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She wonders if she ever knew light, if it is real. Gazing at the darkness in front of her, it's hard to believe there is anything beyond. The universe extends and expands with no beginning or end. And in the middle of it, there is only her.
Only her to hear the piercing screams coming out her own throat. Even those sounds muffled.
Maybe she earned this for herself by thinking there could be something better than this hellhole she fell into. It hurts, deeply, because she felt that tiny seed of hope. She thought there could be a version of this life where she could have been...
She laughs at herself now, at her own foolishness. Whatever gave her the idea she deserves that.
Hope, she realizes, is painful, deceiving and stubborn. It sinks its hideous claws in her skin, refusing to let her go when reality tries to rip it off of her. It isn't the first time, either.
And yet, she always keeps on clinging to it because it's the only thing she has in this empty universe. Hope. Hope that there might be something more bearable than this miserable existence. She hoped that whenever this body finally breaks, she would find that peaceful darkness she glimpsed when it was only a thread that kept her bounded to this realm. She regrets not letting go now.
That darkness is not like this one. Not the stretching and shrinking thing around her, smothering her in its expanse. In its loneliness.
She hoped, and maybe that makes it hurt more than anything else.
But she guesses she can't blame herself. Because if she isn't able to picture an end to this, if she isn't able to hope for the bleeding hole in her soul to go dry, then she really is too far gone.
Sometimes she believes she already is.
Amarantha did her job well, the bitch.
Or it's possible she gives her too much credit. Feyre remembers the cold person she was, what the cold and hunger made of her. A bitter ghost dwelling in the world of the living. That's what she was in the Human Realm and what she is now in this land of life, rebirth.
It have always been like that, after all. There and yet not. A shell in the corner. Light might touch her, but it will never warm or heal. A good thing—there isn't much to save anyway, if anything at all.
They may have Made her body, but that isn't worth much when her soul lies in pieces at her feet.
Sister, daughter, bride. That's what she had been. Now she is just a murderer, a liar, if the vicious voices inside her head are right. They usually are.
She tries to shrink herself out of existence, wills the shadows around her to press on her, until she is no one and nothing. Until nothing of her remains. But they only curl around her fingers and toes like snakes. And Feyre wonders, that maybe they aren't all that different as she stares and stares at them.
She wakes to birds chirping and sunlight pouring through the sealed windows, with a numb head and heavy eyes. Feyre looks around, not really seeing anything. For a second she can't remember where or who or when she is. Or if it matters. For a second she sits there, staring at the marble floor with no sense of self.
And then, and then she remembers.
And starts screaming.
She hurls the contents of her stomach on the marble floor full of ash. It stains the palms of her hands as she seeks to find firm ground while the world tilts to the side and she falls off the edge.
Her throat feels raw. As if she screamed, and screamed for hours on end—she doesn't recall that happening. The only thing filling her mind is Tamlin, Tamlin and Lucien turning their backs on her while she begged them please let me out.
She doesn't want to process it just yet. They wouldn’t have done that to her. They—
Unless those weren’t them, unless she never came back and this is hell.
Payment to those faeries. The fate of a murderer. And to think she believed, even for one second, that she would get what she wanted, that she would get away with it, get married and be happy ever after.
Naïve creature she is.
Feyre sits on her ass and wipes away the remains of the vomit with her sleeve, head still pounding. She wishes for this hell to burn her up and vanish her from existence. But those faeries deserve this to be longer, they deserve her to ask for mercy and for it to take whatever time it pleases to come.
She deserves that.
She takes sight of her surroundings at last. It shouldn't surprise her to find the walls stained black, the flowers in the foyer reduced to cinders and the paints still on fire.
Hell indeed.
What's worse, there is a churning feeling in her gut she is to blame. It would be her the one who leaves the entire manor just a pile of ash, herself in it. Fitting.
Flames eat away the paintings. She hears the canvas creak at the heat, consuming away the only beauty left to see. It makes sense for them to be destroyed—there is no beauty in hell. It makes even more sense that she's the one to do it, after all, what is she good for, if not that?
