in sleeves of bruises. I hadn't realized until the adrenaline left my body how forceful he'd been. The coat covered them at least—I couldn't bare any stares right now. Not in the midst of the chaos threatening to consume me whole.

When I passed Alis, her face was one of devastation as she took me in. I only walked faster, but not before she called out, “Feyre!”

Despite everything screaming to run, to get out of this place, I turned and faced the gentle, kind woman who'd been an integral part of my life for the last two years. Her brown skin stood stark against the collar of her white blouse, the sleeves of which she clutched as she took me in, her mouth tightening into a scowl.

“What did he do?” she wondered quietly. Everyone else in the lobby milled about, without a care, not witnessing or paying mind to the horror amongst them.

“It's nothing, Alis,” I said quietly, unable to meet her eyes.

She stared at me—I could feel her piercing gaze burning through me—then quickly scribbled a number down. “My personal cellphone number,” she explained, tearing the page off and placing it in my hand. “Call it for any reason, any need.”

I nodded numbly, slipping the paper into my purse, then headed for the building's main exit. Wading through the crowd of people, my mind kept flashing back to Tamlin towering over me and—

How powerless. How seemingly insignificant I'd become, both to him and to myself.

Because if I cared even a little about myself, why couldn't I leave him?

My frown deepened as I saw Lucien, gaze full of pain and empathy as he stood in front of the car, hands braced against the hood. Immediately, his arms wrapped around me, and I stood there, unable to react. He was all I had, him and Alis. My final lifelines. My sole friends.

I couldn't remember the last time Tamlin had held me like this. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt loved. Not just told the words, not just promised a partnership, not just cohabiting the same living space, not just sex and niceties—but loved.

And yet, this was all I had. In a way, after all the stains I'd left on this world, maybe it was all I deserved.

In the car, we stayed silent. The elevator as well. I left for my room and changed into something more comfortable, checked my head to see the damage—I had been bleeding, but it was dry now, and easily covered by pulling my hair back in a ponytail.

It was only finally when we both sat on the couch, facing the silent, blank TV did Lucien say anything. In those moments of silence before he opened his mouth, I could feel my heart beating, slowly, lethargically, as though it had given up as well.

“You have to understand, Feyre,” Lucien said quietly, “the amount of stress he's under.”

My eyes closed. This was it.

There comes a point during a relapse, I realized, a breaking point. One when the obstacles become insurmountable, when hope within fingertips' reach disappears from view, when the little light left in your dark, fucked up world extinguishes completely.

As Lucien kept explaining how Tamlin was going through a phase, a rough patch, that things would eventually ease off and get better, I broke. The parts of me I'd tried to hold together for so long cleaved apart. I could feel myself exiting my body. I was disappearing before my very eyes, and there was nothing left to stop it.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

I hadn’t realized he’d finished speaking and a long pause of quiet stretched between us. Distantly, I shook my head. “Just go.”

His face fell. “Feyre—”

“I need to be alone right now. I need some silence, and I need space to breathe, and I need you to leave.” I was completely calm. There was nothing else within me to draw from, no anger or rage, no resentment, no sadness. Nothing.

Reluctantly, he pressed up off the couch and I heard the chime of the elevator and his heavy footsteps, signalling that he was on his way down and I was finally by myself.

I didn’t remember how it went.

It was a while after Lucien left, when I finally got the meagre strength and energy to get off the couch and wander to the ensuite where the bathtub awaited. A short time later when the water filled up to the brim, I shed my clothes and sank into the waters.

But not before pulling open the last drawer on the right, the one with my brushes and hairdryer, where at the very back lay a rectangular brown box. One I hadn’t opened in two years.

I remembered my fingers shaking. Clutching it for dear life. Sinking into the warm waters.

Drawing the first cut, not caring that the past scarred ones lay beneath them, screaming at me to put the box cutter down.

Everything after that was a blur. The water drained. I towelled myself down and put on some loose pants. Tamlin came home, released his wrath—another angry welt on my ribs, a glass shattering against the wall, shards that cut my hands as I picked them up, more words disgust and mistrust thrown my way.

But I didn’t care. I didn’t have the will to care anymore.

***

I almost stayed home. It was so tempting to lie in bed, to be alone, away from him. But I didn’t trust myself to stay sane in this cramped apartment for another day.

Tamlin kissed me deeply this morning as we were getting ready. It was full of remorse and apologies, I could tell by the way his fingers trailed gently down my cheek afterward as we stared at each other for a few long, quiet moments. I just hate that I flinched whenever his hands came near my face.

In the car, his hand sat on my thigh. Biting my lip, I screamed curse words in my head, bracing against the pain that licked up my thighs. They were a distraction, something I could focus on. The city was drenched with rain, and I wrapped my arms around myself, clad in a thin long-sleeve sweater. Cuts. Bruises. So many ugly parts of me I needed to cover up.

The day passed as usual. Upon arrival, Ianthe barely looked at me, probably from awkwardness and discomfort after hearing yesterday’s spat between Tamlin and I. Not that it mattered, really. I hold myself in my office as usual, sorted through the email, snooped around files. There was nothing else for me to do. Remnants of the landline still remained scattered across the floor. I didn’t have the energy to pick them up.

After lunch, I was scrolling through my nose when the elevator chimed. It wasn’t unusual—every now and then Tamlin had meetings with current or potential clients. But I had access to his schedule. He didn’t have an appointment at this time.

I wandered out into the hallway only to see a frantic Lucien shouting at Tamlin’s office door. Ianthe was standing behind the desk, mouth open in shock, and Tamlin finally appeared from his office, blonde hair slipping from where he had it tied at the nape of his neck. His eyes immediately found mine, and they were relieved when he saw I was fine.

“What’s going on?” I demanded Lucien with more force than I thought I had in me. “What is it?”

“Someone broke into your apartment. There’s a sniper reported in the area with eyes on your complex. The entire place is on lockdown and swarming with police.”

Rhys was right, was the first thought that clanged through me. The second was softer, fainter—fear. I hadn’t felt it in so long.

Lucien, exasperated, said, “We’ve gotta go now, Tam.” Tamlin nodded his head and ran back into his office to get his coat and keys.

“I’ll go with you,” Ianthe piped in.

Lucien reluctantly nodded then they both went for the elevator. I ran back to my office to fetch my purse and my phone, thinking this was definitely going to pre-occupy the rest of the day. Footsteps trudged down the hall until Tamlin was in the doorway, face hard and cold.

“Let’s go,” I said and made to walk out the door. Instead I walked right into his chest, which didn’t move as I tried to make my way around him. His broad frame blocked me in completely, and my brows furrowed.

“Tamlin, come on.”

“I need you to stay here.”

I blinked. His green eyes stared back into mine indifferently. “What?”

“You have to stay here. I can’t let you get hurt. Not again.���

“I’ll be fine. There’re police everywhere. They’re not going to let anyone hurt me. You won’t let anyone hurt me.”

“I thought that was the case before. But you keep nearly slipping away from me every time.” His hand reached out, just like this morning, and his fingers traced the side of my cheek. “I can’t lose you, Feyre. Stay where it’s safe. You can go in my office if you want.”

Contained. Confined. Caged. Safe. They were synonymous to him.

Trapped. Enclosed. Imprisoned. That’s how it felt, how the rest of my life would feel if I listened to this man for another minute.

“No.”

He turned for a moment, his feet ready to lead me to his office, and I took my opportunity to slip past him.

“Feyre—” he growled, hands frantically trying to grab onto me, but I tore away from his clutch and sprinted to the elevator. I needed to get out, I needed to get away, to run away—

The distance between the elevator and I closed, and I crashed into it, pressing the button repeatedly until the doors wrenched open. Gasping, I flung myself across the threshold—

He was stronger. Faster. He always was.

Hands gripped around my bruised wrist and I cried out as Tamlin pulled. Hard.

The ground slammed beneath me as I landed on my back, staring up at the doors that teased, open before me like a gateway to heaven. I dug my feet into the ground, trying with all my withered strength, all my might to resist. I screamed, struggling against him, trying to hit him with my other hand, but he grabbed that one just as quickly.

He dragged me back to the office. The carpet burned beneath me, and I shouted in pain as my thighs alit with the fire of the swollen cuts. Writhing and contorting were of no use, his grip was like iron as he let out a final grunt and I found myself back in my office. His hands dropped me and my head slammed into the floor once more. Stars scattered in my vision.

“Please,” I sobbed.

I felt him lean down in front of me and whisper, “I’m doing this for you. For us.”

He took two steps back, a dark shadow hovering in the dimming light of the doorway.

“Please.”

The door slammed shut behind him, with only the sound of a key and the lock sliding smoothly into place.

[rayonfrozenwings]

A Courtly Visit

wc/ 1289

- part of renee celebrates 1K: writer prompts series

AO3 link here : AO3 Series link here : @rayonfrozenwings-fic has all my fics also that link back to my main account so they are easier to find. Or search reneewritesfanfic on my blog. :)

Started from a Writer Prompt. I have written the start of "a courtly visit" to the Winter Court where things are a little different to what we know. Emissaries are all gathered to make plans for the future now the wall has come down, and maybe a little courtly intrigue on the side and romances developing.

It is a Mor / Vassa Romance, but I am unsure if it will continue - So heads up about that before you get too hooked.

Prompt from laces-of-life on Tumblr as a part of My 1K Celebration. "Morrigan and Vassa. Just, anything. Fluffy or steamy or silly or interacting with our three favorite bat boys. They're my personal favorite completely uncannon otp that I dreamt up and they're perfect and now I'm silently screeching like a pterodactyl inside. （ノ○Д○）ノ＝＝＝┠" @laces-of-life 

So my lovely Pose I tried to start something and make this possible more than just an uncannon otp. Because apparently i'm crazy and need to see how characters might get to this point. So there is a teeny bit of bat boys at the start and the potential for more Mor x Vassa down the line if I keep writing - you know me I get distracted, but I do like this idea or Mor meeting so many people away from the inner circle. :) So this is like the meet-cute.

A Courtly Visit

The winter court was beautiful all year round, crystals dangling from trees like a perpetual winter solstice. Mor knew that when winter actually fell it was more beautiful and more dangerous than any other court. The white fluffy animals easily distracted fae from other dangers that lurked here. Her familiar escort, Azriel and Cassian were flying overhead and Rhysand riding in the carriage beside her. Mor had a whole new wardrobe commissioned for this trip and the trunks of shoes and dresses and jewels were attached to the back of the carriage, sometimes you had to travel the slow way to be more comfortable at the other end.

Stones hit the window and then a moment later it was covered in snow. “Do you think they will ever grow up?” Mor asked Rhys, he smiled and winnowed away. Swearing and Loud noises exploded from the air above the carriage. She looked to the ceiling and leaned back in her seat.

“Rhys don't be a dick! We were having fun” Cassian howled.

“Now i’m having fun!” he called back.

Mor couldn't see exactly what was going on but it seemed her escort slowly became quieter as if they were falling behind the carriage. Popping her head out of the window she could see the three illyrians having an impromptu snowball fight. Mor sat back and listened to the rolling of the wheels and the horses hooves. It wasn’t relaxing per say, but some time to herself was always appreciated.

She started planning things in her head for the weeks to come. Talks between the courts would be opening again and representatives from each arriving soon. Mor was to represent the night court and it’s interests, she couldn’t remember who each high lord had chosen as their delegates, but at least there would be a few familiar faces, she expected Cressida from summer, cousin to the High Lord Tarquin, and Lucien said he would also attend in one of his letters to Feyre. Although Tamlin had not officially asked him. No one knew who would arrive from spring - if anyone, and Lucien couldn’t abandon the people he had spent so much time with. Jurian and Vassa were to represent the Human lands on each continent, those who were south of the wall now looking to Jurian for support in understanding this new post-wall-world.

Oh what a tricky web would be woven, she should be alright - Mor was good at reading a room, years of practice at trying not to give too much away. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, the fur lined gown she had chosen not nearly as warm as it was an hour ago.

A snowball flew at the window again.

She called for the carriage to stop and jumped out, skirts getting in the way, she shouldn’t have tried to fit in. The winter court fashion had far too many layers. Viv had already told her it was unnecessary, that she could wear her night court clothes and they would have all the fires burning, but a good excuse to go shopping should never be wasted. Feyre and herself had found the most beautiful damask and silk fabrics in red that worked so well with her furs but right now, it was hindering her ability to reign in the boys and smash them into the ground. Mor bent down and picked up the snow, cupping it in her hand. Shaping it as she walked to the tree line, she scoped out where each boy was. With a step, the darkness engulfed her and swarmed around; she threw the ball before winnowing to her next victim.

“Ahhh Damn it Mor! That’s cheating! Even Rhys knows that’s cheating!” yelled Cassian from behind a tree as Mor re-appeared across the road. Azriel turned towards her in defeat, sensing her with his skill or his shadows, hands up he dropped the snowball.

“I concede,” he said, obviously hoping she would spare him from the new ball in her hands.

The corner of his lip tweaked and she threw her snowball hard at the tree behind her.

“Fuck! - Mor!” Rhysand said as he lost his balance and fell back into the snow bank behind the tree.

Azriel’s laughter carried across the quiet roadside where only the horses breathing seemed to remain.

“Mor, you never play fair, you can’t change the rules.” Cassian said as he walked up behind Azriel from where he himself was hit.

“I didn’t know the rules! Hurry up, I don’t need you three in my space at court, the sooner you drop me off the better.” She stalked back the the carriage, slamming the door behind her.

--

Court was everything Vassa expected and more. The whole place was full of evergreen and berries from trees, large candles for dramatic effect throughout the main hall. She had expected a very cold castle with little or no decoration like the other castles she had been in - before and after the war - But this one was full of ancient stones that whispered happy stories of times long gone and bright tapestries and drapery to enhance every corner.

Lucien was talking to Jurian and herself about how much of the High Lord’s belongings were hidden by Viviane and her troops and how they had managed to keep the heart of the Winter court safe from Amarantha. As well as they could anyway. Ever the courtier he excelled in this place. Vassa was always the wild queen, the one who should not be around the mortal queens' guests, it had almost been a blessing; being the firebird. But the wheel of life was turning for her once more, and while they found a way out of her curse she would attend court here in the heart of Prythian.

Laughter echoed down the hall and Jurian and Lucien quickly turned and went down another hallway leaving Vassa to see who was laughing. Mor appeared, her satin slippers peeping our from her dress as she walked down the hall. The beautiful red gown adorned with white collar and cuffs to draw attention to her elegant hands and neck. Vassa smiled and welcomed her, now understanding why the other two were quickly away. Court dynamics would be very strange indeed.

“Good evening Morrigan, I didn’t realise you would be joining us, I think Lucien has been keeping me in the dark.” Pointing at the night sky through the window, Vassa smiled at the fae next to Mor and then warmly embraced her, giving her shoulders a little squeeze.

“Interesting. I wonder who else he is keeping secret from you. Have any enemies?” her words silky in that manner that court attendance seemed to demand. She gave Vassa a friendly nudge and invited her to join her on her walk, “I am here as a night court representative, but I must admit I do not know everyone who will be attending.”

Vassa walked with her, still admiring the tapestries but also leaving lingering looks towards Mor herself. She was beautiful and graceful and could easily slit a man’s throat, a perfect sort of woman.

“That sounds like you'll have very busy days - you must join us for dinner one night. I am unable to attend court during the day due to my … other form… but the nights are the best time to talk anyway.” Vassa had fallen back into courtly graces fast than she thought was possible.

“I’d like that, though your companions and I are still testing the waters, maybe the first dinner could just be us?”

Vassa beamed, her eyes lighting up, “That would be wonderful, it is always nice to get another perspective.” and the ladies enjoyed their stroll into the night.

[bastardsonofday]

The Villain

For: @daryl-dixons-poncho

I had a lot of ideas for this that I’ve had on the back-burner, so i decided to go with a villain!lucien au because it’s who i am as a person

Prompt:  Anything with lucien is endgame for me

His throne room is bright. The skylight lets natural sunlight in. The throne—throne doesn’t seem like the right word—is wooden. The intricate designs of flowers climb up the arms like tendrils of ivy, flames lick the feet, as if trying forever to reach the roses but unable to. Then, at the base of the headboard, that all those flowers turned to like they were striving to grow towards it: a shining sun. Someone in Winter had made it for him—a thank you gift.

Lucien stares the acres of forest below which surround the Mountain. He has chosen this place as a sort of… symbol. A ruler of a new age, from the same place as the old ruler. Only Lucien is different than the Blight. Lucien has no Court. He rules from the top of the Mountain, so he could see everyone below prospering.

“Lucien-” The voice, cracked with screaming and wariness, calls to him. Lucien turns to see Feyre as she limps towards him. Her body is worn and wounded. Behind her Rhys leans on the doorway to his throne room, eyes unwavering from Lucien’s, but he doesn’t move past the doorway. He’s hurt too.

Lucien snorts. He has no guards, pays no men. No spells keep him safe. He knows that Jesminda would say it was because he was just waiting for someone to get up the courage to end it. He knew that Feyre and Rhysand would be here in the end, standing where they are.

They must have fought their way through the armies surrounding the Mountain, insistent that he not be dethroned. He never asked them to, had no want for it. But he would not order them otherwise, that wasn’t how he ran his country.

“Hello Feyre. Are you here to pay fealty?” She and Rhys were the only ones who had not so far. The resistance, they call themselves.

Lucien doesn’t understand why they don’t just hand over the reins to him. All he does is impose a few rules, a few laws for better living. Nothing else. He isn’t cruel like the Bitch. He doesn’t want to take over the whole world or genocide an entire species like the King. All he does is impose a few laws, simple ones, so make Prythian better. The rest of Prythian loves him, but these two never have. They seem completely immune to his charms and blackmail and knowledge.

“Never.” Rhysand snarls from the doorway.

“Your loss.”

“Lucien, we’ve come here to stop you.”

Lucien nods and takes a last look out at his people. His country. They had all fallen rather quickly after he’d taken Tamlin under his wing—the poor man, so broken and weak, running to Lucien and this time it was Lucien who saved him—he’d become the barrier into the human realms. Then came Autumn, after he’d helped Eris ascend to the throne. His mother was saved. His brothers—the ones who’d tried to kill Eris after his inauguration—had been slain. Not that Lucien had minded, at that point it had been like killing ants.

When Helion had slipped away, Lucien had taken his rightful throne as Heir. That left three of the seven Courts under his rule. Tarquin was easily convinced when Lucien explained the new rules he planned to implement as Tarquin was already halfway into changing over to a democracy. He handed Lucien the reins without question, and the rest was simply talked away.

And then there were three.

Lucien whispered his way into Kallias’ kingdom, his fire and sunlight melting the ice between them. His words slithering into Kallias’ mind until Kallias too wished to be a part of a new dawn. Then, Thesan: who was ever so glad to join the Alliance.

It was just Night left after that, and Night it stayed. For Rhysand was the most powerful High Lord in all of history, but Lucien, little Lucien, the bastard son of day, the outcast of Autumn, the Emissary of Spring, the friend of the Phoenix Queen… well, he was just slightly better connected, that was all.

