I

Would you consider a part 2 for the fic where nesta just does as she’s told? Maybe where Cassian confronts the inner circle about it?

Pretty please <3

I’m not sure this is the closure people are looking for from this but uh … this is what came out. Sorry everyone.

Feyre rolled her eyes before Cassian could even finish speaking. It wasn’t like her, to be so dismissive. But that look in her blue-grey eyes, so alive that it twisted his gut thinking of the shade, it was pure dismissal.

“Listen, Cass,” she sighed, as if speaking to Nyx when he wouldn’t finish his mushed up sweet potatoes. “I … I don’t know what went on between you and my sister in the war. I know that she pushes your buttons and I know that you two have your … whatever it is, but just because Nesta doesn’t want to play that game anymore doesn’t mean anything is wrong with her. She’s finally herself again.”

“No she isn’t,” Cassian insisted. “She’s … I don’t know, faking it. Going through the motions. She’s -“

“Healing,” Feyre said with yet another sigh. “She’s healing, Cassian.”

“She’s numb, Feyre. And I swear to the Cauldron if you sigh at me one more time-“

“You haven’t known her as long as I have!” Feyre crossed her arms over her chest, clearly fighting back a fucking sigh. “You didn’t know her when she was young. Before we lost everything …” Feyre swallowed hard, shifting on her toes. “This is what she was like. Free, unburdened, quiet. I’m sorry that you liked the version of her that was bitter and afraid, but that wasn’t her. Not really. This is her.”

“Bullshit,” Cassian spat. “You said it yourself months ago. Nesta is like a wolf who never got to be a wolf. If she acted like this when you were rich humans it was only because she thought that’s what the world wanted from her!” Cassian knew Nesta. Feyre was her sister, had known her longer, but Cassian … Cassian knew her. In his bones, in his soul, the piece of him that was … not missing, that wasn’t how to describe it. The piece of him that was reaching. It knew. He knew.

This was not Nesta.

“Even if that is true,” Feyre sighed, “it just proves my point. She is healing. Finally. It took me so long to remember who I was again and Nesta … she’s been through so much. We all have.”

Suddenly, Cassian understood why Nesta snapped when he tried to shove stories about Rhys and Feyre and their special little journey’s down her throat.

“She. Is. Not. Ok.”

“She is,” Feyre spat. Hands tightening and jaw clenching. “She is fine. My family is finally together and happy and I won’t let you ruin it because she won’t fuck you, Cassian!”

Cassian stumbled back three steps. Feyre’s hand flew to her mouth. “I didn’t. Cassian I didn’t mean that. I know-”

“It’s fine, Feyre.” Cassian held his hands up in surrender. “I get it.”

And he did.

He should have gotten it a long time ago.

It was never about Nesta or her behaviour or her power. It was about Feyre, it had always been about Feyre.

Rhys’s plan, the insistence on training, it wasn’t about Nesta.

Nesta never wanted to be a warrior. She said it herself, there are other ways to be strong.

The plan … the entire plan had never been about Nesta.

It was about Feyre.

Fixing Nesta when she was never broken.

Creating impossible choices.

Using him to manipulate her.

No one had ever cared if Nesta got better. They only cared that Feyre was happy. That Feyre had her family. That nothing upset Feyre after everything she went through.

And the worst part of it all was that Cassian couldn’t even blame anyone. He couldn’t blame Feyre for wanting to believe that everything was finally fine. He couldn’t blame Rhys for doing all of this because … he was doing everything he could to protect his mate. To make her happy.

The same thing that Cassian was supposed to do for Nesta.

He was supposed to be the one on her side the way Rhys was on Feyre’s.

Complete loyalty.

He was supposed to protect her, and instead he broke her.

Failed her in every way a male could possibly fail.

Nesta Archeron had lived through a war, had removed multiple heads with her bare hands, had been shoved into the freezing waters of good and evil and creation itself and had her humanity ripped away.

But none of that broke her.

None of that was the worst thing to happen to her.

He was.

Chapter 1: The End of All that Was

Pity is for those who have lost. He cannot lose Nesta. There is not a universe he can fathom where he does not belong to her.

Cassian handles their breakup like a champ.

AO3

Warning: Cassian is a creep here-manipulation, stalking, the gamut

It takes weeks before Cassian begins to understand why she left. And if that isn't symbolic of their relationship he doesn't know what is.

Nesta knowing better, being better, as he trots behind. Coated in the arrogance of ignorance, always righteous until he's not, always catching the rhythm a beat too late.

***

He is a goner from their first meeting, leaning against the bedecked wall, grin growing as he watches her rip apart Rhysand's familiar monologue bemoaning the generous Christmas holidays he offers his workers (mostly under pressure from himself and Azriel).

She takes apart his brother's feeble justifications with the precision of a surgeon, irate expression contrasting beautifully with the festive and absolutely horrendous confection of lights and yarn she is wearing.

She is bewitching.

He waits, nursing his drink, quiet for once just watching, eager for a chance to introduce himself.

He is enthralled.

***

It takes three encounters to get her number and an embarrassingly sincere drunk confession to obtain a date.

Then in pieces, in the compounding fragments of the trust he earns, they become a pair.

Their relationship, his life's great love affair had always been loud. Screaming, fighting, laughing, fucking. Always wild, careless in their abandon, in their feckless behaviour as they jumped off the cliff, intertwined.

So why was Nesta's departure so quiet?

The muted rolling of a suitcase on carpet barely disturbing him from sleep, the ring left to catch morning light on the side table until he'd cops it on his way to work and rolls his eyes. Nesta is in a huff and he is indignant, ready to whinge to Azriel.

It's six months later, on their anniversary, that he sees Nesta's ending wasn't quiet.

He just wasn't listening.

***

It takes three days for him to realise she isn't coming back.

Convinced she'll return with the bang of a door, with sharp words he'll take and worse ones he'll offer in return, that after some makeup sex the ring will be home on her finger and he'll be thumbing through a wedding magazine before bed.

This misplaced confidence keeps him from calling. To let her cool off. Leads him to saunter to the apartment door Saturday morning only donning grey joggers. Wanting the upper hand, wanting to see Nesta flush so prettily and clench her jaw tightly, seeing right through his feeble tactics.   

Gwyn and Emerie, stony faces and empty cardboard boxes in hand, become a live audience to the destruction of his world. 

He stands stunned, head reeling as Nesta is removed from their apartment. He finds himself carrying out boxes of her books. All he wants is to take it all back, slam the door in their faces like a child because she can't just do this. But more importantly he needs to find Nesta. So a willing pack horse he becomes, trying to wheedle information from Gwyn.

His voice shaking, tears gathering, bile rising in his throat. 

"Do you know where she is?"

A nod.

"Will you tell me please Gwyn?"

Her red curls shake, a strong refusal. 

"I didn't realise she was being serious, I swear."

Gwyn stops in her tracks, head turning sharply to bestow a look that calls him an idiot in five languages.

***

When his house is emptied of anything that is her, anything he could not save, he returns to the ring still on the sidetable despite him begging Gwyn and Emerie to return it to Nesta. 

It is the only time they look upon him with an ounce of pity which only makes it worse. Pity is for those who have lost. He cannot lose Nesta. There is not a universe he can fathom where he does not belong to her.

The ring he cradles in battered hands amidst shattered glass and splintered oak.

His blood an artful, awful, Pollackesque smattering over the mess.

Flimsy furnishings seeming a small casualty when his heart is now a necrotic organ burning in his chest.

The ring he picked,

with a white dress,

a honeymoon in Paris,

the rest of their life, in mind.

A silent killing blow.

***

One last blazing row the night before.

Cuts landing too deep this time.

The final fragment of a trust he'd once treasured sacredly, spent so terribly,

"Who the fuck could stand you Nesta when I can't?"

It makes his stomach turn with sickening guilt. He would stitch those words into his skin with wire rather than say them to her now.

He'd like to think he's a different man, maybe a better one, but that's up to her.

She's the only deity he wants to weigh his soul.

He'll come up wanting.

But maybe...

Maybe she'd look at him.

Face him.

Let him burn alive in the grey fire of her glare.

He would delight in his damnation to have her look at him once more.

***

Saturday is a haze. Rhys and Az try to coax him out to no avail. His pain is raw. Anger, frustration, desperation a tumour growing unchecked in his chest. The broken sidetable now had a broken vase, two pictures frames and three tumblers to match it. 

She isn't answering his calls, vision blurry from tears and drink, the blue light of his phone is the only thing he can focus on in a world that is swimming. Her contact, Nes 🖤, a beacon a wavering light keeping him from going under. 

She isn't answering his calls and so the voicemails begin. 

"I have your ring. Sweetheart I'm not taking that back. It's yours. I'm yours... Nesta please just talk to me. I'm sorry about Wednesday night. Come back and we can talk."

Beep.

"What is this about Nes? We fight rough, always have baby. I'll do anything, say anything, get you anything you want just please Nes don't do this. We can get a fucking dog. I swear. We'll move to a different apartment. We can open a fucking dog hotel if that is what you want just.."

Beep.

"Tell me you're safe. Please. I'm going out of my mind here. I love you. More than anything."

Beep.

"Mor was right, you know you're such a fucking bitch sometimes. I'm trying to apologise when you left without a word. Fuck you sweetheart."

Beep.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. That came out wrong, I didn't mean it, just I..I'm beginning to think you're not coming back to me. This isn't goodbye Nes right? Right?"

Beep.

"Just punish me in person, I'll grovel for you Nes, you know that..........It's just a break. It's just a break. That's okay sweetheart you can have it all. Anything you want. Just talk to me first. Talk to me."

Beep.

"I love you. More than anyone else ever has, will or can. Just. If you're going to shred my heart. Do it in person. Do it in person and I'll walk away. Otherwise I'm going to fight you tooth and fucking nail love."

Beep.

The last voicemail a gauntlet thrown by a drunk fool. A sealing of their fate. 

***

She arrives on Sunday. Suitable for it to be a holy day if this is his last visit from his god.

He is relieved to see her. Drunken promises of walking away temporarily forgotten. She had texted him an hour before to let him know she was on her way. Giving him time to put the house back in order, air out the smell of alcohol, sweat and despair. He's in his nicest jeans, hair tied in a low bun just how she likes. In the bedroom he has candles and rose petals, ready to worship her.

He wants to remind her she loves him, or she at least she did once.

Purple is painted in the hollows under her eyes, a slight tremor in her hand, greasy hair falling limply around her drawn face. She looks terrible and still the most stunning person he knows.

He's done this.

He'd rather Az pummel him in the ring than see her like this.The aching in his chest makes it hard to breathe. He's made a mistake forcing her hand. 

She looks around, avoiding his gaze, eyebrows raising slightly at the very absent sidetable.

She'd been so happy when they found that at old flea market off Washington St. when they first moved in together. He should have thought of that before he left it in splinters. 

"There was an accident. I fell, you know how clumsy I get Nes. The table never stood a chance."

Her eyes land on him, and now it's him that can't bear to look, hand rubbing on his neck nervously, focusing on his white socks.

The silence is choking him.

"It's okay. It's okay. We'll get one just like it. I'll check Ebay. I'll ask Amren, she prowls around all the good antique shops. I'll make a replica if I have to. Lucien knows an excellent carpenter. I can fix it Nes. I promise."

He can fix it. He can fix this.

He meets her gaze and wants to vomit.

She looking at him with care, tears running down her face, voice barely audible.

"Cassian. We can't be fixed."

He can't think, he can't breathe, the world is on its axis and she's going to leave. The distance between them has vanished, he's on his knees, soft carpet beneath them a luxury he does not deserve, burying his face in the cotton of her tshirt hands wrapped around her waist. 

"No. Nes, no. You can't do that. You can't leave. I'm going to convince you to stay. That's why you're here. You want to stay. I love you. I love you. I love you. I can't be without you."

Pulling his hands from her waist she kneels beside him, caressing his face.

"I'm here to end it in person like you asked."

Her voice and his heart break simultaneously.

'I love you too Cassian. But love is not enough. I can't live like this anymore. On a pedastal at home while you ignore how I'm treated by your friends."

The words friends is spat out.

'You either worship me or we're fighting. So much fighting. Aren't you tired? I'm so tired Cassian. I need more. I need to be by myself for a while. I need someone who doesn't live at work. I need someone you're not Cas."

This is what hell feels like. He's being excommunicated for his sins. She's even doing it in person. His god, so cruel and alluring.

"I'm leaving now Cas. I'm moving away for a while. A clean break will be good for us. You'll thank me for doing this one day."

She let's out something that an alien might count as a laugh. Nervous and watery, choked and uncertain.

"I'll never thank you for this Nes."

She leaves.

He's still kneeling hours later her words a painful, unending echo in his mind.

***

He doesn't go out much now and drinking himself numb in this empty apartment is not who he is anymore.

He doesn't drink often but on their anniversary he let's himself drown in rum, in albums, in the box of her stuff he managed to keep after Gwyn and Emerie cleared house.

He cries into that stupid fucking Christmas jumper.

He sprays her bottle of perfume, letting the vanilla, blackberry, sage sink into the air, a ghostly embrace. Sitting amidst his shrine to her he allows himself to reflect.

Regret every overlooked sneer and snide comment. He doesn't see any of his friends, his brothers anymore. Nesta doesn't like them.

Rue every time he came home late, missed a date, was too tired to talk. He has a new job now, remote with flexible hours. It pays less but he still has his stocks and the nest egg he built breaking his back working for over a decade.

Rhys was frantic to keep him on. Bullshit talk about how he was spiralling, how she wasn't worth it. Punching that remark from his mouth, in front of the board, forced his termination quite effectively.

He has enough for Nesta to retire in the morning. He has enough to buy that fancy brie she likes, and handpainted books, and enough jewellery to fill a small store. He has enough to stay beside her so she won't have to miss him. 

He's even bigger now, all his free time spent in the gym, ignoring how eating so much protein makes him feel. She always liked feeling safe in his arms.

He's read all her books. Found her goodreads and follows it like his gospel. Has watched every show,  every podcast she consumed on their accounts. He'll share all her likes. He'll never fight her on anything.

Once he earns her forgiveness they can be happy again.

***

She's coming back to town next month. A flying visit apparently. He's going to change that.

His chance is coming to show her how much better is.

The type of man she needs. The type she'll never leave. 

Good at Starting Fires

I really hated the overly sexualised way that Cassian looked at Nesta in ACOSAF and ACOSF when he commented on her drastic weight loss. Instead of being concerned that she was losing weight at a drastic pace he was more ‘boobs man, great they’re still there’ and it wound me up no end.

