𝐑𝐞𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧
: ̗̀➛ In 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝 the younger twin of Feyre Archeron
has to fight through the thorns of roses just
to survive.
〔Azriel x oc〕
╰┈˚ · ° . slowburn!
...
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╰┈˚ · ° . WE DINED ON ROASTED VENISON THAT NIGHT. The dinner, as usual, was filled with chatters from my eldest sisters. I ate in silence, leaving the conversation to them. But as always, it was some type of complaint. About the villagers, how they had no manners or social grace... I honestly couldn't care less about it.
"Well, I said to him, 'If you think you can just ask me so nonchalantly, sir, I'm going to decline!' And you know what Tomas said?" Arms braced on the table and eyes wide, Elain shook her head.
"Tomas Mandray?" Feyre interrupted. "The woodcutter's second son?"
Nesta's blue-gray eyes narrowed at her. "Yes," she said, and shifted to address Elain once again.
"What does he want?" She glanced at our father. No reaction—no hint of alarm or sign that he was even listening. Lost to whatever fog of memory had crept over him, he was smiling mildly at his beloved Elain, the only one of us who bothered to really speak to him at all.
"He wants to marry her." Elain said dreamily. I blinked and then blinked again. Disbelief and amusement grew into me at the thought of Nesta marrying the woodcutter's son.
Nesta cocked her head. Just like a predator would'd. "Is there a problem, Feyre?" She flung her name like an insult making my jaw ache from clenching it so hard.
I blinked another time, even knowing it was foolish to react to my sister's taunts, I couldn't help but let out a loud laugh. "You can't chop wood for us, but you want to marry a woodcutter's son?"
It was a laugh so loud and definitely not expected, that for a second, I swore I had seen everyone at the table jump at the sound. And it was a wrong laugh. An empty one, almost hollow in its sound.
Nesta's face now reminded me more of a predator ready to bounce on its next prey, then anything else.
Squaring her shoulders, my eldest sister decided it was easier to take it on Feyre. As much as she detested it, Nesta knew that if she could be cold, I could be much colder. She could've been harsh and disrespectful and I would just stare at her, with lifeless eyes. She searched for the trigger in everyone, the thing that makes you thick and explode but with me, she had found none. Nesta was anger made person, cold and unforgiving. And I was the nothingness, uncaring and hollow that sometimes even my heartbeat felt like it echoed in the shell of an empty body.