And so, with a few well placed words here, a biological connection there, Lucien watched as the Courts of Prythian fell to their new High King—and of course, with any new king came a resistance, and the resistance began to shine.

“Stop me from what? From implementing governors as the new rulers of the Courts? From destroying the social barriers between the lesser and greater Fae? For making sure any man who hits his family is executed? Tell me exactly what I’ve done to warrant your hatred, Rhys.”

“Prythian shouldn’t have a King.”

“Prythian needs this unity, these rules.”

“Prythian needs autonomy.”

“You cannot cite these rules while ignoring the massacres of the High Fae. The threats of the Mortal Realms since the death of Vassa and Jurian.” Feyre adds.

“A ruler must be able to be more than bitter, Lucien.” Rhys hisses. “Otherwise, you’re nothing but a tyrant.”

“Oh! And I suppose I have no right to be bitter?” Lucien snarls, eyes flashing. The heat which builds within him carefully reined back in, so he doesn’t vaporize his enemies. Not that they notice that of course. No, they only notice things which make their lives easier, like figuring out that Lucien was the son of Helion or-

Don’t get overwhelmed by that now, Lucien. He tells himself. Breathe, just breathe-

“Of course, you have a right to be bitter, Lucien.” Feyre says. “But that doesn’t give you a right to take it out on Prythian.”

“Can you honestly say I haven’t done good here?” Lucien asks. Truly asks, because if they can then he’ll go along quietly. He’ll know that all he did was for naught. It’ll be worth it to die. But if they say yes, well then, his work is done.

Either way, it’s sort of a win-win.

He strides towards Feyre so fast she flinches and Rhysand, who can barely hold himself up to the doorpost, tries to winnow towards him. But Lucien has had this room spelled to prevent that since he moved in. Not for his own protection but so that those who want to see him must climb the Mountain, and look over the remnants of how it was, and out to see how the country is.

Feyre shakes her head, and Lucien almost crumbles to the ground. He has done good. He has. He knew it. “But to do good and to make others do good, those are very different things.”

And then, he realizes at the same time they do that this is the end. The only way he’ll give up his throne now is by death. Lucien doesn’t even see the ash dagger at her side, but he feels it as it rams into his chest. He does hear her say though, right before: “I’m sorry.”

Lucien falls. He’ll have a death now, a slow one he hopes. Something he deserves, he believes. He doesn’t realize that Feyre is crying. That she holds him close to her own chest, rocking him back and forth as the light leaves his eyes.

“F-Feyre?” He asks. Words are hard now. His mind barely works. Is this what it feels like to die? He wonders. Is this how Jurian felt? Vassa? Jesminda?

“Yes, Lucien?”

“I-I’m the villain again, aren’t I? I-In your,” he takes a deep breath trying to force out the words but he feels like he’d drowning (he is, blood is filling his lungs with every second), “narrative. I was always the villain.”

“No!” Feyre whispers fiercely. “No. You were lost, and confused, and hurt just like I was. You were an enabler and a victim. But never the villain.”

But Lucien is already gone, and he never hears the words that leave her mouth.

[writevswrong]

Eris Fanfic * When The Last Ember Falls * Chapter Fourteen

When The Last Ember Falls by L.J. LaFleur

Nesta:

I waited until he fell asleep, until his breaths were even before I rested my head beside his. My back was aching, just beneath my jagged scars. I knew I wouldn’t hear the end of it if I had asked him.

I could use a woman in my bed, what a scoundrel.

Lying beside him softened the pain in my ribs. I couldn’t explain it, how his presence soothed the heartache. Maybe because he was my best friend; an easiness to our relationship I had never encountered before? These perpetual thoughts didn’t matter, only that he’s alive and well. Happy.  

My eyelids grew heavier and heavier until I could no longer watch over Eris. I needed to rest so I could function tomorrow. Who knows what dawn will bring us. 

A gust of wind made my teeth chatter, the bumps on my skin rising. I scooted closer, resting my head against his warm shoulder. “Goodnight, Eris,” I mumbled just before falling into a world that balanced between dreams and nightmares.

I stood on the shore, the same one I’ve dreamed of since waking up from the autumn war. The place where salty waves and thick grains of sand meet the endless rows of aspen and red maple trees.

Inhaling the salty, crisp air, I felt myself surrender. “I love it here,” I admitted, catching his fiery hair out of the corner of my eye.

Eris stepped forward to be beside me. Concentrating on the crashing waves, he asked, “is this the view from my window?”

“Yes,” I replied, the curve of my lips enlarging. I wouldn’t be able to explain it; why seeing an infinite amount of blue mended my broken heartstrings. It just did. 

He stole a peek at me, “it’s breathtaking,” he agreed.

I turned away, drifting along the shoreline. The hem of my dress soaking into the frigid waters. I willed the fire from within to coil around my toes, just as he had taught me in the copper tub.

“I can tell you have something to say.”

Letting out a heavy sigh, I bent down to pick up a defective obsidian shell. “I hate that you read me so well,” I remarked, gently brushing my fingers against the ribbed edges.

Eris caught sight of another black shell, one in perfect condition. “I thought women loved a man who picked up on little details,” he implored, handing me the sea gem.  

I analyzed the two shells, both so beautiful—whole and broken. Commenting on the rarity of finding two onyx shells, I finally answered him, “I cannot speak for all women, we’re complicated creatures.” I admired our findings one last time before releasing them back to the ocean.

“As long as you admit it...” he joked, rubbing his untamed beard as he waited for me to slap him.

“Miscreant.”

“Siren.”

We stopped only once so he could roll up his pant legs. He raised his hand, inviting me to step further into the sea. I reached for him, letting him guide me to where the water came up to his shins. Releasing his hand, I lifted my dress up. In hopes that I would avoid further restrictions since I was much smaller than him.

His legs wrapped with fire, extending all the way up to his thighs. As did mine. “So, fireheart, tell me your tale of woes,” Eris commanded, a signature smirk in place.

His term of endearment made my knees weaken. This was merely a dream and he was only a figment of my imagination. So, what did I have to lose? “Only if you hold your judgement till the very end,” I requested, turning to face my friend.

Eris nodded, clasping his hands behind his back. He raised to his full height to let me know that he was ready. He was taller than I remembered, broader in the shoulders as well.  

I recited my story, even the moments I was sure he already knew of. Every fear, every event of shame and all the broken pieces of my history. I let him see me. The decent and the ugly.

Starting with my father, his failures that had damaged me so deeply that I intern failed my sisters. That Feyre, the youngest, turned into our provider as I let us rot in hopes father would do something—anything.

I smiled as I spoke of Elain’s gardening skills and Feyre’s paintings. Both so talented and all I had were my books. I told him I saw the world in the novels I read but I wanted more. I wanted to experience life outside of our human village—maybe travel to the different continents one day.

These precious pieces of someone else’s adventures that I clung to, in hopes that I too would write about mine, had been my light at the end of the path.

That was until she killed the wolf. The day everything changed.

I could no longer read due to the trauma—to my shame—that haunted me. I didn’t know that she couldn’t read. I didn’t know that she suffered in silence as I berated her out of guilt. I did not deserve happiness after all I had done to my sisters, that much I knew.

It felt easy speaking to Eris, maybe that was why I unloaded all the weight of regret, my “tale of woes” onto him. The only sign of emotion, a flicker if you will, was when I told him of what Tamlin did in the woods. When I moved the material of my dress so he could see the tips of the jagged lines; I saw his amber eyes ablaze.  

When I was about to ask him what was wrong, he beckoned for me to continue.

I obliged, thinking nothing more of his reaction.

From explaining my experience in the cauldron as Ronan’s queen of death to what it felt like to emerge from hell. Why tubs and cauldrons scared me to my wits end. So much so that I had to bathe with buckets out of fear of seeing Ronan, afraid the whispers would drag me back to him.

I recounted our time in the copper tub, the one in his room. The day Eris forced me to step into it, to face my fear since I most likely smelled of piss and rot. It was when he taught me how to light up in the darkness, to catch fire, that I finally felt whole. Safe.

I backed up, forgetting an important piece of my past, the part that led me to him. Of what happened in Velaris. How I nearly killed everyone and not just once.

When he found me in the woods, I had lost my way in body and soul. I didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin but he taught me how to control my magic—he gave me a second chance at life. I would have died in that forest if he hadn’t found me. Not from the trolling predators of the night but by myself. The string of sanity that was splitting, that’s what would have done me in.    

Clearing my throat, I reached farther. I plucked out every bit of me for him to see.

As a human I felt things deeply, locking the emotions away without difficulty. But now, every feeling had amplified. I cried a lot, that was the worst part of it. That sometimes I couldn’t stop; how I begged the universe to make it stop.

I clenched my fist, digging my sharp nails into my palm. “When you stopped me,” I faltered, unable to meet his eyes. “When you split my being. My, my power—whatever it is,” I crooked my jaw to the side, this was harder than I thought. This wasn’t real and I could barely get the words out.

His mouth twisted into a grimace as he focused on the sea foam, “if it meant your survival, that you would live another day…” those burning, amber irises flashed to me.

“Eris…”

“Don’t. You do not need to apologize to me, Nesta.” His voice heavy, thickening with emotion, “I would rather lose you to him than to death. At least I would get to see you again. I would see your smile and hear your voice. You would get to live happily ever after, as they say. That is enough for me.”

I couldn’t tell him what happened between Cassian and me. How we fought like wild animals every day or that we broke up in an alley only hours before I arrived here. I couldn’t bring myself to say it.  

There was a lull in conversation as we both regained our steel composure. I didn’t realize we had walked all the way to the border between autumn and spring. Seeing the transition, the blending of the two courts looked unbelievable.

My mouth had opened, my compliments unable to reach my lips. Cream roses and maple trees intertwined effortlessly. A buzz of magic filled the air, the temperature rising. A beautiful sight, but my eyes always went back to the yellow, red and orange trees of this court. I focused on the pop of gold that sprouted between the dense tree line.

Red didn’t scare me—scar me—like it had before. I couldn’t understand it. How my fear of dark water and crimson didn’t cripple me anymore. It doesn’t mean I wasn’t still affected to a certain degree but I could do it; I survived. I guess I have him to thank.  

Eris’ voice floated to me, enraptured me, “I would never judge you, whether for your past, present or future.”

My brows knitted together, holding my breath, “how could you not?”

“How could I judge you when I’ve killed my own brothers?” he scoffed, running his fingers through his windswept hair as he scrutinized the oncoming set of waves.

I closed my eyes, knowing he felt the same pain as me. “It’s not the same,” I replied with a burdensome heart, clutching the linen fabric of my gown.

“No, it’s worse,” he corrected me. “I’ve done some very cruel, awful things.” Eris didn’t continue, instead he sucked in his bottom lip and bit down as he debated what to say next.

A larger wave knocked into us, his body blocking me from a direct hit. “You will tell me in time. When you realize that I too, will not judge you.” I shook my head at the fire wielding High Lord, “you saved me, you fool.”

“It was merely a wave,” he sassed, “I think you would have been able to handle it, Gryphon.”

“You know I’m not speaking of the crashing waves.”

“I could not save Lys, barely saved Mor and Lucien. I am not worthy of being called a savior, Nesta.” He scratched his bearded cheek, opening his mouth to confess, “monster’s do not save people, they damn them.”

“Then why did you, the so-called monster, save me?”

He didn’t speak while his eyes searched mine. Pupils flaring as he shifted forward. I could feel the water luring back towards the open sea. The flames around our feet connecting with one another.

“If you are a monster,” I felt myself edge closer, my heart beating erratically, “then I am as well, Eris Van—”

The smallest noise distracted me. I turned my head away, scanning the edge of the Autumn woods. It was not a noise of the sea or the rustling of leaves.

 Flames enraged, my eyes glowed white as the door creaked open. I slid off the bed, rushing towards the intruder.

“It’s me, it’s me!” the guardian shouted, her hands above her head in surrender. “Cauldron be damned, y, y, you are horrifying,” she sputtered, her face fresh with a sheen of sweat as she took in my mid-transformation stage.

The sun had barely made its way to the horizon, the sky still dark with fading suns. “What are you doing here this early?” I demanded, forcing the fire and onyx talons back into my skin and bones.

Cindra’s eyes caught on the busted seams of my bodice, “I’m sorry for the intrusion but I needed to speak with you before my lord was up.” She pointed to her breasts, then to me as she surveyed the ceiling.

Flustered, I held my ripped gown up. If anyone did ever create magical clothing so I could transform back and forth without being naked, that would be wonderful. “About?” I yawned helplessly, turning my head into my bare shoulder to not be rude.

“Your chambers are ready.”

“What?”  

“The High Lord,” was all she said, venturing into the dimly lit hallway.

I glanced to Eris, he was still in a deep slumber. It wouldn’t hurt to look, I told myself. I followed the guardian out of the room, down the hall and to the last door on the right. “He has me on the same floor as him?” I observed with a hushed tone.

Cindra’s eyes widened with worry, her hand tightened around the copper doorknob, “unless you don’t want to be. I can see what other rooms are available, if you’d like.”

“No, no. It’s fine. I just…” I stopped speaking, my head and tongue not able to connect as she pushed the door open. My heart unable to comprehend the beauty within the massive stone walls.

The room had a similar layout to Eris’ except there was a large balcony, facing the rising sun. A jeweled leaf ceiling made of sunstones, carnelian and citrine, intricately fell into a chandelier made of faelights. The warm, shimmering lights grew brighter as I walked through the doorway.

My jaw slacked as I looked to the bed. The posts were made out of magnolia trees, all connecting together to form a frame for the mattress. The branches held hundreds of blooms, ranging from white to pink and purple. I could barely breathe as I stepped further into the room—my room.

Throat throbbing, tears threatening to form.

To the left was a cabinet, blue like the bird eggs from the human realm. The stained glass was formed into the Autumn Court’s signature red maple leaf, one on each panel. From there I looked to the opened doors, the view…

With watery eyes I stepped forward, seeing straight to the ocean I had been so fond of.  

“How do you like it?” Eris whispered from the doorway.

I turned wildly, feeling as if I might explode with so many different emotions, I didn’t know what to say. Cindra had left at some point, possibly retrieving him as I stood in a daze.

Eris was heavily relying on the wall to keep him upright, his complexion not as ghostly but his bandages were soaked red.  

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” I croaked. I raised my hands to my throat, horrified by the sound I had made.  

He unleashed a smile despite the pain in his voice, “I wanted to see your reaction.”

Retreating towards the blue cabinet, I sniffled, “it’s beautiful.” I opened it slowly, unsure if I could handle another surprise from him. It was filled with books. My own private library of sonnets and star-crossed lovers. Amber droplets were in full attack mode as I brushed my fingers against the novel he had once read to me.

“I’m glad you like it,” he breathed with great effort while treading closer and closer.

I shut the cabinet doors, my body aching from such a gift. A treasure I did not deserve. “You shouldn’t be walking, let alone standing,” I attempted to nag him but all I could hear were the whispers singing his name.

Eris stood beside me, a pillar of steel, as his voice strained, “I’m tired of being in bed. It makes me feel weak.”

“You are far from weak,” I scolded him, still failing at keeping my cold demeanor. It didn’t sound like a reprimand. It was more like a whimper, a pathetic little cry. My eyes bored into the floor, I counted as many cracks as I could—wishing for my emotions to flee.

He tilted my chin up with a fiery knuckle. Admiration and light increasing with the passing seconds, “then take a walk with me?”

I bit my lip till it nearly bled so I would not weep. I didn’t want to cry in front of him, I wanted to smile. He deserved that at the very least. “You present this room and then ask me to leave paradise?” I chastised him with a devious look.

Eris shrugged, the muscles in his jaw feathering, “you can always come back.”

I knew what he really meant. I was always welcome here in his court for however long I wanted. A room with a view that had brought me great joy despite the pain I once endured. An escape from the Night Court, from the monsters of my nightmares.

I moved to his side, unleashing a smile made of affectionate starlight. Tenderly wrapping my arm around his, I asked, “where to?”     

[bookaholic1012]

Prythian Magazine Part 16

A/N: I am so sorry for updated late! I was not productive at all last week and only started writing this chapter on Saturday! I am super proud of this one, however, and it is the longest piece for a fic I have written so far at 3,242 words, so I hope this makes up for the wait! This is also not edited bc I wanted you guys to read this asap, so sorry for mistakes!

PM Masterlist  AO3  My Writing

Lucien cursed himself for drinking so much. Vodka, tequila and bourbon were the only he could name. He turned away from the light shining on his face, but when he did, Lucien rolled into a wall - a moving wall.

He reached out with his hand, refusing to open his eyes, and felt warmth; muscles flexed and relaxed under his touch. Oh Gods.

At last he cracked open his eyes to reveal a tattooed back - a naked tattooed back. Tanned skin, Illyrian tattooes, and dark, disheveled shoulder-length hair. Oh Gods, please no.

At that moment, the body rolled around, revealing the only person Lucien knew who fit what he saw.

Cassian Burakgazi.

Lucien sat up quickly - something he regretted instantly. He felt incredibly nauseous and his head was pounding like a thousand drummers were banging on their instruments. Lucien didn’t have time to see if there was something he could throw up in; instead he swiftly rolled so he was leaning over the bed and purged on the floor.

A grunt sounded behind him as a toned arm wrapped around his waist, pulling Lucien to Cassian’s chest. “Cassian,” Lucien hissed, poking Cassian’s arm. “Cassian!”

“Lucien,” Cassian’s voice was rough, and he burrowed his face in the spot where Lucien’s neck and shoulder met. And Cauldron boil him if that didn’t make Lucien harden.

“Cassian! Wake up!” Lucien jabbed at his arm harder, but that only prompted Cassian to hold him tighter.

Lucien needed to leave now! The close contact was doing things to his brain, his heart and his cock. His cheeks heated at the thought. Lucien wanted nothing more than to stay here - in the comforting position, the safety - it was far too soon. Too soon after Andras. Too soon to be doing something with another person.

Lucien pried off Cassian’s arms and - ignoring the pounding in his head, the nausea, and the twinge in his heart - got out of bed. He was relieved to see that his underwear was still on. Quickly, Lucien found his clothes, got dressed, and left the room.

“Do you want an aspirin for the hangover?” A velvet smooth voice asked.

Spinning around - another movement he regretted - Lucien was greeted with the sight of Azriel, who was stirring something in a bowl.

“I’m good.” A lie. One Az saw through.

“Sure. Just take an aspirin and have a glass of water. Then I’ll drive you to Mor’s.”

“I am fine.” Also a lie. He was not doing well - mentally, physically, and emotionally.

“Lucien,” Azriel sighed. “You are clearly having a killer hangover, and dealing with whatever you feel as a result of sleeping in the same bed as Cassian. I won’t interrogate you, but at least hydrate and take something for the headache.”

Lucien gave in, shuffling to the kitchen, and took the glass of water offered to him. He just finished taking an aspirin, when a thought struck him.

“How’d you know I was with Cassian?”

Azriel looked guilty. “You walked out of Cassian’s room.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t explain why you looked guilty.”

