#but unfortunately Rhysand's pov works better...

[velidewrites]

Fifteen years after Feyre Archeron and her family disappear in the middle of the night, the Prince of the Night Court enters the Blood Rite, determined to prove himself worthy of his title.

He doesn't expect to be hunted by someone he believed to be dead—until she aims her arrow for his heart.

Pairing: Feyre Archeron x Rhysand

Tags: Feysand Blood Rite AU, Illyrian!Feyre, childhood best friends to enemies to lovers, lots of angst and then basically just porn, this was really just an excuse to write feysand having cave sex (they fuck in a cave i don't know what to tell you), feyre tries to kill him and he's immediately on his knees, dual POV

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, blood and injury, and death; explicit sexual content in later chapters

Note: This is my submission for @sjmromanceweek! Hope you enjoy <3

Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || AO3

Chapter 1: Gotcha

Rhys was running for his life.

Only yesterday did his mother warn him about the monsters lurking in the woods. Unfortunately for him, his monster woke up in a particularly vicious mood today.

It was so fast, too. Much faster than him, even though he’d gotten stronger after his growth spur last year. At ten years old, he was taller than many full-blooded Illyrians his age, though not as tall as the boy sleeping in the woods. Rhysand wondered if he’d beat him in a fight—perhaps he’d challenge him to one later.

If, of course, he survived the monster chasing after him.

After two years at Windhaven, he’d learned to navigate the woods better than some of the more experienced warriors. He’d grown fond of the snow-capped pines, glittering brightly no matter the time of day. Whenever he felt too tired to attend training, he’d disappear between the trees, much to his mother’s dismay. Sometimes, he stayed for a a full day before someone came out threatening to report it to his father. It worked most of the time, even though Rhysand knew full well that Father would never visit the village for such trivial reasons. He’d simply send someone to retrieve his son and take him back to Velaris—or worse, to Hewn City. Father had never been particularly inclined to have his son attend Illyrian training, and had only agreed after Mother’s countless appeals.

Rhysand was thankful. Windhaven, demanding and exhausting as it was, was still a much better option than staying at the Court. Even now, with the monster practically stepping on his heels.

He was starting to run out of breath.

“Okay, enough!” he yelled, but his call was only met with a laugh. Prince of the Night Court or not, the monster didn’t seem to care.

Before he managed to plead again, it jumped on his back and tackled him down.

Rhysand groaned and flipped onto his back, the monster immediately pinning his arms to the ground.

“Gotcha,” Feyre Archeron grinned widely, her small, bat-like wing digging playfully into his side. “That’s the second time this week.”

Rhys rolled his eyes and sat up, sliding from under her body. “Shut up. You had an unfair advantage.”

His friend sighed, finally letting go of his hands. “You’ll get your wings eventually, Rhys.”

“How do you know?” he asked, hoping she didn’t catch the slight crack in his voice, the genuine worry that his behind the question.

Feyre shrugged. “Because. You deserve it, like the rest of us. It wouldn’t be fair if those pricks got to fly and you didn’t.”

He smiled at that. “You still hate them, huh?” he asked, and she huffed, shaking the snow out of her hair.

“They won’t let me train with them,” she said, a grimace twisting her face.

Rhys sighed. “I’ll talk to them,” he promised, and her blue-grey eyes widened.

“Don’t,” she told him quickly. “They’ll beat you up again.”

He scoffed. “They wouldn’t beat up their future High Lord,” he countered, and Feyre giggled.

“That didn’t seem to stop them last time,” she teased.

“I wasn’t prepared last time,” he argued fiercely.

“Yeah, yeah.” She got to her feet and reached out a hand. “Come on, High Lord. Let’s play another round.”

Rhysand groaned again. “Do we have to?”

Feyre laughed, the sound brighter than the shimmering snow. “Yes, if you want to be prepared. You know, so that you don’t want to get your ass kicked by a bunch of Illyrian pricks.”

He really, really didn’t.

***

FIFTEEN YEARS LATER

They dumped Rhysand somewhere in the north.

At least twenty minutes must have passed since he’d woken up, and Cassian and Azriel were nowhere to be found. Of fucking course they had them separated.

Some of the Illyrians had run. Most of them stayed, though, more excited than anything for the bloodshed, for their opportunity to stain the snow red with the fresh blood of their rival clans. For far too many of them, that’s what the Blood Rite was—a chance to settle the score, to settle the ancient disputes between their families, when really, it should have been a sacred ritual—an opportunity to honour their heritage. His father’s fault, he suspected—centuries of spurring hate within his own borders, between his own people, as if the male wanted a civil war on his hands. Fool.

Rhysand really didn’t want to kill them—he didn’t, even if the very first thing they’d tried to do upon waking up was break his neck with their bare hands. His magic didn’t work here, anyway, bound by the Blood Rite’s spells. Everything his father had taught him, everything he’d taught himself, was rendered useless.

Good. He would get to the top of that mountain as an Illyrian—not as High Fae.

Still, killing the males stuck in the north with him was the last thing Rhysand wanted to do. They already hated him enough—and unlike his father, he had little interest in being despised by his own people. And so, once his attackers had sufficiently been rendered unconscious, Rhysand went on his way.

Being only half-Illyrian, in this case, hardly worked to his advantage. The rigorous training him and his brothers had gone through helped a lot, yes—he was strong enough to hold off six of those males, though he suspected the number would’ve done little to impress someone like Cassian, standing at almost seven feet tall and taller than any Illyrian in Windhaven. And while Rhysand was able to survive the lot of them without a shred of his magic, they had still managed to get in a hit or two. Well, maybe a few more. Ten, to be exact.

He wiped off his bloody nose and looked around. Ramiel was in the east, towering proudly over the forest ahead. If he wanted to reach the mountain in less than a week, he needed to get moving. In a few hours, the sun would set, and the most bloodthirsty of them would begin their hunt for those who failed to get any sort of shelter. Perhaps he’d manage to stumble upon a cave in those woods.

But first, Rhys needed to find his brothers.

***

The forest was cold and dark, lit up only by the small torch in Feyre’s hand. The fire casted a shadow over her troubled face, but he could still make out the faint glimmer of the silver lining her eyes.

“I’m scared,” she whispered, and Rhys wanted to scream.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said helplessly. He hated seeing her like this, hated the way her mouth trembled instead of twisting in a stupid grin. He hated the way her hands fell to her sides weakly—he was used to seeing them strong, strong enough to pin him to the ground.

Feyre shook her head. “It’s not,” she said and looked into his eyes. “It’s not going to be okay.” She swallowed hard before adding quietly. “Rhysand, they came to our house last night.”

Rhysand went completely still. “Who?” the question was but a breath on his lips.

Feyre whispered, “The debtors. They took everything but the bed.” Tears, fresh and heavy, started to stream down her cheeks. “They crushed father’s knee.”

He wasn’t sure he was breathing. He knew Feyre’s father owed people money—even his own father called him a disgraced nobleman, but…

“There is blood all over our floor,” Feyre continued. “Mother says they’ll be coming again, and that they’ll hurt us next. S-she said…” another swallow. “She said they’ll take Nesta for themselves. Since she’s the oldest.”

Rhysand was going to be sick. Nesta was only fourteen; four years older than him.

Feyre grabbed his arm, her fingers wrapping tightly around his coat. “Rhys, you have to help us. You’re the only person that can do anything.”

“How?” he asked, his eyes wide.

Feyre’s jaw trembled again. “I-I don’t know. Speak to your father. Tell him we’ll pay him back, we’ll pay them all back, we just—we just need more time.” Her tears rolled down her chin and fell to his coat, salty drops leaving little dots over the fabric. “Please. Tell him, tell him we’ll pay everything back, I-I will work. I’ll start as an aide to a blacksmith, or a healer, or I’ll…I’ll hunt.”

“Feyre,” he whispered. She was ten.

