When the Snake Eats Its Tail, an ACOTAR Oneshot
AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66001180
Feyre awakens from a nightmare, and upon checking her son's room, finds a dark and ancient relic she had one thought forgotten has returned, now keen to bestow its maddening curses upon her. The Ouroboros stands, reflecting the insidiousness that she has kept locked away back at her, and forcing her to realize just what she has become, as well as the terrible things she has done.
Warning: Extremely Critical of Feyre, IC, Rhysand and NC.
Synopsis: Feyre encounters the Ouroboros and the Bone Carver's spirit within it, who proceeds to break Feyre down and confront her about the terrible things she has done to the people of Prythian.
WARNING: This is a Feyre, Night Court, Rhysand, and Inner Circle CRITICAL fanfic. DO NOT read if you are not interested in critique of these characters.
Chains heavy on her ankles.
Hands pressing on her painted body, and nails tight at her throat.
Her neck snapping like a dry twig.
Blood and refuse coating her skin as the worm slithered about blindly.
Her life had been nothing but a dream, a soft refuge her mind had conjured up in the twisted mixture of starvation and faerie wine. She was back Under the Mountain, trapped in the dark cell with shadows swirling and whispering around her. Even her bone was still sticking out of the flesh of her arm, unhealed and unspent in the bargain that scourged her, then freed her.
Feyre screamed as loud as she could, until her lungs wilted and her throat bled. But not a single sound could be heard in the darkness, save for Amarantha’s maniacal, endless laughing.
Feyre shot up from her bed, night gown pasted to her back as the feminine laughter echoed in her ears. Her hands roved over her shoulders and neck, feeling for the paints or the sheer dress, and finding nothing but the moist folds of her shift.
She sighed. It had been months since she had a nightmare, but it seemed all the time she had put between then and now hadn’t banished them completely. Horrors like she had endured cut deep, it seemed.
Her ear twitched up at the sound, a hollow, raspy whisper that came from the room neighboring hers.
She didn’t bother with the door, winnowing inside with her hands lengthening to talons, ready to shred whatever was inside her baby’s room to pieces.
There was nothing—nobody, save for the boy quietly sleeping in his crib, his mobile of ivory stars gently spinning above him. Feyre cast her stare across the room, flickering back and forth between it and the reflection in the large mirror of the armoire at the room’s side. Nothing seemed out of place, and there were no tracks, scents, or other tells of somebody infesting into his room, but Feyre Archeron knew better than to go by initial sight alone.
She quietly searched through the room, checking every nook and cranny she could conceive as a hiding spot: behind the door, in the closet, under the crib itself. She even pulled the larger drawers open, just in case a small, clever fae decided to nestle in there thinking she wouldn’t look.
But they were all empty, not a single thing out of place save for what she moved during her hunt. Nyx stirred in his sleep, and she glanced over to watch him over the crib, the demi-Illyrian grasping at his blanket to nestle in.
Feyre sighed, reaching down and brushing the boy’s hair out of his face before laying a small kiss on his forehead.
The High Lady of Night wheeled back to face the source of the voice, her back having been to the armoire. Only, it was no longer made of the sleek umber-wood that it had originally been. Its surface was now gilded, made of an rustic, ancient metal that mimicked the ripple of scales, its tree-stump-like legs now replaced with coiling messes of serpent tails. And at its head, the mirror had become bold and circular, ordained in the shape of a serpent eating its own tail.
Feyre’s breathing grew harried, pausing only as her eyes slowly hovered to the space at her side, at the reflection of Nyx standing up right in his crib, pale-blue eyes wide open.
“Hello, Feyre.” The false Nyx said, his voice too old for his body, and vaguely familiar. She kept her eyes on the creature, but let her peripherals turn slightly to the real Nyx; he was still sleeping, breaths slow and measured. Utterly undisturbed.
“Who are you?” She demanded, turning back to the vision before her. The false Nyx took a deep breath, vestigial wings stretching wide as he did so. “Is this another dream?”
“Not exactly, Feyre Cursebreaker.”
“I’m glad you remember the sound of my voice.” Feyre shook her head at his words, wiping the sweat beginning to dot her head.
“Is this a trick? Tamlin or Beron or Hybern casting some spell on me?”
