Hello Feyre lovers! Welcome to Feyre week 2024, coming March 18th through 24th, we're super excited to be hosting this event and we hope you all are as well! Below you'll find links to posts with information about the event!
I hope this is seen as I was hoping it’d be 🫶🏻 To portray the sister’s relationship, with Nesta and Elain together and Feyre on the outside as she always was (though slowly changing).
Feyre was a fighter. She fought to provide for her family and would go out hunting for them to not only get them food, but to buy them clothes, shoes, seeds, etc. She was what kept them alive.
I wanted to also show the colors mostly associated with each sister too. Elain with pink. Nesta with blue. Feyre with black. Feyre’s clothes are faded to gray here to hopefully show how she put her sisters first. Let them buy newer clothes while she would put herself last. To also show how Feyre would get dirty and hurt by hunting and working hard in general for her family.
I feel the artist did a FANTASTIC job at getting those points across, while also trying to show that the Archeron sisters were YOUNG and still kids/teenagers. Especially young Feyre, who you can see in this picture just wanted her older sister’s love and attention like they gave each other 🩶 They went through a hardship that they all reacted to differently.
I personally love each sister but definitely wanted to show in this how Feyre is a WARRIOR, and always was for her family 🩵
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Posted for Feyre Week — Day 3: Warrior
@feyreweekofficial
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Art by Insta: @mastiba
Commissioned by me (Insta: erin.elizabeth97)
*Please credit both artist and commissioner when sharing 🫶🏻
Characters from ACOTAR by Sarah J Maas
Also, thank you to @elainemg97 for giving your input on this when I reached out for help 🩵
Getting the notification that someone had posted something new for Feyre week was both a surprise and such a treat! Thank you for sharing this lovely commission with us.
That’s a wrap on Feyre week 2024! Thank you so so much to everyone who participated in making this week special. We love Feyre so much and it was wonderful seeing all the love others have for her as well!
If you have a late submission please feel free to go ahead and post it and tag us anyways and we will repost it!! Never too late to appreciate in the love for the best high lady.
"Once upon a time, there was a Princess and the fierce dragon who protected her…"
For the final day of @feyreweekofficial, @separatist-apologist and I thought it would be sweet to have an art piece of mama Feyre reading a bedtime story to baby Nyx, who likes to shapeshift into a fierce dragon to make the stories a little more immersive!
Major thanks to @/zolyna_ over on instagram for creating this for us!
A one shot about Feyre getting revenge on the man who wronged her. Read here or on AO3
I study him, the man I had once loved. I looked through the small window on the prison door. His arms and feet were chained against the walls of the dungeon, he had blood running down the sides of his golden blond hair. He looked so beautiful, despite the blood and bruises now forming on his skin. His clothing had been shredded and I could see the well-formed muscles of his chest. I remembered a time I would curl up on that chest and take comfort from it.
His face hung downwards, and I was grateful I did not have to see those green eyes staring up at me.
I could feel my heart thud in my chest, not out of pity or pain for him but hatred. It felt like another lifetime ago that I had loved him so fiercely I had destroyed myself.
“Did Azriel get it out of him?” I ask Rhys, who was leaning against the wall casually picking lint off his cuffs.
Tamlin had been no match for the two of us, we had found him in Nyx’s room. He stood over my sleeping son’s cradle. Power had cracked from both Rhys and mine veins, and Rhys had been able to winnow him to the dungeons under Hewn City. I had summoned Azriel, he had gone into that dungeon, but I had been too panicked to wait around.
I held Nyx afterwards, to calm both him and me, the disturbance had woke him and I could only feel calm if I had him in my arms. At only five months old he hardly slept through the night. He enjoyed falling asleep in my arms, and I enjoyed having him there, my miraculous baby.
Nyx finally had gotten back to sleep, and Elain had promised to watch over him while I went to the dungeons to speak to Rhys. Azriel had been gone when I arrived, but I could see his work on Tamlin.
“He did, it was Koschei’s doing” Rhys said.
“Is he being controlled? Like Eris men?” I asked.
Koschei and the Queen had controlled Eris men months ago, and if he was capable of controlling Tamlin… It changed things. However, none of that lessened my fury at the man in the dungeon. I had sensed Tamlin in the room before waking, I had been sleeping in the rocking chair of Nyx’s room. I immediately shouted for Rhys through the bond, who had been sleeping in our room. The next moments all I knew was rage, white hot rage. If Rhys hadn’t questioned down the bond how he got through our wards I believe I might have killed Tamlin. We needed answers, because if Tamlin had broke into the home, anyone could.
“No”
“So he’s working with Koschei? why?” I turned my head towards Rhys, his violet eyes were on me intensely and I knew the truth would be devastating “Tell me.”
“Your father made a bargain with Koschei, his first born grandson in exchange for the help he provided during the war. With your father dead Koschei had no way to complete the bargain.”
“So, he went to Tamlin?” I asked, confused and shocked. My father handing over my son before he had ever been born… my heart stung. My father was long dead and could not explain his actions, maybe he had assumed he’d never get a grandson or maybe he was willing to trade away one life for thousands of others.
“Koschei needed someone else who would be willing to get Nyx” Rhys said.
“What does Koschei want from him?”
“Tamlin didn’t know that, and trust me Azriel tried very hard to get that out of him” Rhys went on, “Tamlin only cared about his part of the bargain.”
“Which was?” I asked, knowing the answer well.
“To get you back. Koschei apparently offered to erase your memories of The Night Court and me.”
My heart pounded, my stomach felt sick, I turned my head back to look at Tamlin hanging from the dungeon wall. I hoped it hurt, I hope the chains dug into his wrists, I hope it burned.
“Again… he betrays Prythian again to get me back” I said.
“Tamlin playing traitor to get what he wants seems to be a common enough theme” Rhys scoffed.
