𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐄  📜  𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐒.

every nerve, every cell, every molecule of feyre’s body ached. her arms almost felt too weak to hold the burger she was attempting to inhale, empty stomach all but screaming at her after the exertion of her bouts in the fighting ring. left eye was bruised and swollen, making it hard to enjoy – let alone see – the sunball game on the television in front of her. when the door of her joint apartment squeaked by way of announcing its opening, she didn’t bother looking over her shoulder, knowing full well her muscles would protest. she knew who it was, anyway.  

war meant sacrifice, feyre knew this. intimately knew the things that love, loyalty and protecting of people could mean a heavy loss of oneself. but for the war in erilea — none had given quite like aelin galathynius.

over their diplomatic meetings, the youngest archeron and still learning high lady had discovered the trials and tribulations the fae far across the seas had gone through. not only that, but she’d found a friend; a confidant in the form of the golden haired queen, who radiated a warmth like the fire in her was hearth and home now. it was a kindling ember after the multiple battles and it had stayed as such, aelin had indicated.

there’s an importance to learning the limit to ones power, in nurturing it, and that’s how feyre landed flat on her back whilst her torso was overcome with a burning sensation.

she grunted in pain immediately after the impact. there was no movement for a moment, not until the grass was flattened by her as aelin jogged over. thankfully her illyrian leathers had been equipped with the ability to be fire resistant, but it hadn’t stopped the discomfort of heat. wincing up at the sky, feyre stuck a hand in the air with a lack of shame, and it wasn’t long before aelin’s fingers laced with her own to haul her up from the floor.

𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐍. You do not yield. Gaze lingers on the woman before her now, and part of her seems to consider that she should perhaps be on bended knee – but she stands tall, chin raised, and for the first time in years there’s no chains to weigh her down. Scars laced across her flesh, perhaps, to tell a thousand stories of a girl who has lived too many hells, but freedom is a gift, and it tastes divine as her chest rises and falls, and she breathes it in a little more eagerly with every passing moment. Freedom, gifted to a woman who has made her reputation by surviving each day in the fighting pits, a thousand lashes for every escape attempt, seven hells a hotter inferno than most may ever bear. And she owes it to one woman.

When she speaks now, approaches, her chin lowers slightly out of respect – her own frame is still covered with blood and gore from the day’s slaughter, and where her gaze flickers over silken fineries, it occurs to her that she should perhaps feel some small sense of shame to stand in such condition before a QUEEN. But it bothers the royal not, so it seems, and she can’t help the words that leave her lips as they fall.

“Forgive me, your Grace – but no one in this world is, it seems.”

Unspoken, that she’s seen the threats directed towards the smaller woman before her still, knows of the unrest that stirs within city’s walls ; she’ll give her own life to that cause, should she need to. Still, her knee finally bends – and though her blade is dull and rotted at the hilt, her hands offer it nonetheless ; not bowing out of duty, nor out of obligation, but a pledge of her allegiances.

“You have my sword in trying to make it one, though. I swear it.”

                pride  swells  within  her  chest,  akin  to  flames  that  begin  to  burn  beneath  the  ribs  of  a  dragon.  it  is  liberating,  knowing  that  freedom  has  not  merely  been  handed  to  people  like  the  woman  who  falls  to  her  knees  but  has  instead,  been  taken  with  their  own  hands    –––    bloody,  broken,  bruised  but  now  unbound.  daenerys  stormborn  had  also  once  been  a  slave,  chained  and  held  prisoner.  she  had  been  whipped  by  words,  mutilated  by  men  and  diminished  until  she  was  nothing  more  than  ash  on  the  ground.  though  here  she  stood  now,  reborn  admist  salt  and  smoke.  no  longer  was  she  the  frightened  little  girl  lost  within  the  dothraki  sea.  no,  she  was  a  queen  who  had  armoured  herself  with  scales  so  that  she  could  never  be  harmed  again.  

𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐄  📜  𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐒.