♡ — 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖾.

location : downtown

rose, 20 ( for information's sake since it's important to have age in bio but that looks ugly so i'll keep it here )

status: stuck in a perpetual fantasy ( sideblog ⟳ @writingaflower — inactive ! )

in addition: oc blog over at @roselynlore <3

tags / mutuals / fandoms / rules / events

i know we all bully cassian for not defending nesta ever, (as we should) but what abt feyre??? feyre is nestas sister and yet watches her be treated like shit and does nothing

cause like. if my husband ever spoke to my sister like rhys speaks to nesta i'd leave him. if he threatened to kill my sister over a secret that he kept from me, i'd poison his ass, but yk. that's just me

and this is w/o considering amren and mor. if someone talked to my sister like amren does to nesta, or how mor does, i think it'd bring out an inner regina george in me. burn it down heathers style

and cassian. i don't think i need to say what i'd do

like feyre has no loyalty at all to nesta and it really truly shows 😭

suguru geto

—

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE TREASURE OF MY HEART 😋 he is so so cute and every wrong thing that he ever did ( which he didn't ) is automatically right and forgiven thank yew

play by play || feyre and rhysand

tw/: brief but explicit description of blood and gore, this is very anti rhys so if that's going to piss you off don't read. inspired by @feyres-divorce-lawyer's widow feyre because she's amazing.

this took me way too long, i didn't proofread very well either... word count is 3.6k even though it was supposed to be small... anyways enjoy

Feyre stood by the balcony railing, wind in her hair, gazing down at the bustling streets of Velaris — her beautiful city, alive and awake even in the sweltering summer heat. Somewhere down there, Elain would be at her busy little tea shop, Mor would be at Rita's, Cassian had gone for a swim to get away from the heat and Nesta and Azriel were immersed in their weekly chess match.

She sighed, a strange longing in her heart. She wanted to go join them. She wanted to put on her coat and slip away to her art studio. She wanted... What did it matter, what she wanted? She couldn't go anywhere, not with Nyx suckling at her breast, his little face red with tears. Feyre looked down at him, her precious boy, but instead of the usual warm love in her heart, an unexpected feeling of loathing overcame her. This is... boring, she thought. This is really boring! I've had battles more exciting than this! Suddenly repulsed — her, cursebreaker, high lady, standing there with a baby in her arms like some housewife! — she ripped the child away from her sore nipple, disgusted and angry at her own helplessness. He began to wail again, furiously kicking at the air with tiny legs.

'Shut up,' she said roughly, storming inside to lay him in his cot, her voice sounding a lot like her mother's. He looked up at her in heartbroken betrayal, crying and yelling, his fists clenching with his childish anger. It irritated her — why did no one seem to listen to her anymore?

'Shut up, I said!' She hissed, a burst of her own mad fury overtaking her. 'Stop your whining!'

Her shout echoed through the room, and the boy quietened in fear, whimpering slightly.

In the ensuing silence, Feyre felt a sickening rush of realization running through her veins. She looked around the room, really looked at it — warded from every corner, tight knit spells keeping everything out, and her in.

Rhys came rushing into the room, his handsome face woven with worry. 'Feyre, darling, what happened? I heard Nyx crying.' He was clearly in the middle of getting dressed, his shirt hanging unbuttoned around his shoulders, pants pulled on haphazardly.

She stared at him, her voice raw and hoarse, ‘Where are you going?’

He looked a little wary at the change of topic, heading over to Nyx’s cot and cradling him in his arms. Nyx quietened, whimpering slightly. ‘The Illyrian territories. Cassian didn't go tonight, remember? And the warlords are getting out of control.’

‘Oh.’ Finally, a problem. A problem that she could solve; a conflict to fight. Something to do. ‘I can come with you, just let me change.’

Rhysand narrowed his eyes at her, rocking Nyx. ‘Who will watch Nyx?’

‘Rhys, it's just for a few hours, and we have servants —’ Frustration welled up in her heart. For some reason, she felt desperate to get out of the river house, run as far as she could. ‘Besides, we could leave him with Nesta and Azriel, ask them to watch him for a while.’

