tags: @lady-katkat @illyrianbeauty @mariamuses @hxghlady @runesandfaes @lorcanswife @wolffrising @faelightsstarfall @acourtofredqueens @halcyon-havoc @rhysands-bitch @my-ships-will-never-be-sank @musicmaam @starzablaze @abimomeopectore @rhysand-darling @alexisnm95 @destiny14444 @leulivy @ame233

Prologue * Act I * Act II

Act I

Feyre

The carriage stops in front of the enormous manor, and I see Ianthe run down the front steps to greet us.

“Feyre, Elain, welcome to the Spring Court!” She holds her arms open to us, pulling us into a quick embrace. “Bring in their things, you dawdling fools,” she snaps at the servants. I exchange a look with Elain. Ianthe seems… less than charming. “Come inside, I’m sure you’re exhausted from your journey.” Her golden curls bounce as she leads up the steps to the manor.

The inside of the manor smells strongly of roses, and the white marble floors glisten under my feet. Vases of flowers are spaced along the walls, and rich, velvet curtains hang from the open windows.

Ianthe leads us to the dining room, where the table already has a full spread of fruit and cheese, bread and pastries, platters of meats, and tea and wine. We sit around the table and pile our plates with food. Ianthe fills our cups with tea and a splash of rum.

“Well, now we can talk.” Ianthe claps her hands together. “First, congratulations on your engagement, Feyre. So wonderful to have your family tied to Tamlin’s–it’s really quite advantageous. One of the finest matches in all of Prythian, I should think.”

I blush happily. “But the other High Lords, Beron especially, dislike his marrying me. Because I’m mortal.”

“Oh, don’t listen to old Beron,” she chides. “He won’t be happy with anything.”

“Perhaps if you payed him and the Lady a visit,” Elain chimes in, “he might come to like you.”

“Wonderful idea, Elain,” Ianthe praises my sister. “You’ll take a little trip to Autumn this afternoon, Feyre. My advice is to just be kind to the Lady of Autumn, and once she loves you, so will Beron, and all will be well.”

She sends me off immediately to prepare, and not an hour later, I’m on my way to the Autumn Court. An enchanted carriage carries me, speeding through Prythian in seemingly no time at all.

I arrive around mid afternoon. The colours here are so vibrant–brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows. The air is crisp and fresh, though cooler than Spring. I feel the end of my nose getting colder, the tips of my fingers getting stiff. I’m rush to the warmth of the Autumn manor as fast as I can.

The Lady of Autumn greets me at the door, and from the first glance, I do not like her. So stiff and proper, insolent and dry. I know I have to make her like me, but I can’t help but shrink into myself. I feel her and everyone else in the room judging me and my ‘inferior’ human body. Maybe I am inferior in every way compared to them.

Worst of it all, though, is Beron. He comes in for tea late, muttering about getting this meeting over with as quickly as possible. He simply walks in, looks me over from head to toe, and leaves! Not a single word to me. I feel the heat rise on my cheeks, the burning fire in my chest as I fight to restrain my baffled anger.

“I should go,” I say as calmly as possible, not even able to look the Lady in the eye.

“Please, Feyre. Wait a moment.” She reaches for my hand. “I want you to know how glad I am that Tamlin has found happiness.”

I whirl on her, my eyes blazing. “Is that the truth?” I snap. I quickly compose myself, smoothing my skirt and turning towards the door. “I think it best that I go, Lady,” I say with all the dignity and coldness I can muster.

Back out in the cool Autumn air, I suddenly feel regret for what I’ve just said. What have I done? They will never accept me as one of their own now, whether I’m the Lady of Spring or not.

I desperately wish that Tamlin were here to sort things out. Hybern suddenly feels a thousand worlds away, the thought of the distance closing in on me like the cold.

Inside the carriage, I sit by myself on the bench and let the tears fall.

By the time I arrive back at the Spring Court, the moon is high in the sky. I stand out in the open for a moment, admiring its beauty, the light it casts on the budding trees. It looks just the same as it did the night Tamlin and I met. Staring up at the moon and the starry sky, I remember that night.

Tamlin, with his grass-green eyes and his distant smile, pulling me into his arms.

I’ll never be as happy again as I was that night.

I wonder how anyone can sleep when the moon is this beautiful. I feel like sitting in the soft grass, putting my arms around my knees, and squeezing tight as possible. I feel like flying away.

Away to Tamlin.

Maybe he will come home tomorrow. Maybe he’s here already, and I simply forgot.

I hold on to that hope as I go back inside the manor, as I change into my nightgown, as I lie awake in bed. He will come home to me.

