#might add tamlin's son in there too

[stay-forever-sunday]

Drop of Starlight

Summary: Feyre is obsessing over seating charts, Rhysand comes for the rescue.

Rating: G

Word count: 960

AO3

Feysand Week 2023 Day One: ✨Night Triumphant and Stars Eternal ✨

@officialfeysandweek2023

Seven days. That was how long she had until her precious little boy turned one year old. Seven days. And she had a feeling that her sanity would be completely drained by the time next Sunday rolled around.

Feyre hated planning parties. It was one of the things that kept nagging at her when becoming The Spring High Lord’s wife was still very much a possibility. Back then, she had an immortal future of pretty dresses, polite smiles, and fake conversations and had hated the prospect of being that trophy wife with every fiber of her being.

But she had come a long way from the fragile-minded and weak, underweight creature she had been then. This celebration was special – and she had probably set herself up for failure, but she was adamant about planning every single detail of Nyx’s first birthday party. 

They would have it at the House of Wind, as close to the night sky as they possibly could. Velaris itself would also be celebrating down below, for that little boy was hope impersonated, and there was yet to exist a faerie in the city that didn’t love and dote on Nyx. A few of them had been personally asked to attend the festivities, the invitations made of starlight.

With the help of Elain and the twins, she had mapped out all the foods and drinks that would be available as snacks for the party itself, but also for the formal sit-down dinner that was not only for their family but also for a few of the other high lords as well. Tamlin was, by default, not invited; she refrained from wondering if he would have said yes if had indeed mailed that particular letter. 

The cake and decorations would be of the night sky and stars. It might be bordering on cliche, but Nyx was the first baby to be born to a Night Court High Lord in centuries and Feyre hoped to be forgiven for the commonplace thought, but that baby was their tiny star. 

“You need to relax for a little bit, darling”. Rhysand’s voice reached her like a soft caress, her tiredness showing as she rubbed the sting from her eyes. 

He was fully behind her a second later, her back suddenly flush with his chest. Feyre sighed and let herself sink into the comfort and darkness of her love. 

“I know, but I still need to figure out the seating chart for the dinner. I don’t want to risk Beron actually coming and the only place he has to sit is beside Lucien. Or Helion.” Her mumble sounded too much like a whine to her own ears. “Why did we even send an invitation to the Autumn Court? It is bad decorum to retract it, isn’t it?”

The nameplates she was writing down had the sketch of a sitting chart beside them, crossed over many times as she played with who would sit next to whom. Sure they had some semblance of peace, for now; and Spring had been the only court not to get an invitation at all. Feyre had decided she liked Lucien’s mother and if this was an opportunity for her to see her son –and maybe Helion– then so be it. 

“I hope you know you don’t have to babysit our guests”. He murmured, picking up her hand and tugging her from the stool she sat at. 

She instantly wrapped her arms around him and hid her face in his neck. “Then who is going to babysit them?” 

Rhys chuckled at her grumble and held her close, his warm hand soothing her by traveling the expanse of her back, up and down and back again. 

“Let the others take care of anyone who might misbehave. It’s our son’s first birthday. The only person we should worry about is him and pray to the Cauldron that Mor doesn’t sneak him chocolate all day long.”

“Great. Now I’ll have to add that to my list of worries.” She laid her forehead on his shoulder and pinched his side, a comeback for mocking her. And damn him for adding to her ever-growing anxiety.

“Try not to worry about it, darling. Here, let me help you with this chart.” Rhysand let go of Feyre and peered over her work. He took three of the blank, black nameplates and the silver pen she used to write their guests’ names with. “These are the only nameplates we’re bothering with.” He spoke with a finality that made her shiver the slightest bit. She loved it when her mate made decisions and took care of her worries, in a way that was entirely welcome. 

The nameplates read Drop of Starlight and Stars Eternal. Lifting them up, he looked at her with a face-splitting grin. Feyre matched his smile with a bright one of her own. Incorrigible. But she’d be damned if she didn’t adore his playfulness. 

“You seem to be forgetting another very, very important guest.” She took the pen from his hand and leaned down to write on the remaining plate. With a flourish, she added two stars beside the name, one of them very, very small. 

Night Triumphant. 

Rhys smiled, pulling her back into his arms, cuddling her impossibly closer, and chanced a look at their baby, silently playing on the floor, surrounded by Illyrian dolls. He held one tightly in his chubby little fist, the other hand yanking at the doll’s wings. He was obsessed with anything that had wings. 

“I can’t believe he is turning one. I can’t believe we survived this.” He chuckled; Nyx had progressed to holding one doll in each hand and was munching on their heads, one at a time. 

“Are you kidding? I can’t believe he survived us.”

#feysand #feyre archeron #rhysand #pro feysand #feysandweek2023 #feyre x rhysand #pro feyre #pro rhysand #nyx archeron

[acourtofthought]

I’ve been thinking about this for a while, I think I’m up to something. Lucien was forced to leave his home twice already with basically only what he had on his back. We know that Tamlin basically packed his stuff and shipped them off and those are all the belongings he has. So I always wonder what is Lucien’s financial situation. It’s impossible to try to figure that out since he has a salary and can afford to rent an apartment in Velaris but he has no land or like property and he’s sharing an old mansion with two humans rn. He always speaks about being the seventh son of a high lord as nothing to brag about, he loses a lot of his titles so I always assume that he is very aware that he doesn’t have much to offer Elain in terms of property/living situation or even a court. I always assumed that comparing himself to Graysen (a very wealthy nobleman’s son), he thought he’d come up short. And if he is aware of the thing between Azriel and Elain, he might also think that he has nothing to offer compared to Azriel who is basically a high lord’s brother and right hand man. Elain is also surrounded by wealth and practically anything she could want, so I think Lucien would find himself at a disadvantage from this perspective too. Even if he wanted to take her, where could he? In an apartment in Velaris that’s not even on the nicer side of town? Or his shared manor in the human lands? He’s currently not doing well with Tamlin either. I really don’t think he’d ever just claim Elain, especially knowing that she was meant to be a wealthy noblewoman. And I find it especially interesting from this perspective that he keeps calling her Lady. Lady is the female version of lord. It is interesting to me that Lucien is showing respect towards her with that specific title. Not to mention that no one seems to care about Lucien’s heritage (the known one or the Helion one). It just feels like Lucien doesn’t see himself on the same level as Elain and her family. Idk this was a big ole rant you might have some ideas about it though so I thought I’d share 👀

I love how much thought you put in to this!! I'm thinking Lucien has money as he chose an elegant apartment in Velaris and dresses well but I agree that to him, that's maybe not the same thing as having roots and anything to offer someone. To him, what could he offer Elain? It's a little bit of the Cassian / Nesta situation. Cassian knew that Nesta grew up intending to marry a prince and regardless of the income he makes from Rhys, he had no title to offer her. Similarly, though Lucien is the 7th son of the High Lord of Autumn (or at least to it's Lady), Beron tried to have his other sons kill Lucien and chased him out of the court, Lucien doesn't stand to inherit a territory in Autumn. Yet he knew Elain was engaged to someone of some importance in the human lands, she was destined to become a Lady there. He hops between the Night Court, Spring Court and the human lands. I imagine he doesn't think any female would want that sort of nomadic lifestyle. I'm not even sure if Lucien knows what's going on with Az but I do think his struggles with his own self worth ("And a whole lot of nothing") and not feeling like he has anything to offer anyone has played a role in his hesitation to bridge the gap with Elain. I think when you add that into what happened to the last female he loved, that she was murdered by his "father", there have been a lot of things Lucien has struggled with upon realizing that Elain was his mate. That he was given this amazing thing (the bond) and what can he even offer to the person he probably wants to try to offer everything to. No home, no real title, and to some degree he probably fears for her safety and his ability to protect her against a High Lord. It doesn't matter how powerful someone is, the High Lords are supposed to be "power itself" and right now, Lucien doesn't realize he could stand up to Beron and actually win.