But darker thoughts rose in my mind, Koschei wanted Nyx and we didn’t know why.
“I left Nyx with Elain but…” Elain was still growing in her powers and what if Koschei was in the city, waiting for the delivery of my son.
Rhys putting a hand on my back.
“It’s why Azriel’s not here, he’s going back to the house. He’s getting the rest of them, Mor, Amren, Cassian and even Nesta to go back to the house.”
I let out a sigh of relief.
“Koschei will be found, and I don’t care what bargain your father made. He doesn’t get our son.” Rhys said reassuring me.
“I can’t believe it, I can’t believe my father…”
“I know, I’m so sorry Feyre” Rhys replied, “But the bargain died with your father, I think. Koschei wouldn’t have needed to make another if he it hadn’t.”
I nodded in agreement and sighed in relief; but it didn’t solve our immediate problem. What to do with the High Lord in our dungeon.
“We can deal with him tomorrow” Rhys said.
I shook my head and said:
“I’ll deal with him tonight.”
“You don’t have to, even if that’s what we decide we can get Azriel…”
“No” I cut him off, and through the bond I said
This is mine, my fight, my kill, my decision.
My eyes still gazing to Tamlin, the blood pouring off his face, the pitiful excuse of a male. I looked back at Rhys, no judgement on his face but I could sense his worry.
“You disagree” I wasn’t a question.
“You need to be sure, it’s a decision you can’t take back.”
“He tried to take me again, he tried to give our son to a monster” I said.
“I know, but taking the life another High Lord”
“After everything he’s done how are you speaking for him now” I snapped at Rhys. Tamlin didn’t deserve either of our compassion.
“No, I’m not” He insisted “I wanted to rip him to pieces the moment I saw him in that room. I’ve wanted him dead for centuries, but it changes things with him dead and we need to be prepared to face those consequences.”
“I’m sorry” I said, remembering how Tamlin caused the deaths of his mother and sister “I’m being selfish.”
“You’re not” Rhys said.
“How did you stomach it, all those years knowing he was alive after what he did?” I asked.
“It wasn’t easy, I never forgave him if that’s what your asking” Rhys said “But I knew killing him would cause more trouble than it was worth. You need to consider what trouble his death would cause, and if it’s worth it.
“Beron and Tarquin” I said, and I doubt the other High Lords would take too kindly to the killing of another High Lord.
“Beron will be furious but likely would use it as an excuse to ally against us, and Tarquin… I doubt he will mourn Tamlin but hate the instability it would cause.”
I stood back from the dungeon door and considered, considered it all. Tamlin had caused nothing but pain to everyone he encountered. Not just to Rhys and I, but my sisters, Lucien, his own people; all of them victims of the same beast.
“I thought he’d changed” I said softly, “After the war, after bringing you back. He told me to be happy and I thought he meant it. He was never healed, we know that, but I thought he had least let me go.”
“I thought he did too” Rhys said “When I visited during our first solstice, he wondered if you’d ever forgive him.”
“You told me” I nodded remembering Rhys detailing that trip, “how did this happen again?”
“It’s Nyx” Rhys said simply, “Lucien said he took the news poorly.”
I sighed, remembering the bruises on Lucien’s face when he recounted how Tamlin had heard of my pregnancy. Rhys and I had been considering at that point asking Tamlin for help, with shapeshifting while pregnant. We were running out of options on how to save our lives, but when Lucien came to us the day after we knew we could not. Tamlin was a liability, tonight proved it.
“He’s not fit to be a High Lord.” I said with certainty, “Look at how he treats his own people, his lands. He doesn’t care who gets hurt, he only cares for himself. The Night Court, and Prythian, will be better off with a new High Lord of Spring.”
One who could manage his lands, who didn’t run around in beast form, or pinning away for a female long gone.
“He has no direct heir” Rhys said, “I’m not sure who the power would transfer to, it might be a distant cousin or anyone the land chooses.”
“I’d rather deal with that problem then him the rest of our lives” I said, “I’d rather deal with Beron, or anyone else’s fury then have to worry for the rest of my life his desperate attempts to steal me back.”
Rhys nodded; it was decided.
From the pocket realm I summoned a knife, a smooth shark blade. I remembered back to another time, another lifetime, where I had picked up a blade and killed for Tamlin.
“You don’t have to do it like that” Rhys said, and I knew he was also reminded of that moment. “You could shatter his mind; I could show you how.”
I shook my head.
“I need to end this my way Rhys” I said, my grip on the knife tightened. I heard a slight moan from the dungeon, he was awake.
“I can knock him out again, to make it easier.”
“Just make him unable to speak, I want him to hear me, I want him to know it’s me” I said, thinking back to my horror of finding him standing over my sleeping son’s cradle.
Rhys nodded, and I entered the dungeon.
Tamlin struggled against the chains, but his brute strength was nothing against the magic and wards of the Night Court. Without whatever magic Koschei had given him to sneak into our city he was helpless. Our prisoner. Completely under our power, and I smiled at the thought. He thought our court was weak, defenseless, that he could sneak in and steal me, it’s High Lady, away.
Tamlin eyed the knife in my hand and opened his mouth to speak.
“You don’t get to speak” I said, toying with the knife “You thought any of this would get me back. You think Rhys and I wouldn’t have fought everything to ensure our son’s safety.”
I took a step closer to him, he still had his mouth open like a gapping fish.
“You’re a monster, the same beast that came through my door years ago” I said “But worse, you’re a traitor. You would betray and backstab anyone if you got your way. No matter who it hurt, no matter if I wanted you back or not. All you care about is yourself.”
Tamlin struggled against the chains, and his mouth kept opening and closing, unable to form words.
“You hurt everyone you ever touch” I said thinking of Lucien’s bruises, of my sisters coming out of the cauldron, Rhys’ mother and sister, my own suffering at his hands. I drew closer to him “I told you once if you tried to take me from my family, if you tried to take me from my mate I would destroy you. You didn’t listen, and I did.”
