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c-e-d-dreamer · 9 months

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Baby, Now We Got Bad Blood

A/N: So, we're told in ACOMAF and ACOWAR that mating instincts ride the males hard and that you should never come between a male and his mate, but one of my biggest gripes with ACOSF is that we never really see that from Cassian. Like come on, SJM! I want to see the Lord of Bloodshed go into Mate Mode(tm)! And so, I decided to write this. I recognize it may not be everyone's cup of tea, so remember that the back button is free, but for everyone else, enjoy! :)

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The tug between Cassian’s ribs is so sudden, so harsh, that he almost drops to his knees right then and there. That golden thread securely tucked there squeezes tight enough that it steals the breath straight from his lungs, twisting and writhing in his chest until he can do nothing except press a palm against his side in hopes of alleviating the pain, until he's sure that he must be bruised. He’s half aware of Devlon watching him curiously, of the other camp lords still sitting around the table, but all Cassian can focus on is the way his blood has run cold, on the ringing that’s taken up home in his ears all from that one tug.

Tentatively, he reaches for the golden thread within himself, sending his confusion and concern down the bond. He skates a finger along it, keeping his touch featherlight, before he plucks, a small, urging question. And then, with bated breath, he waits. Waits for the tug in response. Waits for the soothing feeling that’s not his own to rush through him and calm his worry.

But it never comes.

In fact, there’s almost nothing on the other end of the bond. Just silence. Just an empty, yawning void that has the hairs on the back of Cassian’s neck standing up, that has the pounding in his ears turning into a deafening roar. Genuine fear sparks through his veins, ice cold where it digs its claws into his mind and sends his heart stuttering. He reaches for that golden thread again, tugging more urgently this time, but still nothing.

Something’s wrong.

Cassian knows that Rhys had sent Nesta and Mor to the human lands on some sort of reconnaissance mission. Azriel’s network had gotten some concerning information through the vine, so the High Lord sent Nesta and Mor to blend in with the women of some village and see if they could get more details. It was supposed to be an easy in, easy out mission. He’d even arranged this war meeting in Illyria for when she was gone so he’d be back in time to welcome her home, even had tickets ready for them for the Velaris ballet.

But now, all he has is a silent bond, that single moment of fear twined in that hard tug that festers and burns with his own.

Without a backward glance, Cassian storms out of the room, ignoring Devlon calling after him. As soon as he steps outside into the biting snow of Illyria, Cassian unfurls his wings wide behind his back and takes to the skies. He keeps a hard and fast pace as he tears through the clouds, pushing himself and pushing himself and pushing himself. His back and wings ache with the exertion, but it’s nothing compared to the ache that throbs in his chest like an open wound. Nothing compared to the bloodied and bruised shreds of his heart at the thought of something happening to Nesta.

His mind keeps playing an endless loop of possibilities, each one worse than the last. He tries to imagine a scenario where it’s all a big misunderstanding, where he arrives back in Velaris and Nesta is there with that softness that takes over her stormy blue eyes when she sees him, with that sweet smile meant only for him, and they’ll laugh about this whole thing. But there’s no denying that niggling doubt, those whispers in the back of his mind. They fuel his fear, taunt him, and soon all Cassian can see each time he blinks is the sight of Nesta’s eyes open but unseeing, the color completely leached from her face, seared on the back of his eyelids.

It drives Cassian to push himself even harder, to fly even faster. Each beat of his wings, each thunderous hammer of his heart, it all pounds in time with that twisting thread between his ribs, in time with that call that blazes through his soul.

Nesta Nesta Nesta

He lands hard enough that his knees groan and ache, but he doesn’t care. He presses his hand against the wards, an incessant flash of red sparking in front of him, and steps inside the River House. Rhys steps into the view at the top of the stairs almost as soon as he’s through the front door, as though he was expecting him. The wariness pinching the corner of his brother’s eyes, the way his lips are pressed into a thin line, it confirms all of Cassian’s worst fears. Bile claws up the back of his throat, tangling with the lump already lodged firmly there.

“Where’s Nesta?” Cassian forces out.

“Cass…” Rhys starts slowly, holding his hands up placatingly. Cassian doesn’t miss the way his brother shifts his feet, resetting his stance like he’s expecting a fight.

Cassian is about to ask his question again when Madja comes bustling into the River House behind him, rushing up the stairs and past Rhys. The sight of the healer jolts Cassian into action, and he follows hot on her heels down the hall and into one of the bedrooms, but his steps stutter to a stop when he realizes it’s Mor sprawled across the blankets, holding her hand against a wound in her side.

Cassian whirls back around, ready to check every other bedroom until he finds his mate, but he comes face to face with Rhys again. His brother is still wearing that cautious expression, face still pinched and body still tense like Cassian is some sort of wounded animal he needs to treat with care.

“Where is Nesta?” Cassian demands again.

Rhys holds his ground and raises his chin, his eyes glancing over Cassian’s shoulder only briefly before landing back on Cassian’s face. “There was an ambush. I don’t know how the mortals knew we’d be there, knew who Mor and Nesta were, but there were two dozen of them… with ash arrows.”

“That didn’t answer my question. Where is she?”

“When I got there, Mor was already badly injured. She was going to bleed out if I didn’t get her out of there and to a healer.”

Cassian can feel his patience hanging on by a thread, stepping closer to Rhy and growling out, “where is my mate?”

Cassian feels the press of Rhys’s magic against him, the darkness that begins to creep and rumble from the corners of the room, as Cassian stares his brother down, but Rhys is unmoving, undeterred. He continues to meet Cassian’s blazing gaze, his face and voice an even calm that grates against the last shreds of Cassian’s nerve endings, the last of his sanity.

“I had to make a choice, and I made it.”

It takes a moment for the words to really sink in, to understand exactly what Rhys is telling him, and when it does, it’s a bucket of ice water over his head. He stumbles back a step in his shock. His stomach roils and drops all the way to his shoes, his blood crystalizing into ice, as he chokes out, “what?”

Rhys looks away then, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “I used too much of my magic winnowing there already, and Nesta was too far away. I couldn’t get to her without risking Mor, without risking both of us, so I did what I had to do and winnowed us out of there.”

Cassian doesn’t think he’s breathing. He’s sure that his heart isn’t beating because it’s lost somewhere in the human lands, lost with Nesta. “You…” Cassian swallows hard, finding his voice again. “You left her there? In the middle of an ambush?”

“I’m sorry, Cass. I really am.”

“No, you’re not.”

And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? Cassian has always known that Rhys isn’t exactly Nesta’s biggest fan. From the moment they met the sisters, from that first meeting at the manor in the mortal lands, Rhys has always held a certain animosity for the eldest Archeron. He’s always held onto that cool resentment on Feyre’s behalf for what happened when the sisters were young. And despite what happened with the human queens, despite what Nesta did during the War, despite what she did for Feyre and Nyx, that tension has never quite dissipated, that contempt is still there.

“If you were really sorry, why didn’t you go back for her?” Cassian continues, shaking his head in disbelief. “After you got Mor back to Velaris, why didn’t you go back?”

Rhys sighs as if this whole conversation is exhausting. “I just told you. My magic was depleted by winnowing that far, and they had ash arrows. I couldn’t risk it.”

“But you could risk Nesta, right?”

Cassian can feel his disbelief at this whole situation quickly morphing into anger. He can feel the heat of it just beneath his skin where it blazes through his veins. The beast deep within his soul thrashes against its restraints, hackles raised at the idea of any harm coming to Nesta. That rage burns and roars as it twists in dark, crackling tendrils in his chest. It urges him to fight, to raze the whole world to the ground until the debt is paid, until all of Prythian understands the mistake of risking the Lord of Bloodshed’s mate.

“It’s what she would have wanted,” Rhys continues, still using that too calm voice. “You know that. Nesta understood the mission, the importance.”

“Don’t you dare!” Cassian snaps, stepping forward again until he and Rhys are toe to toe, glowering down at him. “Don’t you dare speak of her when you left her to die.”

“Calm down,” Rhys speaks slowly, violet eyes flickering in warning.

“Are you fucking kidding me? What if it was Feyre? What if I left Feyre in the middle of an ambush surrounded by ash arrows? What if I left your mate for dead?”

“Don’t.”

The low tone of Rhys’s voice lets Cassian know he’s hit his mark. That magic and darkness presses a little bit harder, those violet eyes turning cold, clearly unimpressed with the underlying threat toward his mate. Cassian almost wants to laugh hysterically, seeing his own feelings mirrored back to him. It’s a sickening type of vindication.

“That’s the difference, isn’t it?” Cassian continues to drawl, not backing down, the red of his siphons flickering in time with Rhys’s own magic. “I would risk it for Feyre. I would go back for her because I know how much she means to you, but you don’t care. You’ve never forgiven Nesta, not really, and now, you finally got the chance to wash your hands clean of her.”

“Cassian—”

“Where?” Cassian interrupts, taking a step back finally and adjusting the straps of his leathers and preparing for a long flight. “Give me the coordinates. I’ll go get Nesta myself.”

Cassian side-steps around Rhys and heads for the stairs, but Rhys is hot on his heels. “Absolutely not. I’m not letting you fly all the way to the mortal lands and potentially walk head first into an attack.”

“Try and stop me,” Cassian dares, whirling around with a snarl of warning. “Being mated and a father has made you soft, Rhysand. Do you really think you could take me?”

The temperature in the room starts to drop, Cassian’s siphons flaring brighter in response as magic scrapes along his spine. He’s been itching for a fight since the moment he stepped through the doors, instincts gnawing at his every nerve ending and riding him hard until his hands are clenching into fists, his fingers twitching with the urge to drive into Rhys’s face.

But he doesn’t have time for this.

Nesta is gods know where in the mortal lands, in the Mother knows what state, and he needs to get to her. He waited five hundred years for her. Five hundred years to hold her. Five hundred years to love her. And he’ll be damned if he loses her now. Damned if he fails her again. Damned if he doesn’t save her when he wasn’t there to protect her in the first place.

He turns back around and storms down the stairs, striding toward the door without looking back. His blood has already started to thunder again, that same beat of Nesta Nesta Nesta as he stretches his wings to warm them up.

“Cassian, stop,” Rhys calls after him, but Cassian merely rolls his eyes. “I am ordering you as your High Lord.”

Cassian can feel the magic of the order as it slinks across his skin, taste it on the back of his tongue, but he’s quick to shake it off with a scoff, yanking open the front door. “Fuck off.”

“You step out that door, you won’t be welcome back in this Court.”

Cassian turns over his shoulder, settling Rhys with a deathly cold look. “Good luck finding a new General then.”

Rhys looks genuinely taken aback by that, blinking a few times in surprise. “You’d really throw away everything you’ve worked so hard for? Everything you’ve ever wanted?”

“Nesta is everything I’ve ever wanted. And you knew that. And you still—” Cassian can’t choke the word out, can’t fathom a world where Nesta, his Nesta, his beautiful, smart, amazing mate is gone.

A world where Rhys killed her.

With one last shake of his head, Cassian steps out of the River House and onto the streets of Velaris, the door slamming behind him. It feels strange and wrong to step onto these streets knowing Nesta isn’t here. Knowing that her quiet steps won’t fill the bookshop in the Rainbow. Knowing that her soft laughter won’t fill her favorite bakery by the river. That fear from before grips Cassian tight enough that his steps almost stumble, but he stretches his wings out wide behind him nonetheless, siphons flaring in anticipation.

He’s going to get her back. Even if it’s the last thing he does.

—

Updated Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @isterofimias @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @wolfnesta @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone @girl-of-many-floods @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune @that-little-red-head

#nessian #technically at least #cassianappreciationweek2023 #cassian #rhysand #acotar #acosf #my fic

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stargirlie25 · 3 months

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And when Gwyn reached the finish line, bloody and panting and grinning so wildly her teal eyes glowed like a sunlit sea, she only extended her battered hand to Azriel. “Well?” “You already have your prize,” Azriel said simply. “You just passed the Blood Rite Qualifier. Congratulations.” Gwyn gaped. Nesta and Emerie halted. But Gwyn said to him, “ That was why you invited them?” Nesta had no idea what the priestess was talking about, but followed her gaze upward, to the lip of the pit, where a stone-faced Lord Devlon and another male peered in, scowling. No doubt this was the reason the other priestesses had been occupied today. Cassian murmured to Nesta, “I had a feeling today might be the day.”Devlon seemed ready to erupt, his face purple with rage, but he looked to Cassian and nodded tersely. “You told the priestesses not to come?” Nesta asked Cassian and Azriel. “We informed Clotho that we might have some observers today,” Azriel answered, eyes full of ice and death as he stared down Devlon. The male looked away from the shadowsinger before grunting to his crony and flying eastward toward Illyria. Azriel went on, watching them vanish, “Clotho explained it to the others—and they chose to find other ways to fulfill their day.” Nesta asked Gwyn, “But it seemed like you didn’t know what we were doing.” “Cassian and Azriel warned me that we’d be watched by males today, but didn’t specify why. I had no idea it was the Blood Rite Qualifier.” Her eyes shone bright above the dirt smudged on her face.

Azriel staring down devlon with death in his eyes. This is a couple seconds after Gwyn passed the blood rite qualifier and Devlon looked mad and we know this guy says a bunch of nonsense. Also not to mention Azriel imagined her eyes lighting up with joy and them finally doing so? Yeah no Azriels not going to let Devlon ruin Gwyns well deserved Joy.

Art: Poppypola on Instagram

#pro gwynriel #anti elriel #elucien #gwynriel #pro elain #pro elucien #pro gwyn #acotar #anti e/riel #pro lucien #pro emerie #emerie is the best valkyrie #pro nesta #cassian #archeron sisters #nesta archeron #cassian acotar #acosf

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acourtofwhatthefuck · 7 months

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I think reader should still take Azriels virginity.

He really seems uncomfortable with other people and it also would make him have a stronger connection to her. So her leaving and then seeing each other after 500 years ain’t it for me.

Do I think he is an ass- yes but I also think she’s the only one he trusts with his body.

I also think her l leaving the night Court would be idiotic.

They can secretly see eachother and when the war begins(which should be about that time and Devlon was talking about his troops) she and Azriel could be together.

Like the High Lord takes her with Azriel as blackmailing and pressures him into doing things.

Imagine them having to share a room and bed because the high lord saw Azriels thoughts or something. Instead of rooting for them he wants him to get close to her so he has something over Azriels head.

And she’s kinda cold to him and doesn’t see him often and he comes bloodied home or they hatefuck eachother.

I LOVE all these ideas 😩😩💕💕

#ask #about practice on me

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tadpolesonalgae · 6 months

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I imagine reader as the scary wife that makes devlon listen. Like one look from his wife and he’s behaving. I mean originally it wouldn’t have happen, maybe a while after they’re mated. And the batboys see how much power you have over devlon and it absolutely stuns them that the mean old lord is now being nice bc of his mate.

Oh my gosh, if this is for the Archeron-sister + mate idea, imagining she has a terrifying Cauldron given power and one time he accidentally pisses her off and her eyes turn milky and the ground starts shaking and he just rubs for his life 😭🫡

(A plan is brewing in my mind and you’ve made me really want to write it 😭😭)

#anons <3 #Lord Devlon #Devlon x reader

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casuallivi · 2 years

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TTYLTOYD chapter 3

Absence Makes the Heart Grow fonder Restless

This is kind of a continuation from my TTYLTOYD two-shot. Actually, all my shots can be associated (except the au) so I'm thinking of multichapting it...

Set: post ACOSF, post Nessian’s Wedding.

Words: 3306

Part 3: Absence Makes the Heart Grow Restless

Going to Windhaven wasn’t how Azriel planned to start his day, especially when he could still feel the lump on his back from the stake out in Miann. The royalty residing in the heart of Hybern would present no concern to Prythian any time soon, since the remaining spawn of the former king were too busy trying to size his throne. The power had manifest itself in the 4th son, a spoiled youth who thrusted too much on the royal adviser, which made the conspirational first born livid. A civil war was brewing, and Azriel could already feel the headache of constant reports to be made in a near future.

It didn't help that he had been feeling uneasy in the last couple of days, an eerie sensation he couldn’t point the origin making him anxious and tense. His boots crunched the piled-up snow, the shadows scurrying away from the early mid-morning rays that did nothing to warm the frozen hell camp. It was no secret that Azriel despised to waste his time dealing with Illyria, the duty usually falling under Cassian jurisdiction, yet here he was, having every aspect of his patience tested by the hardhead war lord.

His eyes roamed around, cataloging the young males practicing different routines all over the camp. Stretching, working with weapons, with shields, flying, running laps, sparing in cockpits, all exhaling puffed breaths under the duress of a typical morning session. The females, however, were sweating for very different reasons. They ran around the camp like servants, polishing boots, mending uniforms, sharpening blades, moving weapons, removing snow from the courses, dressed in raged clothes that were a far cry from the especial leather uniforms provided by Rhys. His fist curled, a dark shadow coating his hand and swallowing the incandescent cobalt stone that flicked.

“The girls are not training.”

Devlon’s attention was fixed on a sparring, screaming inputs to the males. “Lift your shield boy! Lift that fucking shield and rotate! Godsdam, up, up, UP! That’s only 120 pounds! You can’t lift that, you get the fuck out of my pit and let someone with balls train!” He didn’t move his attention from them, didn’t thought he needed to. “The girls have chores to complete.”

“The High Lord was clear.” Azriel said.

His eyes turned to Azriel with disdain.

“This is my camp, boy. Not his.”

“The females train, or no one trains.” Azriel declared, his lack of expression leading others to believe he didn’t have the slightest ounce of interest in the matter.

Devlon snickered, unimpressed with the conversation that happened every other week.

The half-breed lord loved to send his bastards to meddle in his camp. The boys were talented in the battle field, Devlon wouldn’t deny that, they trained in his camp after all, and the half-breed even found a way to become a High Lord, kudos for him. But this was Illyria, not a playground for bored High Fae. Here they have lineage and culture and traditions. Despite Rhysand’s lineage being tarnished, Devlon was one of the few lords who would allow half-breeds and bastards in his camp. His reason was simple,

They were males.

They were males with illyrian blood running in their veins, even if it was washed down. And Illyrian males were born to have their wings spread, a blade in one hand, a shield on the other and a shot at proving themselves as the Mother intended. Females were a different story. As the Mother created the males for thriving in the battlefield, she also created the females for housing and breeding. He had stopped the clipping and allowed them in the camp to appease the prissy prince, but training was unnecessary for them. Imagine having them sharing the field with the real warriors in a daily basis? Bullshit. They would only slow the males down, tempt them, steal their focus to not even amount to good warriors in the end. Having functional wings was privilege enough. Illyrians were and will always be an elite warrior race, therefore mixing them with meek females was stupidity, Devlon knew that. The girls were much more useful like this, tending to the camp chores for the males to achieve their full potential like tradition dictated.

Tradition existed for a reason.

Tradition is fail-proof, timeless, universal.

