ho ho ho @definitelyyesnt it's me, your santa for the @acotargiftexchange
i heard you liked starfall and a blue/black/purple color scheme, so i have a moodboard with that in mind for you, and a little scene to accompany it <3
The first year, it was out of necessity.
The second, an accident.
The third time that Feyre and Rhys sneak away from the Starfall celebrations to have a private moment, they decide to make it a tradition of sorts.
Over the decades since, no one has questioned it—after all, the High Lord and High Lady need not make excuses for their decisions.
Tonight, Feyre looks forward to the moment that she can slip away from the festivities to find a quiet balcony to watch from with her mate. The sky is not yet awash with glimmering and glowing spirits, but the crowd is already gathered in their finery, the sounds of a happy gathering rushing around her. The clink of glasses, murmur of distant conversation, glimmering laughter, the crisp sound of shoes on stone, and the lilting melodies of live music fill any space in the House of Wind that is not already full of fae. Over the din, she can still make out Cassian's deep laughter, and gently slips through the crowd to find her friend—and hopefully, Rhys, who she lost track of after he went to greet some former ambassador she's not overly familiar with.
The fae move aside for her, once they realize that it is their High Lady gently nudging past them, and not some random stranger. The heavy, glimmering diadem on her head certainly helps identify her. Spun silver and black diamond, resting atop her head like a crown of stars. It matches this year's dress, a slinky silver gown made of silk that flows like water, draping across her body in such a way that she looks like she was dipped in that pool of starlight from the Spring Court that she'd swam in so long ago. That one memory, at least, has not been tainted by time and immortality.
Cassian picks her out of the crowd when she moves closer, shouting her name and grinning like a maniac, her eldest sister rolling her eyes at his side.
"Feyre! We were wondering where you wandered off to."
"We were not," Nesta huffs, and it's more fondness than true exasperation, bringing a smile to Feyre's face. "Your husband was."
"Never a dull moment with you two, huh?" Feyre laughs, embracing her sister with a murmured 'you look beautiful' before turning to find Rhys, standing a few feet away and talking to Mor and Azriel.
Their eyes meet, and even after all these years it feels like sparking electricity in her veins. His beautiful face lights up, violet eyes dancing with stars as he rushes over to her without even excusing himself from the conversation he'd been having.
"Darling," he sighs, sweeping her into his warm embrace. "I'm so glad you've found us."
The smile on her face is wide enough to make her cheeks sore, but she doesn't care. She stares up into the adoring eyes of her mate, the love of her immortal life, and admires the way he comes alive in the nighttime. Bronze skin glowing, moonlight reflecting silvery-blue off his hair and the crown atop it that matches hers, an aura of vitality to him that the stars enhance. Gods, she loves him.
He presses a flute of sparkling wine into her hand and a chaste kiss to her lips. "Any moment now."
The first streak of light across the sky never fails to steal the air straight from her lungs.
Together, she and Rhys raise their glasses, leading the crowd in a silent toast to those who continue to come back and grace the skies with their glimmering presence year after year.
As always, Feyre makes her exits far before him.
She's grown used to leadership over the decades, used to the forced socialization and courtly mannerisms that she must participate in at such public events, but it still wears on her in a way that it never seems to wear on her mate.
It takes very little time for her to make her way past the boundaries of the party proper and to a higher balcony where the sounds of the gathering below are muted and the falling stars are that much closer. The cool night air kisses her cheeks, flushed and warm from the wine and the dancing, and she takes a moment to simply soak it all in.
Times like these often remind her of just how far she's come: from a starving human girl, hunting in a snowy forest just to put something into the empty bellies of her and her family, to the High Lady of a court of Prythian, mated to the most powerful High Lord in history. She has friends now, real ones, both those she shares with Rhys and those she made separately, through her art studio and other activities. She has a beautiful, perfect son (who's still in a somewhat rebellious phase and insists on hanging around Azriel like one of the Spymaster's shadows, even at Night Court-sponsored celebrations such as this, but there are worse people for Nyx to be attached to, so she doesn't mind too much). There is more love and fulfillment in her life than she thought existed in the entirety of the human lands when she was a teenager, and her heart is fit to burst in her chest with all of the affection.
For old time's sake, she reaches out over the railing of the balcony, waiting for a stray spirit to come careening down towards her and then maneuvers so that it crashes into her hand, bright and sparkling, a pigment she could never hope to recreate. One too good for a cloth canvas.
No, she knows exactly what she wants to paint.
A few moments later, her perfect canvas comes wandering over to her, a loose, brilliant smile curving his lips. "My love," he murmurs, gathering her up in his arms, uncaring of the star-spirit splattered over her hand.
She barely restrains herself from pressing that hand to his back and leaving the brightest of handprints on the back of his jacket.
She holds back, though, and kisses him before pulling out of his embrace, taking one of his hands in her clean one. "Remember this?"
One finger, covered in luminescent shimmer, comes up to trace the shape of a star on the back of his hand, the same way she did on her very first Starfall—the first time she'd painted anything, even something small as that, after being Turned. After dying.
It doesn't hurt so much to think about anymore, but a dull ache still remains.
This moment, though? The painting? There is not one ounce of hurt in that memory, only the joy of rediscovering who she was at her core, the unique feeling of re-learning how to live.
"Remember this?" Rhys echoes, and she can feel the swell of love from his side of the bond. "How could I ever forget?"
Time hasn't dulled the love she feels for him even one iota.
In fact, she thinks, as he swipes some of the glimmering remnants from her hand and flicks it at her face ("It looks like your freckles are glowing,"), her love for him has only grown.