I was sent a prompt by an anon that said 'angsty Nessian set in the Illyrian camp where Cassian sees Nesta in her underwear for the first time’ and I found that I wanted to try and right that 'wrong’ in relation to the above. Probably not quite what the requestor had in mind but hey ho.

Some mention of weight loss and concerns surrounding it.

***

The rain lashed onto Cassian’s exposed skin.

The deluge hadn’t turned into a full storm quite yet but still, this was the worst weather he had seen in a long while, the wind barrelling into him warranting his full concentration in order to continue to fly upright.

Cassian would have chanced some different manoeuvres to make flight easier but he wasn’t flying alone.

The female in his arms had said nothing to him since they left the ground, perhaps planning to ignore him for the remainder of their eternal lives. Cassian would usually provoke her into retaliating against some jibe but tonight, with thick darkness surrounding them and the harsh pelt of the cold rain against their skin, goading wasn’t suitable.

Instead, Cassian flew through the onslaught, clutching onto a shivering Nesta.

Keep reading

Since you asked... Soft Nessian headcanon: Nesta is absolutely the type to read through the night and Cassian will be passed out asleep curled up next to her but periodically there will be a sleepy mumble of "go to sleep" but Nesta will just keep saying "one more chapter"

This technically was just a really good headcanon, but I am so sleepy that I wrote a fic about sleep. This is my second fic about sleep... being half awake must inspire me or something.

~

Nesta’s chest is a beautiful thing. Not just because her breasts mold perfectly in his hands and she becomes pliant as he tugs and bites, but because when Cassian lays his head there, he can hear her life like trickles of water. Her heart is the pitter-patter of rain.

There’s nothing quite like music than the sounds that Nesta Archeron makes. From her moans, to her yells, to her quick snapping fingers when she’s frustrated. There’s nothing much that can compare to the sound of her breathing. Even the symphonia can’t rival her heartbeat.

So Cassian finds Nesta’s chest most agreeable. It’s the best place to sleep, where he can wrap his arms around her while she reads. It’s the best position for his wings.

He worries about his weight hurting her at first, but Nesta assures him that she’s comfortable. She’s always cold, Nesta reminds him.

You keep me warm, she says.

Cassian swears he blushes at her words but he buries his burning cheeks in her blue nightgown and she burrows her fingers into his hair.

It’s easy to sleep with her heartbeat in his ears. It’s like his soul calms at the thump it makes and she reads the night away, absent-mindedly stroking his hair. He wants to cry at first... at the touch. What it means. She, the female of his dreams, in his arms.

More than that, Nesta loves him. He’s never felt more loved in all his life so it’s easy to drift, to float down still waters where sleep awaits. He has never felt more safe than in her arms.

And sometime in the night, she laughs. A soft bell rings in his ears and the movement of her chest has him grasping her tighter.

“Go to sleep,” he mumbles.

“Shhh,” Nesta whispers as if his interruption disturbs her. “It’s night already, you should be sleeping.”

He merely gives her a slow blink and when she raises a brow as if to say of course, she’s right, Cassian can’t seem to argue when he’s only half-awake.

“Go to sleep,” he grumbles, when he hears the shift of a page.

“There’s only one more chapter,” Nesta says.

“That’s a long chapter,” Cassian muses as he closes his eyes.. He can still see the chuck of more than a few chapters under her hands, but he’s too tired to argue and Nesta’s much too soft and warm to resist.

And when Cassian awakens for the third time that night, he can only frown at the book still in her hands. The light is still on and the heavy glow makes him want to shield them both with his wings.

“Go. To. Sleep.”

“There’s only a few more chapters,” Nesta pleads, showing him the pages as proof. “I’m not lying this time.”

Cassian concedes, tucking himself into her chest as he grumbles about sleep. He drifts off to dreams thinking of rain.

When Cassian wakes for the fourth time, it’s to a heavy book thumping on his back. Her thumb is still stuck in-between pages and Cassian reaches for her bookmark first.

Her chest moves languidly like ships rocking on the sea, and Cassian thinks he’ll dream of waves tonight. He'll hear siren songs as he sleeps.

But first, he reaches for the light and tucks her closer.

@arinbelle

“You’re going to die,” Lucien said. “I’m aware of it every moment I’m with you.”  

At the morbid words, Nesta began to frown but Lucien held up his hands. Wait, his look answered. 

Ordinarily Nesta might have interrupted him purely out of principle. But Lucien was lucky she knew him so well. He looked at her with that same look she’d seen a million times. One for every chase. One for every tease. One for everyday they laughed. 

He sighed, some noncommittal, frustrated sound and Nesta yearned to reach for him, to comfort him, but Lucien placed a gentle palm on her cheek. She could feel them burn as he rubbed his thumb across. “Even if you could live forever, I think I’d still be afraid to lose you.” 

Seguir leyendo

ACOSF 78.5

Wrote a chapter that i felt was missing, plz convey ur thoughts  plagiarized the sex scene bc that felt uncomfy to write lol

Hours later, once Feyre and Nyx were sound asleep and Rhys had some color return to his cheeks, Nesta and Cassian flew back to the house. The new family was under vigilant watch by Mor and Elain, the latter who had refused to let Madja leave without the finest bouquet made from the rarest plants in the river house garden.

Mor had winnowed Gwyn and Emerie back to the library – Emerie had no desire to return to Windhaven just yet, especially when her home had been torn apart both by their Illyrian kidnappers and later, by Cassian’s utter panic. Nesta was not quite ready to part with her sisters-in-arms just yet, but knew they all desperately needed a bath and a warm meal.

Alone in the sky, Nesta rested her head against Cassian’s shoulder. She savored his scent, taking deep, heady breaths of him as they flew under the twinkling stars in the sky. She savored the feel of his strong heartbeat alongside the steady beat of his wings. She pressed a kiss to his jaw and idly traced the veins of his neck. She had missed this feeling desperately over the past week. And for a few terrifying moments on the slopes of Ramiel, she thought would never be in his arms again; the though threatened to set free the tears she hasn’t yet shed. Cassian must have sensed the direction her thoughts had headed in and only clutched her tighter to him.

Cassian flew them higher and higher, and with each beat of his wings, Nesta allowed the bone-tired weariness to creep in. She couldn’t remember the last time she ate a full meal or got a full night’s rest. She ached to be reunited with her bed or be reacquainted with the House’s culinary creations.  

A few wingbeats later, Cassian arrived at the landing of the House. He gently lowered Nesta down to her feet, but as soon as her legs touched the ground they threatened to buckle. He wordlessly lifted her back up and carried her past the threshold of their home.

“Welcome home,” he whispered against her ear.

Nesta shuddered; her home, her friend. In response, the house brushed a calming wind against her forehead, and Nesta could smell of roast beef (or was it a steak?) wafting from her room and hear a trickle of water coming from the adjoining bath. As if the house knew exactly what she needed; an old nursemaid indeed.

Cassian carried her down to her room and cautiously set her down. Her knees wobbled but she remained upright. They both silently took in their surroundings and started; in the corner of the room stood a spiral staircase, a staircase connecting her room and Cassian’s above her.

Cassian chuckled, “Guess someone has been doing some redecorating while we’ve been away.” 

“I guess so,” Nesta mused. To the House she said, “Thank you.” Nesta could’ve sworn the air around her bowed in response.

“What should we do with my room upstairs – we can turn it into an indoor training ring. Or an auxiliary library. Or into a giant closet. The opportunities are endless,” Cassian grinned. 

Nesta blinked away the tears threatening to let loose. It was so silly – so silly to be brought to tears by something this mundane. But to have options, to have the ability to plan for the future. The future with him. This was something she would never again take for granted.

“We can do whatever we want.” She said in response. She took in a deep breath. “But right now, I think I really want a bath.” 

Cassian nodded. “I can’t say I like the scent of you in another male’s clothes. I’m looking forward to using this outfit as kindling.” 

Nesta snorted, and slowly, painfully walked into the bath chamber towards the already drawn bath. The enticing scents of lavender and lilacs drifted towards her; but she found herself too exhausted to peel off her clothes, oversized though they were. Cassian silently entered behind her and gently took off the stolen, stinking clothing. He lifted her naked body into the bath and Nesta groaned at the first touch of warm water against her aching body.

The water didn’t sting against her injuries as it should have; taking a quick glance at the bottles lined up next to her told Nesta that the House had mixed a healing salve into the water. Nesta couldn’t be more grateful.

As soon as she was settled in the bath, a tray of roast beef and vegetables appeared in front of her, resting across the tub. Next to the main course was the most beautiful slice of chocolate cake Nesta had ever seen. The sight of the steaming meat and shining dessert had Nesta ready to break down in tears again.

“Looks good enough to eat.” Cassian said, a touch too innocently. Nesta smiled up at him.

“Do you want to get in?” She asked him, echoing the question from so many months before.

The amber in his eyes darkened, his eyes scanning over her body like a brand. His gaze lingered on a cut on her shoulder; Cassian sucked in a breath, and schooled his face into neutrality. Courtier indeed. His response was the same now as it was then, and a softer type of pain slashed across his eyes, “You’re hurt.” 

“That didn’t stop you before.”

Cassian growled, low and heady in his throat, and Nesta’s blood sang in response.

Cassian pointed towards the tray of food. “Alright. Get started on your dinner. I’m going to go dispose of these godsforsaken clothes and be right back.” Cassian turned and picked up the pile of torn and dirty clothes and strode out of the bathroom.

Nesta’s tired and aching body thrummed in anticipation, creating a strange combination of exhaustion and eagerness. She turned her attention towards her food, and began to eat, counting down the seconds until her mate returned. 

*

Cassian hadn’t been gone more than four minutes when he returned to the bath. He laughed softly at his view: Nesta dozing off, in front of her a half-eaten plate of roast beef and a second plate, completely empty, where not a single crumb of chocolate cake remained. Nesta’s mouth was lined with her dessert; he had never known his mate to be an ill-mannered eater, but the residue from her meal showed him how starved she must have been.

Mate. His mate. He leaned down and helped himself to the remaining beef and vegetables on her plate. This wasn’t quite the food sharing ceremony that he wanted, but what was hers was his, and what was his was hers. They might as well start sharing now.

He lifted the empty tray off the bath and set it on the floor. He turned to grab a towel but was halted by Nesta stirring.

“What took you so long?” She grumbled.

“I was gone for less than 5 minutes. You’re exhausted.”

“I don’t care. Get in.” Nesta threw as much bite into the command as she could, but her exhaustion won out. Instead, she wound up sounding like a petulant child. Irritated, she made to scooch forward in the tub and stared up at him expectantly.

Cassian loosed a sigh and rolled his eyes. “Your wish is my command, my lady.” He peeled off his clothes, keeping his eyes on hers. He wanted her – needed her – badly, but knew she needed rest. He lowered himself into the bath behind her, wings and all.

“Dunk your hair in so I can wash you.”

Nesta obeyed, and was rewarded by his fingers skillfully lathering something scented with lilacs into her hair. He massaged her temple, her hair, and behind her ears with such skill that she moaned. She felt him hard and ready behind her and made to reach for him. He flicked her hand away, his laugh a quiet grumble in his throat. Cassian leaned his mouth down against her ear to whisper, “When you’re healed and looking pretty again, then I’ll let you fuck me wherever you please in this House.” 

“Using my own words against me. You’re a quick study, Courtier.” Nesta chuckled, “You would think saving the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court would entitle me to some sort of a reward.”

Cassian felt his heart clench, and quickly forced the somber thoughts out of his mind. She had saved them; she had saved them all. He would never stop being thankful for his brave, beautiful mate. “Dunk your hair back in the water and we can get you dried up.” 

“I don’t want to leave the bath yet. I like it here.”

I like it here with you, were the words that were left unspoken, but understood, between the two of them. Cassian nodded silently against her, pressing a kiss to the back of her head.

Nesta leaned more fully against him and closed her eyes, and Cassian wrapped his arms around her waist. In their home, his mate in his arms, he relished in this moment. This is more than I could have ever dreamed of.

Nesta whispered, “You’re more than I could have ever dreamed of.”

Cassian stared down at her, but her eyelids were drooping and he knew that she needed rest. He only held her closer and began soothing strokes down her leg.

Safe in her mate’s arms, Nesta slept. 

*

Hours, or maybe even days, later, Nesta awoke in her bed. It was dark again – could she have actually slept an entire day? She rubbed her eyes awake.

Wings, she realized. She had been sleeping cocooned in her mate’s wings; they both were. She turned to face him; her beautiful, kind, and fiercely loving mate. Her love.

It was rare that she awoke before him; his Illyrian training had him up at the crack of dawn every single day. It wasn’t often that Nesta had an opportunity like this, an opportunity to stare at his perfect face. A face she hadn’t seen for a week. A face she hadn’t been able to fully appreciate in their reunion that had been cut short.

Conveniently enough, they were both naked – she peered down and laughed quietly. Even in sleep, he was ready for her.

Nesta lifted an arm to trace the velvety membrane of his wing. She traced from its outermost border toward his back, stroking determinedly where skin met wing, and pressed a kiss to his chest, trailing her mouth upwards. She reached her other hand down and began pumping him softly, and felt her own wetness begin to pool between her legs.

“Good morning,” he whispered when her mouth met his.

“Good morning,” she whispered back, smiling. She lifted her hips in silent command.

Grinning wickedly, Cassian obeyed. He nudged at her entrance but halted there, and Nesta whimpered.

Cassian snickered, “Still so impatient, Archeron.”

Nesta growled. She arched her neck in a second command digging her fingers into his shoulders, and Cassian didn’t hesitate a single second before licking up her neck and plunging into her at the same moment.

I missed this. Being drenched in you. Nesta gasped at Cassian’s voice, as clear as any words spoken aloud, in her mind. Cassian chuckled, his laugh a song to her blood. One of the many benefits of the mating bond, in case you forgot.

Cassian drew out in a long slide, leveraging Nesta’s stunned silence to his benefit. He thrust back, seating himself fully and watched her eyes roll back into her head. The sight of her so undone so quickly had him ready to come instantly, but he willed his cock to relax.

He withdrew again, and watched his cock slide out, gleaming with her wetness, and then plunged again. With every thrust, he lost himself in her, as if he hadn’t already done so weeks, months, and years ago. He lost all sense of himself, and there was her, only her.

I love you. He said into her mind with every thrust. I love you.