He’d seen other Illyrian children work—like Cassian, now that he lived with them. Mother told him he didn’t have to, but he insisted to earn his keep in some way. And so, every day before training, he’d go to the market and run errands without fail. 

But Feyre…

“Feyre, you can’t…”

“Who will?” she asked. “I told you, they shattered his knee. If I don’t work, who will?”

“Feyre, I can—”

“I won’t take your money,” she said, her face stern now, even with the tears. “Just—speak to your father. Promise me, Rhysand.”

He would. And Feyre would never have to fear anything again.

“I promise.”

***

The fire had only started to die out when Rhysand jerked awake.

He rubbed a hand over his face. It had been…a while since he had a dream like that.

He looked around the cave, at the faint light shining over the damp walls. Thankfully, none of the Illyrians found him, and he got to sleep through the night somewhat…peacefully.

That time…that was the last he ever saw her. And while she would usually appear in his dreams the way he remembered her—happy, her laughter loud and sparkling, with that mischievous twinkle in her eyes—their very last meeting was anything but that.

Rhysand did speak to his father the next morning. He’d asked to be winnowed straight into Velaris, into the House of Wind, ready to plead his friend and her family’s case to the High Lord of the Night Court.

But when he returned to Windhaven, Feyre was already gone.

Cowards, the people would whisper. They’d said her family ran for the woods, hoping to escape to the Continent, and never made it through the night.

They found the mother’s body first, buried under the snow.

Then, they found Feyre’s father. A trail of blood led them to his remains, scattered all over a small clearing.

A beast, the people said. Terrible beast.

Feyre and her sisters were never found. The beast had swallowed them whole, Rhysand was told.

He searched for her anyway.

He was gone for two whole weeks, and returned only when his father appeared, that magical dominance in his tone forcing his feet back. He never went into that forest again.

The sun began to rise outside of the cave, and Rhys gathered his things—the coat he’d thrown over his body for the night, the knife he’d found in a tree on his way to find shelter. It had been a blessing, really—stumbling upon a weapon only a few hours after waking up with nothing but his clothes on. He wondered which one of his fallen brothers had left it there. The hilt was still a little bloodied.

Cassian and Azriel were out there somewhere—there was no doubt in his mind that they’d survived the first night. He’d never met an Illyrian that came close to matching their strength, their determination, their resilience. If anyone were to get to the top of that mountain—and become the first Carynthians in centuries—it would be his brothers. His true family.

Rhysand sighed. Had they found each other yet? There wasn’t even a slight chance the two of them had been dumped somewhere together—his father wouldn’t have allowed that. Rhys, after all, had stayed in Windhaven so long because of them—because of the bond they’d formed, the formidable unit they made in battle. He wondered if it frightened him—if his father ever feared that, one night, the three of them would lead a war against him.

He’d be lying if he said he never considered it.

Finally, Rhys made it out of the cave, squinting at the bright, golden sunlight that took over his vision temporarily. He needed to reach the forest’s edge by midday at the very least if he wanted to have enough time to make it through the lake.

He grimaced. The lake, aside from the murderous males wandering the area, was probably one of the most dangerous points of the journey towards Ramiel. Frozen solid, it split the two forests apart, creating no other path ahead but through.

Many warriors had died on that lake. Many of the old wives’ tales still talked of their bodies floating under the ice.

Rhysand sighed again and made his way ahead.

***

He could see it—he could see it right before him as he stood on the forest’s edge.

The lake reflected off the sunlight, still a cool shade of gold despite the day moving towards the early hours of the afternoon. From here, the icy wind almost couldn’t reach him—though he could picture it raging, raw and untamed, as the lake stretched on ahead. It seemed endless, somehow, the trees he believed to be waiting on the other side veiled by a thick breeze of frost and snow.

At least it was empty. There was no other way to the mountain, anyway.

Rhysand took a step forward when someone gripped his elbow.

He whipped around to find a male twice his size lunging for his neck.

He cursed himself for losing awareness so easily, distracted by the path ahead, and his hand reached for the knife strapped to his side.

Too late—with one Illyrian knife in his palm, and the other in his mouth, the male offered him a feral smile before he threw himself over his body.

Rhysand went down, knees barking, and he sucked in a sharp breath as his back hit the ground, a ripple of pain going down his spine. A fist slammed into his face, and something exploded in his mouth, filling it with the tangy, metallic taste of blood.

With all his strength, he thrashed, freeing one of his wrists from his grasp and, in a blink of a second, the knife was in his hand.

He delved it deep into the male’s arm, and delighted in his cry of agony.

“Get off me,” he snarled, and the male’s eyes flashed with pure, unrestrained rage.

Rhys’s luck was cut short as his opponent pulled the knife from his arm with a loud squelch of his flesh.

His blood dripped onto Rhysand’s face and mixed with his own, and the male tossed the weapon to the side, his teeth still gripping the hilt of his own.

Shit, shit, shit.

“I’m going to kill you now, Princeling,” he said, the sound muffled by the knife in his mouth.

Move, his mind screamed. Move, and kill this bastard first.

Rhysand opened his mouth when he heard something cut through the air.

And then, the male’s dark eyes widened in shock.

Something gurgled in his throat as he slid off Rhysand’s body and fell to the side, a long arrow with the edge of steel resting deep inside his back.

Slowly, Rhysand turned toward its source.

For a moment, the world had gone silent.

And then…

“Impossible,” he breathed through the blood in his mouth.

Feyre Archeron aimed for his heart and smirked. “Hello, Rhysand.”

#if anyone wants to be on the taglist let me know! #sjmromanceweek2023 #feysand au #feysand fic #feysand fanfic #feysand fanfiction #feysand #pro feysand #feyre x rhysand #feyre archeron #feyre acotar #rhysand #rhysand acotar #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #my writing

[cinaja]

It physically pains me that I cannot get around writing a Rhysand pov for the next chapter of btw.

#stupid narrative forcing me to write his pov #i'm half-tempted to write this part from Amarantha's pov instead of his #but unfortunately Rhysand's pov works better... #I Hate It #cinaja talks about before the wall

[vidalinav]

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but...

y’all need to accept the fact that ALL of these characters are and can be horrible people. This is not anti post, this is a let characters be morally grey post. They’re flawed, accept that already. 

I’m tired of seeing posts like but--but Nesta-- But Nesta what? We already know what her flaws are. They’ve been highlighted from day one. They’ve been acknowledged by every character including herself. They have never once been excused, nor empathized with though she needed that severely. She has made friends and no friends by being the way she is. She has made friends who understand her, and has a family who doesn’t understand her. Friends who take into account that she has been through horrible things, and a family who has not. A family who in her own POV has left her behind, because they did. I said this about Feyre, I’ll say this about Nesta, if in a POV someone says someone wronged them THEY DID. But she is not easy, and sometimes not nice. We know this, we accept this. I stan her for this because emotion often is not beautiful, but stop pointing out her flaws like we don’t know. We all know! We also know that she was aggressive for a reason, she was hateful for a reason, she was in a very low place, and she deserved healing and better, unjudgmental treatment by other people which she didn’t get. She helped in a war, she tried to get Feyre back, she talked to the High lord, advocated for the humans, showed she cared for Cassian in ACOWAR, etc, too. We know her perspective is biased and she’s never once been excused for her mistakes, but other character’s are not treated like Nesta is (like Lucien is, Like Eris is, Like Jurian is). 

So, let me go through the ways that all of these characters are imperfect and that you just have to accept as a reader. Okay? Okay. 

