#⟨ feyre archeron ⟩ not consort not wife. feyre is high lady of the night court. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

aelin-and-feyre · 6 years

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Ten Minutes Ago Epilogue

Just a short little blurb because so many people wanted it. Sorry it’s so late.

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For the past decade, Feyre has been a servant. She did everything for Amarantha and her sisters, and she did it for so long that now she’s not sure how to let somebody else do the work—and not sure if she’s comfortable with it either.

This she discovers very quickly after moving into the palace with Rhysand. He assured her that she would never have to lift a finger again. But Feyre insisted that she felt useless if she didn’t help. So she learned where to take her plate when she was done eating, and she denied help from the servants to get dressed and bathe. Some nights, one might even find the future High Lady in the kitchens, helping wash dishes from that night’s meal.

Everyone in the castle absolutely adores her and appreciates her help, but that doesn’t stop them from treating her like a princess.

When she was little, Feyre had always imagined herself as the princess of her farm, ruling over the chickens. But never in her life had she imagined she would actually be a princess, much less treated like one. The gowns Rhys had fit for her were the most elegant and beautiful she had ever worn (save the three from the Suriel). Her fiancé picked many of them out himself, although he didn’t like many people knowing that he has such an eye for fashion.

After months of living there, Feyre thought that she would be used to the new extravagant outfits they have planned for her each day. Today, however, as the armoire opens, she knows that she was wrong.

“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” she breathes as the servants unhook it from its stand and sweep the sparkling white fabric towards her. On normal days, she would do this herself, but today, her ladies-in-waiting insisted on helping. It is her wedding day, after all.

There is no corset to tuck into, no crinoline to tie around her waist, no big puffy sleeves to avoid. Just a beautiful white gown with a standard train and beautiful lace veil. The dress itself looks like it is made of starlight.

Feyre balances one hand on one of the ladies as she steps into the skirt, then slips her arms through the delicate lace sleeves, each with a loop at the end to go over her middle finger. She stands perfectly still while they lace up the back and billow out the train behind her.

“Thank you, I can take it from here.” She nods to both of them and they curtsy as they back out of the room.

Walking towards the mirror, Feyre feels like she is walking on air. Never before has she felt so happy and anxious at the same time. She is about to marry Prince Rhysand—now High Lord Rhysand, after the death of his father last month. She hasn’t seen him all day, per his request to keep it traditional, and she is practically bouncing in her glass slippers with excitement to meet him at the end of the aisle.

Her reflection shows a healthy, happy woman that Feyre has begun getting to know the past few months. She looks radiant in her gown of starlight and there is only one more final touch before she can begin her journey as a married woman.

Carefully, Feyre lifts the lid of an ancient chest Rhys presented to her last night. Inside, a diadem is nestled—the crown all Consorts of the Night Court have worn since the beginning of Pythian. However, this time, it will be worn by the very first High Lady of the Night Court, as Rhysand has decreed she will be.

With utmost delicacy, she lifts the diamond-encrusted crown and places it atop her head, nestled nicely between the curls. Now, she is ready.

...

High Lord Rhysand waits patiently at the altar for his bride, looking for all the world the perfect picture of peace and happiness. Cassian and Azriel stand behind him, the latter holding the rings. When the music begins to play, Rhys thinks his face might crack from the grin that takes over it.

She looks ravishing, as he knew she would. The assembly stands and turns to watch as Feyre walks toward him, her glass slippers peeking under the skirt. Cassian places a hand on his shoulder discreetly and Rhys realizes that he was bouncing on his toes, eager for her hand in his.

After what seems like forever, she reaches him, her fingers entwining with his own as he leads her the last couple steps to the High Priestess. “Feyre darling, you look wonderful,” he murmurs whilst everyone sits.

And once again, Rhys gets to see her blush.

Her shy smile is contagious. “Thank you, I absolutely love the dress.” Rhys beams. He had the fabric specially made for her, crafted to look like it was made from the stars itself. He wanted nothing less for his High Lady of Night.