He frowned in return, placing Nyx down and finishing up the buttons of his shirt. ‘With Nesta… I don't know, my love, I just think you should stay with him instead.’

Feyre didn't think she was imagining the contempt in his tone when he had said Nesta. ‘Rhysand, I've been cooped up inside for far too long —’ it had been weeks, months, since she had done anything more than painting and having sex and taking care of Nyx — ‘I'd just like to get out of the house for a while.’

‘It doesn't have to be tonight.’ He stepped behind her, and his lips brushed against the nape of her neck. His voice lowered, husky and gentle. ‘We can go out tomorrow, just the two of us, hm?’

No, no, no. He didn't get it. He just didn't get it.

‘Rhys.’ She sighed, shrugging him off. ‘I really want to go, please.’

He drew back, frowning. The look in those purple eyes was hard, calculating. He'd never looked at her like that… well, he had. Under the Mountain, he had: those gleaming eyes fixed on her as she spun like a marionette in his arms. She swallowed, chest constricting at the sudden memory.

Rhysand took a deep breath, sauntering towards the door, voice light, ‘Feyre, come on. Why this sudden restlessness? Nyx needs you. Of course, you could leave him with Nesta — but he's so young, and…’

For fuck’s sake, he always did this. He always gave her choices, but of those choices he always emphasized which one he wanted her to choose and the consequences if she didn't. She ground her teeth, fists clenching. Her voice shook with irritation, ‘Rhysand — I need to take on a more active role as High Lady.’ She tried to keep herself calm, diplomatic. ‘I want to go. You can't make me stay.’

His eyes twinkled with harsh amusement. ‘Of course I can.’ Her heart turned to ice, dread coiling in her stomach. He went on, oblivious to the storm raging in her gut, her power pulling against its leash. ‘See, Feyre… Stay for tonight, okay? And —’

‘I want to leave.’ She was shaking all over, desperation making her mad. She couldn't be locked up again. She just couldn't. ‘Rhys, let me go.’

‘Feyre, darling,’ he said placatingly, in that soothing tone. But she didn't seem to process it, scared and angry and barely able to contain herself.

Feyre stormed up to the door where he stood, her legs shaky. ‘Move,’ she demanded. She had to leave now. She could come back later, apologize, say she didn't know what came over her; but she couldn't stay right now. Her magic howled and writhed, begging to be let out.

His hands gripped her arms, tight and unrelenting. ‘And if I said you couldn't leave?’

‘I'd leave anyways,’ she retorted.

Rhysand smiled darkly like he was hoping she'd say that, and then she felt it — that dark, silky touch at her mind. This time, her walls were no challenge for him. He broke through easily, his voice invasive and loud as he rummaged through her head and gripped her hair to keep her from screaming and ripping herself away. He kept trying to mess with her feelings, and it was like being 19 in Tamlin’s dining hall, being made to kneel with her fantasies declared to the world. He'd been the culprit then, too.

Let me out, that strange fire in her heart demanded. Let me out. Let me at him.

And well, she's never been good at controlling herself.

When Feyre tried to remember how she killed her husband hours later, her memory was blank. She remembered screaming, but she didn't think he was the one yelling, she was. She remembered how she'd reached inside her chest, where she could feel their death pact, and had wished it would break. She remembered fire at one hand and ice in the other, and she remembered his wild expression as he had brought forth his own shadows. But she never remembered how she dealt the final blow, whether it had been the fire burning his face or the shard of ice she'd stabbed repeatedly into his heart. Or if it had been something altogether different.

It's a gruesome sight, the aftermath. The broken windows, the sound of Nyx wailing in the background. His slackened hands on her arms, his face in the crook of her neck, eyes glazed. Her breaths came in heavy, blood on her cheeks and her neck and her abdomen. His body collapsed in her arms, her own hands still holding the ice shard that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

The sudden silence is deafening. She whimpered, terrified of herself, trying to shift him off of her, winced at the sound of his body hitting the floorboards. She stepped away from the puddle of blood, standing there staring at him — mop of black hair, bruised and burnt face, the ice still sticking out of his heart. He'd been so malicious, so cunning and manipulative, just a few minutes ago; and she'd brought an end to that, hadn't she?