Noting the shadowsinger’s blank stare still fixed at him, Devlon spat on the ground, the chewed tabaco sinking in the snow in front of Azriel’s boots. The shadowsinger said nothing. He did not move or react to the insult. His shadows were a different story. The devilish things swarmed like a hive of angry bees – dispersing everywhere – syphons flaring to life with the challenge, a cobalt aura engulfing the camp in a spam of seconds.

“What are you doing, boy?!!” he exclaimed with anger, eyes bloodshot red as he beheld his camp. Devlon could barely keep up with the mayhem that came next.

The work-out sounds stopped, replaced by shrieks and gasping and crashing. The racing track froze completely before erupting, chunks of stone flying off the floor. Panic and chaos spreading like a wild fire. With a symphony of screams, dozens of illyrians were falling from the sky, grunting and cursing as they hit barracks, trees, each other. Others had their running and sparing interrupted by the loss of balance, falling face flat on the ground when Azriel bounded every male in the perimeter, straps of shadow trapping a hundred pair of wings. More shrieks followed by whoever held a weapon, for they were now covered with a blue-hot halo, blazing like a new forged blade, burning the hands attached to the handles. More males fell on their knees, burring their hands in snow to sooth the burnings. The ones closest to Azriel ran with terrified faces, which wasn’t sufficient to escape the shadow-binding on their feet and wings. The males began to pair up, trying to free their wings with no success.

The females, who were untouched by magic or binds, stopped their chores to come together, watching the scene with a mix of shock and amusement, their giggles growing into laughter the more the more the males struggled. Azriel watched them for a moment. Their innocent glee reminding him of someone. She flashed in his mind. Her lightly tanned skin, the freckles across her nose, her piercing brown eyes and the radiant smile that had no business being directed at him. He blinked the memory away.

“What are you laughing at, girl?” the war-lord snapped at tthem. “Don’t just stand there, help them to unbid their wings, your brats! Move, move! You!” he pointed at Azriel, “Release my warriors now, shadowsinger!”

“The females train or no one trains.” he repeated with boredom, face blank as a white sheet.

The war lord was still cursing fiercely when the spymaster left, ignoring his tantrum and shadow-walking to the outer shield protecting the cabin. Azriel wasn’t Cassian, he had no patience to deal with the traditions of this forsaken mountain, if Devlon wanted to train his precious warriors, he could come and beg for it. He pushed the snow of his shoulder with irritation, Feyre’s paintings following his every step as he made way to the office. The space was crowded with paperwork, endless piles of new information waiting to be sorted by him. What a headache.

Azriel pinched the bridge of his nose trying to focus his thoughts.Tired. He was too tired to deal with that. When was the last time he slept? A shadow drift to the fresh report appearing on top the never-ending pile. ‘Read it. Read it.’ Another crooned in his ear.

“Not now.” He answered out loud, freeing the curtains to cover the window. Azriel paused, glancing at the elastic tie escaping from the cuff of his uniform, the yellow color bright and painful amidst the black of everything else. The adornment had become attached to his wrist since he had found her one too many times with her unbound hair clinging to her sweat face, getting in the way of her vision, his hands ably pulling the rebel strands in a pony tail. Now the unused hair tie mocked the intimacy he was no longer allow to display.

Azriel slouched on a chair and closed his eyes, groaning. There he was again, thinking of her.

Thinking of Elain.

His mind cooking an absurd amount of risqué ideas, indulging in plotting shading escapades.

It had been a while since he last heard her voice outside the echoes of his mind. Three weeks, four days and twenty-four hours. Since Cassian’s mating celebration, if one was counting. Which he wasn’t. Gods, he missed her. He missed the soothing atmosphere that only Elain’s presence could bring to him. Recently, Azriel had become quite accustomed to replay the memories of her, drowning in regret, wishing he had done different, martyrizing himself with the weight of cowardice. That’s what he was. A coward. A coward who hide behind his brother’s order to avoid the mess he created.

Azriel uncovered many secrets in his lifetime, but there was one that didn't matter how hard he tried, he could not unravel, and that was his relationship with Elain, his fondness, his desire, his obsession for the girl who rooted herself in his darkened heart. If he had a soul, it would be hers too. Azriel could not pinpoint exactly how they became friends. Worse, he could not define when the friendship became something more intimate either. How he went from numb to his surroundings, to obsessing over a twenty-five years old and her view of the world. She was breathtaking, there was no denying that, but beauty wasn’t the feature who made Elain Archeron so irresistible.

There was a fire inside her. A flame that burn bright and strong enticing him with every flicker. Elain played the demure persona quite well for someone with such strong opinions of the world. “People don’t really listen to me,” she told him once. “They look at me, and that’s it, my value is defined. That’s the only sense I can stimulate, vision. Like a curse.” He could relate to it better than he would like. Shackled to his appearance, to the horrendous scars on his hands, to the ever-present shadows draped over his body.

When Azriel saw the worst of what life had to offer he decided to be worse, to become the night that once symbolized his terrors, to be feared instead of afraid. When Elain saw the worst of what life had to offer she took a harsh blow, but she came back. As the light in her eyes began to shine again, her kindness bloomed in full, her positivity was contagious, her smiles infectious. There was no sensation that could rival being in the receiving end of her smiles. Understanding the bravery of her kindness was like a punch to his gut, making him gag, expelling, little by little, the foulness collected along centuries, allowing clear air to make way into his lungs. Azriel had never felt proud of anyone as he felt of Elain, and one day he simple caught himself longing for her. Her burning presence, her bright voice, her sunny smiles. Before he even realized it, her mere presence began to mold him anew, changing his habits, brightening his days.

When he could join her for breakfast, after being away for days, she would inquire every little detail of the cities he been to, filling him in with what he lost while away, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her he knew what was happening in Velaris no matter where he were because he like to sip his coffee listening to the melody of her. “No” was not a word in his vocabulary when Elain shyly invited him for her usual walks along the Sidra, both quiet in companion silence enjoying the late night breeze, or her twice-a-week visits to the food market, where his hands would relieve hers from anything he judged heavy –which was anything she bought.

Azriel had lost count of how many times he shamelessly brought his reports to the town house, one eye on the words stretching in the paper, another in Elain humming while working in the garden, shadows escaping from him to lurk near her, shading her when they judged her floppy hats were not enough. And how many times had they not slipped away in shadows after a chaotic family dinner? Leaving their loud family behind to watch plays and recitals, attend a festival she had interest in knowing, her curious mind working furiously to ask him about fae customs, Azriel patiently explaining everything she desired to know, nights ending in cozy flights across the coast, dancing and drinking and laughter.

Being with Elain was easy, simple as breathing. Then things changed. In a slip of his tongue, Azriel flirted with her, and to his absolute delight and horror, Elain flirted back. And continued to do so. Her pink stained cheeks, the eyes that followed him everywhere, the subtle touches and brushes. Azriel knew why she was acting like that, cautious of the others noticing their interactions, careful of the gods-dammed bond that was always mention to her. The bond he didn’t give a fuck about. Their clandestine interactions grow bolder, his lust grow out of control, and it became impossible to be near her without barely stopping himself to worship every inch of her body. An spirit Elain seemed to appreciate.

Until he fucked it all up.

‘Master! Wake up!’

Azriel was brought from his reverie by an insistent shadow puling his eyelids, demanding his attention. Snarling, he tried to chase it away.

‘Wake up, master. Read it, read it!’ It crooned in his ear.

A report materialized on his lap. With a sigh he surrendered, his eyes scanning the letter once, twice, before crunching the paper, his face finally exposing a feeling:

Anger.

“Fuck.”

Elain’s scent was scant, no longer bleeding out the walls and furniture, perfuming every corner of the house as it did once. The place was quiet, lifeless without her running around, indulging Nyx’s caprices while Feyre taught her classes. The River House was not as bright as it once was. At least, not for him. Azriel stood in the farther corner of the office, arms crossed, face blank, shadow vexing out and about, veiling his frame in such dark mist his brother could barely see his body.

"You cannot release them from duty, Rhysand."

Azriel gave his brother an icy stare. Unbelievable. Did Rhys honestly believed he could control Azriel now because he was staying away from Elain? Control his spies? He wanted to laugh. The only reason he was following the idiotic command was his oath, his loyalty binding him to the High Lord’s command. Truth be told, the order alone was not strong enough to keep him from seeing Elain, the order could be interpreted in many ways, ways that allowed him to breach it. It was a simple game of literal meaning and loophole and telling Rhys to fuck himself. The only reason he had entertained his brother so far was because of Elain, he had hurt her deeply that night, broke her trust. Sometimes sleep would not come to him when the memory of her sad eyes did. Azriel didn’t know how to turn back, to fix his stupid mistake. He should had kissed her and to hell with it.

Rhys flicked an invisible fleck of dust from his shoulder. "I have no use for those who don't follow my orders."

"They are my spies. Not yours. Mine."

He almost laughed at the irony of the words so similar to the ones Devlon spat at him earlier. His brother glared at him.

"And you are my spymaster. Serving in my court."

Azriel was fuming. First his brother interfered in his relation with Elain, now he tried to fire the twins because they refused to spy on her, making Azriel realize that Rhys was really growing old, old and insane! Thinking too high of himself. Drunk on power.

Azriel followed a set of rules in his life, not fully trusting High Lords being one of them, way high on the list. The problem was he didn’t think his brother would be in the middle of the untrustworthy. His mistake. He should have known better than trust family.

"You're not sovereign.” Azriel scoffed. “I serve a High Lady. Shall I petition to her? Ask for an audience and deliver my worries in letterhead? Maybe just come to family dinner will do the trick."

"You think you're funny?"

"I think you are a dick." shadows coated his knuckles, sliding between his hands, squeezing. "They are allowed to refuse a mission that involves personal targets."

"Will you report in their place, then?”

“Fuck you!” The words were angry, harsh, siphons atop of his hands flared, the shelfs rattled. Rhys merely shrugged.

"I can forget this incident if you take their place. I need someone I can trust on this. Someone who cannot be bribed."

"Why would she bribe your measly roaches?"

"Not her. Someone more intimidating. Someone interest in keeping her business private."

"She has the right to her privacy."

"Not if she put my court in danger. She doesn't."

"Do you hear yourself?"

"I do. My problem is that you don't listen to me."

Azriel tried to keep calm, be reasonable, keep Rhys calm, away from the madness eating his brain. When did his brother turned into an asshole? Azriel took a deep breath, fighting to keep his shadows in check, feeling the fucking Shadowsinger clawing to be free and challenge his brother, wipe the idiotic fake smile from his face.

"All of this because she is moving out? Really, Ryshand?” His brother relaxed further on the chair, crossing his hands. "You only have one child, a male one. If you have so much fucking free time to be thinking bullshit, think about him, and leave Elain alone, let her live her life.”

Azriel whirled around, crunching the doorknob under his flaring palm, almost pulling the door out of the hinges. He would not shadow-walk away like a little boy throwing a tantrum. He would leave by the door and spit in Rhys’ doorsteps on the way out, like a grown male.

"What of you Az. Are you leaving her alone?"

He stopped.

"That's what you asked me to do, isn't it? No. You ordered me to do it."

"You think I don't know why she is moving out? Dare I say, for who."

"Elain is her own woman, her life doesn't revolve around anyone but herself."

"You expect me to believe that Elain moving out have nothing to do with you trying to sneak her out on Cassian’s mating party?"

Azriel huffed, shadows dispersing in the room. "The tales are true, then, is never late to learn something. I, for instance, am learning that having I child means your brain pass on to the next generation."

His brother sighed.

"Az,"

"Rhysand." He scorned. "Let her be. Let her live her life. Elain is not your nanny."

Rhys adjusted himself, shaken.

"I'm never said that."

"You didn't have too. Did you think she stayed in this house to nurse your child forever? She saw her sister die, she stayed behind for her, to nurse her back to health, to make sure Nyx was okay, watch his mother be back on her feet. She’s back."

"Are you her messenger now?"

"If Elain has a message for you, she will relay herself. In the meantime; Leave. Her. Alone. Or I will make you."

"Are you threatening me? My own brother?"

"I don’t make threats. As my brother, you should already know that." He slammed the door on his way out.

#elriel fanfic #elriel #elain archeron #azriel #elain x azriel #elain and azriel #rhysand #nuala and cerridwen #fucking devlon #TTYLTOYD #my writing #i tried to be my best misogynistic self to birth devlon #did it work?#being in his head is exauting for my brain cells #my eyes rolled so far back they are yet to return #enjoy :D #no more tags in my mind

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theladyofbloodshed · 3 years

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AU where we pretend ACOSF didn't happen - part one

It had been months since Solstice. Months since Cassian had chased after Nesta along the Sidra and followed her home like a pathetic dog. It was only to make sure she returned home safely, he had told himself. Nobody had heard anything from her since. Nobody else cared either.

A few times, Cassian had happened to fly by her apartment and casually steal a glance through the tiny window although it yielded nothing. He didn’t know how he would have coped if he ever did see anything. If he saw her with another male. Then one night, when summer was waning, he’d stopped on the roof opposite, hoping to at least see the light on so he knew she was safely at home, but the curtains were wide open and a young couple were painting the walls of Nesta’s apartment. No, not hers, not anymore.

Cassian had dropped it into conversation with Feyre as casually as he could. She’d hardly glanced up from her painting and gave a non-committal shrug. Elain, too, had scrunched up her nose and said she couldn’t imagine that Nesta had gone anywhere worse than the seedy apartment she had been inhabiting. Cassian’s lack of subtlety – or Feyre’s loose lips – had caught Rhysand’s attention.

‘Why do you care so much? She doesn’t give a damn about you or her sisters. She’s made that clear enough times.’

‘She’s my mate.’

That should have covered everything. Rhys should have known the gravity of those words; whatever lengths he’d have gone for Feyre, Cassian would do the same for Nesta, ten times over.

Rhys gave him a long, hard stare. ‘She’s not in Velaris. I don’t even think she’s in the Night Court. I am sorry, brother.’

‘What if she’s hurt? Nobody cares that she could be in danger.’

‘The only danger she will face is herself. She’s her own worst enemy.’

A white-hot anger burnt inside of Cassian’s chest. Rhys might have been his high lord, the male who had turned a bastard born orphan into something for the storybooks, but he was an asshole where Nesta was concerned. ‘She is twenty-five, Rhys. Twenty-five and she’s been dragged into our world, dragged into a war. She’s grieving and hurting and nobody gives a shit.’

‘I can’t forgive what she did to Feyre. Or didn’t do for her.’

‘Do you think we had our shit together at fourteen? Will you really judge her on a decision she made as a child?’ When Rhys tried to speak, Cassian snarled. It had never been that way between them. And if he dared pin the blame on Nesta for it, Cassian was ready to leap across the table and slam his fist into Rhys’ pretty face. ‘She is never given the same privileges you give to Elain. If you can forgive Elain, you can forgive Nesta.’

Cassian had to leave. Fighting with Rhys was incomprehensible. They’d butted heads when they were younger, arrogant males. That was different somehow. This was over his mate. His mate who did not want him. His mate who had fled the city without a trace. Somehow it was easier to think that someone had taken her than to think that she’d left of her own free will. Their bond remained; Cassian could feel it hanging limply and unwanted, but it was still connected to her. And so he hoped. He hoped, and he hoped, that one day she would want him.

Of all places, he ended up in Illyria. There were enough sneering males to tip Cassian over the edge. Nesta. His fists pummelled into the male who dared to challenge him to spar. Nesta. The male’s nose shattered, a stream of crimson erupted across his face. Nesta. Another male entered. Nesta. Cassian’s knee came up into the male’s chest then a foot. Nesta. He didn’t need weapons. He’d learnt how to fight with whatever he could, and if that meant just his body then so be it. Nesta. No matter how hard Cassian tried to block out the roaring in his ears, no matter how many males he pummelled into the mud, his thoughts tracked back to Nesta.

‘You look like shit.’

Cassian nursed a black eye, a split lip, and two broken ribs. He had sat alone on the edge of one of the widow’s camps after weeks fighting Devlon’s trainees until Azriel had emerged from the shadows beside him. His wounds would heal, leaving no trace, then he'd do it all again tomorrow to try and feel something. It was only the fear that slithered through his gut about Nesta that he'd felt for weeks.

Rhys and Feyre had made ceremonial appearances in Illyria. At their first visit, a shard of hope so bright had made Cassian’s heart soar. But they had not heard word from Nesta and still weren’t worried. They had come to examine Devlon's warriors. In the subsequent visits, that hope slowly diminished. Nesta had not returned to Velaris and would not.

‘Does it help?’ Azriel gestured to his wounds.

‘No,’ he admitted. Nothing helped. Nothing could tear his thoughts away from her.

‘Nobody would bet against Nesta in a fight.’

‘That sounds like one of Rhys' lines.’

Az drew his eyebrows together. A couple of females walked by with their heads cast down to the trail, both already had their wings clipped. Azriel hated this place more than Cassian. He could feel the rage coiling tighter in Azriel’s chest.

‘Is she worth it?’

Cassian fought against the wave of anger, the need to launch an attack at Azriel for daring to suggest Nesta wasn’t worth the effort. Nobody thought Nesta deserved their attention. It had changed his view on his family. How harshly they judged Nesta, how unforgiving they were towards a woman striking out in pain. He and Mor had had a blazing argument about her after solstice. Mor had asked if Nesta was worth losing all of his family over.

‘Yes.’ Cassian’s pain bled like a throbbing wound for him. ‘She never asked to be made, Az. I can understand her anger. Towards what happened in the war, towards her father. Even towards me. She had no choice.’

‘At least you’re handsome,’ he replied in that cool, teasing tone.

‘She would have died with me. She was willing to. I told her we’d have time and I’ve fucked it all up. I just couldn’t find the right words. Couldn’t face her properly. I tried to give her space then gave her too much. Left it too long.’ Cassian rubbed his face with his hands then winced at the bruise marring his eye. ‘By the mother, I hope she’s safe.’

Azriel shifted beside him. His wings flexed then tucked tightly against his spine as he took in the camp. Although it was autumn, a chill crept down from the mountains. The widow’s camp glittered with fires and females huddled around them. Cassian had set up his own camp on the outskirts; close enough to help when they needed it, far enough that they didn’t need to fear him. It was like being a child again; an unwanted bastard fighting for food and warmth each day.

Since the war, the camp had only swelled with females. That still haunted him. Nesta screaming his name, drawing him to her, then the others turning to nothing. He’d have died without her intervention. And she couldn’t leave him still. He would never forget the rumble of her heart as she pressed her body to his, both ready to die together.

Azriel touched his shoulder lightly then withdrew his hand from view. ‘Do you care about her or the bond itself?’

‘Nesta. Of course, Nesta. She was skin and bones at Solstice. She pushed her food around her plate without eating anything. I know everybody keeps telling me to give up on her, that she’s burnt her bridges, but I don’t care, Az, I don’t care. If I'm the only person on her side then I'm the only person on her side. I don't care. I’ll walk through the flames to her. I’m so scared she’s suffering and has nobody to help.’