Elain is not going to be you’re pretty little doll that has done nothing wrong, because she has and she should. Elain was not a good character in ACOTAR, just as much as Nesta was not a good character. Elain does sometimes seem a bit oblivious to what is going on around her. Elain may be very nice and pleasant but that is and will not be all she is. She is allowed to make mistakes and she should be held accountable if she does. When she doesn’t do too much (because she doesn’t) or when she is not very helpful (whether by plot or by Feyre/Nesta’s POV-whether that is noted or not), we can be like okay, she’s in a bad way, because she was, she’s healing herself. But don’t be a hypocrite and please don’t make her victim of other people. Her narrative right now is that “Nesta coddles her,” but we already know that blame game. We’ve seen it in Nesta’s own POV. No one is in charge of anyone’s actions but themselves. If she wants to help, she can. Stop saying the IC won’t let her or Nesta won’t let her, if Elain wanted to help she can. She will find a way... or at least put her foot down, which we’ve already seen she can do. If Elain wanted to reject the bond right then with Lucien, she could, but she doesn’t.  And, If Nesta says she wasn’t there and she chose Feyre (no matter how skewed that perspective is), and Elain shows in Nesta’s POV that she didn’t show empathy either to Nesta or even love in a way that Nesta could see, or try to understand where she was coming from vocally in the scenes she was featured in regardless of whether she was capable or not of helping Nesta (because she didn’t (i.e scene in library, the treatment spiel, and the “did feyre pay you?”, and also never being around while Nesta was there, but also ACOSF when she took a drink like she couldn’t handle the situation, and then laughed like nothing at all was wrong)) then she wasn’t there for her. She’s a complex character just as everyone else. Let her be a complex character! Flaws are not bad, please stop trying to negate flaws like they shouldn’t exist. She’s great and she stabbed the King of Hybern to protect her sisters, she let the fae into her home, and she chooses to be kind in a world that’s not very kind to people like her, and she’s got a whole lot of story to tell, but she’s a normal character not a disney princess. She’s not close to anyone. Why? That’s not anyone else’s predicament except her own. Neither is her life nor her actions. Okay? 

Mor can be loved because she was very supportive to Feyre in Feyre’s POV, understood because she is the first LGBT character in this book and she lives in a world it seems where she has to hide who she is, and we as readers understand that she has been through also horrible things. However, this does not negate the fact that she is a horrible person sometimes, to both her friends and people outside of their little group. She was not good to Nesta on SEVERAL occasions, even when Nesta was not bad to Mor. This weird love-triangle kept happening because she didn’t want to just admit that she didn’t like Azriel romantically, whatever the reason was. She’s a complex character. Hate her/Like her, but acknowledge that no matter what you choose, she has fucking flaws. 

I see posts sometimes about how people don’t understand where this Rhysand came from, like “he’s so awful in ACOSF, SJM did this to make Nesta look better.” What? He’s been a dick always. He’s just not a dick to Feyre but that could be argued as well really. We as readers can acknowledge though that he like all the rest have gone through horrible things, and though the horrible things he has done are not excused (i.e. murdering children, killing people, his court still having so many problems and their solution being lets go to Vallahan, putting up an evil front to just keep people in line, not instilling any action to help those who need it or not treating people like subject who depend on him as a ruler regardless of whether he likes them or not (i.e the Hewn City/Illyria)) we acknowledge that he can be understood at the same time that he is also a hypocrite. Generally he’s not bad on an individual basis. but he’s not “good!” He’s morally grey. As they all are, but because he’s a ruler, he should be 10x more responsible for all of these problems and for all of his flaws. 

Azriel is a sweetheart and sometimes he’s understanding, and doesn’t seem judgmental. But he’s a psycho! I’m sorry. He’s got a lot of things to work through, I mean. We acknowledge that he has been through HORRIFYING things, but we also should not neglect the fact that he’s a creep and he tortures people on a regular basis. There’s no reason he should have had that insane long infatuation with Mor and now seems to have one with Elain. We understand why he does this, psychologically, but it does not excuse him for making Mor uncomfortable for 500+ years. Take all of him or none of him. 

Cassian. I love Cassian, but he does not think before he speaks, he does have his head up the IC’s ass, and he’s does not connect dots very well. He’s sweet and he’s supportive, and I have less of a problem with him than some other characters, but!!!! He’s got flaws and those are not bad. Those do not make him unlovable, but he’s got them and they’re not going away. 

Feyre has this same issue. She does what she needs to, she’s loving, she gives people a chance, and yes she was there when people needed her, she has also suffered a good amount, but Feyre’s suffering has been acknowledged by everyone. It has been given voice to, it has been reflected in empathy by every single character even when Feyre herself has not been a great character. She tends to be very one-sided in things, as in her own view is the only one that exists (though that’s everyone of them really as we’ve seen, there’s no nuance there) but she’s also not very emotionally intelligent and she does get into everyone’s business, when she should probably let people do their own thing (this has been her trait forever since ACOMAF I think). But she should also take more of a stance to be a ruler, because unfortunately she has that responsibility, and she should hold Rhys more accountable for the actions he does. It should not be a “let’s have sex and all is well” sort of situation. She’s a very biased perspective, but so are all of them. But she’s not perfect and we should never feel that she is. She is not the light of heaven that has glorified Prythrian, she is just an average human-to-fae girl trying to live. She deserves love, yes, but not more than anyone else and loving her should not mean hating other people, which this fandom and the book have a hard time realizing. 

Amren... sigh... I don’t like her too much but for the thread I’ll continue. Amren is probably the only reason anything gets done, realistically, because at least she’s always thinking about the logistics of things. She’s horribly rude, and doesn’t seem to care about anyone’s opinion, but she’s 15000 years old or what not. Emotions probably have to be beneath her at that point, but that doesn’t mean I have to love her, and that doesn’t mean she’s an unflawed characters. She’s very flawed and I think that’s acknowledged but I don’t think any character has really held her accountable for being who she is, they brush it off and are like “Amren’s Amren.” But she’s morally grey for sure, getting to be a darker shade if you ask me (i.e Tyrant Amren). But I acknowledge that even though I hate her, she’s not ALWAYS horrible. 

I don’t know what it is, maybe it is the narratives insistence that the IC are good that makes everyone go off their rocker, but my god, I think I would love all of these character’s more if there wasn’t this insistence that they’re the “good guys” and just have them make mistakes, have them eat their mistakes equally, and have them move on, learn to do better, maybe fuck up again. That’s life lol that’s interesting, morally grey characters. But I write this post not to say they’re all horrible, but to say that it is unnecessary to point out the flaws of other characters in defense of another one. They’re all horrible. Acknowledge it, breathe it in, love them or hate them anyway, but know (whispers for dramatic effect) they’re all horrible. And that’s okay, because that is not all they are. 

Have a good day. 

#nesta archeron #cassian #feyre acheron #elain archeron #rhysand #mor #azriel #amren #acosf #acotar #acofas #acomaf #acowar

[rhysismydaddy]

Feysand Pregnancy Fluff

From an ask! Heavily influenced by the fact that I am ~super~ on my period right now and in a mood myself lol. In Feyre’s POV. 

I’m working on cleaning out my box rn and then will be starting After Midnight :)

____________________________________________________________

Am I aware that I’m acting like a psycho? Yes. 

Does it change my mood, and thereby psycho tendencies? No. 

“I just think it’s funny, honestly.” That’s a lie. I didn’t find it funny at all. 

Rhysand sighs, because after four years of marriage, he knows he’s in pretty deep shit. 

“You smiled. Someone compared your wife to a beached whale, and you smiled.”

He’ll either stick to his story or admit that he’s a horrible human being. 

He chooses the first option, unfortunately. “Feyre, darling, I didn’t smile.”

“Well then you should be a goddamn ventriloquist or something, because I could’ve sworn I heard you chuckle, too.”

Like the complete asshole he is, his lips twitch. “That wasn’t me.”

“You are such a bad liar, Rhysand De’Luca.”

He turns into the driveway of our house in the suburbs and rolls his eyes. “It must be from all these years living with you. I used to be a better one.”

“So you admit you’re lying!” I exclaim, half in victory, half in anger as I waddle from the car. 