“Lucien, do you remember anything from last night?”

Lucien concentrated. He only remembered blurred moments: Talking with his newfound friends - because despite the history between them, they were indeed friends now - dancing, and… and lips. He told this to Azriel.

“Do you know anything specific about the lips?” Az was starting to act weird.

“I - Did I kiss the lips?” It seemed like the only logical option to him.

“Yes. Now do you remember who you kissed?”

A flash of shadows. “You?” Azriel did seem to be a part of the shadows after all, but Lucien knew the person he kissed.

A shake of his head. Finally, Lucien said the name of the person to whom those lips belonged.

“Cassian.”

Azriel nodded. “Do you regret it?” Of course he would ask that. He and Cassian are brothers. They would do anything for one another.

“No,” And that was the truth. “But I’m not ready for a relationship.” Another truth.

“Then tell him. I know Cassian and if you were to leave, he would brush it off, but it would have an affect on him. Cassian tends to blame himself and his… bastard status as he calls it on people who walk out on him.”

The two ate in silence after that. Slowly, the ache receded. Still there, but not as much as when he woke up. Lucien was scraping the last bit of his scrambled eggs when someone joined them.

“Azriel,” Cassian moaned. “Please tell me you already have a hangover breakfast prepped.”

With a roll of his eyes, Azriel got a plate for his brother, as well as water and aspirin. He put the latter in front of Cassian then left, leaving Lucien and Cassian to figure out what happened.

Seconds ticked by, the silence suffocating.

“Do you regret it?”

Lucien looked up at Cassian, startled by the question. “No. Why would I be?”

Cassian looked at him in disbelief. “Really? We kissed last night, and if how I woke up was any indication, we did a whole lot more than that.”

“What do you mean ‘how I woke up’? How did you wake up?”

“Well, for starters, I woke up in my boxers. I mean, sure I go to sleep like that anyway, but I remember our make out session. Also, I have hickeys and scratch marks, which I’m assuming are from you.”

“Cauldron boil me!” Lucien wanted nothing more than for the floor to open up and swallow him.

Cassian let out a booming laugh before wincing. “Gods, it even hurts to laugh right now. But I don’t mind it Lucien. In fact, I kind of like it.”

“Shut up, Cassian!” Lucien had never been more mortified in his entire life. This moment surpassed the time when he and Andras were caught banging in a closet. “And you still haven’t answered my question.”

“I don’t know. I guess because I’m not good enough for you.” Cassian shrugged, faking nonchalance - a mask. He was pretending to not care about how Lucien thought of him.

Lucien’s temper flared. “Are you serious? Cassian, anyone would be a fool to not love you! No one is good enough for you, okay? Not the other way around! Don’t degrade yourself because you are not a bastard! You are one of the best people I have ever met. Gods, Cassian! Accept the fact that I love you and you are perfect for me, and I would love nothing more than to be with you, if I didn’t have so many gods damned problems!” It wasn’t until he finished yelling at Cassian that Lucien realized what he said.

“You-You love me?” Cassian gasped.

“Clearly.” Lucien snorted. “All the banter between us? That was me express my love. Well… it eventually became that.”

“You have a very interesting way of expressing your love, Foxboy.” Lucien loved the sound of his nickname on Cassian’s tongue. It had been awhile since he last heard the name - and he missed hearing it. Cassian cleared his throat. “I, um, love you, too.”

Lucien was sure he misheard, that somehow his mind was still foggy from his excessive drinking. “Seriously?”

“Yup. It’s hard to not fall for you, Lucien.” Cassian smiled - and Lucien thought it was the most beautiful sight in the world. “I actually loved you for awhile now. I didn’t tell you because I thought you did not feel the same way.”

Now it was Lucien's turn to grin. His joy was short lived when a recurring thought entered his mind.

Traitor. Traitor. What about Andras?

“What’s wrong?” Cassian asked, noticing the change in Lucien’s mood. He reached out to hold his hand.

“I want to be with you, Cassian. But… I also don’t want to.” The mix of shock and sadness in Cassian’s expression was heartbreaking. “It’s not you, I swear! The thing is… my previous boyfriend he recently… died.” Lucien's voice cracked on the last word. Two and a half months have passed, and he was still heartbroken.

“Was it Andras?” Cassian tentatively said.

“How do you know?” Lucien asked.

“I remember hearing in the news there was a car accident in the Spring Court part of the state. Two died - both were the drivers - and the passengers - five, I think - were injured.” Lucien remembered now. It was the biggest story, mainly because of who were part of the crash.

“It was Andras,” He whispered. “Andras died.” Tears welled in his eye.

“That’s why you have the scar; why Tamlin became a bigger asshole than he already was.” Lucien nodded; he hated thinking of that time in his life.

“Gods, Lucien, I am so sorry. And we don’t have to be in a relationship if you’re not ready. I’ll always wait for you.” Cassian said gently, placing a kiss on Lucien’s knuckles.

Love swelled inside Lucien. When an emotion he hadn’t felt since Andras became present in the presence of Cassian, he knew it was love; Lucien just hadn’t wanted to confront it. “I want to be with you, though. I want to be able to kiss you and hold you and go on dates with you, Cass.”

“Then what should we do?” And Lucien knew that if he said he did not want to be in a relationship, then Cassian would back off.

“I think… I think I can give us a try, but baby steps, Cass. Like, we would have to go at fucking grandma speed.” At that Cassian laughed - one of the most wondrous sounds Lucien had ever had the honor of hearing.

“I can do that,” Cassian promised. “But you’re going to have to tell me what I can and cannot do.”

And Lucien told - and showed - Cassian exactly that.

Weeks passed and Feyre still was pissed at Rhys. More than that even. He knew how much the truth meant to her and for him to not tell her his feelings, even if she understood why… it hurt.

She did not fail to notice, however, the light steadily returning in full force to Lucien. When Feyre returned to Mor’s house, she immediately noticed a difference in his demeanor - and he was more than eager to tell Feyre about what happened after Rita’s.

Cresseida - who Feyre learned was Amren’s boyfriend’s sister - called the two of them back. Apparently, other women had reported Tamlin, but nothing ever happened, which, as Cresseida had said, was likely because Tamlin bought people’s silence. This time, though, silence would not be bought, because Feyre was discovering her voice, and she was going to use it.

A court date had been set and news outlets caught wind of the news. Of course Tamlin was denying everything, saying Feyre was trying to get his money and ruin what he had built as “petty revenge for exposing her,” but she and Lucien were not backing down. The two were pushing back against Tamlin and Ianthe - who got roped into the matter - and it appeared they were on the winning side. Past victims of Tamlin’s abuse were now speaking out, and Feyre never felt better.

Of course, when the media would start talking about the case, Feyre knew she had to confront her sisters. Azriel found out they were staying at a nearby motel and he dropped of a letter from Feyre asking them to meet with her at The Sidra Café to talk.

“Feyre!” A cheery voice called when she stepped into the cozy building. Elain.

The sisters hugged. When they seperated, Feyre was greeted with the sight of a straight-faced Nesta. She was surprised when Nesta hugged her; Elain was the only person Nesta would openly show affection for. The three of them sat at a secluded corner table to provide them with as much privacy as one could get at a fairly busy café.

“I am so sorry, Feyre.” Nesta said.

“Why?”

“Why? Because you are my - our - baby sister and we did not realize you were with an abusive asshole! That’s why!”

“Until you showed up at Mor’s doorstep I hadn’t spoken to either of you in three years! Did you really expect me to reach out to you when I was in a difficult situation? Besides, I have Lucien and had Andras.” Feyre told them.

“We still would have wanted you to tell us, Feyre!” Elain cried.

“Well, How was I supposed to know? You never once bothered to help me before!” Feyre snapped. She inwardly sighed. This was not how she wanted their discussion to go; they were falling back into their old ways.

“We are sorry for that. It is my biggest regret, Feyre.” Nesta apologized. Elain nodded in agreement.

“I’m sorry too,” Feyre sighed. “For not telling you what was going on between me and Tamlin.”

“Can we start over?” Nesta asked.

“I would like that.” Feyre said. Maybe coming here wasn’t so bad after all, she thought.

Nesta, Elain, and Feyre spoke for the remainder of the afternoon before they had to leave. Nesta And Elain had to head back home, but they promised to keep in touch.

Feyre left feeling like another weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

“Rhys, can’t you talk about this to someone else?” Mor whined. She loved her cousin, but his moaning and groaning about messing up with Feyre was starting to get on her nerves.

“But I need to know! Will she talk to me again? Why did I think having alcohol would be a good idea?” Rhys moaned.

“I’m sorry this is happening to you, Rhys, really. Do you have to complain to me, though? Isn’t this why you have Cassian and Azriel? Go bug them!”

“I already tried,” Rhys pouted. “But Cassian is being lovey-doves with Lucien and Azriel said it was my fault for not telling her sooner. Can you believe that?!”

Mor rolled her eyes. She could. Everyone told him to tell Feyre how he felt not more than a month after he had met her. It was obvious that he was in love, but Rhys refused to do anything about it.

“...And I just don’t know what do!” Rhys flopped down on the golden couch in Mor’s office. “Every time I attempt to talk to her, Feyre gives me the stink eye and walks away!”

“Then give her time. Now leave. I have work to do and you have to meet with Amren.”

“Fine, but I’ll find you later.” Rhys sighed, finally leaving and giving a Mor some peace. The second the door closed, Mor got a call from Andromache.

“Hey, Andi!”

“Mor!” Her girlfriend greeted. “Listen, do you think you can come down for the weekend?”

“Yeah, I’m free. Why?” Mor was curious; Andromache had never been a cryptic person.

“You’ll see. Just let me know if something comes up and you can’t make it!”

“Okay?”

“Love you!”

“I love you, too, Andi.” A warm smile graced Mor’s lips. One always did when she said those three special words to her girlfriend of five years.

Hours later, Mor finished finalizing the details for her show. In three weeks, her designs would be shown to the world in a fashion show. She couldn’t wait for the day to come! Her phone pinged, signaling she had received a text.

Want pizza???

I was thinking of Rita’s instead, Fey. That cool with you?

Yes! I haven’t been in awhile.

More accurately, she refused to go back after Rhys revealed his love for her. Mor really hoped her friend would decide what to do next. Mor hated seeing Rhys in such despair.

I’ll pick you up. I’m leaving now.

K. Lucien and Cassian are tagging along btw

We will suffer through their nauseating love together.

Deal.

Azriel was beyond exasperated. After telling the Inner Circle Hybern, Tamlin, and Ianthe’s plan, he could not find any information. They couldn’t do anything about it though without concrete evidence, and the recordings Azriel had could not be used. His contacts had nothing to tell him either - everything was silent. Between that and dealing with Rhys’s woeful behavior, he was in desperate need of a vacation.

Viviane burst through the door, Kallias hot on her heels.

“Az! Why didn’t you call me sooner?” Viviane exclaimed.

“Be happy Viv wants to get down to business now. I had to listen to her rant for hours!” Kallias said, earning him a light slap on the arm from Viviane.

“I did not!” She said.

Kallias and Viviane Winters. They became the best of friends when the two were only five years old. Viviane and Kallias had done everything together, never leaving each other’s side. When Kallias was eighteen, he left to go across the country to attend Stanford University. Four years later, he came back to Prythian where he reconnected with Viviane and ended up professing his love to her. As it turned out, Viviane also loved him, and thus began their relationship. Now the two were a happily married couple of five years.

“Sorry, Viviane,” Azriel laughed. “But I am so glad you are here. I knew you would be the best choice to represent Feyre and Lucien in court.”

“Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. Now when do I get to meet them?”

“Today I think we should go over the details for the case, so… tomorrow? If they are available of course.” Azriel told her.

“Great!” Viviane squealed.

“Rhys, I swear on the Mother and Cauldron that if you do not shut up right now, I will cut out your tongue!” Amren hissed.

Rhys immediately shut up. He did not want to face Amren’s wrath.

“Now as I was saying,” She continued. “After the trial, you, Feyre, and I will go to Adriata. Tarquin has requested our presence for the unveiling of his new line. We will spend a few days there, hopefully find something on Hybern and his dealings, then come back.”

“Got it.”

“And you are going to be the one to tell Feyre. I do not care about whatever silliness is happening between you two; you will see if she will come and that is final.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good. Now go.”

Rhys was in total despair. He had given up hope on Feyre talking to him ever again. He swore that he would never drink again, but of course that promise wouldn’t be kept. For years Rhys fantasized how he would reveal his feelings for Feyre and all the ways she would react. Not once did he imagine a drunken revelation would be how she found out.

Rhysand contemplated asking Feyre in person, but ended up taking the coward’s way out.

You, Amren, and I were invited to Adriata after the trial.

No reply.

Are you going to join us?

Same response.

If you are, let me or Amren know.

Finally, an answer came.

Fuck off.

But are you coming?

I’ll let Amren know.

Ignoring the stinging feeling, Rhys called Amren.

“What?”

“Hello to you, too, Amren. Feyre’s coming with us.”

“I know. Ask Feyre to come again.”

“Why? She said she would come?” Rhys said.

“I wanted you to grow a pair and ask Feyre in person. You did not, so ask her again.” Amren demanded.

“You never said I had to ask Feyre in person!”

“Well I’m telling you now!”

“Alright, I’ll ask her again. In person!” Rhys emphasized.

“Good.” Amren stated before hanging up.

“Mother help me.” Rhys muttered to himself.

*Burakgazi means “warrior” in Turkish*

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[wingsofanillyrian]

The Dance: Chapter 3

Summary:  Everyone knows the High Lord of the Night Court is a monster. Not that Rhysand has ever cared what the other Fae of Prythian think, but when he meets Feyre, Tamlin’s betrothed, he realizes everything is about to change.

Chapter Masterlist

“Well well, what have we here?” Tamlin cocked his head to the side, a predatory grin on his face as he circled me. “High Lord of Night’s come to play, eh?” He threw his head back and laughed, the sound sharp enough to set my ears ringing.

“Let him go!” Feyre shouted, shoving against his chest. Tamlin was taken aback, seemingly noticing her for the first time. He blinked once before his lips curled back from his teeth.

“I told you to stay with Lucien. I finally let you out on your own and this-“ he pointed to me, the tip of Lucien’s dagger piercing my skin- “Is how you repay me?”

“We were only talking, Tamlin!” Her hands balled into fists at her sides. I actually thought she might take a swing at him, judging by the rage that coated her features.

“I don’t give a shit if you were just talking,” he snarled, claws ripping from his fingertips. “I gave you one rule. Stay with Lucien.” Feyre was physically trembling as he towered over her. “But you couldn’t even listen to that!”

A tiny whimper passed Feyre’s lips and she instinctively braced herself for more verbal blows. Tamlin’s face softened, realizing what he said was scaring her. He rubbed at his temples, as if he was dealing with an unruly child.

“I’m sorry, Feyre.” He laid a hand on her shoulder, and she flinched. Flinching meant that she had anticipated a blow. Anticipating a blow meant that he’d laid hands on her before.

That realization snapped the last of the fragile control I held over my power. Lucien yelped, leaping back as the dark tendrils of shadowy night snaked from my fingers and pooling around Tamlin’s feet.

“Get away from her,” I growled, slamming Lucien against the wall with a flick of my wrist. Wisely, he stayed there without complaint. Stalking towards Tamlin, I saw the flash of fear in his eyes that he tried so hard to hide.

“She’s mine,” He growled back, wrapping his hand around her arm. Again, Feyre looked at me with pleading eyes and white-hot rage pulsed through my veins.

“You don’t own her,” I countered, stopping within inches of his face. My tall stature allowed me to tower over him, turning the tables and unsteadying him.

Good.

“She isn’t some possession that you get to squabble over,” I continued, letting those inky ropes flow of their own accord. One glance at Feyre told me that she was enraptured by the magic rather than terrified. Her blue eyes were fixed on the pool flowing at Tamlin’s feet, deep purple and blue specked with sparkling light- just like the sky.

“You don’t know, do you?” Tamlin sneered at me, possessing the audacity to laugh.

I drug my attention back to the manipulative male. “Know what?”

“That Feyre here-“ He clasped his hands behind his back and took a step to the side, the shadows parting to allow him past- “Is my betrothed.”

The world tipped from under me. I was vaguely aware of Feyre shouting something, either at me or at her lover, but all I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears. That’s why he was being so possessive over her. Because he could.

The laws governing the Spring Court were vastly different from those of my court. Here, when two Fae were engaged to be wed, whomever held the higher social standing could force the other into submission. ‘Within reason,’ the law stated. But who would ever dare challenge the High Lord?

A grin broke across Tamlin’s face as I put the pieces together.

“That’s right, Rhysand. She’s all mine, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” He laughed again, and there was nothing sane or stable about the sound. Something had been broken within him many years ago. This was not the male that I had once befriended.

He was a monster.

“But there is,” I murmured, snapping out of my daze to meet Feyre’s eyes. “The laws of Prythian allow a mate to object to a marriage between their mate and another.”

There it was, laid out on the table. The big secret that I’d tried to protect in order to keep her from harm.

Tamlin’s head whipped back to Feyre, who was staring at me wide eyed and shocked. “Did you know?” He demanded of her, reaching as if to seize her arm once more. All it took was a snap of my fingers to freeze the limb midair.

“You don’t touch her.”

“This is an act of war-“

“It is no such thing. I haven’t harmed you.”

Tamlin growled, the sound ripping from his throat. I had him cornered, and he damn well knew it. Lucien sniffed the air, scenting for the mating bond.

“They haven’t accepted the bond, my lord.”

“I know,” he snapped, shooting daggers at the flame haired male. “I’d have scented it when we fucked last night.” Another pointed jab, but it didn’t hit home. I let it roll right off me, much to his dismay. Tamlin’s face contorted into further rage as he grew more desperate.

“And they never will accept it. She is my fiancé. You can’t have her!”

I tuned out his words, my attention fixed wholly on Feyre. Her breathing was heavy as she shook her head in disbelief. I felt a second, duller snap in my chest, and I knew instantly that the bond had finally locked into place for her, too.

“Feyre,” I breathed, daring a step forward and holding out my hand towards her. “My offer still stands-“

“Don’t fucking touch her!”

She shook her head, caught between the monster that was her betrothed and whatever unknown threat I might pose.

“Feyre please, I won’t hurt you, I won’t cage you, I swear!” I’d reached the point of begging. I didn’t care. Tamlin snarled and gnashed his beastly teeth at me from a few paces away, where my magic kept his feet pinned to the floor.

“I can trust you, right?” She breathed, blue eyes searching my violet. There was a vulnerable look in them, raw and unsure. Gods, so much hurt was held in such a tiny frame, broken and battered and bruised.

“You can trust me.”

Tentatively her hand found mine. I released Tamlin as I winnowed, his deafening roar of rage following us through the endless black.

***************

Feyre sputtered and fell to her knees when we landed at the House of Wind. I knelt beside her, offering her my jacket once more. She accepted it gratefully, leaning her head back against the stone wall of the balcony.

“Are you alright?” I asked cautiously, scanning her for any sign of injury.

“I think,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. “I can’t wrap my head around what happened. Tamlin’s never done that before.”

