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colorlesschristmastree · 1 month

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Feyre Week Day 4: Childhood Read on Ao3

Characters: Feyre, Rhysand if you squint. Warnings: None. Feyre's short life has been nothing but shades of heartache and pain, a cold desperation that keeps her moving. But at night she dreams, and there she wonders what the love of a family might feel like.

Feyre dreams in jagged edges.

Her thoughts are a swirl of bruising violet and ravaging black. The colors take no shape, but she feels the scrape of them all the same. They taste like hunger, feel like heartache—sensations she’s no stranger to in waking life.

But she also dreams in shades of cinnamon and candy-tipped pink, a trickle of warm radiance that feathers down her skin.

These colors are the mark of a family, she thinks. Not hers—never hers, but it could be, at least in her dreams. It’s a fantasy sweet and soft as spun sugar: a father’s warm hands, a mother’s soft kiss, brothers and sisters to share a secret with.

The thought of it alone is enough to curl a small smile around her lips. It nestles there, joyous and content, just along the tender thread of her heart. But slowly, insidiously, it twists and turns in the pit of her gut. A wistful fancy that grows sharp and aching. It carves out a family-shaped notch at the center of her chest.

Feyre sees a flash of cool, grey eyes. A sneer from her sister, a cringe from the other. A father that sits mute and cold despite the heat of the hearth. The warble of her consciousness reminds her that this is her family. This is her lot.

Hands rubbed raw, blisters cracked. A damp forest that swallows her whole.

But her mind stirs: it remembers the glint of a smile in the market square, her eyes sliding dull and flat along the families there. Gentle parents with children in sets of one, two, and three. Fathers clasping tight the hands of their daughters. Mothers fussing over a son’s scraped knee. Brothers and sisters, arms linked and laughing.

And though Feyre has never begrudged the other children the love of their family, she feels the keen absence of it all the same. Envy grips her. With long, sharp teeth it hollows out the space around her ribs until a scathing ache is all that remains.

Sometimes the longing catches in her lungs, fills them with a sound that she can hardly contain, can barely bite back. Her little body trembles with the effort, lip caught between two brutal, pinching teeth. Blood dribbles down her cracked skin, and her tongue darts out to catch the coppery tang.

But the pain—that jagged, raw thing—twines about her heart like ivy up a trellis.

And there’s always a question that follows the sorrowful pangs: why could no one love her like that?

Some nights that heartache is so sharp that her arms band around themselves. Tiny hands clutch at the bony panes of her back and squeeze—so touch-starved that she pretends it’s a stranger’s tight embrace.

‘I love you,’ her lips ghost over each word, a silent secret that she keeps all for herself. It’s a quiet litany reserved for the coldest of nights. Again and again it falls from her lips, because in her few short years she’d yet to hear it even once.

Tears slide silently across her cheek until she can do nothing but bury her face in the sheets, choking back down whatever small, strangled sound tries to cleave its way out.

A bitterness ill-suited to children plagues her, and hunger carves long strips from her skin. The winter months freeze and a chill falls deep. But always her thoughts are snared by the ghost of love lingering just out of reach. Obscure, nebulous, she doesn’t know the taste of it. Can only dream in what colors they might be.

Again her mind swirls, and all colors disperse. She’s drifting down she thinks, sinking through the cracks.

There’s nothing but the cold nipping at her skin.

She blinks and a dark house—her house—rises around her.

There is no light, no warmth or cheer. Just an empty house—empty much like herself.

Feyre’s little hands clutch at her arms, as much to stave off the cold as the wholesale dread.

She wants to will it all away—wants to fall far, far away.

A shadow, slanted and flickering, grows long across the wall. Nothing stirs but that stretch of opulent, star-crusted black.

Feyre sucks in a breath, her spine going taut.

The dark gives pause, a stillness that seems to lock it in place.

She thinks she hears a whisper of sound, of wind or wings.

The air shifts, and starlight dances in her eyes as the walls shudder and pulse. A ripple tears through the edges of her dream, skimmed by some talon-tipped hand that she can’t quite see.

Lights flickers to life, slow and uncertain at first, until bold, bright light pools over the floorboards and across each grainy whorl and knot. It slips across the table, over the chair and against the walls.