Nesta couldn’t stop the barrage of tears freeing themselves from her eyes. The words that had evaded her for so long, the words she knew to be true with his every action and every glance in her direction. The words she didn’t know she needed to hear until now. 

“I love you,” she choked out, “I have always loved you.”

 I love you. With everything I have ever been, with everything that I am, with everything I will ever be. I love you.

Release barreled into them both at the same moment, and he rammed up into her with such a mighty thrust that they both screamed. She clamped around him, and he spilled as much of himself as he could into her.

They clung to each other, Nesta stroking his arm and Cassian clutching her tightly to his chest on top of his thundering heart.  

“I love you,” he whispered, silver lining his eyes, “More and more with every passing moment, with every passing day.”

She kissed him deeply, letting her lips and mouth and tongue convey what words could not. Surrounded by the love of her House, the love of her mate, and her growing love for herself, she said to him, do it again.

Cassian grinned, happy to oblige.

Someone tell me why instead of editing my thesis I’ve spent this morning writing an angsty Nessian/furious Nesta one-shot, when I haven’t written fanfiction in… six whole years?? Have I just unlocked a new level of procrastination and putting off deadlines????

(Nope I don’t know when this is set. Maybe after Eris proposed? Idk. Maybe Nesta accepted the proposal and it was the kick up the arse Cassian needed. Maybe Eris treats Nesta right from day one. Maybe Cassian has to actually work for it instead of just telling her her opinions are bullshit. Idk. It’s out of my system now so will probs never finish this. It came into my head like this and I had to get it down. That is all. It’s not even edited but… here it is anyway.)

“I fucked up.”

Well, she couldn’t argue with that.

“I know. I know.” His eyes were a kind of frantic she’d never seen before. Wild. She could see the storm brewing there. He ran a hand through his hair. “Just- just tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can fix it.”

Silence.

It wasn’t often that words failed her. She was always ready with some sharp remark, some biting comment. But as he stood before her, arms outstretched and palms facing upwards almost in supplication… for the first time she didn’t know what to say.

She’d never seen him plead like this before. His face seemed bare without that smirk he always wore. His eyes empty without that gleam, that spark that said he was riling her up on purpose. His hand ran again through his dark hair, and for a moment she could have sworn his fingers trembled.

“Please.”

He was waiting. She should say something. Anything. Tell him what he wanted to hear, because there was a kind of guilt building in her stomach and clawing up her throat. Just one word from her could fix it, couldn’t it?

All she had to do was say yes. Give him what he wanted. Make him happy.

But, hell, she was far too stubborn for that. Instead she set her shoulders, stepped away from him, just barely. Enough for him to notice.

She saw his face fall even further; she hadn’t thought it was possible. He’d looked so distraught when he’d followed her out here, the door slamming behind him, and she hadn’t thought it could get worse.

That look in his eyes almost killed her.

But this wasn’t her fault.

She wasn’t good at admitting when she was wrong, that’s true. But this time, this time she was certain she wasn’t at fault. So let him grovel.

Let him suffer, just a bit.

God knows he made her suffer enough. They all had, and it made her blood boil in her veins. How blind he was. How utterly stupid.

“You seem awfully determined to right any wrongs tonight,” she said at last.

“I’ll do anything, Nes. Tell me what to do.”

She tilted her head. Kept her voice low, soft, almost gentle, as she said:

“How far back shall I go?”

Confusion flashed across his features. He wasn’t fooled by her tone. He knew her well enough to know this was a trap. That she was just waiting for him to put his foot in his mouth. His eyebrows furrowed, and he opened his mouth to speak, but she was done waiting. She cut him off before he could find the words to say.

“Shall we start with tonight? Or shall I start from the beginning?”

A pause. His eyes darkened, and she knew him well enough to know that he was getting annoyed. Good.

“Every time you ignored my grief. My suffering. Ignored it because it wasn’t palatable, and decided I was dealing with all of this in the wrong way. Shall we start there?”

He folded his arms across his chest. Turned his head away.

A laugh burst from her, low and bitter.

“It doesn’t matter.” She said quietly. He snapped his head back towards her so fast she almost heard it crack.

“Of course it matters.”

She raised an eyebrow. He let out a long, shaky breath.

“We didn’t know how much you were suffering before-”

“Is that what you tell yourself? To make yourself sleep at night?”

“You think I’d have stood by and-”

“Yes.” She said simply. Her interruption stunned him. She stunned him often, she knew that much, but she rarely left him speechless. His eyes widened, and she was torn between satisfaction and devastation when she caught that look of heartbreak on his face. “What was it you said? You couldn’t understand how either of my sisters could love me?”

He flinched.

The bulking, massive, warrior before her flinched.

Again, that anger inside her was satisfied.

Good.

“You know I’d walk over hot coals for you. To hell and back-”

She couldn’t stop it, the laugh that burst out of her. Sharp and biting and vicious.

“You couldn’t even walk me back from a battlefield.” Her words were soft. So soft, but they couldn’t hide the venom there. The anger she’d harboured for so long now.

Everything else she’d told him.

How she couldn’t bear to hear the crackle of a fire. How the sound of her father’s neck breaking dogged her every step, the sight of the blood - so much blood - plagued her dreams. How submerging herself under water just to bathe made her feel like she was drowning, dying, and how oblivion was starting to feel like a mighty nice concept.

But she hadn’t told him this part. That when it mattered, when it really mattered, he’d disappeared. Limped away and left her alone.

Before then… before then, he’d listened to her when nobody else had. She’d felt something off that day at the meeting, and her sister had dismissed it, but he hadn’t. She’d felt his hand on her back when they asked her to find that damned cauldron, and it was an anchor, grounding her.

She’d bandaged his wrist, and he had looked at her like she was the entire world. Like everything else faded into insignificance the moment her fingers touched his skin. And even when he’d dropped her hand like a burning coal, she hadn’t given up.

She’d laid her life down alongside his, fully prepared to die as long as she did it by his side. She’d given up everything. Everything.

And it was in those moments after the battle, when she stood alone, watching her sisters walk away arm in arm, not even noticing that she’d fallen behind, when she couldn’t catch her breath and her lungs wouldn’t work, and it was quiet but her mind was screaming, and she wanted to sob but tears wouldn’t come…

And he was nowhere to be seen.

It was then she’d decided to fuck the lot of them.

And that night, when she’d gone to bed instead of celebrating - they were fucking celebrating - she heard their sighs. The exasperation in their voices as she turned and climbed the stairs. She felt it, how they were torn between rolling their eyes at her (haven’t we all been through a lot, she imagined they’d say), and feeling some kind of relief that she’d gone away rather than burden them with her trauma.

And as she cried into her pillow, fingers clenched into the sheets and fists shaking, she knew that every single promise every single one of them had made was meaningless. She heard the corks of bottles popping. Heard their laughter.

Fuck them all.

He looked winded now. It brought her back into the present, the almost breathless gasp that escaped his lips.

She could see the words - the excuses - starting to spill from his mouth, but she was tired. Exhausted.

She held up a hand and he stopped. Considered her for a moment.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered it, and there was pain there, in his voice and behind his eyes.

It was all she had wanted to hear from him, wasn’t it? Hadn’t she told herself at night that if he’d just realise that this - all of this - was at least partly down to him, too, then she could move on. She could forgive him for every acid word he’d thrown her way, because god knows she’d thrown enough at him, too.

But when it came down to it… she couldn’t. She thought those words would be a balm. She thought that when he finally, finally, noticed how much pain she was in that she could stop being so… angry. Stop lashing out.

Instead all she felt was disappointment. Like she’d been building up this moment for months now and it just… wasn’t enough.

Because he might have apologised, but he’d never taken those words back. And she might have snarled at him and snapped at him, but he was the one who followed her when she didn’t want to be followed. Who pushed her when she didn’t want to be pushed.

Who saw her pain on that cold winter night and instead of reaching out, told her that he couldn’t understand why anyone loved her. He was the one who told her they all hated her. Told her she needed to try harder, when even breathing felt like too much.

No. It wasn’t enough.

Nesta was slow to admit when she was wrong.

She was even slower to forgive.

This is way out of my comfort zone, but for all you Nezriel lovers... here ya go! Nesta vs the Buffer - Part Two (18+)

Nesta had been about to extinguish the little lamp beside her bed when the door had knocked. She wasn’t sure if she had heard it correctly, the brush of knuckles had been so gentle like the sweep of the wind.

A male was at her door, dark head bowed as she opened it. Azriel’s hazel eyes flickered to hers.

‘Have you been sent to kill me?’

A crease pressed between his brows. ‘Do you think I would knock if that was the case?’

‘Well, you are very polite.’

It struck Nesta that they had never really had a conversation, just the two of them before. They had spoken, sure, but usually as part of a group or if other people were present. He was tall in his own right; not as physically imposing as Cassian, but he reached as high as the door frame. A thick sweeping of hair fell across his forehead. She’d always thought him the prettiest.

They stood in a strange stalemate. Two of her neighbours were arguing in their apartment; it was a common occurrence she had found out, though only occurred late at night. It would go on and on. On the second night, she had knocked to see if the female shrieking needed help – only to be told by both of them to mind her damn business.

‘Are you here for a reason?’

Azriel swallowed. A shadow eclipsed him briefly. ‘I suppose I wanted to see if you were okay.’

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

That dinner had been downright awful. Right from the start where she had tipped mushroom soup over herself and ended up wearing a dress that was too risqué, from being told the wrong time, for being forgotten and overlooked, all the way to her little eruption at dessert. None of it made her too embarrassed – except perhaps asking Varian if he slept with Cresseida. That was maybe slightly too far.  

‘Can I stay here tonight?’

‘What?’ Nesta’s voice blurted, far too loudly. She tightened her dressing gown around her body then shifted back a step.

At her reaction, Azriel had grimaced slightly. ‘I continued what you started at the restaurant tonight. I don’t want to speak to them. And I know this is the last place they would expect me to be.’

Her apartment became a refuge for the shadow singer. When duty called, he returned to the inner circle. That wall of ice that surrounded him would not yield. He reported back to Rhys, winnowed wherever he had to for missions, but in his free time, he could be always found at Nesta’s apartment rather than spending another moment in their company. He didn’t share what happened at the restaurant. Nesta didn’t particularly care. She had said her piece and left the door open for him to swoop in

It was startingly easy to move around him. They orbited each other silently. Nesta might go out for a few hours, returning with a new book or Azriel would bring hot food with him from a café in Velaris. They never squabbled over using the bathroom, they ate the same food, had the same tastes, and were content to be in a reserved quiet. He didn’t get in her way, didn’t take up too much space. She only bothered him to offer him a drink or snack. Azriel always tidied the blankets on the couch each morning though Nesta doubted he slept much. Sometimes she could hear him, treading almost silently around the living room. It was only because she was still awake herself that she ever heard him.

One night when he’d knocked on late, she’d handed him a key, blinking at the bright lights in the corridor. ‘I’m sick of getting out of bed in the middle of the night. Let yourself in from now on.’

His eyes had passed over the key like Nesta had given him an heirloom. The pad of his thumb stroked along the collar and the bit. ‘Thank you.’

Another week passed with quiet conversations. She saw him only in the moments before she went to bed. A bat by looks and by nature, she had said, drawing a smile from him. Nesta liked those smiles because they were so rare. She had yet to see the shadow singer throw back his head in full-bellied laugher or to even show his teeth when he grinned. Azriel guarded himself carefully. It was a practise she knew very well.

Perhaps that was the reason why, that in such short space of time, they had warmed to each other. Nesta did not pry. Azriel did not either. He read reports. She read her books. She cooked. He cleaned. Sometimes he would disappear in the middle of the night, leaving the door on the latch, coming back before dawn, but Nesta didn’t interrogate.

‘Not that I want you gone, but I have to ask how long you do plan to be here for?’

A shadow danced near his ear, but Azriel swatted it away like a fly. How long will you remain angry with your family, she wondered. Would an equal measure of five hundred years dull the pain?

‘What I mean is, I feel terrible that you sleep on this dreadful couch. At your great age, it must play havoc with your back.’ A slight smirk from the shadow singer sent a wave of pride rushing over her. ‘If you planned on a long-term scenario… We could find another place with two bedrooms.’

‘You’d want to live with me?’

‘Why not? We already are.’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, threading a hand through his ebony hair. ‘The others tell me to loosen up, to lighten up, to be louder.’

A cocoon of silence always followed him. He never rushed his words or said more than he needed to.

‘I like you as you are,’ Nesta admitted.  

Something charged passed through their gaze. Nesta felt it spike in her veins like a spark. Shadows blurred him from view so she took that as her cue to go to bed.

***

‘Why do you leave the room when I light a fire?’ Azriel couldn’t keep the question in. He had been staying there for almost three weeks now. With the arrival of colder weather, he’d fought against his revulsion for fire to keep the apartment warm for them. And every time that first tendril of flame had come to life, Nesta would depart to the bedroom. ‘Is it my hands?’

He kept his hands balled into fists, the scars taut over his bones. Nesta froze in the doorway to her bedroom, a book clutched to her chest. Instinct had her gaze darting to his hands then she shrugged. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘My hands,’ he repeated, the words unsure on his lips. He hated this. Hated drawing attention to them.

Nesta drew nearer hesitantly. She set the book down on the small table. ‘I don’t know what happened to your hands. I don’t have an issue with them, Azriel.’

Azriel tensed. He had thought all the sisters knew. The story had been given wings in secret as if it would spare Azriel’s feelings if they all knew without him having to share the story.

‘What happened to your hands?’ Her voice was gentle. It was the gentle tone Nesta only ever reserved for Elain. Firmly, she caught hold of each hand and pressed them both between her own. It was the first time that somebody hadn’t examined them, hadn’t tried to cast an inconspicuous look upon them when they were the topic of conversation. She had acknowledged them, but hadn’t given them value. He was more than his scars.

‘My father and his wife kept me imprisoned in darkness for years. My brothers poured oil on my hands then lit them.’

The words were rough. He’d told the story only once before – over five hundred years ago when he had finally trusted Rhys and Cassian enough to share it with them.

Azriel could not look at Nesta. Could not bear to see if she was about to inspect his hands. He braced himself for the words that so many said. They were words that ruined him, no matter how well intended they were – have you seen a healer? Can they not be glamoured away? Why don’t you wear gloves?

Nesta merely squeezed his hands tighter with her own and said, ‘I cannot be near a fire because when it cracks, I am back on that field. I am watching the King of Hybern break my father’s neck. When I hear the logs split, I am waiting to die at the hands of the king.’