I’m well aware that our neighbors, the Havenshims or something, are staring at our little exchange with raised brows, but I still call my husband a filthy liar. And a horrible person. And a snake in the grass.

Where I even learned that last phrase, I have no idea. 

Rhysand bites his lip, but I see the edge of a smile form anyway, and it makes the temper spike even worse. The fact that he shrugs to our neighbors doesn’t help, either. 

Stomping to the front door, I unlock it, walk inside, and close it in his face. I don’t bother locking it though, since he learned a month ago to keep a set of keys on him. 

I toss my shoes off, barely resisting the temptation to turn around and throw one at his head, and walk up the stairs. “In case you don’t remember, it’s your fault I look like a beached whale anyway. And you had the utter audacity to laugh!”

Once I’m up the stairs, I take a few moments to catch my breath, gritting my teeth in annoyance. 

Did you know male babies burn more calories than female babies? Guess which one I’m carrying. 

Or should I say ones. 

Because my stupid, lying husband somehow managed to knock me up with twins on our first go. Male twins. 

I think I hate him. 

“Pretty sure it took the both of us, although I did probably put in more effort.”

Nope. I know it. 

“I want a divorce,” I tell him as I attempt to slide the side of my dress zipper down. Of course it gets stuck on my ginormous stomach, which doesn’t do much for the mood I’m in. 

Before I can grab a knife and just cut it off, Rhys’s hands replace mine and tug, and I watch in the mirror as he pushes the fabric off my shoulders. 

Leaving me rotund and naked before him in the mirror. 

And just like that, I start to cry. “You know, I’m tried my best to look good tonight, okay? I did my hair, even though it’s dry and hasn’t been cut in three months, and I put on makeup, even though I was sweating so much it took an hour.”

Said makeup is being destroyed by the sheer amount of tears streaming down my face, but who cares. I’m a whale anyway. 

“You look beautiful. You always do.”

That just makes me cry harder for some reason. 

“And I didn’t laugh at what Cassian said,” he informs me, wisely refraining from repeating it himself. “I laughed at how hard Nesta punched him when he did.”

I sniffle. “Oh.”

Gentle hands on my shoulders turn me around, and then he tsks and wiped the tears on my cheeks away with his thumb. “You’re gorgeous. Makeup or no. Nine months pregnant or no.”

Pushing my head against his chest, I’m glad he wears so much black, because my mascara’s probably running everywhere. “Okay.”

“We’re only five days away now,” he tells me, and I can hear the smile in his voice. 

I’m about to smile, too when another horrible thought occurs. 

“Oh, gods. I only have five days until I have to push two bowling balls out of my lady parts,” I wail, and he sighs against the top of my head. 

I almost fall when his chest suddenly disappears, but he comes back quickly, wrapping my fluffiest robe around me and leading me to the bed. I’m about to protest when he just holds up a hand. 

Still crying, I ease onto the bed. It takes about eight pillows--one of which belongs to my husband--but I finally get comfortable. 

Giving up on being sanitary tonight, I sniffle and wipe my nose on the collar of my robe. Rhys is up and about, pulling off his pants and shirt to reveal the stupidly perfect body underneath. 

He should be fat, too. 

He should be fat and disgusting and have people make fun of him. 

Life is so unfair, I think as he pulls on an old college shirt and goes to the bathroom for something. 

When he comes back, sits on the bed, and murmurs, “Close your eyes,” I have to amend my statement. Maybe it’s not so bad. 

Because even if I am nine months pregnant and an emotional wreck, I have a husband who takes off my makeup for me at night. 

He gently wipes the foundation and lipstick and mascara away, then unclips the earrings I forgot I was wearing. I peer up at him, and he just looks back at me, beautiful eyes full of patience and love. 

“I don’t know if I can do this, Rhys,” I whisper, mentally building a dam to hold the tears back. 

“Oh, Feyre, darling.” 

He crawls over me somehow and lays on my other side, careful not to disturb my mountain of pillows as he leans on an arm to hover over me. 

His lips softly meet my cheek, then my forehead, then each eyelid, before landing briefly on my mouth. 

“You may not know, but I do. You’re the strongest person I know. You’ll probably curse me to hell the whole time, but you can do it.” 

“Probably,” I laugh. 

He puts a hand on my bulging stomach, smiling when one of the babies kicks against his palm. “Five days until we get to meet them. What do you think they’re going to be like?”

“Loud. Smelly.” 

Rhys rolls his eyes and settles down further in the bed, not even mentioning his lack of pillow. “I think one’s going to be really athletic and tall. You’ll want him to play something safe like baseball, but he’ll choose hockey. And he’ll have your blue eyes and blonde hair and charming personality, so we’ll have to give him the birds and bees talk when he’s four.”

I smile at the ceiling. “And the other?”

“He’ll be smart like you. Probably will come out knowing how to read. And he’ll definitely get along with Azriel and Elain, so we’ll have to fight for his attention.” He yawns, hand going still on top of my belly. “But it’ll be worth it, because he’ll cure cancer or something, and we’ll be in the paper and they’ll praise us for creating such a stand up guy.”

“As long as the whole article’s about us,” I reason, putting my hand on top of his and interlinking our fingers. 

“Of course.”

Turning my face to his, I press a kiss to his forehead. “I love you so much. Even if I’m crazy. Even if I curse you to hell when I finally have your babies.”

His violet eyes open, and he kisses me softly. “I know. I love you, too. I can’t wait.”

“Me either,” I whisper back, eyes drifting close as I fall asleep, hand still atop my stomach, intertwined with his. 

____________________________________________________________

@perseusannabeth @cursebreaker29 @a-bit-of-a-cactus @girl-who-reads-the-books @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @rowanisahunk @superspiritfestival @studyliketate @over300books @justgiu12 @maastrash @aesthetics-11 @bamchickawowow @b00kworm @sleeping-and-books @musicmaam @savemesoon8 @hizqueen4life @maybekindasortaace

#feysand #feyre #feyre archeron #rhysand #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acotar fanfiction #a court of thorns and roses

[kitashiwrites]

Wave Upon the Sand - A Tarquin Fic: Chapter 4

Series: A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maas Characters: Tarquin, Cresseida, Varian, Feyre, Rhysand, Amren POV: Tarquin Rating: T Word Count: 3117 Ao3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9818336

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Summary: Chapter 35-37 of ACOMAF from Tarquin’s POV.

Comments: The final chapter is upon us! I’m so sorry this took so long to post. Hopefully it is worth the wait! Thank you everyone who has commented, sent me asks, left kudos/likes, anything! It’s because of you guys that this exists right now. I hope you enjoyed this little foray into the Summer Court as much as I did.

As always, thank you to my lovely @illyriantremors for being the best cheerleader a writer could ask for. <3<3<3

Until the next fic (which may end up being sooner than you think... :3), enjoy!

-----

They joined us for dinner in our family dining room that evening. To my pleasure, she had worn the black diamond necklace, which suited her just as well as I thought it would. I swore I heard Varian make a choked noise when she walked in. Cresseida, to my surprise, eyed her appraisingly. “It suits you,” she said almost kindly. “That piece didn't fit here anyway.” Feyre bowed her head in thanks, but didn't take the unintentional bait. Varian watched Amren with curiosity, as though she were a riddle he needed the satisfaction of unraveling. However, she paid him no attention whatsoever as she debated with Cresseida over some ancient text.

Feyre had been chatting amicably with me, her smiles easy and relaxed. Rhysand was keeping close to her, though she didn't seem to be bothered by what was bordering on an invasion of personal space.

“You ate it right there,” I said with disbelief, raising my eyebrows as she told me about her day at dockside.

She shrugged. “They fried it with the other fishermen’s lunches. Didn't charge me extra for it.”

I let out a laugh, impressed. “I can't say I’ve ever done that—sailor or no.”

“You should,” she said earnestly. “It was delicious.”