____________

On Saturday afternoon, Ianthe suggests we go to a play. “There’s an amazing playgroup passing through,” she says, “and we should go see them.” Elain is enthusiastic about going, and while I would rather sit in my room and wait for Tamlin to return, I agree to come along. We spend the rest of the afternoon trying on dresses, showing off in the mirror. I almost forget about how much I miss him.

Elain and Ianthe put me in a dress that shows off my figure more than the dresses I usually wear. My arms and shoulders, chest and neck are bare. Looking in the mirror, I see that I am pretty. I’ve never felt like this before–I’m not a child anymore in this dress. I look like a Lady of Spring.

We arrive at the theatre and everyone is looking at me. Hundreds of eyes look at my bare arms and shoulders–the females envious, the males calming their jealousy.

Ianthe leads us to our own private box with the best view of the stage. I look around at the crowds of people below me, their clothing and jewelry bright and extravagant. One female in particular catches my eye. She is dressed in a vibrant red, offsetting her sun kissed skin and golden blonde hair. But her clothes aren’t what catch my attention–it’s the way she stands. Such confidence, seeming to be the center of all attention. Next to her is a male with enormous dark wings–a brute if I ever did see one. He looks like he could kill me with nothing but his little finger. They walk arm in arm down the aisle, taking their seats in the front row.

The lights in the theatre dim and the curtain rises. The warm perfumed air is filled with a sense of anticipation as the show begins. Everyone turns their attention, teeming with curiosity, to the stage.

The first act is eerie and dark, the stage flowing with smoke and dim blue light. I sit on the edge of my seat, captivated by the story, the music, the illusion. It is intoxicating. It’s all so false and unnatural–I’m both ashamed and amused. Everyone else seems oblivious, feigning oblivious delight.

And then, a rush of cold air, and the door to the theatre opens, shattering  the carefully constructed illusion.

I recognize the male who strides through the double doors. It is Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court. He moves with such a swagger and confidence, which would have been ridiculous, had he not been so good looking. And though it is the middle of the act, he walks right down the aisle, his handsome dark head held high. He takes his place in the front row next to who I now know must be Cassian and The Morrigan–legends to even the human realm.

The High Lord doesn’t look at the stage, as he should be, but right up to my box. Our eyes meet, his violet to my blue, and it seems like he is gazing straight into my fragile soul. He turns and whispers something in Morrigan’s ear. He is talking about me.

In the second act there are tombstones, the moon over the footlights. But I don’t pay attention to the play. I am intoxicated now by the mysterious High Lord. Every time I look at him, he’s looking at me. He gazes straight into my eyes.

The orchestra wails a mournful tune, and everybody cheers. “Bravo!”

A terrible noise, a clatter in the crowd. A storm of chromatic scales and diminished sevenths. With rapturous faces everyone is shouting, standing, and applauding, “bravo!” I stand and cheer with the crowd, faint from the heat of both the room and Rhysand’s attention. Ianthe and Elain file out of the box, but I stay in my seat for a moment, gathering myself.

And then, a rush of cold air, and Rhysand enters the box.

“There you are,” he says, “I’ve been looking for you. You didn’t leave with Ianthe and your sister.”

He is sensible and simple, bold and natural, so strange and agreeable, yet there is something formidable about him. His smile is naive, cheerful and good natured. His violet eyes are welcoming and warm, twinkling with a faint sense of mischief. He is as handsome up close as at a distance–quite possibly the most beautiful male I have ever seen.

“You know, Feyre darling,” he drawls, “the theatre in the Night Court is much better than the one here in Spring. You should come visit sometime, and I’ll take you.”

“Oh, I couldn’t–”

“I insist. You must come.” He never removes his smiling eyes from my face, my bare neck and arms. I know for certain that he is enraptured by me. He looks me right in the eyes, and I am foolishly frightened. There is not that barrier of modesty I have always felt with men. He feels terribly near. I fear that at any moment, he might seize me from behind, and kiss me on the neck. My face heats.

“How do you like the Spring Court?” I ask, attempting to clear my mind of such thoughts.

“At first I did not like it much, but now I like it very much indeed.”

We are speaking of most ordinary things, yet I feel closer to him than I ever have with any other man. No one else is here, no one else can see us. It is only his eyes, all I can see is those violet eyes. There is nothing between us. He leans in closer. I find myself leaning in too.

“I must go.” I snap out of his trance and rush out of the box, skirts swirling around my shaking legs.

____________

Lucien

The High Lord of the Night Court leans on the jamb of my front door.