#pro lucien vanserra #elucien

[flowerflamestars]

Let's ask the hard questions here, baby. What do you think the series would have been like had it been Nesta Archeron under the mountain?

BABE this is it-this is the best question I’ve ever been asked. 

For one thing, chaotic. For another: I think the simple substitution reframes the whole structure of the narrative. It’s not about a journey to power that fights Evil Tyranny (abused Human to Hero to High Lady).

It’s a story about the people working around, beside, under the powerful Lords- and the difficult choices they make. Less Hero’s Journey more, Look, These Are the Real Heroes.

Let’s start with Spring. We know now that the whole you killed a faery now you have to come to faeryland thing was an insanely shitty ruse. So maybe Andras is still alive. Maybe Feyre killed him and Nesta successfully protected her sisters. Maybe Tamlin is just a twat and went that one is pretty. ANYWAY-

Nesta gets to Spring. Lucien doesn’t immediately despise her, for, you know, murdering and skinning his only friend (a handy sublimation of the anger he can’t express against his High Lord). Nesta was raised in the fucking gentry and Nesta can play the game- it’s a question of willingness.

Feyre is a lot more willing to roll with weird circumstances for caution.  Nesta is, to her bones, an aggressor. Empty manor doesn’t add up? She’s going to say something so cutting, and so infuriating to Tamtam she ends up seeing all the faeries. She steels herself, refuses to be afraid of Alis, and asks questions. (See, Nesta’s first IC dinner, zeroing in on the scariest faery and refusing to flinch)

At some point, there’s a confrontation. 

But it’s not between Nesta and Tamlin. Now, in canon Tamtams is extremely willing to drag his feet on the curse. In this version, that is so much worse- sure, he’s into Nesta (Nesta, recall, just looks like sharper Feyre), but Nesta takes one look at this fragile immortal man child and roasts the shit out of him. What’s he going to do? Kill her? Negates all the stupid trouble he went to. Punish her? He clearly needs her for something.

Tamlin cannot handle that. There are no Romantic Moments. Nes spends calanmai watching faeries do weird shit out her window. She sure as fuck doesn’t drink faery wine and dance for Tamlin at the solstice. It is not happening.

 So Nesta spends a lot of time alone, wandering around. Talking to Lucien, Alis, random-ass faeries out of sheer reckless ego, reading every book in the ugly manor.

Nesta confronts Lucien. I’m going to go with after the wingless dead faerie and the head in the garden. The stupid blight conversation.

This works differently and better than Feyre’s attempts to get more information for I think, two important reasons. 1) Lucien and Nesta speak the same language in acotar. It’s all anger babes- sharp edged, sexy, bullshit. There’s no cycle of forgiveness then softening- they are the same, too the same, tired and self-hating survivalists bored out of their minds in a gilded death trap. 

and 2) Nesta and Feyre are quintessentially perceived differently. Feyre is hopeful- tenacious, young, free. She shakes up things for these old ass faeries and gives them something to believe in. It’s youth for the eternally young. 

Nesta...is not that. She gets under your skin, forever. Multiple faeries meet her throughout the books and have very extreme reactions to that- but what matters at this point, as a mortal- Nesta reads as an adult. She’s immune to glamour. Her strength isn’t kindness or an open heart, it’s fucking steel that might take your last breathe.

And look, Lucien would respond to that. Tamlin...isn’t even talking to the girl his people died to get him. The curse is almost over and they’re all going to get tortured. Nesta, has, from day one, known something is wrong- she’s so angry, and it makes it easier for Lucien to be angry.

It’s not hunting bros who become Real Friends, it’s fire and gasoline. Empowerment.

So, I haven’t read acotar in ages- but I’m pretty sure they literally couldn’t tell her about Tamlin’s curse. But Lucien can communicate around the magical fuckery- there’s a great evil. The kids in Winter are all dead because of another High Lord. 

And look, Nesta cares about dead kids. She even, begrudgingly, cares about Lucien. She does not give a single flying fuck about the High Lords.

But Lucien, in this world, is the first one to say it: Hybern. 

Amarantha is Hybern’s general, and Hybern wants all of Prythian. All of it. 

Nesta is absolutely going to walk into the fire to keep the humans- and by extent, her sisters- safe from faeries. 

Tamlin- because he does not love Nesta- doesn’t send her away. Doesn’t crush any savage hope Lucien harbored, doesn’t do shit. He gives up.

And so Spring is dragged beneath the Mountain.

Nesta has exactly two advantages on her side: she can see through glamour, so she’s not 100% disoriented and vulnerable (just..you know, terrified), and sheer force of will.

Amarantha likes will. She likes to break it, and there are so few real contenders left after her victory. 

Nesta doesn’t bargain- Nesta doesn’t beg for Tamlin’s life and love- she asks to win her own. 

Amarantha wants to crush her like a bug. Insignificant little human- but wouldn’t it be more fun to watch each little crack form?

So she gets the riddle. Tamlin’s power is thrown in like the boring chekovs gun that it is. Lucien (probably) gets beat up because Lucien always gets beat up under the Mountain. 

Nesta has two choices: she can answer the (stupidly cliched, easy) riddle right there, and try to walk out. (Nesta knows she’s not making it out alive). Or she can wait, and play the game. (She’ll be damned if she doesn’t take that insane bitch and maybe Tamlin down with her. Her only ally is Lucien and he’s being hauled off with a bleeding headwound soo..)

Nesta lets herself be dragged away. She doesn’t fight. 

Let us remember again, that the Archeron sisters are built like a triptych. A presumable almost mother maiden crone. They look alike, especially Nesta and Feyre. If Rhysie boy thinks Feyre is hot at first glance, guess what he also thinks about Nesta?

So, yes, of course he goes to offer a deal. And let’s be clear on something- when Feyre hated Rhysands guts, what did he like about her? That she was beautiful, absolutely didn’t give a fuck, and what’s that? Fought with him.

She lets him heal her, but then- Nesta won’t even talk to him. Nothing he does works. They come to agreement (which Rhysand finds fascinating, a human with loyalty, that human heart) that Nesta will listen to Rhysand’s offer if and when, he delivers to her a whole, safe, Lucien Vanserra.

Rhys frames this as emotional torture. Incentive. He doesn’t need to play evil as well- Nesta hates fucking faeries. And she knows he killed a bunch of children. 