The false Nyx laughed, his voice changing to that of the Bone Carver’s adult form, “The High Lord of Spring lacks the time, skill, or motivation. And I’m sure the High Lord of Autumn would just see you burned to a crisp. He lacks imagination after all.”
“So Hybern then? Out for revenge?” She stepped back towards her son, but kept her eyes locked on the vision in the mirror. “I swear to the Mother, if you did anything to Nyx, I’ll—”
“No need for threats, High Lady of the Night. The powers of the dreaming world are largely harmless…to the physical body at least. As for the mind, well…” The Bone Carver sucked on his teeth. “Your son is safe, for now. No. I’m here for you.”
“For me?” Feyre repeated, eyes narrowing at the growing, unnatural smile on her son’s reflection. “But…you’re dead.”
The Carver shrugged. “In a way. Dying as a death god can have some interesting consequences.” He gestured up and around to the Ouroboros’ rim, “Especially when this vessel is the last thing to grace my presence before the Cauldron swallowed me whole.”
Feyre swallowed. “Why are you here then?”
“Oh, I’ll always be here Feyre, forever tasked with reminding you of what you saw in my reflection.” The image shimmered, as if the great, eldritch mirror were laughing at her. “An eternity of adding context and introspection, even if you are incapable or unwilling to do it yourself.” Feyre snorted at that.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The Madness, Feyre, darling.” Rhys’ voice slithered into the last two words, and she watched as the false Nyx molded into a mass of black, writhing shadow, an echo of her husband emerging from the formlessness. “The picking apart of what you are, who you are, and the many terrible things you’ve done, all without any of your self-serving justifications or foolish excuses to hide behind.”
Feyre’s hands balled into fists, marching until she was less than a foot away from the mirror. “This is ridiculous. I saved Prythian, twice! I’m the High Lady of the Night Court, I finally have my happiness, and I will not let you ruin this.” The false Rhys chuckled at her imperiousness, his violet eyes caught in a sea of black sclera. “Rhys will find you in here, and even if you’re in my mind or some curse or whatever else, he will shred you right out if I can’t do it myself.” The Carver laughed so loudly, she worried it might awaken Nyx.
“If only your dear High Lord had a modicum of his original power.”
Feyre felt an icy knife slip into her heart at that. “What?”
“Did you really believe that his life was the only price he paid for sealing the Cauldron’s break?” The false Rhys marched towards her in the reflection, and leaned right against her ear to whisper. Even with no one really there, she felt the heat of his breath tickle her neck, “There are so many things dear Rhys haven’t told you, Feyre Darling. But Rhys’ problems are far from my purview.”
Feyre felt a clawed hand grab her chin and spin her around, the whole room vanishing to reveal an expanse of forest. She knew it instantly, not just from the fresh air of spring or the veils of greenery, but from the vision of two familiar fey before her.
Lucien chained down to a pair of trees—Ianthe skating her hands over his exposed chest and navel, inches from cupping him before Feyre had interrupted her attempt to assault him.
“Oof, remember this?” The Carver drawled, “A freshly mated male? A priestess hungry for power and purpose? Don’t they make a cute couple.” Feyre’s lip curled at the sight, eyes plastered to the hand that Ianthe was reaching for Lucien’s length with, and how she had made her smash it to bits just seconds after.
“Why are you showing me this?” she asked, “I stopped it. I saved him.”
“Indeed you did, but only because of how it reminded you of…hmm, what was it?” The vision washed away like water on paint, revealing a dark bed chamber and yet another pair of fey engaged in a salacious, horrid entanglement. “Ah yes, that, but stretched along fifty years of torment.”
Feyre glanced back to see Amarantha, mounting and riding Rhysand—her Rhysand, with a feral vigor. Her nails were clawing into his chest, and while his face bore the mask of pleasure, his smile didn’t reach his eyes, and she knew the truth.
“I wonder,” she heard the Carver muse in her mind, “If Rhys hadn’t told you of his own suffering, would you have even given it a second thought? Would you have left the first friend you made in these lands to be ravaged and used by her?”
“But I didn’t,” she argued, “It doesn’t matter what I thought. What matters is what I did.”
“I couldn’t agree more! Let’s see what else it is that you have done?” The bedchamber peeled back, revealing high castles, a blue sky, and the warm, steady breve of summer over her skin.