Nyx. She approached her son’s cradle, tentative and scared. He was quieter, now, staring up at her with wide violet eyes, whimpering. Before that madness could overtake her again, she scooped him up in her arms, nudged Rhysand's limp arm out of the way with her foot, and ran.

⋆.୨୧.⋆

Lucien was not having a good day. First, he'd overslept and had to skip his daily morning sparring session with Jurian, then the leader of the human village he was trying to maintain relations with kept threatening war all throughout the meeting, and to top it all off; he arrived home to an elegant cream colored envelope on his bedside table with the Night Court’s seal stamped on it.

It was a letter from his mate, he found, eyes scanning rapidly through it. It was a formal, awkward, plain letter; but Elain wanted him in Velaris — ‘I think something is going to go wrong — I don't know what. I suppose it's just a hunch, silly as it is,’ she'd written. ‘So I do think it'd be better if you dropped by today. If you're too busy, then it isn't an issue.’

Not an issue, his ass. It was vaguely worded, enough so to worry him, and besides; he knew that Elain had prophetic visions from time to time. This wasn't a hunch, if she said something was going to happen tonight, he'd bet his other eye she was right.

So, even though he was grumpy, tired, and hungry; he'd packed a small bag, left the empty manor ( Vassa being away on a rare diplomatic trip to another city, Jurian having sauntered to some tavern ), and winnowed to Velaris. Lucien hated Velaris. Too pretentious, too suffocating, too full of stupid people busy pretending everything was perfect in the world; like their precious High Lord didn't keep an entire city in an underground prison.

He trudged up the hill to his apartment. He rarely ever lived there, it was simply a temporary lodging for whenever he needed to be in Velaris, because he'd rather share a bed with Koschei than rely on Rhysand's hospitality again.

He'd barely arrived and arranged his few belongings around the apartment when someone started banging frantically on his door. Lucien paused, wary and suspicious. None of the inner circle would know he'd arrived, unless Elain had told them; and even then, who'd knock so desperately on his door?

One hand on the sheath of his dagger, he slowly inched the door open — only to find Feyre standing on his threshold, wild eyed and splattered with blood in her nightgown, her son on her hip. The last time he'd seen her this… disheveled was when they'd left the Spring Court together.

‘... Feyre.’ This blood covered woman reminded him of the human girl Under the Mountain. The little girl he'd failed to save. Unease stirred in his heart. ‘What happened?’

‘Lucien,’ She said desperately, tears in her eyes. ‘I need your help — I — can I come in?’ Seeing the wariness in his eyes, she added, ‘Please, Lucien. ‘

No shit, he wanted to say, but he bit his tongue. He opened the door wide enough for her to slip through and then closed and locked it. He had an inkling that this conversation was best kept private. You know, since she was covered with blood. Small detail.

Nyx glanced at him from his mother's arms, big purple eyes narrowed suspiciously, chubby fist in his mouth. Feyre didn't seem to notice, gingerly standing in the middle of the hallway, holding her son like she wished someone would take him from her very soon. She seemed at a loss for words.

‘Feyre,’ Lucien began, trying to keep his voice placating, gentle. ‘I can only help you if I know what happened.’ And, after a second, ‘... Let me hold him, if it's alright.’

She shook her head, mouth pressed into a line, tears dripping down her cheeks. Even Nyx was quiet, his curious eyes fixed on his mother. Then she unwrapped her arms and let Lucien take the little boy into his arms. Nyx didn't cry, surprisingly, only tried to poke at Lucien’s face with a tiny fist. The silence between them stretched.

Eventually, Feyre said softly, voice low, ‘I did something really bad.’

Lucien frowned. This didn't seem to be Feyre Cursebreaker, the girl who'd captured the Suriel, defied Amarantha. Then again, Lucien hadn't seen that girl in a long time. ‘... What did you do?’

‘I killed Rhy—’ She lifted her chin, blue-gray eyes red rimmed and full of tears, her jaw set. ‘I killed my husband .’

