I completely fell in love with feyre while writing this. granted I haven't reread the books in the while so I think this is just my interpretation of her, but seriously. I’ve always been slightly emotional over her never-ending future with rhys and now after writing this it’s a whole other level
this can be read separately but makes more sense after reading this other fic of mine : https://bittermuire.tumblr.com/post/664394052142350336/beautiful-reflection
it’s a quick read and this fic takes place pretty soon after. anyway, enjoy :)
“I can’t believe it,” spits Rhys, pacing the room. “You’re siding with her?”
Feyre sighs. Motherhood has worn her down. Her body sinks like a stone into the soft armchair. “Rhys…”
He turns swiftly and takes her in. His eyes soften.
“I’m tired,” she tells him.
“I’m sorry.” He kneels and takes her hands. “I am, truly. I don’t want to cause you stress. But I can’t keep excusing her.”
Feyre laughs and squeezes his hands, kissing his fingers softly. “I think this time she’s excused herself.”
She doesn’t sleep.
It’s too real, now.
Without Nesta, it’s too real.
She has no way out. She will be alive forever until she dies. She will be alive. She is twenty-one years old and happiness doesn’t always adapt.
“Happiness is like fine wine,” he tells her, pressing hot kisses to the inside of her thigh. She tips her head back. She closes her eyes and succumbs. She bends to him. “We’ll be happy forever,” he whispers, and her skin burns where his hands take her.
Her son is like the rising sun. He screams and he cries and he smiles.
“He looks just like you, Rhys,” compliments Cassian. He puts a protective arm around her. “He’s beautiful.”
He looks like Father.
He looks like me.
“Are we supposed to age?” she asks. Nyx rests in her arms, sleeping.
Rhys smiles. Every curve, every line, is so familiar to her it hurts. Every inch of her is filled with love for him; she can’t imagine this particular eternity any other way.
“Age? Of a sort. We reshape, we reform. Our lives are like mosaics. Move the pieces and make different pictures.”
His eyes flutter to a close. She watches him, the way he shines by the firelight. He is hers. He belongs to her. Her fingernails leave scars in his back. His name is tattooed on her lips. This is what a mate is: the air and the lungs breathing it, the sky and the eyes seeing it.
“I love you,” she murmurs, and kisses her son’s forehead, his perfect mosaic.
She doesn’t tell him that the nightmares she wakes from are often of him.
(By the Mother, the horrors, the fear, the terror—oh, the way it shakes her, the way she trembles, the way she freezes in the face of the one who loves her. He grins and breaks her arm. He grins and her blood dribbles from his lips. He grins and presses her up against the wall. “It’s a game,” he says, “It’s a game, Feyre. It’s a game. I’m saving you. Don’t worry, Feyre. I love you, Feyre. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Smile again, Feyre. Feyre darling, Feyre darling. Feyre, Feyre.” He owns her, he paints her skin; everything is him.)
No, she doesn’t tell him.
When they wake in the night, she always wakes before him. In those few minutes she looks at his face, memorizes it again; she remembers herself in his eyes and the soft curve of his cheeks. You’re mine, she thinks, and by making him her own, she feels like she is her own too.
He told her they reshape, reform. Will this fear leave her? Or will it only organize itself, fold itself neatly into her dreams for the rest of forever?
His inky warmth floods her. As he comes awake he pulls her close to his chest. He kisses her hair. “Forgive me,” he whispers, and she squeezes her eyes shut, rejecting the fear.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you, you’re mine.
“You’re not the same.”
An arrow thuds into the target. Bulls-eye.
“What do you mean?” She nocks another arrow, body thrumming with this forgotten routine. “I haven’t changed.”
Lucien watches her shoot. The morning’s unseasonably warm. Elain is setting the table, mostly forgotten to Velaris, now.
“It’s good to see you this way,” he says.
Nyx is walking, tottering around the halls of the House, when Emerie and Gwyn come rushing in through the door. Their eyes are shining, their cheeks pink. They don’t see her as they bustle into the kitchen.
“She looks gorgeous,” exclaims Gwyn.
Feyre hoists him into her arms and leaves, as briskly as she’d arrived.
Cassian sobs like a child in her arms. “I can’t breathe without her,” he groans.
The House is silent in Nesta’s absence.
Old wounds scar. The years pass all in one. Nyx tugs her close and says in her ear, “I want to be human, Mama.”
She does not tell him what it was like to be human.
She does not tell him she was human.