“Ah, Summer—lovely at all times of the year, especially with a fresh-faced forward-thinking High Lord to push it further into prosperity.” Feyre watched herself walking and speaking with Tarquin, heart cringing at the joy on the High Lord’s face, beaming at her false genuineness. “Your seduction worked so well, almost to the point that you believed it yourself. A budding friendship—maybe even a possible lifeline that wasn’t tied to your precious mate—squandered because you and your court refuse to trust anyone with the responsibility of…’safeguarding’ Prythian.”
“I did what I had too,” Feyre countered. “If Tarquin said no, we would have risked losing the Book to Hybern.”
“You did what the Night Court told you to do.” The Carver replied, now back in Rhys’s shadowy form and pacing a circle around her, “Acted as the perfect little spy, when you could have built a true trust, maybe some allies. And it seems you completely ignored the fact that Hybern never would have sniffed out the book had it not left Summer’s lands. Also didn’t your puppy dog general destroy an entire building? How charming. How lovable.”
Feyre’s glance darted from Rhys to Tarquin then back to Rhys, only to find that Cassian now stood in his place.
“He’s in love with you, you know,” The false Cassian offered, pointing to himself, “And Rhysand as well. I wonder how long that’s going to go unaddressed, and how long your poor sister is going to have to deal with the fallout?” “I imagine that when he squints, he can imagine it's you that he’s with. Should have taken his offer for the steam room when you had the chance. Maybe you could have had all three bats at once.” Feyre hated that she blushed at his words, as if doing so was admitting truth to them. She hadn’t been blind to how the narrative of ‘three sisters and three brothers’ was unfolding before her, and she knew that while Cassian and Nesta were mates, she wasn’t Mor, and she wasn’t Feyre.
“It’s complicated.” It was all she could say, the Carver nodding in agreement.
“Oh I bet. Between that blonde using him as a meat shield against dear Azriel, and Rhys refusing to let your sister be courted by him, I imagine it can get very…sticky.” Feyre blinked, cocking her head to the side as the Carver smirked. “Remember what I said, about there being things Rhys hasn’t told you? I suppose he wants to avoid that same political fallout that ended with a nail and sign driven through Morrigan’s navel? In this case, I foresee it ending with either Lucien or Azriel losing their heads, when Lucien calls for the Blood Duel, of course.”
“Blood Duel?” Feyre asked, the Carver practically snorting as he shifted from Cassian’s shape to Azriel’s, the jovialness of his face twisted and unnatural.
“It baffles me how much the High Lady of the Night Court doesn’t know about what the Night Court is actually doing. The Autumn Court has a tradition known as the Blood Duel, where if their mate is being courted by another, they can call for ritual combat to press their claim. The two fight, and one walks away.” Feyre shook her head.
“Elain would never forgive Lucien for that, and even if they fought, Azriel—”
“Would what? Chain him up and gut him like he does with all of Rhys’ prisoners?” The false Azriel tsked at that. “Azriel is a spy—a shadow—more used to taking knives to bound, defenseless prisoners than he is in the field. Lucien survived the trek to the Night Court from Spring right alongside you, and he went out to rescue the queen and bring your father’s armada.” The Carver shook his head, “Your nepotism is showing, High Lady. As for your sister’s forgiveness, I suppose then maybe she should choose to accept or reject the bond, sooner rather than later.”
“I’ve had enough.” Feyre demanded, standing inches from the false Azriel, “End this and send me back, now.”
“Oh, but we’re just getting to the good part—” Feyre’s hand shifted to talons and slashed across the false Azriel’s face, eyes focused on the blood dripping onto the floor as the world around her changed once again. The Carver rose back up, dropping Azriel’s visage in favor of an older one, one with auburn skin formed of bark and bushels of green hair, a black dress covered in muck and dirt.
“How very apt,” the vision of Alis said, Feyre’s claws cutting three lines across the face of her wooden skin. Just then, screams ripped into Feyre’s ears, and she turned to see a forest in flames, soldiers marching through with spears, fey scattering off with the forces in pursuit to capture, oppress, or kill them.
“What is this?” Feyre asked, her other hand shifting to complete the pair of claws she bore.