“Well, maybe I’ll go tomorrow. If you’ll join me.”

She gave me a grin. “I’d like that. Perhaps we could go for a walk in the morning down the causeway when the tide is out. There's a little building along the way—it looks fascinating.”

Cresseida went silent suddenly, but Feyre, seemingly unaware, kept speaking. “I figure since I’ve seen most of the city now, I could see it on my way to visit some of the mainland, too.”

The question seemed innocent enough, but I still glanced at Cresseida. If this wasn't handled delicately—and quickly—we would be in very deep water.

“It's a temple ruin,” I said blandly, the lie coming to my lips easier than I liked. “Just mud and seaweed at this point. We’ve been meaning to repair it for years.” I still remembered the sick feeling I got from handling that evil metal box that now lay in the catacombs beneath the docks of Adriata, under the enchantments that now only I could break. The Book of Breathings. The unintelligible whispers that came from that metal box had snaked into my ears, so much that it made my very blood run cold just to think about it.

“Maybe we’ll take the bridge then,” she suggested, oblivious to my attempts to change the conversation. “I’ve had enough of mud for a while.”

I looked her in the eye. Why did she ask about the temple? Of all the things to bring up…

Another thought crossed my mind. Why did they want to come here so badly? Why ask about my trove? There were pieces of information, pieces of a puzzle that were all right there in front of me. All I needed to do was put—

She’s harmless. A small voice in my head said. My better judgement. She is kind, and sad, and broken. You saw her with your people—you saw how she treated them. How she treats you. Amarantha did not break that kindness.

It was true. She had given me no reason to distrust her.

Take her to the mainland tomorrow. That'll keep her from asking about the temple. She saved Prythian. She is your friend.

My worries faded away, until I couldn't even remember what I had been worried about in the first place. I could take Feyre to the mainland for a tour in the morning.

I smiled at her. “We’ll meet after breakfast. Unless Rhysand wants me for more meetings.” I turned to the bored High Lord and he waved a hand at me lazily.

“By all means, Tarquin, spend the day with my lady.” The possessiveness in those last two words was clear. Feyre braced her arms on the wooden table and gave me an easy smile. There was a flicker of distress in her eyes, but before I could ask her what was the matter, it was gone. “Tell me what there is to see on the mainland,” she said.

~~~

We left the palace early in the morning, just as the sun was coming up over the water. Feyre came out with a smile, but that inexplicable unhappiness in her eyes from the night before had still been there when met her at the door to her rooms. She also seemed to be very tired, and I wondered if we should have postponed it by a day or two. When I offered, she declined, the distress becoming determination, and we set off for the mainland.

It was nice speaking to anyone who was nearby. I loved that they were not afraid to walk up to us and start a conversation, though their warm greetings were nervous—guarded even—when they realized who my companion was. I wasn't surprised—they had survived so much here, and while they were grateful, they also wanted to distance themselves from the memories as much as possible and move forward. It was no fault of Feyre's, and I hoped that she understood that.

But as the day went on, she looked more and more tired. We stopped for a fried fish at the docks, which was indeed as delicious as Feyre had said. By the time the sun was sliding into the horizon, she finally admitted that she was tired and hungry, and so I bought her a baked fish pie as we headed back towards the palace.

Evening fell over the island all too soon, and we gathered in the dining room.

I turned to Feyre. “I know there are other places on the mainland to visit. Or we could always—”

“Unfortunately, we need to return home, by the afternoon at the latest,” Rhysand interrupted smoothly. “I have court matters to attend to, and we have been away long enough.” Feyre sat next to him, not saying a word. I felt a pang of disappointment at his words. Dinner with the Night Court had become somewhat of a normalcy now. I expected to see them there, to engage in conversation with someone other than Varian, Cresseida, or my other advisors. Dinner was quiet after that, with no one really sure what to say.

I walked them to their rooms, each step that took us closer to this final night with visitors making me sadder.

I kissed Feyre's cheek, fully aware of Rhysand’s watchful gaze. “I wish it wasn't your last evening. But perhaps I will see about visiting the Night Court soon.”

Rhysand placed his hand at the small of Feyre's back, not saying a word as she bid me good night.

~~~

I walked into my study to find Cresseida sitting at my desk. I stopped in the doorway.

“There you are,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing here, Cresseida?”

“When were you going to tell me about this?” she asked without preamble, holding a folded paper in her hand. I could tell it was Tamlin's letter—the one that Varian had argued with me about a few days before.

“Where did you get that?” I asked harshly.

“I’ll be the one asking the questions, Tarquin,” she snapped. “You would put your entire court all in danger over a girl?”

I bristled at her tone. “I know what I'm doing.”

“Do you though?” She unfolded the letter. “Tarquin,” she read aloud, “I write this letter as an urgent request for your help. Feyre was taken from my lands under duress by the Night Court, and I believe is being held against her will. If you should come into contact with her, or she should pass through your lands, please let her know I am working tirelessly to find her, and if you are able—”

“Cresseida,” I interrupted.

“—please send word and we shall retrieve her in the safest manner possible.” She folded the letter back up. “That doesn't sound like someone who respects her decisions.”

“I confirmed—”

“I don't care what you confirmed! The Spring Court has specifically requested her return if she enters our borders.” She sighed. “I’ve sent a return letter stating she's here. Someone from the Spring Court should be here to collect her before they depart in the afternoon.” I stared incredulously at her, not quite believing what I was hearing. She almost looked sorry. “It's what's best, Tarquin. For everyone involved.”

“Being Princess of Adriata does not give you the right to act like you rule my court, Cresseida.”

“Your judgement has clearly been clouded—”

“He locked her up!” I snapped. “The Night Court rescued her, and—”

“That is not our concern, Tarquin,” she replied simply. “We sometimes have to make hard decisions, ones we may not like or even agree with, because they are what is right. She was entered into a bargain as a mortal that she should have been released from when she died for Prythian. She stayed, was engaged to Tamlin, and stolen from him.” She shook her head. “I do this not out of any animosity for her, or even Rhysand. I do this because I don't want to see my city wrested away from us again because we didn't do as the law demands.”

“The law,” I said hotly, “is what keeps Tamlin from going after her now. Do you really think, after all we’ve seen of them during this visit, that Rhysand would be so stupid to leave a loophole so simple for Tamlin to take her back? That's why Tamlin is trying to get the other High Lords to do his work for him. If Feyre didn't want to be in the Night Court, she wouldn't be.”

“Do you really believe that?” she asked quietly. I nodded.

“I do.” I walked back towards the door.

“Where are you going?”

I stopped and turned back towards her. “To get them out of here and hope we don't end up in the middle of a war between two courts.”

~~~

I rushed down the hallway as the sun began to rise over the horizon. If I could just warn them, maybe they could leave before word reached Tamlin. I thanked the Mother that Cresseida hadn't thought to give the message to anyone who could winnow. I knocked frantically.

No answer.

I knocked again, but still nothing. I couldn't hear anything. I opened the door to Rhysand’s room.

The room was empty.

Well, his things were still there. Packed for their departure, and the bed untouched. As though he never went to sleep last night. I opened the connecting door to Feyre's door. The same thing.

A sparkle in my peripheral vision made me turn towards the dresser. Lying there neatly on the top was the black diamond necklace I had given Feyre. The one she had been wearing just last night.

“Tarquin!” I turned around and found Varian standing in the doorway, panting, his eyes wild with panic.

“We have a problem.”

~~~

“And so we came here immediately to let you know,” the guard finished. I felt sick to my stomach. The Book of Breathings. Stolen from right under our noses, my guards assaulted, and my court in absolute chaos. Many of the guards were currently in the healer’s wing, though none of their injuries were life threatening.

I couldn't even begin to imagine how they had managed it. The enchantments were keyed to me—to the Summer Court itself. And to have it stolen by people we had welcomed in as our guests…

Though I knew that it hadn't been confirmed, there was just too much evidence to ignore.