The Priestess lifts her hands and the room falls silent. She rambles on about duty and honor and the future of the Court, but Rhys barely hears any of it. He’s going over his vows in his head, memorizing them over and over so that when the time comes, he doesn’t choke.

Suddenly, Feyre squeezes his hand, and he realizes that everyone is looking at him expectantly. Of course, he missed his cue.

Rhysand takes a deep breath to steady himself and then smiles at Feyre. “I have spent most of my life searching for someone I could spend the rest of my life with. And when I found her, she made me search for her some more.” A quiet laugh ripples through the gathering. “Through whatever twist of fate, our paths crossed, and I am forever grateful to the Cauldron for making that happen. You are my mate and the love of my life, so I don’t care if you’re called Cinderella or Clare or Feyre, I am ready and excited to begin this journey with you as my High Lady.”

Feyre’s eyes are lined with silver and her hands clutch his own as if she’s afraid he’ll suddenly disappear. “I love you, Feyre darling, and I will serve at your side as equals until death do us part.”

The whole room is close to tears when Rhys finally kisses Feyre Archeron, his wife.

...

It’s much later, when they are dancing under the starlight, their friends surrounding them, that Rhys inquires, “I’ve always wondered, how did you get to the ball all those nights? Where did the dresses come from?”

Feyre just shakes her head with a smile. “I made a friend, and they taught me that nothing is impossible if you want it enough.”

Another day, Rhysand will get the full story, but not today. For now, the two of them dance and enjoy the small miracle that they are together and happy.

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#ten minutes ago #feysand #feysand cinderella au #epilogue #feyre archeron #rhys #rhysand #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #a court of thorns and roses #a court of mist and fury #a court of wings and ruin #a court of frost and starlight #wedding #my writing

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aelin-and-feyre · 7 years

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Ten Minutes Ago (Part 1)

Feysand - Cinderella au

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I have this entire thing written already so I’ll be posting a new part a day over the next week. I hope you enjoy!

Once upon a time, there lived a small girl of about three years of age. She lived in a large farmhouse on the outskirts of Prythian, a small kingdom in peaceful harmony and run by seven High Lords. Feyre, as this small girl was called, had two loving parents and all the imagination in the world. Her mother was a beautiful woman who cared for their farm and all the animals with almost as much love as she gave her daughter. Her father was a hard working merchant who regrettably spent very little time with his family but cherished the time he did. Though her mother was a bit vain, Feyre was constantly taught to have humility and kindness for all things. They lived very happily together.

In the northern edge of Prythian, there lived a small boy of four years of age in a huge palace. His father, the young High Lord of the Night Court, and his mother, the young High Lord’s consort and mate. The boy’s name was Rhysand. Referred by the Night Court as Prince Rhysand, the boy led a charmed life of silver spoons but also of gilded cages, rarely being allowed to leave the palace grounds. His mother, Mary, was a generous and beloved queen, caring for her people and her son with all her heart. The High Lord was kind but also strong and strict, leading the Night Court with a firm hand. They also lived happily.

Feyre’s mother and Mary were in fact very good friends, having grown up together—a friendship they maintained even when Mary became royalty. The women took weekly walks and had tea together but they rarely had their families engage as both their husbands were very busy. Their kids played together sometimes, when Mary would invite Feyre along with them to the palace, but Rhys had his teachings so the two children rarely had time to play.

Feyre remembers that the two women used to sing a song whenever they were together, a song about first love called ‘Ten Minutes Ago’. The song was meant to be sung by a male and female throughout the verses but Feyre remembers fondly that the consort and her mother would alternate the parts over their strolls.

About six months after the Night Court princess was born, something horrible happened. Mary and Feyre’s mother went for a walk in the woods outside the palace grounds with the baby. Consort Mary had denied the guards’ escort and the two women walked the woods alone.

Their remains were found hours later seeming to have been attacked by a pack of bears.

All of Pythian grieved, the High Lord was in disarray, and the young prince was left in utter confusion of where his mother and sister had gone. For Feyre and her father, mourning the consort and princess was bad enough but Feyre also lost a mother and her father lost a wife.