So Lucien gets thrown in the cell. Minimally healed. About to embark on the misery train, self-deprecating laughter at the fact he’s healed, now, because of Nesta. 

Lucien: so nice of you to make sure we’re all pretty before we die, Archeron. Final night spent huddling for warmth together?

Nesta: Shut up. Shut up- tell me why the fuck Rhysand would be trying to make a deal with me.

They come to the conclusion that, while Rhysand is a monster, he also has no control of his own. He’s completely under Amarantha’s thumb, and apparently, wants out.

Nesta, because she always goes for the jugular, has another thought: Are you really going to go back to Spring after this? He gave up. He gave up and you were rotting in a cell.

Lucien, to whom Nesta is both gasoline and mean friend catnip, but who is also a Sad Boi: where else can I go?

So they make a plan. Rhysand thinks Nesta is the key to killing Amarantha? Cool, Amarantha needs to die. Tamlin is the only High Lord who has access to his power more readily? Tamlin needs to do the killing. 

What does Nesta want? There to be no Hybern coming to burn the land where her sisters live. To go back, to go home- but Nesta doesn’t think, even for a second, she’s really going to make it out alive. And if she does, as she thinks late at night, of Feyre’s laugh, or Elain’s quiet humor- how will it ever be safe? They live on the Wall.

Nesta is known to faeries now- Nesta is infamous, and there’s nothing to stop anyone, should her presence lead them back to her home.

Nesta privately decides Tamlin should die too.

So when the time comes, and Rhysand is like, I’ll protect you, you’ll be mine and you’ll be healed- Nesta says no. Nesta, because she really has never learned to back down- looks dead in the eye of the High Lord of Night, the monster who sleeps beside Amarantha and says: safe passage.

She’ll do what Rhys wants, for this: Lucien Vanserra’s safe passage to a safe place, and for Rhysand to promise not to get in her way when she answers the riddle.

Rhys still wants her to come to the Night Court- for whatever nebulous reasons he wanted Feyre to...which only make sense AFTER she’s changed by the High Lords...which Rhysie couldn’t have known, BUT ANYWAY- Nesta says yes. She doesn’t expect she’ll be alive to pay.

Lucien sulks back to Tamlin’s side, and spends a few weeks between challenges laying it on thick. A quiet whisper that grows, a perfect stroke to Tamlin’s volatile ego. How dare Amarantha, how dare Nesta- Tamlin is a Lord, Tamlin is Spring- Tamlin, who has suffered so much more than the other Lords, deserves his power back. 

Nesta is dragged out for the final challenge.

In one of the long, dangerous hallways, her guards look the other way for just a moment- for a visitor. The High Lady of Autumn knows her son is safe because of this girl. 

She hands Nesta a knife. A small gift- all she can. Steel, not ash, small enough it will go unnoticed.

Nesta is dragged before the throne, before the High Lords, Tamlin and Amarantha, Rhysand.

Nesta answers the riddle.

And when Amarantha refuses to abide the rules- Tamlin, carefully manipulated without coordinating by both Rhys and Lucien, goes apeshit.

This does not stop Amarantha from hurting Nesta. The opposite- she’s trapped in the fight between them. When Amarantha does give Tamlin over the power, it doesn’t stop- unloved by even a human, and now she’d take any chance he’d had to win her as he really was.

Nesta doesn’t stab Amarantha. Nesta lays there, bleeding to death, biding her time.

Tamlin murders Amarantha. Rhysand doesn’t beg, but he’s there, getting growled at by Lucien as he tried to staunch Nesta’s wounds.

Amarantha dies, and Tamlin, glowing with power, makes his way to Nesta. They think he’s going to heal her- to try, but Tamlin is Tamlin, so he pulls her into his arms.

Nesta, who knows she’s going to die- Nesta, who was taken from her home, her family, deprived of her life by the choices of this man- Nesta lets Tamlin embrace her, the arrogant, stupid bastard, and stabs him in the throat.

It is the golden, desperate words of Lucien Vanserra that convince the High Lords to heal her. It is Rhysand who tries first, who gives the most. After all- Tamlin had been too selfish to try, and they’d all suffered for it. Faery justice: swift and bloody.

Nesta had died victorious. Nesta died with a bloody autumn court dagger in one hand and the grip of her only real friend in the other- but death was chaos. Skies and stars and howling wind, love and blood and war.

A thousand miles away, Cassian awoke screaming, clawing at his own chest.

She climbed through blood and battle, dreams and hope, floated to an infinite sky: and found herself alive.

Breathing, whole, an immortal monster. On her way to the Court of Night with Lucien by her side. 

[thehaemanthus]

Our Savaged Souls

Trying out a new thing of posting the full chapter on tumblr. You can read from chapter one one AO3 (unless it’s not your thing, and in that case you can send me an ask and I’ll be like! sure! I love to be accomodating! I’ll post full chapters on tumblr :) )

Feyre Archeron is born under the new Wall separating human lands from the Spring Court- her home. She hunts in her forest, forms a friendship with the High Lord's third son, and is introduced to his friend. Then it all goes wrong.

Chapter 6

Tamlin soon forgets his ire about the Suriel. Or at least, he pushes it down far enough and eventually bounces back, dragging her out on more adventures. He manages to swing by for a few hours of her birthday party, and then is required at home for much of the spring. By the time the summer rolls around, Feyre can tell he’s eager to be away from family and make up for lost time.

The latest outing is a jaunt to a pool of liquid starlight, one that Feyre has visited only a handful of times. It’s one of Tamlin’s favorite places, she knows, and she felt the honor in the first invitation.

Her linen dress brushes just past her knees, only half of her hair pulled back in anticipation of a relaxing afternoon spent lounging in the shade and wading in the water. No boots or tight braid needed today. Her contribution to the picnic is a batch of scones, some ruby-red cherries, raspberry preserves, and roasted almonds. With her bounty and dress, Feyre decides to winnow rather than pick through the forest.

Feyre expects it to be a small party, but she does not know how small it actually is until she arrives.

There are two people there. Tamlin and Rhysand.

Of course. Rhysand. Of course he is here.

“You managed to make it on time!” Tamlin greets her with an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek and takes her basket from her hands, retreating to add it to their pile of food and blankets. The space already looks inviting, dappled in shade. Sweating bottles of lemonade and ice water peak out from a wicker basket full of white porcelain plates with painted primrose borders and crystal glasses. A partially wrapped loaf of bread and hard cheese rests on top, along with a sharp knife and a bounty of fresh fruits.

Feyre scowls. “I was late one time, Tam, it’s not funny anymore.” She glances at Rhysand. It would be impossible to pretend he’s not there. It’s just the three of them. It would be rude to not say anything. It should not be difficult at all to just greet him. She wrangles her expression into something pleasant. “Hello, Rhysand.”

“Feyre darling,” he smirks. “I thought you were calling me Rhys now?”

She actually turns a bit red and fumbles. Thankfully, Tamlin’s big mouth saves her. “When did that happen?”

“A while ago.” Rhysand reclines on one of the picnic blankets, lounging like a cat. He waves a hand. “Won’t you join us, Feyre?”

There’s really no way to refuse. She takes a seat, folding her legs under her. “It’s hard to break a habit. I’ve been calling you Rhysand for a long time now.”