I felt anger at myself for falling for their act, betrayed that they would do such a thing to us after the hospitality we had shown them… especially by Feyre. The guilt in her eyes now made perfect sense. She had known exactly what they were going to do. I wondered idly if she had been in on this plan since they arrived, or if she had been involved after they got here.

“Tarquin.” I turned to look at Varian, who seemed uncharacteristically nervous. “The water.”

I looked to the bay outside the window to the dining room and found the sea choppy and dangerous—a mirror of my own feelings. I no longer cared how much they had charmed me, or if any of them had been genuine with me. The sea called for vengeance at this betrayal, and as it’s High Lord, I would give it what it asked.

“Lord Tarquin?” I looked up at the courtier who stood nervously at the table. “An emissary from the Spring Court is here to see you in the throne room.” I let out a curse. As if my morning couldn't possibly get any worse. I turned to Varian, who nodded.

“Send him in here,” he told the man. With a bow, the man left. Varian turned to me.

“Did Cresseida…?” His voice trailed off. I nodded, and he cursed under his breath as the door creaked open. The red haired man in fine clothes and a clearly well used sword that stood in the doorway before me was one I hadn't seen in a few months. His gaze, mismatched golden and russet, shifted between Varian and I before settling on me.

“Lucien,” I greeted him. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” I knew exactly why he was here, but I wanted to hear it from him.

He walked up to the other end of the table and gave me a small bow. “Lord Tarquin, we received word from your court that the Night Court was here, along with our missing Lady Feyre. We hoped to be able to intercept them before they got away from us again.” The hope in his eyes made me hate to tell him.

“Yes, Cresseida unfortunately sent word without informing me. I am afraid that you have just missed them. They left in the middle of the night.”

Lucien's shoulders sagged, his expression weary and his eyes almost haunted. I wondered how long he had been searching for her, and what had happened since she had left the Spring Court.

“Should you come into contact with her again—”

“Lucien,” I said gravely. “If I come into contact with Lady Feyre again, she will be answering for crimes against the Summer Court.” He looked stunned.

“Crimes?” he asked incredulously. “What did she do?”

“That is Summer Court business, of no importance to the Spring Court,” I said flatly. I did not need another Court knowing that we had lost the Fae half of the Book of Breathings.

“Whatever happened, I can assure you that she was not a willing participant,” Lucien insisted. “She was kidnapped from the Spring Court by—”

“Yes, I heard about that.” An idea crossed my mind. “Tell me, Lucien,” I asked, “are the rumors true that Tamlin locked Lady Feyre up in the Spring Court?”

His posture stiffened. “No.” The clear lie wasn't even dressed up with an explanation. Likely less story to keep track of as he went to each court. “We received this letter not long ago from the Night Court,” Lucien said, changing the subject abruptly. He pulled a piece of paper from the inner pocket of his waistcoat and held it out to me. I looked to the Varian, who walked over to Lucien and took the paper from his hand.

I left of my own free will.

I am cared for and safe. I am grateful for all that you did for me, all that you gave.

Please don’t come looking for me. I’m not coming back.

“I mean, who would believe that she actually wrote this?” Lucien said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the realm. “She is illiterate.”

If that were the case, then Feyre's panic during the Second Trial suddenly made sense. I had never seen Feyre's handwriting, but I knew without a doubt this wasn't Rhysand's. Not that the handwriting was bad, but his penmanship was far more polished than this. Feyre had said that Tamlin respected her decisions, but I wondered if that was truly the case.

“Even if that is true, it does not change the fact that she has committed a crime.”

“But you know she would never do anything like that if she were herself,” Lucien argued, having not noticed that I had tuned him out. I felt pity for him. I wondered if he, or even his High Lord, knew Feyre completely. I wondered again if I had.

“I do not know that Lucien,” I said harshly. “Who can say who Lady Feyre truly is? We have only Under the Mountain and our own interactions to draw from, which clearly were different.” Lucien looked like he was about to say something, but thought better of it.

“I can promise her a chance to explain, and nothing more,” I continued as I rose from my chair. “Princess Cresseida will see to it that you and your men have a place to stay for the night so that you may be on your way home tomorrow.” Lucien looked surprised at my blunt dismissal, but bowed his head.

“Thank you, for your generosity,” he said, though I could tell from his expression that this had not gone at all how he had envisioned.

“If there is nothing else, I must take my leave. I have business to attend to.” Without waiting for Lucien to agree, I walked past him, Varian close on my heels.

“Tarquin, that—”