Something in Azriel’s expression changed. His dark eyes were hooded with sorrow. He dipped his chin to Cassian in understanding. ‘She’s safe.’

Cassian fought to get to his feet. His legs had turned to lead. ‘Where is she?’

#cassian #nesta archeron #azriel #feyre archeron #rhysand #elain archeron #morrigan #acosf #acotar #acowar #acomaf #acofas #fanfiction #my writing #au acosf

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unhealthyfanobsession · 3 years

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@vidalinav posted about how Nesta loves to brag about her friends and is probably always going on about how great Cassian is.

And all I could think about was IMAGINE if people talked to Cassian how they always do in front of her now!!

I have a personal headcannon that the Night Court doesn’t tell ANYONE that Nesta gave up power and instead just fronts to their enemies that Feyre survived and it’s chill. No big. So everyone is just as terrified of Nesta as always.

And whenever anyone calls Cassian a bastard or a Brute or anything like that she just fucking glares and lets her power spark in her eyes and delivers the set down of the CENTURY.

Examples:

Eris: shouldn’t you get a leash for the mongrel?

Nesta: Do you realize that you insult yourself whenever you say something bad about my mate? How many brides has he stolen from you now? With almost no effort, might I add.

Devlon: my army doesn’t answer to bastards!

Nesta: interesting, then, that this bastard is in charge of all the Night Court’s forces. And wears... one, two, three, oh look four more siphons than you do.

Tamlin: get out of my court, bastard!

Nesta: *knowing this little bitch isn’t even worth her time* At least he knows how to walk on two legs.

Beron: I’m not afraid of the High Lord of Night’s pet bat!

Nesta: And what about the High Lord of Day? Any thoughts about him? Oh silent all of a sudden. Don’t want your court to know the truth, huh? Maybe keep your mouth shut then.

Bonus of Nesta going in too hard on family in brutal defense just for the comedy:

Rhys: Cassian that plan is idiotic!

Nesta: Idiotic plans huh? Kinda like your plan to just never tell Feyre she was going to die in childbirth? Or making a bargain to die with your mate right before having a child?

Azriel: Cass you can be a real dick sometimes you know that!

Nesta: hmmm, kinda like regifting a necklace to someone without warning them about the truth or owning up to it?

Feyre: Cassian this isn’t about your ego! You aren’t thinking about the consequences here...

Nesta: Feyre you literally couldn’t read until like a year ago and just never told anyone so I don’t know if you’re the authority on putting pride aside and thinking things through.

#nessian #nesta archeron #acosf #a court of silver flames #azriel #a court of thorns and roses #cassian #a court of mist and fury #nesta and cassian #sarah j maas #nestaxcassian #feyre archeron #eris vanserra

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vidalinav · 3 years

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I have a headcanon that Emerie eventually tells Nesta and Gwyn that she’s sometimes scared to be alone in her house because of what happened with the Rite. Gwyn and Nesta feel so bad about this, because they can escape Windhaven and don’t have to be reminded about it, but Emerie lives there. So, Nesta suggests regular sleepovers and surprisingly Gwyn says she’ll come. They look at her like really? But she just shrugs and says it’s time to make new memories, and of course she’s been there before but also she just has her friends. She’s safe with them. She knows this through and through. And Emerie’s house is one of the only exceptions to leaving the library at first.

So, queue the tradition of sleepovers to an extensive amount. Nesta will bring popcorn and candy and everything they can carry with them that the House packs together like a mom. Gwyn of course brings activities, because the library has a lot believe it or not. Emerie always cooks dinner, and sometimes they’ll cook it together and make a mess. Sometimes it’s Gwyn wanting to cook something, and most of the time it’s Nesta being like look mmm, I’ll be in charge of tasting.

It’s like a weekend thing so if it’s snowing they’ll go sledding the next morning. They’ll build snowmen and have snowball fights. Emerie shows them around Windhaven and they trek through different places. Devlon’s always like why are all of you/where are the others? And Nesta’s always like do I have high lord stamped on my forehead? No, so how should I know where the others are. She offers no explanation, and they get in a lot of shenanigans with Devlon tbh. He finds them super annoying, but they hate him with a comical passion because of what happened. So... they debate on whether or not to mess with him often. They do.

Eventually and I don’t care how, there’s a picture of the three of them in Emerie’s house. A picture that each of them has really, that they all hang somewhere in their respective homes, but it’s just like the three of them with boas and being goofy as shit. They’re laughing and happy and whole. I always imagine also them having a picture of them in the snow, like red faced and smiley. But Camera’s don’t exist, so I don’t know how to explain that one. I think I’m going to have to make a time traveling magic power for Nesta or something or make it an invention from the Day Court. Idk but it will happen. Fight me.

#one day I will write a mini fic series with this and basically just emerie gwyn and nesta doing nothing but chilling and sleepovers #nesta archeron #gwyn berdara #emerie of illyria

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likeiwishiknew · 3 years

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Azriel x Gwyn - The Misunderstanding

Read on Shadow Songs on AO3

Azriel stood off on the sidelines watching as Gwyn practiced with Balthazar.

He felt a swell of pride when he saw Gwyn utilize one of the moves he’d shown her to dodge Balthazar’s attack. He smiled. She executed it perfectly.

Azriel was quietly cheering her on when he felt a familiar brush against the walls of his mind. He let his guard down enough to let Rhys’ in.

We might have discovered something about the book.

Based on Rhys’ tone of voice, it did not sound like good news. Azriel took a glance over at Gywn, seeing as she was still wrapped up in her fight he decided against interrupting her.

In the blink of an eye, he winnowed back to their cabin, not wanting any distractions. He did not bother to take a seat.

What is it? He aimed the thought at his High Lord.

We can’t say this with absolute certainty but Amren and I are in agreement in terms of our suspicions. Rhys returned.

That did not sound good.

What are you thinking?

It’s a spellbook of sorts.

Several ideas crossed his mind at once, none of which agreed with him.

As in witches?

Not necessarily. But we won’t know for certain until we see it. Are you sure there’s no way for you to call it back?

He himself had not tried at all.

I’m not sure. Gwyn only attempted to do so once.

Perhaps they could try again once they were safely returned to the house of wind.

How much longer will you be away?

Only two days remain in the week we agreed upon with Devlon.

Rhys seemed to consider this. How much progress has been made?

More than I’d expected. He returned, the truth of it surprising him. Even without seeing him, Azriel could imagine Rhys raising his brows.

That’s a more positive answer than I expected from you. You’ve always insisted they were beyond saving.

It was true, and he was not beyond admitting it.

And I’m still not entirely sure I’m wrong. He shot back.

He could sense Rhys’ smirking, But...

But I will acknowledge there might be at least a few decent males among the lot.

Progress brother.

He wanted to scoff at the notion. But Rhys’ was right. It wasn’t much progress, but it was still progress nonetheless.

When you return to the House of Wind I want you or Gwyneth to try calling the book again. It came to you both once before. It stands to reason that it might show itself again, under the right circumstances.

Azriel wasn’t so sure about that, but he wouldn’t argue. Something had been odd about that book. And Azriel was more than curious about what it might contain.

I will see you at our next dinner Rhys determined. With that, his brother’s voice faded from his mind.

Barely a moment later, he heard the front door open. At first, Azriel expected to see Gwyn. Until he recalled she shouldn’t be done with training yet.

Azriel took in the female who now stood in the open doorway, not recognizing her at all. His defenses immediately shot up.

No one was permitted to come and go from the place freely aside from Gwyn and himself. He’d made that perfectly clear to Devlon, who ensured him he’d pass the information on to the others. Yet here this female stood.

“What are you doing here?” he questioned.

“I followed you,” she said unabashedly.

Well at least she was straightforward, “And what do you want?”

The female approached him. Her movements smooth and confident. She got far too close, and his shadows protested her nearness. She laid a hand on his chest.

“You,” she answered.

He narrowed his eyes at her. Azriel wondered if she’d been sent as some sort of distraction or manipulation tactic. Azriel knew he was overstaying his welcome. Though, to Devlon, any time spent in his company was too long. And the feeling was mutual.

The female ran her hand down the length of his chest, pressing close.

Regardless, whatever the purpose of sending this female to him, it wouldn’t work. He wasn’t so easily seduced.

Before he had the chance to push her away, he detected a familiar presence. Looking back toward the open doorway, he found Gwyn standing there.

Her eyes widened at the sight of him and the mystery female.

“Gwyn,” he pleaded, already seeing the misunderstanding in her eyes.

She started to back out the door, “I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

He shook his head, “No, Gwyn.”

But before he could say anything else Gwyn turned away and took off.

“Gwyn! he called after her.

But she did not stop.

He stepped away from the female, moving to chase after Gwyn. But the female in question did not take the hint, instead, she stepped into his path, her hand outstretched.

“Why are you chasing after her?”

Azriel shoved her hand away. His temper rising.

“You touch me again without my consent and you’ll lose that hand.”

The female shrunk back at the severity in his voice.

Wasting no more time, he hurried out the door to pursue Gywn.

Checking every which way, he did not spot her. However, his shadows urged him in the direction of the forest. And as they rarely failed him, Azriel heeded their call.

It made sense that she wouldn’t wish to remain in camp, not wanting any of the males here to see her distraught. He did not want that either.

Azriel caught her scent and followed it into the wood.

It wasn’t long after that he caught sight of her.

Her hair a streak of bright color against her earth-toned surroundings.

Picking up the pace, Azriel grabbed her by the elbow and swung her around to face him.

He took in her face, as she swiped at her eyes. Everything in him wanted to reach out, to wipe the teardrops from her face. But he saw something in her eyes. Something that told him she might not welcome his touch right now.

And so he released her arm and took a half step back, his throat growing thick.

“Why are you upset?” he asked.

The answer should be obvious. But that was the thing with them, things that should be obvious were often difficult to discern. They walked a narrow path. A fine line between friendship and something else.

Lie. She was not the sort to be upset over nothing.

“Gwyn. Please tell me,” he pleaded.

No matter the nature of their relationship, he never wanted to make her uncomfortable or hurt her in any way. She had to know that.

She shook her head, “It’s not important.”

She was wrong. Anything that upset her was something important.

Her next words cut him off from saying so.

“Why did you waste your time chasing after me?” she asked, appearing genuine in her question, “You could’ve spent it with that pretty female.”

Her words almost left him speechless. Almost.

“Nowhere near as beautiful as you,” he spoke without thinking.

She eyed him in disbelief, “You don’t have to lie Azriel.”

He wasn’t.

Azriel stared at her straight in the eye, “When have I ever lied to you?”

Her brow furrowed as she seemed to consider. There had been misunderstandings between them in the past, but not once had he ever intentionally lied to her.

“If there’s any female in this camp that won’t leave my mind it’s you.”

She bit a lower lip, “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

I’m saying that the one I like...The one I want is you.

Azriel wished he could it out loud but he found himself unable to speak the words. Because he was too much of a coward. Too afraid of the possibility of rejection.

And so, he played it safe.

“I’m too worried about keeping you safe to think about anything else,” he offered up instead.

“Oh...” she replied, lowering her eyes, clearly disappointed.

Damn it. Azriel’s eyes briefly closed in frustration. He wasn’t doing this right.

With his finger he nudged her a chin-up, so she’d meet his eyes. Even if he wasn’t yet ready to make his feelings clear, he wanted to at least ease her mind.

“Nothing was happening between us. She came onto me and I was about to push her away. But I got too wrapped up in trying to figure out what her game was.”

And who might have sent her, he thought to himself. Azriel would concede he often overthought things, and sometimes it could distract him from what was right in front of him.

“You didn’t know her?” Gwyn questioned.

He shook his head.

“I’ve never seen her before in my life.” he insisted, his thumb stroking her jaw, “You believe me don’t you?”

She appeared to contemplate this for a second, then nodded.

Unconsciously he found himself lightly cupping her cheek, holding her bright teal gaze, “Gwyn promise me that you’ll not run away from me again.”

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his cool again if she did. It had taken everything in him not to unfold his wings and launch after her earlier.

But he hadn’t wanted to scare her.

“Okay,” she said.

He needed to hear her say the words, “Promise me,” he repeated more firmly.

She held his eyes, firm resolution behind them, “I promise.”

- - -

Gwyn had thought things were changing between her and Azriel. That their time here together might have him more willing to open up to her. But his walls were still, for the most part, firmly in place. The armor he wore around his heart as present as ever. She wasn’t sure what she could do to change that. If she could do anything at all.

He’d gone off to speak to Devlon once more. Their time at the camp was coming to an end soon.

They hadn’t made the process she’d hoped. But at least they’d managed to turn a few males to their side, at least Emerie would be far less alone when Gwyn returned to the House of Wind.

This past week she’d seen her friend take on a new air of confidence with the males that surrounded her. Emerie had always been tough. But now the rest of the camp was starting to see that as well. That it was not a front. Her sister was strong, a fighter through and through.

Obviously, centuries-old traditions and prejudice weren’t going to be undone in a week, a month, or even a year. It would take time.

She understood that and so did Emerie. But at least her time here had proven to them both that there was hope, which was more than Emerie had before.

To Gwyn, that alone had made her time here worth it.

A knock on the cabin door pulled her from such thoughts.

She wondered who it might be. Azriel wouldn’t have knocked, and Emerie should be at her shop.

Getting up from her seat, Gwyn went to answer the door. When she pulled it open she was surprised to find the female she’d seen with Azriel standing there.

“Hello,” the female greeted.

“Hi,” she returned. Gwyn wasn’t sure how to address her since Azriel had said he hadn’t bothered to get her name.

The female must’ve read her mind, “My name is Katia,” she offered.

All Gwyn could think to do was offer her name in return, “Gwyn,” she replied with no embellishment.

Katia nodded, “I know. I’ve heard about you.”

Gywn wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she remained silent.

“I came to explain myself.”

Awkwardness filled the air.

"You don’t have to do that,” Gwyn insisted.

“I know, but I want to.”

She eyed the female thoughtfully and detected no deception.

“Alright,” she responded, opening the door to let her in. Gwyn gestured to the small table in the kitchen, where they both took a seat.

“First off, I want to start by saying that I didn’t know you and the spymaster had anything going on. I thought he was simply your protector during your time here. Had I known, I never would have done what I did.”

The female clearly had the wrong impression.

“We don’t have anything going on between us,” she corrected.

Yet as she said it she felt unsure. Azriel hadn’t said anything to the contrary, but she did feel as though his behavior went beyond that was a concerned friend.

The female eyed her in a way that had Gwyn rather certain that the other female did not believe her, “You’re wrong,” she stated, “He wouldn’t have gone chasing after you if you didn’t mean something to him if your opinion didn’t matter.”

Gwyn found herself agreeing.

“I did what I did for protection,” the other female said with a sharp exhale, as though the admission cost her.

It wasn’t at all what she was expecting to hear.

“Protection?” she repeated in question.

She female nodded, “Females are afforded little in Illyria. If we’re lucky we fall in love with a male who treats us well and who our families find agreeable. But sadly that is rarer than it should be. Oftentimes, the best we can hope for is a civil marriage. We bear children - preferably sons. And we’re given some peace and security.”

It was the very same sort of existence that Gwyn knew Emerie sought to avoid.

Katia continued, “I don’t want to marry. But I have little doubt that soon I will be forced to. My father has no sons. Soon he will be looking to tie himself to a strong family through an advantageous match.”

The very notion had her feeling sad for the other female.

“I thought, perhaps, if I became the lover of a powerful male I wouldn’t be forced into such an arrangement. I’d be protected to an extent without the burden of marriage.”

Gwyn took a deep breath, understanding welling up inside her, “And you chose Azriel.”

“The General already has a mate,” Katia returned frankly.

She spoke of Cassian. Again, it wasn’t the answer she’d been expecting. But clearly, Katia had no issue speaking her truth.

“It had to be someone strong enough to stand up to my father, to not bow to the pressures of the leadership at this camp. I also made certain it to pick a male I knew would never use or abuse a lover, and as far as I know the spymaster never has.”

The reminder that Azriel had numerous precious lovers left her feeling...unhappy. But she knew she was being unfair.

He’d been alive for centuries. She couldn’t very well think he’d have been alone all that time. Nor would she have wanted him to be. He deserved to be happy, to have someone by his side to share his load. Happiness and affection, that was what she wanted for the male who had come to mean so much to her. She would not be selfish with him.

“He wasn’t interested though,” Katia assured, “I came onto him and he didn’t show a shred of interest. If anything he seemed suspicious. Perhaps he somehow deduced my intentions.”

It wouldn’t surprise Gwyn if he had. Azriel made it his business to know things, to read others. And though she shouldn’t feel reassured at the fact that Azriel had not shown even a hint of interest, she was.

“Thank you for telling me.”

The female nodded, “Tell the spymaster I am sorry as well.”

“He should be back shortly,” Gwyn responded, “You could tell him yourself.”

Katia shook her head, “I don’t think he’ll want to see me.”

Gwyn could not argue with her. Azriel did not much like the company of strangers.

However, there was a more concerning matter at hand here, one that Katia did not seem keen on addressing. But Gwyn would not shy away from it.

“If you ever feel unsafe on your own. You should go to see Emerie,” Gwyn urged, “She’d never turn you away.”

Katia shook her head, “She’s enough trouble as is. I don’t want to put another female in harm’s way.”

Gwyn considered this. She did not agree, but she could see where Katia was coming from.

“Then go to Balthazar.”

The female raised her brows.

“You can trust him,” Gwyn insisted.

At first, Katia looked hesitant. But after a moment the female nodded.

“Thank you for being so understanding.”

Gwyn nodded, “Of course.”

She couldn’t fault Katia. Because like Emerie, the female likely felt she had nowhere else to go. And thus, she was willing to use any means to protect herself in the world she lived in.

Fear could make one do desperate things.

Katia got up to leave. Gwyn watched as she went. Her heart ached thinking of all the females in Illyria who endured countless hardships as living amongst their own.

As Katia reached the doorway, Gwyn found herself speaking up, “If you ever wish to take your power back, to learn to fight, you’re welcome to join us.”

Katia cast a look over her shoulder.

“To become a Valkyrie,” Gwyn continued, meeting the female’s eyes, “The world needs more women who are willing to fight.”

Katia stared at her long and hard before answering, a small smile on her face, “Thank you. I’ll think about it.”

- - -

Not long after Katia’s departure, Azriel returned.

Gwyn looked up from the book she’d been reading to find his expression grim.

She immediately the thing, setting it off the side, and met him in the doorway, “What’s wrong?”

His eyes were a mix of anger and concern.

“It’s Balthazar’s niece.”

Instinct had her growing tense at his tone.

“What is wrong with Amelia?” she questioned.

“A boy tried to drown her.”

And just like that Gwyn found herself springing up from her seat moving past him, running straight out the door. She sensed Azriel at her back. But she did not stop, did not slow. He could keep up with her, of that she had no doubt.

Gwyn moved through the camp like a female possessed.

She had to find Amelia. The training grounds were empty as she ran past, and while the camp was not silent it was all too quiet. The sort of quiet that foretold bad things.

At that precise moment, she caught sight of Balthazar. He stood protectively around his sister and niece, speaking to them in hushed tones.

Gwyn wanted to go to ask him exactly what happened, but seeing as he was clearly busy comforting his family she decided against it. Instead, her eyes caught on two other familiar males. Tobias and Zander were there, standing off to the side.

She rushed over to them.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

It was Zander who answered.

“I heard the boy’s parents say that apparently he and some other boys were playing a game and that one of them dared him to...”

Zander did not finish his statement, but Gwyn could fill in the blanks. That did not sound like any sort of game to her. At least not one they should be allowing children to engage in.

“What is being done?”

Zander tensed, anger coming off him, “Nothing.”

“What?”

“Devlon is deeming it an accident,” Tobias finished for him.

Unbelievable. She hurried over to where Devlon stood, speaking with a few others. Emerie was among them.

“What is this I hear that you’re not even going to reprimand the boy responsible for this?” she all but shouted.

Devlon’s gaze swung to her. His eyes narrowing at her tone.

But she was beyond worrying about offending the male. Her very presence seemed to offend him.

“The child was rescued before the situation could escalate, and she is fine. No harm done.”

Emerie raised her voice, “No harm done!? A child was nearly drowned and yet you won’t even discipline the one responsible simply because of whose son he is.”

The male turned his gaze from Gwyn to Emerie.

“He made a mistake.”

“Almost drowning someone is not a mistake,” Gwyn pointed out.

That remark earned her a sharp glare.

“You are not one of us. You have no grasp of how things are done here,” he replied, voice low, “So I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself.”

Any hold she had on her temper snapped at his dismissiveness.

“You are the worst Illyria has to offer,” she responded, “The living embodiment of everything wrong with this society. You turn your back on those you deem beneath you. You teach males from a young age that there are no consequences for their actions against their female counterparts. Lead them to believe that a female’s place is simply beneath them. As though it wasn’t a female who bore them, bore you, who endured great pain just to see them into this world.”

Against her better judgment, she took a step closer to the angry male, eyes locked with his.

“But sooner or later the females here will wake up. And they might realize they’re better off without the lot of you,” she spat. As she did, she felt a sudden heat wash over her. Something sparked inside her chest, as though fire ran through her veins.

“Gwyn. Gwyn!” Azriel called, his voice sounding oddly distant.

He grabbed hold of her wrists and turned her toward him, breaking her from her reverie of thoughts.

“What is it?” she replied back, a bit peevishly. And immediately felt bad for it, Azriel had done nothing to earn her ire.

“Your hands,” he remarked.

Her brow furrowed in confusion.

But when she glanced down she realized her hands were lit aflame.

Oh heavens.

She redirected her focus, taking deep calming breaths, she tried to put out the small fires. It took several moments, but they slowly diminished until they faded entirely.

Gwyn could feel everyone’s eyes on her. Glancing over her shoulder, even Emerie had a look of shock upon her face. She’d told Emerie about the water, about how she’d been able to manipulate it.

Though not the part where she and Azriel had sung together. That was a memory she would keep to herself, tucked away in her heart.

Devlon stared at her in suspicion, “Who are you?” he questioned.

She wished she knew. Gwyn swung her gaze back to Azriel and took in his worried expression.

“Azriel...”

“I hate to say it,” he said, sounding sincere in that, “But I think we need to call someone.”

She could tell he wasn’t the least bit happy with the idea.

“Who?” she wondered aloud.

He grimaced, “Vanserra.”

~~~

Note: I felt like we needed a bit more angst to push things forward for these two. At the same time, I didn’t want a female character who existed solely to cause problems between our main leads, so I went a different route with Katia.

Anyways, as always, I hope you all enjoy this chapter and leave me any feedback you might have =)

~~~

@azrielsshadowsdanceforgwyn @bittermuire @ofstarsanddreams @corrdolium @toolazymyguy @inkdrinkershadowsinger @itswrongsong @dealingdifferentdevils @rhysmoira

@brucexselina @inejjg @rhysmoira @gwynnight @fairytamy @bluegold08 @amandapearls @highqueentaey @lioness-says @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens @princessofmerchants-reads @cantkeepmyeyesoffofyou-x

@my-fan-side @spookylightkidranch @velaaaris @keramzinskies @itswrongsong @mirubyjane

@lovelywordsandwine @ladygwynriel @parisakamali @mirubyai

#a court of thorns and roses #a court of silver flames #acosf #acotar #gwynriel #love #azriel x gwyn #gwyneth berdara #valkyrie #fanfiction #ao3 update #read on ao3

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bookstantrash · 3 years

Text

A/N: This is an idea that has been living inside my mind for a really long time and I finally gathered courage to write it. But I’m a bit of a perfectionist, so every time I read and edited it I always found more and more faults in what I had written, so I said “To hell with this, I’m gonna post it before I delete the whole thing”

This ended up being way longer than what I had imagined and I have no idea how I feel about it. So buckle up folks, because this is going to be a ride.

In which she makes a friend

After almost three months living in Illyria, Nesta could not recall a single conversation that had lasted for more than three minutes or that had been longer than two sentences. Not that she cared much in holding meaningless conversations about the weather and whatnot with the few Illyrians bold enough to talk to her. Because few were those that tried to talk to her, those that were not scared of her, whose voices did not whisper Other or Witch whenever she bothered to leave the house she now lived in.

So when Nesta sat on the lonely stone bench in front the house – the weather had given a break and gone from “insufferable bone cold” to “tolerable chilly” – to try and calm the raging fire in her veins, a sign that her power was trying to break free, a sign that she was close to breaking and destroying everything around her, she was very much surprised to find an Illyrian child walking towards her.

It was not unusual to have a few Illyrians knocking on the door sometimes, given that she now lived with him due to her sister’s order long ago in Velaris. But since her babysitter had gone to Cauldron knows where, to do Cauldron knows what a week ago, no one had come knocking on the door asking for that overgrown bat. Adding the fact that his house was a little secluded from the rest, Nesta could not imagine why that child was coming over.

“Good...good evening” the Illyrian greeted, stopping in front of her.

“He’s not here” Nesta said, eyeing the child in front of her. The boy – Nesta supposed it was a boy, not older than thirteen, with its short cut curly brown hair, bandaged hands, muddied clothes and scar free wings being the only clue she had – shifted nervously on his feet.

“I...I’m not looking for the General” the boy said “I heard there was a Witch living here. I take you are her”

For the second time of that day Nesta found herself surprised. The boy in front of her had called her a Witch in her face, something most did not.

“I wanted to ask for a spell” the boy’s voice had lost a bit of it’s previous nervousness, and he had squared his shoulders, wings slightly flaring “I don’t have much, but I’m ready to give anything in return”

‘You can’t possible have anything to give me’ Nesta thought, glancing at his ripped and dirty clothes.

“I’m no Witch” Nesta said, getting up and turning her back at the kid, making for the house’s door “Go back to your parents”

~•~

The next day, when Nesta was coming back from a walk in the woods – there was something about the ancient trees and the wilderness that helped her control her inner turmoil — she was baffled to see yesterday’s boy waiting for her.

“I’m sorry for yesterday” the boy blurted out before she could send him away “I didn’t want to offend you. I’m Kaelin”

Nesta’s only answer was a blink.

“I...I only said you were a Witch because that’s what the others said you were” Kaelin’s ears turned pink, no doubt embarrassed to admit listening to gossip.

“I don’t blame you” she said, and Kaelin’s eyes lit in surprise.

No. Nesta did not blame the boy for thinking her a Witch. Because long ago, before the war, before the empt void inside her was as big as the ocean, before she heard her father’s neck crack, she had declared to that annoying camp lord Devlon that she indeed was a Witch. But now, even though her powers were as loud as a beast’s roar in her ears, she did not want to touch them. Could not touch them.

And nothing, not even the hopeful look in Kaelin’s light brown eyes, would make her touch the wild beast that lived within her. She would not give the boy false hope. She would not fail another child. Not again. Not ever.

“If you have problems maybe you’d better tell your parents about it, instead of reaching for witchcraft”

After all, even thirteen year old Illyrians must have foolish mistakes that they would rather not tell their parents about.

“I don’t have parents. At least not anymore” Kaelin’s hard and sorrowful voice was enough to make Nesta resist prying further into his problem.

“I see” was the only thing she said, and she once again turned her back at him, entering that lonely and sad cabin, even though she was feeling rather inclined to talk, a feeling she had not felt for the longest time.

~•~

Kaelin appeared on Nesta’s door three days later, with a black eye, bruised cheek and a split lip that didn’t stop him from smiling and giving her something wrapped in brown paper.

“I thought about it and I realised that my apology was lacking” he started talking non stop, not giving Nesta a chance to say anything except gape at him and the gift on her hands “Father always said to treat everyone nicely, unless they were rude to you. He said it was what mother believed in”

Nesta could only nod and unwrap the paper to discover a pair of gloves.

“Did you steal them?” She asked, connecting the dots between the gloves she held — surely way out of the kid’s status of affordable — and his beaten face.

“No!” Kaelin replied, a bitterness in his voice “I know I’m just a lowly orphan but I’d never take something from another one in such an unhonoured way”

Nesta just grossed her arms, waiting for his explanation.

“One of the boys from the high families arrived at training with new boots” he gave a sly smile “I fought him for them”

“You did what?” Nesta’s voice rose and she was holding herself back from shaking the boy until he was back into his right mind.

“Fighting between Illyrians is not prohibited. But it’s best if you don’t get caught” Kaelin replied, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Nesta felt her temper rising.

“You. Come with me” she grabbed Kaelin’s arm and took him inside before he could protest.

She made him sit on sofa in the living room while she went searching for the medic supplies she was sure Cassian had. Once she found it, she went back to Kaelin and started treating his cuts, mumbling the entire time about how stupid and reckless boys were.

“This is nice” he said, wincing slight when Nesta touched his bruised cheek.

“What is nice?”

“Having someone take care of you” he answered “I... I didn’t know my mom. She died shortly after I was born. Father said she was quite fragile”

Nesta trying to not let show how his words affected her. She remembered another woman, dying in a lonely bed just a few years after her youngest child had been born.

“He died in the last war. Against Hybern” he practically spat the late king’s name, hate filling every syllable.

Nesta finished treating him and started organising the materials, to keep herself busy and have an excuse to buy time to know what to answer him. She had never been good at consoling others. And she didn’t know why, but she was afraid her bluntness would end up hurting Kaelin.

“He was a hero” he said firmly, his eyes shining with defiance “He may have been just a mere foot soldier but he was at the front line, keeping Hybern’s forces back”

“I’m sure he was” Nesta replied, trying not to think about who may have said otherwise to him, hurting a child who had nothing “But would he like to see his son picking meaningless fights?”

“It was to get you a gift” Kaelin looked down and poked at the sofa “I’m sure he’d have understood. Besides, I have to fight and stand out if I want to have a shot at the Rite”

“You mean the Blood Rite? I thought everyone participated” Nesta had gathered little information about the Illyrians for the time she had been living in Illyria. There were no libraries, no bookstores, and the books Cassian had about the Illyrian culture and history were scarce and outdated.

“The very one. You are not obligated to become a warrior, but that’s the path most of male Illyrians take. Not that we have many options to begin with” Kaelin’s voice had became serious “Most of the males from the richer families are bound to participate, but the rest.... we end up being mere foot soldiers. Expendable. So no point in making us take part in it.”

At his words, Nesta could not help but think about Cassian. He too was an orphan but had risen to be Rhysand’s Commander and had seven siphons. From what she had heard and seen at the war, that was rather unusual.

“It’s worse for females” Kaelin added quietly.

She knew that. Saw how females were treated on the rare times she got out of the cabin. A scarce number trained. And she did not know a lot about training, but was sure it was not near enough to make them part of the Illyrian army. Or even defend themselves were the worst to happen.

Nesta opened her mouth to say Cauldron knows what — she had to say something, she could not let the boy leave with such dark thoughts — when a loud noise interrupted her.

It was a sound Nesta knew quite well from her time as a human living in a shabby cottage.

A sound she had become reacquainted with after being Made. After that day at the battle field.

The sound of hungriness. The sound of someone who was starving, and had been so for quite a while.

And it was coming from Kaelin.

The Illyrian boy beside her blushed a deep scarlet, trying — and failing — to come up with an excuse. But Nesta knew better. She knew the signs of starvation. Saw them in herself. Had seen it in her younger sisters, when they were not older than Kaelin.

Thin wrists. Sunken eyes. Cheekbones way too sharp. Up close Nesta could properly examine Kaelin and notice that the boy was all bones and little muscle, his skinny built not a consequence of slow metabolism to gain weight, but rather the fact that he did not have enough sustenance to make it possible.

“I have way too much food stocked here. I was supposed to be living with an adult warrior that can eat for five people “ Nesta began, cutting Kaelin’s blabbering “It would be a crime to let it all get wasted”

Leaving him no window to reply, she took hold of his arm, hauling him towards the kitchen and making him to sit down while she gathered whatever food she came across. And she had enough fire in her eyes — she may or may not have lost a little bit of control of her powers due to her racing emotions — that Kaelin did not dare say a word, but just sit quietly and eat what was put in front of him.

~•~

Nesta’s routine had suffered a slight change after that evening. For the past month and a half, Kaelin had been having a meal with her after his training. Every day.

She had made sure to make it clear that she was expecting a visit from him after his activities were over.

He did not dare argue with her.

Today, however, was an unusual day.

Kaelin was late.

Almost two hours late.

Nesta had come to know Illyrian boy better, and one thing she learned about him was that he detested to be late. For him, his promises and commitment were everything, reminding her of another Illyrian she knew – which had not come back in two months. Not that she missed or was worried about him.

She tried and failed to convince herself that Kaelin may have been held back by training. But she did not know why she felt a strange feeling. Her powers were restless, more so than usual.

The air and the trees around her seemed different.

She felt it deeply in her bones.

As if the Cauldron itself — hidden far far away in a island that did not exist in any map ever written — dreaded whatever future thread the Mother was knitting.

As if something had been woken.

As if the winds of change had gone from a light breeze to a tornado, ready to wreak havoc in Illyria.

Nesta could not hold herself back any longer. She needed to know what was happening. To know if that strange song that spoke of a power strong and ancient was connected to Kaelin tardiness.

So into the woods she went.

She walked and walked, until the song in her ears got louder and a new sound appeared, a sound she would not be able to hear were it not for her fae ears.

The sound of someone whimpering.

Quickening her steps, Nesta followed the cries of pain until the wall of trees around her gave way to a small clearing.

And there, lying curled up in a ball, was Kaelin.

“KAELIN!”

Nesta ran towards him, falling on her knees beside his body.

“What happened? Did somebody hurt you?” she smelled blood, and feared the Illyrian whose boots he had “won” had gone after him for payback.

Her mind was racing, her thoughts overlapping themselves. She recalled another winged body, laying on the ground. She recalled another child, crying in pain due to its empty stomach, who had not seen food for weeks.

She would not fail anyone ever again. That had been her promise to herself.

“Kaelin...” Nesta slowly touched his arm, trying to soothe him “Talk to me. Tell me where it hurts”

Kaelin whimpered, slowly uncurling his body and tucking his wings. He clutched his abdomen, and Nesta dared to try and touch her power.

She would touch that dangerous beast if that meant she could help the young boy in front of her.

And so she tentatively reached inside herself for that source, trying to recall if any training she’d had with Amren may assist her in the current situation.

She scanned Kaelin’s body, and that’s when she noticed the small drops of blood beneath him. But her powers had not detected any wounds. No, he was not hurt.

However, she finally found the origin of the bleeding. And Nesta momentarily lost her breath.

Because she knew the reason why Kaelin was in pain.

“You are not a boy” she breathed.

Kaelin was a girl.

A girl who had had her first period.

A girl who was passing as a boy. Training like one.

And when Kaelin finally meet Nesta’s eyes, brown eyes shining with tears, she cursed the Mother for whatever future thread she had knitted.

•

Tags: @sayosdreams @thewayshedreamed @sjm-things @perseusannabeth

#sarah j maas #sjmaas #sjm books #sjm fanfic #nesta archeron

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wildlyglittering · 3 years

Text

The Space Between

I have a few pieces of Nessian fan fiction already pre written so I’m just going to drip feed them into my feed every Sunday.

Enjoy (I hope!)

***

Cassian left Velaris far later than intended.

He meant to fly at first light but with the previous night’s send-off drinks for the Inner Circle, all due to go their separate ways for the summer, that first light turned into the hot midday sun.

For Cassian, his departure was routine. It was a regular schedule now, this constant flying back and forth between Velaris and the Illyrian mountains. Rhys kept him busy but the camp kept him busier, so much so that at times he was more a creature of the sky then land.

The prior evenings political discussions of Rhys, Feyre and Az’s imminent stay in the Dawn Court was mindless chatter to Cassian’s ears and he tuned them out with political thoughts of his own. How many recruits did the camps have now? Was Devlon training the females? Were the rumours of an uprising true?

All throughout, one thought was stronger than the others.

Nesta.

Always, Nesta.

Between the mountains and Velaris lay the expansive wilderness where Nesta made her home. Part of Cassian’s schedule was to visit her on his flights between places but it had been months since he’d last seen her face.

Distance, he'd once told her, only makes my heart grow fonder. She'd rolled her eyes at the saccharine sentiment but a delightful blush spread on her cheeks which indicated she wasn't as stone-cold as she'd have others believe.

It was a half-truth on his part.

To say he longed for her was an understatement. Nesta occupied his mind continually and she now owned a space in his heart he once didn’t have for anyone. Distance made him yearn but it also made him cautious.

Nesta’s decision to live away from Velaris was something Cassian once thought as an attempt to distance herself from him. She wouldn’t return to the mountains, he understood why, but it was her refusal to come back to Velaris that surprised him as he thought she’d found some peace with the city.

Her refusal hadn’t been about Cassian, he understood that now. There had been an opportunity for her to regain her independence and, though she never expressed it aloud, a way for her to establish a new identity for herself in this world.

She took it.

Despite this, Cassian hoped she would eventually come back with him to Velaris. He hoped that this new version of Nesta was transferable and that she could thrive on the cobbled streets next to the shining river of his city as she had amongst the expanse of wildflowers.

It ate away at him, Nesta, however powerful, out in the nothing all alone. Still, if that thought ate at him than others consumed him, the gnawing set into motion by others he loved.

Will the bond last? Mor asked. It's uncommon for mates to be apart like this and unfair for one mate to deliberately part themselves from the other.

Nesta isn't a wing, he told Mor. Without her physical presence he still functioned and besides, the emotional connection was unbreakable.

