Her Spark is a Flame, Her Fire a Blaze - ACOTAR Fanfic (Feysand)
I died for a month and didn’t post. This happens all the time. But suddenly I was struck with inspiration, and it pulled me from my comatose, and here I am. AU, I think?? But whatevs, super vague world- and plot-building as always. You figure it out.
The first time they met, she was dressed in white.
It really didn't suit her, he thought. Her skin was too-pale against the sheer fabric, her cheeks flushed an ugly red and her eyes dulled to gray pinpricks. Nobody else seemed to notice. The servants bowed their heads respectfully, some falling to their knees in what was surely an over exaggeration of propriety. Not even the square-jawed prince, the keeper of the Lady's leash, took note, nor the red-haired dog that lapped at his feet.
"I want a painting," said the Prince, voice cold as his eyes, emerald pools that went deep and dark and down.
Rhysand kept his tone demure, as surely the lady's was to be soon enough. "Of course, My Lord," he said from where he knelt on the marble steps. "And what would I be painting?" He said what, though he already knew the subject of his brush, for surely she was not a creature of this world to be so beautiful, even bedecked in such glib frippery. Even with cheeks hollowed thin and shadows framing her eyes, dark as her lashes.
The Prince pulled his wife towards him with a lazy arm about her shoulders, motion expectant and entitled. Rhysand almost missed her flinch. "My lovely wife," the Prince said, turning to gaze upon her face. She did not look back, jaw tensing when his fingers found their way under her chin, pulling her not roughly, but insistently, to face him. "Paint this...gorgeous piece of art." His eyes glazed.
Rhysand curled his lip. Did he not see what a horrible state he had put her in? Her dress should not fold inwards at the bend of her stomach, nor should his fingers be able to ensnare the thin bridge of her wrist. He had seen paupers that looked better than she, and living an estate as large as the city's half... Surely the Prince could provide?
"I remember the first time I found her," the Prince murmured, words a quiet musing, eyes intense and unseeing as he stared into his Lady's steel-gray orbs.
Rhysand glanced around at the gathered servants (slaves, more like). Was he the only one to see the shallow motion of their Lady's throat bobbing, or the barely-contained fury in the lines of her face? She was not even a good actress. But their heads remained stubbornly down.
"She was in the streets," the Prince continued. "The slums of that wretched city." Here, his lips pulled back, revealing teeth sharp as a shark's. "Velaris."
Rhysand froze on those steps, blood turned cold at the mention of his hometown, the place he had left six years ago, thinking it safe, a secret. A whisper on the lips. But apparently that whisper had turned to talk and then to shout and then to laughter at those who had not heard.
"Velaris," the Prince repeated, fingers tightening on his Lady's jaw, nails biting in hard enough to mark her flesh. She did not cry out, though her hands gripped her dress hard. "The same place that the old High Lord called me a fool." The Prince chuckled. "The cobbles were painted with his blood the next minute. I ought to think the civilians were taught a good lesson, not to disrespect me. But just to be sure I had to kill the rest of them."
Rhysand clenched his fist, breath sputtering out of his chest.
"Killed his daughter first. She was so little in my hands. She broke quite nicely. Next came his wife." The Prince drew a breath, hand squeezing tighter, and a drop of blood trickled down his Lady's cheek. "She was such a pretty thing. Her hands were so soft." A cruel smile suddenly replaced the wondering look in his eye. "And she screamed quite nicely when I had my fill of her. Much like you, my dear." He stroked his wife's hair. "Why do you not look at me, Feyre?"
Rhysand did not think the Lady was breathing.
The Prince stared at her for a long while, breaking his gaze with a small shake of his head, turning his eyes back to the figure stooped at his feet. "Give me something worthwhile, painter, and I will give you more money than you could ever hope to gain in your life."
His eyes burned, and for once he was glad that his head was turned to the floor. If he had to look upon the Prince's face, he would surely do something stupid.
"I shall paint you, Lord," Rhysand spat out. "I shall paint you."
