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ladynestaarcheron · 1 year

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Begged & Borrowed Time (xiv, ao3)

(Chapter fourteen: The human queens arrive at last, and Cassian tries his hardest to make Nesta blush.) (Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

The Archeron dining room had turned into a war tent, breakfast a meeting of commanders. Papers lay scattered across the cherrywood table, plans of the estate interspersed with all their gathered intelligence on the queens, notes made in Azriel’s near-indecipherable hand.

As the clock struck nine, Cassian sat in the same low-backed chair he’d occupied the night before and watched as Rhys frowned. A leaf of parchment dropped from the High Lord’s fingers, fluttering to the table as he massaged the centre of his forehead with his fingers.

“The only thing they don’t have is the measurements of the damned door handles,” Azriel said darkly, pushing away a sheath of papers and taking up his teacup instead. A single shadow glided along the edge of the teaspoon, following the curve of the saucer as a crease formed on it’s master’s brow. “Why do they need the layout of the sitting room? The position of every chair and side table? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Cassian only leaned back in in his chair, his wings stretching around the low back as a hand dropped to the dagger strapped to his thigh, finding comfort in its steady weight. The mantle of Night Court General settled easily around his shoulders, its shape and feel so familiar. It was like slipping back into a summer jacket after a long winter, feeling his muscles stretch and strain as, for the first time since Amarantha’s curse, he prepared himself for war.

“I don’t like this,” Azriel continued. Another of his shadows skirted a patch of sunlight as he tapped his fingers against the side of his teacup, siphons gleaming brilliant and azure as that frown grew deeper. “There’s too much we don’t know, too much they’ve kept back. We don’t even know how they’re planning to arrive.”

“You don’t trust them,” Rhys surmised, curling his fingers into a fist beneath his chin.

“No.”

Cassian snorted. “You don’t trust anybody.”

Azriel shot him a withering look, one of sufferance, as he sipped from his tea. Beside him, Rhys shook his head. His sable hair seemed to swallow the sunlight as the Lord of Night looked up, his eyes roaming the ceiling as if looking beyond the plaster and the moulding to the rooms above.

“Even if they try to wrong foot us, we’ll be prepared,” Cassian continued easily, tapping the hilt of his blade. His voice was effortless, but it was undercut by a savage kind of purpose, a lethal kind of determination as he added, firmly, “I’m not letting a thing happen to anybody under this roof.”

Not while she’s here, he didn’t need to add. Not while my mate is in the room.

Azriel’s face softened and, looking at the empty seats around that table, Cassian wondered if there was anything in the world more perilous to diplomacy than mated males, because if a single one of those queens so much as sneered in Nesta’s direction…

He curled his hand into a fist.

Her presence made things alarmingly simple, startlingly straight forward. If the queens or their guards dared to make a move, he’d kill them with his bare hands.

Simple.

He looked for her now, glancing over his shoulder towards the door.

He had hoped to have seen her already that morning, but the only Archeron to cross his path so far had been Elain, bringing in the teapot before departing swiftly, calling over her shoulder that if they needed anything, she’d be in the kitchen with Nesta preparing breakfast. Cassian had glanced after her and wished he could follow but— he couldn’t. Instead, he had swallowed his disappointment, thanked her for the tea, and taken the papers that Azriel had pushed towards him. Profiles of the queens, descriptions. Names, territories, lists of connections.

Glancing at the clock against the wall, watching the minute hand tick like a metronome, Cassian forced himself to focus.

“What time do they arrive?” he asked, willing his mind to remain fixed on the impending arrival.

“Eleven,” Rhys supplied. “On the dot.”

Cassian nodded. He drummed his fingers on the table, watching the steam rise lazily from the spout of the teapot set in the middle. As though this were a pitched battle, he began to form the lines in his mind, to map out their best strategy.

“Az and I will take up spots by the doors,” he began, an air of command seeping into his tone, giving it weight and authority. “Rhys, you and Feyre should—”

“Hasn’t anybody ever told you it’s not polite to bring arms to the table?”