“Rhysand, what are you doing here?”

“Cassian and I are going to the bar. Will you come? For old time’s sake?”

I shrug and grab my coat from its hook. “Why not.”

When we arrive at the bar, Cassian is already there, and already drunk. I, too, drink a great deal, only quite at ease after pouring several glasses into my mouth. I begin to feel a pleasant warmth in my body, all of my worries washed away in the drink.

Rhysand, Tamlin, and I used to do this quite often when we were young. We would drink until morning, then pass out on the stoep of Tamlin’s manor. We were children then, innocent in the ways of the world. Now, we drink exactly because we know those ways. Oh, do we ever know those ways.

“Here’s to the health of beautiful females,” Cassian toasts, a smile lurking on the corner of his mouth. “To beautiful females, their husbands, and their lovers!”

Rhys mutters something about Feyre Archeron–her arms, her eyes, her neck, her hair. “I will make love to her–mark my words.”

“Better not,” I warn, “she’s first rate, but nothing but trouble, since she’s already promised to Tamlin.”

“Nevermind about that,” he dismisses, downing another drink. “I don’t give a damn. I love Feyre.”

“I used to love…”

He snorts and hands me another drink. “Keep drinking, Vanserra.”

“Poor little fox-boy,” Cassian teases, jabbing my side.

“You know nothing, Cassian,” I snap, a sudden fire in my soul. “You’re a bully and a scoundrel” He laughs me off, but for some reason–likely the alcohol–I don’t let him go. “I challenge you.”

“Oh,” he drawls, “a duel? Yes, this is what I like!”

Rhysand grabs my arm. “He will kill you, fool!”

“So I shall be killed, what is it to you?” I stand up and struggle to keep my balance. “Take up your place, bat-boy.”

Cassian stands on one end of the bar, and I stand on the other. The rules are simple: whoever gets hit with a blast of magic–whatever magic that might be–loses. It is my fire against Cassian’s siphoned arrow.

“This is horribly stupid,” Rhysand warns again.

Cassian and I both ignore him.

“Well, let’s begin.”

Someone else in the bar takes the place as the judge, and stands on the counter. “As the adversaries have refused a reconciliation, we shall please proceed with the duel. Ready your magic, and on the count of three, begin to advance.”

Everyone in the room counts down for us. “ONE… TWO… THREE!”

“Lucien, hold your fire,” Rhys instructs as I begin to advance. “Wait, not yet!” I trip over my own feet, and before I can stop it, fire shoots forward, hitting Cassian on the arm.

“No!” he shouts, clutching the burned flesh, “shot by a fool!”

“No wait,” I scramble to my feet, “I didn’t mean–”

“My turn!” Cassian’s eyes are clouded in vengeance. “MY TURN!”

“Lucien,” Rhys calls again, “stand down!”

But I don’t stand down. I have shamed myself, and now I accept my fate. I stand straight and spread my arms out wide, welcoming Cassian’s strike…

Except it never comes. The arrow shoots past me, lodging into the wall behind. Cassian sinks to his knees, still clutching his arm, his head held in shame.

“Missed… missed… how did I miss?”

The judge jumps down from the counter and raises my hand in the air. “The duel is at an end, and Lucien Vanserra is the winner!”

Winner… I am no such thing.

“Come on, fox-boy, let’s get you home,” Rhysand urges me. “Hey, be happy. You live to love another day.”

Love? I have no love.

Rhysand leaves me at my door, and I stumble up the stairs to my chambers.

Is this how I die? Ridiculed and laughed at, a joke and a failure? Is this what has become of me? Furious and reckless, sick with booze?

I taste every wasted minute, every time I turned away from things that might have healed me from my past. I’ve pushed everyone away. Everyone but Jesminda, but even she is gone now.

I feel like I’ve been sleeping my life away. When was the last time I looked up at the stars, or experienced nature, and felt actual joy?

Jesminda told me once that we are all asleep until we fall in love. That we are children of dust and ashes. But when we fall in love, we wake up, and we become a new and better self.

I was awake once, because of Jesminda.

But if I had died tonight, as I should have, I would have died in my sleep.

Ever since I lost her, I’ve been searching the world for something to awaken me once again. I have searched to no avail, and I wonder now if it has all been pointless.

Did I squander my divinity? Do we only get one chance at happiness?

These questions plage me during every hour, every day. I cannot find the answers, but I want to, more than anything. There must be another chance for me–this can’t be all there is.

They say we are asleep until we fall in love.