I worry about you my friend; Rhys said. If I can't be with Feyre within minutes I don't know how I would bear the day.

Cassian deflected their words with a smile and a wave and clad himself in invisible armour.

He’d landed, finally, although hours later than he wanted. Sweat tricked down his back and face, his leathers clung to the thick muscles of his arms and thighs. The journey was over half a day’s flight from the city but he always made it in less.

The mountain peaks were visible from the wilderness but only barely, appearing so small it looked like an ant could crush them. There was a small forest and stream within walking distance but aside from those and a cottage it was nothing but thick stalked wild flowers for miles, colouring the landscape with pinks and yellows.

It was a combination of summer heat and protection spells which caused the cottage to shimmer.

Cassian had landed a slight distance away, wary of the protection magic that was always a little too keen to exert itself, and wandered through the flowers to the grey stone building ahead. Mor had expressed incredulity that Nesta hadn’t demanded a mansion with servants while Rhys joked, she was too sour to keep them even if she did.

Cassian ground his teeth but said nothing. Nesta’s experiences weren’t his to share, he justified.

Despite the poverty, despite going to bed with an aching belly and fears of starvation.0 the memories Nesta held of small cottages remained untainted. In mansions, she’d been dragged from her bed and forced to watch her sister drown before water then filled her own lungs. In palaces, she was made to recount those events to eager eared strangers. In tents, she listened to the screams of the dying.

It was those places where she’d started to lose piece after piece of herself until nothing remained.

It was this place, this small cottage, where Nesta found herself once more. The old Nesta flared again, a small spark which turned into wildfire.

Cassian let himself in, the latch opening to him easily.

The main living space doubled as kitchen and comfort. An overstuffed sofa sat in front of an oversized hearth with a butcher’s block next to it, complete with mortar and pestle and the fresh herbs Nesta gathered from her garden. Three rooms branched from this one. The first was the bathroom, the second Nesta’s bedroom and the third was empty.

There was no sign of Nesta and a glance through the window towards the garden showed Cassian that Nesta wasn’t there either. It was likely she’d grown impatient of waiting and had wandered to the woods to gather supplies.

Cassian weaved around the stacks of books, one pile fast becoming as tall as himself, to go find her when a heavy clunk of a handle sounded behind him. Nesta appeared from one of the smaller rooms, it just surprised him to see which one it was.

"Hey sweetheart," he drawled, "what were you doing in there?"

Something moved down the bond but Nesta had muted it somehow and Cassian could sense a sheer kinetic energy rumbling outside of his reach. She said nothing but took a deep breath before standing aside, leaving the room behind her open to his view.

***

The third room was no longer empty.

Cassian stood in the middle; every muscle tensed for battle; his wings snapped taut behind him.

Nesta had opened the window to clear the lingering musk and the beginnings of a soft summer breeze drifted in ruffling the delicate lace curtains that now hung from the frame.

The lazy dancing curtains were the only movement in the room. Cassian remaining locked in place with Nesta just as rigid beside him.

His heart started pound on the bones of his ribs, and he imagined it bursting straight out of his chest to land in a bloody heap on the floor.

The walls had been painted a soft yellow, reminding Cassian of the pats of butter served in small dishes when Feyre and Rhys had 'proper company.' The new bookcase and shelves, both empty, were a thick, rich cream.

His pulse beat out a rhythm on the roof of his mouth.

A rocking chair draped with a downy feathered blanket sat in the corner but the most prominent feature, positioned against the wall, stood the crib.

Waiting.

The pulse was behind his eyes now, the objects in his vision dancing as he heard the whispers that travelled down the bond. Nesta hadn't moved but those sharp blue-grey eyes stared at him all the same.

Were his legs always this clumsy? he wondered. Did he often give full control of his body to something else? Cassian was moving but they weren't his feet. He loomed over the crib like a grotesque gargoyle and touched a giant, calloused hand to the wood before reaching in to grasp at the blanket.

These weren't his hands, he decided. His were designed to clutch the handles of blades, to wrap around throats and squeeze until faces turned blue. They weren't meant to touch small blankets embroidered with bees.

I can rip this with both hands, he thought. Turn it into shreds within seconds. I am the Lord of Bloodshed and I tear things apart.

His pulse pounded in his ears now, his tongue feeling like it had engorged in his mouth ready to block his windpipe and choke him like he'd choked many others. Nesta was glaring and throwing her panic at him until he swallowed it down.

His knuckles had turned white clenching the blanket. Cassian envisioned a small body, sleeping and breathing and dreaming in this bed, relying on Cassian's hands to hold it, to keep it safe.

There was no more air in the room, no more breath in his lungs and his ears were filled with the beat of his own heartbeat, and Nesta's, and now one other joining them.

***

The later afternoon sun had dipped and outdoors had cooled significantly which was welcome, the open blue sky more so.

They were in Nesta's small garden, amongst the vegetables and flowers, and yet it wasn't obvious to Cassian how they arrived.

His chest hurt, he remembered that. His lungs were burning like flames had leapt down his throat and scorched everything they touched. He'd been grasping at his skin, digging his nails into the hollow of his throat to claw a way for the air.

Cassian walked out here. He must have. Nesta following.

She stood in front of him, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, the pulse in her wrists jumping. Cassian viewed every beat so clearly from his vantage point on the ground, the solid hard ground where he'd crumbled.

The breeze, the one which had danced around the curtains in the nursery -- dear Mother, the nursery -- was as welcome as a kiss from a long-lost lover as it caressed across his wings.

Come, it sang, fly away. The sky is yours.

Something else was singing, no screaming, down the bond but Cassian pushed it down. Panic had emanated from Nesta, rolling off her in waves and he thought he could handle it. But now, after he fled from the cottage, she was drowning him.

On the surface she appeared ready for battle, her face as sharp as one of Cassian's blades and as deadly. Had she spoken? Her voice was small as though she wasn't close at all but standing miles away, the words travelling through wind and across the mountains.

From their positions, his knees digging in the dirt, his face was level with her stomach. One glance was all he allowed himself before his eyes darted away.

Nesta still looked like Nesta. There was no glow or scent to her skin, no softness to her face or additional roundness to her already full curves. Her abdomen remained flat, giving no sign of the life existing within, the life that Cassian helped create.

It would be smaller than one of my fingers, he thought and his wings twitched. The breeze and the sky calling him to freedom.

She'd seen.

The noise fogging his mind was cleared away by a sudden blast of magic.

Nesta's voice reached his ears clearer this time.

"What exactly are you intending to do?" Her tone was so chilled he was amazed his flesh didn't blacken from frostbite.

Cassian dug his hands into the ground before lifting them to cover his face. The fresh grass and earth lingered on his fingertips, and he inhaled deeply in an attempt to tether himself.

What did he intend to do? His thoughts splintered, images and names racing through every possibility he considered. Fly away, he told himself, fly to the mountains, fly home to Velaris, fly, fly, fly.

Rhys would know what to do.

Rhys always knew what to do, as did Mor. He would seek them out and get them to decide what was best. Their presence would be a soothing balm for him and while not quite as soothing for Nesta they had an authority she would have to acknowledge. Rhys and Mor would know what is best, he thought. Nesta wouldn't think so at first but they would want to be involved.

Everything would be easier for all of them this way.

He wanted to explain but it was hard to concentrate, the whirling tornado of his mind pierced with the frozen shards of Nesta's. The more he thought of Rhys and Mor, the more the breeze turned into a wind whipping across his wings.

"We can't do this," he found himself saying. "I can't do this; you can't do this." Here. Alone. That's what he meant to add but his voice cracked and the words wouldn't come.

He dropped his hands and glanced up at her, his Nesta. On her face she wore something close to devastation, not even an expression he'd seen after the Cauldron when she was trying to bathe again, laying sprawled and soaking on the floor of the bathroom.

Her words came without hesitation.

"Get out," she hissed. The sharpness she pushed through the bond at him was done with intent. If she had been ice before then Cassian couldn't describe this now, other than a swift stab to his gut with a spike.

The link between them was now blocked.

"Nesta...." he trailed off. The wind hurt now, cold and stinging against the membranes of his shivering wings. There was a violence, an unnaturalness to it, and Cassian understood underestimating Nesta was a dangerous thing.

The surrounding torrents blew stands of her hair from her braid and ruffled her dress but didn't make much else of an impact, her body remained upright and unyielding while Cassian's began to bend.

There was a chance to stop it. Nesta's magic could have been blocked with his siphons, and he could have stood, placed his hands on her arms and told her all this was a misunderstanding.

He didn't do any of them.

Nesta had offered him an opportunity to flee and so, while her storm raged around her small garden, Cassian opened his wings and let it carry him off into the sky.

***

It was evening when Cassian returned.

The brilliant blue of the mid-afternoon sky had turned into a deep navy with streaks of ruby from the setting sun.

Everything was silent, that silence extending to their connection through the bond.

Now, when he reached out it was as though he were touching the abyss. Whatever else she might do from this point onwards; retreating from him and blocking the bond was something Nesta had already done.

Earlier, when he'd left, he'd flown over the wilderness and was halfway back to Velaris when he changed his mind. His flight was half to clear his mind and half to flee to sanctuary.

He couldn't complete his journey and continuously turned round over and over in the sky, battling with himself. To fly forward or back was the question he struggled to answer.

Could he not do both?

Now he was calmer he would explain to Nesta it was more dangerous for her to be alone during this... situation. Perhaps what happened in the garden was a lack of control, her hormones playing havoc on her abilities.

He couldn't leave her here, unable to defend herself properly if the need arose. She couldn't go with him to the Steppes, not now, but maybe he would be able to convince her to be under the protection of Rhys and Feyre.

Nesta wouldn't love his plan but this was a plan put in place because of how much he loved her.

That was the intention.

He'd landed heavier than before, an extra burden pressing down on his shoulders. Everything remained unchanged from earlier aside from when he neared the cottage and he felt a new pressure on his body.

His wings flared on instinct, to brace himself against an invisible enemy’s onslaught but none came. Each step was as though he was trudging through mud, each one clunkier than before. When he reached the border of Nesta's boundary he realised he could no longer move.

When Cassian turned to walk back where he came, the strain lifted and, along with it, so did his feet.

He tested this a few times, the weight growing with every effort he made towards the cottage until he had to give up. When he did and turned back, the feeling his spine was going to snap into two melted away.

Nesta’s shields were always up but until this point her magic had never extended to Cassian.

She'd blocked him from reaching her, physically and through the bond. He stood outside staring at the grey stones of her walls wondering if she knew he was here.

She knows, he thought. She just doesn't care.

He'd left her for a moment, for a stupid moment, and now she'd rejected him absolutely.

Cassian convinced himself Nesta’s powers were unpredictable and this was adding to the evidence she should be among others. He was sure when she realised, she would lift her barriers and come to him.

So, he waited.

She never came.

***

The summer in Illyria had been brutal and so had Cassian. The sun scorched his skin and he fought through sweat soaked leathers, pounding his knuckles into the flesh of other Illyrians, his brethren, until the heat made his head throb.

It was only when the trainees were on the verge of collapse did he allow them to rest.

His reputation of fearsome was fast becoming one of cruelty; but he didn't stop, couldn't stop, until one day he observed an Illyrian child watching him, all skinny scabbed knees and curious eyes.

Cassian reached out a bloodied, bandaged hand as a gesture to show the boy some defence moves only for the child to flinch and curl his small, developing wings around himself as some form of meagre protection.

At that point, Cassian knew he had to temporarily turn the reigns over to Devlon, however reluctantly. His head wasn't where it should have been, thoughts of Nesta and the long silence between them which now lasted over a month had taken prominent place.

He hadn't attempted to reach out to her.

It was best, he decided, to leave everything until she was ready. This situation’s resolution had to be on her terms. But there was something else stopping him. He didn't want to discuss what they evidently needed to discuss, and he was scared, that if he tried to connect with her, she would refuse him again.

He would protect himself for the pain of her rejection by not giving her the chance to reject him at all.

Cassian had arrived back in Velaris in the afternoon, the new autumn air holding the residual warmth from summer within the city. He stood on top of the House of Wind, letting the breeze drift across his wings. He'd arrived without notifying anyone, not that there were many to notify. Feyre, Rhys and Az remained in the Dawn Court and Amren had decided to live out an eternal summer in the Summer Court itself.

He didn't mind. He wanted to take a moment, to gaze out on the place he called home and feast upon the red brick rooftops and shining surface of the Sidra without interruption.

Velaris was always a welcome sight and returning was the equivalent of someone throwing a blanket over Cassian’s shoulders to ward off the chill. This time though, it was as though the cold wind he’d experienced at Nesta’s had stalked him via his bones.

Something was disjointed now. He was happy to see his city but Velaris didn't hold the same thrill of excitement he usually experienced. Now it was as though it was a muted song, still remaining a pretty melody but harder to hear.

Was this how Nesta experienced Velaris? Or did she view it with more ambivalence? Was the city received with vitriol? Less a song and more a scream.

He thought of her, as he always did, alone in her cottage but now not alone. He'd learnt to turn the thoughts off quick; the pang in his chest made him want to cry.

Perhaps his sadness radiated outwards or maybe there was a part of him which called for help without realising but as he stared outwards, a soft and warm hand slid through his unwinding his clenched fingers.

"Hello, you."

Cassian looked down to see the golden hair of his best friend as she rested her head against his arm.

"Hello, Mor." His voice didn't crack but it was close.

She raised her face, her smile slipping into a frown. "Oh, my darling," she said. "I sensed you were back in Velaris but thought it was strange you didn't come to say hello."

Mor studied him for a moment, those deep brown eyes of hers absorbing every inch of his face, seeking out the truth which wouldn't take her long to find.

"You've had a fight with Nesta. A serious one."

It wasn't a question, Mor already knew the answer.

The years had melted away some animosity but it would be a lie to say it had disappeared. Time had patched over the intensity but was unable to purge the resentment completely.

Nesta removing herself from Velaris had gone some way to soothe the mutual dislike but the resolution was more a case of ‘out of sight, out of mind’ than any deeper healing.

Cassian knew Mor had felt a sting of rejection when he and Nesta had bonded and on some level, she had taken it as a strike to their friendship. Mor had advised him all those years ago to not accept the bond, and he'd proceeded regardless. Her fear, she told him, was that Nesta would burn him out with her anger.

Mor's concerns were from a place of love, but he'd accepted the bond from a place of his love. Besides, there was a kernel of truth in Nesta's statement to him that Mor didn't want to lose the life she'd spent centuries crafting and how Cassian was part of that.

Even though, regarding him and Nesta, there was part of Mor waiting for what she deemed inevitable but Cassian chose to ignore the tinge of hope he heard in her voice at her statement.

"Yes," he replied, "but it was my fault. I didn't respond to the news particularly well."

"What news?"

The truth would out, how could it not? Before his cowardice crept in again, he told Mor everything and watched as her eyes grew wider.

"Cas," she breathed and stepped in front of him, her arms stretching around his body, her cheek pressed against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her as tight as he could. He needed this; he needed a friend.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he confessed. "I don't know if I want to do this at all."

The memory of the small child he had once been morphed into the image of the boy he had inadvertently terrified at the camps. That image warped again into something smaller and more precious, an image he quickly discarded.

"Death and destruction are my talents; I doubt I'd be soothing anyone's pain away with kisses and cuddles." He let out a mirthless laugh.

Mor pulled back, standing on her toes, so she could reach her hands to his face and positioning him to look at her. "You're the best of us, Cass. You have so much love to give anyone. You love without question, defend without question and you'd die for those you love. I don't expect you'd do anything less for your child."

She squeezed his cheeks together until he grinned at the ridiculous expression she was making him wear. "You'll make a wonderful father; I know you will."

Mor let go of his face and stepped back into his arms for another hug. Cassian held onto her words as tightly as he held onto her.

"I wish Nesta were in Velaris," he sighed.

Mor tensed in his arms.

"Oh."

"She's strong but the wilderness is no place for a pregnant female. I don't think isolation is the best place for her right now. Or for a baby."

"I agree," Mor said. "So, bring the baby here. We have space in every one of the houses for a nursery, two nurseries if you want. And we have Nuala and Ceridwen on hand. Plus, the rest of us will dote on it and when you need to go to the camps any one of us will protect it with our lives. Can you imagine such a fantastic life in Velaris, with all these aunts and uncles around?"

Something wiggled its way through his stomach, an unease which twisted like a worm. Cassian let his arms loose from Mor's body. "And Nesta."

"What?"

"Nesta will need to be here too."

Mor stepped back with a look on her face that told him she'd tried to forget Nesta was part of the equation and didn't want to be reminded. It disappeared fast into a practiced smile. "Of course," Mor waved her hand in the air like she was batting away a fly. "And Nesta, of course."

"Except I don't think she'd come," Cassian continued, watching as Mor marched to the roof edge to look down. Her body was as rigid as Nesta's had been when he had last seen her.

"Make her."

"Mor..."

"What?" Mor turned to face Cassian. "It's not just her anymore, is it? If she wasn't so selfish, if she wasn't so..." she trailed off.

Cassian's skin began to itch, like he had grown too large for it and now it wanted to split open. His tongue pressed upwards against the ridges of his mouth where his pulse began to click.

A forced smile slipped onto Mor's face. "I just mean, she's renowned for being stubborn but sometimes, in the past, her actions haven't exactly been beneficial for her, have they? Right now, she's being stubborn and though that may benefit her, it's not benefiting you or the baby. It makes sense for her to be in Velaris at this stage, so she has immediate access to healers. You just need to convince her this is for her own good."

"Even if I do, she won't stay."

"Don't make her."

His head began to hurt again, the heartbeat a pressure against the back of his eyes. "Mor, you're not making sense. First you're telling me to make her come here and now you're telling me I can't make her stay."

"Once she's here and can see how much better it would be for the baby to be in Velaris she might stay," Mor's voice conveyed enthusiasm even if her face didn't. "But if she decides she doesn't want to stay she doesn't have to. Nesta may realise it would be better for everyone if the baby was here. Think of all you can give it; think of all we can give it. What can Nesta provide in her hovel in the middle of a field? If she wants to go back let her, but she shouldn't be allowed to force that life on your child."

What he experienced with Nesta in her garden came back in an instant. His heart beating hard against his ribcage, the pulse reverberating into his skull, while his breath squeezed from his lungs.

There was an emergence of something he hadn't felt towards Mor before, something which itched and crawled in his skin the more she spoke.

"I can't begin to fathom what she'd be like as a mother, Cass. You would have all the love in the world for your child, but would she? How fit is she? Do we want to wait to find out?"

If there was a spark which existed in Nesta that turned into the occasional furnace then it was true the same could be said for him. The difference was Nesta was ice until she became fire, Cassian was warmth until he became flame.

In Cassian’s mind lived a million images of Nesta but there were always ones he visited first. She'd held his hand once on a battlefield, tended to his wounds with gentle fingers. She'd pressed her body against his ready to die with him.

