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 ENTERED THE LINE OF TREES JUST OUTSIDE OUR HOME, following a couple of steps behind the fae still shifted into his animal form. Darkness had beckoned beyond and I was home. Not in the cottage with my family, but drenched in shadows.
A white mare was patiently waiting unbound beside a tree, magic keeping her tethered there or something. Her coat was white as fresh snow shone like the moonlight. Of course, expecting just one of us— and even more so confirming my theory that it had never been a choice to kill the one that had slaughtered the wolf— only one horse had been here to wait.
The High Lord motioned with his giant paw for us to mount mere, not even voicing his command.
I mounted first knowing that it had been years since Feyre had ridden. Once safely on top of the horse, I extended my hand for my sister, helping her to mount the saddle in front of me.
It wasn't surprising when we headed northward, toward faerie territory waiting just on the other side of the barrier. Fae and Faerie had from us human beings, called plenty of things, murderers and monsters from the more common. But humans were much like them, murderers and monsters. I was the living evidence of it. But my hate towards them was not born from hatred towards their kind from childhood horror stories of common hatred, but from something different. Probably even worse than hating them for a war that caused millions of deaths. One male, only one, and it had lighted the match of my hatred. And even worse, for everyone, not only for the faerie kind but for the world itself. Years ago it had almost consumed me. That is when I knew that he was right. Emotions are a weakness. And so, I blew out the match and with it, everything that was meant to spark any type of emotional response. It wasn't worth it, the fickle moments of happiness and too many ones of anger and sadness. It was somewhat better. I was better.
I glanced at my hand, the thick scar on my left palm staring right back at me.
Sometimes they would still come, those moments where I would feel before I shook it away. Sometimes I would make myself stare at the scar on my hand, the most emotionally painful one from all the scars that littered my body, and I would will myself to feel something, anything.. But most of the time... nothing ever happens. But it was how it was supposed to be. Because emotions are a weakness.