“I’ll have to keep reminding you, then,” he says as he roots through a picnic basket, plucking out a tin of cookies. “Want one?”

“Thank you, Rhys,” she stresses his name, plucking one of the cookies from his hand.

He smiles at her, and the tension seems to melt away.

Has she always looked at him like this, or did the Suriel trigger something in her soul that flipped the world upside down? Feyre wonders how long this feeling, this awareness of him has been growing in her heart, encroaching so slowly and naturally that she has not noticed until someone drew her attention to the blossoming.

For a child of the Night Court, Rhys looks good in the sun. She has always known he is beautiful, but something has changed. As they chat and nibble on the picnic, Feyre observes him. There is something fuller in his laughs, more playful in his smirks today. It would be impossible to forget that he is an Heir— powerful radiates from his body and he approaches every conversation and confrontation with arrogance. He is still guarded. But if his true soul is an impenetrable fortress, Feyre thinks they’ve passed through the gates of one or two battlements.

The sun beats down on them, stronger now that the world has moved and positioned itself in summer. The Day Court is absolutely sweltering, Rhys informs them, and there’s been some problems with heat sickness in Summer. In Spring, Feyre keeps an extra canteen of water and takes frequent breaks when romping about.

Sweat gathers at her brow and pools on her upper lip. Eventually, sipping cool drinks and relaxing in the shade is paltry comfort.

“I’m going for a dip,” she stands. “Anyone want to join?”

The males scramble up after her. It’s some work to unlace her stays, so they end up shucking their clothes and splashing into the pond before her. Feyre finds herself sighing in relief when they don’t look twice or offer to help. It would be well meaning from them, her friends, if not a little playful and flirty. But if Rhys offered…

Mother above. Surely it should take her longer to fall?

“Are you coming?” Tamlin calls from the water, flicking some water in her direction. It glitters like diamonds where it lands on the grass and dirt. It might not actually be water, but Feyre has never known what else to call it.

She scowls. “It takes a little longer for me.” She toes off her slippers, wiggling her feet in the cool grass. In the past, Feyre hasn’t had trouble with stripping down to almost nothing and jumping into lakes and rivers. Now, she keeps her chemise on and tries not to think too hard about it. After tossing her hair pins on the blanket, she wades in.

The pond is cool and refreshing. Sunlight almost blinds her as it bounces off the surface. Feyre glides through the water, slowly acclimating herself. When she dunks her head under and emerges, the liquid starlight clings to her lashes and makes the world look brighter and chaotic. She swipes a hand at her eyes and blinks to clear her vision.

Tamlin floats on his back, golden hair floating around his head like a halo. Rhys lazily swims a circuit around the pond, much like she was. Feyre treads in place for a moment before floating a bit closer to Rhys.

Sensing her presence, he surfaces. Feyre’s breath catches. She’s sure he reads something incriminating on her face, but before he can speak she opens her mouth. “This pond suits you.”

“Oh?” he questions. His feet must reach the bottom, because while Feyre is working to stay afloat at the edge, he is merely holding out his arms to keep himself steady.

“The starlight.” Her eyes roam over his face and dip down to his neck before shooting back up. If she looks too far down she won’t be able to return her gaze to his face. “Son of the Night Court. It all works.” She waves a hand in his face, and he laughs. The starlight clinging to his hair and shoulders and dripping from his chin bring out the constellations in his eyes.

“You don’t look too bad yourself, darling,” Rhys nods at her.

She wishes she had a mirror, if only to try and memorize her own look for a painting later. “Do I?” she asks, leaning back a bit in the water and pretending like his words do not send her heart racing.

Her eyes are on the sky, but when Rhys is silent for too long she propels herself upright. He’s frowning a bit, looking more unsure of himself than she’s ever known him to be. “Rhys?”

“I can show you,” he says, expression much too serious for an afternoon swim.

Feyre laughs softly. “You have a mirror? Where are you hiding that?”

Rhys’s smirk lacks some of its swagger. He brings up a hand and, from nowhere, conjures a hand mirror. “I do have some tricks up my sleeve. But that wasn’t what I was talking about.” As quick as it appeared, it's gone.

Feyre cocks her head. Rhys wants to show her what she looks like, but without a mirror or any reflective surface...and it’s not like he’s an artist…

She gapes a little, swimming closer. Tamlin is still floating on his back, hearing muffled from the water, but she lowers her voice anyway. “You’re daemati?”

It’s the only thing that makes sense. And she would expect no less from Rhys. In addition to being obscenely powerful, to have this as well...he won’t just be a powerful High Lord, he’ll be unquestionably dominant.

His brows lift a little in surprise before his expression settles. “Clever girl. I shouldn’t be surprised that you guessed.”

Feyre bites her lip, torn between being pleased and being concerned. She does not think that Rhys has ever used his power against her. But how would she know? She has heard plenty of stories, has been given plenty of reasons to be wary of the Night Court. Feyre is not so arrogant as to think that she is a worthy target, but just the thought of her thoughts being combed through or someone getting information from her mind is disconcerting.

Rhys— whether by looking at her mind or her face— knows where her thoughts lead her. He moves a little closer as well. “I have never looked in your mind, or Tamlin’s for that matter. I’m not that kind of male.”

“I know.” The words are said without thinking, but they ring true.

He does not look convinced. “If I wanted to use you, I would have hovered in your mind as you hunted the Suriel and asked them a question myself. I would have probed your mind to see what you asked.”

She nods. Part of her knows it to be true, but another part, an animal, instinctual part, shies away from him.

But the Suriel told her to trust Rhysand.

It’s not effortless, but she stays. “You keep it a secret?”

“We keep it quiet,” Rhys admits. “We” probably means his family, his Court.

What does it mean that there is a secret daemati ready to inherit one of the mightier Courts of Prythian?

If she was a good person, she thinks, she would tell someone. But being a good citizen and a good friend are directly opposed at the moment. It does not take Feyre very long to decide which title is more important to her.

“I won’t tell anyone.” She values her friendship with Rhys, trusts him more than she maybe should. Even considering what the Suriel said, she would be a fool to throw herself into his arms blindly.

“Thank you.” Under the water, he reaches out to squeeze her hand. “I know you still aren’t comfortable with this.”

It’s difficult to meet his eyes, so she looks down. Right at the curves of his shoulder, where brown skin and black ink peek from beneath the surface. Her mouth goes dry, but she manages to force words out. “It is...strange. To realize how vulnerable I’ve been.”

There are dangers in Feyre’s life, but she has always known them. She has rules, has trained and armed herself against threats. Don’t stay out too late after night falls in the forest, don’t stray too close to creatures who have young ones to protect. Keep your eyes averted when speaking with the High Lord and try to not attract too much attention, bite your tongue in front of certain people and laugh and gossip in secret circles only.

There is no such defense against Rhys. At least, she assumes so until he speaks. “I can train you to shield your mind.”

Feyre blinks, shocked. “You can?” It’s possible? And he would offer that to her?

A deluge of cool water drenches her. Feyre cries out in shock, whirling to scowl at a laughing Tamlin.

“You two are much too serious,” he says, slapping the surface of the water again to send another splash their way. “What were you talking about anyway?”