Not all scars could be seen. What his blood had done to him had ruptured a part so deep that it would never heal. What Nesta had been exposed to in the war festered in her chest too.

They had showed their insecurity to the other. It was strange to let her in – strange to let anybody in, least of all the cold and imperious Nesta Archeron.

On the couch, they sat in silence. He allowed Nesta to look at his hands without hiding them away. Her fingers found patterns in the brutal scarring rather than being repulsed by it. Azriel was sure that there wasn’t a scar that she hadn’t touched. If she was faking it, hiding her disgust, she was a good actress. Even Mor had always faltered slightly before touching them as if they might catch and her unblemished hands would be ruined.

Every time the fire spat, Nesta’s body would tense. She’d grip onto his hands until she had coasted through the wave of anguish. They were each other’s anchor that night.

The following morning, they did not acknowledge the moment they had shared. Azriel wasn’t even sure if he had dreamt it. A mutual trust had grown between them without realising. He found himself watching her butter toast with an expression that anybody else might read as severe. Nesta always looked as if she was scrutinising something even if she wasn’t. Her smiles were there, but locked away. On the rare occasion that Azriel had prised a genuine laugh from her, it bathed him with warmth. She would tip back her head and screw her eyes shut. Her laughs were beautiful.

He postponed his trip to Illyria slightly. Nesta had made them both breakfast, unexpectedly, and he was too guilty to leave it untouched. They had sat together at the narrow table tucked by the kitchen, eating in a peaceful silence.

‘I’ll be back before dinner today. If that’s alright?’

‘I won’t complain,’ she said.

There was a note in her voice that gave Azriel pause, gave him a reason to drink her in a minute longer. He thought of the way that she had cradled his hands last night. The gentle side of her that so rarely saw the light of day. How she had leaned on him for support – and he’d been happy to steady her.

‘Then I’ll come back as soon as I can.’

‘Good.’

In one syllable, Azriel’s mind raced. One syllable had him postulating over a thousand different outcomes.

Shadows enveloped him, prising him away to Illyria. The prickles that covered his body whenever he reached his homeland seemed softer today, wrapped in silk rather than iron. He glanced down at his hands as if remembering the feel of Nesta’s fingers there like she was following rivers on a map.

‘I’ve seen that look before,’ a low voice murmured.

Azriel snapped his head up, jerking away slightly.

‘No,’ Rhys breathed in awe. ‘I caught you by surprise. Five hundred years and I have finally made you jump.’

Azriel rolled his eyes. ‘It won’t happen again.’

‘So, who is she? What beguiling female has put that dreamy look in your eyes?’

His shadows curled around him, whispering that they would strike if he wanted them to. They had always protected him.

‘Where’s Devlon? Let’s get this over with.’

Rhys did not drop the subject as they marched across the windy paths of Windhaven, pausing occasionally to inspect the sparring rings they passed. ‘One day, you will finally bring a female home for us to meet.’

‘Keep waiting.’

Cassian dropped out of the sky with a heavy thud. At the sight of him, Azriel felt hot and sick all at once. He kept his face trained on the young male nearest them who was examining weapons.

After their rooftop argument, Cassian had given him the space that he knew he needed. When the time was right, he had sought him out at the River House, likely after arranging with Rhys to summon him there. Cassian had been genuine with his apology. Whenever their paths had crossed since, his brother always begged him to come back home. To the House of Wind. To the River House. Just to come home.

Yet, when Azriel had asked Nesta if Cassian had apologised to her for hurting her feelings – for letting Mor come between whatever had been budding there - she’d folded her arms across her chest and said no.

‘I don’t want an apology from him. I don’t want anything from him.’

That memory diverted his guilt into righteousness. Nesta had held his hands only – and she had every right to do that. She was not promised to Cassian. Azriel was not tangled with anyone. They were friends. Friends doing nothing wrong. Still, he couldn’t manage to look into Cassian’s eyes for very long.

The day was busy examining new recruits. Their days would follow a similar pattern until the worst of the winter came, Az knew the schedule well. They’d visit each camp to see what lecherous males each camp lord had recruited that autumn then they would assess the likelihood of any of them making the Blood Rite the following year.

‘Come for dinner,’ said Rhys. It was an order rather than an invitation.

Cass slung an arm around his shoulders. ‘We can make a night of it. Mor’s not there. She’s in the Continent still.’

The reproachful look from Rhys hadn’t faded quick enough for Azriel to miss. Mor had cried on the roof, apologised, said she wanted to be his friend. Like a bucket of water had been thrown on hot coals, any lingering feelings for her had been extinguished. More than anything, Azriel was a fool.

For years, he had nurtured a hope of them. He thought perhaps she still needed time. Needed time to meet new people after a youth spent in captivity, after what her family had done to her. Time to explore the world, time to have fun. It had not mattered to him how many lovers she had taken to bed. On the occasions that she blew hot and cold towards him, he was always unable to figure Mor out. She would invite him close then push back. He blamed it on her past, blamed it on her mother and father. Often, he blamed himself too. She would not see him as anything more than a lesser fae savage so Azriel held back. Once, he had tried to confess how he felt.

The memory of that day was scarred into his mind; of confessing that he knew he was unsuitable for her, but he still wanted her. Without a word, Mor had walked away. A bastard lesser fae savage whose father hated him enough to lock him up. The shame had burnt him. That shame of daring to believe that Mor might have given him a chance – that any female would risk sullying themselves with a male like him.  

Each time that Mor flirted with his brother, those feelings wilted more and more. Cassian was like him – and that was what he could never understand. They were both Illyrians. Both bastards. Yet Azriel was somehow less worthy of her touch. He'd blamed it on his hands, blamed it on the shadows that made others uncomfortable. Then he’d even thought that maybe he had imagined the soft smiles and loving touches that she gave to him; that he was so desperate for Mor that he was creating a love story that didn’t exist.

‘I didn’t want things to change,’ she’d wept on the roof, gripping the buttons of his shirt. ‘I like how things are between us.’

Those words had cracked the ice. She liked him to be her shield against her family, against Eris. Azriel had been her knife too. But she did not want him. She would use Cassian to put him off regardless of the strain it put on the brothers. That was what she liked, because the alternative was facing up to the fact that for five hundred years, she had let him believe he was not worthy of her rather than being honest. She would strike out at Nesta because she realised that Nesta would take away the one barrier that stopped the truth from leaking out.

‘I have places to be,’ he said coldly.

***

Azriel was one the most difficult people to read that Nesta had ever encountered. When he had arrived home that evening, tension had bracketed his body. It wasn’t unusual. It didn’t offer anything to his mood.

She was learning to observe his shadows. Sometimes they were excitable, moving quickly without restraint when Azriel was in a more playful mood. Other times, they stayed close by to comfort or to protect. Tonight, they were gone. Nesta didn’t know what that meant.

They ate quietly. Azriel did not divulge on his day, but he had thanked her for cooking and asked how her own day had been. Nesta had been into the city. The male had insisted on providing coin for his opulent lodging of the broken couch, so she had spent some money on wooden children’s games to occupy the time with the approach of winter. Nesta was happy to find that many were similar to mortal games she had played with servants.

‘You don’t want to play cards with me,’ said Azriel after his shower. His dark hair was damp and curled around his face. ‘I cheat.’

‘You’re a very honest cheat,’ she acknowledged, shuffling the cards. ‘Since I have no other company, you will have to do.’

They knew similar games and established rules. It had been a long time since Nesta had played games. She thought of the elderly servant who had seemingly always been a part of the household staff when she was little. Somehow, he had learnt sleight of hand tricks. Nesta had believed it to be faerie magic and would watch in wonder as he’d always guess what her card had been or how he’d transform her card into a toffee for her to gobble. He’d had a hacking cough, veiny hands, and grew thinner each time Nesta sought him out in the gardens. One day, he never came to the manor again. When she’d asked her father, he’d simply said the servant was gone.

‘Why do you keep glancing over your shoulder?’ Azriel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you expecting somebody?’

She bit down on her lower lip. ‘I’m trying to work out how you cheat. I keep thinking there will be a shadow behind me, spying on my cards.’

‘They don’t make you uncomfortable?’

They were a part of him. ‘Of course not.’

Once games became tiresome, Nesta asked the male about the Blood Rite. She had purchased books about Illyria to better understand that part of the land. Their training was brutal, lives were short for many. She couldn’t fathom dumping a child in a war camp. It reminded her of baby birds that were pushed out of the nest and forced to fly. Many more didn’t.

‘These ones,’ Azriel said, gesturing to the whorls of black ink running over his bare arms, ‘are standard for most warriors. They’re associated with luck and glory. After the Blood Rite, males receive more in a ceremony. Bodies are flagging but you have to stand up for one more night of drinking and tattoos. That’s the final test.’

‘You have those?’

Azriel nodded, eyes searching her face. ‘You receive more depending on your status. The three of us touched Ramiel so we received the highest honours.’

‘Show me them.’

***

Obliging, Azriel pulled off his shirt. Nesta’s eyes canvassed his chest, tracking the details in the ink. Wrong. So wrong. Their conversation was minimal as she committed the hard planes of his body to memory. Both of them knew they were crossing a boundary tonight. From Nesta’s fervour, as she touched his skin, Azriel surmised she didn’t care.

Fingers traced the whorls with an intensity that a scholar might brush the letters of an ancient text, seeking answers. Her knuckles tracked up Azriel’s neck and he lifted his chin as she reached his jaw.

‘What do you want?’ His voice was a quiet warning in the dark.

A muted smile was his response. ‘You’ll make me beg for it?’

Azriel followed the pattern his thumb drew on Nesta’s collar bone, the daring sweep of it below the cut of her gown. His eyes flickered back to her. ‘I want to hear it from your lips.’

Wanted to hear if she was brave enough to voice it. Wanted confirmation that it was not just him getting lost down a path they never should have wandered down. Wanted to know that he wasn’t wasting his feelings once more on someone who didn’t value him.

Nesta brushed his hand aside. She appraised him with the same steel look that she had given to every high lord in the Dawn Court meeting.

In a swift motion, she straddled his lap. Now, she was the one pushing him to his limit. Seeing how brave he would be. A hand stroked against his hair then it was holding him in place.

‘I want you to kiss me.’

So, he’d obliged. Nesta had leant forwards and everything had felt as if it was moving at a different pace. The fire’s movements were slow and sluggish. The world even stopped turning on its axis.

They had moved too fast. Azriel’s lips crushing against Nesta. A flush spreading up her cheeks as he kissed down to her neck in a fevered motion. Her hand had raked through his hair, dragging his mouth back to hers.

Her hips had circled his lap. His hands curved around to grip her waist, to help the motion that was undoing him. Nesta’s soft moans were a beacon to him, calling for more.

It was a mistake. Every kiss, every tantalising touch was a mistake. He should have stopped.

She’d been confident, tugging him to the bedroom, hands gliding up his bare back. She hadn’t said stop when he lifted her against the wall, kissing so deeply time halted. Hadn’t protested when he’d roughly pulled her dress off, not when he’d run his scarred hands over her beautiful body.

He hadn’t known. Hadn’t realised she was a maiden until he had given the first thrust, felt her body shudder around him, the sharp spike of her breath against his ear. He’d seen the blood after and nearly vomited. He should have been softer. Shouldn’t have rushed straight into bedding her. Shouldn’t have pressed his body so tightly to Nesta’s that her hips ground into his skin. He’d crossed a line. His mind buzzed with a thousand feelings, a thousand scenarios.

Revenge. Was that what Cassian would think? Some sick payback for him sleeping with Mor all those years ago?

Nesta leaned over the bed, fumbling for anything to regain her modesty. He couldn’t let her think she was a pawn in a game of vengeance. Azriel rushed to the bathroom, found a cloth to soak with tepid water. He hesitated from cleaning her himself and instead pressed it into her hands.

 ‘I didn’t know you were a maiden.’

Why was it worse that she was? Because Azriel knew how the others would view it when it came to light. Knew that for a once-mortal female, this should have been special and he had been rough with passion.

‘Not anymore,’ she muttered.

Azriel faced the wall, allowing Nesta the privacy she deserved. He heard the slide of a drawer then a night gown being pulled over her head. He fixed her with a look. ‘Did I hurt you?’

For a fraction of a second, her face faltered. ‘Just at the start.’

His chest tightened at the admission. ‘Sorry.’

Azriel knew he should leave. Knew he should not have ever come to her apartment. It had been a dangerous game, right from the start. Night after night, they’d edged further down a path that there was no returning from with their growing companionship. But if he left and never came back then Nesta would think she’d been used. That had not been his intention. Never would be his intention.

When Nesta tugged the sheets from the bed, balling them up to hide the blood, Azriel started on the pillow cases too. It was a way of atoning. Remove all traces of the illicit night they had shared.

‘You don’t need to do that.’

‘I want to,’ he murmured.

Silently, they stripped the bed then placed fresh sheets onto it. Nesta didn’t ask him to stay in her bed and he didn’t want her to.

He flew as far as he could, to the furthest reach of Illyria. He had well and truly fucked up everything.

***

Any soreness did not linger. Nesta found herself unable to concentrate without memories of her night spent with Azriel pulsing to the surface. Heat flooded her body when she remembered the way he had moaned against her skin as he entered her. Her breath shuddered each time she recalled the flicker of his tongue against her ear.

When she imagined her first time with a male, it ought to have been a wedding night to a bland mortal man her parents had arranged for her. As a fae, the vision had shifted to a fantasy of a dreamy male who loved and cherished Nesta. He’d have lit candles around the room, proposed maybe, scattered petals and moved his hips a few times until he found release while she had lay beneath him like a plank of wood.

Her imagination had disappointed her. It hadn’t been able to conjure the thrill that Azriel’s hands had. Hadn’t crafted the same pounding excitement when Nesta had taken control and climbed onto his lap. It was more intimate than anything she could have dared to dream. The shadow singer had caressed all of her, unable to settle on one place he wanted to touch. Desire had been the tinder and want the flame. They’d moved together in waves finding pleasure in each other’s bodies. There had been no reluctance or shyness, only lust.

She supposed she would not see him again. The white horror sheeting his face when he had realised that she had been a maiden was enough to deter him. It would be a secret warded in the dark whenever they were in shared spaces.

@canvashearts

The Deal - Chapter One - Summer

ao3 - master post

as promised, chapter one today, even though the cost was my writing 6k words in an afternoon RIP me i thought this was going to be a lot shorter lol. enjoy!

---

When Nesta awakes, she knows she had a peaceful dream, she is in the House, and Cassian is by her side. She nearly smiles, more content than she's felt in living memory--when slowly, but not scarily, she remembers.