My hands began to sweat, and I put the knife up to his heart. Not touching, not yet.
“But I left you alive then, and I had hoped you would have learned a lesson. Instead, you tried to kidnap my son, my child in some demented plan to get me back.” The knife was now touching his chest, not yet drawing blood. Tamlin’s eyes shot downwards, and back up at mine. Fear, terror, horror was what I saw in them. Good. I wanted that.
“Did you think I would let you get away with it?” I asked rhetorically. I pushed the knife deeper, just enough to scratch. “You probably thought it would be Rhys doing this and he would have if I had wanted it that way. But I want to do this, I want you to know the monster I am willing to become to save my family.”
Again, he opened his mouth, and I could tell he was pleading. I had no mercy, no mercy in my veins for him. He had done enough, and I would happily become a monster to ensure he never harmed another soul.
I pulled the knife back and then jammed it in his heart. Blood poured out of him and onto my hand. Tamlin looked down to knife in his heart, to my hand covered in blood, shock was all over my face.
“I hope wherever you end up next it is nothing but misery. You don’t deserve a happy ending, or my mercy.”
I stood there, holding the knife in his chest, allowing the blood to flow over me. I pulled the knife out once the life left Tamlin’s eyes. His dead body was the only reminder of him in the room. I collapsed on the dungeon floor.
Within seconds Rhys was on the dirty floor with me, and I couldn’t help but let out a flood of tears. Not tears of grief, never grief for a man who had only caused me harm. The tears were of both relief and fear. Tamlin might be gone, but Nyx, the baby I had nearly died for, was in danger.
“Koschei wants him” I said terror shaking my body. “He won’t stop until he has him”
I let Rhys embrace me and he kissed my forehead through the bond said:
He didn’t succeed, and Koschei will never take our son. We won’t allow it.
“I know, I know” I muttered back, if we had another battle to face so be it.
Haha for day 7 I decided to commission something a little different as it’s not a medium I see often on tumblr! Here is an edit of Feyre that was made for me by hghlady on instagram. Hope yall like it 😭😂
Ending on a wholesome note. Last time I did Feyre/Pelt Mercenary Lady there were way more people exicited for it than I expected. So here's another one.
Blame @praetorqueenreyna and her fic for these.
Feyre x Evelyn (my oc, Tamlin's sister) [Feylin ship]
For @feyreweekofficial
Feyre week 2024 Masterlist
Day 7: Free day
Summary: Feyre having a first proper sleepover with Evelyn
Cw: Fluff, slightly sad, Friends yelling at each other about their choices to make bargains
Feyre couldn't believe it, in a year she had settled in the Spring court so easily, she had Evelyn to thank for it, bubbly Evelyn who always made sure to not make her feel excluded. Evelyn and Feyre had formed a sister-like friendship soon after Feyre had arrived to live in spring.
"So, have you ever had a sleepover?" Evelyn had asked her, her eyes wide, popping a berry in her mouth. The two of them were on a picnic, eating different forms of berries.
Feyre looked at her confused, chewing her own fruit, seated in Evelyn's garden, "Well, don't we every night? We live in the same palace..."
"Oh, you did not just say that," Evelyn looked at her almost offended, "No... That's not a sleepover."
She smiled softly, "A sleepover is another step of friendship, we do each other's hair, and nails, we talk about males, we twirl around in pretty dresses or just stay in our nightgowns." Evelyn smiled brighter, "And we also kick the males out and sleep in the same bed." Evelyn turned to face Tamlin and Lucien, who were a little further away from them when she stated it.
"That sounds fun." Feyre smiled back. "And we have snacks...?"
"Of course, we have snacks, Feyre!" Evelyn gasped, playfully enraged they wouldn't be. "A sleepover is nothing without snacks that people can't finish and they have to be packed away."
Feyre looked over her shoulder to Tamlin and Lucien, "Well I could do without those two for a while." Making them send a wave of talking over each other, pissed at the two females making a joke on their behalf.
"You can paint me," Evelyn wiggled her eyebrows, ignoring her brother and their friend.
Feyre and Evelyn were soon alone in the mansion, Evelyn sprawled over a couch with Feyre standing on the opposite ends, with her canvas and paint. Feyre's brows were furrowed in concentration as she moved the brush flawlessly across the canvas.
"So...?" Evelyn had a teasing tone, "How is being a High Fae?"
Feyre smiled, looking up from her work, "I... I can see colours so much clearer, it's amazing."
"We're just better." Evelyn gave a cocky grin, the grin that matched Tamlin's almost identically.
"You are gorgeous," Feyre breathed with a soft blush, if Feyre had thought the Spring Court Fae were pretty before with their masks, Evelyn was painfully gorgeous, especially by human standards. Evelyn was a mix of soft and sharp features, something Feyre felt she could not put on paper. There was something in her emerald eyes that swirled differently than some other Fae she had seen, well, she had also seen only a handful of Fae as close as she had seen her.
"Should've chosen me over Tam, Feyre." Evelyn gave a wink, chuckling slightly. "You're gorgeous too."
Feyre was a lot fuller now, especially after Under the Mountain, she and Tamlin had managed to figure out how to make her feel better and manage being High Fae, she was a lot more powerful, just as much powerful as the heir of High Lords.
It was quite after that, Evelyn posing for Feyre as she painted, a little pain splattering on her hands. Alis had come in, setting their finger foods down on the small dining table in the room, Evelyn had asked Alis to stay with them but she had smiled and said he would be with her nephews, taking them out for dinner in a new place that had been fixed up.
"Could... Could you not include this?" Evelyn whispered, motioning to the black ink band around her ring finger on her left hand, and a tattoo of stars and swirls flowing up.