The hearth is next: a guttered fire that roars into life with a great gust of wind.

Feyre cringes back, startled by the suddenness as she squeezes her eyes shut.

Warmth folds around her, chasing away the tremble that’s stolen down her spine.

Her eyes open, and the breath is knocked from her lungs.

The house—that miserable, lonely cabin—is now filled with a warm, honeyed light. Feyre’s eyes cast about, her senses overfilled.

A rich, red carpet has unfurled beneath her feet, so plush and soft that Feyre can’t help but press her toes against the thread. Her eyes bounce to the once-empty table. Plates and bowls are stacked with the finest of food, of butter and garlic and roasted red meats.

But there, just along the table sit two girls with golden-brown hair, a twin match to her own. They sit with their backs turned to her, a hushed whisper passing between them among the clatter of cutlery.

Dread and a flicker of guilt creeps along her neck like two steady fingers.

Their whispers feel like a lovely, sacred thing. Feyre watches them lean close, that notch in her chest now aching to join, to find herself whole and loved amongst them—privy to a sisterhood she’s always been denied.

There’s a lurch in the room and the sisters pause, whispers dying quick on their lips. Feyre catches the exhale before it can slip between her teeth, bracing for whatever sneer might be thrown her way.

But the two girls turn, hair cascading long and soft over their shoulders.

Their faces are blurred, some unfocused haze that’s settled over their features. But through the fog Feyre can see the tilting of lips, two bright, radiant smiles that wash over the room.

“Come on,” they say in unison, raising two delicate hands to wave her over. And although neither the voices nor the faces match what Feyre knows, her heart surges with recognition. Through whatever inexplicable magic of this dream, Feyre knows these are her sisters, Nesta and Elain.

Her heart swells.

Beyond the table, her eye is drawn to the flicker of shadow, to the chair settled and rocking before a crackling fire. Feyre sees the outline of a man, old and wiry, nestled deep into his chair. There is no cane within reach, no horrible bend to his knee.

“Father,” Feyre rasps, and it’s the small, weathered sound of a child finding hope once more.

The rocking stops, and slowly he twists in his chair. Just like her sisters, there’s a blur that spreads over his face. Grey whiskers curl down his chin, outlining a wondrous smile as he beams at the sight of her.

Emotion bubbles up within her, threatening to burst out her chest.

In a tangle of limbs Feyre rushes to him, her hand falling against his knee in wonder. “You...you’re alright. You’re not hurt,” she sniffs and blinks back the tears.

Wonder curls through her as his hand comes to rest upon her own. He gives a gentle squeeze, and in that wavering, dream-like voice replies, “No, my sweet. I’m alright thanks to you.”

The gratitude and affection of his words nearly has her on her knees. His broad hand lingers on her bony knuckles, and there is such warmth there. Feyre can’t help but wonder what his arms would feel like wrapped tight about her; if an embrace truly feels as warm as it looks.

Feyre’s throat tightens. She doesn’t want this to end, not when it’s the first taste of kindness she’s ever had.

Her father pats the top of her hand, and his voice breaks the soft silence. “Now go see your mother, she’s waiting just there,” he points with his chin to the bedroom beyond.

Feyre’s brows pull tight, a frown sewn into her small features. “But mother is…”

Dead.

She can’t bring herself to say the words, but the truth hangs there between them, cutting through the warmth that had seeped through her bones.

“Go on, see,” her father urges her again. His hand withdraws, and it takes everything within her not to snatch his hand back into her own, to cling to it like a lifeline in a storm.

Feyre moves toward the room, the door hanging slightly ajar. What light from the den seems to balk at the threshold, as if mirroring her own hesitation.

She takes a steadying breath, unsure of what to expect. Her feelings about her mother are...complicated.

Nesta was mother’s favored little empress.

Elain had been the cherished rose.

And Feyre...she was little more than a forgotten spare that shadowed mother’s heels.

It wasn’t that their mother hated her—no, it wasn’t anything so sinister as that.

And yet it was somehow worse.

It was the absence of any feeling at all.

Feyre remembers the way her mother’s eyes would slide over every inch of her. It wasn’t contempt or disgust that hardened that steel gaze—it was simple, flat disinterest. A flicker of it would pass over her face before briskly turning away.