The scrying yesterday...it had left her mind bare and vulnerable and the Cauldron had taken advantage. She doesn't feel the pain now, but remembers that she felt it. Cassian, still asleep in the chair, had come in because of her screams. And...Rhysand?

Cassian rouses soon after, asks her how she's feeling. What is she supposed to say?

"Rhys is going to join us for breakfast," he tells her.

Nesta tries not to make a habit of swearing. But fuck.

He had, it must be said, comforted her last night. Left her in peace. Even though she was too tired to look, she knew the place was beautiful. She felt warm and safe and her pain had been entirely forgotten. Generous, she supposes. He had not needed to do that. But it's not as though they're friends now. Nesta knows what's coming. A lecture--at best. A reprimand for letting her magic run amok, for endangering Cassian and Azriel and maybe even the priestesses, for being so out of control she needed someone else, him, to come and pull her out of her own mind. It'll probably just be to scare her. They won't actually chuck her into the Prison. But that's where the threats will go, she's certain.

The peace of her dream fades completely by the time she trudges into the dining room. Cassian is there. And Rhys. They both stand when she enters.

"Good morning, Nesta," Rhys says. "How are you feeling?"

Nesta narrows her eyes. Cordial...even pleasant. "Fine."

"Glad to hear it." He smiles at her. Real, not mocking.

Nesta keeps her hands at her sides when she sits. Cassian chooses a spot next to her.

"Coffee or tea?"

"Nes is picky. I'll get it." Cassian flashes her a grin, which she doesn't return.

Buttering her up for something, that's clearly what this is about. But what?

Cassian and Rhys make idle conversation, accepting her short, one-word answers and not making a fuss over them. Cassian does nudge her until she's eaten to his satisfaction, though, but the smothering ends there. It's not how she'd like to spend her morning, but it's not too bad, until--

"Cass, could you give me a moment with Nesta?"

Cassian squeezes her thigh under the table and nods encouragingly at her. Her heart skips--for him or Rhys, she does not know.

---

Nesta's eyes are precisely the same shade as Feyre's, and yet always appear different. More gray. Lifeless, or afraid. Rhys has never seen her smile.

"I want to offer you something," he says.

Nesta's face tightens. "You want to offer me something?"

"Something I offer everyone. And I...had not thought to offer it to you. I apologize."

Nesta's brow quirks. He grimaces inwardly.

"I know that you've...experienced a lot of pain," he starts, in a careful voice. She freezes anyway. He continues, undeterred, "I can take the pain away. If you want."

Nesta's head tilts to the door, where Cassian is waiting outside. She shifts her gaze back to Rhys--not lifeless, not scared, but intelligent. "You can take it away?"

He nods slowly. "I can...make you forget."

It's something he offers them. All of them. All the females, when they come here. But he had never really considered Nesta a female who had come here, even though it was his idea to bring her. She was always something else entirely. His mistake. But he can right it now.

"You can make me forget?" she repeats, as she's been doing this whole morning. She frowns a little, different than her usual scowl, more curiosity than ire. Then she sucks in her lip, eyes widening. "Yes," she says. "Yes. All of it. Do it now."

"All right," he says, calm. Most females turn him down, too frightened, but Rhys doesn't judge either way. He isn't sure what he expected of Nesta, honestly. "It won't hurt. I just need you to lower your shields--"

"No," she says, standing. "I mean...all of it." Her eyes, the most beautiful eyes in the world, stripped of any joy, stare at him with such urgency. Her hands clasp themselves tightly in front of her lips--pleading. "All of it, Rhysand."

His lips tug down. "Yes, I can make you forget it all--"

"All of it," she insists again. "I mean everything."

Rhys nods. Sometimes, even for the females who want to have their memories erased, the idea of anyone seeing them is too painful to process and renders them inconsolable--but then he realizes what she means.

"Nesta," he says, slowly, carefully. "I don't think--"

"You don't understand," she says, hands slamming down on the table. "You--if you saw--look," she says, shields dropping entirely. "Look."

Rhys raises his head, and he does.

He braces himself for the pain he felt last night, but this is entirely different. It's so much worse.

Were he not already sitting down, Rhys thinks the wave of self-hatred that falls over him would knock him over.

It all hits him--over and over again, worse than last night. Some of it is there, yes, but clearer. The woman is her grandmother, beating her. The man is--ugh--Rhys physically recoils as he sees Nesta's fanciful ideas of love with this man, so young, so hopeful--and how he had ruined that, how he had stripped it away from along with her dress and her dignity--

And how all of it is tied to love. Such deep, unending love...for Feyre, for Elain. It's all intertwined, it can't be severed from her being.

He sees the rest, but he does not look. He knows enough.

"Nesta," he says, gently, pulling out of her head.

"You're not going to do it," she says, eyes lined with silver. "I don't believe you. You're actually not going to--then leave! Just leave!"

"Nesta, wait," he says, raising his hands. "I didn't say I'm not going to help you."

"But that's it, isn't it?"

"You don't want to lose yourself like this. You love your sisters too much. Trust me, it's worth it."

"You...why did you even offer?" she asks, voice shaking. "You weren't going to help me. And know I'm just...if I were anyone else, you would do it. It's only for Feyre that you don't."

Rhys hesitates. She's right. If it were anyone else, he would let her start her life afresh, quietly, peacefully. But she is Nesta Archeron, his mate's sister, and there's something to fight for here. "All right," he says. "I'll make you a deal."

"I don't want to hear it," Nesta says immediately, but Rhys pushes.

"Give me two months."

Nesta crosses her arms over her chest. Her eyes still shine with unshed tears. "For what?"

"To prove to you that you don't need to do this."

Nesta shakes her head vigorously. "I'm not living like this for another second--"

"One month."

"No--"

"Two weeks."

"Don't you understand what you're asking me? Don't you see how I live?"

"One week," Rhys says firmly. "One week. If at the end of the week, you still want this...I'll do it."

Nesta pauses. She wipes her eyes, then narrows them at him. "You'll do it all?"

"You have my word."

She sucks in her lip again. "What will you tell them?"

"Leave it to me," he says. "They won't have any say. I'll do it...if you give me this week."

Nesta stares at him, face once again devoid of emotion, as she considers without letting him in on her thoughts. But he knows what she'll say. That's why he started with two months, bargaining down.

"All right," she says, finally. "One week. I'll do it. And then...you have to wipe my memory clean."

"If you want," he adds.

"Yes."

The magic seals the bond between them; Rhys feels it make its mark upon his skin. He lifts his left palm: three stars, at differing heights, like the Night Court insignia. Nesta purses her lips, and Rhys stifles a grin. Hopefully she won't mind it so much by the time the week is over.

"The week starts now. Spend two days here," he tells her. "I'll come get you on Tuesday morning."

Nesta looks up from her palm. "And take me where?"

"Don't worry about that. See you in two days, Nesta."

He strolls out of the House, keeping himself leisurely while in Nesta's line of sight. Clapping his hand on Cassian's shoulder, he shows him his other palm.

Cassian swears. "What did you do?"

"I've got work," he says, ignoring him. "Stay here with Nesta. Don't leave her for two days. Don't irritate her too much."

"Oh, that's rich. She actually likes me, you know."

"I know," Rhys agrees. And without another word, he takes off into the morning.

---

The next two days pass without any word from Rhysand. Nesta doesn't see anyone else besides Cassian. They train together on the roof, but more of the stuff she enjoys than what he says is important. He's teasing, but doesn't rise to her testing bait. In on Rhys' plan, she supposes, though he doesn't mention it at all.

He spends the first night in her room, in the chair he had slept in the night before. They don't mention it; they both pretend it's normal. He asks her if she'll read him any smut. She chucks a mystery novel at him. They go to sleep.

The next day is much of the same. Not unpleasant, but not worth living life.

"You're going somewhere," Cassian says to her on the morning of the third day.

"How do you know?"

He points to the trunk packed at the foot of her bed in answer. "Shame you won't have any good-looking roommates coming along with you." He grins at her.

Nesta turns away from him, bending down to look at the trunk, to hide her face. He had stayed in the chair, ready to protect her from herself, but he had not joined her in her bed.

"Do you know where I'm going?" she asks, the contents of the trunk too diverse to pinpoint any one climate.

"No. I've been here with you. But you'll find out soon enough. I like the dress you're supposed to wear today, though," he says, pointing to wear it hangs on the wardrobe.

When Nesta is washed and changed into the lilac chiffon daygown, and breakfasts with Cassian in the dining room, Rhysand walks in.

"Ready to go?" he asks.

She glances at Cassian. "Yes."

With a wave of his hand, the trunk, brought in by Cassian, disappears. Rhysand waves them out onto the veranda. Nesta's stomach clenches--they'll have to fly. She had forgotten.

But neither of the males seem to notice anything amiss. Cassian bends down to kiss her cheek--in front of Rhysand--and says, "Bye, sweetheart," as though they are lovers, leaving for the day. There is the promise of seeing each other again that night, but Nesta knows...she will never see him again.

"Goodbye," she says, voice catching.

Again, neither of them seem to notice. Comfortably, Rhysand lifts her into his arms--she will never see the House again, she will never again take pleasure in its friendship, she will never see Gwyn again--and flies a few dozen feet in the air--

They winnow onto solid ground.

Foreign ground.

A small cavalry of dark-skinned Fae, darker than Cassian, dressed in bright colors and light fabric greet them.

Nesta vaguely recognizes one of them. Eyes like the sea and hair like its foam. A handsome forehead, with soft cheeks and a rigid jawline. Even if she did not recognize him, Nesta would know the power in the air immediately. One of the High Lords.

"High Lord, Lady Nesta," he says with a slight bow, "welcome to the Summer Court."

Rhysand returns a small one, so Nesta dips into a curtsy as he says, "Thank you for having us."

"Ottilie and Cordelia will take your things," the High Lord says, waving over two females to the trunks which have appeared behind them. "I trust you're ready to begin?"

Rhysand inclines his head and offers his arm to Nesta. She grimaces inwardly as she takes it.

"This way."

The group of faeries part for the three of them to pass through. Only when she walks by him does Nesta notice Varian--right. This is his home court. He's some sort of prince here.

Doesn't matter. He doesn't seem to be going where Tarquin--that's his name, she remembers--is taking them. As long as she won't have to remind him of any of the Night Court's pleasantries, she doesn't care. Although perhaps he'd need it more than anyone, being with Amren, Nesta thinks bitterly. One person she will not miss seeing again. In fact, the only thing that makes her queasy is the idea of Amren meeting the new Nesta and once again tricking her into believing they are friends.

"Welcome to Adriata, Lady Nesta," Tarquin says, turning around and holding out his arm in the direction of a large window. Nesta's eyes widen as she takes in the view.

It's leagues more beautiful than Velaris, that much is certain. A sparkling teal sea hugging a white-sand coastline, and brightly colored buildings only one or two stories high, not breaking the incredible skyline. There's a pier stretching out farther than Nesta would've thought possible, and a staircase cutting right into the water.

"Our Sea Steps," Tarquin says, following her line of sight. "May I escort you there?"

When Rhys doesn't answer, she realizes she's supposed to. "You may," she replies, too distracted to think about whether she should add please or thank you.

Tarquin and Rhysand are both polite the whole way down to the pier. Nesta finds she falls back into the role of a dignified lady easily--this is just like being shown someone's estate, just like a proper dinner. It's only the characters that don't fit, but if Rhysand can act, she can too. How this is supposed to make her change her mind...perhaps he's struck some sort of deal with Tarquin? She'll live here instead?

"Do you spend much time at the Night Court's beaches, Lady Nesta?" Tarquin asks her, when they reach the shore.

"I...haven't yet had the opportunity to go."

"Excellent," he says. "The first Prythian beach you see should be ours."

Rhysand laughs. "She's walked along the Sidra river plenty."

Nesta stops herself from flinching--she hates the thought of being watched.

People--children, she realizes, lots of children--run along the beach, playing games or exercising, but the dock they walk along is empty. Tarquin, again noticing her observations, says, "The Sea Steps are normally open to the public, but we had them closed for everyone but personnel today. For your pleasure."

"Personnel?"

"We have a facility down here."

The staircase at the docks looks like any other, except for the fact that it descends into the water. When Tarquin takes the first step, his feet under the sea, Nesta's throat tightens. The water--she can't--

But when his hand touches the waves, the sea breaks, forming a sort of hallway around the steps. Rhysand doesn't stop his stride, and Nesta keeps pace with them, as they follow Tarquin down.

She would have assumed it would be dark. It's not.

The sunlight shines through the walls and ceiling of the staircase, and when they reach the bottom, the floor opens up to...the ocean.

Tarquin turns to see her face. "Well?" he says, his polite pesona dropping into something a little more smug.

"It's," Nesta says, struggling to find the right words. "It's like...a reverse aquarium."

Tarquin laughs. "That's the idea."

The room is ridiculously large, and offsets a few corridors. The floor beneath Nesta's feet feels dry and stable, the air cool but not uncomfortably so. And all around her...

Fish. Eels. Creatures she's never even imagined. All swimming through the sea, gliding, like flying.

Nesta approaches one of the walls, letting go of Rhysand's arm. She lifts her palm to it, but doesn't touch. It feels cool.

"It's water," Tarquin says. "You can stick your hand in."

Gingerly, Nesta presses in a finger. It goes through, easily--it's water. The walls are water. The walls are the sea.

Nesta raises her eyes. A school of fish--gracious, but she doesn't know any of their names! Not beyond the generic--fish, eels, jellyfish...crab and coral and a dolphin! Nesta's never seen a dolphin before!

"Bottlenose, Lady," a faerie says to her, appearing out of nowhere. As Nesta looks to see him, she realizes she's wrong--there are plenty of other faeries, all dressed in teal--the personnel--milling about. She only had not noticed, entirely taken by the sight.

"The dolphin," the faerie adds. "They're not unique to the faerie world. You get them in mortal seas, too."

Nesta turns back to the sea-wall. "And this?" she says, pointing to a bright orange fish.

"Those are faerie, Lady. We call them Orange Biters."

"Biters?"

Wordlessly, the faerie reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, dried anchovy. He reaches his hand into the water, tossing the anchovy in the direction of the fish--which opens its jaws wide, revealing a set of terrifying fangs, and chomps down on it.

"They don't bother with the shore," the faerie assures her. "It's perfectly safe to swim there."