“Don’t you recognize it, Feyre?” The false Alis said, “It’s the Spring Court, just as you left it.” Feyre shot a finger at the Carver.
“No. No! You do not pin this on me. This is...”
“The fallout of your petty revenge. Thousands of lives, all to hurt one male who loved you oh so dearly. And you hurt him very much, I will say that. Broken beyond repair I should say.” Feyre ground her teeth, straining under every second of this spectral, posthumous, discernment
“I…I didn’t know Tamlin was aligning with Hybern to be a spy. He never told me. He never told me anything.”
“Ah yes, thousands of dead fae all because of a little miscommunication, which by the way, could have easily been solved by some of those dear Daemati powers your mate gifted you.” The Carver snickered. “Have you ever been there to see your handiwork?” Feyre remained silent. “Of course not, you’ve seem to have adopted Rhysand’s penchant for ignoring the fallout of his incompetence. But in your case, it was malignance rather than incompetence.”
“I wrote Tamlin to not come after me. I warned him.” The Carver’s smile died instantly, genuine annoyance slithering onto his brow.
“Yes, you did write a stupid little letter, and loyal sentries and little spring children burned because of it. You were so swept up in your little affair, that you forgot to tell Tamlin you learned to read and write.” The Carver practically spat out his words. “Perhaps if he knew, your letter would have been taken more seriously. Or perhaps he couldn’t get over the fact that your mate has a tendency to play with minds like clay. You really didn’t think of that, did you? Just thought the fae who loved you and watched you die would let you freely fall into her jaws of the night.”
“It was my choice! Tamlin should have respected it!” Alis’ form was ripped in two by a pair of ivory claws, the visage of Tamlin bursting through her fading halves and marching towards Feyre.
“Ah yes, a choice to run to where it was safe! To where little Feyre Cursebreaker could do no wrong, and let me spiral further into madness!” Feyre felt a tree pound against her back, the false Tamlin an inch away from her. Fear sent her heart aflutter, but she ground her talons into the bark’s surface.
“His trauma was not my responsibility,” she hissed.
“By that logic, yours wasn’t his burden to bear either, yet you hung it on him like a noose and burned his home down for failing you.” Feyre felt her nerve waver at the sight of those green eyes on her, rueful and full of disdain. “And yet even after all that, the High Lord of Spring was decent enough to give you your mate back, to allow you to even have the hopes of bearing your previous son in the first place. Even then, your dear husband torments him endlessly.” The false Tamlin turned away from her. “All the happiness in the world, and dear Rhysand just can’t let his past with Tamlin go.”
Feyre hissed out breath, claws shrinking back. “What is the point of all this? To make me feel bad for what happened? I gave my life to save Prythian, as did Rhys.” Tamlin’s form melted, and the Carver’s adult form shifted into place.
“No, no. You gave your life to save Tamlin and the Spring Court. Amarantha was the one who threw in the rest out of arrogance, and everything beyond that just fell onto your lap. What about your sisters’ sacrifice—having their humanity flayed off of them like skin? Or my sister’s sacrifice? Or my sacrifice!?”
Silence hung in the air as the two stared at each other, Feyre only breaking away when she noticed herself seated across from her sister, Rhys at her side along with the rest of the Inner Circle. Nesta bore dark circles and was unhealthily thin, and Feyre knew she was staring at the day of the intervention.
“I guess we should bring up your own sisters while we’re at it, like dear Nesta. You all harped on her for a little drinking, a little gambling, a little sex.” That dark humor returned to the Carver’s voice, his form shifting back to Cassian, “Aren’t those your Court’s normal recreational activities?”
“Oh spare me the expense talk, Feyre,” the Carver cut off, “We both know you’re better than that flimsy excuse Rhys crammed into your head. Besides I seem to recall him promising a little compensation for her efforts in the war. It was the least he could do, given the lost fortune dear old daddy left behind after he got his neck broken.”
“You shut your mouth,” Feyre growled, “Don’t you talk about my father.”
“Let’s stay on topic then.” The false Cassian pointed a finger at her, “You locked her up in a tower with a fae she wanted nothing to do with, and remind me, who destroyed an entire court because someone tried to do the same thing to them?”
“That was not the same! Tamlin wanted to lock me up and keep me a prisoner! She could leave any time she wanted.” The Carver laughed, his hand raking over his face.