‘Nesta,’ her mother would say, ‘is to wed for power and wealth. Conquest.’ The word was sharp, caustic, and it reeked of pride. ‘Elain is to wed for love and beauty,’ she continued, and a thin, cold smile would peel her lips from her teeth.

Feyre would wait as anticipation curled a hand around the nape of her neck, picking at the skin of her nails. The thought of her mother’s instructions sat heavy in her gut, roiling like a serpent in the grass.

But the words never came.

It was the silence that spoke; a whisper in the back of her mind confirmed by her mother’s quiet disregard.

Forgotten.

Useless.

Worthless.

Nothing.

Feyre was nothing, she realized. Less than the shadow at her feet.

She presses a hand against the wooden door, her palms slick with sweat. A whisper of a voice, a memory sliding from the back of her mind, all of it playing out just beyond the spread of the door.

‘Stay together, and look after them. Swear it,’ her mother wheezes, voice clinging like film to her tongue. Feyre hears the answering promise—her promise—rolling off her tongue through choked back tears. She didn’t understand the enormity at the time, nor the way that promise would devour her within an inch of her life.

The memory slips away as she pushes the door open.

She’s no longer looking into the room of that suffocating cabin, but her mother’s old bedroom of their long, lost estate.

It’s dark, the light swallowed up by deep, thick curtains.

Feyre wants to cower, wants to shut the door and lock it all away. She hates this room, hates the way it grasps that gnarled tangle of memories and brings them to light.

She hates the smell of it, too. The burn of incense makes the room thick and over-sweet, a cloying aroma that does little to mask the shadow of death at their feet.

Her eyes track to the right, to where she knows her mother should lie.

Surprise takes her when her gaze lands on a figure, tall and lithe, standing by the window instead.

Her consciousness prickles at the sight of the woman—her mother, the dream seems to insist, though it doesn’t feel quite right.

There’s a screech of the curtains peeling over the metal rod, and Feyre blinks her against the sudden light.

Where her mother in life had golden-brown hair, this mother has a shock of thick raven locks, so black it gleams blue. It hangs down to her waist in gossamer waves, not a pin or a clip to hold it in place.

Her mother turns, and Feyre’s eyes widen with shock.

There is no blur to obscure her beautiful face. Her features are sharp, pleasant as the summer sky, with the loveliest umber skin.

Her mother beckons, a slender hand reaching towards her. “Here, little one,” she says, and this time the words are clear and strong, undisturbed by that dream-like quality. It’s a melody of a voice, the soft sweep of calligraphy were calligraphy to have a sound.

Wordlessly Feyre reaches for her, wanting, wishing, praying for this to be real. She barely registers how badly she needs this.

Her mother’s hands are warm and strong, unyielding in their grip as they curl around her fingers.

Feyre can feel the calluses, and the strangeness of it needles through her mind. Her mother would never have calluses—her hands had been made for fine china and silk gowns.

Feyre’s brows twist together in a frown, and she thinks she sees the shudder of dark shadows beyond the woman’s shoulders.

Her mind pushes back at the wrongness of it. A ripple pulses through the dream, the space flickering for a moment back to empty shades of grey.

“Don’t fight it,” this woman—her mother—says. And whatever it is in that voice, the firm yet gentle authority, it eases her fears.

Feyre lets out a breath and relaxes her mind.

Striking violet eyes are steady on her face, and Feyre realizes she’s never seen a color quite like it.

“You’re cold,” her mother says, and though physically she knows it’s true, can feel the goosebumps prickle up her skin, she’s never felt warmer, never felt fuller.

Her mother crouches upon a knee and slides the hair out of Feyre’s face with a gentle hand.

Her heart stirs, a flutter of feeling that smooths over the jagged edges knotted deep in her chest.

“You’ve been so strong, you know. It’s okay to let go, darling.”

Feyre feels the weight of the words slide down her spine, her lungs expanding to make room for the feelings that surge through her.

A tender affirmation—permission to let go.

And Feyre almost succumbs, yet she can’t help but catch herself waiting for the inevitable—for the indifference and distaste to slide over her mother’s face, a sharp taste of the reality she’s always known.