Feyre smiled a little sadly, looking at the tattoos "What does it signify?" She had never asked, seeing how Evelyn was uncomfortable with it, as Tamlin had told her, telling her it was Evelyn's story to tell. "If you are feeling up to telling me."
"Well, we do have deep conversations during sleepovers," Evelyn smiled softly, "It's a bargain I made with Rhysand." She didn't talk of the band but the rest of the ink. "I... I made it so that Rhysand would look after you... Keep you... Alive."
"What...?" Feyre set down her brush at that, walking to sit next to her, "That's why he was... Did he ever...?"
"No." Evelyn cut in, "No he never actually hurt me, even if we did piss each other off a lot."
"What did you give away?" Feyre asked, her hand holding Evelyn's tattooed one, stroking the swirls.
Evelyn smiled slightly, letting Feyre feel the magic of the bargain, "A week every month, for my entire life. I have to stay with him."
"But it's been months since then." Feyre looked slightly hopeful, "Maybe he forgot."
Evelyn smiled, moving to sit closer to Feyre, "That's just wishful thinking, the Night Court is rather... Firm... about their bargains."
Feyre looked melancholy, "Well, this got upsetting quickly."
"Ok." Evelyn shrugged, a smile forming on her face again, she picked up the pillow she was leaning against and smacked Feyre in the head with it.
Feyre's eyes widened, "Oh no you didn't!" She picked up her own pillow before swinging at her.
"Oh yes I did!" Evelyn dodged her hit. Swinging again as she got up, Feyre followed her, trying to get a hit on each other.
Feyre landed a hit, making Evelyn stumble slightly against the wall, "How could you give yourself up for me!" Feyre held the pillow against Evelyn's neck as if it were a weapon.
"Because it's you!" Evelyn yelled before hitting Feyre across the face with her pillow, "Because you gave yourself up for my brother! For me! For Lucien! For all of my people!"
"Stop yelling!" Feyre yelled back, glaring, holding her pillow like a sword.
"No!" Evelyn glared back but didn't yell anymore. "You were willing to die for my brother, and you did die. Of course I would do anything to protect you. Even if it is making a deal with Death itself."
Feyre paused, "You did it all for me?"
"Of course I did." Evelyn set down the pillow in her hands, "And I would do it again."
Feyre smirked when she put her pillow away, choosing to strike her again hard enough to make feathers fly out of it, "And I would always help our people!"
"Oh, are we screaming again!?" Evelyn glared, throwing the pillows on the couch at her. "You don't get to be the only person who scrifies something for people."
"Well, you're too gorgeous to end up dead over me!" Feyre yelled and Evelyn was surprised at the splash of dark green paint that now covered her face.
"There!" Feyre smiled, rubbing the paint in Evelyn's hair, "Now I can capture you in paint!"
Evelyn squealed as she heard Feyre mumble "Stupid gorgeous Fae" running to the paint table and throwing the bowl of pink paint.
"Shut the fuck up Feyre." Evelyn watched the pink paint run down Feyre's face, "You're gorgeous too!"
The two run in circles, hitting each other with pillows and paints, yelling aggressive compliments at each other. They end up falling on the floor of paint and feathers, giggling. Evelyn uses her magic to clean both of them.
"Is this what a sleepover is like?" Feyre asked, breathless.
Evelyn shook her head, "I don't know, It's my first too. But I liked it."
The two smile, looking at each other and the mess they had made.
“Once it had been second nature to savor the contrast of new grass against dark, tilled soil, or an amethyst brooch nestled in folds of emerald silk; once I'd dreamed and breathed and thought in color and light and shape.”
For Feyre week day 6 I wanted to commission a piece of her as a warrior while also appreciating the thoughtful, introspective person she is. As a faerie she has all the time in the world now to appreciate colors.
Check out this accompanying fic by @adreamof-spring
Character: Feyre
Warnings: None
Short drabble for @feyreweekofficial
Day 6: Warrior/Jack of All Trades
Sometimes the woods whisper a sweet reminder of the power Feyre holds.
The forests outside of Velaris were old, far older than the city itself. It was a wide open maw of wood and fern, ancient and thick as the roots of the mountains that rose high above.
Feyre reveled in the familiarity she found here. Her feet would carry her to the outskirts of the city, and from there she would meander through the gates, threading through underbrush as the woods swallowed her whole.
Out here she could shed the mantle of her title, for the forest didn’t know her as the High Lady of the Night Court, nor did it know her as mother or mate.
But the forest did know her.
The magic here was potent—raw. As if Prythian’s deep well of life surged up and out from the soil beneath her feet, a living, breathing thing.
Feyre could feel that power curl around her, cling to her lithe frame as if it delighted in her presence. It would wind through her hair like fine fingers of silk, kissing the freckled curve of her cheek in warm welcome.
And her own magic would answer, rising as if plucked from the string of a harp.
Feyre breathed deep and pulled the boots and socks from her feet. Warm, sun-dappled grass brushed against her skin.
“Hello,” she whispered a small greeting, running a hand along the bark of a tree.
A shiver stole down her spine, coaxed by a pulse of magic that nipped at her skin. Her mouth quirked up. It was playful, curious...hungry, too. Not entirely unlike her husband dear.
Distantly, Feyre could remember a time when the woods had been anything but kind. Cold, jagged trees, a frost that ran deep. Death had awaited her in the bramble and brush, licking at the edges of her frail, mortal skin.
Her body had been so young and broken then, ravaged by the cruel hands of an endless hunger.
That place and time was now so distant that it felt like no more than a lost whisper of life.
Her skin was now flush with an immortal glow, and her heart thundered with a vitality she had never known.
Feyre Cursebreaker had been reborn, body and mind.
Magic—pulsing, vibrant magic coursed through her veins, feeling so very much like an extension of herself. She knew it would take little more than a curl of a finger for that power to do as she bid.
