"The universe is full of circles. The butterfly cycle, the circle of life, the theory of conservation… The fundamental law of existence is that everything is made for a purpose, and those purposeless return to their origins."

Feyre had once heard Azriel say that he might wait at least five hundred years before participating on a new war. Well, it was five hundred years since Nesta ripped off the head of King Hybern, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to handle another war. Five centuries - half a millennium - might span several generations of humans, but it was only slightly longer than the blink of an eye for Fae.

And Feyre had been very busy these past few years. There were repairs to be made around the Night Court - her court. There were thanks to be given, there was the alliance with Eris that had to be fulfilled, there was Vassa who had to be freed - none of it had been easy. And yet she was thankful that throughout it all, she had her mate, and her friends.

Rhysand, dark, beautiful Rhys, had been there like a rock, showering her in surges of pride that flickered across their mating bond, his strong arms and soft lips ready to embrace her at night. Cassian and Azriel, the two brothers had been quietly supportive, sombre pillars beside her. There were her sisters - Mor, Nesta, and Elain, whose soft hands and busy lips were there to comfort her, cradling her and chattering away her tears of pain and desperation. Even Amren's cranky words of tough love had helped her make it through.

The Court of Dreams - this was her family. These were her brothers and sisters, and her husband, who would love her as long as she lived. Every night, while gazing at the faceted majesty of her land, she would send up a small statement or relief to the stars, thankful to this land for giving her and her mate life once more, thankful for the chance to exist in happiness.

Of course, it was slightly different for Rhys, who had been born with these powers. Feyre was human, she hadn't even been Made by the Cauldron. She was given life by the keepers of this land, driven to do so not just by the entreatment of her mate, but by some drive, some instinct to give up some part of themselves to fill her with magic. Feyre had always suspected that she had been made for a purpose, to fulfill her duty to this land.

Which she had.

What she began with the absence of her declaration of love to Tamlin, she finished with her orchestration of Hybern's defeat. What this land, Prythian, had made her for, she had completed, and she thanked the stars every night for the years that had come afterward, for the years to come.

Five hundred years had passed since her creation, and now Feyre had created something of her own - something far, far more precious to her than the peace she had wrought. Something she had made with love, along with her husband, her mate, her love.

Sitting on the carved moonstone balcony of her palace, Feyre smiled at her swollen belly.

Any day now, she thought, and minute.

For she had created an heir to the most powerful Court, the Night Court - a realm of otherworldliness and potential and sugary spreads of stars. Within her womb, Feyre nursed a form who would one day inherit the full extent of the High Lord and High Lady powers, ensuring that this Court would continue its lineage.

When she gave birth to the baby girl, she and Rhys decided to name her Asteria, or star, after the shining beacons of hope that streaked across the sky on the Starfall night she was born.

Asteria was, as her name suggested, the light of everyone around her, from the very minute she left her mother's womb. She was charming, and her eyes were a deep, violet blue, that sparkled and looked like the center of a galaxy.

She was perfect.

And yet Feyre felt unhappy.

Asteria was perfect. Rhys was perfect. Everyone was perfect. But there was still something missing. There was something within her that was gone, like an aching hole, something that Feyre inexplicably felt would never return to her.

At first, she assumed it was the usual postpartum depression, and she clung to Asteria with the strongest mother's will. She devoted herself to her daughter, determined to be the best mother she could, determined to provide her with what she'd never had as a human.

For a time, Feyre convinced herself that nothing was wrong, that nothing was missing.

But something was.

Six months after Asteria's birth, she finally began to consume semisolid food, having been completely weaned off breast milk. That night, the feeling of something missing only intensified, assaulting her with a vengeance. And through it all, Feyre felt something tugging at her heart, like the whisper of a magnetic attraction. So determined to fix this emptiness inside her, Feyre followed it.

She left Rhys while he was sleeping, brushing a soft kiss against his throat, and left the palace, following this pull. For three days she was like an automaton, her very footsteps seeming to have been programmed. For three days, time was a blur, and she could never understand what she was doing, only that she must do it.

The evening of the third day, she finally regained her senses.

She knew this place, knew the dark hewn stone of the ceiling, the polished obsidian floors. She knew the sharp iron spikes of the chair she sat on, its cruel presence and volume characteristic of a throne.

Amarantha's throne.

Under the mountain, where it had all begun, Feyre realized what she no longer had.

Purpose.

This land had made her for a reason, and she had fulfilled it. She wasn't supposed to be Fae, she had been born a human. And she would die one.