When he'd been poisoned in the Illyrian civil war, she'd stayed with him when the troops moved camps, knowing he was too ill to fly and too weak to fight.

During one of Cassian’s first trips to her cottage she spoke about her plans to make a little garden all the while chopping vegetables for a broth that was his favourite.

Her cheeks blushed a dusky pink and her hair looked orange against the firelight. Cassian thought if Nesta had any siphons that would have been their colour, flame for a creature of heat and warmth.

His siphons, the seven red ones, were now glowing.

"Cass?" Mor's voice was concerned.

Mor’s words had pierced his skin like poisonous barbs and though the venom wasn't intended for him, he was not immune. Still, it alarmed him, that some primal part existed within to trigger his power. It was only his reflexes caused the surge to mute.

"What's happening?" Mor's voice was small and croaked, the verge of a teary outburst imminent. He wasn't the only one alarmed at the indication that some part of him wanted to blast his lifelong best friend from the rooftop.

"I think we're done."

Nesta, while never fond of Mor, hadn't said a word about the other female since moving away. Part of her healing was to let go of what caused her pain, and she had deemed Mor something to let drift away.

These words Mor said freely stung him. Cassian and Nesta had chosen to honour the bond and so when Nesta was struck then Cassian must also suffer the blow. Although there was a consequence of their love living in Nesta's body that he didn't want to face, it didn't negate his love for Nesta.

"I have to go."

"Cass, please... wait!"

The siphons had dimmed, back fully under Cassian's control and Mor ran forward, clutching at his arms with wide eyes as the ripples of her panic spread thick throughout the surrounding air.

Mor called after his retreating back even as he took to the sky. The irony didn't escape him, that for the second time in several months Cassian flew away from a female he loved.

***

Every morning Cassian was drenched in sweat like he’d been fighting through the night.

Screams echoed in his mind along with the splashing of water as Nesta sank beneath the Cauldron, Hybern’s leering face never far away. Dreaming of memories was nothing new but now as the images raced through his mind, he dreamt Nesta with a swollen stomach and as she screamed it was followed by the shriek of a baby’s cry.

Cassian had tried not to dwell on what Mor had said, the questioning of Nesta’s ability to mother, although those images also came unbidden. He saw an empty crib, a baby lying on the cold ground while Nesta walked away and Cassian remained absent.

He shook those thoughts away and sharpened his anger at himself and at Mor for forcing these thoughts into his head.

Cassian had managed to flee from two females but now, three weeks after his encounter with Mor, he actively sought out a third.

Elain lived on the estate of Feyre and Rhys’ river house and had done so for decades.

There was a complicated history between Az and Lucian, of which Cassian didn’t know the full details. Whenever he’d asked Nesta, she pursed her lips like she was sucking on something sour and refused to say a word.

Cassian assumed Nesta was upset that Elain chose to reside so close to Feyre and Rhys, that she hadn’t wanted to forge ahead with her own path. But Cassian never understand why Elain would want to be anywhere else when everything she needed was at their doorstep.

A cottage had been built for Elain in the gardens, some considerable distance from the house to allow for privacy for all residents. Thick trunked trees and tall flowers took care of the rest and the walls were draped with wisteria, covering everything aside from the windows and doors. If you weren’t looking, you wouldn’t have known it existed.

The door was wide open, as if she knew he would come, and Cassian stepped inside the stone floored hallway and followed Elain’s humming to where she stood in the kitchen. Her back was to him, her golden-brown hair so like Nesta’s, loose down her back and scattered with greenery. Elaine didn’t turn to greet him, concentrating on arranging flowers in a vase even as she spoke.

“Shame you and Mor still aren’t speaking.”

Cassian hadn’t spoken to anyone about their argument and to his knowledge, neither had Mor. He shouldn’t be surprised that Elain knew, Elain had a strange way of knowing everything but she sounded far too pleased about the development for her sympathies to hold true.

“Mor spoke out of turn.”

“Doesn’t she always?”

“Yes, but...” Cassian trailed off. Yes, but this time she went too far. This time. This time. To say it was a sad acknowledgement of the other times and the shameful fact he’d let them slide.

Elain turned, waiting for the completion of a sentence she knew he wouldn’t finish.

She was usually the gentlest of the sisters but there was nothing gentle about Elain at this moment. Out of the Archeron’s, it was Nesta and Feyre who looked most alike but there was something currently hard and cold about Elain that reminded him of his mate. His chest ached.

“Why are you here?” Elain’s tone was sharp, dismissive as though Cassian were a greenfly on her rose bushes she needed to squash out.

“I need your help.”

Elain raised a delicate eyebrow and leant back on the wooden table behind her, her fingers trailing through the flowers laid across it. “Go on.”

“I’m worried for Nesta, she’s all alone in her cottage and too far from help if she needs it - not that she’d ask for it, which is a concern itself.” He sighed at Elain’s immoveable expression. “I just want her to be someplace safe, just in case.”

“Just in case what?”

All the images rushed in at once, all his fears. Just in case someone breaks in and drags her out of her bed, just in case someone throws her into the cauldron, just in case someone tries to poison her, tries to set her cottage on fire, just in case she gets ill.

“Just in case she can’t cope.”

“You think you can’t?”

Cassian groaned and tugged his hands through his hair. “I don’t know! But at least if she can’t and she’s here then she’d have you and Feyre. Well at least you, Feyre is barely here.”

“And you?”

“What?”

“And you? You’ll be here and ‘not away.’”

“Yes, yes of course. And me.”

Elain picked up a flower, a cream one with splashes of pink, and twirled it. She seemed to be fixated on the petals as they spun, round and round, as the silence grew in the room. Eventually she spoke.

“You want me to convince her to come here and you think she’ll listen to me because it’s me.” It was almost a whisper how soft she spoke it.

The scene changed so fast.

Splotches of crimson appeared on Elain’s neck and Cassian watched her fingers tighten around the stem of the flower. “It’s history repeating all over again. Drag us to Velaris because you want it, exile us to the camps because you want it.” She scoffed. “And so, she comes to Velaris, for what? Nesta will watch as Feyre and Mor and Rhys cluck over the baby because it’s yours while they try and forget that Nesta had anything to do with it.”

Cassian’s mouth dropped open, a void had formed between his brain and mouth and no words took shape.

“We can’t just be shuffled around like pieces on a game board for whenever suits the High Lord.”

“I haven’t.... I don’t.... I haven’t spoken to Rhys about it. I don’t even think he knows Nesta is even.... it’s my idea. Mine. To keep her safe.”

Elain let out a shuddering breath and released her fist. The flower, its stem now a green pulp, slid from her hand and landed on the floor. “Do you believe that Nesta isn’t safe where she is?”

Cassian thought of the expanse of blue sky over Nesta’s head, the mountains looming in the distance and the dark green tops of the woods. The fields were filled with nothing but wildflowers and aside from her little stone cottage and garden there was nothing for miles and no one but Nesta.

He could imagine the sound of the wooden door breaking, the splintering as the wood split as fae forced their way in. It hadn’t happened but ‘yet’ was never a word far from his mind.

Her magic was strong though and her will greater.

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully, “but I do know I want her here.”

“That’s even worse,” Elain said looking him straight in the eye, her voice taking a harder quality. “No. Until Nesta herself wants to come back I won’t be involved in asking her. I’m not going to conspire with you or with anyone to take away her freedom no matter how desperate you are.”

She grabbed the vase and pushed past Cassian, “I’m grateful she was even able to get out.” She placed the vase on a ledge and stared at it for a moment before facing Cassian again. “Do you want this for her?” She gestured around.

Cassian couldn’t understand what was wrong with ‘this.’ A home, safe in the grounds of their High Lord and Lady. Constant protection and constant company. If they built a cottage next door to Elain than all sisters would be in the same place. Nesta didn’t even need to live in the house if she didn’t want.

He sighed, the truth edging free. “I don’t. She’d hate it.” He scrubbed a calloused hand over his face, “I just don’t know what to do. Maybe Rhys and Feyre will tell me, they always know what to do.”

A snort, far from ladylike, emitted from Elain. “They would bend everyone to their will if they could, trap everyone in this place until it suits them.” A faraway look entered her eyes, “I should be with Lucian, in Spring, Day and Autumn, floating between them all like a butterfly. They have such beautiful colour.”

There was another moment of silence, wherever Elain was she was no longer with Cassian. “Elain,” he asked, “why are you here?”

It was an assumption on his part that she loved living in the Night Court, that her heart was here along with her body.

His question snapped her back to him and she scoffed again. “I’m a piece of the game they play with Lucian, of course. An heir to Autumn, an advisor to Spring and the sole heir to Day? Mother forbid he decides to not play nice with Rhys.” Vitriol spilled from Elain’s tone. “Feyre, sweet childish, Feyre thinks I want to be here because that’s what Rhys has convinced her to think and your precious Morrigan lost her best buffer between her and Az so she needed another one. Don’t think I didn’t hear her egging Rhys on to keep me here.”

He didn’t know. Truly didn’t. That Elain was held in a prison of flowers and pleasantries. Cassian knew that her and Lucian hadn’t an easy start to their mating bond, there was some entanglement with Az yes, but this was always her choice.

It worried him how little he knew.

Maybe Elain detected something in him as her eyes softened. “People respond in extreme ways when they’re scared,” Elain continued. “You and Nesta have that in common. Unfortunately, she’s significantly more stubborn than you.”

Elain took one of the flowers from the vase and crossed over to where he stood, tucking it into a band of his armour, the peach petals a strange sight against charred black leather. At least he wasn’t completely without Elain’s grace.

“Have you tried to contact Nesta?” she asked him. “Really tried?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Then I don’t want to see you again until you have.”

***

Immortality and time were complicated bedfellows. One moved quick and left the other one floundering. What were years when there were so many decades? What were decades when you could live centuries?

Months were nothing. Weeks even less.

Feyre, Rhys and Az had arrived back from Dawn at the full change of the season. The greens of the trees had long turned gold and red and now, another cusp awaited. The trees grew barer and the petals had long since fallen from their stalks.

This was the longest he’d gone without speaking to Mor and he hadn’t tried to approach Elain again.

This was also the longest he’d gone without Nesta and Cassian believed he would have suffered less if someone slid a blade between his ribs.

He trained at the House of Wind; he ambled through Velaris. His body was one place and his thoughts another. He was in the training arena when Rhys returned.

“I’d say congratulations my friend but I don’t think that’s what you’d want me to say.”

Rhys was leaning against the wall, a grin on his face. Cassian sighed. He was in little to no mood for one of Rhys’ cocky moments.

“I don’t think I deserve a congratulations.”

“Well I’m sure you had some involvement in this escapade.”

Cassian grit his teeth. The conceiving of a child between mates wasn’t something he would refer to as an ‘escapade’ but he could hardly defend himself.

“Funny,” Rhys continued, “how the Mother works. Some she blesses with the joy of motherhood and some she curses with a joyless mother.”

That feeling wormed its way again into Cassian’s stomach, irritation? Frustration? Whatever it was, it was an ever-increasing desire to take his knuckles and smash them into Rhys’ sculptured cheekbones.

“How was your trip?”

It was deflection at its finest and Cassian watched as Rhys’ face sparked. “Excellent. We managed to get what we wanted and Feyre decided to-”

Cassian let Rhys’ voice drift into one ear and out the other. He didn’t care about the trip or negotiations or whatever wealth Rhys managed to accumulate for the Night Court. He didn’t care for what silks and jewels Feyre was now re-gifting. He wanted to ask his friend, his brother in all but blood; ‘Was the Cauldron wrong in choosing us? Will I make a good father? Will Nesta be a good mother?’

He couldn’t. He couldn’t show his High Lord that Cassian, General and Commander of his armies, was scared of something he could cradle in the nook of his arm. It was like a dying dog showing its bare throat to a hungry wolf.

“I’m disappointed to hear from Mor that you aren’t speaking to her though.” Cassian snapped back into the present.

Cassian shrugged and leant on the wall opposite. “We had a disagreement,” he said as disinterested as he could.

“Well she’s upset. Make it better.”

There, Cassian’s skin prickled again, his blood burning hot in his veins. Rhys not knowing, or worse, not caring why the silence occurred in the first place. Cassian’s feelings were irrelevant in this situation and what Mor said about Nesta seemed to be no concern.

Rhys had moved the conversation on again, such surety that Cassian would call to heel. Cassian thought of Elain slowly crushing flowers.

It was at the mention of Nesta’s name that Cassian dipped back in.

“They had a ‘disagreement’ too and now she won’t speak with Feyre either. Whatever slim thread of rationality that your female had has now completely gone and Feyre is distraught.”

Of course, Feyre had made this about herself. Of course, she has. Cassian’s thought was so like Nesta’s voice that he wondered if Nesta had re-opened the bond, even for a minute, to listen to his conversation. But the walls were still up and it was just his own voice inside his head.

“I told Feyre being ignored by Nesta isn’t such a bad thing,” Rhys chuckled and then stopped at Cassian’s look. “Sorry, my friend.” Rhys leant across and rested his hand on Cassian’s shoulder. “I jest.”

Yes, and he always did. Joke after joke. Time after time. Small barbs of poison like Mor’s that landed on Cassian’s skin and sank into his bloodstream.

“She tried to convince Nesta to come to Velaris. Feyre’s also tried to convince Elain to get involved because she’s the only one Nesta is speaking with. Elain wouldn’t have it,” Rhys shook his head. “She’s becoming more like Nesta each passing day.” He let out a sigh. “Were it the other way round.”

Would Rhys want that? Cassian pondered. Nesta stuck in a cottage on his estate, nursing an infant at her breast and glaring at him as he approached. It would be more than flowers Nesta would be crushing. Cassian suppressed a grin at the thought.

“I wouldn’t want that for her,” Cassian said.

“What? You wouldn’t want a safe, contented life for her? Not that she’ll be content with anything.”

Cassian thought of the turn of last autumn and Nesta joyfully showing him a full basket of berries she’d picked and how she planned to turn them into jam. There was a sharp tug, right under his rib cage and he brought his hand up, pressing his palm against it.

Rhys had noticed the movement, the arrogant smirk finally sliding from his face. What little love he had for Nesta, he still had volumes for Cassian and his friend in pain wasn’t something Rhys would revel in.

“I can bring her into Velaris if you want?” His voice was solemn. “Talking her into it won’t work but I can command her as High Lord and she wouldn’t be able to refuse.”

There was a part of Cassian that leapt at the offer. Nesta would be safe among the Inner Circle, she would have Elain as company and eventually she would speak to Feyre again. She’d be safe.

She would also hate Cassian for the rest of their lives.

“No,” he replied, “I couldn’t do that to her.”

Rhys shrugged. “If that’s what you want. If you change your mind, let me know. I’ll do it for you and Feyre. And for the child. I can’t be entirely convinced Nesta wouldn’t eat her own young.”

***

Cassian was really living up to his reputation of violence and brutality. The blood, not his own, that he washed from his fist turned the water a pale pink at the bottom of the bowl. It had been an hour, maybe less, since the rooftop ‘conversation’ with Rhys.

There was a soft noise from the corner of Cassian’s suite, an exhalation of air that could have been either a disappointed sigh or restrained laugh. “So, you’re getting into fights with Rhys now?”

“Yes,” Cassian replied, “and once I’ve cleaned up, I’m going to go back to the roof to continue my brooding before I was so rudely interrupted.”

There was a definite chuckle and Az stepped from the shadows, a smile gracing his mouth. “Don’t go swapping talents with me now, I’d hate to have to go around punching my High Lord in the face.”

“Rhys has a nose like a rock, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

The smile slid from Az’s face as he came closer, stepping next to Cassian in the designated wash corner of his room. The ornate mirror, some monstrosity chosen by Rhys or Feyre, hung above the basin and Cassian could see both his and Az’s reflections on the surface.

“I’m worried about you, brother,” Cassian watched and then felt, as Az’s scarred hand came to rest on Cassian’s shoulder with a comforting squeeze.

Cassian felt his jaw lock into place, he didn’t want to engage in another discussion today that wouldn’t go well for either party. “I’ll warn you now, if you want to be dismissive about Nesta this won’t go well.”

Az raised his hands in surrender. “Why would I be dismissive about Nesta? She’s your mate and soon to be mother of your child. Besides,” he said with a grin, “I’m not stupid.”

Cassian snorted and turned, giving Az an affectionate thump on the arm before picking up a dry cloth and walking over to his bed. He sat on the cover, scrubbing his hands dry, minding the broken skin on his knuckles. “Go tell that to Rhys and Mor.”

Az’s grin slipped away and he walked to sit beside Cassian. “Rhys knows he crossed a line and that you were defending your pregnant mate. I’m sure that’s why he didn’t hit back.”

“It was a long time coming,” the words were a truth that Cassian had taken an even longer time realising. He was filled with shame at how long.

“Yes,” Az replied, “it was.”

Cassian didn’t hide his flinch.

“Mor however doesn’t understand what she’s done wrong.”

Cassian buried his face in his hands. “Of course, she doesn’t. I’ve let her get away with comments about Nesta for years, decades even. But they’re questioning Nesta’s ability as a mother now, damning her before she’s even had a chance to prove them wrong.”

“You’re sure she’ll prove them wrong?”

“I know she will.”

“Then why not wait and let the evidence speak for itself?”

“Because I know Nesta wouldn’t want them thinking this about her, I don’t want them thinking this about her.” The next part came out as a whisper, “I don’t want to think this about her.”

Az raised an eyebrow, “You’ve thought she’ll make a terrible mother?”

“It’s crossed my mind but then I don’t think I should be anyone’s father.” He paused. “We shouldn’t be having a baby.”

There. It was what on been on his mind the second he knew about its existence.

Never mind the enemies they’d collected over the years, what if he and Nesta managed to emotionally damage the child beyond repair? What if they hurt it physically? What if it died? What if Cassian died and left it fatherless the same way Cassian had been?

He couldn’t hide how much he lived for war. It called to his blood. In times of peace he worried he was bored, worried the bloodshed was too invigorating. That’s why he craved Nesta’s company and the eternal battles using their words.

Nesta never tried to turn him into a creature of peace but instead provided an outlet for his energy, even their card games by the fire turned itself into fierce competition where only one would hold ultimate dominion.

They were happy. It just wasn’t an environment for a child.

“You won’t be ‘any’ child’s father though Cass,” Az said, “and Nesta won’t be ‘any’ child’s mother. It’s a child of you both, it will exist as part of you both.” It was like Az had read his mind, “Whichever way you raise it will be the right way – for you both and the baby.”

“I ran from her.”

“You can run back.”

“I wanted her to come here.”

“Are you going to make her?”

Cassian shook his head with vehemence. “Never.”

A hand clapped him on the back. “My friend, you’ve known for a long time what needs to be done, now you need to stop avoiding Nesta and face your future. It’s a glorious one.”

“Our resident seer has seen that has she?” It was a joke said with a smile, a way to lighten the tension of the room but Cassian saw Az’s face grow sombre. Az once loved Elain, maybe still did, but he clearly had his own issues he’d been avoiding.