Her voice was small and laced with the pain of betrayal. Pain was something I had become very intimate with over my lifetime, and I could recognize when it held someone in it’s sharp claws. Feyre curled in on herself, wrapping her arms around her knees and effectively shutting out the night’s events.

“It’s a lot to take in.” She pulled the lapels of my jacket tighter around her to ward out the chill.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, rocking back on my heels. “That’s not how I wanted you to find out, but I didn’t see any other way-“

“I know.”

A cold wind whipped in from the steppes, and I shivered. Feyre did too, though I could tell she had no intention of moving anytime soon. Her face was blank but tears rolled liberally down her hollow cheeks.

Her eyes held no fire.

“Thank you for saving me,” she rasped, finally looking up to me.

As carefully as I could manage, I slipped my arm under her shaking knees. Wrapping the other around her torso, I murmured, “It’s alright, Feyre. I won’t let him hurt you.” That broke whatever dam she had carefully constructed within her heart, and her emotions poured out of her in waves.

Her fingers clung to my shirt as she sobbed, and I carried her through the House of Wind to one of the many chambers within. I chose the one with the most windows and the most exists, lest she feel like a caged bird and need to fly away.

Another feeling I knew well.

Setting her gently on the bed, I made to take my leave. It had been a long day, and I figured she would want some time to sort out everything that had happened.

“Stay,” she whispered, catching my wrist as I turned away. “Please.”

I nodded, her grip remaining firm as I summoned a chair. “I’ll watch over you,” I promised, her hold relaxing enough for me to take her hand.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her eyes already sliding shut as sleep claimed her. She was out within moments, but I remained by her side.

“Anything for you, Feyre darling.”

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[janelizziemarykittylydia-blog]

Shattered Glass Smiles, Chapter 2

Synopsis:  In which the year is 1959, Feyre is engaged to Senator Tamlin Greene, and Rhysand is the head of a notorious mafia dynasty called the Night Court.

Send me prompts!

AO3

CHAPTER 1

Chapter 2: “Pistol in My Pocket”

-2-

"Pistol in My Pocket"

The next morning, Tamlin rose from our bed at eight o'clock sharp, stumbling around our room as he yanked on his suit.

He spent most days at his campaign office in midtown, speaking to his PR manager and refining the finer points of his policies. I'd asked to visit once, but he'd just patted my head. Politics isn't the place for a woman, he'd said, and I hadn't argued.

"I'll see you tonight," he said now, kissing my cheek. His chin was freshly-shaven, and he smelled of Old Spice and cloying aftershave. He pulled on his overcoat. "I love you."

"I love you, too," I said. A knee-jerk reaction, an automatically programmed response, like a practiced driver's tendency to brake at the sight of a traffic accident.

He smiled at me, slinging his briefcase through his fingers, and left the room. A far-off door shut, and I exhaled: he was gone.

I stayed in bed for a while longer, tracing shadows and patterns of light across the ceiling. No one would be home for another few hours—the maid, Alis, didn't come to the penthouse until ten.

I had no idea how long Rhysand would extend my grace period. He wasn't stupid; he knew I'd find the note in my coat pocket. How long was he prepared to wait—one day, maybe two?

Ruffling a hand through my hair, I rose from my bed, knotting a wrap around my shoulders. Retrieving the crumpled note from my dressing room, I lifted the phone, my mouth dry.

I dialed. One-eight-four-seven-six...

I waited. And waited.

And then—

"Hello?" It wasn't Rhysand's voice that answered; it was someone female, with a slight accent that I couldn't quite place. I didn't say anything at first, deprived of words. The person on the other end huffed. "Who the hell is this?"

That spurred me into action, a rough kick to the sternum, if only by shock factor. I'd been in the world of politics so long that I'd forgotten what a rough, unapologetically pissed-off voice sounded like. "Is this the residence of Rhysand Black?"

A rustle of fabric. "Depends. Who's asking?"

I took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. "This is Feyre Archeron," I said. "Tell Rhysand that I got his little note, and I haven't forgotten. I'll be at the Trefoil Arch in Central Park at noon. Then he can call in his dues."

I hung up, my hand shaking.

The oddest thing was—

I felt more myself than I had in  months, since I'd come back to Tamlin's apartment. I felt alive, charged with the vitality that came with doing something productive. Not planning parties, not shopping for dresses I didn't need, not lying on the chaise in the penthouse, drowning in memories I wanted nothing more than to forget.

Tamlin didn't allow me to lift a finger, didn't let me leave the apartment, especially since last spring.

"New York is dangerous, Feyre," he'd said. "We live in the Upper East Side, but the West Side is fraught with gangs and drugs. They'd like nothing more than to use you up and leave you in a back alleyway."

"Nice, Tam," I'd snapped.

His face had softened somewhat. "I'm trying to protect you, Feyre. You're not strong enough to walk through New York on your own. Not without me, or Lucien."

I'd wanted to fight back—wanted to tell him that I might have spent my early childhood in a fancy house in coastal Massachusetts, but from the age of eight and upward, I waded knee-deep in Boston's shit. When I was fourteen years old, and the last of the money ran out, I walked to the gun store on the corner and asked our drunkard next-door neighbor to teach me how to shoot. I practiced: fired at dented Coke cans in the backyard again and again and again, until my ears felt like they were bleeding and my mouth tasted of smoke, and then I tucked my gun into my boot, shoved beneath the cuff of my jeans, and got myself three jobs.

I rang up groceries at a twenty-four-hour convenience store, waited tables at a greasy diner, and later, when I turned fifteen and there still wasn't enough money to go around, I stripped on a dull metallic pole.

I'd dropped out of school at fourteen, not that the schools that we'd been enrolled in taught me much. I could barely read: no one had taken the time to teach me.

Tamlin had found me like that—worn, beaten thin as pounded gunmetal, walking around a metal pole.

He'd been in the audience of the strip club one night. I'd been nineteen, and he'd come with five or six of his work associates; fellow politicians networking over shitty cocktails and tight asses.

I still didn't know what about me had caught his attention. I was like every other girl in the place: tired, worn out, singing the same old song of tough luck. I stripped for my sisters, slipping into a different skin to bring home a fistful of dollars so that Elain could have a new winter coat, and Nesta a pair of shoes.

Evidently, Tamlin had seen something in me, and he'd come back the next night, and the next. And after he'd been coming back for weeks, and he asked me for a drink, I thought of the pocket knife in my jeans and the gun in my bag, and said, wryly, Sure.

Still, when Tamlin said I wasn't strong enough to walk the streets of New York, I hadn't argued. I'd learned my lesson last spring, and now I watched the hustle and bustle from a penthouse balcony, a million miles away.

I looked at the telephone, half-expecting it to ring again. It didn't.

Come twelve o'clock, I would stand on the middle of the Trefoil Arch and wait to hear my fate.

—

When I told Alis that I was going out for a few hours, she seemed confused.

I genuinely liked Alis, which was more than I could say for most of Tamlin's extensive staff. A middle-aged woman with coffee-brown skin and warm, if cynical, eyes, her friendship had been hard-won but well worth the effort.

She lived down in Harlem and took the subway back and forth from Park Avenue every day. Once, I'd tried to get Tamlin to send a car for her, especially at night, but he'd given me an odd look. "Alis doesn't want our pity, Feyre," he'd said. "She'll think it's strange. People like her are used to walking the streets after dark."

I tugged my gloves on now, fur brushing my wrists. November in New York meant a chill that sank into my bones and red-gold leaves that danced in late autumn's cold exhales, and I'd donned a camel-hair coat, a woolen skirt, and a pair of black pumps, my hair tucked beneath a round hat.

"You're going out?" Alis said.

"Yes."

"I thought that Mr. Greene didn't like you to leave the apartment."

"He doesn't," I said, and bit my lip. "Alis, I need to... to do a few things. Today."

Something like recognition flickered in her eyes. "And you don't want me to tell him?"

"I'll be back by three," I said. "Three-thirty at the latest."

Alis studied me for a moment, her lips pursed. I'd lost weight rapidly since spring, and I saw her track my bony frame; my sallow, sunken cheeks.

"Take care of yourself," she said at last.

I nodded, fighting past a sudden lump that rose in my throat, and stepped out the door, pressing the button for the elevator.

On the curb, I hailed a taxi to take me to seventy-third street, wringing my hands. It was eleven-thirty; I was early, but I still had to fight past the anxiety tossing and turning my stomach.

Last spring, I'd been kidnapped, held in a cellar with other victims. Rhysand had saved my life, but he hadn't done it for free—he'd done it for a favor.

What if Rhysand asked for something that I couldn't give? He delighted in wrecking lives. Perhaps he'd force me to leave Tamlin, or kill Lucien, or something equally as obscene.

I had not gone those long months spent as a hostage without learning a bit about Rhysand Black, primarily that he was the head of a very old, very wicked crime dynasty notorious for its cruelty. He might well decide to shoot me in the middle of Central Park and call it even.

But that, I thought, fingers brushing the tiny pistol in my pocket, was why I'd come prepared.

Tamlin didn't know I still had a gun. I imagined if he did, he'd throw a fit—scream and shout and yell, and I'd wake up the next morning with fresh bruises and an aching in my bones. I hid the pistol in a locked box in my unmentionables drawer, buried beneath brasseries and stockings and pantyhose.

If Rhysand wanted to shoot me, fine. I'd shoot him right back.

—

The Trefoil Arch was a bridge tucked in the midst of Central Park, shadowed and enclosed by a copse of burnished oak boughs. I arrived at eleven-thirty, half an hour early.

Rhysand was already there.

He stood beneath the bridge, something out of a gothic novel; clad in a black coat that brushed against his ankles, a slim gray tie peeking out from his immaculately ironed shirt. He paced back and forth beneath the bridge, muttering to himself, raking a gloved hand through his styled hair.

I froze.

Unexpectedly, something my mother used to say came back to me, over a decade after her death.

The first step's the hardest, she'd say. Downhill or uphill, you already know how to walk.

One foot in front of the other. One step, two, three, four...

"Rhysand," I said.

His head snapped up. And for a moment—a hairsbreadth of a millisecond—I thought I saw something like nervousness, like pain, flit across his features, but then it was gone, replaced by the suave smile I knew so well.

"Feyre," he said. "You got my note."

"I got your note, you asshole," I snapped. "What do you want?"

Rhysand didn't answer; instead, he eyed my figure. "You've lost weight."

"What's it to you?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he set his jaw and said, "Let me take you to lunch."

I laughed. Laughed.

Rhysand's expression grew stony.

"You must be out of your mind if you think I'm going to lunch with you," I said. "I have a pistol in my pocket, Rhysand. I'm not stupid."

"You brought a gun?"

"Didn't you?"

"Yes," he said, "but that's because my profession requires that I always wear a gun, even to bed, and I know how to use it."

"I know how to fire, Rhysand."

He took a step forward, eyes flashing. "But do you know how to aim?"

"Haven't missed yet."

Rhysand stared at me for a moment. "Tell me, Feyre, when have you had occasion to aim a gun? And just what—or who—was on the receiving end of your barrel?"

"Fuck off," I snarled, the bolt hitting too close—too deep. And he knew it, too.

"Interesting," he mused. "Does Senator Greene know about this particular piece of your oh-so-checkered past?"

I glared at him. "What do you want from me, Rhysand? I got your note. I made a meeting."

"For that matter," he continued, "does Tamlin dearest know about our deal—our clandestine rendezvous?" He flicked his gaze up at the keyhole arch of the Trefoil. "It's terribly romantic. I'm swooning."

I rose my hand, grabbing a fistful of my hair in my fingers. "You—"

"What's on your wrist?"

My camel-hair coat had ridden up, exposing a ring of purple-blue splotches. Bruises, left by Tamlin's quick, strong fingers.

"Nothing." I shucked down my sleeve, cheeks burning, but Rhysand stalked toward me, something other than amusement taking root at last.

"Are those bruises?" he demanded.

"No."

"Liar," he said. "Liar."

"So what?" I said. "It's not your business."

Rhysand's eyes flashed. "Bullshit."

"The bruises on my arm and the numbers on the scale have nothing to do with you, Rhysand. You have no part in my life—and nor will you ever."

"Has it ever occurred to you that I might care?"

"You don't care about anyone," I said coldly.

"You don't even know me," Rhysand growled, sounding uncharacteristically hostile. "Is Tamlin the one that left those bruises?"

"Piss off."

A muscle in Rhysand's cheek jumped, pulsing erratically, and silence settled between us, toxic and weighted.

"Come to lunch with me."

"I'm not going anywhere—"

"You owe me," he reminded me quietly. "You have my word that I will not try anything. I will take you somewhere public, and somewhere safe. But I will watch you eat five bites of a sandwich before I say anything about our deal."

I glowered at him.

"If I try anything," he said, "you have my full permission to shoot me."

—

Rhysand took me to a café a few blocks from the park, dimly-lit and brimming with the tinkling of forks and jazz Muzak. I ordered a roast beef sandwich and sipped at my iced tea, staring daggers at Rhysand over the condiment bottles.

"I want," he said, "you to work for me."

I'd taken a swallow of my drink, and I sputtered it all over the table, showering him in regurgitated amber liquid.

He took a napkin and wiped his forehead, unbothered. "You're smart," he said. It wasn't a question. "And brave. I have uses for your talents."

"You're a criminal," I retorted. "No. Absolutely not."

His lips quirked. "Has it ever occurred to you that I might not be a merciless killer?"

"No."

"Excellent," he said. "Well, rest assured that I'm not. And the kind of jobs I'd have you working wouldn't be... crime-oriented."

"What in the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Work for me," he said, "and you'll find out."

The server arrived with my plate, setting it in front of me. Immediately, my stomach rebelled: the bread looked stale, the meat dry.

I took a chip, instead, washing it down with a swallow of tea. I looked up to find Rhysand studying me, his mouth tight.

"I won't work for you," I said. "Pick something else."

"It's not indefinite. One job. Work one job for me, and I'll walk out of your life—forever."

"No."

Rhysand leaned forward, irises glittering like trapped beads of amethyst in a glass case at a museum. "You made a deal," he said. "Are you intending to go back on your word?"

"I'm going to be a senator's wife, Rhysand, and you know it. I can't break the law. That can't possibly be your price for choosing not to be an abominable dickhead."

His gaze dropped to the ring on my left hand. "Ah. Yes. The engagement emerald. I'd noticed." He smiled, but the glint of his teeth had a bitter edge. "When's the wedding?"

"March. Not that you're invited."

"Pity," he said. "And here I was, expecting to be made best man. Ring bearer, at least. I'm ever-so-talented at carrying a little velvet pillow."

I took a bite of my sandwich. It wasn't that bad, actually; a pickle gave it a nice crunch. I hadn't eaten real food in... Christ, in ages.

"I won't work for you," I said.

"Give it forty-eight hours of thought," he said. "Think about it, Feyre. I won't make you break any laws. Not any decent laws, anyway. The legislature of our fair country is full of loopholes."

"Forty-eight hours,” I said disbelievingly.

"Forty-eight hours," Rhysand confirmed. "And if the answer is still no, then..." He lifted a shoulder. "We'll reevaluate."

I heard the unspoken words beneath his statement loud and clear: You might not like what else I'll come up with.

—

May 1959

The Cellar

I’d been close to death before.

I knew fear, and I knew mortality. But it was different, this time, to lie on the cellar floor, staring up at a dank, damp ceiling crawling with mold, and know, with iron certainty, that I was going to die.

The other girls in the cellar were weeping, holding each other. I had refused to cry, at least in front of an audience, but their vigil of tears was neverending: night and day, for hours at a time, a siren’s song of lamentation that never ended.

The door opened, and abruptly, the girls stopped crying.

I did not look up. My breaths were papery rasps.

“Shit,” someone said, voice distorted. “Shit.”

And then someone was kneeling beside me—a doctor. Someone in a white coat, with a bottle of medicine and materials for a splint. For a broken arm—my broken arm.

But he was not alone, I realized, as the faces finally stabilized. There was a doctor, and a man with purple eyes.

“Go away,” I croaked out.

“Do you want me to save your life,” Rhysand said, “or not?”

His words came to me through a wind tunnel, distorted and distended.

“You’ll owe me a favor,” he said. “But you will not die.”

I closed my eyes and nodded.

—

November 1959

New York, New York

When I arrived back at the penthouse, Tamlin was waiting for me.

And he was furious.

He sat on an armchair in the living room, his hands clenched so tightly over the armrests that his nails dug holes in the fabric.

Alis was nowhere in sight.

"I thought I'd come home for lunch," he said, "and surprise you."

I didn't move from the doorframe, every nerve and muscle in my body coated in impenetrable ice.

"Imagine my surprise," he said, "to find that you've gone out." He rose in a slick, smooth movement that made me recoil instinctively. "Where have you been, Feyre? What did I tell you about walking by yourself in New York?"

"I survived," I said, and hated—hated—that my voice trembled.

"You never should have gone out in the first place."

"I had to do something."

"Oh? Like what?"

I had no intention of telling Tamlin I'd gone to see Rhysand. He'd hated Rhysand long before last spring, long before he had anything to do with me, for reasons that he still refused to divulge.

"I don't have to tell you everything that goes on in my life."

"Actually, yes, you do," he said. "I'm your husband, Feyre, or close enough to it. I should know everything that goes on in your life. And furthermore, as your husband, you should not disobey me!" He stalked across the floor, grabbing my shoulder, and I could almost feel the new bruises appearing, blooming on my skin like a tattoo of forget-me-not blossoms over my shoulder.

"Let go of me," I said. "You are not my president, god, or king, and I do not owe you any absolution."

Silence.

I began to shake, trembling under my layers of wool and fur. "I need your help, Tamlin. I have not been able to breathe since May—for months—and I need your help."

Tamlin's chest rose and fell, heaving.

"Locking me up," I whispered, "telling me to sit and stay and lie down like a dog, trapping me in here with nothing but my mind—"

"Trapping you?" he cried, throwing an arm out at the plush carpet, the damask curtains. "I wasn't aware that this sort of luxury was a hardship. Especially considering the hellhole I dragged you out of, wading in your own shit."

"It's not the luxury that matters! For Christ's sake, Tamlin, can't you listen to me, instead of being personally affronted by the insult to your apartment?"

"No," he said. "You're just confused, Feyre."

"Fuck you," I said, without even realizing the words were tumbling out of my mouth. "Fuck you."

In retrospect, I really should've seen it coming.

Later, it came to me in pieces:

A crack,

a stinging in my cheek,

my head smacking back against the threshold of the door,

a roaring in my ears.

And Tamlin's white, stunned face before me, his still-upraised hand.

"Shit," he said. "Shit. Feyre, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

My mouth tasted like cotton.

I didn't fight him as he brought me to his chest, limp and disjointed as a rag doll. I let him soothe his own aches and pains, and I let mine sting and fester on.

Words sat between us, strung on a sickly telephone wire of disease. Words that could not heretofore be unspoken, unsaid, erased.

But we did our best. We knotted our fingers hand-in-hand, ignoring the slap and the crack and the truths that ate me up inside, and painted over the piece of me that did not want to become a wooden doll.