“We had a run-in with a daemati in the Night Court a while back,” Rhys says smoothly. In an instant, his cool confidence is back. He swims away from Feyre, closer to Tamlin. She is sure there is a good reason he turns his back and tells herself it does not sting. “I was telling Feyre that I wouldn’t mind offering some lessons on how to shield her mind.”

“Why would you need to shield your mind?” Tamlin asks her.

She scowls. “Why wouldn’t I? Don’t you want to keep your thoughts private?”

“Sure,” Tamlin shrugs. “But it’s not like any daemati would target you.” He is lackadaisical and inattentive, paddling around the pond like a slippery otter. The mere word “daemati” was enough to alter Feyre’s mood, but Tamlin is barely affected.

“She’s been spending time with two sons of High Lords,” Rhys points out, flicking some water into Tamlin’s face. “I’d say that makes her plenty vulnerable. You should learn to shield, too.”

Tamlin nods, finally starting to take it seriously. “You were taught?” He propels himself upright, staring intently at Rhys. It is not hard to see how Tamlin esteems their older friend. Anyone who spends five minutes with the two of them can see how Tamlin might look at Rhys for approval, how he weighs Rhys’s words and commits them to memory. Sometimes, Feyre worries about how reliant Tamlin is, how he has replaced his own older brothers with the Heir to the Night Court. But she hardly has room to talk.

“Almost as soon as I could grasp the concept,” Rhys says. “I’ll give both of you lessons. It’ll be hard to test without an actual daemati, but it’s worth trying.”

You’ll have a bit of an advantage over Tamlin. Feyre gasps as Rhys’s voice echoes in her head. Her limbs freeze. She sinks a little in the water before propelling herself back up, sputtering.

Tamlin glides closer. “Feyre?”

“I’m fine,” she assures him, pointedly not looking at Rhys. “I thought something brushed my leg. What lives in this water anyway?”

“Nothing natural,” Tamlin scowls at the opaque surface as if his ire can be translated to whatever dwells below. “Come on, let’s leave before we find out.”

Feyre wades out of the pond, chemise sticking to her skin and hair dripping down her back. She squeezes her hair to dry it as best she can, then moves to gather a fistful of her chemise and wring out the water.

It’s silent for a moment. When Feyre looks up, she sees two males looking at her instead of getting out of the pond.

Emboldened by their attention, Feyre raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Tamlin coughs, looking away and stepping out of the water. He passes her without a comment, even as Rhys continues to look. Her challenge is answered as his eyes rove over her body, from long bare legs to the wet material clinging to her hips and chest. She half expects something flirty to spill from his mouth, but he just keeps the smirk on, looks his fill, and emerges from the water.

It takes a lot of effort not to pay him back in kind, though Feyre does sneak a look at those tattoos and well-muscled chest.

The light breeze chills their damp skin, and the once sweltering heat becomes a comforting embrace. The trio sprawl out. Between bouts of dozing off, they have a contest to see which pair is best at tossing grapes into someone’s mouth. When Feyre’s hair is mostly dry and her fingers get caught in tangles, Rhys slips behind her and braids it back.

She is half awake as his fingers comb through her hair, catching every other word of his explanation that his little sister has now grown old enough to demand all sorts of hairstyles and pampering from her devoted older brother. Feyre hums with a smile, picturing the scene.

There’s a knock on the edge of her mind. One she is better prepared for this time. Rhys slips a memory into her mind, one that is not hers, but his. Through his eyes he sees a head of black hair, a young girl’s bedroom, a reflection of him and a little girl, the former wrestling with a hair brush and the latter rifling through a basket of ribbons. There is a love infused in that memory, a feeling so pure that it nearly brings a tear to Feyre’s eye.

I almost neglected my promise earlier. Rhys’s voice is low and smoky in her mind. A moment later, a different memory. Her grinning face, covered in droplets of starlight.

There is emotion in this memory too, though not the all-consuming devotion Rhys feels for his sister. But it is something, and it makes Feyre smile anyway.

It is the perfect day. Feyre is not naive enough to think that this dynamic, with her two dear friends, can last forever. Rhysand will one day become High Lord, and Tamlin’s own role will likely change when his father passes. But fae are immortal, and she is untouched by death, and the thought of painful change is so far away in that perfect summer afternoon.

She cannot be blamed for thinking peace will last for a good, long while.

--

Being the Lady of the Spring Court is good for little else besides ordering the servants around the house.

Alis can grumble and protest and toss every veiled hint that she can think of, but in the end she cannot prevent Feyre from leaving her bed. Sleep came and went in the night. When the discomfort impeded her peace, Feyre tossed back healing tonics and pain remedies and whatever cocktail of drugs that the healer left on her nightstand.

Her smaller cuts are healed, but her ribs are still tender. The worst bruises are black and blue and impossible to look at. Feyre chooses a boring corner of the room to stare at as Alis dresses her in light fabrics and a dress that laces loosely. Alis picks a gown in an opaque green with a yellow underskirt, as if that will lend color to her pale skin or brighten her gaunt face.

Feyre tells the staff that she and the High Lord will not be entertaining any guests and to send away anyone that might drop by. Not that anyone comes for Feyre unless she specifically invites them.

The only other person in her home besides the servants is Lucien. He clearly did not expect her to leave bed and nearly leaps from his seat when she slips into the dining room. “You should be resting.”

She probably should. There is an exhaustion that has settled in her, infused in her bones and powdered on her skin. Her tongue is weighed down. Feyre has no words for her friend, only enough energy to squeeze his shoulder as she walks past to take her seat. She sees the way his eyes scan her, the way his jaw clenches when he notes how she sits gingerly.

Tamlin’s chair at the head of the table is empty. The space feels like a chasm.

When Tamlin is home, the table usually is weighed down with food. Today, Lucien just has one plate sent up from the kitchen. Feyre gets the same toast, fried eggs, and sausage. No platters of sliced fruit or tureens of gravy or plates of sugary pastries. Lucien pours her a cup of tea wordlessly.

Feyre eats in peace, but Lucien has a stack of papers by him that he leafs through in between bites. With Tamlin gone, his work will be all the more difficult. Lucien cannot make certain decisions, cannot sign off on projects, cannot approve a budget. But there are some things that must get done and emergencies to deal with.

“Anything I can help with?” Feyre speaks her first words of the day.

Lucien’s eyes flick up briefly. “I’ll let you know.” He’s gone a few minutes later, only a squeeze of her shoulder as a goodbye.

There are things Feyre can do, even some things that Tamlin might expect her to accomplish. Ferye thinks of the piles of letters she can respond to and the parties she might plan. The next holiday is never more than a few months away, and Tamlin likes to take any opportunity to celebrate and fill their home with his friends.

She does not do any of that.

The servants push back on some of Feyre’s whims, but they can never outright refuse her. A few months ago, it was a battle to get them to relinquish their gardening tools. Another battle to ask one of the gardeners to teach her, show her, and not do anything beyond that.

But a few months ago she was also a bit more fragile, and so they followed her directions with less protesting than she usually was in for.