The High Lord’s family and the Archerons had no more connection after that. Feyre never saw the prince again as the Court fell into despair. The High Lord still kept up his duties but was less kind and more strict.

The prince was shielded from the people. He grew up as a fierce warrior and hunter, killing animals of all sizes in the mountains that took up half the Night Court.

Feyre’s father coped in a different way: plunging himself into his work. However, it didn’t take him long to realize that Feyre needed a mother. Eventually, he married another, a woman named Amarantha Hybern with two daughters of her own—Nesta and Elain.

Soon after the marriage, Feyre’s father turned ill. The doctors did all they could, but he died of a broken heart just before Feyre’s eight birthday.

Amarantha, who had been pleasant in her husband’s presence, turned wicked. She treated Feyre like no more than a slave and placed the weight of the house, chores, and overall upkeep of the farmhouse on the young girl. Nesta and Elain followed their mother’s lead, making Feyre their servant and living like they were royalty. They even stopped calling her Feyre—’Cinderella’ seemed a fit name for their little sister, as she was always covered in cinders from the hearth.

As the girls grew, Nesta and Elain became calloused and mean, vain and pompous. Feyre on the other hand, grew up patient and kind, graceful and beautiful. The memory of her parents were clouded with the harsh words and acts of her new family, but she retained their love. She promised herself that she would remain kind, humble, and loving no matter what the Hybern’s did to her. And she kept that promise.

By the time Feyre was twenty two, she was an absolutely charming young lady with beauty to spare and a heart of gold. She was especially gifted with animals. All the creatures on the farm were her friends, even the mice—all but Attor, Amarantha’s wretched cat.

Her Stepmother despised her. She piled on work, moved her to the attic, dressed her in rags, and fed her table scraps, but Feyre never talked back, never became angry, and never disobeyed.

At twenty two Feyre would have been allowed to leave, but she couldn’t fathom the thought of leaving her parent’s home and decided to endure the wrath of Amarantha and her step sisters.

Prince Rhys grew up hurt. His father never fully recovering from his mate and daughter’s death and pushed it on his son, teaching him to hunt and battle instead of how to rule. Rhys was kind but fierce, intelligent but cunning, always ready for the next hunt.

However, when he reached 20 years old and his father fell sick, Rhysand decided to leave the Court to learn how to be a High Lord. He could see that his father would not be fit for the job soon.

Now, a week before his twenty-third birthday, Rhys returns from his studies to the Night Court….

...

“Rhys!” The High Lord exclaims, strong enough today to get out of bed. He walks over to his son and envelops him in a hug. “Oh, how I’ve missed you, boy.”

“I’ve missed you too, father.” The prince replies as large footsteps sound through the halls. Rhys catches a glimpse of long brown hair before he is pulled into another hug. “Woah, sasquatch.” He mutters, trying to regain his footing. His best friend and Captain of the Guard thumps him on the back, then pulls away. Rhysand looks Cassian up and down, now having to tilt his head back to see his brother’s face. “I must not be in as much shape as I thought—you’re bigger than me now. I was only gone for two years!”

Cassian shrugs. “Snooze, you lose, man. How are you doing?”

“I’m great! Better than great, I’m grand!” Rhys’ smile is contagious.

“Didn’t do too much sleeping around while you were gone I hope?” The High Lord asks, nudging his son with a smile.

Rhys straightens up. “Please father, I went there to learn to be High Lord.” He can’t even keep a straight face through the whole sentence and all three men burst out laughing.

“Well you can tell us all about it later. For now, I need to speak with you.” The High Lord places a hand on Rhys’ shoulder and leads him to the staircase. “Cassian, will you excuse us please?”

“Sure, I’ll talk to you later, dude.” And then Cassian marches away. Rhys hopes he is going to find Azriel. The three of them have been apart for too long.

“What do you need, Dad?” The prince asks as they walk into his office. The High Lord sits down in his chair and Rhys sit across, suddenly nervous.

His father takes a deep breath. “I’m dying Rhys.”

“Wow, that’s one way to kill the mood,” Rhys mutters and the man scowls but otherwise ignores the statement.

