#second trial

First of all, the theme is kind of around Kazui being a magician throughout the whole MV. You see him pulling all kinds of tricks to surprise his partner. When you don't know how they pull the trick, it will always be impressive towards the viewer, so that's probably how his partner fell for him. She doesn't know what's behind the magic.

We also get a whole wedding scene in the MV, but I couldn't help but feel like everything was fabricated and everyone was just being fake af. Like tbh, everyone can feel that there's something off despite being it a happy occasion, probably because there's no real love and otherwise fake love.

You also see a lot of apples in the MV. This one scene has several apples, but they are all red except for one. The apple also appeared in Kazui's first MV "half", so this is a throwback to that as well. Anyway, green apples are often sour while red ones are often sweet. Kazui is trying to blend in with the rest, but he's not like the rest because he's hiding his true face.

It then switches to Kazui and his partner having dinner together. Kazui grabs his glass and you can see his wife through there. Normally, the vision will be warped a little because it's glass and there's substance in it. However, Kazui's partner is normal (except for the fact its mirrored). Why? Probably because she has no hidden intentions.

This scene flashes between the image of Kazui's partner and himself, except his head is depicted as a green apple. This image reminded me of something else: the son of man by Rene Magritte. This painting is one of the most well-known paintings for the surrealism movement and this is what Magritte said about it according to Wikipedia:

"At least it hides the face partly well, so you have the apparent face, the apple, hiding the visible but hidden, the face of the person. It's something that happens constantly. Everything we see hides another thing, we always want to see what is hidden by what we see. There is an interest in that which is hidden and which the visible does not show us. This interest can take the form of a quite intense feeling, a sort of conflict, one might say, between the visible that is hidden and the visible that is present."

I think that explains enough about what I want to say. After all, surrealism does depict reality in a not so realistic way, but rather in a sub conscious way.

The last few points for now is the end when the magic Disappears and the partner is not swayed by Kazui's actions anymore and he knows. He immediately falls back to his bad habits and his partner is horrified to see that he is a different person than she initially thought.

The dove also appears quite frequently in the MV, because not only does it fit the magician theme well, but I think it also kind of fits the tag that is used frequently in fanfics and that's "dead dove: do not eat" tag. It basically says, what it says. There's a dead dove, don't eat. It's an obvious warning, but curiosity kills the cat… and what's the title of the MV? You are right, it's "Cat". Kazui ends up eating the dove because he has fallen too much into his bad habits, even though he's aware of them being bad.

Last point is that the word "Masquerade" appears frequently as well and that can be a reference to the play by Mikhail Lermontov. Not only does it fall in line with the theme of his first MV again, the play itself is pretty dark and fitting for Kazui as well. I'm not well versed into this, so I will let Wikipedia do it's trick once again, so here's the plot from there:

Feyre flicked her eyes away from Tamlin to stare the queen down.

“Too bad,” Amarantha said with a moue. “But I’m feeling generous tonight.” The Attor chuckled, and several faeries behind Feyre gave hissing laughs. “How about a little practice?”

Feyre forced her face into neutrality. She was actually looking forward to solving the riddle on her own this time, even if she already knew the answer. Feyre’s eyes flickered back to Tamlin, surprised to see his hard gaze staring right back. She wondered what he made of her little charade, what hid behind those steely green eyes. After she and Rhys saved his court, was there a chance for friendship after all? For a united Prythian?

A hiss echoed across the room, dragging Feyre’s gaze away. Amarantha was frowning up at Tamlin from her seat. Feyre supposed that meant her ruse was working—they had been staring at each other, the cavern wholly silent.

“Begin,” Amarantha snapped.

The floor shuddered beneath Feyre’s feet. She crouched to maintain her balance as the stones began sinking, lowering her into a large, rectangular pit. Some faeries cackled, but Feyre made herself meet Tamlin’s stare and hold it until his face disappeared beyond the edge.

She didn’t know where Rhysand was. Feyre hadn’t let herself seek him out in the crowd.

Thinking of me, Feyre darling? Came his voice of keen amusement. Don’t worry, I’m here.

She snorted. I have a trial to focus on.

By all means, go focus.