"Oh," Nesta says. Not as though she was worried about that, as there's no chance of her swimming anytime soon, but...it's incredible; she can't think of what to say.

"Shall we begin the tour, Lady Nesta?" Tarquin asks her.

She looks to Rhysand, who, again, is waiting for her answer. "Yes, please."

Tarquin leads them into different pathways through the sea, introducing her to the faeries working there and letting them explain what they specialize in, what they're doing. Some of them are monitoring breeding patterns, some tracking coral growth, but most are simply watching the fish, noting everything they do.

"Does it ever get tedious?" Nesta asks a female.

"Never," she says, raising her arms. "Could you ever get tired of this view?"

Nesta supposes not. But the tour ends, and Tarquin leads them back up the stairs and onto land.

"Did you enjoy the Sea Steps?"

"It was the most incredible thing I have ever seen," Nesta answers honestly.

Tarquin grins broadly at her. "You're more than welcome back, any time you'd like."

Before Nesta can thank him, Rhysand says, "Perhaps you might allow her to bring Cassian next time." To Nesta he says, "Tarquin's predecessor had banned Cassian from ever entering the city."

"Rightfully so, I believe," Tarquin says lightly. "Would you not agree, Lady Nesta, that someone who destroys a building loses privileges to reenter the city limits?"

"But he'd like the Sea Stairs too, don't you think, Nesta?"

Nesta shoots Rhysand a look. "I'm sure anyone would."

"Maybe you could make him fight a shark for it," Rhys suggests.

Tarquin laughs. "That would be something. Do you agree, Lady Nesta?"

"I suppose so," she says after a beat. It is only after she says it does the vision hit her: Cassian, wings flung out behind him the water, fighting a shark in front of the Summer Court to win the chance to return to this city. Her lips quirk upwards of their own accord.

---

Lunch is an affair as well. Tarquin shows them to a seaside restaurant, cleared of its patrons. The chef comes out and bows to them, low, thanking her for honoring them with her first meal in the Summer Court.

She had forgotten what it was like to be treated this way. The High Lady's sister. Here with Rhysand, it seems impossible to deny her place in the Night Court. But she goes along with it anyway, thanking them for having her, eating the meal they serve and sending her compliments to the kitchen.

Afterwards, they walk along the streets for an hour or two. It isn't a parade, but Night Court flags have been hung up, and people at booths call out their cheery hellos and ask if Lady Nesta would like to try their seasalt scrub, if the High Lord would like a pearl set to bring home to the High Lady.

"See anything you like?" Rhys says to her.

"It's all lovely," she replies, diplomatic.

"Oh, come on," he says, nudging her, and she clamps down on her jaw to keep it from dropping. "Anything for yourself? Gwyn, or Emerie?"

Her heart pangs at that. Gwyn and Emerie.

"Are these all ocean pearls?" she asks a faerie at a jewelry booth. "Anything from a river?"

With a flourish, the faerie shows her a tray of river pearls, strung in various fashions. Running her fingers over the gems, she selects a teal-stone string, the same color as Gwyn's eyes.

"For you, Lady Nesta?"

"For a friend," she says, voice turning hollow.

The faerie beams at her, wrapping it up in pretty paper. "Your friend will love it very much, Lady."

"Thank you," she says, as Rhysand pays.

They walk a little further, Nesta mostly ignoring the salespeople except to offer slight nods of acknowledgement, until she finds a spice spread. She picks out the most fragrant, and every kind of seasalt they have, into a small chest. For Emerie.

She wouldn't want to spend her last week out of the House, with Rhsyand of all people, but perhaps it's for the best. Even thinking about her friends is painful enough. They don't know who she is, what she has done. If they had...it would only be a matter of time before they left her, rejecting her, like everyone else has done. If Elain, sweet, heartfelt, patient Elain could not love her enough; if strong, resilient, defiant Feyre gave up on her...only Rhysand stands at her side, and not for love. At least, not love for her.

He'll be proven wrong, she knows. Her sisters won't even lose her. They'll remake her however they want, in whatever image they please. Maybe it'll even be one Cassian will favor.

The streets quiet somewhat, in the afternoon, and Tarquin tells them his people take naps around this hour every day. The heat, he explains, can be taxing. So he shows they back to the palace, tells them to rest or wander as they like, and would they please join him from a celebratory dinner at seven.

Celebrating what, Nesta isn't sure, but Rhysand accepts, and then she does too.

"Our rooms connect," he tells her when they get there. "I'll be in there if you need me."

"What..." would I need you for, she wants to say, but instead switches to, "should I do?"

He shrugs. "Wander, like Tarquin said. Or nap. Whatever you'd prefer."

He leaves her at her door, pushing into his. Nesta rolls her eyes to no one and enters her room.

Her trunk sits at the foot of the bed. The patterns are all complimentary of the sea, and the scent of it floats in through the open window with a warm breeze.

The heat is taxing. Nesta slips out of her daygown and into a robe, lying down on the silken sheets. What will she feel like, she wonders. When she is made anew. Will she wonder about who she was? Will they tell her? No, they won't; what would they say? They will make something up. Feyre will tell her she's their emissary, happy to serve. Elain will tell her they meet for breakfast every day. Perhaps they won't ever mention being human, and Nesta will never wonder about what she has lost.

Surely, she'll accept it. She'll be as easy as they all want. She has to be. Because Nesta doesn't know what she'll do if...when even after the pain is wiped away, when none of her remains, if she is the same. If it is not the hurt that makes her so, it is simply who she is.

It is perhaps her biggest fear, albeit a new one, and not easy to fall asleep to, but she does, and awakes sometime later to windchimes and a knock on her door.

"Lady Nesta? May I come in?"

"Uh, yes," Nesta says, bringing a hand to her forehead. "Enter."

The door opens slightly. One of the females from earlier. Ottilie. "May I help you prepare for this evening?"

"Yes," Nesta says dimly, massaging her temples, too distracted by her headache to realize what she's agreed to. She's become very used to not having any staff around at the House, and yet, still not having to do much of the work herself, beyond what she pleases. She likes it, never having liked being fussed over. Staff have always been frightened of her, anyway, even when she was human.

But Ottilie doesn't seem to show any fear. "Headache, Lady Nesta? From the heat?"

"I think so."

"This will help," she says, bringing out a small blue pill from her pocket and pouring her a glass of water from the pitcher by her bed. Nesta takes it, and Ottilie says, "But it's best to remember to drink when you visit us, Lady Nesta."

"Thanks," Nesta says, swallowing. "Tonight is..."

"Dinner, lady. And dancing. And a performance."

Dinner and dancing. She can do that. It's all she used to do, actually. Elain had it enjoyed it more, obviously, but...Nesta knows how to play the part. She isn't sure why Rhysand thinks this will show her life is worth living with all her pain, but...just a few more days. She can do this.

Ottilie is pleasant, chatting as she lays out Nesta's dress from her wardrobe and steaming it straight. She doesn't mind Nesta's short answers and keeps most of the conversation going herself, but not annoyingly so. She talks of the history of the Summer Court, explaining about the type of performance they'll see tonight. Vaguely interesting, but nothing too mind-occupying.

Nesta hates the feel of others touching her hair, and Ottilie doesn't protest when Nesta takes the brush to do it herself. She styles a coronet with a bit more twists and braids than usual, in honor of the celebration tonight, and picks out pins studded with sparkling blue stones, matching her dress.

Nesta doesn't know if the House packed for her or if Rhysand did, but the dress is magnificent. Modest in the way no one else in Prythian seems to care about--except maybe the priestesses--covering her breasts, back, and arms, like it should. But the fabric switches sheer from her elbows to her wrist, and there are matching panels from her waist to the ground, her legs cleverly hidden with a deep turquoise slip. It gives the illusion that she's showing more skin than she is, Nesta thinks as she eyes herself in the mirror, which she decides is all right. As long as she's not actually bare...that's fine.

Rhysand is waiting for her right outside her door when Ottilie opens it and lets her step out.

"You look lovely," he says, and grins when she only narrows her eyes at him in response. Nonetheless, she takes his arm and lets him lead her to a large courtyard overlooking the water.

The sun sets later in Summer, and even though it's seven, twilight has only just begun to touch the sky, and they catch the last of the sun's rays as it dips below the sea. With it, faelights flicker on, leaving the evening nearly as bright as the day. A glance upwards tells her what everyone has told her about the Night Court is true: the stars shine brighter there than anywhere else.

"Good evening," Tarquin says, too loud to be addressing just them. Indeed, the courtyard silences, all the Fae splendor-dressed Fae turning to face him. "And welcome to our honored guests, the High Lord of Night...and his sister, Lady Nesta, Kingslayer."

Nesta starts--at being referred to as Rhysand's sister and Kingslayer both. The crowd does not care, smattering an applause.

"Let the night begin," Tarquin continues, raising a glance.

The faeries cheer in answer, raising glasses of their own.

Tarquin approaches, a waiter trailing him. "Something to drink?" he offers them.

Nesta flushes.

But Rhysand only says, "Thank you. Nesta?"

She looks at him, trying to decipher if this is some sort of test. But he doesn't appear to be hiding anything, only casually asking her as polite society demands he does. So she takes it, gingerly, carefully.

What would Elain say? Feyre? Cassian?

But they aren't here right now. She can do what she likes.

"To a lovely night," Tarquin says, holding out his glass.

"Indeed," Rhysand coos, and Nesta stifles an eye roll as she clinks her goblet to theirs.

With the very first sip, Nesta knows. She isn't going to get drunk tonight. It hadn't been that that she'd craved, ever, it was only the dulling of pain. But being so far away from everything that has caused her hurt is good enough for tonight. The Summer Court is its own distraction from her own head. Plus, she'd always hated feeling out of control of herself. That was part of why she'd drunk. Her punishment for being...herself.

But it's not like Nesta's a masochist. Only realistic. So there's no reason for any of that tonight. She can just enjoy this sweet, sparkling wine, and manage with everyone's company.

She supposes with its fishing industry, it's only natural for so much of the food to be seabased, but she finds she tires of it quickly. The table Tarquin shows them is laden with tiny portions of other things, too, though, enough for a bite of each, then staff whisk the empty plates away and serve something else. Most of the conversation revolves around the food, with Tarquin explaining what each dish is, and Nesta commenting on what she likes about, or else making something up if she doesn't. After about an hour of this, a hush falls over the courtyard as the faelights dim.

"The main entertainment," Tarquin says, gesturing towards the water. Nesta's eyes follow his hands, and she waits, unsure of what she's supposed to be seeing. A performance, Ottilie had said.

It is entirely silent but for the waves when the violin starts. First one, then another, and few more join. For a wild moment, Nesta thinks they might be coming from the water--but no, they are merely on the other side of the courtyard. The violins all strike the same chord and then fall quiet together, for a moment, two, and then--

Something rises from the sea, sparkling too bright to properly make out at first. Nesta soon deciphers what the shape is: two faeries raising a third, each of them clutching a leg. But how are the lower two standing straight up in the water? Is there a hidden platform, like the Sea Stairs?

The top faerie flips backwards into the water, the violins starting up again with the splash. The two lower faeries rise, higher than the top one had--each of them held up by two faeries as well. They flip backwards into the water, their sparkling uniforms glinting like diamonds in the starlight, and the pattern repeats, larger and more fanciful, until a wild applause and a change in the music signifies the start of a new act.

The music is more exciting, Nesta wants to watch the performers. But she can't draw her eyes away from the water as the water-acrobats, flipping in and out of the sea, move in some way akin to play staging. There's a war, that much is certain, by the way the faeries launch themselves at each other. Wild, brutal, and unfathomably beautiful. There's a break in it, as two entwine together, and the music turns sad, slow, and Nesta thinks the war is over, lost, before one the faeries launches themselves at someone sneaking up on them from behind, knocking them both into the water. Then it is over. A final act of flips again, and Nesta is first on her feet to clap when they finish, standing on--aha--a raised podium to take their bows.

"We're supposed to follow that?" Nesta asks Tarquin.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he says pleasantly. "I'm sure you can keep up. May I?" He holds his hand out to her.

Nesta hasn't been asked to dance in...she can't even remember.

"You may," she says, not looking at Rhysand to check if she can.

The violinists play, and other couples join them. Rhysand is dancing with some female who greeted them this morning. One of Tarquin's cousins, she supposes.

"Any shows like that in the Night Court?" Tarquin asks her.

"Have you never been?" she asks, because she doesn't know the answer.

"I have not. You might remind your sister she should invite me. The least she could do, after she so rudely ruined her welcome here by robbing my family."

Nesta raises her eyebrows, but Tarquin doesn't smile. "Are you here as an emissary, too, Lady Nesta?"

"No." Oh, that's right. Feyre had had that stupid title once.

"Well, that's what Rhys told me she was. But she was just here to steal for him."

"Why did you invite him back?"

"He made amends when he saved my people," Tarquin admits, grudgingly. "And I wanted to meet you."

They pause their conversation as they spin: she twirls out, in, out, then he pulls her back.

"Why did you agree to come?" he asks. "I hear you are not so interested in policy."

Nesta shudders slightly. He hears from spies, he means. For she is the High Lady's sister, so all the other Courts have spies watching her. "Is this policy making?"

"No," he says. "This is pleasure."

"Then I suppose you could say that's what I'm here for."

He grins at her. A real smile, not the polite, detached ones of today. "Any specific kind you are looking for, Lady Nesta?"

Is he...flirting?

"No," she says. "Just learning what other Courts have to offer."

"Well, I'm flattered you chose to start with ours."

Is that it, then? Is Rhysand taking her around the other Courts? He has four days left, but five other Courts...Spring, she supposes, will not be on their itinerary.

"You dance very well," he says.

"Thank you. You make a fair partner."

He laughs. "Fair?"

"Fair's better than most."

He laughs again. "Did you have lessons?"

"I did, actually...ballet. For years." But it's been quite a while since Nesta's thought of that, hasn't it?

"Then perhaps you could be one of the Night Court's performers."

Nesta huffs. "I don't think I could be one of the Night Court's anything."

"Good," Tarquin says. "You're wasted at night. You're too beautiful to be kept in the dark."

Definitely flirting.

"Tell me of mortal dances. Are they anything like ours?"

Nesta looks over at the crowd, the violinists, the sea beyond. "On paper," she says, "but this is...well, I have never seen a show like yours before, as I said."

"Well, you won't find that anywhere else. But the same, otherwise? Food, dancing, music?"

"The same," she confirms.

"Hm. I suppose we might be having this very evening anywhere, then."

"I suppose we might," she says.

"But I'll always remain partial to my own Court."