Now, Feyre knows where to find the tools she needs. She slips on the gardening gloves that Alis procured and forced on her. While it might be seemly for the Lady of Spring to prune a few roses, cuts and calluses were utterly unacceptable. Feyre can stroll in the gardens, can even kneel in the grass, as long as she has a wide-brimmed hat to shield the delicate skin on her face.

How she longs to rip off the hat, unpin her hair, and sprint through the fields once more.

No one disturbs her as Feyre weaves through the perfectly manicured gardens. She passes tall hedges, venturing deeper until she crosses into a little hidden nook. It is cordoned off by nothing more than a charming wooden gate, but symbolism is strong. No one has ever entered without the express permission of the Lady of Spring.

Feyre let the little space go unattended for years, not caring much for gardening or pretty flowers. Now, the hidden nook is ringed with blooming jasmine. She might add a stone bench in the middle, but for now she is happy to sit on the grass.

A proper gardener might prune and use sophisticated techniques to care for the jasmine, but Feyre likes to see it grow wild. She removes weeds and brushes away dead leaves. In Spring the bushes are almost always flowering, clogging the space with their intoxicating scent. She would have kept blooms in her room, if not for what they symbolized.

Jasmine is a Night Court flower.

Tamlin does not come to her jasmine garden. He either does not know or was informed and has not confronted her directly. Now that she is in the garden, Feyre wonders if this is, in part, what set him off.

The flowers are not for Rhys. Not really. True, they remind her of him, in a way. But she mostly likes the scent, likes that when she smells it she immediately feels at peace. Jasmine is not the most beautiful flower in the world, but it is still pretty. A flower alone cannot make her happy, but it settles something in her soul anyway.

White jasmine is crisp and clean. Pure.

For a while, Feyre had no closure after the loss of her child. These things happened, so the healer ensured she was physically healthy and then sent away. There was no goodbye, no body, no ceremony to send the child off. They were there one moment and gone the next, not having made any mark on the world besides a scar on Feyre’s heart. She does not know if they were male or female, if they had Tamlin’s blond hair or her own darker shade, if they would have had freckles or their father’s straight nose. After they were gone, the child seemed to exist for Feyre and no one else.

So she planted the jasmine.

Now, as she lays on her back in the grass, she can imagine it. A giggling toddler, running circles around her. But not here, not in Spring. The flowers perfume the air and make it all too easy to pretend she’s in another place.

Maybe the jasmine is selfish. Maybe Feyre did have another motive in creating this secret space.

While she is here, she can mourn her child. While she is here, she can pretend that she is someplace else.

#acotar #acotar fanfiction

[missbrightsky]

On My Honor

Fics Masterlist

Previous Chapter

Chapter 9: Rhysand

Brother,

  The recruits have been in training for almost a week now, a little over 350 in all. I know this was not as many as you had hoped for, but the families of Prythian are running out of sons and fathers. Even though the majority of them are young, they show great promise.

There are already a few that came in with archery skills, mostly from hunting. I have been working with them personally to improve their skills. I think that they might be what we need to execute my next plan when I return to the front in two weeks.

Do you still plan to visit? If you do, please bring Morrigan so that I can replay our last hand of cards together, I’m convinced she cheated last time. I have also written a letter to her say that if I can’t convince you to visit, that she must do so. This will likely be the last time we will all be in Velaris together and I want to spend it as a family.

  Cas

  P.S. Tamlin is still somehow one of the lieutenants here and I know how much you like to spar against him.

I set down the letter, rubbing my tired eyes. The midnight bell had struck long ago, and my candles were now burning low. I knew I should go to bed soon but there was too much swirling in my head.

Cassian’s letter had been a mix of good and bad news. He was right, however, Prythian’s families can hardly bear the strain of a war that has gone on too long. Soon, there will need to be a breaking point, one way or the other. I could only pray to the forgotten gods that they will favor us in the upcoming battles.

Tomorrow, write him back tomorrow and get some sleep, the gentle voice slipped into my head. Morrigan. Somehow, even when she wasn’t around, that voice would sometimes speak. My cousin managed to be a healer even when I was alone in the dead of night.

We were still holed up in the same fortress from a few weeks ago, letting our men get some much-needed rest. The past several months had been hard on them. Battle after battle have taken their brother’s in arms and it had taken its toll on them.

Az’s scouts had reported no new movement from Hybern. It seems that the last battle had also gouged out a chunk of their ranks too, but they still outnumbered us almost two to one.

A sigh escaped from my nose causing the last candle to gutter. With another sigh, I let my breath blow it out, the room falling into a darkness only lightened by a sliver of moon from the window.

That, and given how small the room was, I easily found my way to my bed, collapsing on top of it.

And even with the approaching end of the war, even with all of the lost souls weighing on my mind, sleep was quick to claim me.

  Brother,

  Despite the lower number of troops than we were hoping for, it’s good to know that their training is coming along well. If the plan you’re referring to is the one I think it is, then Hybern will need to pray to their gods for forgiveness of the hell we will unleash upon them.

Yes, I will be leaving tomorrow to join you at the camp to oversee the new troops before they make their trek to the front. And yes, I will be sure that Morrigan accompanies me because you will need a healer if you intend to drink with Amren in Velaris.

I will have to tear Azriel away from his tent and his spies, but he will be coming too.

  Rhys

  P.S. I will expect to see Tamlin in a sparring ring the moment I arrive.

  Sealing the letter with a glob of wax, I halted one of the pages in the hall, asking him to dispatch it to the nearest rider. He dashed off with a quick bob of his head.

I had slept longer than I intended, the sun already nearly at its apex when I finished writing the letter and stepped out of the room. Cas had mentioned writing a letter to Mor, it had been too long since I spoke to her, so I set off to find her.

The fortress, Windhaven, was a massive complex of stone, but its size wasn’t the reason I rarely saw her. No, that would be due to how busy we both were. I only saw Az on a regular basis because he gave reports to me every other day, but even those were brief and left little time for social conversation.

Men lined the halls, I greeted as many as I could. Some ate, some slept, some talked quietly amongst themselves. Even though I gave up the chance for a large room, I still felt guilty for having the broom closet-sized on that could barely fit my desk and bed. These men deserved what little comfort I could offer them, but I had none. At least Hybern was laying low so they could rest.

Down, down, down the many stairs Windhaven had until I reach the catacombs beneath the healers had claimed. Even with the bodies and torches, the stone encasing the warren of large rooms kept the underground infirmary cool, good for fighting off fevers and infections.

Even with weeks between us and the last battle, men still laid on the cots and blankets packed in the rooms, recovering from their injuries.

Each one was another cut to add to my bleeding heart, guilt-wracked my body. Every battle, every skirmish, I was out there fighting with them, for them, but I still couldn’t save them all. As I walked by, I clasped hands and offered words of strength. Each man was eager to shake my hand, hear my words as though they were water to a parched throat.

A golden bun shone in the dim light, currently bowed over a man’s leg. I made my way towards it, waiting a small distance away. For as much as my cousin and I loved each other, she got snappish when someone tried to interrupt her when she was healing someone.

Minutes ticked by until she straightened, rolling out her tense shoulders. With a warm smile to her patient, Mor turned to face him.

