Chapter Text
Feyre’s head is throbbing like an open wound. The sunlight burns her eyes now, a spiral of colors old and new to her, some she's half unable to describe. The field around her feels loud, even with it being quieter than the Manor ever could be. The birds sing and the river gurgles and the magic echoes and it all digs into her ears, a beautiful melody that makes them ring, makes her want to tear her newly strengthened teeth into something, anything, makes her want to scream . Her teeth feel sharp against the inside of her cheek as she bites down, thankful at least that her new teeth came with stronger flesh, but the pain soothes her little, distracts her even less.
She sighs, glowing fingers rolling her ring in her palm over and over. It’s a silver gold, a simple sky blue gem with a thick band. It was made just for her, Tamlin had told her when he gave it to her, something to help until Feyre could get used to everything and could control herself. She tries to focus on it and not the soft glow under her skin, digging her fingers into the old prayer carved into the band. She adjusts herself, thankful at least that her skin isn’t sensitive like the rest of her is now, the grass only tickling lightly as she crosses her legs. She relaxes as her head falls back, and Feyre focuses, falling into herself and her own body the way she's done it every other day for a while.
Tamlin says magic feels like it’s coating your bones, twisting and turning like ivy, thickening and thinning at random, and Lucien says magic feels like there’s a torch in your ribs, going through your veins and burning at your palms. Feyre’s feels like a river of mist, though, faster, not as exact, not as controlled. It rushes through her constantly, wild and raw, like a second set of arteries. Near her eyes and ears it pools, like lukewarm water spraying out of a tap and frothing into a bath. It's comforting in the way only part of her, even if it's stolen, could be. She rests there for a moment, feels the buzz of it against her face, ignoring the sounds and the glare of the sun against her eyes as it flows under the surface.
The first step she's been taught is to imagine something, anything, that she can see in her mind as consistently as possible. For Feyre, that’s a pair of hands, not entirely her own anymore. The fingers are shorter than most High Fae she knows, scars that are half-faded now, cloaked in a pair of mittens that are old and worn. She flexes them in her mind, can almost feel the wool pressing into the fingers, half scratchy and verging on nostalgic. She reaches out with those hands, cupping them softly as she gathers the froth behind her eyes, ticklish against her mind, and she tilts them until the froth pours down into her throat. The sky dulls almost immediately, the colors she had never seen before weakening until they're faded and half-impossible to see. Quickly, Feyre imagines those hands grabbing onto the river and pulling, like rope, until the frothing end doesn't quite connect with the eyes and she can feel the muscles in her head tense.
She turns to the grass, sees green and teal and gold, but the colors aren't so vibrant and not so searing. The hands flicker, and the light brightens in tandem, but Feyre clamps down and holds them as long as she can, eyes narrowing, determined to at least manage this. It hurts, a phantom ache like she’s pulling at the stalks of her eyes, and she can feel herself cringe at it, teeth grinding together, but she holds it anyway, the ring stinging as she clenches it in her palm.
She can’t even tell Tamlin or Hart are there, their breath and their hearts and the rustle of their clothes mercifully silenced with some magic Feyre has seen cast too many times now. The magic itself makes a sound, she's learned. But it's honestly a quiet buzz compared to most, near impossible to hear compared to the nearby streams and the birds. She keeps her eyes focused on the grass until the hands start to wane, her mind too tired to keep the image solid. She tries anyway, fighting past her exhaustion, but the hands fail and dissolve into nothing, the sudden rush of color and light that comes with it making her wince. Feyre closes her eyes sharply, digs her fingers back into the rings grooves for a moment. When she fumbles it on, the light behind her eyelids seems much more tolerable, the sounds around her dulled almost immediately, and despite it all Feyre hisses, exhaustion giving way to total frustration.
There’s a soft noise – the gentle ‘whoosh’ of magic breaking, the sound of footsteps through the grass, loud enough to alert her, before she can feel Tamlin drop besides her, radiating heat. When she opens her eyes, he’s smiling softly, hair falling in front of his face and glowing in the sunlight, and Feyre finds herself smiling back, even with a headache forming.
“You did better than before,” His voice is proud if verging on a whisper, mindful of her sore ears, “you’re learning quicker then id ever expect, honestly.”
“It doesn't feel like i’m making much progress.” Feyre mutters as she tilts her head onto his shoulder, annoyance mixing with a tired mind, making her more honest, "It's been two weeks, and i still only last a couple of minutes."
His arm wraps around her shoulders, body heat heavy compared to the cool spring air. Feyre can smell thunderstorm rain and sea salt in his clothes, the past week filled with early spring weather and visits to the western border. She leans into it further, relaxes her whole body into him, tired and needing comfort.
"You have eternity, Feyre," The rumble of his voice is pleasant against her skin, cheek laying on her head. "You have as much time as you need."
Feyre stares at her hands, thinks of the glow they'd have if she took the ring off, thinks of the fae staring her down in the throne room in horror and confusion, thinks of the reports of dead priestesses and naga sitting on Tamlins desk, and her hands clench, hard enough she knows she could draw blood. She doesn't have forever, she's sure. She's not sure she has a decade, even. The fae work on longer timelines, a consequence to immortality, but even then, there’s an urgency that sits in the air that tells her that things are coming soon , and Feyre feels like a giant, painted red target, sat atop of a tower, free for anyone to try and get a hit at when it comes to that, whether it be Hybern or the other Courts. She unclenches her hands, sees the clean pale moon shaped imprints in her palm, and sighs.
“Let’s go home.” She stands abruptly, turning back towards where the horses are. Hart stands there, quiet and watchful as always, “It’s getting late, and the Manor will be getting busy later.”
She can hear Tamlin as he gets up behind her, swift footsteps crunching the grass until his hand slips into her own easily, and she squeezes with all her newfound strength. He hums, thumb caressing the back of her hand and head leaning against her own, and she feels herself relax, even if just a little.
Quietly, she prays to gods and cauldrons she barely knows that Tamlin is right. But she doesn't believe in the Cauldron or the Mother or Fate, not really, and the magic of a so-called Holy Land rushing her veins doesn't mean her prayers will fall on listening ears anyway, so she just dreads , feels the unease crawling in her throat like bugs, and it haunts her the whole way home, nipping at her heels like hounds.