“You knew this was happening so I’m not easing you into it but because of this fact there is something you need to do.” This gets Rhys’ attention and his joking demeanor vanishes. The High Lord attitude he’s been trying to perfect assumes his features. “Your birthday is on Sunday and I have planned a three day ball in your honor, the last day being your birthday.”

“Sounds fun,” Rhys nods contemplatively. “Who’s invited?”

“All eligible ladies in the Court and some princesses from neighboring ones.” The High Lord responds and Rhys’s smile drops. This is not happening. “At the end of the three days I want you to pick a consort.”

Rhys stands abruptly. “No,” he states, glaring at his father. “I will not pick a wife out of your ‘eligible’ ladies. I will not marry for advantage. I will marry for love. I’m waiting for my mate.” He swears they’ve had this conversation a dozen times.

His father remains calm, passively looking up at his son from his chair. “Who’s to say you won’t find your mate at the ball? Or fall in love with one of the ladies enough to remember that mates are not always a sure thing?” He asks and Rhys grinds his teeth. The High Lord sighs and holds up his hands. “All I’m asking is that you give them a chance. Make an appearance to the public, dance with some fair maidens, and keep an open mind. Can you do that for me?”

Rhys stands ramrod straight and contemplates the proposal. He is mad as hell but he can’t deny his father this, he has to at least try. “Fine. Send out the invitations.”

...

Feyre is just finishing her afternoon chores when a knock comes at the door. Nesta and Elain are upstairs singing and her stepmother is reading, so Feyre rushes to answer before the sound disturbs them. A royal mail carrier stands with a large envelope in his hand.

“Invitation to a grand ball in honor of Prince Rhys for Lady Hybern,” he proclaims and hands the note to Feyre. He’s turned around and down the steps before Feyre even closes the door. She just stares at the invitation in awe.

“Stepmother!” She exclaims as she runs to the sitting room. Amarantha lets out an irritated sigh.

“You interrupted my reading,” she scolds. “This had better be good.”

“Oh, it is Stepmother! We just received an invitation to the royal ball-“

“Royal ball?” Amarantha practically squeals, springing out of her seat and snatching the note from Feyre’s hand. ��Nesta! Elain! Stop that racket and get down here this instant!”

Pounding is heard from the hallway as the girls run down the stairs in their highheels. Amarantha finishes reading the invitation and looks like she is about to faint.

“What is it, mother?” Nesta asks.

Amarantha shoves the invitation into her daughter’s face. “We are invited to the royal ball in honor of the prince’s birthday. It says that every invited eligible maiden is to attend.”

The girls squeal and start asking questions. Feyre’s ears perk up at the mention of every maiden. That means she can go as well.

“Cinderella!” Amarantha calls and Feyre jumps from her excited haze. “Run down to the tailor and have them make seven elegant dresses, you know our sizes.”

“Stepmother, why ever would we need seven? There’s only four of us.” Feyre reminds helpfully and Amarantha looks at her like she is missing a screw.

“What do you mean?” She asks, genuinely confused.

Elain pipes up before Feyre can answer. “Oh, mother, she thinks that she’s coming with us. How cute.” Feyre feels her cheeks heat as the girls snicker.

“Well, why can’t I come with you? The invitation says every invited maiden is to attend.” She argues defiantly.

“No,” Nesta chortles gracelessly. “It says every eligible maiden.”

Elain nods. “And you are not eligible.”

Feyre is hurt. Sure, her hair is grimy with soot, and her clothes are old and torn, but with a nice bath and a new dress, she could look just as beautiful as them.

“No,” Amarantha chides. “You are not going to the ball. The event will be three days long so I need three dresses for Nesta, three for Elain, and one for me. You will just attract unwanted attention. Besides, we can’t show up with our servant girl, we’ll be a disgrace!”

They’d called her worse, but Feyre still feels the sting. She muffles it for now and just nods. “I understand Stepmother, I will go fetch the tailor.” She says quietly.

“Good girl. When you get back, finish the chores.” Feyre nods again and leaves. Tears sting her eyes and she doesn’t let them flow until she is a safe distance away from the farmhouse.

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