What? For a second, Lucien was sure he hadn't heard her properly. Feyre, kill Rhysand? What a joke. She was besotted with that man, wasn't she? Even after all he'd done to her, the way he'd treated her, she sang his praises day and night. It had always been distressing for him, to see this formerly proud, clever girl simper over that tyrant High Lord; but then he'd just accepted it. It had been clear that she was not going to listen.

And now? This was a disaster. Velaris wasn't going to take to this kindly. Feyre and Nyx's very lives were in danger, and he didn't think it was safe for them anymore, in their own city.

His shock must have shown on his face, because Feyre immediately barrelled into an explanation. ‘I didn't — I didn't mean to, I swear,’ She began, stumbling over her words. ‘I just — he was so loud, Lucien. And then he tried to get inside your head —’

‘Wait,’ Lucien interrupted, holding up his palms. Something sickening curled in his gut. ‘Give me a proper play by play. I can't make head nor tail of this.’

By some miracle, Nyx had curled up on his chest and fallen asleep, chubby cheek pressed against his shoulder. He listened attentively to Feyre's story, fury and grim satisfaction welling in his heart. He wasn't surprised. He didn't really put this sort of behavior past Rhysand, but he knew Feyre… and he knew Feyre had never expected this from her dearest. Or if she had, she had ignored it.

The room rang with tension. Lucien tried to formulate his thoughts into words. ‘Did it pass to you?’ At Feyre's hollow, confused stare, he clarified, ‘The… The Court. The rulership.’

That made Feyre pause. She gave a dry, sardonic laugh. ‘No. You were right, Nesta was right… He only gave me that title in name. Wasn't I stupid?’

Lucien’s heart ached. ‘I'll help you run, I'll help you with the body.’ He gently placed the sleeping baby in his arms down on the couch, and then took Feyre's calloused hand in his. ‘Where is it? His body? Was the rest of his family home?’

She took a shuddering breath. ‘No… His body's at home, I just ran. No one else was there, a-and the servants had already retired for the night, I th-think.’

‘Why was he going to a camp meeting at this time?’

‘He was the High Lord of the Night Court, Lucien,’ Feyre muttered.

They lapsed back into silence, but not for long. Another insistent knock sounded at his door, followed by the impatient click of someone's shoes against the ground. Feyre sat up straight, white as a sheet.

Cautiously, Lucien undid the latch and peered out, only to receive his second shock of the night: his mate and her sister, both standing them surveying him with unease and impatience, respectively.

‘El-Elain,’ He forced her name past his lips. Behind him, Feyre made a small noise of shock. ‘And Nesta. What a… surprise.’

‘Is Feyre here?’ Nesta cut straight to the point, her voice tense.

‘She is, Nesta,’ Elain cut in, brown eyes bright and unflinching. ‘I can sense it. I saw this all play out weeks ago… but we all have explanations to give. Will you let us in, Lucien?’

⋆.୨୧.⋆

Nesta drew in a sharp breath at the sight of her sister. Bloody, haggard and tearstained; she looked such a far cry from how Nesta had gotten used to seeing her, all pampered and proud. Her heart broke for her poor, naive little sister and she sat down next to her, taking her hand in hers as Lucien quietly caught them up on what had happened.

‘Did he hurt you?’ The words came out clipped and icy. Feyre glanced at her with those eyes — Nesta’s eyes, their mother's eyes.

‘No,’ She muttered, stiff and tense, but she didn't pull her hand away. ‘I killed… I killed him, Nesta.’

‘It wasn't anything he didn't deserve.’ Nesta despised Rhysand, but she didn't think he'd be so blatantly awful — and to his mate, no less; this oh so glorious mating bond that Cassian kept yapping about.

Feyre leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes, tired and weary.

‘How did you break it?’ Nesta asked quietly. ‘The death pact?’