And it was that sense of control, the confidence in her own abilities that set the hard line of her shoulders, that filled her lungs with a sense of purpose. She could feel it, that great and terrible well of power at the core of her, sliding through her veins, lapping at her skin.
It was the power to change her destiny, to shift it as she might shift the wings at her back.
This forest was kindle to that power, and with each breath she could feel the elements crackling at her fingertips, howling to breach the outside world. It was a song of exultation, a symphony that played to the mastery of her gifts.
Feyre would never be cowed again, never be confined or set aside.
She’d found her home, her people, her life.
And each day she glowed at the miracle of it all, the sense of purpose.
Where once doubt had twined its vicious roots, confidence and clarity now surged.
Gone was the human with hunger in heart.
She was the ever-sharp blade of the warrior. The deft hand of justice. The scepter of the High.
Feyre was the child of all seven courts, their power now flowing through her veins.
She was one and all.
First of her kind.
Her hands rose, and that magic with it, Prythian answering her call.
Feyre x Rheana (my oc, Rhysand's sister) [Feysand ship]
For @feyreweekofficial
Feyre week 2024 Masterlist
Day 6: Warrior
Summary: Feyre and Rheana spar properly for the first time, trying to have Feyre use all her powers at once.
Cw: Feyre being badass with her powers
There was sweat dripping down in the training ring in the House of Winds, heavy gasps of breath sounding as Feyre and Rheana stood on either side of the rink, both in their Illyrian leathers.
"Come on, Feyre." Rheana smiled, only a few bruises on her, not tired in the slightest. "Be rougher."
Feyre groaned, she had taken a lot more hits than her, "I'm trying!"
Feyre summoned ice daggers, throwing them at Rheana as she easily dogged them, summoning Seraphim to slice through some of the ice, making them crack on the ground.
"That was better, more deadly." Rheana smirked, standing with her sword raised ready to strike, "But you can do better. Again."
"Isn't this cheating?" Feyre panted, "You have a weapon for yourself, I don't."
Rheana raised her brow at her, "Well, make your own then, you have the ability to."
Feyre nodded to herself, taking a few deep breaths, and focused on her powers. She formed a large blade of ice, she smiled at the weapon in her hands, the sword a replica of Rheana's. Feyre focused on the shape edge of the ice, using her fire to light the ice sword on fire, without making it melt to Rheana's surprise.
"Amazing." Rheana breathed out, looking at the sword, "You are using the powers that are opposite together. It's facinating."
Feyre gripped the sword in her hands tightly, a sword made of ice on fire and swung. Their swords met and Rheana's cut through the ice easily, but Feyre regrew it. The two spared again, going slightly more aggressive.
Rheana groaned as Feyre's sword sliced her shoulder, the fire burning her only a little before her healing kicked in. "Good! Again!"
Rheana struck then, cutting over Feyre's arm, pausing to watch in fascination as her cut glowed with the light of Dawn Court's power to heal it.
Feyre inhaled sharply, "So was that three powers now?"
"Yes, three powers at once, excellent." Rheana smirked, "Seemes you can use the healing powers without thinking too much, like second nature."
"If we keep this up, every power of yours will be second nature to you." Rheana stood still, retreating her weapon, "Now use the rest, be creative."
Feyre nodded, closing her eyes she focused on the power inside her. There were clouds over Rheana in an instant, the clouds rumbled before rain started to pour over her. The sword she had made was still in her hands.
"How was that?" Feyre asked, smiling wide.
Rheana rolled her eyes playfully, "Ok, this seems like a silly prank you could pull on Cassian, since our dear isn't allowed in Summer Court anymore."
"We can plan that, it'll be hilarious." Feyre chuckled at the thought of Cassian trying to run away from a rain cloud that kept following him.
"Now foucs," Rheana commanded, the tip of her sword now at Feyre's neck.
Feyre's eyes darkened like a summer storm as she focused, keeping the storm as they spared with swords, fire, ice and water. Rheana and Feyre moved around in a dance.
"That's a good proper stance," Rheana struck, Feyre blocking her.
Rheana and Feyre duelled in circles, water dripping down on them, a circle of fire surrounding them, the sword of fire and ice in Feyre's hands.
Feyre was enraged, letting her anger take control as Rheana blocked everything she threw at her, Rheana who was laughing and playful. Feyre glared with power and from the storm above them formed lighting, a lighting striking Rheana with its full force.
Rheana was on her back, falling with a groan as the storm retreated, Feyre was by her side in an instant, "Hey, are you ok? I'm sorry you're hurt... I didn't mean-"
"I'm ok... I'm ok..." Rheana chuckled, getting up slightly to sit, "It's not the first time I got hit by lightning."
"That was quite powerful, if you could do this again in the battlefield it would be glorious." Rheana smiled softly at Feyre offered her her hand to get up. Rheana got up with a groan and nodded, "Again!"
You know @the-lonelybarricade and I can't resist hyping up the High Lady of our heart, Feyre Archeron especially for @feyreweekofficial . In this piece, we imagined her as Merida shooting for her own hand (while a certain handsome somebody watches from the sidelines with hearts in his eyes). This was brought to life by human sunbeam and one of our closest friends, @velidewrites
Feyre x Evelyn (my oc, Tamlin's sister) [Feylin ship]
For @feyreweekofficial
Feyre week 2024 Masterlist
Day 5: Theories
Summary: Evelyn watches Feyre spar, they discuss Feyre could potentially be the new High Queen
Cw: Feyre and Evelyn being the best besties
Evelyn watched in fascination as Feyre duelled with Rhysand, both of them were using their shared powers, it was fascinating, she thought, to be reborn with the power of all High Lords, showing signs of that power now being yours.
Evelyn cheered for her friend, which made Rhysand frown in her general direction, she rolled her eyes and cheered for Rhysand too.
Little Illyrian babe, Evelyn shot down their mind link to him. She smiled when she felt shadows surround her shoulders, and Azriel took a seat beside her.