"I can certainly understand that," Nesta answers honestly.

He likes her answer. He asks her more about the mortal world, gentle things that don't trigger painful memories. She talks without saying much, and he finds ways to compliment her genuinely anyway. She had watched Elain had conversations like this once. It had looked nice. It is.

Rhysand cuts in, after a while. For propriety's sake, presumably, as he doesn't say much beyond asking her if she's enjoying the evening.

"Tarquin wants to dance with you again," he says when their number is up.

"So do I," she replies, somewhat surprised at herself, and he hands her to him with an incline of his head.

This time, she asks him things. If he can swim as well as those performers. He laughs. "Not as well as they, no. But perhaps stronger than most."

"And what of the fish?" she asks. "Do you know about the fish as well as the personnel at the Sea Stairs do?"

"Not as well as they do, either. I...I'm the youngest High Lord--well, after your sister. I'm just past eighty years old."

"Oh, young," Nesta says, and they both laugh, surprising herself again. "I only mean that's about as old as human beings get."

"I know," he says. "But young for us, at any rate." Us. "So there's much I haven't yet...I was far down the line for this throne, you know."

"Oh?" Nesta asks. She knows it doesn't pass how she'd expect, from High Lord to eldest, that power has something to do with it, but she isn't quite sure of it all.

"My uncle was High Lord. He...and most all our family, all his children...slaughtered. By Amarantha."

"Oh," Nesta says, faltering. "I-I'm sorry--"

"We're all so grateful to you and your sisters," he says, unperturbed, "for ending her reign, for ending Hybern." He grins, shifting the mood back. "Even if she did rob my coffers."

"What did she take?" Nesta says.

"A book."

Oh. That book.

Doesn't make any sense to Nesta. This High Lord seems...well, regardless of how he seems, he fought alongside them in the war. He has a personal grudge against Hybern. Surely he would've wanted to aid them...but Nesta doesn't ever claim to understand how the Night Court operates.

"Would you like to see some of our collection?" he asks her. "If you promise not to steal." His tone is light, but Nesta knows he is serious.

"I won't," she assures him. She could tell him she has little use for anything, doesn't own anything herself and doesn't particularly care too. But she doesn't, content with the night as it is, and lets him lead her back inside, to a quiet area of his castle.

Two guards stand in front of a massive door, but they only bow when they see them approach and move out of the way. Tarquin opens it with a wave of his hand, his magic shifting something in the air.

"Oh," Nesta breathes when she steps in. She can't help it. Once a merchant's daughter, always a merchant's daughter.

Any number of jewels, tiaras, goblets...Tarquin's family is a wealthy one indeed. She supposes they all are, all the High Lord's families.

"It's too much," he says. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"I..."

"I'm in the business of selling, now actually," Tarquin continues. "I never thought I'd be High Lord, but now that I am...well, it's not as though I don't have ambitions. I want to do right by my people."

"That's admirable," Nesta says distractedly, bending down to try and guess if a chest of fat rubies is real.

"I abhor the differences our society places on High Fae and lesser faeries. We're all faeries...do you agree with me?"

"I do indeed," Nesta says, but she doesn't agree the way he assumes. Nesta's never given much thought to the status levels of different types of Fae in Prythian. Her base instinct is to view them all as monsters anyway. But, realizing it's true, she says, "I don't like very many High Fae anyway. The only ones I do like are part-nymph and Illyrian."

He laughs. "I suppose you don't consider yourself High Fae."

"No, I don't," she says. "I'm not."

"You're not," he agrees. Then he says, a bit awkwardly, "And I suppose the Illyrian you're fond of...Cassian?"

"Oh, no," she says, not thinking. "I was speaking of my friend Emerie."

He perks up at this. "Oh."

"She's the one I bought the spices for."

"Oh! Well...you're very welcome to bring her along on your next visit."

"Thank you," she says politely.

"And...your friend, the nymph...I suppose the river pearls are for her?"

"Yes."

"Well, it seems as though you don't have anything to remember my Court for yourself, then." He sounds as though he's teasing her.

"I have the memories," Nesta says, remaining polite, even though soon she won't.

"Well, then, please," he says, waving a hand. "Choose a momento."

Nesta laughs, unable to stop herself, but he doesn't. "I insist."

"I--no. That's very generous, but--"

"No, please. What kind of host would I be if I didn't give you something to remember your trip by?"

"This is very kind of you, but--"

"Please, Nesta," he says, dropping the made-up title. "If not a gift for tonight, consider it incentive to come back."

She blushes, flustered. He's...it's wrong, isn't it? He's a good man--male. It's wrong of her to deceive him like this. She's obviously not...he thought he was talking to one female, but he's not, he's talking to someone entirely different.

"Very well," he says. "I shall have to choose for you."

He turns, ignoring her protestations, and reaches his hand high up, calling a wooden box to his hands. "Good thing, too," he says, "because you never would have found this on your own. And it suits you perfectly."

Nesta is about to argue again, but then he opens the box.

A fine-gold chain links together dozens of tiny blue stones. At first Nesta thinks the chain wraps around twice, like a long necklace, but then she realizes one is a necklace, and the other is a matching circlet, for her head.

"You didn't wear any jewelry today or tonight," he says. "But this is delicate enough that it should suit you nicely. And the color brings out your eyes, I think. Do you like it?"

"I...do," she says, hands itching to touch it. Merchant's daughter, whether she likes it or not.

"Then please accept," he says, holding out the box to her.

Nesta looks up at him, studying him carefully. "Feyre didn't have to steal from you," she says. "You would have given her anything."

Tarquin meets her gaze, not backing down as most males tend to. "No, I wouldn't have."

---

Nesta walks towards Rhys with a slight smile on her face, faint blush in her cheeks. Her hands are holding a small box.

"Did you have a nice time?" he asks her.

Her smile fades. She looks at him, frowning slightly. "I'm a person. Of course I had a nice time. But life isn't vacation, Rhysand. I still go to bed at the end of every day. I'm still alone with my thoughts, in my head...you know what that's like." Her voice turns accusatory.

"I know," he says evenly. "But you did have a nice time, otherwise?"

"I already said so," she says, impatient.

"Good," he says, turning to his door. "Get some sleep. We leave for Winter tomorrow."

---

She had half-hoped that she would be wrong, that the pleasure of the day would bleed into her dreams, that she'd be spared the horrors of herself for the night.

But she isn't.

Before the Dust Settles

Word Count: 4856

Writing Masterlist

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TW: miscarriage, death, depression, self-blame, eating disorder, victim blaming, disassociation, mentioned sexual assault

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A/N: Huge shoutout and thank you to @thewayshedreamed for beta-reading this fic and for being so supportive! I couldn’t have done without you Dani ♥️ Also, tysm @perseusannabeth for listening to my early rambles abt this fic, and @bookstantrash for helping my indecisive self finish up editing this. Love you guys :)

Green. The color of grass and Springtime, when seeds sprout and eggs hatch.

Blue. The color of the sky. The color of her mother’s eyes. Would she have seen those eyes beneath their sleepy, blinking lids?

Red. Her legs were coated in an ominous crimson as she raced to the hospital. As her baby, who had never had the chance to become a baby, never had the chance to take a breath of air, never had the chance to see or hear or smell or taste or touch, to have eyes and legs and fingers, disintegrated.

Maybe she should have screamed. Nesta had always been one to go down fighting, kicking and screaming and biting, even if it seemed hopeless. Maybe she should have yelled at the healers to do something, to save her baby’s life, instead of just telling her that her child was gone.

The world looked grey now. It was a blurry and muffled, as if she were underwater. Perhaps this was all just a Cauldron-induced nightmare. Was she still drowning in its depths? Had everything that had happened after that point merely been a taunting vision?

But the cramps she felt were too real. Besides, she couldn’t bring herself to care about what reality was anyway. Even if everything was just a vision, her child was dead. Cassian’s child was dead. That was her reality.

So she sat on her bed in her two-day-old pajamas, staring at the grey wall, wishing she hadn’t taken for granted all the times when it had looked green.

__________

A knock sounded on the door of her bedroom.

“Nesta, come on, we’re going to be late!” Cassian’s voice called through her door.

Was she supposed to go somewhere, wondered a small voice at the back of her mind. But mostly she was too tired to think, let alone to talk, or — gods forbid!— move. No way was she going anywhere, not even the kitchen.

“Nesta!” At her lack of response, Cassian opened the door and entered. He looked startled as he took in her attire. “We’re supposed to be at Rhys’ place in ten minutes! Come on, get dressed!”

Oh, yes, Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court, host of dinner parties, husband of Feyre, and father of Nyx. Nyx would have been her baby’s cousin. Would they have had the same jet-black, silky hair? The same sunkissed, almond skin tone? Would they have played together?

Perhaps they would have sat next to each other on the swings, and Feyre and Nesta would have stood behind them, pushing them gently and chatting softly.

“Nesta!”

You have to answer, Nesta told herself. She couldn’t let Cassian suspect that something was wrong with her. If he did, he’d offer her kindness that would make her break down and confess everything. She couldn’t let herself hurt him that way. After all, she hadn’t even gotten the chance to tell him she was pregnant.

Taking a silent deep breath through her nose, Nesta steeled herself and forced herself to say, “I’m not going.” Cassian would never know that those were the first words she’d said since the healers had told her the news.

“What? Please, last week you promised you were coming!” Cassian huffed, frustrated. “Are you trying to punish me for staying out late last night having drinks with Rhys?”

She couldn’t make herself answer. It took all her energy to sit upright and blink every once in a while, when all she wanted was to melt into a puddle or to fall asleep and never have to wake up again.

“Seriously, Nesta? Look, I’m sorry, alright? Would you please just get dressed?”

I’m sorry, Cassian. I’m sorry that I’m being difficult. I’m sorry that you always have to put up with me. I’m sorry that no matter how hard I try, I can’t be a perfect wife the way Feyre is to Rhysand. I’m sorry that I’m irritable and difficult. I’m sorry that our baby is dead.

The words didn’t seem to escape her lips, since Cassian’s didn’t respond; he just continued to stare at her expectantly, with slight frustration in his gaze.

She shook her head in response to his question. The action made her nauseous, probably because she hadn’t eaten in over 24 hours.

Cassian opened his mouth to attempt to convince her to go, but shut it without uttering a word. He had probably realized that nothing he said would convince her.

“Is everything okay? Do you need me to stay home with you?”

No. Nothing was okay and never would be, because nothing, not even the gods-damn Cauldron, could bring their baby back. Nesta could never ever fix it. She wanted to wrap herself in his arms and yell at the world but none of that would bring them back. No, the only thing Nesta could do was to spare Cassian the pain. She needed to rein in her selfish desire for comfort and instead make sure Cassian never, ever found out. Cassian, who had never had a father and had lost his mother too early in life, who had been dealt a hand with far too much loss and violence, didn’t deserve to be hurt this way. This was Nesta’s burden to be shouldered.

So Nesta merely shook her head again. As she watched Cassian’s figure retreat out of the room and leap into the sky, she realized that suffering alone would make her feel a little less useless. If she could cry for both of them and hurt for both of them, then her pain would serve to keep the smile on Cassian’s face and the light in Cassian’s eyes.

And for that, for him, she’d willingly endure any torture. She’d willingly condemn herself to eternal silent suffering, if only to spare the male she loved — the male who was, and had always been, far too good for her. For Cassian, she would survive this.

Nesta sat there alone as the light outside faded and the room grew darker. She had no idea how much time passed. She just sat there, trying to push all her thoughts out of her head.

Pitiful, that’s what it was. She was supposed to be a Valkyrie — strong both physically and mentally. Why was it that now, she failed to do even what she’d learned in the first days of mind-stilling exercises with Gwyn?

She needed to get her emotions under control. So far, she’d managed to keep Cassian unaware. The day of her miscarriage, Cassian had been dealing with trouble in Illyria and had come home late. He had kept his emotional shields up as he usually did when with his troops, so he hadn’t felt her pain through the bond — pain she hadn’t managed to contain despite her best attempts as she felt her joy bleed out of her. If Cassian had smelt any of the blood that had refused to leave her clothes, then he likely assumed it was just wounds from training and hadn’t said a thing. He had spent the next day discussing strategy with Azriel and Rhysand and had gone drinking with them afterwards. Honestly, it was a miracle that she had been able to keep up this facade for so long, with her obvious despair permeating the room.

She had to pull herself together.

Just… maybe not just yet. Right now, it was a struggle just to take another breath. Her stomach grumbled, urging her to feed herself. However, her legs, which were number than her heart and steadier than her mental shields, refused to budge. She closed her eyes for a moment and wondered why she was surprised that her body was failing her yet again. As much as she had grown to love her body while training to become a Valkyrie and fighting in the Blood Rite, she should not have forgotten that it wasn’t really hers. No, this High Fae body was given to her by the Cauldron. Although, it was debatable whether she had ever really owned her body. Had her human body not been a tool cultivated by her mother to manipulate powerful men? But still, despite being malnourished, it had been hers — enough for her to fight tooth and nail to preserve its purity against aggressive ex-fiancés.

This body… Nesta wanted to think that she owned it. It had grown and changed with her, becoming stronger and fuller and more flexible. Perhaps this was just a reminder that nothing really belonged to anyone. Her body, her soul — it was all part of the universe and in truth, she was powerless to control its fate. Her baby, too. They had never really been hers.

Nesta had been so excited to share the news with Cassian when she had found out a month ago. Anxious too of course, but mainly excited. She had read up about every detail, since she was not as informed as she wanted to be about the differences between human and Fae pregnancy. She researched everything from the best foods to eat during pregnancy to how long to breastfeed to whether flying was safe during the later months. She had even found information on how to make a safe, enclosed space with a soft floor where an infant illyrian could start to fly.

At first, she wanted to tell Cassian, but she had read about it and decided to surprise him with it as a Solstice present. She had imported a special candle from the Day Court which masked the scent of her pregnancy and had made sure to hide her nausea from Cassian to avoid his suspicion and worry.

Now, she was glad she’d decided not to tell him.

She opened her eyes, sighing softly, and found a tray of food lying next to her. As she picked up the spoon and took a bite, she realized it was all her comfort food: a plate with fried potatoes topped with fried egg, along with seafood paella and a bowl of chicken noodle soup.

“Thank you,” she whispered to the House — her first real friend. Eating made her feel slightly better, even if it was just because doing something occupied her mind. Still not all her thoughts were silenced: as she took a bite of the eggs, she couldn’t help but remember reading about how eggs had high nutritional value and were a food source of nutrients for pregnant females.

When she finished eating — which, to her surprise, was when almost everything on the tray was gone — a few books appeared, replacing the tray. Instead of the usual romance, these were fantasy. The House had clearly sensed that Nesta needed to escape reality for a while and that reading about happy couples would only make her feel worse.

Nesta breathed in the scent of the book — the ink, the pages, the book-binding glue — and felt a sense of calm wash over her as her problems faded away.

Later, when exhaustion finally closed her eyelids, she fell asleep still clutching an open book to her chest, her mind soaring over glittering seas riding an iridescent thousand-year old dragon.

__________

“Nesta?”

She awoke to the sound of a female voice calling her name through the door. She blinked and looked around, still groggy. She wondered briefly why Cassian was not sleeping next to her before recalling the events of the past few days.

“Nesta, you better be fully dressed because we’re coming in!” called a different voice.

Emerie. Gwyn. What were they doing here? Had she forgotten to tell them she wasn’t going to training? No, she had definitely let them know that she wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t attend. There was no reason for them to suspect otherwise, not after they’d seen Nesta dry heaving after training last week due to her morning sickness.

Nesta opened her mouth, trying to formulate some response that would make them leave but she found that she couldn’t use her voice. The thought of pretending to be alright exhausted her despite the fact that she had quite literally just woken up.

The door opened and the two females entered. As they gazed at her, Nesta knew she should try to put on her regular expression but it was futile.

Emerie’s eyes softened and Nesta resisted the urge to flinch. She didn’t want their pity. She didn’t want their comfort. She didn’t-

“We were wondering if you were willing to invite us,” Gwyn said tentatively. “We missed the Pegasus.”

“And the food,” Emerie added.

“And you, of course.” Gwyn’s eyes pierced her and Nesta knew her friend could see the sadness that was drowning her, burying her alive.

“But mainly the books and the food,” Emerie said, smirking. The light, joking air they put on was for her sake. Because they knew that, no matter how far she’d come, Nesta tended to retreat into her shell when things got bad. That her old habit returned and she needed to be gently coaxed into talking about her feelings. She needed to be reminded that people loved her and that she deserved to be loved.

It was because of Gwyn and Emerie that Nesta found the strength to get out of bed and walk with them to the living room.

She didn’t miss the long glances Emerie and Gwyn shared as they seemed to be debating what to do, but she didn’t react to them.

“So, Nesta,” Emerie said, “I actually read this book recently, I think it was called Amethyst Mischief? It was incredible.”

“Oh, who was it by?” Gwyn inquired.

“Asterion Winika. She also wrote Tinted Skies of Raleigh. Have you heard of it?”

“No,” Gwyn replied. Nesta shook her head as well.

“Well, it’s about this young female who was born in a world where there is a form of alchemic magic that they call ‘technology’ which is based on lighting-generated impulses. They power thousands of different things with this lighting energy, which they call electricity. Anyway, so this female was travelling…”

As Emerie recounted her story, with Gwyn chiming in occasionally, Nesta felt as though she were slowly thawing. It was as though she’d been encased in a cloud of heavy despair and now, the dark clouds were slowly moving to let a tiny stream of sunlight through. Her sadness still clung to her, but it had loosened its grip slightly, giving her room to breathe.

Although she could not attempt to feel joy, she felt like she was able to get through her day — to make it through without feeling as though she was being crushed by a mountain (now, it only felt like a boulder).

At the end of the afternoon, as she walked her friends to the door to say goodbye, she felt like she would be able to survive this. She just had to take it one step at a time.

__________

Cassian groaned, his arms raised above his head as he stretched in his chair.

“Long day?” Nesta asked. The dinner table, with their now empty plates, stood between them.

“Full day of training and drills with the Illyrians,” he replied, closing his eyes in exhaustion. “Sorry I didn’t come home last night. I needed to head to Illyria and-”

“It’s fine. Gwyn and Emerie came over today,” she said quickly, before steering the conversation away from her again. “How did the training go?”

Cassian let out a tired half-laugh, his eyes still shut. “About how you’d expect. Over-enthusiastic and energetic new recruits who need to learn some discipline, conniving warlords, disrespectful and power hungry males all around. But the drills went well.”

Pride cut through the haze of his exhaustion as he uttered that last phrase.

He opened his eyes. “It’s something beautiful, watching them all come together to fight. Of course I hope we won’t ever have another war but when we do these drills and they get into formations and fight the siphon-made simulation, they stop being individuals who are desperate for power and recognition and instead become the legendary Illyrian army. Watching those recruits who’d usually beat each other up for an extra portion of meat work together, helping each other up and guarding each other’s blind spots…”

His hazel eyes shone like liquid gold as awe colored his voice.

“It’s like Enalius is there. It’s glorious and it’s, well, I guess it’s why I love doing my job,” he smiled.

As she watched him, joy sparked in her chest which she felt keenly given its absence in the past three days. People often forgot that Cassian’s passion matched her own. They believed him to be easy going due to his mask of innuendoes, jokes, and smiles, and didn’t bother to notice his fire. Nesta loved watching him get passionate about subjects he loved. His face, his voice, and his soul lit up and Nesta couldn’t help but smile as he bloomed in front of her — fireworks breaking through the darkness of her despair.

Once in bed, Cassian promptly passed out. Laying curled against him, with his arm and wing tossed over her, Nesta felt his heat seep into her bones. In his cocoon, she felt safe, protected from the harsh tragedies she wanted to forget. Her last thought as she succumbed to Morpheus’ lull was that as long as she had Cassian, she would be alright.

__________

Nesta woke alone.

She got out of bed, threw on a robe over her nightgown, and headed towards the kitchen where Cassian probably was. Her fae ears picked up the sound of faint voices, growing louder as she approached.

Nesta entered the kitchen. For a brief moment, she absorbed the sunlight that streamed in through the window and felt at peace. Then, she took in her surroundings — or more precisely, the people who surrounded her. Cassian was in the kitchen, of course, but alongside him stood not only Azriel but also Mor, Rhys and Feyre. They seemed to be having breakfast together, as Cassian and Az cooked something on the stove while Mor and Feyre chatted as the blonde made tea. Why they had all decided to gather in her house this morning, she had no idea. Perhaps Cassian had invited them and hadn’t bothered to inform her. Or perhaps they thought that since this house had once belonged to Rhysand, they were still allowed to come and go unannounced as they pleased. Either way, she was in no state to deal with so many people, especially so early in the day.

Hoping to get some caffeine into her system, she took a step towards the cupboard to grab a mug when she noticed something moving at Feyre’s feet. A flutter of wings, chubby outstretched fingers, and rounded violet-blue eyes froze her in her tracks. Nyx. The sight stabbed her sharply and pain flooded her senses as a sludge of ugly emotions bled from the wound.

Why was it that Nyx was able to be standing there, in perfect health, with his perfect arms and legs and hair and wings, while her baby had never even gotten a chance to grow any of their own? Why was it that Nyx could hold onto his mother’s leg, babbling happily, while Nesta would never be able to hold her baby, let alone hear their voice or see their smile? Why was it that Nyx could be alive, could be born and grow up, getting a little bigger and stronger everyday, while Nesta’s baby had never even tasted a second of life?

Rage and despair churned into a violent tornado. Nyx let out a soft cry, as her baby never would. Feyre placed a kiss on his brow, as Nesta would never be able to do. Nyx exhaled air that her baby would never breathe.

Too much. The tornado had shredded her insides — her passionate heart, the temporary joy the afternoon with her friends and the night with Cassian had placed in her, the strength cultivated by her mother and her society and later by herself — all torn to pieces.

The tornado threatened to escape her, to cut others to ribbons with sharp words and destructive acts, but Nesta used the remaining shards of herself to hold it in.

Nyx laughed a toddler’s laugh: bubbly and consuming and innocent. Because that’s what he was: an innocent toddler.

How could she have, even for a moment, wished ill upon such a being? Not just any child, but Nyx. Nyx, for whom she had sacrificed her powers. Nyx, whom she had rocked to sleep and fed apple-sauce to and babysat countless times. Nyx, who always smiled so widely when she played peek-a-boo with him and whose eyes sparkled as he wrapped his tiny fingers around hers. Nyx, who crawled and then walked towards her just because he loved her hair and her hugs. What kind of monster was she to question his right to exist, just because her own child had been taken unjustly?

Cold. Cruel. Contemptible. Her guilt grew claws that dug into her.

A monster. That’s what she was. No wonder the Mother had decided not to give her a child. She didn’t deserve one. What she deserved was this: unending, unrelenting pain.

Yet Nesta was a coward, so she backed out of the kitchen, eager to get away from the adorable toddler who brought her such agony.

She slid down the hall. Her footsteps grew louder, echoing the double beat of her heart: Mon-ster. Mon-ster. Mon-ster. She shut her eyes, then covered her ears, as though any of that would stop her from hearing the beat.

How could it, when the words came from everywhere? From the Cauldron which had stolen her child away, from the world which had castigated her from a young age, and even from herself: Mon-ster. Mon-ster. Mon-ster. She thought that she’d grown and changed but perhaps she’d only gotten better at deluding herself. After all, beasts can never really turn into people, no matter how hard they try and beguile themselves with fairytales.

How could she escape the truth? How could she escape herself?

Your fault, whispered the walls. Your baby is gone forever, hissed the floor. You deserve it, yelled the ceiling. And then they were all closing in on her, tighter and tighter and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fit in this tiny cage, this prison of her own design and-

“Nesta!”

She gasped, inhaling deeper as her chest finally loosened. It was Cassian’s voice behind her.

“Hey, Nesta.” His voice was so soothing and it grounded her like nothing else. She blinked a few times. She hadn’t even noticed that her vision had gone blurry but now it began to clear.

“I’m so sorry that I didn’t tell you everyone was here,” he said. “I completely forgot that I had invited them a while back. I tried to tell them that we hadn’t prepared brunch but they just said that they’d assemble things and then I kind of gave in and… I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. I’m sorry.”

She had left the room because she couldn’t deal with all those people. She needed space to process the unexpected torment of facing Nyx. But Cassian wasn’t people: he was her mate, her husband, her partner, and her lover in every sense of the term.

She wanted to hug him. To bury herself in his strong, caring arms and chest and never leave his embrace. To leave behind the hurt and the pain that clawed at her continuously, and shield herself with his love.

Nesta turned around slowly, and met his amber eyes. Part of her wanted to be trapped within them forever, frozen in time in the eye of her hurricane.

“Nesta?” Her eyes fell to his lips as they curved slightly. “I brought you a surprise to cheer you up.” His dark lashes cast a shadow along his left cheek as he winked.

He raised his arms, and held out a wide-eyed, smiling child. Nyx.

Nesta could only blink in shock as her internal storm started up once more, the winds stronger than ever.

“He wanted to see his favorite aunt,” Cassian grinned, so joyously it singed a hole through her already battered heart.  She couldn’t tell him that looking at this child, who Cassian adored with his whole being and brought him so much happiness, made her want to retch, smash every item in the house, and then sob for the rest of eternity. “And I know how much you love this little ball of mischief.”

Cassian raised Nyx higher and pressed a light kiss to his hair, causing the toddler to giggle happily.

He would have been such a great father.

You took that from him, whispered her heart. You didn’t deserve a child and the Mother knew that, so she had to destroy his baby. It’s your fault. You killed his child.

Something in her expression must have betrayed her, because a crease appeared in Cassian’s brow and his smile faded slightly. He cocked his head and gently held out the laughing child towards her. “Do you want to hold him?”

She didn’t want to be here, in such close proximity to this reminder of everything she could have had — everything she had lost. She didn’t want to look at Nyx, who stared up at her with earnest round eyes and rosy cheeks.

She instinctively took a step back from Nyx, her waking nightmare, and shook her head. She tried desperately to think of a way to cover up her actions with the excuse Cassian had concocted — that she was merely overwhelmed by the Inner Circle’s unexpected presence this morning — but she couldn’t think as the desperate emotions churned and churned inside her. Her body wanted to succumb to their thrall, to sway and collapse and drown in the storm but she couldn’t — not here, in front of Cassian. That would only lead to questions, which would lead to pain for him, she reminded herself sternly. So she would need to cover up her tracks quickly.

But it was too late. Cassian’s eyes were already filled with alarm and his voice was coated with confused concern as he asked, “What’s going on? Are you alright?”

No, she wanted to yell. No, no, no. The child in Cassian’s arms, who most including her usual self would classify as a bundle of joy, was currently torturing her with his presence alone. She wasn’t strong enough to contain the throbbing anger and agony for much longer.

Nesta’s eyes finally obeyed her, tearing away from Nyx to gaze up at her mate. Nesta’s stare must have revealed that she wasn’t overjoyed to see Nyx as he had expected; he had realized that for some inconceivable reason, she was vexed by this toddler’s presence.

She watched as his emotions danced in his eyes. He looked as though he couldn’t recognize or understand her. Worse yet, a flicker of unease and of fear shone on his face. He had never looked at her like that before, and it broke something within her that she hadn’t even realized she’d been clinging to this whole time. The certainty of her bond with Cassian and the love they shared had been the one thing grounding her and now it was gone. He had glimpsed the truth of her: that she was a monster. She could feel herself spiralling as her brain noted that Cassian’s strong arms were supposed to be their child’s spot, not Nyx’s, and that those loving, protective kisses should have been their child’s.

She needed to leave before she hurt anyone else, before Cassian asked her the questions that lingered in his eyes.

So Nesta spun on her heel, and raced to their room. Mercifully, Cassian stood still in shock for a few seconds before chasing after her. Though he was faster than her due to centuries of training, the head start had been all she needed to enter the room before him. The House, her friend who understood that Nesta couldn’t bear the pain looking at Nyx or Cassian would cause her, quickly shut and locked the door behind her.

Within the privacy of her room, Nesta finally allowed herself to fall apart. Tears streamed down her face as silent sobs wracked her body. She let herself succumb to the suffering and the ache. Any remaining strength dissolved into nothingness and her head drooped onto her knees.

Outside, Cassian knocked and desperately called for her to let him in, to tell him what was wrong. His pleas were muffled by the House’s magic, but he still begged, until his throat was raw and his voice was hoarse. Even then, he stayed, resting his head against the cool wood of the locked door between him and his mate. He reached out a hand to her through their bond and felt the drops of sadness that seeped through the cracks of the usually immovable fortress walls of her mind.

Cassian shut his eyes, drowning in worry and pain, not knowing that across the door, his mate did the same.

__________

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