#about fey

Abilities: Fey are able to utilize magic in some way. Generally, this has to do with a type of nature or biology, but again, it depends on the Fey. For example, Achaemenes doesn't have magic in the traditional sense, but his healing has a bit of fey luck imbued in it. Like, think an operation has a 50% chance of survival, Achaemenes will get it probably 90% of the time. Nothing provable as magic but he's far better at medical stuff than a pre-med student has any right to be.

Weaknesses: Pure fey are easily harmed by iron, can be tracked by any beings that can detect or track magic, and they cannot lie. (Most of them are very good at things like lies of omission and tricky wording, but they cannot tell an outright lie. Fey-touched individuals may have various bits and pieces of these--perhaps an iron allergy, a vague magical aura, or severe anxiety/discomfort around telling a lie.

She was lost in her own mind, replaying all of the heartbreak, the fear, the guilt she had felt through her entire life in the name of the church of The High Chosen.

She thought about the way her father, the Elder of the church, sat her down at the age of ten to explain to her she’d be forced to marry the most worthy boy of the church; and how that worthiness was calculated based on the donations from their parents.

She thought about the debutante ball he’d forced her to participate in, parading her around the stage like a show dog before sending her to the dance floor with a full dance card.

She thought about the weekly meetings with the very pastor that stood before her and her father, where she needed to explain her worthiness and promise she was still pure.

“Feyre.”

It was a different voice that brought her back to the present. It was younger, and came from beside her.

Feyre blinked, the pristine chapel surrounded her once more, and she glanced over at the owner of that voice. Her fiance. Her dark eyes connected with his and it felt like the white dress that adorned her body tightened with every breath. “I…” She struggled to catch her breath, but tried to wear a brave face as she turned towards the pastor once more. “I’m so sorry. What did you say?”

The holy man gave her a tight lipped smile as he placed his hand over the pages of his bible. “I asked, Miss Martin, do you take Mr. Sharpe to be your lawfully wedded husband?” He placed his hand on Feyre’s shoulder, turning her towards her fiance.

Her skin burned at the contact, she couldn’t help but flinch away from his touch.

“Do you promise to surrender to him? To support him through his dreams, his desires,-”

Her ears rang as she looked up at him, the man that was to be her husband- perhaps the only kind man within a hundred miles. She’d seen him around town, in church, and they danced at the church’s gatherings- He seemed to be the only person who didn’t see her like an object. They’d only been engaged for a month, and that was with Feyre stalling the wedding every chance she could get. His father, the highest bidder, won, and the wedding was supposed to be two weeks prior.

Her fiance took her shaking hands into his, an attempt to comfort.

They were both trapped. She knew that if they didn’t do something, they’d be stuck in this hell forever. They’d raise kids here, and those children would be forced to live through the same awful experiences they had. She’d asked him- no- begged with him to run with her, as far away as they could. They could be friends, they could have helped each other, but he said no. He couldn’t leave his family.

Though she couldn’t help but feel she was abandoning him when she shook her head and said, “No.”

The pastor stammered, “W-what? Miss Martin I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“No,” Feyre firmly repeated, pulling her hands away from the only kind person she’d ever known. He gripped her tighter, silently pleading her to not follow through with this.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” She looked at her now ex-fiance, tears streaming down her face as it became even more difficult to breathe. Feyre yanked her hands from him before running to the small reception hall catty corner to the altar.

The girl locked the doors behind her and took that moment of calm to take a breath. Immediately after, she heard the familiar sound of her father banging on the door, screaming threats that would become promises if that door opened even an inch. Feyre scanned the room, trying her best to think of something to do. Anything.

She was so small- she couldn’t possibly fight back.

The banging on the door got louder and louder, it was nearly impossible to hear her own thoughts.

That was, until she saw the big stack of envelopes that sat next to the gifts on the table before her. Envelopes that had cards, cards that had money.

She kicked off her heels, jamming the points below the door in an attempt to slow them down even more, before scooping the hefty amount of envelopes up in her hands. She knew the janitor, who had been working for the church as long as she’d been alive, kept his work clothes in the closet, so she swung open the door and slipped on the work shoes that were too big for her and stuffed the envelopes into a backpack that laid on the ground.

She heard the wood of the door’s frame begin to splinter. She needed to leave- immediately.