She knew if she found his face it would be painted with that infuriating grin. Still, Feyre shook the mental cobwebs away and scanned the four walls of her arena. She looked to the iron grate that split the chamber in two, and to her surprise Lucien and Rhys were chained to the floor on the other side of it. Both bound, gagged, and blindfolded.

Feyre’s body seized in undiluted terror.

Rhys, she gasped mentally. Are you okay!?

“Do you like my little present?” Amarantha crooned above. “I thought, if these two are so confident that you will succeed in the trials, they may as well prove it with more than just their money, hmm? Do be careful with that dark haired one, I’d be loath to find someone to replace him in the bedroom.”

The surrounding court cackled, springing at the chance to mock Amarantha’s whore; if Feyre wasn’t so struck with concern, she may have snarled at them.

I’m alright, darling. This is her precaution to prove I won’t interfere. Unfortunately, I can’t say anything else about it. But there’s nothing to worry about, you’ve already bested this trial once before.

Do me a favor and tell Lucien he’s safe? She implored.

Already done, my Lady. He said if you take too long to answer the riddle, he’ll immortalize you as Feyre Timeturner.

Of course he did, she sighed. As she glanced at Lucien through the iron grate, she saw the small smirk playing up on his lips around his gag.

I’m quite partial to Feyre Cauldronwielder myself, Rhys quipped.

She groaned at him mentally. You are both terrible at names. Maybe you should commission whoever came up with Cursebreaker.

Lucien says he doesn’t think Cauldronwielder is so bad.

Above, the faeries began murmuring, and gold clinked as they placed their bets. Feyre doubted anyone would be bold enough to bet on her now.

Tell Lucien he’s wrong, Feyre said, peering at the crowd above. She could see Lucien’s brothers huddling together with wicked grins on their faces, delighted to see Lucien involved in yet another of Amarantha’s torments. She could also spot Helion, watching behind lowered brows.

“Here, pet, you shall find your task. Simply answer the question by selecting the correct lever, and you’ll win. Select the wrong one to your doom. As there are only three options, I think I gave you an unfair advantage.” She snapped her fingers, and something metallic groaned. “That is,” she added, “If you can solve the puzzle in time.”

What do you think of Feyre Timetraveler? Rhys mused.

Not too high above, the two giant, spike encrusted grates began lowering, slowly descending toward the chamber. The spikes glowed red. Even from a distance, Feyre could see the heat rippling off them.

Lucian made a show of wrenching at his chains.

It’s better than Timeturner. But I personally believe you and Lucien can put your two clever little heads together and come up with something better.

Feyre turned calmly to the wall that Amarantha had gestured to. A lengthy inscription was carved into its smooth surface, and beneath it were three stone levers with the numbers I, II, and III engraved above them.

Feyre scanned the passage carefully. It was wordy, filled with jargon meant to throw her off, but Feyre could see why III could be the answer. It was empowering. Over a year ago, she stood in this arena quaking before this court. She’d thought her illiteracy was going to get herself and her friend brutally killed. When Rhys had saved her, she’d been thoroughly broken. Now she stood confidently, solving the riddle herself. Master of her own fate, tempered steel through Amarantha’s flames.

Lucien proposes Feyre Fatechanger.

A slow, exalted smile spread across her face as Feyre approached the levers.

Now you guys are getting somewhere, she crooned approvingly, laying her tattooed hand against the cool stone of the third lever.

The spikes had continued their descent, the metal groaning as it scraped against the smooth stone of the chamber. It was still easily two full body’s height away, not yet blocking the faeries looming above.

She flicked her eyes back to the inscription on the wall, skimming over the words once more, when something occurred to her, something nagging at the back of her mind. III seemed too obvious an answer. Almost like a trick question. And as she read back over it, she suddenly suspected that II was the true answer. But how could that be? Was she second guessing a correct answer because she was nervous about Rhys being there?

She was illiterate when she’d last stood before this inscription. Feyre had no way of knowing if this riddle was the same, but what was the likelihood that it had been changed? Her hand dropped from the lever.

Sensing her rising panic, Rhys’s voice slid into her mind, low and comforting.

What’s wrong, darling?

The answer to the riddle. I-I think it’s different than before.

Are you sure?