“Rhys, are you here to tell me that Cassian failed to persuade you and now I have to? Because I really don’t have the time.”

I let out my first chuckle, no matter how small it was, in weeks. “Good to see you too, Mor.” She just shook her head, but I could see a small smile forming on her lips too.

“Well if you’re here and we’re talking, might as well keep our hands busy. “Andromache?” she called out. A pretty, dark-skinned woman with curly black hair that was barely contained in a bun, turned towards her. “Keep an eye on Briggs for me, he’s determined to pull his stitches out.” Andromache nodded, drifting past Mor with a quick brush of their shoulders.

I followed Mor even further into the healer’s warrens where several worktables had been set up. Most of the healers were either sleeping in the small room in the back or out amongst the soldiers administering care, giving us a small bit of privacy.

She shoved a cloth into my hands and ordered me to start tearing it into strips. “No, you don’t have to persuade me,” I said after we fell into a rhythm, “We leave for Velaris tomorrow.”

“I’m needed here,” her voice clear and strong, little room for argument.

“I know,” I conceded, “But this could be the last time we all see each other. Az said that Hybern shows no sign of moving, but something is coming, I can feel it. Perhaps it’s the end of the war, perhaps it’s something else.” I turned my head slightly to read her face. Tiny creases had begun to appear at the corners of her eyes and mouth, the barest hint of aging. We were all young by time’s standards, but this war had hit everyone hard, even my bright, unshakable cousin. Light smudges were under her amber eyes, mirror to mine. It looks like both of us wasn’t getting the sleep the other suggested.

Mor released a sigh, it as tired and laden with worry as mine. “Very well, I’ll accompany you. Only, if you can drag Az with us too. We do this last time right.”

“Even if I tie him to a horse, Az will be with us when we leave,” allowing a bit of humor to break into my low voice.

Mor chuckled, “Good, it’s been a long time since I saw Amren drink Cas under the table.” I shuddered at the thought of what that night would entail, but it would be good, I think, to take just one night to enjoy my family before the next storm breaks.

Next Chapter

hmu if you want to be added to the fics taglist

#acotar #feyre #rhysand #feyre x rhysand #sarah j maas #sjm #mulan

[secretlynestaarcheron]

Pride and Prejudice

Chapter Three

Four years before.

Nesta spreads out on the grass, the sun spreading warmth upon her skin. Elain was working diligently on her continuously growing garden that father had finally allowed for her to build and Feyre was across the courtyard practicing her painting.

Her mother was sitting on the balcony, drinking tea with one of her friends Lady Amarantha. She closes her eyes, setting her book beside her as she breathes in the fresh air, they had such a long winter and it was nice to finally not have to bundle up before leaving the house.

Her eyes squint open when a figure blocks her sunlight, leaning up on her elbows she inspects the newcomer. A tall fellow, with tan skin and big hazel eyes, his brown hair was pulled back in a short ponytail. “May I help you?” Nesta asks, straightening up as best she can.

“I’m Cassian,” he introduces himself, and she raises an eyebrow at his lack of formalities. She cocks her head to the side, taking him in and wondering how she should continue, it was obvious that he wasn’t born from wealth. She’s about to introduce herself when she hears her father.

“Ah, Nesta, I see you’ve met Cassian,” her father says, walking down the path towards them. The newcomer, Cassian, smiles down at her. She returned it despite her head telling her not too, her heart won this time. “I met him when I went to town over the weekend. He’s going to be the new gamekeeper.”

Nesta glances over him again, the last gamekeeper they had was an old gentleman with a long white beard. This was definitely not an old man, he was probably only a year older than her. She pegged him for about sixteen or seventeen.

“Cassian, shall we continue on the tour?” her father asks, already walking down the path, beckoning him with his hand. He gives one last smile to Nesta as he lightly jogs to catch up with her father. She watches him as he laughs and disappears into the woods surrounding their acres and she can’t help but think that this summer might be a little less boring.

“So,” Feyre begins, going up on her toes and back on her feet as she looks around her room. Elain was sitting quietly in a chair by the window, sipping on her tea, while Cassian and Rhysand stood by the fireplace. There had been an unsettling quiet in the room ever since Nesta had quietly made her exit dragging her horrible fiance along with her. “How did you meet a Lord, Cassian? I have to admit, I am quite offend, you’ve traded us up.”

Rhysand looks over at her and smiles, beating Cassian to it he begins, “That’s definitely quite the story. Cassian and I go way back, all the way to boot camp.”

Cassian rolls his eyes, “And he wasn’t always a Lord,” he adds, answering the question on the tip of Feyre lips as to why a lord would go through boot camp. “But the way he came in there you’d think he had grown up as a lord to be.”

Rhysand belts out a laugh and Feyre can’t help but smile, she wonders what it would be like to hear that sound for the rest of her life. “I admit I wasn’t the smoothest in combat but I could outrun you all,” Rhysand adds.

“I still remember the night Tamlin-,”

Feyre watches Rhysand face change as Cassian recounts the story of Tamlin, she wasn’t sure who he was but based on the scowl now present on his face he wasn’t someone to write home about. When Cassian finishes the story Feyre turns the conversation away from Tamlin. “So, if you weren’t born into Lordship, how did you obtain such a Manor as Night Court?”

Rhysand sends her a thankful smile, she wasn’t sure why but she took the thanks nevertheless. “I actually received letter from a foreign aunt that my uncle had passed and I was the only boy of the family so I would take control of the manor. I don’t intend to stay long, I’ve already made arrangements with my cousin Morrigan for her to take over and control the manor.” he says, keeping his eyes on her as if she was the only one in the room. Feyre holds the contact, she was never one to back away. “Mor is never one to say no to a ball, so of course she wanted to introduce me to the city the only way she knew how.”

Nesta walks in, her face flush and her eyes red, “I am sorry, but I am afraid I must cut my part in tonight short. It was lovely to meet you, Lord Rhysand,” she says, turning her face away from us all. Feyre glances out the window to see Tomas carriage racing down the rocky path towards town. Cassian stepping forward catches Feyres attention but Nesta has already exited the room.

That night, her parents had begun pressuring her again on getting out in the world and locking down a future spouse now that she was coming of age. They wanted to send her away for the summer to stay with a friend of theirs across town that had a few sons. She had heard the stories of them, and she didn’t want to be anywhere near them. Tamlin and Lucien. She shivers at the thought as she curls up with her journal, scribbling away at the pages.

She looks up from her writings when she hears a crunch beside her, no one knew about the small nook she discovered while walking the yard. The overgrown roses that Elain hadn’t gotten to yet allowed her to be secluded. She smiles when she sees Cassian bright smile reflecting the moonlight. She decided earlier, watching him talk with Elain and Feyre while she read that she liked him. He wasn’t like the normal boys in town, he was different, there was something about him that despite not knowing him for long made her feel safe.

“I am afraid as gamekeeper, I am going have to inform the head of the house about a young girl sneaking around his garden,” he says, crossing his arms formally but his eyes remained bright. “I could be persuaded-”

She raises an eyebrow, setting her journal down next to her. Her smile hurting her cheeks, she didn’t remember the last time her smile had been so genuine. “Persuaded, you say?” she says, and she can’t help but feel proud when she sees the surprise on his face as she continues the joke. “How would one persuade such a young gamekeeper to not inform the Lord of the manor of ones whereabouts?”

