Females were very rare in the night court's ruling family as it was, all either die young or end up forgotten in the abyss of history.
Rhysand ever thought he'd have to father one of these, in fact, he did't believe he even deserve to be a father, u...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
*video for vibes purposes*
For years, despite all cracks and hidden masks, Elayla still found her piece in the keys of a piano, sometimes for hours at a time, sometime one single sheet over and over for days and days.
It was obsessive, she was well aware, the wish to perform every piece with a meticulous perfection to the smallest detail, every note seeping down from her soul before her fingertips, feeling every bit of it in the deepest fibres of her being.
Mate...
Mate...
Mate...
Feyre Archeron was Rhysand's mate...
Feyre Archeron was her father's Gods-damned mate...
A mate is someone who understands every biit and fraction of him.
A mate is someone who brings out the best version possible of him.
A mate that happens not to be her mother but a female who was once a mortal girl and is now a High Fae on whome Prythian's future relies once again.
A human who currently went to meet the Bone-Carver.
Elayla felt her grip on her nerves loosen, turning the music to a frantic beat. Like the beat of her heart. Like the flow of her thoughts.
She once had the hope that maybe some day, her mother would show back just like she disappeared, that maybe they'd be a family, a home.
Rhysand, Maliah and Elayla.
The thought now sounded like a missed note.
Feyre and Rhysand.
That was the endgame.
It sounded so sickeningly like a rhyme.
They will have children...
She will be discarded...
She will be forgotten...
bastard...
ungreatful...
unworthy...
undeserving...
unloved...
A pair of hands, and her head snapped to the side.
He stood there, night triumphant, Illyrian leathers, hidden affection. Every bit the Rhysand he once was and still not the same at all.
Hollow and so so fake.
Faker than she tried to be.
"You've gotten better." He says, getle, soft "I remember you used to press random keys and still believe that you composed a masterpiece. Which you did."
The only tone for her. Her ba-
Her nothing.
He was her nothing.
"I've had forty nine years to practice." She spoke, her eyes not leaving the keys at all, scared of meeting his gaze, scared of getting used to the sight of him, only for him to get ripped away from her.
He was never hers anyways.
"Practice makes perfect." He swallowed back every other word. She wasn't ready, she wasn't setting the game.
Wake up...
Wake up, Nightingale, I'm here.
"Did you at least tell her?" She asked quietly, hoping he wasn't planning on hiding it.
"She's not ready yet." He answered, and she could feel the dispair inside him.
No one was ever ready...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Hi guys!
How are y'all doing?
So I'm back here.
Thank you for your votes, your comments are always welcome.
I'm so glad to be back to the vows series after finishing my first original book 'Rolling fake dice...'.