The dining room door opened, and Cassian’s words died in his throat— overtaken, replaced by silence and a searching gaze as he caught the sound of familiar footsteps and a scent that reached out, called to him. He turned in his seat, muscles shifting and wings stretching as he sought the source of that voice, chastising him already.

Nesta.

Bearing a tray of scrambled eggs and an expression of hauteur that made him wild, Nesta’s eyes found him, caught and captured his attention, and as she breezed into that dining room, Cassian was the most willing prisoner alive, reluctant to ever be free of her. Elain followed behind, a tray of bacon in her hands, and he swore he saw her roll her eyes as she sidestepped Nesta entirely, setting the bacon down on the table with a flourish.

He barely even noticed.

“Well,” he shrugged, his eyes fixed on his mate as she approached the table. He plucked up one of the silver knives. “You wouldn’t do much damage with this, would you sweetheart?”

“And are we in such mortal peril, even at breakfast?”

She raised an eyebrow tartly, a perfect arc that had a grin splitting his lips. Her face was impassive, carefully blank, but her gaze turned languid as she took in each and every one of the blades that adorned him. The daggers buckled at his hip and thigh and forearm, all seven siphons. A sheathed Illyrian sword rested against his chair, its point buried in the thick fibres of the rug.

“You never know princess,” Cassian said, his voice practically dropping to a purr. Insanity— it was insanity, to flirt with her so brazenly, so openly. Rhys’ brows furrowed with disapproval, but Azriel only snorted into his tea, and Elain became suddenly fixated with spreading butter on her toast. “All sorts of danger could befall you. You might take one look at my handsome face and faint, for example.”

Nesta hummed as she sank into the chair beside him. “In that case, the sword might be useful after all. I may throw myself upon it to escape your vanity.”

He shrugged, feeling his skin grow tight as she gave him a sideways glance. His fingers drifted to the hilt of his sword, a smirk borne of menace and mischief curving his lips.

“Go ahead,” he drawled. “It would certainly do the job. The blade is a… considerable length.”

Her cheeks reddened. Nesta Archeron - infallible, unflappable Nesta Archeron - blushed as he recited the line he’d read aloud the night before. It was delectable, exquisite, the way her eyes sparked, the way her lips parted. She’d broken him off with a kiss last night, before he could read any more about that considerable length— and it had bruised him, that kiss. Marked him, made his soul tremble with want as a lethal kind of desire took him over. He felt his smirk grow wild as he watched the flush spread across her neck now, dipping below the neckline of her dress, and he knew that she was thinking of that kiss too.

Azriel cleared his throat, shifting in his seat to kick Cassian’s ankle beneath the table.

He let his smirk soften, let it slip into something gentler. Nesta’s blush eased, faded, and when she reached for the teapot, her hands were steady— elegant and graceful as she tilted the pot to fill Elain’s cup first. He felt the bond stretch - pleasant and content - between them, a comforting kind of warmth as he thought of how those fingers had been in his hair last night, tangling and twisting as he kissed her senseless. He thought of how undone she had been, how raw he had felt as his palms caressed her skin, following the dip of her waist and the curve of her hips, so maddening he didn’t think he’d ever find sanity again—

It earned him a second kick in the ankle from Azriel.

Cassian coughed, shot Az a wry look that was both apologetic and grateful. Rhys gave him a look of warning, disapproval flickering in star-flecked violet, and Cassian almost laughed, almost fell apart. Rhys still thought Nesta was happily married. The High Lord had watched her blush and still thought Cassian didn’t have a shot with her, even as she sat there with his kisses causing her scent to shift, to merge with his own as the both of them thought of that kiss, that desk, the touches they had exchanged and the ones they hadn’t.

No wonder Rhys still hadn’t noticed that Feyre was just as enamoured with him as he was with her. Given how oblivious he was lately, Cassian rather thought the stars could align and spell out the words Feyre loves you, you prick and Rhys still wouldn’t get it.

Azriel cleared his throat again.

“So the queens arrive at eleven,” he said firmly, like a rudder, steering the conversation back to where it had been before Nesta and Elain had entered— before Cassian had all but forgotten about the queens entirely, too committed to making his mate blush. “Despite our reservations, I don’t think we should be openly defensive.”