Sit. Stay. Lie down.

Sit.

Stay.

Lie down.

—

The next morning, while Tamlin still lay in bed, I rose from the mattress, bereft of clothes and shaking with cold.

I walked into the dressing room, shutting the door with a soft, muted snick.

I took the piece of yellow paper out of my jewelry box, lifted the phone from its receiver, and dialed.

This time, Rhysand did answer.

"Hello?" His voice was groggy, still rough with sleep. When I didn't answer, I heard a long, breathy exhale. "Who is this?"

In the background, I heard another voice, this one distinctly male, call, "Who the fuck is calling at five am?"

"It's me," I said. "Feyre."

Rhysand went silent.

"I've thought about your offer," I continued, "and I accept."

[flowerflamestars]

Bound and Blessed

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

Under the false fire of will-o-wisp light, the stormy heart of the Archeron estate had never been colder.

  Not the great house built for show and status, or the warded secret spaces the sister’s had carved out. The true beating heart was this: a sloping stone half circle designed by Nesta, mimicking luna phases. Where Elain had planted roses with her own hands, mixed them with everything from fickle jasmine to hardy hollyhock and lethal foxglove.   Where Lucien had bled, until the three of them had a new world.   Inauspicious tonight under feet of snow, features lost under the white, white blanket, the phantom heartbeat of power thrummed beneath Lucien’s feet. Danger, warning, like the living land understood the risk they were taking.   The moonless sky overhead that they’d been waiting for was long shrouded by the storm, gentle snowflakes drifting down.   When the silence broke, it was from the steady beat of mighty wings.   Like winnowing was too easy, like they hadn’t all been living in the same house a short walk away, Rhysand, accompanied by his Shadowsinger and General, slammed down into the snow.   “Dramatic,” Nesta hissed.   Lucien didn’t hold in the sharp edge of his smile. They’d been waiting in the snow for the High Lord to show up for more than half an hour already. Standing in a snowdrift, refusing to shiver, Rhys hadn’t put Nesta in her place if that was his intention.   He’d enraged a woman on the brink of committing murder.   Already leaking a steady trickle of flame into the the air that Nesta would insist she didn’t need if he asked, Lucien stepped closer, bloomed the heat higher, careful not to melt the snow. He was gratified by the infinitesimal further straightening of her spine, radiating strength and comfort.   As though they were ever going to quail, just because the High Lord of the Night Court was a prick.   Rhysand folded black wings and came to a stop, not in front of Nesta, but him, like he was planning to negotiate with Lucien. A stupid prick.   But sharp-honed weapons that they were, both the Illyrian’s were looking at Nesta. Lucien knew damn well what they were seeing, familial pride widening his smile. Silvered fur and velvet drained of color in the dark, throwing back the battlefield haunting green and gold firelight of will-o-wisps who’d congregated around and above her as thought magnetized.   Deep hood up, all that showed was the sharp curve of bones. A deaths head. A woman veiled in menace.   Nesta looked more like a damned faery than any of them.   Elain had told him once human children were taught were the beauty of High Fae was a weapon, beguilement that led to ruin. It was true, if a double edged sword: magic responded to beauty, called upon willpower and grace with favor.   With his usual flare for the dramatic, Rhysand summoned the indestructible contract onto the low stone wall between them. “This was not necessary.”   Nesta didn’t move or speak. Lucien bared his teeth in reply when Rhysand was stupid enough to look at him for an answer.   Met with silence, Rhysand tucked his hands into his pockets. “Do you really think not telling your sister about this is right?”   Nesta pushed back her hood. Crowned in faery gold, each ornament was sharp enough to kill, laced with carefully slow floral poison. An early solstice gift, from Elain and Lucien together. His heart crowed to see her wear it: family, fierce and true.   “Does Feyre have any governmental authority in the Night Court?”   A twist of anger, barely contained: a point to Nesta. Emissary was not a command position. Lucien was sure it paid in the North, the richest court in Prythian. But until Rhysand addressed those crowns he dressed her in and gave away a piece of his absolute power, Feyre had none.   Rhysand wasn’t done. “You could have just asked, for any of this. Do think so little of faeries that we wouldn’t take in children, provide safe port for your ships?” So very stupid. Somewhere along the way, Feyre had taken the clear fact that Nesta and Elain despised Rhysand- a liar, a Lord who’d spent centuries building reputation as nightmare, the second kidnapper of their little sister- and decided they hated faeries.   What mental gymnastics were required to deal with Lucien’s presence in comparison, he couldn’t imagine.   “I am asking,” Nesta ground out, voice colder than the falling snow. And then, tone wholly different and wounding, “Promise kept and bound, beneath the sky.”   An Illyrian proverb. Lucien had seen the stack of books at the corner of her desk: old words for alliance, for binding and bloodshed.   Cassian was staring.   Lucien had to actually blink away the ties of seething gold that spooled between them, bright and violent to only his eyes. It had been years since he’d been able to see them, anything like them- more than a scent or a feeling. Proof of that growing, hungry star beneath his ribs? Or was Nesta- beloved and fearless and theirs- already in the depths?   Point two to Nesta: Rhysand was slipping out of his feigned casual stance, sliding into the dangerous stillness of the High Fae.   “We make promises in ink, in the North,” He tried on last time, purple eyes gleaming inhuman in the dark. “Would you accept that?”   The loyal-hearted Generals’ head snapped toward Rhys like he’d been offered personal affront.    Honest, unguarded-  and wounded. With a low, long sigh, the Shadowsinger rocked a step forward before the whole night could descend into chaos.   “Section three, clause two,” Azriel recited, ignoring his High Lord, “One action performed personally by the Shadowsinger of the Night Court, to be sworn secret until such time it is necessary to the war effort. Do you want me to kill someone?”   For the first time in the long cold night, Nesta didn’t look angry. “No bloodshed of any kind will be required.”   Easy, Azriel inclined his head. “I accept.”   “Az.” In a shudder of dark power, ignoring his High Lord completely, Azriel pressed a fingertip to the paper. Blood smeared, no cut that Lucien had been able to see made feeding the contract.   Nesta inclined her head in return.   Elain had been sure the Illyrians would side with them. Honor, she’d reminded Lucien, while Nesta bled and grumbled, Lucien periodically healing away the loss. Look at the way they respond when we fight with Feyre and Rhysand, they don’t want to be here. Lucien wished she were here to see it. Hours spent on what to include, the contract was every inch her work as much as theirs.   Long lapsed into tired insouciance, Elain had tossed her legs over his lap to talk, unbound curls a cloud against the back of the low chaise she’d talked him into carrying to the library. Hands full of  her heavy silk skirts, as much a pleasing anchor as a reminder to himself not to reach for more, Lucien couldn’t have moved if the world were burning down.   “She’ll be offended by the entire thing,” Elain had mused, leaning back.   “Was she this stupid about Tamlin?” Nesta replied, sprawled on the floor before a low tea table- also carried in by Lucien- bleeding into a copper bowl. Lucien healed her again without being asked.   “No,” He said automatically, before Elain’s disbelieving dark eyes found him. “Yes. Different, but”-   “But Rhysand is her mate,” Nesta interrupted, without looking up. A condemnation, in her voice.   Elain snagged one of his full hands, hooking two fingertips beneath the red ribbon around his wrist. Lucien tried to swallow down his seized heart at the word, focused instead on the feeling of Elain’s pearl bracelet sliding over his skin.   “Feyre is going to be furious,” Elain amended, knuckles against Lucien’s unsteady pulse. “I’ll keep her distracted.”   So rather than out in the snow, the third face of their efforts where she belonged, Elain was entertaining the sister she was still furious with. If he looked away from Rhysand’s scowl, Lucien probably could have found her, light blazing from one high glass walled room of the main house.   Found her heartbeat through the dark.   But first Lucien had to perform the savage magic of his forest home. Because the Archeron sisters had decided promises didn’t matter much to the most powerful High Lord in Prythian.    Instead, they’d built a trap, laid a curse, bound from their bloodline to his.   Their audacity alone was a pride.   Rhysand had picked up the contract and begun reading aloud. “Safe passage and stipend to all orphan wards to the Archeron estate. Legal freehold status to any and all Archeron vassals who choose to seek a home in the Night Court at the advent of war. Legal recognition of House Archeron and all her employees from the Royal Guild of Trade, the Great Bank of the North, and the Court of the High Lord as free entities. Do you think we wouldn’t accept refugees?”   “I think,” Fae and furious, Nesta snapped, “That it will take an incredible amount of magic to winnow several hundred people to safety. Feyre wants Elain and I safe in the North? Then every man, woman, and child who belongs to this land will be offered the same, or we won’t go.”   Horribly, Rhysand was starting to eye her with something closer to intrigued disbelief than rage.   “The last page,” He breathed, “Zero independent intervention into any ongoing military operations under the authority of House Archeron. If there an army hiding in your shipments of cloth and grain, Banfhlaith?”   Like he didn’t notice he was doing it, Cassian took the last two steps toward Nesta’s rigid form. Honor, Elain had said. Fealty, Lucien agreed. He could scent it, burning bright.   “Do you accept or not, High Lord?”   Lucien had the thought that when they got close enough to actually perform the binding Nesta was going to stab Rhysand in the throat, if only for that smirk as she recited his title.   “Why should I?” Rhysand asked silkly, bleeding false charm. “I would give you half this without lifting a finger, no foul magic from Vanserra forcing me.”   Azriel sighed again.   Out of one wide fur lined sleeve, pale hands gilded in the light, Nesta pulled free a filigreed square of paper and held it out. The High dragged it to himself with a gust of frozen night air, the backlash sending ice into Nesta’s face.   Someday soon, one of the sisters was going to stab him, and Lucien was going to be right there breaking bone, High Lord of no.   Rhysand took it, read, and laughed. A favor, Elain had whispered in delight that night Lucien had learned of Velaris. Buried with our father’s treasure. Merchants call them markers- when our great-great-great grandfathers grandfather was bound to the secret city, he was gifted one magic token, a single favor from the hand of the High Lord Rhain. Twelve generations had kept it, and now Nesta would entrap Rhain’s son with his word.   Wild and bloody magic cared for boldness.   Lucien had honestly wondered if Rhysand would try to kill them for even the suggestion, after Amarantha.   Instead, he grimaced in an unwilling amusement. “Very well, Nesta Archeron, first of your name, oldest of your line.” One more huffed, hollow laugh, before Rhysand held out his hand for her take. “But if you do this, we’re allies in the war. No more secrets. And you’re going to tell me where the hell you got a note written by my dead father.”   Nesta pulled a bare blade from the small of her back, and smiled.   “It’s an heirloom,” She said, reaching out to grip his tattooed wrist without a flicker of fear. “The first generation of merchants were favored.”   Rhys grunted as she sliced his palm, far deeper than the spell required. The cut on her own hand was shallow, but bled and bled, thin mortal blood spilling over the curved blade. Not Spring Court make or one of Nesta’s commissions, the keen slice of moonlight in her hand was Illyrian steel, forged of fallen stars. Singing steel, they called it, like it spoke to the Illyrians as the wind and skies themselves did.   Lucien could imagine where she’d gotten it.   They joined bleeding hands over the contract, and Nesta reached for Lucien.   Out of the corner of his eye Lucien caught the half-contained motion as Cassian twitched at the sight of Nesta taking his hand. Tension bled into the air, already thick with blood and promise.   “The oldest of two generations,” Rhysand breathed. “A bloodline curse, Vanserra? Barbaric.”   Trickle down- a broken word would not just kill the the subject of binding, but cascade through their family line wreaking ruin before death took hold.   Not simply murder: an ill-wish, humans called it. A cataclysm.   An Autumn specialty- other court’s High Fae might pretend they weren’t so savage, but the truth was, most of them had lost the art.   Power liked reciprocity, but a curse couldn’t be truly even. Elain and Nesta hadn’t just grabbed for what they wanted: they’d set in a motion a situation that made them powerful in their right, their people safe and needs met, the High Lord backed into a corner at their behest.   It made the binding tighter.   “No moon,” Azriel murmured, shadows wreathed about his shoulders.   The North knew curses too.   Rhysand inclined his head and intoned, “Written of blood.” Stealing the first words would have given him more wiggle room, the prick, if Lucien hadn’t been spinning curses since the cradle.   Fresh blood filled the air as Nesta squeezed his hand in retaliation, dripping down her wrist. “Bound of bone.”   How Rhysand could believe he could take from this bargain, like he could actually intimidate her, Lucien couldn’t imagine. Nesta’s iron grip was enough that blood was ruining her dress sleeve, sticking to her fur cloak.   Power, stifling and raw, filled the garden.   Together, they continued. “We bind our will, beneath the crone.”   Rhysand’s wings snapped out as the curse took hold, the air shimmering to mirage with Lucien’s fire in the air. Blood flowed backward, fresh and red as out of the vein. A tide receding, from the contract up their joined hands to sink beneath skin.   Blood for blood, life for life, a promise bound.   Nesta didn’t flinch. *** Cassian’s joints didn’t unlock until Lucien winnowed Nesta away. Blood on her hands, only standing by sheer force of will, she was glorious. The air itself had sung, with a blade in her hand.   “You ever feel like the Mother herself is fucking with you?” Rhys asked, flexing his healed hand. Knotwork and ink on his palms and wrists that matched Feyre, but now until the promise was kept, bloody red words in Nesta’s precise hand raced beneath the skin of his knuckles.   Because Rhys had apologized, because Cassian needed to ignore that his whole body was helplessly alight, he fell into the ease of laughing back. “Dawn mother or night mother?”   Illyrian gods, not the Mother, the threefold goddess High Fae believed in like she walked the world with them.   Rhys huffed back, but when he looked up from his hand to meet Cassian’s eyes, his face was tired. “Cas, I could smell your blood.”  *** Elain, in the aftermath of fighting with Feyre hadn’t spent the next two days placidly cutting orchids as their guests seemed to assume.   Screened from Night Court eyes and gnashing her teeth- the punishment for treason was death, and Feyre knew it. Death to their entire family, death to every vassal; and Feyre had linked them to the authority of a High Lord of Prythian. The death warrant was signed- the first thing Elain did was sink her hands into soft black soil and pulled free a golden acorn.   Impervious, dirt shed from its gleaming surface onto her palm all at once, leaving gold phantom warm and sun bright.   So small- so terribly important in the course of her life.   It fit in a skirt pocket, presumably only detectable to faeries as a slice of magic, a taste of Lucien’s scent on her. Explainable- so ordinary as to not even be worth mentioning. Ordinary, her thoughts raced on. Lucien was a part of her life. Her’s and Nesta, family. Theirs. Hers- how dare Feyre- two High Lords, two kidnappers, but marrying Lucien was a problem? There were layers and twists to her fury- Feyre thought Elain was incapable of making her own decisions, Rhysand thought they were somehow under his authority because of his not quite relationship with their baby sister- but not a ripple showed as Elain floated through the next three days.   She showed up to breakfast and drank tea with quiet, polite Azriel. Bantered ever so lightly with Cassian, when Nesta wasn’t in the room rendering him deaf and blind to all else.   Learned the foreign body language that seemed to take up half of how they related to one another: Azriel’s disappearing shadows and right wing that practically reached right out to tap Cassian. Those wickedly curved, surely sharp spiked wing-joints over Cassian’s shoulders that jumped with nerves, practically disappeared with tension.   Elain didn’t have Nesta’s enormous childhood fascination with stories of honor and flight to back up what she learned, but for soldiers- they were so clearly soldiers, she didn’t need their titles or scarred hands to tell her the story their constant armament and posture did- neither seemed inclined toward keeping a blank face around her.  Anger, rage, all the while a slow trickle behind her eyes.   People looked at Elain- her much fairer curling hair, her heart shaped face and dimples- and forgot entirely she was as Archeron as Nesta. Her older sister would burn a threat to the ground. Elain was something more subtle, if only in the worlds eyes.   Carefully distilled foxglove in Rhysand’s tea proved as fruitless as Lucien had said it would, but it did make Elain feel better.   Not so much better though, that when choosing the task of keeping Feyre occupied, Elain didn’t have to smile her widest fake charitable ball smile and then give into the vindictive urge to march Feyre across the house to her quarters.   An hour, she estimated, long enough for Nesta and Lucien to throw their net around Rhysand.   Elain could smile for an hour.   It had taken two nights to write the contract. Lucien’s idea, Nesta’s words, Elain’s trap in the form of an heirloom their bastard father had hidden while they starved through winters. Every fail-safe and nuance they could think of covered: citizenship, freehold farmland, safety for their many men at sea.   Flaith Archeron would simply become a lordship in another territory, and thanks to Nesta’s financial machinations, the money and business would stay in the sisters legal grip, even if Lord Archeron reappeared.   On the third night, dragging a tiredness that made her long for Lucien’s warmth beside her, Elain retired early.   She truly was tired- of fake smiling, of the way Rhysand looked at Lucien like he was just waiting for him to bare his throat, of Feyre’s stories about bakeries and piers and art galleries in Velaris- but the moment her door was shut behind her, fiery ward spells scenting the air like love, a steady pulse of adrenaline started in her veins.   Three twists of an acorn stem.   Red silk ribbons in her hair to call enchantment down.   If it all it did was call Lucien, she wouldn’t be upset. But watching Nesta bleed for them- waiting for an apology from Feyre that wouldn’t come- Elain had to try something.   Three breathless recitations of the Lady of Autumn’s name, before the silent, still night bled into Elain’s roaring ears.   Nothing. Just gold that smelled like fire, warm as the summer sun in her palm. Elain waited.   Long enough that she was readying herself to leave again- exhausted but sleeping shores still so very distant- to track down whatever Nesta was doing in her usual insomnia nightly hours or find Lucien, when the scent in the air changed.   Fire, and fire still- but spiced, blooming, a bonfire on a holiday night.   Elain closed her eyes and breathed. Sorcha, Sorcha, Sorcha, queen unbroken. Family, she’d called Elain, left a stolen crown of unimaginable power perched in her hair that rejected it’s own bloodline.   When Elain opened her eyes, a satchel sat on the vanity before her.   Heavy russet velvet, embroidered in red and green. Too delicate for any purpose a human would carry a bag so large for, too fine to be made by anything but faery hands. The fastening buckle was a an oak leaf of solid, shinning gold.   With hands that trembled, Elain pulled free the clasp, and laughed.   The note, on paper so creamy and thick the part of Elain that was Archeron practically wanted to weigh it for grade, was scrawled in a perfect hand. Darling mortal daughter, Sorcha had written, for ease here among the fields of wheat, I thought we might write. Anything in the satchel will be delivered straight to my hand. Elain pressed her hand to her mouth, biting knuckles in an attempt to choke down the slightly hysteric giggle. Wheat- the banner of the Day Court, where Sorcha had ordered they come for any aid.   The Lady of Autumn had gotten out.   It is good to hear you are in the sunshine, Elain replied, I look forward to such weather myself, but it is Northern climes in my immediate future, unfortunately. Storms have come early this year, but our trees are still baring fruit. I wonder if you might advise how to bolster the branches of our oak trees under the onslaught? Reply was immediate, ink shining damply. At the least, mountains provide an excellent refuge from the wind. It is my belief snow will fall thickly in future months, be of mind the harvest must be gathered and sent out before then. I look forward to your eventual arrival- please do wear your hair as it was last we met, was so terribly fetching, and will be perfect for the warmer climes. How and what Sorcha might know of the Archeron’s fell harvest, Elain couldn’t imagine, but she’d heed the warning. Months- they had less than that left safely in their home, barely more to send out that last, fatal round of ships.   She was still thinking about it the next night, as she smiled winsome over dinner and asked Feyre for company.   Which brought her to very properly holding up her skirts to keep up with Feyre’s longer legs as they walked up the grand eastern staircase, a steady stream of questions Feyre clearly wasn’t interested in knowing the answer to standing in for any kind of apology.   As though Elain had actually handpicked every curtain in this house, as though Feyre had ever cared about tapestries.   She wondered what Feyre would say if she told her the truth: they’d picked colors they liked, and ordered in bulk from fabric mills at the discretion of proprietresses to choose the height of fashion. These public spaces were about luxury- the kind that made them blend back in with the gentry- and said nothing about Elain or Nesta’s personal taste.   The rooms Elain led her to at the easternmost rise of the house were something else entirely.   Solid ash wood doors swung open, slivered wood safe out of Feyre’s grip, to usher them into a world of softness.   Bright hand-woven rugs on the floor, practical but still fine pale wooden furniture that called back to the silvery sky colored walls. The plush room before them was a dozen shades of blue and cream, blending seamlessly without being dull; calculated to soothe.   Feyre ran a hand over the back of a royal blue couch, the velvet whooshing softly against her palm. Nothing like the delicate furniture downstairs: squashy, so plush it practically sagged. “This is beautiful.”   Elain swallowed the poison on her tongue. “It’s yours.”   Soundless, Elain sidestepped around where Feyre had frozen, weaving between more soft, practical furniture and past a roaring white marble fireplace Lucien had lit for her earlier. The doors to the left were glass, and when Elain threw them open, Feyre’s breath caught.   Fast as the High Fae she was now, her baby sister sped to the doorway and paused.   Everything Nesta and Elain had carefully chosen gleamed under golden faelight: paint and paper, fabric and thread, easel and drafting table, the glass walls that enclosed the studio crystalline with frost.   “Its…mine?” Feyre asked.   Elain let out a long breath through her nose and made herself look at her sister’s wide blue eyes. “The last time you were here the house wasn’t finished. The other doors lead to a bedroom; it’s blue and white, and of course we can personalize it to your taste if you prefer something else. The doors will have to be replaced."   Feyre’s face twisted, nose scrunching.   She’d said terrible things, endangered them all, but for a second, Feyre looked like exactly who she was: Elain’s still teenaged sister, overwhelmed by emotion she didn’t easily put into words.   “No,” Feyre said, reaching out to touch with two fingers the smooth surface of an entire shelf of paints, “Don’t change anything, it’s perfect. It’s beautiful, Elain.”   Elain nodded with a small smile and absolutely did not think or say, pity we’ll have to leave it forever or face execution. Waiting on the threshold while Feyre explored, exclaiming over color variety and touching each kind of paper Nesta had scoured imports for carefully. Brushes caressed, easel poked at, Feyre eventually stopped on the opposite side of the room from Elain, against that wall of night-dark glass.   “The gardens are bellow, right?”   Elain walked in, placing herself before the shelves. Calmly. Her luck held as Feyre walked away from the window, away from the slice of possible view of their sister out in the snow wielding magic.     “Yes, just like when you were a child. This was a library, then, your bedroom is in exactly the same spot.”   Feyre tilted her head thoughtfully. The motion was wrong to the eye: human gestures, high fae features. None of the keenness that bled from the gesture on other faerie faces, none of the knives edge that Nesta’s face made.   “I wondered,” Feyre admitted. “But I don’t really remember it, and Rhys wanted us all doubled up, for safety.”   Elain had the presences of mind to smile and nod as she led Feyre back out of the rooms and downstairs. Yes, she could imagine exactly the sort of safety Rhysand was providing, sleeping in the same tiny guest room as her sister.   She knew Feyre hadn’t slept there, her first night home. Had missed when Feyre switched rooms. After the first fight? Safety. That ridiculous prick.  “You know,” Elain said, “The wards here are blood bound. You’re as safe anywhere on Archeron land as I am. It’s your home too.”   Feyre made an odd little noncommittal noise in return. “I’ve never seen blood magic before.”   The phrase sounded even more off in her mouth; the difference between Nesta saying Vanserra- with love, with friendship, no matter how sharp she was- and Rhysand saying Vanserra, like Lucien’s name was a curse.   And why would Feyre have ever seen it? The long and deadly traditions of the Autumn Court, Lucien’s mother’s power unstoppable in his veins.  Magic that could rise to mortal hands and lived in the hollows of Prythians land. Why would she- no humans had ever been allowed to live in the Night Court.   Elain raised her chin. Took a deep breath made invisible by the tight strays of her fashionable gown, and gathered the thick fabric in her hands.   “This way,” Her voice, she was proud, came out affable as ever, “There’s hot chocolate in the drawing room, and I made cookies last night. You’d adore our cook, she’s been teaching me how to bake. Do you like snickerdoodles?”   Feyre liked anything with cinnamon and sugar, had since she was a toddler.   A painfully obvious relief on her face, Feyre nodded with a smile.   Elain led her on.   ***   So very many people feared Azriel.   The scars and cold menace, that sheer fact that Shadowsingers were a breed apart, something more magic than being to speak to the darkness and hear it whisper back. But Azriel was also kind. No amount of blood on his hands would ever change that, and nothing would ever change that Cassian was lucky to have him as a brother, no matter who their actual father’s were.   Cassian was lucky now, that Az was on his side.   “Rhys,” Az cut into the growing tension, worse- so much worse to have this fight right here and now, Cassian could still smell Nesta’s blood on Rhy’s hands, Cassian couldn’t breathe- because Cassian would never, ever apologize for what he’d done.   He waited until purple eyes swung away from Cassian. Their dearest friend, their older brother, but also and always, their High Lord.   “Rhys,” Azriel insisted again, terrible, something those shadows whispered to him making his voice cold, “Why is Nesta a problem, but not Elain?”   Cassian was going to rattle out of his skin.   With a twist of his mouth that said he knew damn well he wasn’t completely right, Rhys didn’t answer the question. “You didn’t have to agree like that. She could make you do anything, kill anyone.”   Cassian swallowed. He’d known- he knew- what Nesta had asked. That this would hit Rhysand in all the worst possible by ways after the last fifty years. But also- what choice did she have? There were no humans in the Night Court.   No safe place for them, no laws to protect them. Nothing but the Archeron sisters and Lucien’s power standing between several hundred humans being killed, if not in the war than by the Queens, by royal law that any of the surrounding estates could bring down on their heads at any time.   Nesta did what she had to, to get her people out.   Without harming the Night Court, or the war effort.   Stone-faced, Azriel crossed his arms. The shadows coiled down his jaw, whispered and keened and wept things Cassian couldn’t imagine. More, Cassian realized suddenly, than he knew. Azriel was not just backing up Cassian, not simply trying to stop more conflict.   “Nesta Archeron does not lie.”   Brow crinkling in surprise, Rhys looked between Cassian who knew damned well every unbearably honest, real thing his face was saying, and Azriel, leaking an icy anger into the air that even Cassian couldn’t fully explain.   Rhys said finally, slow, “She let Feyre go into those woods alone every day- she’s the oldest, she should have”-   “Their father should have,” Cassian growled before he’d made the choice to speak. “Are you fucking kidding me? They don’t even- their father technically owns them under human law. Feyre was probably safer in those woods than around mortal men.”   It hit too close to home. Everything here, built from Tamlins money and turned into a prosperous future by insane risk and wild cleverness. Every piece forged- from paying back their father’s debts to the property they owned outright with his granted permission.   So much worse than rising to anger in response, Rhys shook his head. “Cassian.”   “What was I supposed to do, Rhys? Let Feyre’s sister bleed?” Feyre’s sister, like that was what mattered. Cassian loved Feyre- a sister, a friend- but Nesta was every godsgiven sunrise he’d ever seen and they’d destroyed her future. “We put Feyre’s entire family and hundreds of people in danger.”   Cassian had spent the three days it took the moon to fade in the Archeron library. Learning history, utterly foreign laws. Five hundred years ago the Queens were grateful and desperate for the help of the High Lords. Centuries later, enmeshed the in the politics of the continent, they despised the wild magic of Prythian: more powerful and infinitely more dangerous than their homelands.   They were tyrants with magical gifts leftover from the War, and the eldest Archeron sisters had been committing treason to stay alive, safe a thousand miles away.   The punishment for crimes against the crown wasn’t just dolled out to those who committed it, when they had royal blood in their veins.   “Rhysand,” Azriel murmured, glacial. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t.”   “Feyre just wants them safe, they’re not fighters.” Rhys said, tiredly, too many shadows in his voice to a be a full truth. “She’s going to hate all of us for this,” He waved those blood-red knuckles, words racing, “But I’m not going to ignore that she needs her whole family safe from Hybern’s hunters if we’re going to get through this.”   Her whole family. Azriel beat Cassian to words, voice horror enough he was certain Az knew something he didn’t. “If you let that man near his daughters, I’ll kill him myself.”   Less surprised than he should have been- Rhys knew he was wrong- Rhysand swung his face toward Cassian, like this was a vote, like so many things had been these long years, for all that they were all young in immortal life.   The wave of pain from Nesta that had driven him out of his mind: not normal sorrow, no uneasy resentment toward a mediocre parent. Azriel wouldn’t tell them secrets unless they were pertinent, would keep his dark honor.   Cassian didn’t need it to know Nesta would probably try to eliminate her father herself with half the opportunity; he’d just be one of the several willing hands to aid. Singing steel had sung for her- would she ever let him take her into the skies?  “Why can’t we just leave him in that prison?” He knew damn well they couldn’t. Hybern wanted Feyre alive, it would be laughably easy to use a mortal relative out in the world to draw her from their defenses.   Rhys rubbed a hand over his face.   Around them the wind blew. Snow and ice of a growing blizzard, but more to their ears. A second wave of the storm coming, cold that sang secrets, air that carried the tint of bloody magic, and just for Cassian: that flameless fire that would burn his world.   Rhys heard just enough to fly, for the mountains to call him home again and again. He’d never followed Feyres voice through the air, could never fly blind with solely the currents and his heart to lead him.   Illyrian but not- more, depending on who was speaking- High Fae, but apart. Cassian’s brother in every way that mattered, who he didn’t want to be set against.   They were the Court of Dreams.   But here: fearless Nesta, cunning Elain, and even banished Lucien. Their sort of people- they wanted the same things, a new world, a better world, their people’s survival. Dreamers.   He couldn’t understand how Rhys couldn’t see it, but he also knew it wasn’t a logical response. As though he was focusing all his tempering on giving Feyre room to grow into herself, and there was none left to rein in that Rhys couldn’t actually go on hating her sisters for the lack of an apology Feyre didn’t even want.   Besides the impossible things Cassian himself wanted, let himself think in the night hours when he kept running into her, his very face an embarrassment. Nesta: a generals keen eyes and an Illyrian heart, a bright fragile flame through the dark.   He couldn’t- wouldn’t- choose.   Hadn’t they all been taught the same lessons under starlight, in the gentle voice of the High Lady who was the only mother Cassian had ever known?  Let no one take your wings, let no one take your love.   They will tell you Illyrians are born to die.   You are born for war. Because no victory can be won without a true heart, no forest can flourish without fire. No Illyrian wouldn’t fight to the death for what was theirs, for what they loved and held in promise.   Let no one take it away.   Let the song of the wind guide you. Cassian wanted to know what Az did, but he couldn’t help but be aware that if he did, the Acheron’s father wouldn’t be long in the world.   Azriel’s face said, prison is too kind. Despite having his head up his ass, Rhys was taking note of the look too. “You can’t?”   Az shook his head. He’d done terrible things so that they wouldn’t have to, kept council with the secrets of the world. It was his honor: unless it couldn’t be avoided, unless it was necessary, Azriel wouldn’t tell personal tales.   Rhysand sighed.   “We’ll leave him to rot, but I want eyes on the City of Gods.” Az dipped his head in agreement, but didn’t leave Cassian’s side. “Cas,” Rhys started and stopped, sighing out a billow of white as snow fell in earnest between them. “I’m not saying you’re compromised- just be careful.”   Compromised- it was an effort, to choke down the hurt and temper.   Harder, with the smell of Nesta’s blood on his brother’s skin. The knowledge that he’d left her waiting in the snow-tiny and mortal in the storm- cold as killing mountain frost. Compromised, like Cassian had ever taken a single disloyal breath.   He swallowed. “I’m always careful.” ***   Elain’s estimate was off by only a few minutes.   The clatter of Feyre’s cup crashing against the saucer told her that error of time had spooled in the wrong direction before Elain could look up.   Snow sliding off his wet hair and turning to mist, bleeding red fading to intermix with gold, the sheer feral triumph on Lucien’s bright face froze her in place for moment. Beauty that said deadly, a fanged grin that said conquest, told her: we won.   Wild, her heart galloped in her chest as Elain rose.   Lucien had already made quick, graceful work of laying Nesta down on a chaise; one arm around her shoulder, the other caught in the death grip of Nesta’s bloody hands.   Half risen, Feyre was staring at those rusty smears, at least half a wine dark shade more purpled than mortal blood that Elain herself knew to be viscous and staining. “Nesta, what happened?”   Her older sister ignored the question, swatting away Lucien’s hands as he tried to unbuckle the twin sickle shaped knives belted over her gown. No wound visible beneath all the blood that had run so freely as to ruin her sleeves, but a fresh silvered scar across her palm that flashed magic-made in the candlelight.   She cracked open one bloodshot eye. “Fey, settle something for me. Rhysand’s wings: a ludicrous intimidation tactic or a stupid show of trust?”   Lucien laughed, Feyre’s head swinging toward him with a look of betrayal.   “He’s half-Illyrian,” Feyre replied, like it was nothing.   One arm flung over her parchment pale face, Nesta laughed through cracked lips. “Illyrian? Oh, the crowns. Has he tried to touch your hair little Fey? Breathed in your voice? Cry’thyra, under a boundless sky?”   “Is she drunk?”   Elain shook out her skirt, spreading it a little more than strictly necessary until the flounces half hid the chaise behind her. “Of course not, she’s perfectly fine."   In beat, in time, stepping so close the warmth radiating from his body left goosebumps rising on her skin, Lucien stood up beside her, blocking Nesta off from Feyre entirely. “We had to conduct a small ritual.” Small ritual- Elain couldn’t contain a smile. They’d bound a High Lord of Prythian to their people, cursed the Lord of Nightmares himself in vital, inescapable bonds.   With a thud that even faery grace imbued in her long limbs couldn’t contain, Feyre slid her knee off the couch, rising fully.   Looked between Lucien and Elain- and Elain for just a second, let herself imagine what her younger sister was seeing: his sun-brown face in the depths of winter, riven with scars and gold. A beauty that was savagely fae and as familiar to Elain as her own breath. Elain herself, shoulder brushing his arm, velvet and fashionable enforced silk spooling out from her waist, more comfortable here beside him than she’d been charming Feyre.   Nesta, intoxicated on a force that felt like swallowing stars, was still crooning advice, in and out of the common tongue. “Does he give you braids too? Ask after his gifts, littlest sister. Cry’thyra, vost sha’llan fa thye. Turn your face into the wind.” Pink was gathering, high of Feyre’s cheeks. “She’s magic drunk?” Her voice had gone small.   “Mhmm,” Lucien agreed, reaching behind Elain faerie fast and finally managing to wrestle away Nesta’s daggers, quicker than she could see. “We’ll get some food in her, should pass quickly.”   “I know Azriel is,” Feyre waved a hand toward her face that Elain didn’t want to interpret- scary? Did Feyre really think that any of them had it left in them to be afraid of faeries?- Azriel was quiet and polite, horrifically powerful, but from what Elain could note, both kind and honorable along with it. Even Lucien, who he’d tried to drag into the dark, respected him. “But he’s a very skilled healer? I could send him up?”   He also, unlike Elain or Lucien, would doubtless speak the language Nesta was still murmuring.   It wasn’t something her older sister would want, anymore than she’d want Feyre to see her like this.   Somewhere behind those alien but familiar blue eyes, Feyre seemed to be coming to the same conclusion. “Let me know, if she’s alright?”   Elain reached across the table to squeeze her hand for just a second. “Of course.”   Beneath her touch, the Night Court promises Feyre carried in ink pulsed, quick and angry. An effort, not to fling away her hand at that hostile, intrusive second heartbeat.   It wasn’t until the door was shut behind her that Elain spun to Lucien. “We did it? It worked?”   Full lips and fanged smile, so breathtaking in triumph that Elain had flung her arms around his neck before Lucien could get out more than a few words.    “You were right about the Illyrians and the marker,” He said, sunlit laugh spilling from his mouth. One warm hand wrapped around her wrist, the other looped around her waist as Lucien bent down into her embrace, keeping Elain’s feet from actually leaving the ground.   “Elain,” he laughed.   She could only grin back. Careful- so slow and careful to watch his golden gaze- Elain slid her linked hands beneath the snow-damp collar of his mortal lords greatcoat, pressed her palms to the back of his neck.   Like magic- he was magic, power she’d never stop having questions about, wonder she’d long since stopped trying to hide- Lucien’s head dipped, her thumb sliding down the muscled column of his neck.   He swallowed. Elain could hear the click of his dry throat.   Behind them, less mocking and a hundred times more fatigued, Nesta muttered. “I am right here.”   Elain sighed, and let her hands drift back down, her whole weight against the solid warmth of Lucien’s chest. Turning her head to prop her cheek against him was natural- but surprise enough to Lucien that Elain felt and heard his intake of breath, a second, different triumph lighting her up inside.   Because Nesta was Nesta, despite every pointy thing her raised brows were doing, she grinned back at Elain’s smile.   Her lip split for her trouble.   Lucien’s grimace was loud. “Bastard made us wait in the snow for him. You want a drink, Archeron?”   “So long as it’s not that hot chocolate we’ve been feeding Feyre. The good stuff only, Vanserra."   The good stuff was pulled out of Elain’s embroidery basket, whiskey from the Winter Court and Archeron estate cider that Lucien reached for only after squeezing Elain’s side with silent acknowledgment that left her skin burning.   A full round for all of them- and water, at Lucien’s insistence- later, Nesta got tired of her sticky sleeves. Elain had half unlaced her gown before Lucien hissed in discomfort- Nesta laughing, Vanserra, I know you’re not interested. I’m not stripping- as together the sisters pulled the great velvet mess from Nesta, revealing a full silk undergown and her pale shoulders   So it was at their most comfortable- Lucien and Elain sharing both a couch that barely fit Lucien by himself and a glass of whiskey that Lucien grinned at whenever Elain stole it from his grasp; and Nesta, free from the trappings of rank, still lit up with magic, on her second cider and immensely pleased with herself- that Azriel found them.   Polite enough to knock, and then stay by the door when he entered, soldiers stance at the ready.   “Apologies,” Azriel said, gravel voice hanging barely on the right side of discomfort as he took in the close family circle. “Feyre insisted someone was hurt?”   Lucien, in an act of grace that managed to barely jostle Elain, sprang to his feet.  And vaulted over the couch, for good measure, to land catlike before him.“The blood scared her.”   Dark curls falling in his face, Azriel inclined his head in agreement. “I thought it might be that. But-“   “But Rhysand sent you up here anyway?”   An infinitesimal smile flickered over that coldly handsome face. “We’re familiar with the effect of magic-channeled humans.”   Nesta, now upright and sprawled over several pillows sighed and set down her glass. “I do perfectly well, but you can assuage fears.” Not Feyre’s fears, Elain couldn’t help but notice. Nesta held out a hand, recited something whose soft sibilant words were completely lost on Elain.   Azriel’s dark brows rose by the slightest meter.   Striding across the room, Azriel knelt and took her wrist with extreme delicacy. Before murmuring something equally soft back with a warmth that made Lucien grin. He leaned over the top of the delicate sitting room couch they’d both been squished on to whisper in Elain’s ear.   “I don’t think Feyre is scared.”   She twisted toward his face in reply, lips brushing Lucien’s cheek. Quiet. No matter how quiet they were, Azriel would still hear them. “Notice the knives?”   “Singing steel,” Lucien breathed. “How long has she been learning to speak it?.”   “You’ll find,” She couldn’t resist whispering back, knew that without Feyre or Rhys or a true outsider in the room, Nesta wouldn’t care, “That the Illyrian section of the library has gone missing into private collection.”   Fully ignoring them both, Azriel bowed his head briefly over their joined hands, shadows of the room shifting.   Elain’s observation was screened by the fall of bloody red hair, the sharp shape of Lucien’s jaw. An effort to be close and not think- a hunger not foreign, but never acted upon- Elain wanted to bite that jutted shape and let her teeth learn bone, wanted to swallow down the taste and scent of fire that stayed on her skin even hours after Lucien had last touched her in some casual polite way: a hand on her arm, the lingering temptation that never left.   But not so much a distraction she wasn’t watching her sister.   A weary but given trust- Nesta, who if she could avoid it touched no one but Elain and Lucien; who struggled and hated the rounds of social calling that the gentry required, held the hand of the Shadowsinger, hewn of stone and darkness, and let him use his dark gifts.   If Azriel was surprised by her loosened tongue or knowledge of his language it didn’t show, but Elain would swear the ghost of a smile was lingering under that carefully blank expression.   So quiet Elain barely heard it at all, but enough that Lucien’s grin sprang to life, stubble rasping over her cheek, Nesta breathed. “We’ll speak tomorrow.”   Azriel’s reply must have been all expression, because Nesta nodded.   Against Elain’s skin- this night of magic and conquest heady beyond what seemed possible- Lucien mouthed contract, like he’d heard her thoughts. Perfection.   With a sigh, Azriel rose to his feet. “You’ll be fine by morning, even from the cold.” Rhysand left them waiting in the snow- the Illyrian’s hailed from fearsome mountains, didn’t they? Cold that could kill. Feyre, if she had actually sent him, was not the real reason their guest had shown up.   She’d thought the court was family- if one in fraught disagreement- and didn’t Azriel’s tired of this bullshit eyes confirm it.   Elain leaned away from the harbor of Lucien’s embrace. “Can I offer you a drink, Azriel?”   Small, but amused in a way that was tangible reminder he heard and understood a thousand times more than was said, Azriel smiled back at her. “Only if you don’t mind my taking it to go. I should get back, tell the others Nesta is going to be fine.”   No lie.   She’d barely reached before Lucien was pouring, movement blurred to reach. Nesta might have shed blood stained velvet, but Elain had laughingly managed to pull away Lucien’s coat, leaving a furnace and taut muscle visible through silvered silk beside her.   Azriel accepted the whiskey with a small toast, before stepping backward into darkness and away.   A now blood-free, bright gaze found Elain’s, sharp with happiness. Elain felt the giddiness of victory burst in her chest all over again- a curse, they’d trapped a High Lord of Prythian to protect their people- and found it reflected back in Nestas eyes.   Their sister could think they were helpless, their father could burn in hell, but Elain and Nesta had saved their house.   Flaith Archeron had stood for more than a thousand years. Together, they’d incontrovertibly changed the tide against there being another thousand. They’d live- they’d survive. Nesta rose, sliding past them with the cloud of her bloody gown discarded over one arm.   One battle down, the next coming soon; Elain wondered with a smile if there was a general waiting to wish her sister sleep after this victory.   But first, this victory of her own.   Alone, Elain reached for Lucien, and Lucien reached back.