There was an agitation to his voice that collapsed the dam on her rising panic. She felt overwhelmed in the wake of it, feeling as if her safety net had been pulled out from under her feet and she was plummeting deep, deep into the depths of that terror.

No, Feyre rasped. I was illiterate then.

The surge of dread was swelling around her, threatening to consume her. Her mate’s life was on the line. She couldn’t afford to make uncertain decisions. She couldn’t let him die again.

Take a deep breath, love. It will be okay. I trust you to choose correctly.

His consolation did nothing for her. Feyre could feel those waves of terror, filling her lungs, making it impossible to breathe.

Can you tell me the answer? She pleaded. She was not going to take any risks with his life.

The spikes were looming dangerously close. If she wasn’t going to suffocate from the panic, she would suffocate from the heat, the way it sucked out the air in the chamber. She could see Lucien and Rhysand’s foreheads damp with sweat, their skin glistening against the glowing spears above.

I-I can’t, darling, Rhys said, his voice sounding strained.

Amarantha commanded you not to tell me?

Not necessarily, Feyre, I—

Tell me Rhys!

Their doom was growing ever closer. If Feyre reached up and hopped, she’d be able to touch the hot surface.

It’s III, he bit out. The words were choked, reluctant, as if they’d been forced out of him.

III, like it had been before. She was a fool, causing unnecessary panic by second guessing what was clearly the right answer. The riddle hadn’t changed, Feyre was simply still not clever enough to solve it.

Feeling sheepish and defeated, she laid her hand back on the third lever, ready to pull. But again, she paused. It still felt wrong. Every instinct in her gut was screaming in protest, begging her not to pull that lever.

Lucien yanked against his restraints, unable to see their torture but clearly able to sense how near the burning iron was. The trepidation shared between the three of them was palpable. Feyre was practically choking on it.

Did she trust Rhys and the previous timeline? Or did she trust herself?

Her heart said always, always she would trust Rhys. But something was off. And she was his equal. Sometimes, Rhysand would have to trust her.

With a cry of anguish so visceral it caused Rhysand and Lucien to flinch, Feyre launched herself at the second lever, pulling it down.

Feyre sobbed as the wicked contraption continued its descent. This was it. She’d doomed them, she hadn’t been able to save Prythian and now her mate would be killed for her failure.

The spikes groaned as they came to a grating halt, stopping so near to her head they could almost singe her hair. Then, ever so slowly, they began ascending back towards the fae high above. Feyre sagged in relief as the two males relaxed in their chains, practically collapsing into one another.

Cool air flooded back into the chamber as the floor beneath Feyre rose.

Lucien sends his praise to Feyre Fatechanger, master of riddles and slayer of Wyrms. Rhysand sounded breathless, his voice shaky, but there was relief and gratitude in his voice. Amarantha commanded that if I were to speak to you about the riddle, I could only provide the wrong answer. I suppose we’ve proven that you don’t need my help to triumph.

Feyre was thoroughly shaken by the prospect of nearly killing her mate, but she swallowed it down and forced a victorious grin as the platform stopped moving, and she faced Amarantha levelly.

The Faerie Queen’s face was drawn and white, her black eyes like onyx as they stared each other down. Amarantha’s gaze was cold and vast and full of ancient malice. Feyre tipped her chin, her own measured expression a picture of regality. She was High Lady of the Night Court, Cursebreaker, Fatechanger, and she would not be stared down. If either of them was going to walk away intimidated, it would be Amarantha.

“You’re dismissed, human,” she said, with a flick of her chin.

Before the guards could come to collect her, Feyre laughed and turned on her heel, walking toward the door with her head high. A Champion on their victory lap. The crowd parted as she went, some faeires—Lucien’s brothers in particular—sneering as she went. But others… others had a sort of awe on their faces. Whether by her boldness or victory, she couldn’t tell, but the air was changing. Hope hung thickly in the room like gunpowder, and Feyre had just struck a match.

You’re carrying the banner, Feyre. I may be Lord to a Court of Dreams, but I’ve never been able to inspire others the way you just did.

Her mate's words carried after her as she was escorted back to her cell, keeping her from crumbling.