Cassian hummed in agreement— and just like that, the breakfast table was a meeting of strategy once more. Where to hide the blades they couldn’t conceal beneath their leathers, where to stand and who would sit— a dance of diplomacy that skirted far too close to preparations for battle. Feyre and Mor joined them at last - both resplendent in jewels and fine clothes - but the planning didn’t pause, the plotting didn’t waver.

And throughout it all, Cassian felt the press of Nesta’s attention. She didn’t turn to look at him again, but he felt the keen edge of her focus taking in his every word. He caught each sideways glance, every half-turn of her head, and only when the clock began to inch towards half past ten did he feel her concentration shift.

As the planning lulled, Nesta rose smoothly to her feet. Elain glanced up, brow raised in silent enquiry.

“Someone should make sure everything in the sitting room is prepared,” she explained, brushing down her skirts with a firm hand. Elain nodded, and Nesta didn’t bother to wait for somebody to stop her or question her. She turned on her heel and walked away, and Cassian watched her go, feeling the air grow cold by his side, the sudden emptiness jarring.

Thirty seconds.

He made himself wait thirty seconds before pushing up from his own chair.

At the table, Mor’s lips pursed, pressed together with disaffection— but Cassian simply didn’t care enough to unpick it, to cater to her displeasure as inside his head, Rhys gave an exasperated sigh.

Try not to be so obvious, brother.

“I want to make sure we have enough blades hidden in case things go south,” he announced casually, shrugging innocently as he checked the dagger at his thigh. With the eyes of the entire table upon him, he let a guileless smile flitter across his lips.

Feyre frowned. “I thought they asked for no weapons?”

“They did,” Cassian said breezily.

The furrow in the Cursebreaker’s brow deepened as he winked.

He plucked up his sword - wondering whether it would fit behind the sofa cushions, or if he’d be better off stashing it behind the curtains - as Feyre opened her mouth to protest. But Cassian only shot her a devilish grin and stole from that dining room before she - or anyone else - could stop him.

***

Nesta was plumping the cushions when Cassian peered around the doorframe.

For a moment, he simply watched her. Studied how the sunlight danced across her cheekbones, played along her jaw, brought out the grey in those devastating eyes. He could have stood there for hours, watching her from a distance, but—

“Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to help?”

Cassian stilled, watching as Nesta’s eyes flicked to the door, pinning him in place as his fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword.

“You want me to… fluff cushions?”

Nesta shrugged. “Those muscles must be good for something.”

He watched as her eyes tracked a path over his arms, his chest, lingering on his hands. A cocky, arrogant sort of grin spread across his face, splitting his lips as his blood grew heated beneath her watchful gaze, kilned in his veins.

“They’re good for plenty, sweetheart,” he said, his voice thick, brought low with suggestion. He stepped purposefully into the sitting room, strides even as he drew close enough to his mate to reach out and touch her. “How about I show you?”

There was no blush now— no flush of delightful colour staining Nesta’s cheeks. Nonplussed, she merely folded her arms firmly over her chest and raised a single imperious eyebrow. Cassian might have bought it, her little display of nonchalance, had he not heard the quickening of her heart.

“Please,” she answered, indifferent. A passive blink accompanied a waved hand, an almost bored tilt of her head towards the circle of chairs set equidistant in the middle of that sitting room. “Do.”

Gods.

He was alight— her apparent apathy setting him aflame like a match to kindling. Every nerve he possessed was suddenly more alert, trembling with recognition as he prowled forwards, and though he knew this was a game, he couldn’t for the life of him tell who was hunting who— who was the cat, and who was the mouse.

It was almost intoxicating, a heady mixture of desire and teasing, coaxing him towards some kind of edge, crossing the line of propriety. He huffed a dry laugh as he set down his sword, his gaze unflinching as he cracked his knuckles, his muscles growing tight beneath his cotton shirt as he flexed his arms. Shameless— it was an utterly shameless display, but Nesta’s eyes widened, darkened as he stretched his wings behind him and rolled his shoulders.