"Hard being close with two courts?" Azriel teased playfully, smiling watching his shadows curiously move around their High Lady, something they did quite often.
Evelyn rolled her eyes with a smile, "Rhysie is just being a baby about how my best friend will kick his ass."
"Am not!"
"Are too!"
"Crazy Female!"
"Creepy old male!"
While they bickered, Feyre took the chance to land a strike across Rhysand's face, making him stumble back. Evelyn jumped up with a cheer and ran to hug Feyre.
"Hey, that was just one hit!" Rhysand exclaimed as he watched the two friends retire. Feyre flipped Rhysand off as they went away, smiling and talking.
Watching the two, a smile formed on Rhysand's face, seeing his Evelyn as happy as she was in Spring and around Feyre.
After a well-deserved bath, Feyre and Evelyn were sitting on the balcony of Evelyn's window, Evelyn kept sneaking glances at Feyre. The Female now High Fae was glowing with power, "So... How does being this powerful feel?"
Feyre sighed, "It's... Wonderful. I feel so much fuller, I love these powers."
Evelyn looked at Feyre a little expectantly and Feyre held out her palm, making Evelyn smile as she watched the flames form before holding up two marshmallows over them, "I think it's so fascinating, honestly."
"You could be High Queen." Evelyn's eyes widened as she voiced her thought, "Yeah it makes perfect sense!"
Feyre began to speak as she held a perfect smore, but Evelyn was not done talking, "You have the power of all seven High Lords, which makes you a little more stronger than a sole High Lord and just like all their heirs but in one person."
"Just think about it, they gave you a piece of themselves and it's yours now. A High King, and in your case Queen, was someone strong with a power not many have. You have all seven." Evelyn smiled wide.
"Also imagine shutting Beron up with a look because you are more powerful than him." Evelyn let out a dreamy sigh that brougth a chuckle out of Feyre while they ate their smores. "Also without you, Prythian wouldn't be free, so that has to count for something."
"Maybe so," Feyre looked out to the sun setting over the horizon with a smile, "But I don't want to rule the world." She gave Evelyn a wink, "Atleast not right now."
"For now, I just want to fix things here in Spring, after everything they have been though..." Feyre turned to Evelyn with a little vulnerability in her eyes, "Trying to be High Lady of Spring is hard enough... I... I'm scared, that I won't be enough."
"You are enough," Evelyn moved to let Feyre drop her head on her shoulder, pulling her friend in a comforting embrace, "You are so much more than enough. You have done of much for the people here. They love you Fey, I love you."
Feyre smiled slightly when Evelyn kissed the crown of her head, "I miss you not being here, you know."
"Well, I'll be sure to visit more often." Evelyn smiled softly back, holding Feyre.
"Won't Rhys want you around more?" Feyre asked curiously, "Now that you two are officially mates and everything."
"Well, Rhysie is a grown bat, he can take care of things while I fill my best friend up with some toxic positivity." Evelyn winked at her, the two smiling at each other.
"So... We can postpone your fantasy of having the High Lords kneeling for me to another day," Feyre smiled.
Evelyn shrugged playfully, "You have to admit, it's a sexy thought." Causing Feyre to nod and sigh in agreement.
"What if Rhys's sexy dance plan worked a little too well?" - or "Amarantha watches her dance for her right hand man every night for 3 months and decides to see what the fuss is about"
Characters: Feyre, Rhysand if you squint.
Warnings: None.
Feyre's short life has been nothing but shades of heartache and pain, a cold desperation that keeps her moving. But at night she dreams, and there she wonders what the love of a family might feel like.
Feyre dreams in jagged edges.
Her thoughts are a swirl of bruising violet and ravaging black. The colors take no shape, but she feels the scrape of them all the same. They taste like hunger, feel like heartache—sensations she’s no stranger to in waking life.
But she also dreams in shades of cinnamon and candy-tipped pink, a trickle of warm radiance that feathers down her skin.
These colors are the mark of a family, she thinks. Not hers—never hers, but it could be, at least in her dreams. It’s a fantasy sweet and soft as spun sugar: a father’s warm hands, a mother’s soft kiss, brothers and sisters to share a secret with.
The thought of it alone is enough to curl a small smile around her lips. It nestles there, joyous and content, just along the tender thread of her heart. But slowly, insidiously, it twists and turns in the pit of her gut. A wistful fancy that grows sharp and aching. It carves out a family-shaped notch at the center of her chest.
Feyre sees a flash of cool, grey eyes. A sneer from her sister, a cringe from the other. A father that sits mute and cold despite the heat of the hearth. The warble of her consciousness reminds her that this is her family. This is her lot.
Hands rubbed raw, blisters cracked. A damp forest that swallows her whole.
But her mind stirs: it remembers the glint of a smile in the market square, her eyes sliding dull and flat along the families there. Gentle parents with children in sets of one, two, and three. Fathers clasping tight the hands of their daughters. Mothers fussing over a son’s scraped knee. Brothers and sisters, arms linked and laughing.
And though Feyre has never begrudged the other children the love of their family, she feels the keen absence of it all the same. Envy grips her. With long, sharp teeth it hollows out the space around her ribs until a scathing ache is all that remains.
Sometimes the longing catches in her lungs, fills them with a sound that she can hardly contain, can barely bite back. Her little body trembles with the effort, lip caught between two brutal, pinching teeth. Blood dribbles down her cracked skin, and her tongue darts out to catch the coppery tang.
But the pain—that jagged, raw thing—twines about her heart like ivy up a trellis.
And there’s always a question that follows the sorrowful pangs: why could no one love her like that?
Some nights that heartache is so sharp that her arms band around themselves. Tiny hands clutch at the bony panes of her back and squeeze—so touch-starved that she pretends it’s a stranger’s tight embrace.
‘I love you,’ her lips ghost over each word, a silent secret that she keeps all for herself. It’s a quiet litany reserved for the coldest of nights. Again and again it falls from her lips, because in her few short years she’d yet to hear it even once.
Tears slide silently across her cheek until she can do nothing but bury her face in the sheets, choking back down whatever small, strangled sound tries to cleave its way out.
A bitterness ill-suited to children plagues her, and hunger carves long strips from her skin. The winter months freeze and a chill falls deep. But always her thoughts are snared by the ghost of love lingering just out of reach. Obscure, nebulous, she doesn’t know the taste of it. Can only dream in what colors they might be.
Again her mind swirls, and all colors disperse. She’s drifting down she thinks, sinking through the cracks.
There’s nothing but the cold nipping at her skin.
She blinks and a dark house—her house—rises around her.
There is no light, no warmth or cheer. Just an empty house—empty much like herself.
Feyre’s little hands clutch at her arms, as much to stave off the cold as the wholesale dread.
She wants to will it all away—wants to fall far, far away.
A shadow, slanted and flickering, grows long across the wall. Nothing stirs but that stretch of opulent, star-crusted black.
Feyre sucks in a breath, her spine going taut.
The dark gives pause, a stillness that seems to lock it in place.
She thinks she hears a whisper of sound, of wind or wings.
The air shifts, and starlight dances in her eyes as the walls shudder and pulse. A ripple tears through the edges of her dream, skimmed by some talon-tipped hand that she can’t quite see.
Lights flickers to life, slow and uncertain at first, until bold, bright light pools over the floorboards and across each grainy whorl and knot. It slips across the table, over the chair and against the walls.
The hearth is next: a guttered fire that roars into life with a great gust of wind.
Feyre cringes back, startled by the suddenness as she squeezes her eyes shut.
Warmth folds around her, chasing away the tremble that’s stolen down her spine.
Her eyes open, and the breath is knocked from her lungs.
The house—that miserable, lonely cabin—is now filled with a warm, honeyed light. Feyre’s eyes cast about, her senses overfilled.
A rich, red carpet has unfurled beneath her feet, so plush and soft that Feyre can’t help but press her toes against the thread. Her eyes bounce to the once-empty table. Plates and bowls are stacked with the finest of food, of butter and garlic and roasted red meats.
But there, just along the table sit two girls with golden-brown hair, a twin match to her own. They sit with their backs turned to her, a hushed whisper passing between them among the clatter of cutlery.
Dread and a flicker of guilt creeps along her neck like two steady fingers.
Their whispers feel like a lovely, sacred thing. Feyre watches them lean close, that notch in her chest now aching to join, to find herself whole and loved amongst them—privy to a sisterhood she’s always been denied.
There’s a lurch in the room and the sisters pause, whispers dying quick on their lips. Feyre catches the exhale before it can slip between her teeth, bracing for whatever sneer might be thrown her way.
But the two girls turn, hair cascading long and soft over their shoulders.
Their faces are blurred, some unfocused haze that’s settled over their features. But through the fog Feyre can see the tilting of lips, two bright, radiant smiles that wash over the room.
“Come on,” they say in unison, raising two delicate hands to wave her over. And although neither the voices nor the faces match what Feyre knows, her heart surges with recognition. Through whatever inexplicable magic of this dream, Feyre knows these are her sisters, Nesta and Elain.
Her heart swells.
Beyond the table, her eye is drawn to the flicker of shadow, to the chair settled and rocking before a crackling fire. Feyre sees the outline of a man, old and wiry, nestled deep into his chair. There is no cane within reach, no horrible bend to his knee.
“Father,” Feyre rasps, and it’s the small, weathered sound of a child finding hope once more.
The rocking stops, and slowly he twists in his chair. Just like her sisters, there’s a blur that spreads over his face. Grey whiskers curl down his chin, outlining a wondrous smile as he beams at the sight of her.
Emotion bubbles up within her, threatening to burst out her chest.
In a tangle of limbs Feyre rushes to him, her hand falling against his knee in wonder. “You...you’re alright. You’re not hurt,” she sniffs and blinks back the tears.
Wonder curls through her as his hand comes to rest upon her own. He gives a gentle squeeze, and in that wavering, dream-like voice replies, “No, my sweet. I’m alright thanks to you.”
The gratitude and affection of his words nearly has her on her knees. His broad hand lingers on her bony knuckles, and there is such warmth there. Feyre can’t help but wonder what his arms would feel like wrapped tight about her; if an embrace truly feels as warm as it looks.
Feyre’s throat tightens. She doesn’t want this to end, not when it’s the first taste of kindness she’s ever had.
Her father pats the top of her hand, and his voice breaks the soft silence. “Now go see your mother, she’s waiting just there,” he points with his chin to the bedroom beyond.
Feyre’s brows pull tight, a frown sewn into her small features. “But mother is…”
Dead.
She can’t bring herself to say the words, but the truth hangs there between them, cutting through the warmth that had seeped through her bones.
“Go on, see,” her father urges her again. His hand withdraws, and it takes everything within her not to snatch his hand back into her own, to cling to it like a lifeline in a storm.
Feyre moves toward the room, the door hanging slightly ajar. What light from the den seems to balk at the threshold, as if mirroring her own hesitation.
She takes a steadying breath, unsure of what to expect. Her feelings about her mother are...complicated.
Nesta was mother’s favored little empress.
Elain had been the cherished rose.
And Feyre...she was little more than a forgotten spare that shadowed mother’s heels.
It wasn’t that their mother hated her—no, it wasn’t anything so sinister as that.
And yet it was somehow worse.
It was the absence of any feeling at all.
Feyre remembers the way her mother’s eyes would slide over every inch of her. It wasn’t contempt or disgust that hardened that steel gaze—it was simple, flat disinterest. A flicker of it would pass over her face before briskly turning away.