She remembers the face of that female faerie, she was beautiful—the steel braveness she welcomed death is something she won't forget as long as she breathes. There was a grace about that, a beauty, a strength she can't phantom to mimic.
She was beautiful and Feyre destroyed that as well. Her, the weak little human-faerie thing. Who would have known.
The answer was simple: Amarantha. Yes, that bitch saw through her soul and recognized the filth she always was. She just knew the best way to bring it out. A monster who knew another one when she looked at it in the eye. She saw what darkness lurks inside of her.
She wondered if she foresaw what it would ultimately mean for her. Probably not, because she is dead now and hopefully burning in a different hell. The only consolation Feyre has.
Outside the windows the greenness of spring greets her—mocks her. As if to rub in her face that she will never be that colorful, that full of life. She doesn't fit in this ever-blooming land, it is likely she'll burn it as well until nothing can ever grow again.
Destruction, that's what she is.
Feyre stares at her hands. The sight of them alone sends a wave of nausea to her gut. What once created, only know how to destroy. They created, pictured a better world. Now they only serve her to kill, to bring more darkness to this already obscured world. They should be the first part of her to go—if she can't so much as touch, it means she can never harm anyone again.
She deserves it—all of this. To burn and to die and to come back only to suffer a little bit longer. Feyre deserves to wonder if it will ever end, to yearn for it.
Clare did, she is sure of that. She must have begged, screamed because of the sins she didn’t commit. She hopes she is somewhere peaceful, but isn't fool enough to hope for the same fate.
She crawls back until her back meets the wall, the solid presence of it somewhat grounding. It clears her head enough to think.
She is alive. She is not Under the Mountain. This is—this is the Spring Court. And she can't get out. The shields—
Steps move closer. Feyre staggers to her feet on wobbling knees. They are coming, coming for her. Her hands curl into fists, as useless as those are. Guards round the corner, their weapons drawn and their eyes wide. They stop when they behold the state of the foyer, and how she stands unscathed in the middle of it. An inquiring glance passes through them, assessing whether she is a threat or not.
The idea seems laughable until someone—Hart—takes a step closer and shadows flood the floor, enveloping her almost completely. “Don't get closer,” Feyre whispers. Her powers coil like an asp ready to strike, to protect her. She doesn't know how to tell them to stop. “Please.”
“Lady Feyre?”
“Let me out.”
Confusion shines as bright as the spring sun outside. “Lady, the door is open,” he mutters, uncertain.
Her eyes flutter close, the air comes out of her lungs in pants. “The shields—he shielded—he locked me up.”
Tamlin, Tamlin. Not Amarantha. She is dead and Feyre is out. In the Spring Court. But that feels more like a curse than the reassurement it should be.
Trapped, she's trapped.
“Lady—” A step closer.
That's all it takes.
The shadows shift into flames.
All she can hear are the screams.
Ianthe tells her no one died, that they will heal, not even the scars will stay. It would be soothing, if she was next to her and not feet aways, eyeing her warily and ready to run. Feyre doesn't react through it all, not because she doesn't want to startle her or the shaking maids ripping away the scorched remains of her dress. But because she simply can't.
No one died today.
But she wishes she did.
Whatever flimsy material the world is made of, she is not. Her body feels leaden, heavy beyond comprehension. Like it's made of stone and someone hurled her into the ocean, never to be seen again. As if she is dead. But she is very much still alive, very much hurting.
Her chest is torn open by invisible hands, clawing at her, leaving her in shreds and bleeding on the ground. She doesn't stop the phantom feeling, doesn't try to. There is no stopping the world being shattered around her ears.
No. That's self-centered. The world isn't falling apart. Feyre is. There is no coming back from it, no way to put herself together—the pieces are so small, many of them lost in places no one can find.
A ragged sob leaves her throat before she can stop it.
It hurts. Breathing hurts.
Feyre stays there, in her bed. And she wishes. She wishes it's over.