“You could ask her. Even better, you could make it happen itself.”

“I need to talk to Nesta,” Cassian said, “truly talk to her.”

“You have this,” Az told him, “both the conversation and fatherhood. Nesta and you, you’re well matched. It’s agony to be around at times, but you’re well matched.”

Cassian clapped a hand onto his friends back, “You are my favourite Az, just don’t let any of the others know.”

***

The feeling was like someone had come along and removed rocks from his shoulders. Purpose, Cassian decided, gave you strength.

His leathers were on, his windows wide open and Cassian had finished wrapping his newly retrieved bundle into the satchel on his bed when Elain walked in.

He started, amazed at how she trod so gently that his fae ears couldn’t hear her approach.

Elain’s hair was bundled into a messy bun, sprigs of mistletoe decorating the strands. She’d switched to winter clothes, thicker material but still softer colours and it was jarring to see the pale pastel blues against the dark wood of Cassian’s rooms.

Cassian hadn’t thought that Elain even knew where his rooms were.

“Can you give Nesta this? She’s got back ache and I told her I’d send her some Scia Root.” Elain held out a lumpy muslin cloth tied with ribbon.

Cassian frowned as he took it. He’d realised after his conversation with Az that he was ready to go to Nesta, to grovel and beg her forgiveness. He would have thrown himself down at her feet if he needed to but he’d kept his intentions to see her quiet, telling no one.

“How did you-,” he trailed off. There was no point in asking. Elain just knew what Elain knew. He felt a sliver of something along his spine, maybe there were other reasons Rhys didn’t want Elain and Lucian together. All that power. All those Courts.

It wasn’t his concern. Elain’s comments about Nesta’s back ache however was and he shoved the roots into the side of the satchel. There was much he missed and Nesta’s body changing and the baby growing were two of those things.

Elain stood at the end of his bed, head cocked and smiling. “The baby will have your eyes you know.”

His breath stopped short, hands stilling on the strap of the satchel that he was adjusting to fit his width.

“And Nesta’s smile,” Elain continued. “I know that seems a contradiction but you’ve seen it, she has a beautiful smile.”

He had. It was. Rare but like most gifts, the most precious were rare.

He knew that there would be a baby. Obviously. His focus had been on how small, and fragile it was, how him and Nesta had unlimited potential to let it down. He’d just never really considered it as a separate entity, one comprised of him and Nesta and a whole component that would be uniquely its own.

He swallowed over the lump in his throat. “You’ve seen a vision of the future then?”

“Oh yes,” Elain replied and Cassian watched as she ambled about his room looking at every artifact she could see, her fingers touching every surface.

“Is she smiling in this vision of yours?”

“Nesta? Oh yes. The baby smiles a lot too. It’s very loved.”

“Good, that’s.... good.” He said the words flippantly, as though his heart weren’t pounding in his chest again, as though the spots of light hadn’t re-entered his line of vision. “Am I in this vision?”

Elain stopped in her meandering and turned to face him, those deep brown eyes of hers, bottomless with what they could now see, scanned his face. “It depends Cassian.”

“On what?”

“On whether you want to be.”

He’d had enough debates with Rhys and Az on fate versus free will to last him a thousand lifetimes over, often with him arguing the power of the Mother. In this moment he would argue the other way. The future was in the hands of those who would carve it out for themselves.

“Yes, I do,” he replied. “It’s taken me too long to realise it.”

“It took the time it needed.”

Cassian wanted to reassure Elain that he was ready and if there were times he wasn’t then he would make himself ready.

He wanted to say that he would always defend Nesta, he should have always defended Nesta and that he would murder and maim before he let anyone rip Nesta and their baby away from the place Nesta considered home and that included those he considered family.

He didn’t say all this because he suspected Elain already knew and besides, those words needed to be for someone else.

Before he left, he turned to Elain as she stood, having moved to the window next to him to watch the first flakes of snow.

“I hope-” he began and trailed off. “I mean for you and Lucian that-” again he stopped. Words weren’t his strength. Elain didn’t turn around but he saw her nod and a slight smile in the reflection of the glass.

It was a smile that spoke of war yet to come.

***

The wilderness was covered with blankets of thick white snow and spiked patterns of frost. Icicles hung from the branches of the forest trees and the ground was long in its sleep, not a trace of life to be seen.

The flakes that swirled around him as he flew caught in his hair and eyelashes until all he saw were blurs of white.

To say not a trace of life was incorrect because life bloomed in the cottage in front of him. Smoke billowed from the chimney and lights shone from every window lighting up the place like a solstice tree against the darkening sky.

Cassian squeezed the satchel strap until his knuckles turned white before he took a deep breath and strode forward. He felt himself pass though the magic barrier, the one that shielded Nesta from unwanted visitors, the one she’s turned on him all those months ago.

He didn’t know whether the shield for him was down recently or had been brought down months ago. He was too ashamed to ask.

The air shifted as he neared the cottage, she knew he was here, probably had done since he landed. It was possible she knew the second he left Velaris. As he neared it, he could see the door was slightly ajar. Nesta may not be greeting him with open arms but in her way, this was gesture enough.

Much had changed inside.

The piles of books that threatened to crush a fae under their groaning weight had been cleared away and stacked onto bookshelves. The knives that casually adorned the butchers block had been tidied away out of sight.

The fire crackled and spat behind an iron gate and a pile a green wool lay strewn onto the sofa, two knitting needles embedded into the skein. Part of the wool had already transformed into a bootie for a foot and the shape of a leg was forming.

Cassian wandered over, picking it up between his fingers and marvelled at how soft it was against the calluses of his fingertips and how small it sat in the palm of his hand. I’ll protect you, he thought, me and your mama and there’s no one more formidable.

Maybe his thoughts were a beacon for all to hear but there was a clunk of a door latch and Nesta once more emerged from the room that was now the nursery.

If Cassian thought the cottage was much changed, it was nothing in comparison to his mate before him. Nesta’s hair seemed longer but that could have been because it was loose down her back and not braided into its usual coronet.

Her hair tumbling in waves also made her face appear softer and rounder or at least that’s what Cassian thought until he realised that Nesta’s face was softer and rounder. Her sharp cheekbones may have been less pronounced but her skin glowed as though a flame was lit within her.

The greatest change was, of course, her stomach.

Even if Cassian had wanted to continue avoiding the evidence of his impending fatherhood he wouldn’t have held much of a chance. Nesta’s stomach protruded from her slight frame and straining against the fabric, the impression of her belly button pressed against the material. Cassian found himself fascinated at how glorious it looked.

Something else was edging its way in now, pushing down the shame and fear. The primal, ferocious part of him that existed was screaming to snatch Nesta away and carry her somewhere even more secluded then where she currently was.

He was still staring at her belly, still holding the woollen sock when Nesta’s hand came to rest on her stomach followed by a not so subtle cough.

Desperately shoving the nerves down, he looked back at her face. The softening of her face and glow of her skin hadn’t dampened the sharpness residing within. Her eyes were tired but not sad, a resolve existing in them that whatever happened with Cassian, whether he was there or not, she would be.

Cassian opened and closed his mouth like a fish gulping in the air unable to find the words that would ever convey how sorry he was.

Nesta just fixed him with a stare before she spoke. “I was going to make some stew. Are you staying for dinner?”

He stammered out a confirmation and watched as Nesta’s eyes flitted down to where he still clutched onto the sock before she turned away.

Though the cottage was small and the physical distance between them minimal, Cassian felt the gulf.

Sorry, he wanted to say. Please forgive me, was the other. If she wanted nothing to do with him or if she wanted him to have nothing to do with their child it was within her right even if both those decisions would smash what was left of his heart.

Nesta began chopping vegetables in silence and Cassian finally put down the sock and the satchel and turned towards the nursery.

From the corner of his eye he saw Nesta pause as he approached its door.

“May I?” he asked and she nodded without looking, continuing with her task.

The room had been filled with more items than when he’d last seen it. The lace curtains still adorned the window but now fae lights twinkled around the pane and Cassian could see snowflakes as they danced and twisted in the air.

The rooms dusty, unlived smell had completely disappeared to be perfumed with both with Nesta’s scent and that of a bouquet of flowers sat on a table and enchanted to permanently bloom.

Cassian recognised it from Elain’s kitchen, the very ones she was arranging when he visited. He thought of the peach petals of the flower she gave him and how vibrant and alive it looked next to his leathers.

The bookcase was now filled with books, all bound in cream, yellow and green and clearly recognisable as children’s stories from the Night or Day Court. There were a few that Cassian didn’t recognise but he knew enough to understand they were from the Mortal Lands.

The ones that had a shelf of their own; bashed and burnt edged, tarnished and worn with dark brown leather trims were unmistakably Illyrian.

Even though she couldn’t be sure that Cassian would be there, even though he couldn’t have been sure he would, Nesta still found a way to secure items from half their child’s heritage.

The rocking chair was now prepped with a cushion and the crib, still the most prominent feature in the room waited patiently for its impending occupant. A mobile of stars and winged creatures hung down above the centre and swayed when Cassian trailed his fingers over it.

He’d missed so much already; he’d almost missed so much more. The fear was there but next to it, deep in his belly, now lived something else. Excitement had started to take shape.

When he returned to the kitchen he strode to where Nesta stood as she buttered bread and pretended to ignore him.

“Nesta,” he murmured and she paused. Her face had affected an air of disinterest but her hand trembled as she held the knife and he remembered months ago when her clenched fists did the same.

How had he been so stupid? In his previous terror he mistook those signs for rage and yes, she had been angry, but there was the undercurrent of something else. She’d been terrified too, still was, and he’d let his own fear confirm hers.

“Nesta,” he said again and turned her so that she faced him, their bodies so close that her full belly brushed against his. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, instead choosing to focus on a point on his chest.

But she wasn’t pulling away.

“I’ve been such a fool,” he said and reached forward to cup her face in his hands. Nesta closed her eyes and a solitary tear slid down her cheek. “Such a fool,” he repeated as he wiped it away with the pad of his thumb, caressing it against her cheek.

Nesta let out a shaky sigh and nodded and that seemed to break her, a sob wrenching its way free from her mouth.

He pulled her closer, wrapping her in his arms and revelled in her presence, her scent, her everything. Another sob came from her mouth, pressed against his chest and he heard her muffled voice, “Stupid hormones.”

***

They sat side by side on the couch in front of the fire. Their bowls lay empty on the floor and Cassian’s bare foot rested against Nesta’s as she tucked herself next to his body. He played with a strand of her hair, twisting it in his fingers and watched as her eyes grew heavy until they closed, her hands resting on her belly.

The only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire and although he didn’t want to interrupt their fragile peace, he knew he needed to.

“Nesta,” he began and felt her tense by his side. “I need to-”

“It’s fine,” she said sharply, cutting him off. Although she had let him back into her home there was still ice left to thaw. He could leave it, accept the battle was done but he knew the hurt he’d caused would fester. Someday, maybe not soon, but someday, the wound that Nesta hastily patched up would only re-open.

As Cassian was the cause of that wound he needed to ensure he healed it.

He cleared his throat. “I didn’t know my father. I imagined to myself that he was an exalted Illyrian warrior, maybe even Illyrian royalty, and it was war or some other disaster which tore him away from the female he loved. I convinced myself he’d died, either fighting or fighting to get back to her.”

Nesta remained silent but Cassian continued.

“I also managed to convince myself that he would have thought my mother’s pregnancy the best thing that had ever happened to him, that he was overjoyed with his peasant female and the son she would give him. I always hoped, if he had died, his dying thoughts were of us.”

Cassian stared into the flames behind the grate.

“They were the wishes of a child. My father either didn’t know she was pregnant with his bastard or didn’t care. It wouldn’t have mattered if he was one of the best warriors we’ve ever had, he fucked a launderess in a camp and that’s where it ended.” Saying the words out loud caused a different kind of ache in his heart but to move forwards, he had to close the past.

“If he knew she was pregnant,” he continued, “then it didn’t matter - he left us. I told myself I would never do that and yet, that’s exactly what I did.”

Nesta let out a shaky sigh. Cassian continued to let the strand of hair twirl between his fingers, the firelight shading it a brilliant copper.

“I don’t know how to be a father,” he admitted. “I was scared – am still scared – that I’m going to ruin both your lives. I shouldn’t have run. I still don’t know how to be a father but I’m not going to run again.” Cassian placed a kiss on the top of Nesta’s head. “I will always be sorry.”

Nesta let out another sigh and turned in his arms to face him. “Cassian,” she began and glanced away to take a breath before facing him again.

“You’re not the only one who’s scared. My parents were present but they were never really there. You know about my father and my mother – she loved my father deeply but she resented having children. I’m scared that I’m like her and the way I was with Feyre...” she trailed off and Cassian saw her throat bob as she swallowed.

“You were a different person then. You and Feyre have made amends.”

Nesta shook her head. “When she sent me to the camps, I hated her. Hated her. Back then I would have done anything to tear her life apart.” She looked at him, reaching forward to clasp his hands in hers.

“That feeling’s gone, I’m just so tired now. Except...” Nesta took another breath. “It was something you said, about needing to speak with Rhys. I was terrified that Rhys and Mor would take my baby away. I was scared you and Feyre would let them.” She looked away again, her eyes someplace other than the room. “I knew what I would have done to you all if you tried.” A smile briefly touched her face.

Decades had passed since Cassian watched her hack at the neck of Hybern until the gristle and bone finally snapped. She’d held the severed head in her hands, her face splattered with blood and a smile, wide and ghastly, stretched across her face. It was the shadow of that smile that appeared now.

Cassian thought back to the recent conversations with Mor and Rhys, how Rhys was willing to use his authority as High Lord to bend Nesta to his will.

Even though Cassian had once wanted her in Velaris, had tried to convince her it was the right place, had considered that her and the baby should be made to live there, he would never have allowed it.

Nesta never would have allowed it.

He looked down at his hands, currently clutched in Nesta’s. His own blood had run down his knuckles and into the ground. He had wrapped those hands around the throats of traitors, had used those hands to wield blades, slicing them into the guts and hearts of enemies. His first kill was a throat split so wide he’d almost severed a head himself. He pictured the faces of his friends, the fae he had called family. If any one of them had tried to take Nesta’s baby away from her, Cassian wouldn’t have just let the rampage happen, he would have joined in.

“You’re not your mother,” he told her, flipping their hands so hers were now clutched in his. His calloused thumbs caressed her soft skin. “I’m not my father. This baby is ours, no one else’s.”

“I know,” she looked at him with fierce eyes, “I would take down anyone who would try and take it away from me. Even you.”

“I would never do that,” he said, “I promise.” He kissed the top of her head again and she let out another sigh, this one so soft it was barely audible. Cassian took a moment to breath in her scent before shifting to the satchel he brought with him, his stomach twisting.

Nesta slid away, so that she faced him, eager to see what he was doing.

The leather was old and worn but it was sturdy, protecting its plethora of contents over numerous centuries and now protected the precious gift Cassian had brought back with him from Velaris. The parcel he pulled out was misshapen and wrapped in plain linens tied with brown string but he hoped the contents would be significantly more impressive. He cleared his throat and held it to Nesta. “It’s for you,” he said. “Well actually the baby.”

Nesta took the parcel from him and unwrapped it with careful hands, a gasp escaping her. Cassian knew that Nesta was intrinsically aware of what this was, of what this meant to him.

Even after all this time the blanket was soft. The edges may have been a little frayed but nothing that was detrimental, it was still a good blanket. The colour was a light dove grey and, embroidered in a dark thread, were the symbols for growth, strength and health.

“It’s an Illyrian baby blanket,” Nesta breathed.

Cassian nodded, his eyes not leaving her face. “Yes, mine.”

It was the only item his mother left with him at the training camp. She’d given the instruction to hide it and hide it well as the others would assume it as a sign of weakness. Cassian did exactly as he was told, burying it beneath a tree and only digging it up when the training camp moved to new ground.

For him it wasn’t a sign of vulnerability, it was a vestige, the last sacred remnant that someone had loved him. Now it was to be gifted onwards, now he had someone extra to love.

Nesta’s smiles were delicate things that could be snared by a passing doubt or remembered fear and which left her face almost as soon as they appeared. This smile, this wonderous smile now present, would be etched into Cassian’s memory forever.

“I don’t want the baby growing up without experiencing some of Velaris,” he said, “and I want it to see the Steppes but it’s going to be spending a lot of cold winters here. Even early spring has a bite so I decided it needed something warm.”

Nesta bundled the blanket up and touched the fabric to her face, rubbing it against her skin as if to test the softness.

“I want the baby to live where you’ll be most happy,” Cassian continued. “I would like to live where you’ll be most happy. Perhaps I could, in time?”

Nesta shot him a sly look. “Perhaps,” she said, “in time.” Cassian watched as she buried her nose in the blanket, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. “It smells of the sky somehow,” she said, “and the woods. It smells like you. Thank you.”

Nesta put the blanket down and leaned forward, kissing Cassian gently. His heartbeat raced in his chest like it always did when their lips touched.

She reached forward and took his hand placing his palm over the girth of her belly, resting hers on top. When she pressed in slightly there was a movement in response, a shifting of life that had been disturbed and so it kicked out in protest.

Cassian gasped. “That’s....”

“A foot,” Nesta continued, “she’s a kicker.”

Cassian grinned as he felt the kick again imagining small toes pressing against the inside of Nesta’s belly. “Wait,” he said as Nesta’s comment dawned on him, “she?”

“Yes, we’re having a girl.”

There was nothing he could say to that. A new fear now existed, to be a father of a daughter, to have two strong willed females in his life who would present him with new challenges that he couldn’t begin to fathom. The fear was part of the process, he knew this now, it would make him work harder.

Cassian would let fear sharpen him, make him stronger.

“We’re doing this,” he said, “we’re doing this together.”

Nesta smiled again, her fingers clasping round his.

“Yes,” she confirmed, “together.”

#nessian #fanfiction #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar #i wrote something #acosf #nessian fanfiction #nessianfic #nessian fic #nesta x cassian

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ladynestaarcheron · 3 years

Text

Fears All the Way Down - Chapter Four

ao3 - masterpost

hello all. not entirely back from my hiatus, but i decided i did want to share this on tumblr just in case someone isn't on ao3. i've been having a rough month and as it turns out, writing this really helped boost my mood, so maybe reading it can help boost someone else's. so enjoy!

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Elain is hysterical, but Nesta expected that. Feyre takes her by surprise, though.

"How did they get in?" she keeps saying. "How did they get in?" Almost as though she can't say anything else at all.

"Azriel's taken them in for questioning," Rhysand tells her, rubbing her shoulders. "We'll know everything soon enough."

Nesta's mildly irritated that she's the one who was attacked and yet it's her who has to comfort her sisters, but no matter. They're upset and she...isn't.