That got everyone's attention. Feyre sat up straight, hands shaking. ‘I don't know. I wanted to break it, but I didn't really think about it too much. I don't know.’ She swallowed. ‘What am I going to do? What am I going to tell Cass and Azriel an-and Mor and —’

Elain cut in, brushing away some hair from Feyre's eyes gently. ‘That you were with us,’ she murmured. ‘That I needed some help in the shop, so I asked Nesta and that's why she was there — and you just happened to drop by.’

Feyre shook her head, voice low and rough. ‘They're going to ask where Nyx was.’

‘You brought Nyx with you, of course,’ Nesta added, the ruse sounding believable enough. Feyre gave a small nod, and then all three sisters turned to look at Lucien.

He raised a brow. ‘What?’

‘You'll back this up,’ Nesta said; the tone of her voice making the words not an ask, but an order. ‘Say that you were visiting Velaris because Feyre had asked you to because she wanted to check on the progress of the Koschei situation. Very serious. But before you went to her, you'd decided to just take a walk, and happened to come across the teashop, where you clearly saw Elain, Feyre and me. Simple?’

‘... You're scary, Nesta.’ He let out a breathy laugh. ‘Alright, I can do that. It adds up. But for now, Feyre, you need to go wash yourself up and brush up on your acting skills.’

‘My acting skills?’

‘Widows are pathetic and miserable, so you'll need to cry,’ Elain nodded, in agreement with Lucien.

Nesta cast an appraising glance at her little sister. ‘You… You're not miserable about his death, are you?’

‘I — I am,’ Feyre began, but then corrected herself, ‘actually, I think it's more shock than anything. But I can cry.’

‘Great, so that's a plan. Come, we'll help you wash. Lucien, where is the —’

‘Down the hall, second door to the left.’ He muttered distractedly. Nyx was beginning to stir, whimpering.

Elain smiled prettily. ‘The baby's all yours, for now. Come now, Feyre.’

⋆.୨୧.⋆

Feyre felt like a little girl again, the way her sisters carefully washed the blood from her hair and palms and — well, it was everywhere, actually. She'd tried to say she could do it herself, but Elain had insisted, and Feyre was too tired to argue.

Nesta’s hands were gentle as she rinsed her hair. ‘Are you okay?’

The words sounded foreign coming from Nesta. Like an older sister's words, and Feyre usually felt like she didn't even have sisters. All three of them lived their lives like the others didn't exist.

She swallowed, throat dry. ‘... No. Not really.’

But she was going to be. Cursebreaker, they called her. And it seemed that she'd broken the death pact tonight, without even meaning to. She could leave the Night Court now, couldn't she? Go somewhere else, take Nyx with her, somewhere full of cheerful sunlight and sea — the Summer Court, maybe.

Her heart clenched. The other Courts definitely didn't think favorably of her. How had she gone from being Prythian’s savior to… to having the public image of a harlot?

Elain ran a hand across her forehead, her voice gentle. ‘Feyre, quit it. Figure things out one at a time.’

‘... Can you read minds or something?’

‘No, but it's clear as day you're fretting over the future. You should never worry about the future. Let it come to you.’

‘That's wonderful advice,’ Nesta cut in, voice dry. ‘You should start a help centre for the people of Velaris, you'll be booked.’

Elain laughed, helping Feyre out of the bathtub like she was a toddler again. ‘See? My advice works so well, Nesta actually laughs ever since she took it.’

Feyre rolled her eyes. ‘Stop trying to make me laugh, I'm supposed to cry.’

⋆.୨୧.⋆

Mor opened the door to the River House, finding it unlocked. Odd, but maybe they'd forgotten? It was deathly silent in the house, too…

She crept up the staircase quietly, even though she didn't know why she felt the need to be silent. All the way up the stairs, through the hallway… Feyre and Rhysand's bedroom.

Her heart turned to ice. Shocked and horrified, she knelt in front of her cousin’s corpse, only to find little ice shards sticking out of his chest, his face bloody and mauled, the sides of his neck burnt. Gently, she took his head on her lap, tears falling from her eyes.

There was only one person she knew with a multitude of those powers.

Mor clenched her teeth. It was Feyre Archeron's last night in Prythian, she was going to make sure of it.

⋆.୨୧.⋆