He knew exactly what flickered in her eyes— felt the sharp edge of desire, of hunger, tightening and coiling in his own chest, mirrored on her face as she watched him. He hummed, low and sultry, as his wings flared and the siphons on his hands glimmered. Taking a strip of leather from his pocket, Cassian slowly - slowly - tied back his hair, watching with triumph as Nesta’s throat bobbed, her eyes taking in the deft movement of his fingers, the slope of his neck. When he had fashioned it into a rough, messy sort of bun, he shifted his shoulders again, letting his muscles strain against the thin fabric of his shirt. With a dark smile, he took the first cushion in hand, battering it between his palms as he noticed, with a great degree of satisfaction, that a hint of beautiful colour touched her cheeks at last.

I win, princess.

Nesta tore her eyes away, turned her attention to another cushion, another chair. Cassian might have left it, might have considered the game done, but he was dancing along the edge of exhilaration and he didn’t want this to end, not yet. He felt another smile pulling at his lips, rakish and daring as he dropped the cushion roughly into the chair and plucked up another.

“Did you sleep well?” he began lightly. Nesta’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as his smirk turned manic. “Or did you lie awake all night thinking of me?”

Nesta snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself.” A pause, one in which she pointedly drove her fist into a cushion. “I started my new book instead.”

“I trust it’s as good as the first?” he asked, but a moment later hummed, pausing his ministrations on his cushion. “Even if it is a poor substitute for me.”

“It’s a miracle you can even lift your head with an ego that size,” Nesta muttered. Cassian grinned, about to make her blush in earnest by mentioning other sizeable parts of him, but she tilted her head before he could, turning to face him with an expression of curiosity that gave him pause.

“There was something I didn’t understand,” she began. “The characters in it— it said they were bonded, but I’ve never heard that before. What does it mean?”

Like an arrow knocked off course by a sudden wind, Cassian’s fist missed its mark.

His knuckles connected instead with the back of the chair, missing the centre of the cushion entirely. He lifted his head to meet her eye, but his tongue suddenly felt unwieldy and difficult, almost too heavy for speech.

“You’ve never heard of a mating bond?”

Nesta shook her head. “Should I have?”

Well, fuck.

Cassian had spent the past few days agonising over how to tell her about the bond, but he hadn’t considered that she might not know what a bond was in the first place and— fuck, fuck, fuck.

She was waiting for an answer, and not for the first time in her presence, Cassian found himself speechless. The arrogance was gone, dried on his tongue like ash, leaving behind a sour taste and a heaviness in his gut. He cleared his throat, ran a hand through his hair as he grappled for the words, searching in vain for something to say.

“It’s… difficult to describe,” he began after a long pause. He kept it careful, considered, detached— as though this were hypothetical, theoretical. As though he weren’t searching for the words inside his own fucking chest, giving name and shape and form to the emotions he felt every time he looked at her.

“Most of us above the wall believe that each of us are born with a mate, like a soul split between two bodies. It is a gift from the Cauldron, and if we are lucky…” He paused, his voice growing sombre. “If we are lucky we find them, that other half. The bond is what links them together, what binds them. A union of equals, evenly matched in every way.”

“Like a marriage?”

Cassian shook his head. “Stronger,” he said firmly, his voice weighted by something heavy, a fervour he could hardly breathe around. “Far stronger. Deeper. A mated male would sooner see the world burn than have any harm come to his mate.”

Nesta’s eyes dropped to her hands, to the silver band on her third finger. Cassian wanted to cast that ridiculous wedding ring into the sea, but Nesta’s face turned contemplative, turned pensive as she let out a soft oh.

“I think I know what you mean,” she said, in a voice that was quiet and hushed yet still had the power to bring Cassian to his knees.

He couldn’t think— could barely even keep himself standing as he watched her twist the ring on her finger. He forgot about the cushions, forgot that they were standing in her father’s sitting room, that they were short on time and that the queens would be arriving soon. All of that was inconsequential, meaningless.

“You do?” he asked, his question little more than a breathless whisper as he took a step nearer, his heart pounding in his chest so hard it hurt.