But her mother’s gaze remains soft as they search her face.

Andthat look...it almost takes her breath away.

Tears spring unbidden to the corners of her eyes, and a knot in her throat twists so firm and deep that it burns.

Feyre has seen that look before—on the faces of fathers and mothers as they pull their children close.

It was profound, and unwavering.

It was impassioned, and resolute.

It was love, Feyre realizes.

Unconditional love.

A sob breaks itself free, clamoring out of her chest in one great, big heave.

No one has ever looked at her like that—until now.

Feyre’s body shudders and her knees give way, but her mother’s warm arms sweep around her, curling her small body against her own before she can crumple to the floor.

“Shh, it’s alright, my love. I’ve got you,” her mother murmurs, and Feyre’s heart squeezes so tight she thinks it might burst.

Wet, hot tears cascade down her face as she struggles to force the air into her lungs. Her mother pulls her closer, hands tracing soothing circles along her trembling back.

A jolt of panic. Mother’s new dress, the tear stains will—

“None of that, child,” and though the words are stern, there is a warmth laced through them. “What is a mother for if not this?”

Fear of her mother’s anger subsides, dulled by every stroke along her back. Feyre buries her face into the soft linen of her mother’s skirt as she chokes down another breath.

Her heart strains against her ribs, her whole body awash with emotions and feelings she long thought she’d lost. For whatever trickery is laced within this dream, Feyre cherishes it. She drinks it in, savors the taste as if it were the first sip of life.

Her fingers curl tight, and her breathing slows. The sobs that had racked her body now lilt into soft hiccoughs.

So much heartache and longing had been poured into those tears, and now that they’re spent a new sensation unfurls from deep in her chest.

It tastes like love, she thinks.

A sweet, and tender convalescence of the soul.

And for the first time in years, Feyre awakes with a smile on her face, a clutch of love in her heart.

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colorlesschristmastree · 1 month

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Character: Feyre Warnings: None Short drabble for @feyreweekofficial Day 6: Warrior/Jack of All Trades Sometimes the woods whisper a sweet reminder of the power Feyre holds.

The forests outside of Velaris were old, far older than the city itself. It was a wide open maw of wood and fern, ancient and thick as the roots of the mountains that rose high above.

Feyre reveled in the familiarity she found here. Her feet would carry her to the outskirts of the city, and from there she would meander through the gates, threading through underbrush as the woods swallowed her whole.

Out here she could shed the mantle of her title, for the forest didn’t know her as the High Lady of the Night Court, nor did it know her as mother or mate.

But the forest did know her.

The magic here was potent—raw. As if Prythian’s deep well of life surged up and out from the soil beneath her feet, a living, breathing thing.

Feyre could feel that power curl around her, cling to her lithe frame as if it delighted in her presence. It would wind through her hair like fine fingers of silk, kissing the freckled curve of her cheek in warm welcome.

And her own magic would answer, rising as if plucked from the string of a harp.

Feyre breathed deep and pulled the boots and socks from her feet. Warm, sun-dappled grass brushed against her skin.

“Hello,” she whispered a small greeting, running a hand along the bark of a tree.

A shiver stole down her spine, coaxed by a pulse of magic that nipped at her skin. Her mouth quirked up. It was playful, curious...hungry, too. Not entirely unlike her husband dear.

Distantly, Feyre could remember a time when the woods had been anything but kind. Cold, jagged trees, a frost that ran deep. Death had awaited her in the bramble and brush, licking at the edges of her frail, mortal skin.

Her body had been so young and broken then, ravaged by the cruel hands of an endless hunger.

That place and time was now so distant that it felt like no more than a lost whisper of life.

Her skin was now flush with an immortal glow, and her heart thundered with a vitality she had never known.

Feyre Cursebreaker had been reborn, body and mind.

Magic—pulsing, vibrant magic coursed through her veins, feeling so very much like an extension of herself. She knew it would take little more than a curl of a finger for that power to do as she bid.

And it was that sense of control, the confidence in her own abilities that set the hard line of her shoulders, that filled her lungs with a sense of purpose. She could feel it, that great and terrible well of power at the core of her, sliding through her veins, lapping at her skin.