@breath-of-sindragosa

@flxwer-petals

@ladyvanserra

@illyrianinterrasen

@missanniewhimsy

@tntwme

@ourbooksuniverse

@pitterpatterpot

@thestarwhowishes

@abillionlittlepieces

@my-fan-side

@the-eightofswords

@wonderland–memories

@ourbooksuniverse

@cohen-theeleven

@donnarosemary

@keshavomit   @superspiritfestival  @court-of-fandoms-and-art

[kitashiwrites]

Friendly Fire - A Lucien Fic

Series: A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maas Characters: Lucien, Cassian POV: Lucien Rating: G Word Count: 2242 Ao3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10649523/

Summary: When Cassian finds Lucien blowing off some steam in the Night Court, the two unwittingly find themselves as sparring partners for the afternoon. But what starts as friendly fire quickly turns to an unexpected confidence that allows them both to break down some of the demons that have been chasing them and find a friend they never knew they needed.

Comments: Hello everyone! Look, another Lucien POV! Not the one I originally planned, but another one anyway! This one comes from a request posted on the @acotarkinkmeme, but is one of the few safe for work requests.

Prompt: “Lucien and Cassian Brotp; again, when Lucien comes to the night court, Cassian uses sparring lessons to show Lucien that the Illyrians aren’t monsters, he shows him what an actual friend looks like. Parallel to the scene between him and Feyre in ACOMAF where she breaks down. I just want Lucien to have a friend okay??”

The biggest thanks to @illyriantremors, who despite having not read this beforehand has heard me talk about it enough that she was able to put together a summary & title because I failed after hours of trying, as well as helped by giving me help with ideas for conversations between these two. I would be lost without her lol So here you go! Hopefully it meets your expectations requester! Enjoy! :)

-------

The Night Court was far more beautiful than I had ever imagined.

Well, specifically Velaris. But it was hard to merge together the stories of the most wicked of the seven courts with this… peaceful, cultural haven. I had wandered through the streets looking at brightly colored shops and vendors at different points since I had arrived here, smelling the spices and food, admiring the beautiful architecture that I could probably stare at for hours on end. The sound of music wafting from the theaters that I wanted to visit, calling to my soul in a way I hadn't felt since I had been young in the Autumn Court—before everything went to hell.

I wondered if I could ever enjoy it as I once did.

But now I hit the training dummy on the rooftop of what Feyre called the House of Wind with my sword every which way and felt like a complete idiot, and it only made me hit it harder. I had lost track of how long I’d been out here, but I wasn't ready to quit yet. It was cathartic.

“Your technique is awful,” a voice called from behind me. I turned to see the smirking Illyrian commander—Cassian, I had to remind myself—leaning lazily against the nearby wall with his arms crossed.

“How long have you been standing there?” I asked, displeased that I had an audience.

The smirk grew wider, into an outright grin. “Long enough to know you wouldn't last in a real sword fight.”

“What do you know about swordsmanship?” I snapped, sheathing my sword and scowling at him. I had held a blade in my hand since before I could remember—trained with it almost as long. He pushed himself off the railing and reached behind his back, unsheathing a sword that I hadn't even seen. It was a beautiful blade—from the similar look to Tamlin's knives, it was Illyrian made—and with a few steps and one swipe of the blade, the head of the training dummy was on the floor, rolling away.

“Plenty.”

My hand gripped the pommel of my sword. “Effective, but that is hardly what I would call finesse,” I scoffed, trying not to give away the slight fear I felt. Cassian shrugged.

“Fights usually aren't pretty. Sometimes it's kill or be killed out there—doesn't matter how, just that the result is in your favor.”

“Spoken like a true Illyrian,” I snapped. Their ruthlessness on the battlefield was legendary, and I was starting to see how it could be true.

“I should hope so.” He gave me a sly look. “How about a friendly match? Your style versus mine. First to three strikes wins.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And how do I know you aren't going to cheat? Illyrians aren't exactly known for their honor,” I said flatly.

“You’re right; you don't, and they aren't. Especially Illyrian bastards.” He grinned wolfishly. “But I don't know if you will be honorable either, being from Spring and all.” He rolled his neck and gave me a grin that made me unsure this spar was going to be as friendly as he claimed. “So what's it gonna be?”

I raised an eyebrow. “You're serious?”

“You want to mouth off, then back it up.” Cassian positioned himself in a fighting stance and held the sword in his hand with a different style than I had ever seen. I nodded and fell into my familiar stance—one that was as familiar as breathing.

I shifted my foot. Before I could blink, the flat of his blade was against my arm.

“One-zero,” he said with a cocky grin. “Pay attention.” I scowled as he stepped back and got into position again. This time when he lunged, I managed to dodge and circle him, but it was almost impossible with the wings that protruded from his back. I launched myself at his back, for the scabbard I saw was placed along his spine, between where his wings protruded from his back. The flat of my blade landed on his chest as he whirled around.

“One-one,” I said.

“One-one,” he agreed, “but a word of warning—try to hit the wings again, and I promise it will not be the flat of my blade that you find buried in your heart.” His tone was light, but I could tell there was a very real threat behind it.

I positioned myself defensively again, keeping an eye on him as we waited for the other to make their move. “Protective much?” I called out. Faster than I could blink, his sword tapped my stomach.

“Two-one.” I scowled at him, but didn't reply. “We’re trained from birth to protect our wings at all costs,” he offered in explanation. “I already almost lost them once. That was enough.” The image of Hybern flashed through my head—the agonized scream that had ripped through the air as that powerful blast had been shot at the poisoned Shadowsinger and how he had shielded him. In the light, I could see the scars and raised tissue that mottled the wings of the man in front of me. He winced almost imperceptibly as he shifted one of them.

“It gets easier,” I said suddenly.

“What does?” I got a lucky hit in against his other arm. Two-two.

I gestured to his wings. He laughed bitterly.

“What would you know about that?” I raised an eyebrow and tapped my metal eye. He winced at the action.

“Oh. Right.” We continue circling each other, waiting for our opening.

“When I came to, after it happened, I felt like my entire head was being torn in two,” I said. I wasn't even sure why I was telling him, but I felt like I should say something. “I was surprised it was only one eye, and I hated it. I’d have rather lost both eyes and been blind to the world if it meant I didn’t have to see what a disfigured mess I’d become.”

“So what got you over it?” Cassian asked, curiosity coloring his voice. He had stopped moving, though his sword remained out.

I snorted and lowered my sword, though I remained aware of where he was. In case he was trying to lower my guard. “I got stuck with that abysmal fox mask for fifty years and suddenly, one eye didn’t seem like such problem.” Cassian laughed bitterly.

“Yeah, well there's no cure all for these. You can't bring back what once was lost.” He shook his wings slightly and winced.

“Have you tried working with them?” I asked.

“No good,” he said almost dismissively. “They hurt too much if I try to get airborne. They've told me if I strain them—”

“Have they told you that you can never fly again?” I interrupted.

His brow furrowed. “They—”

“Have they told you that you can't fly.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“So then why are you here harassing me? You should be working with them. Prove to them that you are a stubborn bastard.”

He chuckled. “You don't know how literal your statement actually is. That’s why I was here. Because Mor got tired of watching me mope and sicked my High Lord and High Lady on me. Imagine my surprise that my quiet training place was already occupied. Speaking of which,” he crossed his arms again, “how did you get up here? There is literally a thousand stairs and the House is protected against winnowing.”

“Feyre offered to take me when I asked if there was a place I could practice without interruption. Obviously she was mistaken.” Cassian chuckled.

“Or she did it on purpose. She knows I like to come here.” He tilted his head. “So why were you out here?” he asked. There was no mocking in his tone.

“I don't belong here,” I confessed. “When I came to the Night Court with Feyre and requested an audience with the High Lord, I didn't expect to feel like I was going Under the Mountain again. But walking into that throne room of his—theirs—watching her turn into a completely different person before my eyes and take a seat on his lap as a crown appeared on her head... until they dismissed everyone, I thought I had just walked into my death.” I took a seat on the ground, not feeling like sparring anymore. “I didn't agree with what Tamlin did, I didn't like that he went to Hybern to force Feyre to come ho—back to Spring. But I didn't do anything about it. I let him put Prythian in danger, even though I saw the warning signs. And when things got too bad, I ran.” It was the first time I had said all of this out loud, even to myself.

“The first step to healing is accepting you were wrong.” I scowled at him, but he didn't laugh. If anything, he looked thoughtful.

“I see a lot of the issues Feyre came to Velaris with in you, too,” he continued. “I wonder if it is just a Spring Court thing?”

I frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Feyre had a similar reaction,” he said softly, taking a seat on the ground next to me, “when she first came here. She blamed herself for the deaths of the two faeries she had to kill Under the Mountain. She punched holes in my protective gloves right on this same rooftop, with fire.” He paused. “Say, doesn't that belong to your court, fox-boy?”

“That hasn't been my court in a long time,”I gritted out. “And it's Lucien, not fox-boy.”

There was that mocking grin again. “Would you prefer I call you something else? I’m sure Foxy—”

“On second thought, fox-boy is fine,” I amended hastily. He chuckled.

“Fine, Lucien. Anyway, she blamed herself so much that she admitted that she just wanted enough time after freeing you all from the curse to turn the knife on herself.” I couldn't hide the shock I felt, though if he noticed, Cassian didn't acknowledge it.

“She was a mess when she came out of that court,” he continued. “And after we got back from Hybern and Az and I found out that our brother's mate, our friend and practically our sister, had been taken back to Spring—that she had sacrificed herself for us to escape… that was bad enough. But when Rhys revealed he had made her his High Lady… Prythian was lucky that Rhys was so adamant that she could handle herself and ordered us to let her do what she wanted without interference unless she asked. We would have razed the Spring Court, damn the consequences, to get her back. Even if it cost us our lives.”

“You are very devoted to him,” I said plainly. “And to Feyre.”

Cassian nodded. “The Court of Dreams is based on three things: to defend, to honor, and to cherish.” He shrugged. “The rules we follow are flexible, but as long as what we do doesn't break one of those three creeds or put our Court in danger, Rhys doesn't care. But there is still a level of earned trust. That you came to the Court of Nightmares to bring her home, to ask them to allow you to help, and neither Feyre or Rhys turned you away tells me that they trust you. The fact that you are still here and neither Azriel or Amren has killed you in your sleep tells me that you're a decent enough man.”

I mulled over his words for a moment. “You are not what I expected,” I said finally. And I meant it.

He snickered. “What, did you think the whole Night Court was like the Court of Nightmares?”

I had indeed. That's all I had ever seen. It's all Prythian had ever seen.

He seemed to take my silence for the agreement it was, and sobered a bit looking up at the darkening sky. “To be honest though, in that mountain city, we all wear masks. They may not be like the one you were cursed with—not as visible—but just as real. We play the monsters, Feyre included, to keep the people here safe. To keep each other safe. We feel trapped there, but at least we know we will get out. The camps, for all their brutality, we can keep in line. Because they still have more honor than some of the highest ranking denizens of that cesspit in the Hewn City.”

Before I could ask what he meant, Cassian suddenly stood up, surprisingly gracefully for the wings, and held out a hand to help me up.

“We’re all going to Rita's soon. Mor’s idea as usual. Why don't you join us?”

I shook my head. “I don't—”

“You are coming, and that's final.” He smiled.  “If Feyre is going to include you with the Inner Circle, there are some duties you must fulfill as one of our friends.”

Friends. “Such as?”

He smirked. “Helping Az and I take Rhys for all he’s worth in cards until Mor manages to convince Az to join her out on the dance floor. Besides, we’re tied two for two, but there are other ways we can compete to see who gets that final point.”

It sounded ridiculous. But it also sounded fun.

I gave him the most genuine smile I had given anyone since I had come here. “Count me in.”

[illyriantremors]

Beneath the Stars Chapter 1: An ACOMAF AU Fic

This is the *NaNo* fic I’ve been working on for a few months now. Yay! I will post each chapter here individually on Tumblr over the coming weeks, but the entirety of it is already up on AO3 if you wish to binge it.

This fic is very close to my heart. As I have sort of intimated at times on this blog, my head space has gotten a little tumultuous in recent years as I’ve been working through some things, and so I used Feyre as a sounding board for a lot of those emotions. I have not lived the family or romantic life she has lived in this fic, but the thoughts she expresses internally and otherwise are very much my own throughout. So while my Feyre is going to seem rather different in many ways from book Feyre (and I apologize for all the California culture in advance), I hope this helps explain why.

Major THANK YOU to @kitashiwrites for reading this entire fic over, continually encouraging me to finish it, and for telling me it wasn’t total garbage. You are the absolute best!!!

Summary: After her family falls apart on a night Feyre Archeron would rather forget, she flees to the biggest start-of-summer party around at Lucien’s where the comfort of her boyfriend Tamlin awaits. But as the party drags on, Feyre begins to realize that the cracks in her life run much deeper than she realized. When she meets a rather mysterious new friend at the party with witty remarks and what seems like genuine sympathy, senior year suddenly promises to bring a whole new set of challenges and emotions that she wasn’t prepared for.

Rating: E [Chapter 1 is NSFW, but most of the fic won’t be.]

AO3 Linkage

Beneath the Stars

My throat itched as I climbed the long length of Lucien’s driveway. I had to swallow over and over again to keep myself from coughing all while trying to breathe out my mouth since my nose was still drying up with snot. Hell if I knew when the screams would die out. I could still hear them ringing in my ear even now.

Each one drove me further up the driveway and damn if Lucien didn’t have such a monstrosity of a house, if you could call it that. Home was a funny way to describe where Lucien lived when it took up several acres worth of space, contained fifteen or more bedrooms, and covered every spare inch of space in solid white marble.

It was a wonder I wasn’t more used to it by now - the richness of it all. Everyone in my life ran in this type of circle. Even my own family lived in luxury, though nothing quite what Lucien’s family was packing and who knew how much longer it would last, now that mom had - ah.

Later. I could think about that later. Right now, I was on a mission with one single purpose - to see him.

The lie laughed openly at me as I reached the top of the small hill leading up the entryway. No matter how hard I tried, I was likely never to forget the exchange of words between my parents for a long time coming. But if I could just get close enough to him, close enough to touch him, maybe I could forget even if only for a moment.