“Well,” he says, tapping his chin, “I couldn’t help but see a homecooked goose on the dinner table tonight while attending to the yard. I could be persuaded if one was to promise to sneak the gamekeeper a piece tomorrow.”

Nesta hums, “I am sure that could be arranged,” she replies, sticking her hand out. He chuckles and he reaches down to shake it.

“If one was to add a slice of lemon tart to the mix I could be predisposed to forgetting I ever found this place at all,” he adds.

“Sounds very fair,” she replies, taking a breath she builds up her courage and asks, “Can I expect to continue having your company out here?”

He jerks up to look at her, his face full of mixed emotions she couldn’t read before he simply nods.

#Acotar #nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #sjmaas #rhysand #feyre archeron #acotar fanfiction #nessian fanficition

[davalia]

Questions for ACOFAS

Can we just talk about what the what is going on with the queens?

According to hybern the Queens don't possess a lot of control of their people. The Queens sold out the human on the bottom tip on Prythian, but does everybody know that? Feyre's father knew that, but who else knew? Are the kingdoms in turnmoil? Do they know what occurred on Prythian? What the what will happen to the queens now that Hybern lost? What about the fae territories that were supposed allies? WHAT IS GONNA HAPPEN TO HYBERN? And shouldn't the King of Hybern have a brother or sister if he has a niece and nephew? Who is the family of the King of Hybern and what is gonna happen?

The Weaver is dead which means the entire system of the woods is gonna change. Without the Weaver things might prowl out of the woods and go to other courts. Why are the woods so feared? what are in the woods?

What will happen to the humans winnowed to the fae cities? How are they coping? Will this mean the humans and the fae have found a way to coexist without the wall? WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN TO THE ILLYRIANS WHO FELL IN BATTLE????? Will they too have a prayer or do they have some other tradition?

How are the courts rebuilding? How will Tamljn regain the trust of his people? How will the conversation between tamlin and Lucien go? What happen to the soldier who was whipped in acowar? What are the high priestesses going to do when they find out Ianthe is dead? Where is Bryaxis? Where is Alis? Will Lucien stay with the Inner circle? WILL NESSIAN HAPPEN???? WHO IS ELAIN GONNA BE WITH? WHEN WILL MOR COME OUT? WHEN WILL LUCIEN KNOW HE IS HELION's SON? WHO IS AURORA? WILL AZRIEL EVER BE WITH SOMEONE? WILL THERE BE MORE AMREN AND VARIAN? WHEN WILL THE WALL SCENE HAPPEN? MORE ERIS AND KALLIAS AND VIVANE PLS

I just realized that j haven't even put half the questions I have in this post, but, oh holy cauldron, we need a lot of answers and elaboration

Feel free to add some more questions

#acowar #acofas #acotar #acomaf #questions #sarah j maas #sjm books #sjmaas #sjm #feyre archeron #rhysand #inner circle #prythian #night court #summer court #winter court #spring court #autumn court #dawn court #day court #illyrian

[acourtofthought]

Your last post led me to check out Reddit & I have regrets haha. I did not expect it to be so pro-Elriel. Or at least so nasty towards people who don’t want Elriel. The lightsinger theory seems popular there, too, which prompts my ask. The way most of the lightsinger arguments are presented (Gwyn knowingly being evil) — what purpose does that even serve other than to tear down one ship and prop up another? There’s already enough villains in the story with Koschei, Beron, and the remaining queens. Why add another — especially one integral to Nesta’s healing journey? Not to mention the character credited with becoming the first of the reborn Valkyrie. Doesn’t make any sense to me, except to invalidate the possibility that what Az was feeling at the end of the BC was a mating bond. Because seriously, Gwyn using her lightsinger powers to get someone to gift her a necklace? That she doesn’t even know exists? But, oh! Elain knows a dangerous lightsinger is in the library & gives Azriel earbuds instead of telling literally anyone anything. Just saying that out loud sounds silly. These characters are more than their romantic interests! And I know SJM made Tamlin a jerk in the Tamlin/Feyre/Rhys triangle, but I can’t see her pitting two women against each other or making it an easy choice by having one option suddenly evil. I’ve seen a lot of Elriels say Eluciens or Gwynriels haven’t read the books or can’t understand what they’re reading, but some on that side are just vilifying the threats to their ship instead (or even inadvertently vilifying Elain if she knows of a major threat and says nothing). That’s definitely enough Reddit-ing for me!

Reddit and Tik Tok, those be war zones! 😬😂

Gwyn, not Elain, was given mating bond terminology with Azriel. Az might have questioned why both Mor and Elain weren't his mate but again Gwyn (not Elain), is the one who SJM dropped clues for the possibility of sharing an actual bond with him.

So why would SJM give Az a mating bond with an "evil" female? We know Az has self esteem issues, something like that would mess him up even more than he already is.

They then love the theory that she's manipulating him but that would read as:

"Why isn't Mor my mate after loving her for centuries?"

"Why wasn't Elain my mate since her sisters are with my brothers?"

"Oh thank the Cauldron, Gwyn I've shown admiration for is my mate! I am worthy!"

"Gwyn tricked me and I again have no mate".

Actually, "Elain IS my true mate!

It gets a bit ridiculous when some in the fandom don't realize how farfetched certain theories sound.

I have to say it but Az isn't some super special prize that a female needs to trick her way into his good graces 😂. What exactly would she be accomplishing? Ianthe (because some try to claim they're related 🤔) went after Lucien and Rhys because they were the son of a High Lord and a High Lord and she was after what their name and positions could do for her.

Az might be powerful but his name doesn't hold any weight anywhere except bringing fear to the Night Courts enemies. Being with Az doesn't "open up" any doors to her.

Also, why would Gwyn return to the library after the Rite which limits her access to Az if she were in fact trying to manipulate Az? Wouldn't we see her spending all her time at the HOW in hopes of seeing Azriel there? The more like scenario is that Gwyn is not trying to manipulate anyone and is still working on overcoming her traumas. Which we'll see more of in her book with Az.

And why would SJM give Nesta a friend who was responsible (along with Emerie though Gwyn came along first) for helping her overcome her depression, only to have her turn evil? How would that make any sense when Nesta's pov is over?

And yeah, it's ludicrous that anyone thinks Elain would give Az a GAG GIFT, really a secret coded message warning him of the danger he's in rather than just telling him of the danger he's in 🤦

[flowerflamestars]

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

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

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

Why Amarantha? Why was she so powerful?

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

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

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

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

Nesta accepts this, and has a drink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A mortal heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One commander to another. Absolute, perfect, understanding.

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

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

Steal it? Break it? Use it ourselves.

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

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

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

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

And Nesta knows.

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

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

The Archeron estate is on fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They winnow to the castle like bone across the sea. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’d been imprisoned all over again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nesta jumps into the Cauldron.

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

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

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

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

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

Nesta brings the Cauldron home. 

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

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

#this is so fun! #I am frankly overwhelmed by all the lovely things yall have said?? #Nesta SHOULD be a protagnist