Chapter Text
“Where’s Feyre?” you asked, a yawn dancing on the edge of your voice.
“Hunting,” was Nesta’s only reply.
You rolled your eyes. Typical. “Let me guess,” you started, hands already finding the small bat carving you’d started the day before, “Father couldn’t be fucked to help?”
“Don’t talk like that,” Elain chided quietly. She always hated when you swore; said it was ‘unbecoming of a young lady.’ Pay no nevermind that you were no lady, nor would you ever be one after Father pissed away any Archeron money. Your family had squandered that life before you ever got the chance to remember it.
“Yes, Mother,” you jabbed. A snarl pulled at your lips.
You hated that your younger sister felt she had to provide for the whole family, because those older than the two of you simply refused to try. You, born only minutes before Feyre, did what you could to help, but you had no aptitude for hunting. The one time she tried to teach you to shoot her bow, you somehow managed to shoot yourself in the shoulder. Your gift with your hands sat within your skill with a knife. Carving wood such as your intricate little statues that could be sold at the market for a few coppers a piece. Butching carcasses Feyre dragged home. Those were the main ways you contributed to the household.
The same couldn’t be said of Nesta--who spent every coin the moment it entered an Archeron hand--or Elain--who on most days seemed to have not but flowers between her ears. You weren’t like Feyre; you couldn’t forgive their ways so easily. You resented their carelessness, and had it been your decision you and your twin would have abandoned them a long time ago. But Feyre wouldn’t leave them. And you wouldn’t leave Feyre.
The tip of the knife wobbled in your hand. Your eyes fell to it. A wretched thing you used for your every task as it was the only one in the cottage that even remotely kept an edge. Once, on one of her irresponsible shopping sprees, Nesta bought it for you. Were it a gift from anyone else you would have been grateful. Less so from her. Still, your conscience couldn’t let it go to waste.
You were thinking too much. Again. And that never led to anything good, so you stood. “I need to check the traps.” Another of your attempts to provide for the rotten household. When you were little, you badgered Feyre into teaching you how to set them; ever since, you helped her tend them on the off chance it provided meat for one night. It rarely provided anything worthwhile, but when it did . . .
“Come back before dark,” Elain instructed. “That will be soon.”
Nesta chose to say nothing.
For once, you followed her example.
Outside, with the toxic hate you held for your family locked securely behind the front door, you felt you could breathe. The only good thing you’d ever gotten from any of them were the lessons Father gave you about wood carving, which you’d ran with until you honed the skill enough to put his little statues to shame. Well, that and Feyre as a sister. And in a fucked-up way you could thank them for growing a thicker skin. You sighed heavily.
A twig snapped in the direction of the woods. When your gaze scanned the area, you caught sight of your twin.
There was a brutal beauty in the way she trudged ever forward, with what looked to be a deer and the skin of something else slung over her narrow shoulders. You jogged towards her to help. It was the least you could do.
“Where’d you find this thing?” you asked, grinning widely as you took the beast onto your own back uncaring of the blood that dripped onto your too-thin shirt.
Feyre breathed into her fist to warm it the second it was free. “Deep.”
“And what’s the other, a wolf?”
“Yes, a big one.”
“Goodness! I’m glad you’re safe. This thing can’t have gone down easy.”
“. . . I used the ash arrow,” she admitted quietly.
Your eyes trailed over the silver-grey wolf pelt. “You think it was fae?”
Her hesitation told you plenty; yet still, she confirmed, “I’m not sure.”
You took a slow breath, wishing you knew a god of luck you could pray to. “Was it alone?”
“Yes.”
Then, that’s something. Let’s get you clean and warm. We can worry about fae later.”
Quiet crunching filled the silence as two pairs of worn-out boots traversed the snowy yard. Already, you felt tired. You had no idea how she’d hefted her prey home alone.
“How are they today? I left before they woke,” Feyre asked eventually. The pair of you were only a few feet from the door.
“Well,” you never knew how to answer the question, “Nesta still has her teeth, so they can’t be that bad.”
Feyre’s laugh sounded almost like a scoff. It wasn’t the first time you’d made the joke, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. “Fair enough, I suppose.”
Your other sisters were, predictably, horrible to you both when you entered the cottage. Feyre caught the worst of it--be it because she rarely fought back or because she was the youngest, you weren’t sure which. You caught the odd jab about the smell since you dealt with the carcass while Feyre washed.
That line of insults, you ended quickly by holding your knife in their direction. “Keep going. I dare you.”
No one was willing to test if your threat was an idle one. Not even if you were sure.
~
Then that monster in the night with its wicked dreams and promises.
“Absolutely not!” Your voice portrayed every last drop of indignance that flowed through you in those moments.
The creature’s inhuman eyes found yours. “Curious that you are the one to resist when you stand to benefit from the arrangement. Even your sisters agree. One less mouth for you to feed.”
“Well, I’m not them,” you spat proudly. “You’re not taking Feyre anywhere.”
Feyre called your name quietly, diverting your attention from the faerie threat. “We don’t have a choice in this. I . . . I made a mistake killing that wolf.”
“No, you killed a fae fucker that trespassed onto human lands!” you insisted. “This bastard’s words mean nothing.”
“You would excuse murder?” the beast challenged.
“Is it murder when you people,” you spat the word with as much venom as you could muster, “have killed ours over less for centuries?”
“And what can you do to stop it from taking her?” Nesta spoke up.
“I’ll kill you before you take her,” you vowed.
“No, you won’t,” Feyre announced. “I’ll go. Willingly. As long as we have your oath that no harm will come to my family.” Her eyes were locked onto yours as she said it.
“Feyre, no--”
Unfortunately, she shared ever bit of your stubbornness when she felt like it. “And they will want for nothing? They’ll die without me.”
The fae stared at her for a long moment. “That can be arranged.”
“No!” The word tore itself bloody from your throat.
Behind you, you heard Elain shout, “Father, don’t!”
Then pain.
And blackness.