Nesta nodded. “Are Feyre and Rhysand…?”

A pause.

A beat.

A moment - a single moment - where Cassian released the breath that trembled in his lungs, grasping for the strength he needed to speak, to blink, to look at her and not drown in the wave of disappointment that threatened to bury him.

“Yeah,” he said, when he remembered how to use his tongue.

Nesta frowned. “And he expects her to give herself over to him, just like that? Just because some magic cooking pot deems it so?”

“It’s not like that. She could reject it, if she wanted,” Cassian countered. He took a step back, letting the distance between them stretch even though it strained and pulled behind his ribs. His heart began to beat an unsteady rhythm, off-kilter and uneven. “You don’t think it’s a good thing then? A bond?”

Nesta shrugged.

“I don’t know,” she said uneasily.

Cassian kept his face blank, his lips tightly closed. It shouldn’t surprise him, some logical part of him whispered. After all, she hadn’t even known what a bond was until right now, so how could he blame her for her trepidation? How could he fault her for not falling headlong into it, for not knowing already what he was? What they were?

After a moment, Nesta’s eyes shifted to the sitting room door.

“He’ll keep her safe?” she asked softly.

“To his dying day,” Cassian answered, but he wasn’t talking about Rhys, not thinking about Feyre.

Something inside him shifted, morphed. He watched as Nesta pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, watched her eyelashes flutter across silver-blue eyes as she dropped her gaze to her hands again, to the ring on her finger. He felt resolve harden in his gut, purposeful and strong. He would say nothing— not yet. Not until the bond was no longer something so foreign to her, not until she was ready.

He had already waited five centuries for her. He could wait a little longer.

A moment of silence followed, and Cassian sighed as he drifted closer to her again, as though pulled by some invisible length of rope. Nesta smiled a little, a candid curve to her lips that Cassian knew she hid often and hid well, and he couldn’t for the life of him see why. It was the most beautiful thing in the world, the most precious, to see that wry, soft smile on her lips as the sunlight kissed her face.

The only sound was the ticking of the clock, the gentle swing of the pendulum. After a minute, Nesta blinked and gave a single shake of her head. Her shoulders straightened, the set of them dignified and proud and utterly proper as she turned from the cushions and clasped her hands before her, perfectly prim.

“The book I gave you,” she said. “There’s a thank you note inside.”

Cassian tilted his head, welcoming the change in subject like the first rain after a drought. “Who for?”

“Whoever you keep getting these books from,” Nesta said dryly.

“Her name is Emerie,” he answered. “You’d like her.”

“Well then,” Nesta said briskly. “Will you give her the letter? Or is it only Rhysand you play messenger pigeon for?”

Cassian smirked, stepped forward as he felt familiar ground beneath his feet. Teasing— taunting. Flirting. This— he could do this, as easy as breathing. He closed the distance between them, feeling a hum start low in his chest, vibrating in his throat.

“Pigeon,” he repeated with a scoff. “One day, princess, you’ll come up with some better insults.”

She raised an eyebrow, as if preparing to upbraid him, but she didn’t stop him as he dared to reach out and rest a hand on her hip, his thumb brushing the bottom of her ribcage.

“One day,” she shrugged, leaning in to his touch.

He was about to shift closer, about to close the distance entirely and kiss her swiftly whilst he had the chance— but before he could so much as blink, there was a sharp rap on the door. He felt his hand drop from her waist as she pulled back, his fingers mourning the loss of her as Elain stuck her head around the door.

“It’s almost eleven,” she said pointedly, opening the door wider. “Are we ready?”

***

At five minutes past eleven, Nesta watched in silence as the ere-noon sun drifted easily through the wide windows, the warm light shining on the golden furnishings and glinting off of the jewels that adorned each queen, diamonds sparkling like fallen tears.

You will wear a crown one day. One crafted of gold, laden with diamonds— without price, beyond value.

Her mother’s words, carried back to her now across a decade of grief and sorrow and loss, emptier than ever. You will be a queen child, Mama had promised, and yet Nesta stood with her back to the window, the only piece of jewellery her misbegotten wedding ring.