It was the power to change her destiny, to shift it as she might shift the wings at her back.

This forest was kindle to that power, and with each breath she could feel the elements crackling at her fingertips, howling to breach the outside world. It was a song of exultation, a symphony that played to the mastery of her gifts.

Feyre would never be cowed again, never be confined or set aside.

She’d found her home, her people, her life.

And each day she glowed at the miracle of it all, the sense of purpose.

Where once doubt had twined its vicious roots, confidence and clarity now surged.

Gone was the human with hunger in heart.

She was the ever-sharp blade of the warrior. The deft hand of justice. The scepter of the High.

Feyre was the child of all seven courts, their power now flowing through her veins.

She was one and all.

First of her kind.

Her hands rose, and that magic with it, Prythian answering her call.

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colorlesschristmastree · 1 month

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This is my first time doing something like this

Day 7: free day

@feyreweekofficial

All images from pintrest

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colorlesschristmastree · 1 month

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Day Seven of Feyre Week - Free Day.

A one shot about Feyre getting revenge on the man who wronged her. Read here or on AO3

I study him, the man I had once loved. I looked through the small window on the prison door. His arms and feet were chained against the walls of the dungeon, he had blood running down the sides of his golden blond hair. He looked so beautiful, despite the blood and bruises now forming on his skin. His clothing had been shredded and I could see the well-formed muscles of his chest. I remembered a time I would curl up on that chest and take comfort from it.

His face hung downwards, and I was grateful I did not have to see those green eyes staring up at me.

I could feel my heart thud in my chest, not out of pity or pain for him but hatred. It felt like another lifetime ago that I had loved him so fiercely I had destroyed myself.

“Did Azriel get it out of him?” I ask Rhys, who was leaning against the wall casually picking lint off his cuffs.

Tamlin had been no match for the two of us, we had found him in Nyx’s room. He stood over my sleeping son’s cradle. Power had cracked from both Rhys and mine veins, and Rhys had been able to winnow him to the dungeons under Hewn City. I had summoned Azriel, he had gone into that dungeon, but I had been too panicked to wait around.

I held Nyx afterwards, to calm both him and me, the disturbance had woke him and I could only feel calm if I had him in my arms. At only five months old he hardly slept through the night. He enjoyed falling asleep in my arms, and I enjoyed having him there, my miraculous baby.

Nyx finally had gotten back to sleep, and Elain had promised to watch over him while I went to the dungeons to speak to Rhys. Azriel had been gone when I arrived, but I could see his work on Tamlin.

“He did, it was Koschei’s doing” Rhys said.

“Is he being controlled? Like Eris men?” I asked.

Koschei and the Queen had controlled Eris men months ago, and if he was capable of controlling Tamlin… It changed things. However, none of that lessened my fury at the man in the dungeon. I had sensed Tamlin in the room before waking, I had been sleeping in the rocking chair of Nyx’s room. I immediately shouted for Rhys through the bond, who had been sleeping in our room. The next moments all I knew was rage, white hot rage. If Rhys hadn’t questioned down the bond how he got through our wards I believe I might have killed Tamlin. We needed answers, because if Tamlin had broke into the home, anyone could.

“No”

“So he’s working with Koschei? why?” I turned my head towards Rhys, his violet eyes were on me intensely and I knew the truth would be devastating “Tell me.”

“Your father made a bargain with Koschei, his first born grandson in exchange for the help he provided during the war. With your father dead Koschei had no way to complete the bargain.”

“So, he went to Tamlin?” I asked, confused and shocked. My father handing over my son before he had ever been born… my heart stung. My father was long dead and could not explain his actions, maybe he had assumed he’d never get a grandson or maybe he was willing to trade away one life for thousands of others.

“Koschei needed someone else who would be willing to get Nyx” Rhys said.

“What does Koschei want from him?”

“Tamlin didn’t know that, and trust me Azriel tried very hard to get that out of him” Rhys went on, “Tamlin only cared about his part of the bargain.”

“Which was?” I asked, knowing the answer well.

“To get you back. Koschei apparently offered to erase your memories of The Night Court and me.”

My heart pounded, my stomach felt sick, I turned my head back to look at Tamlin hanging from the dungeon wall. I hoped it hurt, I hope the chains dug into his wrists, I hope it burned.