I think of Jesminda, how she was too kind for this world, how it was that kindness that awoke me the first time. Maybe… maybe I can find that again. Not to replace her, because nothing ever could, but to exist alongside her memory.

Yes, that’s what I want. I want to wake up. Please Mother, let me wake up again.

____________

Feyre

Elain shakes me awake in the early hours of the morning, pulling me out of bed and into her bedroom. She draws the curtains, lights some candles, and arranges three mirrors so they are in a half-circle.

“What are you doing?” I ask when she hands me a candle and guides me in front of the mirrors.

“Tell me what you see.”

“I see my face,” I dismiss. I know what my own reflection looks like.

“Don’t be silly,” she chides. “They say you can see your future in the long row of candles stretching back into the depths of the mirror.” I examine the candle in the reflection. “In the dim, confused last square,” she goes on, “you’ll see a coffin or a man.”

“Really?” I look closer, but I don’t see anything.

“Everyone sees a man,” she sighs.

“I see the candle… and the mirror. No coffin or man.”

“Look again, Feyre.”

“I see… a shape,” I look closer. “Is it Tamlin? Or is it…” I gasp, nearly dropping the candle. “He’s lying down. Why would he be lying down?”

Elain pulls me from the mirrors, giving my arm a comforting squeeze. Before she can try to interpret what I saw, the doors open, and Ianthe pokes her head in.

“Time for another ceremony, ladies.” She leaves us to get ready.

All throughout the ceremony, I think about the shape in the mirror. Maybe it means that Tamlin will never come. Or that something will happen to me before he does.

_____________

That afternoon, Ianthe leaves to visit some of the villagers. Not ten minutes after she leaves, however, there is a knock on the door. I peek out the window to see who it could be, and instantly flush.

It’s The Morrigan. Rhysand’s cousin.

I am wary, but I open the door.

She is dressed in ruby red, her sun kissed skin glowing, and she holds a gown in her arms.

“Oh, Feyre, you beautiful thing,” she says by way of greeting. She pushes past me into the foyer, walking as if she owned the place. “I come bearing gifts,” she holds up the gown.

“Whatever for?”

“Every girl deserves a beautiful gown, Feyre.” She looks me up and down. “Such a shame to bury a gem like you in the country. Now, come, try this on.”

I’m still confused, but I obey. Taking off my simple dress, I slip into the gorgeous gown. The material is metallic and dusted with crystals that look like billions of stars.

“This one suits you so well. You look rather charming in it!”

“I still don’t understand what it’s for.”

“My cousin dined with me yesterday, Feyre. But he didn’t eat a thing. You know why?” I wait for her to go on. “Because he was thinking about you! Sighing about you!”

My cheeks heat up, and I can’t help but smile a little. I look away.

“I’m throwing a ball tonight. You should come. My cousin will be there.” She winks at me.

I’m shocked, frankly. She knows that I’m engaged and yet she talks so freely. It must be alright, then. “I will come,” I decide.

With that, she leaves, almost as quickly as she came. I’m left in a daze, wondering if any of that really just happened.

____________

Rhysand

I stand waiting at the door for Feyre to arrive. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

The females in the room stare at me, giggling to each other every now and then. But right now, there is only one female in Prythian that I care about.

And here she is.

Feyre enters the room and every head turns to look at her. To look at her and her bare shoulders, bare arms. The jewels around her throat. I see my cousin dear has paid her a visit.

I stride towards her, my head held high and shoulders back. I take her hand in mine and pull her to the dance floor, sweeping her into the waltz. I press my hands to her waist and hand, and gaze into her eyes. Her frightened but loving eyes.

There is no barrier between us as we spin and glide around the room, her skirts flowing around us.

“You are enchanting, Feyre darling,” I murmur.

She cannot seem to find the words to reply, and lowers her eyes, blushing.

“Don’t look away. You don’t have to hide.” She looks at me again. “I am in love, Feyre darling.”

She pulls away from me slightly. “Don’t say such things, Rhysand, I am engaged. I love Tamlin.”

“Tamlin is not who he says he is.”

“What would you even know about it? I told you, I love him. I know who he is.” She begins to walk away. I can’t let her go, though.

“Feyre, come with me to the Night Court. Leave Tamlin behind.” I take her hand, and she turns to look at me. I slowly bring her hand to my lips. She only stares.

“I can’t just leave him, Rhys. Even if I wanted to.”

“Of course you can. You are not some caged animal, you are a wolf. You can do what you want.”

She sighs, and with a final glance, rushes out of the room.

The music swells, the people crowd. The ball goes on.

I will save her from this Court.