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throneofbriars · 4 months

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐏𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫

PAIRING: Inner Circle x Reader; intended eventual Eris x Reader

SYNOPSIS: The reader wrestles with being the only Inner Circle member without powers and begins to realize just how isolated she feels.

WC: 1.0K (just a short little snippet from an abandoned fic that I didn't want to keep locked in the vault)

AUTHORS NOTE: This was intended to be an Eris x Reader fic, but I abandoned it 1k words in because it wasn't going where I wanted it to. I might pick it up again someday if people are interested, but, for now, have this little snippet of a powerless Archeron Sister!Reader contemplating power within the IC.

What does it mean to hold power?

Rhysand held power - he was power and he used himself as a weapon, artfully skilled in being both the blade that felled and the shield that defended. Feyre held power, gifted to her by the High Lords of Prythian themselves, who were unaware of the unfettered access she had to the gifts of the Courts - Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter, Dawn, Day, and Night.

The power that simmered between Rhysand and Feyre - the High Lord and Lady of Night - was the reason their Court could be as free as it was.

Cassian and Azriel held power. The Lord of Bloodshed and the Shadowsinger, owners of seven siphons each - a great testament to the raw power that ran through their veins. They used their powers - Cassian’s unforgiving strength and Azriel’s manipulation of the dark - to protect the Night Court.

Elain held power gifted to her by the Mother - by the Cauldron she so desperately wished to forsake. The female was a Seer, a prophet who was ignorant and inexperienced in reading the prophecies she saw. Elain rejected the Cauldron's gifts, both her power of sight and her mate, Lucien. Though the Cauldron still called to her, still whispered prophecies into her ear, still haunted her with ghosts of a future she had no desire to foretell.

Even Nesta - bitter, cruel Nesta - held power. It wasn’t a gift like Feyre’s or Elain’s, nor was it inherent like Rhysand’s or Cassian’s or Azriel’s. No, Nesta’s power was taken from the Cauldron, clawed from the damned thing as retribution for the suffering the female went through in the name of its power.

Lady Death, they called her. A being of frigid night and silver flame; one of the few who could wield the Dread Trove without consequence. She offered the power back to the Cauldron as the price for Feyre’s life and the Cauldron happily accepted. But, Nesta held onto a fraction of that power and it became part of her, the death magic weaving into the very foundation of her being.

So, what does it mean to hold power? Nothing.

Power means nothing until it’s used - for better or for worse.

It was unfair, you believed, how meaningless the Inner Circle’s powers were now that they sat idle, waiting to be taken from the shelf, to be dusted off, to be utterly unleashed.

It was unfair that those who take it for granted were gifted powers that most could only dream of. If you had powers, you would cherish them, use them to make the world better.

But, you didn’t. You weren’t given any gifts by the High Lords of Prythian like Feyre. You weren’t deemed fit by the Mother to be gifted with power from the Cauldron like Elain was. You didn’t have the same claws as Nesta, the claws used to rip power from the Cauldron by force.

You were just you. A Cauldron made female. High Fae. The product of a wicked king’s endless greed. Plain. Simple. Powerless. You.

“Cassian, you really shouldn’t be using such foul language around Nyx,” Nesta reprimanded, bouncing the winged baby in her arms.

“You should have heard the things said around us when we were growing up, Nes,” Cassian countered, looking pointedly at the female sat next to him. “Your first curse word is a right of passage in the camps.”

“This isn’t an Illyrian war camp, Cassian, and-” Nesta’s words were cut off by Rhys, who spoke up from the head of the table.

“-And that will not be a right of passage we’ll be celebrating. His first flight, sure. When he inevitably kicks your ass- butt- for the first time,” a cunning grin made its way onto the High Lord's lips, “absolutely.”

Those sitting around the table, privy to the conversation - Rhysand, Azriel, Cassian, Nesta, Elain, and yourself - laughed at the High Lord’s words. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that sooner-rather-than-later the little winged child would kick the Lord of Bloodshed’s ass. It was inevitable.

“The High Lady will have your head if she finds out you’ve been speaking like that around the little one, Cas.” Azriel smiles, equally as cunning as Rhysands, before continuing, “You should keep your big mouth shut.”

“Ha,” Cassian’s laugh is booming, his words cocky. “I’m not scared of Feyre.”

“Why would you be scared of me?” Feyre’s voice rang out from the entryway of the dining room. Flecks of paint decorated her hair and clothing, a testament to her hard work in her studio on that morning.

Cassian’s eyes went wide, his face falling into one of surprise and - fear?

“Nothing- no reason,” the Illyrian male floundered. “I mean- who said anything about being scared? I’m not scared; nobody is scared.”

Azriel snickered as he shoveled another forkful of eggs into his mouth. Cassian latched onto the movement, a silent conversation passing between the two Illyrians before the Lord of Bloodshed turned his attention back towards his High Lady.

“Azriel cursed in front of Nyx-”

“Eat shit, Cassian.” The words rolled off of Azriel’s tongue before he knew what he was saying, his face blanching as the realization caught up with him.

“Azriel.”

Rhys and Feyre jumped to reprimand Azriel, the others around the table holding back their laughter. You, however, had stopped listening, withdrawing into the comfortable presence of your own thoughts.

It was always like this with Rhysands Inner Circle.

Once upon a time, you had enjoyed it - listening to the familial banter of your sisters and their mates… of your family with their family. But you had grown tired, weary of never feeling the sense of belonging, of connection that you desperately craved.

You were part of the Inner Circle, part of the family… but you were distinctly separate.

Perhaps it was your own fault. Life hadn’t left much room for hope - hope for connection, hope for family, hope for love, hope for hopes sake. You’ve become certain it’s too late for you to learn how to hope for anything.

And, though you were tired, though life and fate had left you thoroughly devoid of hope, you would play the role that was assigned to you - you owed Feyre that much.

One empty smile at a time.

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