“Yes, after climbing 10,000 steps. As easy as walking right out the door. Between that, the grueling training, the hike, and everything else, you all battered her down until she bent and broke to your Court’s demands. The training, the scrying—”
“She volunteered for that!” The false Cassian faded, shrinking into the small, doe-eyed form of Elain.
“Because you threw me in her face, and you all know she would do anything to avoid putting me at risk.” A muscle ticked in Feyre’s jaw at that, especially with her sister’s voice being the one to speak it. “I bet that burned you up even more, how hard Nesta fights for her while letting you twist in the wind.” Feyre went to speak, but the false Elain shot a hand up to stop her, “And before you go on about how the Training aided her in finding the Trove and surviving the Blood Rite, do not insult the Trove by implying that a few Illyrian drills was what gave her the strength to wield them. Her dip in the cauldron is what made her capable of commanding the Trove, that and her…illustrious willpower.” Elain’s hand gestured to a still image of Nesta and Cassian arguing—a frequent occurrence in the Night Court in recent months. “But, I suppose there’s nothing like thrusting a sword in her hands to make her relate to that oaf.”
“They’re mates,” Feyre countered, the Carver scoffing as if what she had said meant anything.
“So are Elain and dear old Lucien, and yet there she stands, unbothered by you to tug on that chain. So many choices for Elain, and so little for Nesta.” Feyre’s false sister shook her head. “Why not just admit it, that this was punishment? For all those unchopped logs of wood, all the barbs and spats, the constant draining of what little money you bought in from your hunts.” The Carver rolled its eyes, “I thought you had embraced your dark, feral side. Your spite burned the Spring Court to the ground, I suppose Nesta is lucky you didn’t do worse to her, as High Lady of the Night Court.”
Rhys’ voice slithered back into the Carver’s tone, as did his shape, hands behind his back as he gazed down at the baby in its crib. They were back in Nyx’s room, and Feyre felt her hands shaking at the storm of thoughts he had rained down upon her.
“There’s so much more I can get into, but the great thing about the curse of the Ouroboros, is that it lasts an eternity, and it never likes giving everything away in the first round.” The false Rhys covered the stirring Nyx with a blanket, clawed hand drumming over the edge of the crib. “You should expect more nights like this, Feyre, and maybe in time you’ll come to be thankful.” He turned to face her, “Your experience with the Ouroboros might be the only reason why you still have the capability of having an original thought, instead of all those guided by your mate’s hand.”
“Shut. Up.” She felt a monster skulking underneath her skin, the same one she had seen when she first looked into the Ouroboros—a feral, unearthly beast of scales, teeth, and claws. It took everything within her not to change, not to become monstrous in front of her son and awaken him. But the false Rhysand just kept right on.
“A band of emotionally incestuous sycophants for friends? Spitting on all clipped Illyrian females every time you don their wings you didn’t earn? Burdened never to travel and see the world now that you’ve saddled yourself with the responsibility of a son?” Feyre glanced down to herself, and saw her shift had been snatched away and replaced with that old, gauzy dress from her days Under the Mountain. She even felt a twinge of pain in her arm where it had been broken, and where her pact had inked itself upon her skin. “Truthfully,” the Carver continued, “Is this the life you wanted? Or is it that of your High Lord? A little play thing to show off to his friends, dance for him when he wants to play villain. I can’t wait to crack all those little pieces of you wide open so you can remember that they’re there.”
Feyre didn’t know when the tears stung their way out, but they were cooling the skin of her cheeks as she replied, “Please. Stop.”
“I can’t stop, Feyre. This is what the Ouroboros does. I tell you truths you don’t want to hear, show you the ugliness beneath the pathetic veneer of mating bonds and false brotherhoods and broken little families. You chose to look into the mirror, but your looking doesn’t end when you turn away. It’ll remain every time you close your eyes, everytime you fear for your son’s life, imagine him in the dangers you had thrust upon others.” The Carver’s finger lifted her chin, forcing her glistening eyes to meet his. “The magic of Prythian did not choose you, High Lady. The title is a consolation prize at best. You’re nothing more than a crowned, docile little broodmare,” he turned into Tamlin, “Something you once said you would never be. I guess Amarantha was right about your inconstant heart.”