#
The painting was a lie, a beautiful, flower-crusted lie, with roses encasing a man whose shoulders were unnaturally broad, golden tresses falling just past his shoulders, and eyes the same vibrant green as the thorns studding the roses' stems. He painted a monster, one that hid behind a curtain of sunshine, bright enough to blind any passing by, but never enough to make blind those willing to look closer.
The strangest thing was that nobody seemed to notice anything odd about it.
#
"It'll do." The Prince looked up from the portrait. "You've proven your skill. Now paint me what I wanted in the first place."
For her, he painted the truth. Beneath that horrible, demurring veneer of arched back and graceful neck, hands laid in lap and velvet skin wrapped in ribbon. When he painted her, his lines were harsh and jagged, a caustic, cutting thing, with colors black and gray and pale red. He ignored the way her legs crossed, dress wide and modest and too-long, the perfect model of feminine perfection. He ignored all that and focused instead on the fiery gray of her eyes, the powerful muscles that were visible beneath all that, the finery and the tautness of her flesh over her bones. And he painted the truth.
When she laid eyes on it, under the shadow of his ceiling, the slope of his walls, she only said, "An interesting interpretation."
And Rhysand gave her a knowing look, a smile wry, and said, "I can always see through a disguise."
#
"Well done, painter," the Prince said. "You've done good. You'll find your reward in the carriage out back."
Rhysand bowed graciously. "Thank you, Lord. It was a pleasure."
From behind the curtain, the Lady watched. She was not supposed to. She was supposed to be in bed, resting from her stroll, but as time passed she found it harder and harder to keep herself contained within that prison.
Curious eyes followed the painter as he gave his final goodbyes and made his way towards the exit. The very same place she stood at. She did not shy away, though. No, she was not afraid of him, merely intrigued.
He pushed aside the curtain and froze when he saw her. "Lady," he said, clearly surprised. A moment later, he had gone through the proper bow. "I had not expected you out of bed."
His voice was not prying, but there was the hint of something else. Something sad and more than a little angry, judging.
It sparked her own fury. "Perhaps I didn't feel like sleeping in the middle of the day," she snapped.
He blinked, and then the ghost of a smile quirked his lips. "Fair enough." His tone changed. "Lady, I had hoped to give you something." His hand fumbled inside his jacket, fishing out a thick roll of paper. "This is for you."
She took it. "My painting," she stated. "You didn't give it to Ta—to the Lord."
"No." Rhysand gazed at her. "I don't think he would be able to appreciate it as much as you."
Feyre looked up sharply. "I'm not sure I understand your meaning, painter."
He stepped close, close enough that she could smell him. "I mean," he breathed, "that there is more to it than meets the eye. Just as there is to you."
She shifted just slightly, finding his eyes were right beside her own. She started at the shade, a violet so deep they were almost black. Extroardinary...
Her lips parted at the feel of his breath on her neck, the phantom touch of his fingers at her waist—
But then sense got hold of her, and she was pulling away, readjusting her skirts and catching her breath. "Well," she said.
Rhysand's face was unreadable.
"I...thank you."
He nodded, dropped into a graceful bow, and said, "I'd do it again in a heartbeat, Lady." He stood and dusted off his trousers before meeting her gaze. "But don't you forget, Feyre, I can see right through you. And soon, others will be able to, as well.
"
The painting was hung in the narrow end of the foyer, just before the great wooden doors that held the peasants at bay. The colors were dark and heavy, and they should've been near unnoticeable in the gloom of the hallway, yet somehow the eye was drawn straight to that area, and where the attention wanders the feet follow. An entering stranger would soon find himself standing before a great portrait, life-size, nailed to the wall. A black background framed the face of Feyre Archeron, the Lady of Spring and Shadow of Night. Her eyes were not dulled the way they had been that first morning, holding great wells of fire and spirit and something else that shouted I am not what you think, I am not what he thinks. Dark hair smudged about her head in a great halo, highlighted in the ray of the moon, and fading as it approached the bottom of her breasts. From the waist down, there was mostly black, and only the vague outline of something else: the silhouette of clawed hands and taloned feet, a curving tail, and at her temples, the barest hint of horns.
Shadowed above her head, and cradling the moon in a gentle embrace, were the outlines of two towering wings.
