Of the Archer and the Dark

by miss_belivet

Summary:

She is his mate, his mate, his mate.

Feyre Archeron is the youngest member of the Fae nobility trapped in Amarantha’s court Under the Mountain, and she’s never known anything else; nineteen years ago, she was the last of three sisters born in the dark prison. She has never seen the stars, tasted fruit fresh from the vine, or set foot in her home court.

Now, dragged before the High Queen of Prythian in her father’s last-bid attempt to settle his debts by selling his daughters’ hands in marriage, Feyre faces scrutiny from all sides: the wicked queen herself, who takes a particular interest in securing an advantageous match for her; the leaders of the rebellion against Amarantha, who already paid the bloody price of failure once; and the cruel High Lord of the Night Court, who seems to enjoy nothing more than dismantling the defenses Feyre has spent years building against monsters like him.

Notes:

So here we are again! I had this idea over the weekend for an ACOTAR retelling in which Feyre and her sisters were born Under the Mountain, and then I wrote the first third of it in a handful of days. Let's see where this takes us!

To follow along with moodboards, playlists, and various bits of inspiration for this fic, check out the Of the Archer and the Dark tag on my blog here!

Chapter 1: Prologue

She is his mate.

It is a miracle he has never seen her before. New faces are few and far between Under the Mountain.

But this one, the youngest of the minor nobles trapped Under the Mountain, is equal parts entirely unfamiliar and painfully, horribly known to him. He has never met this girl before, but he recognizes the near-translucent skin of a female who has never been exposed to a single warm moment of natural sunlight from his dreams; if he looks, he will know the blue trail of veins visible on the back of her pale right hand as well as he knows his own. 

Feyre Archeron, the last of three sisters born underground, imprisoned in the dark and hidden away from the horrors of Amarantha’s court by their mother.

Until now. 

Until their father drove up his gambling debts and decided to sell his daughters on the marriage market to pay them off. The idiot simpers and scrapes at the edge of the proceedings, and it is easy to pin the Prince of Fools with a single glance.

She is the last to be presented, and when she is, he feels a phantom thread between his soul and hers stretch out toward her.

She is his mate.

Fay-ruh, the Deceiver croons, testing the name and the young female before her.

Amarantha beckons the girl closer, and Feyre Archeron’s High Fae blood betrays her when she rises awkwardly from her curtsy. Nevertheless, her steps are sure and graceful as she ascends the steps of the dais to stand before the High Queen of Prythian’s throne.

Her sisters are snubbed, but this one, the one who didn’t keep her eyes fixed on the floor beneath her feet long enough, will attend a tea with Amarantha this afternoon to discuss her prospects. She accepts the invitation with a tilt of her head, but she chews on her lip absentmindedly, nervously.

His own sneer is fixed, his lip curled, but behind the mask of the Lord of Nightmares, his heart freezes.

In time, the girl and her sisters are dismissed, the pretty one cringing away from the rotting corpses pinned to the wall and the eldest baring her teeth at their father the second before the tall doors close behind them. Amarantha's new plaything seems frozen, daring a final look back into the throne room before the vicious sister grabs her and drags her away.

Amarantha laughs at the image they make and then stands, sweeping her eyes over the assembled High Lords behind her. A flick of her wrist, and they are dismissed too.

He uses the little power that remains available to him under the curse to winnow away the second that loathsome head of crimson hair disappears around the corner. He barely makes it to his private quarters before he is on his knees, retching.

She is his mate.

His mate, his mate, his mate.