⟡⟡⟡

Hours later, Feyre was bundled in her blanket when the darknesses rippled and soft footsteps approached her. She looked up to greet those striking violet eyes.

“Hello, Feyre darling,” he greeted in that lulling voice.

“Rhys!” She cried, springing to her feet to go to him. “Are you and Lucien okay? Are you hurt?”

She scanned over him frantically. Despite looking a bit disheveled, he seemed unharmed. But dread clung to him like a cloak, the shadows of the room dancing around his figure.

“I’m alright, Feyre darling.” She could tell it was a lie.

Feyre offered him a sly grin. “Have you come to give me my reward?” she teased, hoping to elevate his mood with banter.

Rhys smiled in return. “Is that all the greeting I get? So greedy, my mate. Not even pleased to see me unless she gains something from it.” He clutched his chest in feigned heartbreak.

Feyre rolled her eyes and shoved playfully at his shoulder. He hardly moved from the push, his balance unwavering. “I was merely expecting a High Lord to follow through with his word.”

“Ah,” Rhys grinned, “But I didn’t specify when after your trial, now did I?”

Feyre thought back to their conversation and groaned. Such a typically fae response. Prick, she thought. Slippery, silver-tongued prick.

Rhys laughed, guiding them back to the pallet. Curiously, she sat and watched as he plopped down beside her, casually stretching his legs out to lean his back against the cell wall. He motioned for Feyre to come closer and she eagerly obliged. He laid her head in his lap, draping the blanket back over her shoulders. Then, Rhys began stroking his fingers through her hair. Despite the pleasurable sensation, she stiffened against his touch—his hands were shaking.

“I came for a very selfish reason, really,” he said above her, his voice bathed in melancholy. “I just wanted to hold you. I’ve rarely had a chance to, and it’s all I’ve wanted to do since the moment I met you. Today I… I realized I should seize that opportunity while it’s still available.”

Feyre reached for his free hand, hanging limply at his side. She squeezed his fingers as she drew them to her mouth, brushing a kiss against each knuckle. I love you, Rhysand. You never need an excuse to seek me for comfort.

Rhys sucked in a breath above her, that sounded suspiciously like a sob. She couldn’t see his face, but she heard enough from his voice as he said tightly, “Gods, you are wonderful.”

I don’t know what I’ve done right, Rhys murmured softly in her head, and she wondered if his throat had become too thick for words. I’d come to accept that for my court and crown, I would wander alone forever. I thought it's what I deserved. But for the Cauldron to have sent me you… I will try every day of my life to deserve the honor it has bestowed upon me—the honor of being your mate. I will strive to be the male you see when you look at me, the male you remember—

You are already that male, Feyre assured him, moving to sit up, but Rhys stopped her.

Please, just let me keep holding you like this.

Feyre hestistated, but obliged and cautiously nestled herself back into his lap. His fingers continued to gently stroke against her scalp. A soothing, wonderful gesture, but Feyre wondered if it was equally for himself as it was for her.

You are already that male, Rhysand. She repeated. You have always been that male. I see you. I am not perfect, either. But the darkness we both carry, Rhys, they are mirrors of each other. I am your equal, in every way. Even the parts of us that are… unsavory.

There is nothing you could do, Feyre, that would make me think less of you. No terrible deed you could commit that I have not myself already committed.

Feyre began rubbing pacifying circles into his hand, continuing to press loving kisses to his fingers.

And there is no terrible deed you have or could commit, Rhys, that would make me love you any less. Look into my head, do you feel the truth in my words? I know you. All of you. And there is not a single part of you that scares me. You can throw your whole self at me, Rhysand. I am unafraid.

Rhys took another shuddering breath. I truly don’t understand how I am worthy of such unconditional love from such an incredible woman. But I am yours, Feyre, in heart and body and soul.

Feyre threaded her fingers through his from the back of his hand, turning his wrist so that his palm faced toward her. She pressed gentle kisses from his wrist to the center of his palm.

And I am yours, Rhys. In heart and body and soul. In every timeline, in every world, I will find you. Always.

They fell into a comfortable silence, holding each other comfortingly. Rhys’s fingers in her hair were gentle, lulling. She pressed tender, sleepy kisses to every inch of his palm and fingers until she fell into a peaceful slumber.

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