‘Nesta,’ her mother would say, ‘is to wed for power and wealth. Conquest.’ The word was sharp, caustic, and it reeked of pride. ‘Elain is to wed for love and beauty,’ she continued, and a thin, cold smile would peel her lips from her teeth.
Feyre would wait as anticipation curled a hand around the nape of her neck, picking at the skin of her nails. The thought of her mother’s instructions sat heavy in her gut, roiling like a serpent in the grass.
But the words never came.
It was the silence that spoke; a whisper in the back of her mind confirmed by her mother’s quiet disregard.
Forgotten.
Useless.
Worthless.
Nothing.
Feyre was nothing, she realized. Less than the shadow at her feet.
She presses a hand against the wooden door, her palms slick with sweat. A whisper of a voice, a memory sliding from the back of her mind, all of it playing out just beyond the spread of the door.
‘Stay together, and look after them. Swear it,’ her mother wheezes, voice clinging like film to her tongue. Feyre hears the answering promise—her promise—rolling off her tongue through choked back tears. She didn’t understand the enormity at the time, nor the way that promise would devour her within an inch of her life.
The memory slips away as she pushes the door open.
She’s no longer looking into the room of that suffocating cabin, but her mother’s old bedroom of their long, lost estate.
It’s dark, the light swallowed up by deep, thick curtains.
Feyre wants to cower, wants to shut the door and lock it all away. She hates this room, hates the way it grasps that gnarled tangle of memories and brings them to light.
She hates the smell of it, too. The burn of incense makes the room thick and over-sweet, a cloying aroma that does little to mask the shadow of death at their feet.
Her eyes track to the right, to where she knows her mother should lie.
Surprise takes her when her gaze lands on a figure, tall and lithe, standing by the window instead.
Her consciousness prickles at the sight of the woman—her mother, the dream seems to insist, though it doesn’t feel quite right.
There’s a screech of the curtains peeling over the metal rod, and Feyre blinks her against the sudden light.
Where her mother in life had golden-brown hair, this mother has a shock of thick raven locks, so black it gleams blue. It hangs down to her waist in gossamer waves, not a pin or a clip to hold it in place.
Her mother turns, and Feyre’s eyes widen with shock.
There is no blur to obscure her beautiful face. Her features are sharp, pleasant as the summer sky, with the loveliest umber skin.
Her mother beckons, a slender hand reaching towards her. “Here, little one,” she says, and this time the words are clear and strong, undisturbed by that dream-like quality. It’s a melody of a voice, the soft sweep of calligraphy were calligraphy to have a sound.
Wordlessly Feyre reaches for her, wanting, wishing, praying for this to be real. She barely registers how badly she needs this.
Her mother’s hands are warm and strong, unyielding in their grip as they curl around her fingers.
Feyre can feel the calluses, and the strangeness of it needles through her mind. Her mother would never have calluses—her hands had been made for fine china and silk gowns.
Feyre’s brows twist together in a frown, and she thinks she sees the shudder of dark shadows beyond the woman’s shoulders.
Her mind pushes back at the wrongness of it. A ripple pulses through the dream, the space flickering for a moment back to empty shades of grey.
“Don’t fight it,” this woman—her mother—says. And whatever it is in that voice, the firm yet gentle authority, it eases her fears.
Feyre lets out a breath and relaxes her mind.
Striking violet eyes are steady on her face, and Feyre realizes she’s never seen a color quite like it.
“You’re cold,” her mother says, and though physically she knows it’s true, can feel the goosebumps prickle up her skin, she’s never felt warmer, never felt fuller.
Her mother crouches upon a knee and slides the hair out of Feyre’s face with a gentle hand.
Her heart stirs, a flutter of feeling that smooths over the jagged edges knotted deep in her chest.
“You’ve been so strong, you know. It’s okay to let go, darling.”
Feyre feels the weight of the words slide down her spine, her lungs expanding to make room for the feelings that surge through her.
A tender affirmation—permission to let go.
And Feyre almost succumbs, yet she can’t help but catch herself waiting for the inevitable—for the indifference and distaste to slide over her mother’s face, a sharp taste of the reality she’s always known.
But her mother’s gaze remains soft as they search her face.
Andthat look...it almost takes her breath away.
Tears spring unbidden to the corners of her eyes, and a knot in her throat twists so firm and deep that it burns.
Feyre has seen that look before—on the faces of fathers and mothers as they pull their children close.
It was profound, and unwavering.
It was impassioned, and resolute.
It was love, Feyre realizes.
Unconditional love.
A sob breaks itself free, clamoring out of her chest in one great, big heave.
No one has ever looked at her like that—until now.
Feyre’s body shudders and her knees give way, but her mother’s warm arms sweep around her, curling her small body against her own before she can crumple to the floor.
“Shh, it’s alright, my love. I’ve got you,” her mother murmurs, and Feyre’s heart squeezes so tight she thinks it might burst.
Wet, hot tears cascade down her face as she struggles to force the air into her lungs. Her mother pulls her closer, hands tracing soothing circles along her trembling back.
A jolt of panic. Mother’s new dress, the tear stains will—
“None of that, child,” and though the words are stern, there is a warmth laced through them. “What is a mother for if not this?”
Fear of her mother’s anger subsides, dulled by every stroke along her back. Feyre buries her face into the soft linen of her mother’s skirt as she chokes down another breath.
Her heart strains against her ribs, her whole body awash with emotions and feelings she long thought she’d lost. For whatever trickery is laced within this dream, Feyre cherishes it. She drinks it in, savors the taste as if it were the first sip of life.
Her fingers curl tight, and her breathing slows. The sobs that had racked her body now lilt into soft hiccoughs.
So much heartache and longing had been poured into those tears, and now that they’re spent a new sensation unfurls from deep in her chest.
It tastes like love, she thinks.
A sweet, and tender convalescence of the soul.
And for the first time in years, Feyre awakes with a smile on her face, a clutch of love in her heart.