“We need to go to the vaults,” I interrupted. Varian’s eyes widened in understanding.

~~~

“Tarquin, are you sure—”

“I don't blame you, Varian. You and Cresseida tried to warn me. The consequences of this are mine to bear.” We stood in the middle of the vault I had first taken Feyre to only days before. It was amazing how quickly things changed. I had placed the necklace back on a shelf, but I had hidden it behind the gaudy ruby and gold one. I didn't even want to look at it. I opened the chest in front of me, revealing a small fortune in deep red rubies that had an almost sinister feel to them. Blood rubies. I let out a sigh and took two rubies in my hands, and placed them in the velvet of a box with a mother of pearl dagger inlaid on the top. With a heavy heart, I took a third and placed it next to the others. “Have a courier deliver this to the Night Court immediately.”

And closed the box with a snap.

#Wave Upon the Sand #Tarquin #Tarquin fic #Wave Upon the Sand Chapter 4 #acomaf fanfiction #ACOMAF Chapter 35-37 #Summer Court #kitashiwrites

[kitashiwrites]

Wave Upon The Sand - A Tarquin Fic

Series: A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maas Characters: Tarquin, Cresseida, Varian, Feyre, Rhysand, Amren POV: Tarquin Rating: T Word Count: 3503 Ao3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9818336

Summary: Chapter 32 of ACOMAF from Tarquin’s POV.

**May be continued! Read the note at the beginning :)**

Tarquin has received a request from the Night Court for the High Lord, Rhysand, and his courtiers to visit the Summer Court, stating that he has information regarding a potential threat from Hybern. For a new High Lord without solid allies, this could be a good move… or one he could possibly regret for centuries to come.

Comments: TARQUIN! I don’t know if anyone else has done anything from his POV yet?  Either way, I’ve loved this idea ever since it was requested by Emily on my Ao3, but actually figuring out what to do was hard. I knew it had to be the Summer Court, but how much? Would people actually be interested in this? So I am leaving it up to you, the readers, how far I take this. If you would like to see the rest of the Summer Court visit from his POV, I will continue it. Or if not, I’ll leave it as is. All you have do is let me know!

Either way, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it. :) Thank you guys for the comments and kudos on Ao3, and the likes and reblogs here! I don’t tell you all enough how much I appreciate you guys <3

A big thanks (as always), to the best tumblr bestie in the whole wide world, @illyriantremors, who is always my biggest cheerleader and I appreciate more than I can say <3<3<3

—

“Absolutely not!” Cresseida snapped.

I let out a sigh of frustration and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Cresseida—”

“No! I will not allow you to let that traitorous whore and his court into Adriata. You owe him nothing.”

“We owe the Cursebreaker,” I argued, “and we do owe Rhysand our lives for not outing us as rebels when he clearly saw it!” This meeting had been going on for hours, and not for the first time, I wished I sat where Varian sat—a Captain and a Prince again, able to take off to sea at will, and not deciding whether we would meet with the man who had stood at the left hand of Amarantha.

Cresseida threw up her hands. “Why are we even having this meeting if you aren’t going to listen to a word we say?”

I sat back in my chair. “That’s what I would like to know, seeing as you are the one who wanted to have it in the first place.”

“Tarquin is right, sister,” Varian interjected. “We do owe the Cursebreaker. It is just our unfortunate luck that she is with the Night Court.”

“How do we know that isn’t just him manipulating her?” She turned to me. “You said yourself that he melted our courtier’s mind. Who’s to say he wouldn’t do it to her to—”

“Cresseida,” I said firmly. “They are coming tomorrow. I see no better way to test if Rhysand’s request for a meeting and possible alliance is genuine. If he does anything untoward to anyone while he’s here, we will have justice.” I let out a sigh. “We don’t have many options. The last fifty years have left us all trying to recover—”

“We can recover just fine without that monstrous court,” she said stubbornly.

“You weren’t there!” I snapped, my patience running thin. “You cannot possibly imagine what it was like to watch that, and know that all it would have taken for me to befall the same fate would have been one look from Rhysand. And the Cursebreaker’s title speaks for itself. If you will not play nice for another High Lord, at least try not to embarrass us in front of the one who saved us all.” I was probably being too harsh, but Cresseida had the decency to look embarrassed nonetheless. Varian cleared his throat.

“While it is true we weren’t there, Rhysand’s reputation still stands. Are you sure this is a wise move?”

No. I wasn’t sure of anything. That’s why I’d appointed my siblings as my advisors—to keep me from making ignorant moves. But somehow, I still ended up reining them in sometimes. It was a vicious cycle.

As if she’d sensed my thoughts, Cresseida asked nonchalantly, “I wonder if Tamlin is aware how close she will be to his lands.”

“Cresseida,” I warned. The last thing we needed was to be the ones instigating a war between Spring and Night. For all that one or the other might consider us allies depending on who we helped, I couldn’t get rid of the nagging animosity I felt for our southern neighbor. It was Tamlin’s inaction that made it so we had to rebel. It was our own mistakes that got us caught, but had there been some kind of effort for the remaining courts to go against her…

But that was in the past. We now had the freedom and the luxury to ponder the what-ifs, and right now, we had the chance to gain an ally of one of the most powerful courts in Prythian.

“I’m simply saying we don’t know that Rhysand didn’t kidnap her,” Cresseida continued, clearly having taken my silence as an opportunity to try to convince me. “Tamlin has been beside himself, if the rumors are to be believed. I somehow doubt after all she went through to free him that she would suddenly just abandon him.”

“Why are you paying any mind to rumors from the Spring Court?” I asked, my irritation growing.

“I simply do not want to be caught off guard if we are asked about her.”

It was Varian who answered this time. “Cresseida, do not go courting trouble.”

I let out a sigh and slumped in my chair as the conversation, and thus the bickering, started all over again.

~~

The day passed by rather quickly, turning into the hour of their arrival before I knew it. I now waited with my siblings at the entryway to the palace for our guests, who would be here any moment. There was a nice sea breeze, but there was no denying it was a warm day, even for Adriata. I wondered how long we would be standing here waiting. My only real interactions with Rhysand had thankfully been from a distance Under the Mountain, but this meant I didn’t really know what to expect from him when it came to punctuality.

And speak of the devil himself, there they were.

Rhysand winnowed into sight, standing between two women, each with a hand in his. A short, raven haired woman dressed in grey, and the other—

The last time I’d seen this woman, she’d been a mortal whose neck had been snapped by Amarantha for daring to challenge her and winning. She’d been resurrected, Made into a High Fae. The Cursebreaker herself. She snatched her hand away from the High Lord, a scowl on her face.

“Welcome to Adriata,” I said, eyeing my guests.

“Good to see you again, Tarquin,” Rhysand drawled. He looked almost exactly as I remembered him, down to his midnight black outfit. The only difference was the tan that now colored his skin, and the considerable power I could feel in the air around him. He could hide his power well, but for another High Lord… it was still clearly there. I began to wonder if I had made a bigger mistake than I’d realized, letting him into my court.

But he could have outed me Under the Mountain. He could have had my entire court wiped out with merely a word, tortured… and he didn’t. And despite all the alarm bells ringing in my head, I chose in that moment to give him a chance.

He gestured to the tiny woman next to him, inspecting her sharp looking nails. “Amren, I think you know. Though you haven’t met her since your… promotion.”

I gave her a small nod. One would be remiss to forget the unnerving, silver eyed woman that I now remembered was Rhysand’s Second. He wasn’t fooling around. “Welcome back to the city, lady.” She didn’t nod, or bow, or so much as curtsy. She looked me over appraisingly, as though she were eyeing her next meal.

“At least you are far more handsome than your cousin. He was an eyesore.” Her red lips stretched wide as her gaze shifted behind me. “Condolences, of course.” I wasn’t quite sure how to answer this… could it be considered a compliment? The Night Court clearly had a different way of interacting than we did in Summer. I could only imagine the look Cresseida was giving them right now.

Rhysand gestured to the Cursebreaker. “I don’t believe you two were ever formally introduced Under the Mountain. Tarquin, Feyre. Feyre, Tarquin.” A very informal formal introduction. But even though I’d hardly spoken to her before this, really only thanking her for saving us, there was still something so familiar feeling about her. I fixed my gaze on her, keeping the political mask that Varian and Cresseida insisted I needed to use with them in place. Her expression was the same, though I couldn’t shake the feeling that Cresseida might not have been entirely wrong about Rhysand controlling her.

Dressed in a flowing lilac and pearl dress, and her brassy hair in curls, Feyre was clearly prepared for our court’s weather and looked like she would fit right in. However, there were hints of the Night Court in her dress—night blooming flowers, specifically. Subtle enough to be overlooked, but still spoke volumes. I couldn’t help but letting my gaze wander to the plunging neckline of her gown, accentuating her figure attractively.

Rhysand had clearly noticed. “Her breasts are rather spectacular, aren’t they? Delicious as ripe apples.”

I didn’t like the possessive tone that was lightly woven into that statement, but wondered if that was his way of letting me know hands off.

Feyre slid her gaze to him, keeping her face neutral. “Here I was, thinking you had a fascination with my mouth.” The look of surprised delight that crossed his face made me rethink my suspicion, but I still remained wary.

“You have a tale to tell, it seems,” I said finally.

“We have many tales to tell,” Rhysand said, jerking his head towards the glass doors behind me. “So why not get comfortable.”

“We have refreshments prepared,” Cresseida said. I suddenly realized I had never introduced my Court. An amateur’s mistake. I placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Cresseida—Princess of Adriata,” I said, trying to correct my mistake. Cresseida took a step forward.

