A Different Type of Ending

Chapter 19 - Feyre

Feyre

There were no words to describe the deep dark sadness left inside of me, lit only by the bright blue of the siphon. I clung to the gem so desperately it started to cut into my palms, letting the blood drip slowly down onto the blackened grass beneath my kneeling body. Swirling wisps of ashes curled from the ground in graceful arcs, stirred by the nearly dead wind. They crackled as they touched one another, and sighed as the touched the withered blades of grass. I had no tears left to cry, only those left staining my face were left. I heard cautious footsteps approaching me from behind, then felt that tiny fluttering of the powers inside me that I had once relied upon so heavily and now seemed so minuscule in comparison to the beast that had once filled me to my very core. I raised my eyes slightly, and placed the glowing stone on my knees. I lent forward, carefully and slowly, and grasped a handful of those ashes in front of me and pulled them in close to my chest. There was no burn to them, as there would be if they had come from a fire, but instead there was an icy coldness. Those footsteps behind me stopped as I tucked those ashes into a pocket on my knife belt, praying they wouldn't find a way to seep out. 
"Feyre Archeron, you a-"
"Don't" I rasped, near silent, interrupting the High Lord of Autumn as he spoke. "I don't want to hear it. I know my crimes, I know what I have done." I turned my head to look over my shoulder at the old, cruel face of the High Lord. "I know who I killed, and I know the punishment. Don't waste your breath." I turned back to that blue gem, delicately still balanced on my quivering knees. I held it gently again and rose slowly to my feet. I couldn't turn around, couldn't face the court whom I had failed, face all of the courts I had failed. More footsteps approached, and each halted where Beron had, all standing side by side. I knew there would be one missing from that line of seven. I turned, my eyes remained on the ground, staring intently at some blade of grass at the feet of the now six High Lords of Prythian, like a small child, desperately still clinging to a toy, staring at the ground, too scared to face the consequences of their actions. 
"Feyre Archeron," Beron started again, "you are under trial from every court of Prythian present for your actions against the continent, for your conspiring against the greater good and for your murder of Azriel." I didn't wince at those last words, didn't deny any of the claims, for I was the one responsible for the death of my friend, and for allowing myself to live and burden these people any longer. 
"Are you going to kill me for it?" I asked, quietly again, my voice hoarse and scraping against my throat, as if clawing its way out. 
"No, because those crimes are not yours." That voice, that damned anchor, dragging me back down to earth, out of my own self wallowing and pity. My eyes lifted from the ground, and I finally faced my High Lord, my mate, for the first time since everything had fallen into place.
"Where is your proof?" All of the High Lords seemed shocked that it had been me who questioned my saviour. Rhysand opened his mouth to reply again, an answer already fully prepared, but I could already see it in his mind, already hear that name coming out of his mouth, hear it ricocheting inside my head over and over again until it finally drove me insane. I held up a hand to silence him, and to my surprise he obliged, a question already on his face. I opened my hands and the blue shone even brighter, illuminating the faces of the High lords who must have stood no less than five meters from me. 

Rhysand's face crumbled almost immediately, that perfectly crafted facade falling to pieced in front of my eyes. My had already been obliterated by that storm, it had been whipped away by the swirling chaos that had ripped my friend away too. How dare I even call him that, how dare I call him anything. The siphon in my hands seemed to flare at my thoughts, in agreement or defiance I would never know, because I had no one to ask. 
"Everything you accuse me of is correct, every statement you make against my name is true and justified. I won't deny it, because I can't and I don't want to. Kill me if you will, I don't care anymore." My voice died at the end of my statement, my last remaining shreds of will finally falling to the floor. But there was one thing still nagging at the back of my mind, one last idea, one final action that I hoped would right my wrongs in one small way. 
"Then there is, in fact, only one suitable consequence." Tarquin stated, the youngest and seemingly most hesitant of all the High Lords. "I fear you already know what this is." I nodded solemnly and gave him a small smile.
"Yes. But," I said, "can I do one last thing first?" The High Lords looked at each other, excluding my mate who still seemed trapped by grief in his own mind, and seemed to have a silent discussion. All at once they seemed to reach a conclusion,
"What is your request Cursebreaker?"