“Again… he betrays Prythian again to get me back” I said.

“Tamlin playing traitor to get what he wants seems to be a common enough theme” Rhys scoffed.

But darker thoughts rose in my mind, Koschei wanted Nyx and we didn’t know why.

“I left Nyx with Elain but…” Elain was still growing in her powers and what if Koschei was in the city, waiting for the delivery of my son.

Rhys putting a hand on my back.

“It’s why Azriel’s not here, he’s going back to the house. He’s getting the rest of them, Mor, Amren, Cassian and even Nesta to go back to the house.”

I let out a sigh of relief.

“Koschei will be found, and I don’t care what bargain your father made. He doesn’t get our son.” Rhys said reassuring me.

“I can’t believe it, I can’t believe my father…”

“I know, I’m so sorry Feyre” Rhys replied, “But the bargain died with your father, I think. Koschei wouldn’t have needed to make another if he it hadn’t.”

I nodded in agreement and sighed in relief; but it didn’t solve our immediate problem. What to do with the High Lord in our dungeon.

“We can deal with him tomorrow” Rhys said.

I shook my head and said:

“I’ll deal with him tonight.”

“You don’t have to, even if that’s what we decide we can get Azriel…”

“No” I cut him off, and through the bond I said

This is mine, my fight, my kill, my decision.

My eyes still gazing to Tamlin, the blood pouring off his face, the pitiful excuse of a male. I looked back at Rhys, no judgement on his face but I could sense his worry.

“You disagree” I wasn’t a question.

“You need to be sure, it’s a decision you can’t take back.”

“He tried to take me again, he tried to give our son to a monster” I said.

“I know, but taking the life another High Lord”

“After everything he’s done how are you speaking for him now” I snapped at Rhys. Tamlin didn’t deserve either of our compassion.

“No, I’m not” He insisted “I wanted to rip him to pieces the moment I saw him in that room. I’ve wanted him dead for centuries, but it changes things with him dead and we need to be prepared to face those consequences.”

“I’m sorry” I said, remembering how Tamlin caused the deaths of his mother and sister “I’m being selfish.”

“You’re not” Rhys said.

“How did you stomach it, all those years knowing he was alive after what he did?” I asked.

“It wasn’t easy, I never forgave him if that’s what your asking” Rhys said “But I knew killing him would cause more trouble than it was worth. You need to consider what trouble his death would cause, and if it’s worth it. ��

“Beron and Tarquin” I said, and I doubt the other High Lords would take too kindly to the killing of another High Lord.

“Beron will be furious but likely would use it as an excuse to ally against us, and Tarquin… I doubt he will mourn Tamlin but hate the instability it would cause.”

I stood back from the dungeon door and considered, considered it all. Tamlin had caused nothing but pain to everyone he encountered. Not just to Rhys and I, but my sisters, Lucien, his own people; all of them victims of the same beast.

“I thought he’d changed” I said softly, “After the war, after bringing you back. He told me to be happy and I thought he meant it. He was never healed, we know that, but I thought he had least let me go.”

“I thought he did too” Rhys said “When I visited during our first solstice, he wondered if you’d ever forgive him.”

“You told me” I nodded remembering Rhys detailing that trip, “how did this happen again?”

“It’s Nyx” Rhys said simply, “Lucien said he took the news poorly.”

I sighed, remembering the bruises on Lucien’s face when he recounted how Tamlin had heard of my pregnancy. Rhys and I had been considering at that point asking Tamlin for help, with shapeshifting while pregnant. We were running out of options on how to save our lives, but when Lucien came to us the day after we knew we could not. Tamlin was a liability, tonight proved it.

“He’s not fit to be a High Lord.” I said with certainty, “Look at how he treats his own people, his lands. He doesn’t care who gets hurt, he only cares for himself. The Night Court, and Prythian, will be better off with a new High Lord of Spring.”

One who could manage his lands, who didn’t run around in beast form, or pinning away for a female long gone.

“He has no direct heir” Rhys said, “I’m not sure who the power would transfer to, it might be a distant cousin or anyone the land chooses.”