"It's really all right. The House kept me safe." The House keeps her safe, actually. Safe and comfortable and healthy and warm and clean....

"You'll come to stay at home tonight," Feyre says, squeezing a shaking Elain's hand tightly.

Home being Feyre and Rhysand's mansion by the Sidra. "I...don't think I will, actually. Thank you."

Her sisters blink at her.

"You don't want to stay here," Elain says, the first thing she's managed since crying.

Nesta bristles slightly at the implied insult to the House. "I do."

"It kept her safe," Cassian says, speaking for the first time since he brought in Elain.

"But they got in!"

"Maybe it let them in so you could catch them," Nesta suggests. "But it's safe for me here. And...I don't want to go." How could she possibly give up her standing bath, her magically-warmed room? There's not a price one can put on a proper night's sleep and then starting the day clean.

Feyre and Elain glance at each other for a moment, then nod at her.

"All right," Elain says, brave face on. "We'll stay with you."

Unnecessary. But if it'll make them feel better. "All right, then."

Rhysand gives Feyre a kiss on her cheek and puts a hand on Elain's shoulder. "We'll leave you ladies to get settled, then." He gives Nesta a charming, reassuring smile--ugh. "Everything's going to be fine."

"You're going to those Illyrians?" she asks.

"Yes," Rhysand says. "You get some sleep. You don't need to worry about any of this."

She's not worried about any of this. Why is no one listening to her?

No matter, she decides again. She was never in any danger anyway. She can just...calm her sisters, and go to bed, and put this from her mind.

Except she can't. The House's damaged wall stays etched in her mind, and the sound of those Hyben soldiers chasing after her in the library in her ears. What if they get in? Illyrians, or Briallyn, into the library? During a session with Thalia or one of Calliope's lectures or jewelry making or weekly check-in?

As she gets more agitated, tossing and turning, the room warms slightly. The House lulling her to sleep.

Fine. Fine, she can sleep tonight. Thalia says that she shouldn't agitate in bed, anyway. It's counterproductive and illogical--she'll sleep now, then be well-rested in the morning, and then she can come up with...something. To ensure the library remains safe while she is here.

Because if she doesn't...she might have to leave.

And she realizes she's not prepared to do that.

Something a soldier learns quickly is that torture during interrogation needs to be handled with precision and care, because people will generally say absolutely anything to get the pain to stop, and then none of the information can really be trusted. On top of that is the act itself, which damages the perpetrator as much as the victim. Cassian knows all this, and yet, as he thinks of Nesta, he can't bring himself to care.

"Calm down." Azriel's icy voice cuts through the images of her in duress hitting him like a series of punches.

He only snarls in return, but Az isn't shaken.

"She's all right," he says. "Calm down."

"She could have died." There it is, the simple truth. She could have died . They could have killed her . Briallyn wants her revenge; she'll probably do it slowly and painfully.

"She was safe the whole time, Cass."

"She didn't even know anything was going on," Rhys says, agreeing. "She's not even scared."

So what? So she wasn't scared this time, so what? The other times she was scared. Next time she might be.

"I should have been there." He should have never let Feyre and Elain go through with this. Fought to keep her in Rhys' home in the city; surely even these Illyrians would not dare attack the High Lord's residence.

"That's enough," Rhys says sharply. "It's not your fault. She's safe. And you were there. Right as the alarms went off."

"You were there faster."

"What does that matter?"

"It's a good thing she was at the House, Cass," Az says.

Yes, good thing. Good thing the House can keep her safe, even if he can't. From his own people.

"What did they say?" he asks, voice a growl. Rhys had not let him in the rooms if he could not promise to control himself. He could not.

"Not much," Rhys admits. "Just confirmed what we knew."

"It'll take time," Az says, spinning Truth-Teller in his fingers. "But I would like to state for the record there is a way to speed up the process."

"We can't make them martyrs," Rhys says. "We can't just senselessly slaughter them."

"It's not senseless. They're collaborating with an enemy to overthrow the crown. They attacked a Lady of the Court. There should be punishment for that." Az's eyes are cold in a way Cassian's never could be when talking about his own. Yes, he wants them to die for what they'd do to Nesta. But the way his brother feels about their people as a whole will always hurt in its own way.

"So they're scattered throughout the camps?" Cassian says, steering them back towards the matter at hand.

"With their strongest presence in Windhaven, yes."

Cassian frowns. Even though intelligence had led them to suspect it, having it confirmed...Windhaven is a more moderate camp, with Devlon, it's leader, being mild enough that he had let him and Az participate in the Rite centuries ago. But perhaps Windhaven's structure had led to its rebels being organized enough to form a strong base.

"We should start by cutting them off at Windhaven," he starts slowly, "and then we might not even have to bother with the dissenters in the other camps. Should we start interrogating the males there?"

Az raises an eyebrow. "You want to interrogate every male in Windhaven?"

"I think it'd be easier to just kill anyone who won't swear fealty to Rhys and Feyre, but since you two want to go about this diplomatically--"

"That's not the diplomatic approach," Rhys cuts in. "And that's not what we're doing. That's a colossal waste of time."

"Keeping Nesta safe is not a wa-- "

"I didn't mean that," Rhys interrupts again. "But there are far more productive methods of ensuring her safety and also furthering our cause of diminishing theirs."

"And I'm not going to like it," Cassian says, scowling.

"No," Rhys admits. "I don't think you will."

Nesta had been looking forward to going back to the library, because Elain had looked at her all weekend as though she was already mourning her and Feyre had driven her spare with her constant reassurances that all would be well and safe. But being here now, with the girls who were so close to having their sanctuary breached--yet again, because of her--brings forth a new layer of guilt.

"You're quiet," Gwyn whispers to her in weekly check-in.

"I'm always quiet."

"Bad quiet. What's wrong?"

"Just tired," she says, softly.

It's something of a lie, actually. Despite her concern over the safety of the library and the House--and herself, she supposes--Nesta actually awoke today feeling refreshed. She sleeps well and can stomach a few small meals a day. She's even begun inserting small jogging segments during her walks outside, just to get her blood pumping. Sometimes she catches herself aching for a drink, but her head no longer throbs in pain and Thalia's exercises help her to rid her mind of the thought.

It's working with her hands Nesta likes best. The lectures are fascinating, but she still ends up drifting down some spiral, but the jewellery-making and book-sorting keep her focused enough that she can't think about how miserable she is.

And the thing is, here, now, she's not miserable. She's not happy, not by any stretch of the imagination, but she's not miserable. And that's...worth something.

She wonders if any research she might get assigned to will also help in distracting her...or if that might make her happy.

No, she thinks, looking around at the dozens of girls, plenty of whom don't even speak after decades or centuries of being here. Research does not make people happy. Perhaps there are some people who just aren't meant to be. After all, she does not think she has ever been so. Not in her wealthy childhood, not in her poverty-stricken adolescence, and certainly not here.

Not miserable is good enough. She can be not miserable for her sisters, be presentable and not so embarrassing for their sakes.

Elain and Feyre are still there when she leaves the library for the day, joined by Rhysand and a particularly stoic Cassian. In fact, she thinks as she studies him in the reflection of the mirror in the living room out of the corner of her eye, she cannot recall ever seeing him this...upset. He's glaring at the floor, bright hazel eyes dark and yielding nothing of his typical irritating, incessant character. He spins a dagger between his fingers, siphons glowing bright each time he nearly slices his fingers clean off.

"Did it...go well with the Illyrians?" she asks, trying to keep her focus on something else.

"If you're an optimist," Rhys answers, grinning.

Ugh.

Feyre catches her annoyance at his answer and throws him a sharp look. "We've confirmed that Briallyn is taking advantage of the rebel situation in Illyria to get to you."

"Is that different from what you already thought?"

"It's good to have it confirmed," Feyre says. "We know more about the rebels in our context--" she gestures to herself and to Rhys, "--than in hers. So we know the best way to combat it."

Nesta waits a few moments, but no one says anything. "Which is?" she prompts.

Elain's throat bobs. Nesta watches Cassian's jaw clench even tighter in the mirror.

"The Illyrians need to be reminded of their place," Rhys says. "They forget, because of the distance between us, that they answer to us."

Nesta doesn't particularly care about the inter-politics of the Night Court, but she suspects that if an organized Illyrian rebellion is now working with Briallyn to kill her in order to unseat Rhysand or separate themselves from him, there's probably more than just distance involved.

"So you're going to remind them?" Nesta asks.

"That's where we thought you might have something to do with it."

Cassian starts tossing the knife between his hands faster, almost stabbing at the air. Nesta ignores how her heart speeds up when he nearly drops it through his foot.

"If the Illyrians end up going to civil war, we'll win. But we prefer to tamper down the rebels. We think the best way to do that is show them, first and foremost, this isn't worth dying over. And they will die." Rhys' words are a cold promise.

It's--frightening. What does he want her to do?

"Come with us to Windhaven," he says, as though in answer.

Nesta blinks. "I...thought I was here to stay safe."

"You'll be safe the whole time," Rhys says firmly.

"We would never entertain this otherwise," Feyre adds, eyes wide.

"What would going to Windhaven do? A display of strength?" Seems like it'd be right up the Inner Circle's alley, but overall, in her opinion, useless.

"Precisely," Rhys says, satisfied she's understood. She stifles an eyeroll. "You don't have to do much. Just walk around. We'll give you a tour of the camp. You remember how terrified they were of you, don't you?"

She does. Witch, they had called her. "But they won't be," she says. "They must know I don't have any magic." There's simply nothing to be scared of. She is, perhaps, not quite as sickly and pathetic today as she was a month ago, but certainly nothing to look twice at. Nothing to fear. Nothing to note.

Feyre opens her mouth to object, but Cassian beats her to it.

"You're a female twice as powerful as any of them. They'll fear you." She has no choice but to look at him when he speaks, and he catches her gaze tightly, fiercely, and she can't look away, can't turn her head or even blink--

"We'll be with you the whole time," Feyre says, breaking the spell. She forces herself to look at the floor instead.

"I'll come too," Elain says, determined.

"You don't need to," Nesta says, voice softened. "It's fine. I can do it. I'm not scared."

Elain deflates a bit, in relief or in disappointment, she isn't sure.

"I'm sure you're tired. We'll go tomorrow, if that's all right with you," Feyre says.

Nesta of a month ago had no plans for the day or her life, but now... "Actually, could we go to Tuesday?"

The four of them look at her in surprise.

"There's a new lecture circuit starting." History of limb and organ transplants, led by Daphne, their healer. "I wanted to go."

"Oh," Feyre says, blinking. "Oh! Well! That's--yes, of course, we'll go Tuesday instead. Yes, that's...that's fine."

Her sister's attempt at being casual. Nesta stifles another eyeroll.

"Well, I think I'd like to wash the dust off before bed..." Lie. She wants to go for a walk and eat a small dinner and read. But she wants them gone. She's had quiet enough company for the day.

"Of course! We'll leave you to it, then." Feyre leaves with a smile, and Elain gives her a soft kiss on her cheek before leaving with the pair of them. Cassian follows, but he lingers in the doorway.

"You don't have to go, you know," he says, turning and taking a few steps towards her. Too many.

"I know," she says. "I meant what I said. I'm not scared." The House won't be there to protect her, but... "Aren't you coming?"

"I am," he says, voice low--lower than normal, that is.

She nods once, eyes trained on the floor. She can't look at him again. Not when there's no alcohol to muddy the intensity of his gaze, no promise of some other male to drive him from her thoughts tonight.

I have no regrets in my life, but this.

I have never in my life thought you were pathetic.

"Good night," she says abruptly, turning around and rushing down the stairs.

No, no other male. A book or a game with the House will have to do.

They travel to Illyria the same way they came up to the House, but in reverse. Cassian flies her up until they are out of the House's protective sphere, then Rhys and Feyre grab on to each of them and winnow them to solid ground, miles and miles away.

She had been here once, during the war. It was miserable. It hasn't changed much. The lack of the stench of death is a significant step up, though.

"We'll be meeting Devlon. Camp lord."

Feyre links their arms together and Nesta bites her tongue to keep from saying anything. She doesn't think she and Feyre have ever walked arm-in-arm like this before. She and Elain had plenty, once. She and her other human friends, back when she had them. Way, way back.

They reach a sort of training center soon enough, and the Illyrians do double-takes when they see them-- her . She sees familiar religious gestures and even recognizes some of the males.

"Morning, Devlon," Rhysand drawls to the one approaching them.

"What is this?" he growls.

"Lady Nesta heard some soldiers were interested in her wellbeing. She was curious too."

Devlon narrows his eyes and scowls, but some of the younger males behind him grow faint.

And she supposes...considering how all this might look to them...she understands.

For Rhysand is their all-powerful High Lord, magic rippling from his being. Cassian is their most feared warrior, and he flanks them from behind, seven siphons radiating enough heat that she can feel it through her cloak. And she stands with Feyre, their High Lady, their cursebreaker, in a fine gown indeed that the House had picked out for her (one the nicest she's worn in quite some time)...yes, perhaps this does look a sight to behold. Perhaps they do seem powerful, not worth the effort.

Still, she knows that she herself is nothing to fear. Any one of these soldiers are as strong as the ones from Hybern who pulled her out of bed, and she has not exactly improved in physical prowess since then.

"My sister would like a tour, please," Feyre says sweetly.

Nesta almost blanches at her tone. She doesn't think she's ever heard it before.

Devlon probably isn't allowed to glare at Rhysand or Feyre or maybe her either, so he settles on Cassian. She can hear him chuckle slightly, but she doesn't turn to see.

"This way, Lady," Devlon says finally.

Devlon's tour-guide skills leave a bit to be desired, but in his defense, there isn't much here.

"Don't you have a school?" she asks, interrupting his riveting description of the shops and the living quarters .

Devlon freezes in his tracks. "You will not touch our children, witch," he snarls.

Nesta rolls her eyes and makes to answer, but Cassian moves before she can.

"Don't threaten her again," he hisses, knives at the ready in his hands.

Feyre and Rhys don't act as though this disturbs them in the least. On the contrary.

"Answer Lady Nesta, Devlon," Rhys says, almost lazily.

After another glaring-match with Cassian, he does, pointing to a dilapidated building. "There," he grunts.

"Not in session, I see," she says.

He grunts again, and walks them a little more along the main road, not bothering to point out any more attractions.

"Well," Nesta says, when they reach the training center again. "Thank you for that...riveting experience." In truth, while she doesn't like Devlon much, all this day has done has shed some light on why the Illyrians hate living under Rhysand so much. Velaris' luxury seems ostentatious in comparison, even vulgar. She doesn't think she ought to bear the brunt of it, obviously. But there seems to be an easy path to calming the rebels.

"I didn't see any girls this morning, Devlon," Cassian says, stepping in front of her and Feyre to talk.

Feyre pulls her closer. "All right," she whispers. "Now, we're going to go back to the training center, and you can walk around the shops. Don't be scared," she hurries to say. "You'll be perfectly safe. I promise."

"I'm not scared," Nesta replies.

"Good."

After a few more minutes of discussion--with Cassian angry at Devlon for a lack of female soldiers, Nesta gathers--the four of them trail off, Feyre squeezing her hand in goodbye.

A few Illyrians loiter around her, pretending not to stare at her as she turns around and heads back towards the shops.

There aren't many here--a butcher's, a liquor store (Nesta had clenched her jaw the whole way past the first time, and she does again now), some clothier's. One of them, Nesta notes, is stocked with winter goods, while the others seem to be selling out quite nicely.

She makes her way inside. If only to escape the gaping from the Illyrians who can't seem to decide if they want to follow her or run away.

The shop is warm, quiet, and empty but for a female at the front, with her back to the door.

"Good--morning," she says, the pause in her words when she turns to see her customer and sees that it is Nesta. "Lady," she adds.

"Good morning," Nesta says.

"Can I help you with anything?" the female says bravely.

"Just browsing."

They both know it's a lie. The shop is far too small to pretend to browse. But she lets her.

The female looks younger than Nesta, but she might be older. The fae take longer to age, with Cassian's five hundred-odd years giving him a face that Nesta would guess is thirty-two, and Nesta's own body, frozen at twenty-three, probably looks to fae to be two hundred or so. She wears a simple dress--everything in the shop is simple, and makes Nesta feel uncomfortable in her finery. Like Velaris' vulgar beauty that she had thought of earlier. Nesta's clearly not here to browse.

"I had heard you were interested in a tour," the female says politely. "Was it to your liking?"

"Yes," Nesta says. "News...travels fast around here, does it?"

"Not much to talk about." The female turns to put away a folded sweater, and Nesta sees a horrible set of scars down her wings. She can't stop her mouth from falling open, and manages to say something with slightly more decorum than her original intended gasp.

"I'm Nesta."

The females turns. "I know. I'm Emerie. I own this shop."

Nesta cocks her head. "You do?"

"I do."

"That's very impressive," she said. "I used to own a business." Her own trading on the continent. She hadn't trusted her father with all of their finances again, and had insisted on running some of her own.

"Really?" Emerie says, clearly mirroring Nesta's sentiments. Which is--nice. That camaraderie. And outside of the library, too. "Well, it's nice to know there are other females interested in making a name for themselves."

Nesta huffs a noise of amusement. "It is." She's silent for a beat, then asks, "Is it...difficult? Here? For you, as..."

"As a female who's not cowed by this?" she says, gesturing outside. "It's...not as lonely as you might think. And that makes it less difficult."

Nesta nods. She understands what Emerie means, even if she doesn't quite feel it herself. Friendship, she means. Sisterhood.

All the same, it's nice to know. That it's out there, outside of the library, and in it. Even if she doesn't have it. Even if she...

"Did it work, then?" she asks Feyre, hours later.

"It did," she says, a smug smile on her lips. "You did great. Good job, Nesta."

Nesta nods, even though it doesn't feel as though she's done much.

"I'll see you, then," Feyre says, reaching Nesta's hand to squeeze it in goodbye. "Elain will be so pleased to hear," she says, partly to herself, Nesta thinks. She practically skips towards Rhysand, who sweeps her in his arms as they descend into the city.

"Wait," Nesta calls to Cassian, before she realizes what she's doing.

He freezes in his tracks, wings still poised to follow after her sister and Rhysand. He turns.

"I wanted to ask you," she said, suddenly very aware of her heartbeat. "If you'd--once you asked--I--"

Her face flushes crimson, but he doesn't mock or even grin. Only nods once, patient, and that spurs her.

"If you could perhaps teach me some self defense? Not--not training, not like those soldiers...but maybe, if they attack again, and they get to me, just so that I know--just so I'm not entirely--"

"Yes," he cuts in. "I will."

"All right," she says, nodding slightly. "Thank you," she adds, realizing she probably should.

He swallows. Starts to say something. Then, nearly flinging himself off the veranda, he flies away.

#nessian #acotar fic #nessian fic #once again never know what to tag this as #the formatting here is really weird but even so i know there are people who prefer tumblr to ao3 #dadrie thanks for your help keeping me on the right track lately<3

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