For some reason, this did not fill her with fear or anguish, only peace. For she would join her father now, the Bone Carver, Stryga, all who had passed on. She had had five centuries and twenty years; she could not have asked for more time.

So with the resignation that fate brings, she gave in.

Summer's power left her first. In a heartbeat, she was aware of that presence of warmth and sun leaving her, leaching back into the fabric of Prythian, her affinity to water slowly uprooted and pulled away. Somewhere else, Tarquin might feel the return of that kernel of power. Then it was done, and without it, Feyre felt strangely cold from within.

But then Kallias's grand, pristine ice left her, and Feyre lost her ability over frost and wind, the power of bringing cool peace and icy daggers. And that was the second link to the land severed.

There was Eris' crackling fire, a power that reminded her of Lucien and Vassa, a power that she had often relied on. A power that she had once used against the then High Lord of Autumn himself, Beron Vanserra, in defense of her mate's dignity.

There was Thesan's cool, quiet balm of healing and meditation, that had so often protected her from within without violence. There was Helion's - and Lucien's - shining glory of day and sun that had illuminated Feyre in her most tender moments with Rhys. There was Tamlin's shapeshifting, the ability that she had used so often to save her loved ones, the ability that allowed her to become - for however long - an Illyrian like her husband and brothers.

And finally, there was night itself. There was the power she had grown to love and nurture for half a millenium. This was the power of night triumphant and stars eternal, the part of this land that she had ruled over and cared for personally. There was the fade of the mating bond that had never been broken, despite Hybern's best efforts, that had brought her so much love and joy, so much pleasure and happiness.

When Feyre lost that last link to this land, her only link to the family she loved, when she became human once more the tears began.

One after the other, they rolled down her face like shining pearls, as she heaved and sobbed with the ache. How she wished she had delayed the conception of her child, savored every moment of this time, how she wished she had had more time to say a final goodbye. This had been her life, a final escape from her days of poverty and pain, something she thought she might last forever and depart this world in peace with her mate - her once mate.

And then she began to age. In a matter of minutes, she lived another lifetime, her body cycling through all the changes that would have been hers had she not died once and been remade for and by this land. Her breasts first grew ever so slightly larger, her hips curved just a bit more, then they thickened and she grew slight lines around her eyes and the hollow between her cheekbones and jaw deepened. Then her skin and breasts began to sag, and her body was lined with wrinkles as her long, golden-brown hair darkened then grew streaks of silver, slowly turning snowy - almost like Viviane's. Her back ached and her knees trembled, and she knew that it would only be a few more minutes before she collapsed.

But through it all, even as each of the seven links that bound her to this land were severed, Feyre painted her last tribute.

With the dust that had formed thick over every surface, she sketched her commemoration to the life she had lived, drew her family's home and the three sisters, the palaces of Spring and the soaring silver moonstone of night. But through it all, she remembered those she loved.

She forgave Asteria, the child whose creation had been her last needed act, whose galactic eyes had strengthened her for six months, who she wished she might have gotten to see grow.

She remembered her three sisters: the proud, strong Nesta who had inspired her and stood there for her to lean on; the sweet, soft Elain who had smiled quietly and brightened every one of Feyre's dark days; and the bubbly, resilient Mor who had rescued her and shown her the brightness of friendship and love./

She remembered her three brothers: the wicked, humorous Cassian who had trained her at made her laugh with a roguish comment; the silent, loving Azriel who had loved her from the shadows and taught her how to fly and soar in more ways than one; and the kind, witty Lucien who had defied his own abuser for her sake and admired her despite her flaws, who she had saved once and healed with.

She remembered Rhys, flirtatious, loyal Rhys who had probably wakened the entire Court and was searching for her, ever since he'd felt the bond die and his power return to him, though Feyre knew he would never reach her in time to say farewell. She remembered the seductive rhythm that had brought her to Calanmai, her first glimpse of his stormy violet eyes. She recalled every beautiful moment of friendship and love they had shared, every dream and moment. She wondered if he would see her every day, if Asteria would look like her when she grew older.

As Feyre's joints gave out and she sank to the floor, she wondered how long it would take for them to find her. But her wrinkled, folded skin lay against the cool stone floor, and she thought it only fitting that she should leave this land during the darkest hour of night. She closed her eyes and conjured up an image of the stars, wanting that to be her final sight, and she thanked this land, despite her tears, for the opportunity to serve it, for the life she had been given.

And she died with a small smile.

Because all around her was the drawn evidence that her family would eventually find, of a life well lived. A life with no regrets.

A gift. All of it.