And she does not, she does not, tell him about Nesta.
Nesta, devastating and cunning and cruel, made High Fae and yet—
Nesta, determinedly human.
Rhys holds her all through the night as she cries for the first time in years. She doesn’t tell him what for.
What grief is this? Whose? Where has it been hidden?
She grieves her lost sister, her lost childhood.
All the mortality floods from her eyes in a river. She feels like one of those old myths—the woman who wept an ocean, the girl who was made a tree, lurched over the currents.
“Is it normal to be so tired?” she asks. How old is she now?
Rhys frowns. “No. Are you feeling alright?”
She smiles. “Fine,” she says, and nestles closer.
She’s very sick when her son’s head is to her hip.
She can’t crawl from bed. Madja finds nothing wrong, no physical malaise.
“Take me to Elain,” she begs, clutching the healer’s arm.
“He’ll die,” she whispers, because that’s all she can do, “if I die.”
Elain hushes her and presses the washcloth to her forehead.
“I can’t die, Elain.”
Her sister is a haze in the sunlight.
“He can’t die.”
The summer is a slow one. Perhaps it’s many summers, she doesn’t know. Lucien carries her out to the fields and Elain brushes her hair beneath the sun. Sometimes she can sit up and eat; other days she merely lays, splayed out on the grass, her existence so still she feels dead. Elain smells like flowers and the past. Her voice is warm like the day.
“Nyx wants to see you,” says Elain, poking her head in.
She’s taking her breakfast in the drawing room. She knows Elain would have a fit if it was anyone else, but this is where the floorboards are warm in the sun, and the furniture smells real and is soft beneath her heavy limbs. This is where she walked again; this is where she became alive.
Her heart lightens. “Of course.”
He surges in like the tide, his little face bright. He careens into her legs and she pulls him into her lap. “My Nyx!” she laughs. “You’ve grown so much!”
Wrapping his arms around her neck, he settles into her warmth. He feels as familiar to her as breathing. In this intermission of her life, this reinvention, she feels that perhaps she is a little more herself, and the other parts are the parts she’s chosen. She has no idea how old she is, but she isn’t nineteen.
A futile hope—but in the mirror she thinks she sees lines around her eyes.
Life becomes life again. She moves back to Velaris.
He’s missed her. He’s desperate for her. They don’t talk about her time away.
This used to thrill her—his need for her, his aching want. It made her glow. He, a five-hundred year old High Fae, wanted this puny little human, and he still wants her.
He feels as good as he always has. She can’t put her finger on what’s different.
“You abandoned me,” she says to the stars.
There are other children, other houses, other cities. Their family grows. Happiness is not easy but she catches it occasionally. Lucien and Elain remain childless and are determined to remain so for many years, and their estate is quiet, and she spends many lazy days there when all her children are lost to the world.
Eternity soaks into Rhys like a great ocean. It only makes him more beautiful.
And the past—it mostly stays there.
(She’ll go there once. She’ll go there now, once.)
She’s only seen Nesta once since she had stalked back down the altar. Her sister keeps her visits quiet and invisible; Emerie and Gwyn are the only giveaways, with their happy eyes.
But that image, that last sight—it’s burned into her mind.
She was alone, that day. She was walking the streets and breathing the air. She felt very human, very fragile; they don’t tell you that the Fae can barely feel the wind. She felt it, that day. That day, the wind was rushing, and it rattled her bones.
Nesta was crossing the street, near unrecognizable with her long hair down, body sheathed in a heather gray coat. A scarf covered her mouth and nose. Even from where she stood, Feyre could see the snowflakes shining on her eyelashes like stars.
Then, Nesta turned. Slowly, deliberately, she turned; her eyes caught Feyre with a shocking familiarity. Not even sisters can escape the agelessness, the eternity, she thinks.
They will always have this.
In Nesta’s steely gaze was the challenge:
Leave him, I dare you.
Leave all of this.
And when the words were given, when the challenge was posed, she turned once again away, and walked away, away, away—where Feyre knows she will never be able to follow.
She sees her sister in her dreams.
She is always walking away. She is always walking towards the sun.
Wind lifts her hair; her silhouette is soft in the snow.
Except for one. There was one dream, different from the rest.
Her arms are warm like a sister’s. Her voice is gentle.
“Come to me when you’re tired,” she says, “and we can rest in the sky.”
I cried writing parts of this :’) happiness by taylor swift is fun to listen to whilst reading, if you’re so inclined
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