That was all I needed when I was with my boyfriend. Just a touch or a shared look and the world would disappear, dragging all of my family’s shit right along with it. There were times I wished it would take me too, but then… what was the point?

Sometimes, I didn’t much care to answer that question.

A flash of hair a tad too bright to be my own…

The crash of the door slamming on its hinges as her perfume swept by me…

The screech of tires on pavement as she spun out…

“Ah,” I growled to myself, waving my hand through the air as if I could physically assault my memory and take it away.

Where was Tamlin?

Even a mile down the driveway, I had heard the music pulsing. Getting to the door only amplified the sound tenfold and I rather liked it. It was a beat you could dance or destroy to, whatever suited your mood. The air was hot out - hot even for early summer in southern California. It only added to the crawling of the rhythm over my skin that pushed me inside the manor, away from the couples exploring each other behind trees and bushes around Lucien’s immense front lawn.

How the hell he and his brothers got away with these garbage parties was beyond me. But I was grateful all the same that they did for the time it got me away from home and in my boyfriend’s pants.

The front door was wide open and I stumbled inside to a madhouse. People were everywhere and despite going to school with all of them over the past three years, I only recognized a handful of faces. The eternal downside of California’s public education system - and it had many - was the thousands of students school districts insisted on shoving into one school with the audacity to call it balanced.

My senior graduating class was expected to top off at just over 1,100 students and that was just one year of students, nevermind the other three.

No one looked at me unfriendly as I walked in. It didn’t matter that we were strangers barely able to recognize one another from a smattering of shared classes we didn’t converse in.

This was a party. The party. The one that said summer was officially underway and that the nights were already too unbearably hot for everyone not to be drunk and still fully dressed.

And blast it all if Lucien’s house wasn’t perfect for just such an occasion I cursed silently as I made my way through the maze of hallways and bonus rooms and living rooms trying to isolate one individual among many. Like looking for a needle in a haystack.

A needle my shaking hands were ready to bend and break if I didn’t find Tamlin soon to take the edge off.

Just breathe, Feyre. Breathe. You’ll find it. It will work. This will work.

My fingers rose to my lips where my teeth were ready to chew on the tender skin around the nail beds I hadn’t already bitten to bits when I saw the distinct flash of red bobbing towards me through the crowd. And then I heard his biting voice.

“That’s what I’m going to do if he so much as steps one foot out of - Feyre!”

Surprise interrupted the red-headed bravado as Lucien came to a full stop in front of me. My hand fell back to my side at ease, a light lick of saliva barely coating my forefinger before I could get to it properly.

“Lucien, thank the stars,” I said, feeling the first glimpses of relief settle into my veins. “Where’s Tamlin?”

“Tamlin?” Lucien snapped the name in two at me, almost indignant I would ask. It made my nose curl up around my eyes.

“Yes, Tamlin,” I said, with obvious irritation. “Do you have any idea?”

Lucien seemed to cool out of whatever had caught him by the long hairs of his auburn head, his voice going even while he nonchalantly handed off his drink to the pretty blond he’d been chatting with. He touched the long jagged scar that ran through one of his eyes unawares, the one that permanently marred his vision.

“I didn’t think you were coming tonight, Feyre.”

I crossed my arms feeling defensive because it was true. I hadn’t planned on coming tonight.

Exams had been exhausting and sleep sounded like a great way to cap off the last day of school - not a party. And then mom and dad exploded in the living room and I knew I had to get out and that was before mom had given me her own parting farewell.

Lucien didn’t need to know that though. It was none of his business.

So I swept past him heading for the stairs and said as smoothly as I could muster, not at all bothered by him, “I know your house is the size of a whale, Lucien, but I’d like to find Tamlin now, so if you’re not going to help-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Lucien cut in quickly, but it was the way he grabbed my arm sharply that made me feel like there was more to the gesture than a simple fear he’d offended me ignoring my pleas. “I know where he is. I’ll get him for you. Just wait here, okay? There’s beer in the kitchen.”

Beer.

My stomach turned at the thought of all that golden ale running down my throat. It was too much like dad for my own liking even if I knew how to keep myself in check with it.

“You know I can’t stand that nasty stuff. I’ll just come with you.”

“No,” Lucien insisted and he actually physically turned my body towards the kitchen. “Just stay here and do something. Try a beer, a water, a CapriSun for all I care. You look like hell, Feyre.”

He was gone before I could swivel back a disgruntled retort, but ah, what did it matter? I was used to it by now with Lucien, our back-and-forth way of biting at each other to say, Hey, you’re actually kind of alright. If that’s what it was. Like me or not like me - I could never really tell with him.

The kitchen, however, I did not make for content to stay away from dad’s poisons of choice for as long as I could. Though I would never have admitted it aloud to another soul - even Tamlin - part of me was desperate to crack open a bottle and chug it all down in one bitterly delicious gulp, see if it wouldn’t taste as soothing and wonderful as my body felt whenever Tamlin touched me, ran his hands over my skin in ways that sent little shocks of electricity zinging all over until I lit up brighter than a Christmas tree.

That had to be it, right? I eyed the kitchen door wondering. Why else would dad drink so much if it didn’t make him feel that amazing all the damn time? What would make him choose the bottles over other more important things if it didn’t -

“Feyre!”

I turned at the sound of my name and found Tamlin coming down Lucien’s stairs from the second floor; They were almost as long as the driveway. He looked impeccable as he always did, his blonde hair combed back smoothly though I could see it was still fresh with an unbelievable amount of gel. I stifled a secret smile at how secretly vain he could be.

He stopped a few feet away looking wary and the gap left between us struck me. I didn’t want a gap. I didn’t want separation. I wanted him in that soft red vest and faded denim jeans pressing against me until there was so little space, nothing could get between us. The fact that it wasn’t already happening, agitated by the fact that Tamlin himself had stopped short, did little to quiet the anxiety I’d been fighting for the greater part of the evening. My fingers twitched once at my side as I ground my teeth in response.

But then - he smiled and I felt instantly silly for thinking anything could ever have been wrong. “I didn’t think you were coming tonight. What happened?”

I rolled her eyes, not ready for that just yet. “It’s such a long story,” I said and snatched his hand. Tired of waiting, we made for the stairs from which Tamlin had just descended. I cast a not so apologetic look over my shoulder at Lucien. “Sorry, Lukey, but I don’t think you’re going to want to hear me recite the whole thing to him.”

“Ugh, Feyre, could we not?” But Lucien was looking at Tamlin when he answered and there was something of a hard concern in his eyes that I ignored for other instincts.

I found the bedroom quickly enough. It wasn’t like we hadn’t used it before. I just didn’t normally throw the door open quite so hard as I did tonight and for once, it caught Tamlin’s attention.

“Feyre,” he said like a question, but already I was pressing my lips against his. He tasted sweet, a cool breeze in early spring before all the miserable heat of summer had come to snatch it away from us. “Fey-ruh,” he mumbled against me. “What’s going on?” But there was no denying the distraction mounting by the second in his pants.

“Later,” I pulled away just far enough to say before grabbing him by the collar of his vest. “Just kiss me first. I need you to kiss me.”

The pleading tone that was dripping with more beggary than I cared to admit was enough. Tamlin pulled me against him and utterly engulfed me in his arms. A chill broke out on my skin as the clothes came off, but it was quickly replaced by the fervent heat between us as Tam took me on the bed and entered me in such a blaze of movement, I wondered if he’d been hard for me before I’d even dragged him up the stairs.

Everything in the world started to slow as Tamlin worked against me. My parents. My sisters. School. All the little aches and pains were replaced by his skin, his lips, his body. I moved furiously against him, wanting as much of him as I could get my hands on. It was the only thing keeping the nagging aches at bay every time they tried to claw their way back in. Even while we were connected and moving together, I had moments where my mind drifted back to the fight, the car pulling out of the driveway, and my dad opening the liquor cabinet up and I hated myself for it. So I concentrated on how he felt because thinking about me was too much of a mess to even begin to deal with and Tamlin’s body numbed the pain.

Numbed it, I thought, but didn’t take it entirely away.

We were silent for a while after Tamlin had pulled out of me. I nestled into his shoulder and stared up at the ceiling while he ran his fingers up and down my arm.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d changed your mind about coming?” He didn’t ask what had changed my mind, I noticed, only why I hadn’t told him. After how quickly I’d shut him up to have sex when he’d asked the first time, I could hardly blame him.

And maybe I was a tiny bit relieved. I could deal with my bizarre family drama later. For now, it was nice just to share a bed with a warm body in it.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It just sort of happened, but who cares? I’m here now anyway.”

I looked up at him and leaned in to kiss him. Tamlin sighed into it. “Right you are,” he said. “I just wish you had told me first.”

This time, he leaned in to kiss me, but the high of the moment was already starting to fade and there was something off with him that wasn’t quite sitting right with me. “Are you okay?” I asked, breaking off the kiss.

“Never better, why?”

I shook my head after a moment, content to brush it off. I was probably just making up things again. “No reason. Want to go back to the party? I don’t even know what I dragged you away from.”

“It was nothing important.”

“Well, I’m going back.” I gathered up my clothes and started dressing, but Tamlin didn’t move from the bed as his eyes dragged over me in a lazy fog. “You coming?”

He wiggled his eyebrows at me teasingly. “I already did, Feyre.”

“You’re gross,” I said not unfriendly, throwing his shirt at him and making to leave the room, but not until I’d had one more kiss and a whispered goodbye because without Tamlin joining me downstairs, the party no longer seemed so appetizing. I’d gotten what I’d come for.

Ahem, come.

Okay, I could be pretty gross too when I wanted to be.

Lucien was nowhere in sight when I made it back downstairs, but I had the distinct feeling someone somewhere in the crowd was watching me, noticing my sudden presence. The music was loud and pumped the start of a dull headache behind my eyes that reminded me tonight was not exactly my best night.

I didn’t mean to end up in the kitchen. But somehow, that’s where my feet carried me. I turned the sink on and ran some water over the first clean hand towel I could find and gently rubbed it against my skin. It felt cool and refreshing, but I still felt sick.

A few years ago, my sisters might have been at a party just like this. We could have gone together if there hadn’t been such an age gap between us. I wondered what they would have done tonight when the yelling started. Would Elain have popped her headphones in to pretend it wasn’t happening? Would Nesta have joined in the fray, always content to share her strong opinions?

Would either of them have bolted from the house the second mom left?

A dense thud sounded on my left. Some jock I didn’t know had set down a huge ice chest full of fresh beer bottles and ice before cracking one open for himself and strutting back outside with a whoop at his friends.

Drinking. Beer. Right. I could do that if I wanted to. I didn’t have to be like my dad just to try one.

I grabbed a bottle and realized I didn’t have anything to open it with. So I pressed it underneath the countertop the way people did in TV shows and movies and pulled to no success.

“Heh, thank you for finding that for me,” a low male voice said coming up behind me and snagging the bottle from my hand. “I’ve been looking for a Sam Adams for a while now.”

I spun around and came face to face with a tall, slender guy with dark inky hair and a wicked teasing smirk fixed on me. His eyes were so blue, they were nearly violet. I had the sense that I’d seen him before, undoubtedly at school, but I couldn’t pinpoint how I might know him. He was something kind of handsome, I thought.

And he had my drink.

“Excuse you,” I said snatching back my bottle. “That one was mine. Go get your own,” and I pointed at the ice chest. “It shouldn’t be hard.”

“No harder than watching you pretend to know what you’re doing with that.” He took the bottle back and fished a ring of keys from his pocket. The clip had a bottle opener on the end, but he didn’t use it. He seemed to be taunting me rather.

I glared at him. “Well are you gonna help me or not?”

With a smug look I was starting to get sick of, he cracked the bottle open and handed it to me. “Of course. Why do you think I came over here? I’m all for helping ladies in distress.”

“I am not a lady in distress and you’re a stupid prick.”

“A prick with a name - Rhysand.”

“Pri-ick.”

Rhysand. That name was familiar. I searched my mental catalogue of classes and couldn’t find him in a single one, which meant I had to know him from some kind of extracurricular, but other than art, I didn’t participate in those if I could help it.

Rhysand worked into another smile, probably thinking I was getting caught up in his bold attempt at flirting. But this smile was a little more charming than when he’d first walked up and suddenly I knew where I’d known him from.

“You’re the senior class president,” I said and was pleased when his smile faltered a tad.

“What of it?”

I shrugged carelessly. “Just didn’t imagine Mr. High and Mighty himself would grace us with his presence at a party like this. That’s all.”

“Well I would hate to deprive the masses of this beautiful face. Your reaction alone was worth the night.”

Against my better judgment, I flushed with heat. I hadn’t been that easy to read, had I? I’d only thought he was rather handsome, nothing over the top even if the more I looked at him the more I found I liked. Especially in those clothes. He wasn’t dressed like the rest of us who wore ripped jeans and school sweaters. No, Rhysand wore a dress shirt in dark purple and pressed khaki pants. Even his shoes were dressy and he’d definitely polished them up before coming.

Rhysand suddenly chuckled. I hadn’t replied to him and I gathered from his laugh that the silence was beginning to stretch on. He was toying with me, nothing more. Egging me on to see how much I’d overthink things and indeed, he’d been right.

“Are you going to drink that?” he asked, pointing at the still untouched bottle in my hand.

“You’re doing it again - that thing where you’re a massive prick for no reason.”

“Call me whatever you like. So long as you still look at me like you just did.”

I scowled and almost lifted the bottle to my lips on instinct just to fill the space so I didn’t have to answer him, but stopped short as the scent filled my nostrils. It was heavy and nauseating. “That’s kind of creepy, actually. Do you know that? Has anyone ever told you that you’re really creepy?”

He scowled, but this time he didn’t come back at me with another flirtation. Good.

“And what exactly has got you so fired up this fine evening, hmm?”

A million answers came swimming to mind, each one less savory than the one before it. My sisters. My parents. The fight. Mom leaving. Heck, even Tamlin hadn’t been quite as fulfilling a distraction as I’d hoped for. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so much like standing here arguing or flirting or whatever the hell this was supposed to be even if the boy leaning against the counter next to me was kind of cute.

As if he could sense my unease, Rhys took the bottle out of my hand and set it down. He placed his hand tentatively on my shoulder and though it was such a soft touch and far less a connection than what I’d had with Tamlin a few minutes ago, it somehow felt much more comforting. “Are you okay?”

Rhysand stared at me with those eyes that up close I could tell really were a deep kind of violet. They pierced me and I couldn’t stand it anymore: the beer, Tamlin, the party, Rhysand. What was I doing here?

“I’m fine,” I said shrugging him off and storming from the room. I made it outside and fumbled in my purse for my keys before taking off down the driveway. But a moment later, Rhysand had caught up to me.

“Hey!” he shouted and then again until I finally stopped so he could catch up. “I’m sorry for being intrusive. You just looked, well, I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets when he was done and I thought he sounded sincere.

“Just go away, okay? I’m fine. I’m going home.” I turned away, but Rhysand pestered on.

“Can you drive?”

“Yes, I can drive!” I’d stopped to shout it at him. “I may not be able to open a beer bottle as eloquently as the gods among us mere mortals,” and I waved dramatically in his direction, earning a small snort, “but I’m pretty sure I can operate a vehicle just fine. It’s how I got here in the first place.”

Rhysand nodded, giving me a contemplative look. “Pull out your phone.”

“What?”

“Please?”

“I didn’t think you were capable of begging,” I said, but I did begin searching for my phone.

“Oh I’ve been told I’m very good at begging for it, among other things.” By the time I realized the comment wasn’t quite so much a harassment at me as it was at himself, Rhysand was already laughing it off and I thought the sound was oddly pleasant. He looked nice when he laughed like that, rich and full and less intense. “Unlock it and add this number to your contacts.”

I did as he said and added the number he rattled off. I had no doubt it was his own.

“I suppose you want me to text you when I get home so that you know I’m safe? If you think you’re getting my number out of this, that’s absurd on a number of levels because I have a boyfriend and I’m certainly not giving you-”

“I don’t want your number,” he said, taking his hands out of his pockets finally and holding them up like he could slow me down. “I just want you to have a way out if you get stuck on the way home.”

“What?” My stomach dropped. Rhysand stepped closer to me, took my phone, and locked it shut before dropping it back into my purse for me. His eyes again met me with that piercing stare, the one that said he was really looking into me as opposed to at me. Like I wasn’t just an object to walk around, but someone to talk to and understand.

“I know you have a boyfriend. I saw you go up the stairs with him. But you were a little… shall we say intense in the kitchen? And I don’t know if that beer was intended to be your first or your twentieth.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Maybe not on beer, but…”

There it was again. That odd sensation that he was reading me.

“Just go home and if anything happens on the way home, you can call me and I’ll help you, okay? And if not, you can delete my number while you lay on your bed thinking about the gorgeous, mysterious gentlemen who entranced you with his wit and charm at the party.”

“Oi,” I said, stepping back from him in a quick jerk and bustling down the driveway. “You’re a stupid prick, you know that!”

“A stupid prick who’s telephone number currently resides in your phone!”

I turned around so I could see him, but kept walking backwards down the drive. “You don’t even know my name!”

“Don’t need to.”

He gave me one last smile and then I was out of view, too far away to keep my eyes on him.

Feyre. My name is Feyre.

I drove home going over and over our conversation. Every little word had felt like a game, but I couldn’t tell which one we were playing exactly. Rhysand had circled between flirtation and seriousness the way water danced on a stream - it was rocky at times, but effortless for him regardless.

And his eyes. I couldn’t stop thinking about his eyes. The way he’d looked at me like he’d known the kind of night I was having even though he didn’t know me from Adam.

It wasn’t until I’d laid down on my bed and taken my phone out to stare at it a little bit that I realized I hadn’t thought about the night I’d been having since talking to Rhysand. Even when I came home and mercifully found the lights off and only a few sips stolen from the bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter, I didn’t think about my dad or the fight with mom. Dad was always more of a morose, depressed drinker anyway. No reason to fear a destroyed house.

I unlocked my phone and scrolled to his number, intending to text him before I thought better of it. Nah, that was probably what the stupid prick wanted. Just my number. I was just some chick he thought was mildly cute that he could work into sleeping with, so he bantered and smirked his way into my phone hoping I’d give him something to bite.

I know you have a boyfriend. I saw you go up the stairs with him.

I clicked my phone off annoyed at the audacity of his comment and then remembered I had meant to delete his number from my phone. I stifled a yawn. It was late. I could delete the number in the morning. Funny how something as simple as unlocking a phone could make you feel so lazy in the middle of the night, but there I was.

When I finally fell asleep, I tried to imagine the bright green flecked with gold of Tamlin’s eyes as we’d slept together in Lucien’s guest room.

But it was a struggle to remember the moment and in the end, everything kept turning up violet.

Feyre. My name is Feyre.

xx

AN: I live in Southern California where this fic takes place. When I started my freshmen year of high school, there really were just over four thousand students enrolled and the senior graduating class was about Feyre’s size - 1.1K. So that’s why her school is huge. It’s what I had to deal with and it made for a good excuse why she and Rhys wouldn’t already know each other. Easy to get lost with 3,999 other kids running around.

Comments welcome!