“I’d rather deal with that problem then him the rest of our lives” I said, “I’d rather deal with Beron, or anyone else’s fury then have to worry for the rest of my life his desperate attempts to steal me back.”

Rhys nodded; it was decided.

From the pocket realm I summoned a knife, a smooth shark blade. I remembered back to another time, another lifetime, where I had picked up a blade and killed for Tamlin.

“You don’t have to do it like that” Rhys said, and I knew he was also reminded of that moment. “You could shatter his mind; I could show you how.”

I shook my head.

“I need to end this my way Rhys” I said, my grip on the knife tightened. I heard a slight moan from the dungeon, he was awake.

“I can knock him out again, to make it easier.”

“Just make him unable to speak, I want him to hear me, I want him to know it’s me” I said, thinking back to my horror of finding him standing over my sleeping son’s cradle.

Rhys nodded, and I entered the dungeon.

Tamlin struggled against the chains, but his brute strength was nothing against the magic and wards of the Night Court. Without whatever magic Koschei had given him to sneak into our city he was helpless. Our prisoner. Completely under our power, and I smiled at the thought. He thought our court was weak, defenseless, that he could sneak in and steal me, it’s High Lady, away.

Tamlin eyed the knife in my hand and opened his mouth to speak.

“You don’t get to speak” I said, toying with the knife “You thought any of this would get me back. You think Rhys and I wouldn’t have fought everything to ensure our son’s safety.”

I took a step closer to him, he still had his mouth open like a gapping fish.

“You’re a monster, the same beast that came through my door years ago” I said “But worse, you’re a traitor. You would betray and backstab anyone if you got your way. No matter who it hurt, no matter if I wanted you back or not. All you care about is yourself.”

Tamlin struggled against the chains, and his mouth kept opening and closing, unable to form words.

“You hurt everyone you ever touch” I said thinking of Lucien’s bruises, of my sisters coming out of the cauldron, Rhys’ mother and sister, my own suffering at his hands. I drew closer to him “I told you once if you tried to take me from my family, if you tried to take me from my mate I would destroy you. You didn’t listen, and I did.”

My hands began to sweat, and I put the knife up to his heart. Not touching, not yet.

“But I left you alive then, and I had hoped you would have learned a lesson. Instead, you tried to kidnap my son, my child in some demented plan to get me back.” The knife was now touching his chest, not yet drawing blood. Tamlin’s eyes shot downwards, and back up at mine. Fear, terror, horror was what I saw in them. Good. I wanted that.

“Did you think I would let you get away with it?” I asked rhetorically. I pushed the knife deeper, just enough to scratch. “You probably thought it would be Rhys doing this and he would have if I had wanted it that way. But I want to do this, I want you to know the monster I am willing to become to save my family.”

Again, he opened his mouth, and I could tell he was pleading. I had no mercy, no mercy in my veins for him. He had done enough, and I would happily become a monster to ensure he never harmed another soul.

I pulled the knife back and then jammed it in his heart. Blood poured out of him and onto my hand. Tamlin looked down to knife in his heart, to my hand covered in blood, shock was all over my face.

“I hope wherever you end up next it is nothing but misery. You don’t deserve a happy ending, or my mercy.”

I stood there, holding the knife in his chest, allowing the blood to flow over me. I pulled the knife out once the life left Tamlin’s eyes. His dead body was the only reminder of him in the room. I collapsed on the dungeon floor.

Within seconds Rhys was on the dirty floor with me, and I couldn’t help but let out a flood of tears. Not tears of grief, never grief for a man who had only caused me harm. The tears were of both relief and fear. Tamlin might be gone, but Nyx, the baby I had nearly died for, was in danger.

“Koschei wants him” I said terror shaking my body. “He won’t stop until he has him”

I let Rhys embrace me and he kissed my forehead through the bond said:

He didn’t succeed, and Koschei will never take our son. We won’t allow it.

“I know, I know” I muttered back, if we had another battle to face so be it.

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colorlesschristmastree · 1 month

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Feyre Week Day 7: Free Day

Haha for day 7 I decided to commission something a little different as it’s not a medium I see often on tumblr! Here is an edit of Feyre that was made for me by hghlady on instagram. Hope yall like it 😭😂

@feyreweekofficial

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