“A pleasure,” she murmured. “And an honor.”

Feyre shrugged in an almost perfect imitation of Rhysand. “The honor is mine, princess.”

I hastily introduced the rest of our courtiers and Varian, in hopes of moving us along, though Varian kept his eyes fixed wholly on Rhysand’s Second, his stance wary at best and hostile at worst. The small woman returned his glare with a smile of feral delight. Thankfully, it didn’t progress any further, and soon we were walking into the palace. Rhysand walked next to me, his companions falling into step behind him.

“Nynsar approaches soon,” Rhysand said suddenly. “Have you decided what flowers you’re going to decorate with?” It was such an odd question, and so… normal. His letter had been more urgent of a request, stating that he had information regarding a potential uprising from Hybern. While I would never allow them to dock in my port after Amarantha, it never hurt to be prepared in the event they tried to force my hand.

“I haven’t really thought about it yet,” I said carefully, not sure where he was going with this. “I imagine Cresseida has some ideas, though I’m sure there will at least be some hibiscus and water lilies. And you?”

“Jasmine,” he said matter of factly. “Maybe something else, but for us, the real show will be in the sky, so not many will be caring about the flowers around them.” Indeed, I’d heard the stories of Nynsar in the Night Court—Starfall, they called it. It was supposed to be one of the most beautiful sights in Prythian. Our conversation died off, neither of us really knowing what to talk about. It was hard to converse when the last time you had seen each other, you had been reveling in the freedom you’d been denied for half a century. I looked behind me. The group followed us, with my siblings bringing up the rear. Feyre wasn’t far from Rhysand or Amren, but seemed… distracted.

“We have four main cities in my territory,” I said to her over my shoulder, trying to be a good host. It was her first visit here after all. “We spend the last month of winter and first spring months in Adriata—it’s finest at this time of year.”

She nodded. “It’s very beautiful.” Her tone was sincere as far as I could tell, but I couldn’t help staring at her. That… something… it was still there. I couldn’t place what it was, and I was sure before this visit was over, I’d either ask her or go insane.

“The repairs have been going well, I take it,” Rhysand said suddenly, hauling my attention back to him.

“Mostly,” I admitted. “There remains much to be done. The back half of the castle is a wreck. But, as you can see, we’ve finished most of the inside. We focused on the city first—and those repairs are ongoing.”

“I hope no valuables were lost due its occupation,” he said. Another odd question, but from the expression on his face, it seemed innocent.

“Not the most important things, thank the Mother,” I said honestly. I could feel the eyes of my advisors on me, each one digging into my back. As they peeled away, making excuses to go do other duties, I wondered if I had done something wrong. But now was not the time to worry about that. I smiled at them as best I could, and led our guests into the dining room. Feyre walked right past the table, as though she hadn’t even seen it, and stood at the windows that overlooked to the bay and the sea that lay beyond. “This is my favorite view,” I said to her, seeing the awe on her face as I moved to stand next to her. I looked out at the water again. It really was—it was one of the first places I went to see when we returned to the palace after starting the rebuilding effort in the city, and it would likely be my last stop when we left for the season.

“You must be very proud,” she said, “to have such stunning lands.”

I slid my gaze over to hers. “How do they compare to the ones you have seen?”

“Everything in Prythian is lovely, when compared to the mortal realm,” she said dully—a diplomatic answer.

“And is being immortal lovelier than being human?” I asked.

She turned to me and looked at me up and down, brazenly and without a shred of politeness said, “You tell me.”

Any worries I’d had that her mind was being controlled by Rhysand were gone. This was the fire I’d seen in the mortal woman Under the Mountain. No one could replicate that so flawlessly, not even Rhysand. I smiled genuinely at her. “You are a pearl. Though I knew that the day you threw that bone at Amarantha and splattered mud on her favorite dress.”

“I do not remember you being quite so handsome Under the Mountain. The sunlight and sea suit you,” she said flirtatiously. If this had been anyone else, I’d probably have been embarrassed by the comment, even flattered. But this was the woman who had been a part of two other courts in the span of a year, and the favorite of both of their High Lords.

“How, exactly, do you fit in within Rhysand’s court?” I asked baldly. If she could be frank, then so would I. It was so much more honest, and a better way to negotiate.

She looked uncertain of her answer, but before I could press further, Rhysand’s voice rang out from the table, as if he’d heard every word—somehow I didn’t doubt he had. “Feyre is a member of my Inner Circle. And is my Emissary to the Mortal Lands.”

Cresseida, seated beside him, asked, “Do you have much contact with the mortal realm?” Feyre took this opportunity Cresseida had unwittingly given her, and moved to the table to sit next to Rhysand’s Second, away from me and directly across from Rhysand.

Rhysand sniffed at his wine, to the clear chagrin  of Cresseida. “I prefer to be prepared for every potential situation. And given that Hybern seems set on making themselves a nuisance, striking up a conversation with the humans might be in our best interest.”

Varian drew his focus away from Rhysand’s Second. “So it’s been confirmed?” he asked roughly. “Hybern is readying for war.”

“They’re done readying,” Rhysand drawled, sipping his wine. “War is imminent.”

“Yes, you mentioned that in your letter,” I said, finally taking my seat at the head of the table between Rhysand and his Second. “And you know against Hybern, we will fight. We lost enough good people Under the Mountain. I have no interest in being slaves again. But if you are here to ask me to fight in another war, Rhysand—”

“That is not a possibility,” he interrupted smoothly, “and had not even entered my mind.” Though I doubted that, I was glad that he seemed to understand my warning.

“High Lords have gone to war for less you know,” Cresseida crooned from her seat. I looked at her and saw her gaze was focused on Feyre. “Doing it over such an unusual female would be nothing unexpected.”

“Try not to look so excited, princess,” Feyre said flatly. “The High Lord of Spring has no plans to go to war with the Night Court.”

“Are you in contact with Tamlin, then?” My sister’s saccharine smile was borderline feral. She was playing with fire, but she didn’t seem to care.

“There are things that are public knowledge, and things that are not,” Feyre said quietly, measured—a voice that didn’t demand attention, but you couldn’t help but be drawn in. “My relationship with him is well known. Its current standing, however, is none of your concern. Or anyone else’s. But I do know Tamlin, and I know that there will be no internal war between courts—at least not over me, or my decisions.”

“What a relief, then,” Cresseida said, sipping her white wine and cracking a crab claw open. “To know we are not harboring a stolen bride—and that we need not bother returning her to her master, as the law demands. And as any wise person might do, to keep trouble from their doorstep.” I knew that last part was for me, though I could feel Rhysand Second still next to me, recognizing my sister’s threat.

“I left of my own free will,” Feyre answered, clearly unhappy with the direction of this conversation. “And no one is my master.”

My sister shrugged. “Think that all you want, lady, but the law is the law. You are—were his bride. Swearing fealty to another High Lord does not change that. So it is a very good thing that he respects your decisions. Otherwise, all it would take would be one letter from him to Tarquin, requesting your return, and we would have to obey. Or risk war ourselves.”

Rhysand sighed. “You are always a joy, Cresseida.”

“Careful, High Lord,” Varian warned. “My sister speaks the truth.”

I laid a hand on the table, my siblings antics finally too much for me to ignore. “Rhysand is our guest—his courtiers are our guests. And we will treat them as such.” I decided to throw a reminder of my own to her. “We will treat them, Cresseida, as we treat people who saved our necks when all it would have taken was one word from them for us to be very, very dead.” I studied Rhysand and Feyre. While Rhysand’s expression was completely disinterested, Feyre’s eyes betrayed how bothered by my sister’s comments she’d been, and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. She’d been thrown into our world simply because she’d fulfilled the criteria to save us, and now was one of us. I wondered how that had affected her since her Making. I shook my head—these were thoughts for another time. I turned to Rhysand. “We have more to discuss later, you and I. Tonight, I’m throwing a party for you all on my pleasure barge in the bay. After that, you are free to roam in this city wherever you wish. You will forgive its princess if she is protective of her people. Rebuilding these months has been long and hard. We do not wish to do it again any time soon.”

I turned to Feyre. “Cresseida made many sacrifices on behalf of her people,” I offered gently. “Do not take her caution personally.”

“We all made sacrifices,” Rhysand said suddenly, his voice razor-sharp and icy. “And you now sit at this table with your family because of the ones Feyre made. So you will forgive me, Tarquin, if I tell your princess that if she sends word to Tamlin, or if any of your people try to bring her to him, their lives will be forfeit.”

Even the sea breeze died. This was the man who led the Court of Nightmares. Who could—and did—kill in Amarantha’s name for fifty years.

“Do not threaten me in my own home, Rhysand,” I warned, though my bravado was on shaky ground. “My gratitude only goes so far.”

“It’s not a threat,” he countered, the crab claws on his plate cracking open all at once, the meat practically exploding out of the shells—under his power. “It’s a promise.”

I turned towards Feyre, to see how she would respond to such a… protective statement. Especially for one who said she had no master.

Feyre merely looked at all of us and raised her glass as if in a toast. She held my gaze the longest. “No wonder immortality never gets dull.”

The charged air crackling about the table dissipated almost instantly, and I chuckled.

This was going to be a very interesting visit.

#Wave Upon the Sand #my fic #acomaf fanfiction #Tarquin #acomaf #The Summer Court #ACOMAF Chapter 32 #kitashiwrites