Feyre scrambled away, but a harsh grip and a thundering pain drew her back. She glanced at her arm, and saw Rhys’ hand clamped around the bone that stuck out of it, feeling the oily smears of paint caking the length of her body. His eyes were slitted, a poisonous, dark violet that crept into her soul.
“Bonded to a daemati male who is unable to distinguish between what’s real and what’s a mask, all while being unwilling to deal with the consequences of both.” He scoffed. “I really am pathetic aren’t I? You know, I didn’t feel an ounce of remorse for this until I found out you were my mate. Content to just keep on tormenting you for as long as he could, just to hurt dear old Tamlin.” The Carver dragged her close, his other hand pressing into Feyre’s now swollen, pregnant belly. “He didn’t even tell you of the danger to your life, of how your own son would kill you. Didn’t even give you a chance to take the risk of shifting. And you forgave him so quickly. Are you that afraid of defying him, or having any semblance of discomfort in your marriage?”
“No…” she whispered, her will to fight and push past his words wilting more and more by the second.
“I suppose it’s understandable. He can hear your every thought, control your every whim, bend you in any way he wants, and you would never know.”
“He taught me how to shield…”
“And thus he knows exactly how to get past them. Don’t be fucking naive, Feyre. You didn’t carry your family on your back by being such.” The Carver shook his head, melancholy filled into his eyes, “Your affection for him runs so deep. You forgave him for making a spectacle of you Under the Mountain, for nearly feeding you to my sister to prove yourself worthy of being his mate. You even forgave him for keeping the secret of Nyx’s strenuous birth quite quickly, and even then, it was your sister who righted that wrong, and saved your life when he couldn’t.” The Carver took her hand and traced the lines of her tattoo, “The Night Court is the only destiny he will let you have. Otherwise, you have no friends, you have no allies, and you have no future.”
A sob broke from her, and the Carver let the false images fade in full, returning to Nyx’s bedroom as Feyre’s silent crying echoed within it.
“I know my tone may suggest otherwise, but you aren’t weak, Feyre Cursebreaker. What you are, is blind and shackled—fallen so deep in the quicksand of the Night Court, even I don’t know if you can find a way out. Your struggle caused you to clamp down on the first semblance of comfort and protection you could find, and you’ve been bouncing from one to the next ever since.” The Carver guided her slowly to Nyx’s crib, a clawed hand pressing softly against her back. “If you want a chance at any form of autonomy, then you fight for it, before your sisters are drawn into the same pit. Nesta’s already drowning. How soon before Elain follows behind?”
“They can be happy here,” she managed to get out, “I know they can. They just…they have to find it like I did.”
“They’ll never find it. Not if you don’t let them search for it like you did for yourself.” Feyre turned, looking down at her son with an agony gripping her heart. The Carver joined her, eyes over her shoulder as he resumed dawning his adult form. “Until you face these things, Feyre—your wrongs, your hatred, your resentment, the Ouroboros will keep on tormenting you with it. Its curse is to be shown your truest, ugliest self, and it is only by laying yourself bare—by choosing to acknowledge and better the ugliness, that you’ll have any hope of surviving its curse long enough to see him grow up.”
Feyre learned down and picked Nyx up, the boy stirring in her arms as she held him close. Silent tears continued to fall as she nuzzled into him, his soft breathing the only comfort she could hope to find under the scrutiny of the Bone Carver’s specter.
“Even then, for his sake, I hope he’s nothing like this father, nor is he as gullible or desperate for peace as you.”
Feyre felt the presence leave the room, glancing back to see the visage of the Ouroboros gone, rocking her son back and forth as the Carver’s many words settled like a sheet of ice over her heart.
Thank you so much for reading!
I made this because I hated how overstated and underwhelming the curse and encounter with the Ouroboros was in ACOWAR, and wanted to show how it had a lasting, encroaching effect on Feyre via a slow introduction of insanity and madness. Instead of just showing her some monstrous form one time, it'll show it to her the rest of her life.
I also wanted to use it as a vehicle to force Feyre to have some form of reflection on her actions and how it cost the lives and livelihoods of other people, in a way that ACOTAR's narrative refuses too.
Please give it a like on AO3 as well :)