But as she looked at those queens, unease snaking down her spine as they ignored her entirely to focus their attention on Rhysand, standing by the hearth in a crown of darkened silver, Nesta wondered whether her mother had been wrong. Mistaken, all along.

Distantly, she heard Rhysand give the queens a polite “Well met,” his voice smooth and elegant despite its rumbling depth, but she was barely listening, recalling her mother’s promise as she looked at each queen in turn, trying to count the jewels.

Five queens— but it was the crown on the youngest that caught Nesta’s attention.

Diamonds of pure white shone stark against her bright golden hair, held fast in a crown that arced upwards in elegant swathes of silver. Studded with diamonds and rubies and a single large opal - its heart aflame with colour - Nesta wondered if that was what her mother had wanted, all opulence and nobility and finery.

And yet it meant little— was worthless when Nesta’s eyes slid past that gleaming crown and settled on red siphons shining against the opposite wall, more beautiful to her than any of those rubies in any of those crowns.

Mama had promised her a prince, but perhaps that wasn’t what Nesta wanted.

Perhaps she wanted the bastard-born general, standing with his arms folded, watching intently as Mor invited the queens to sit.

Menacing— he looked menacing, his gaze dark and calculating as he watched the meeting unfold. His face was stern, lips pressed together, and the sheer size of him, muscles straining against his leathers, was enough to make one of the human guards balk— even though the guard had a sword and Cassian was, ostensibly, entirely unarmed. Nesta knew better. Knew that he’d donned a leather jacket to hide the blades strapped to his arms and had tucked the one at his thigh inside one of his boots.

When the guard’s eyes dropped to Cassian’s hands, strong enough to kill a man, Nesta bit back a smile.

She had memorised every callous on those hands by now, mapped every inch from the tip of his fingers to the base of his wrist. Powerful and deadly— and yet soft enough to make her sigh, to urge her closer whenever he kissed her.

She still wasn’t listening.

Distracted, she watched as another guard took up a spot by the window, only a handful of feet from where she and Elain stood.

Cassian’s eyes turned brutally sharp, lifting to study the space between Nesta and that guard. His hazel gaze met hers briefly, but Cassian didn’t smile. The glare he gave the guard at her side should have been enough to chill her bones, to terrify her, and yet as she watched him in command, intelligent eyes scanning that room, all trace of mockery and jest gone…

He was fearsome.

Deadly.

And gods help her, it was the most attractive thing she’d ever seen.

As if sensing it, Cassian caught her eye again and this time— this time his lips quirked, pulled up at one corner. Just the barest of smiles, and yet Nesta had to shift her gaze to keep from returning it.

“We know war is coming,” the oldest queen said as Nesta dragged her attention back to that circle of chairs, suddenly remembering why they were gathered. “We have been preparing for it for many years.” Her voice cracked, like embers in a grate, but her eyes were sharp and cold as she lifted her chin high.

Feyre sat forward, the crown she wore the golden twin to Rhysand’s. “We have seen no signs of such preparation.”

The golden queen waved her wrist, shook her head.

“This territory is a slip of land compared to the vastness of the continent. It is not in our interests to defend it. It would be a waste of resources.”

Silence— for a heartbeat, there was nothing but silence, stunned and heavy and breathless.

And then Feyre’s lips parted as her eyes widened, and for a moment Nesta wondered if it was a joke, some jest made in poor taste. Then the queen shrugged, a blasé rise and fall of her shoulders, and Nesta’s ears began to ring, a high-pitched sound as though she had been standing too close to a firework when it exploded.

And she understood, then.

The ringing was their death knell.

“Surely the loss of even one innocent life would be abhorrent,” Rhysand said flatly.

No— no. no. no.

The eldest queen began to answer, but Nesta could hear nothing but that godsdamned ringing, muting all else as though her head were submerged in water, as though she were drowning. She blinked, thinking she must have misheard, misunderstood…

“…always a horror, but war is war. If we must sacrifice this tiny territory to save the majority, then we shall do it.”

No, there was no misunderstanding.

Each word was a blow— a wound, and Nesta felt herself bleeding around each barb, felt them tear into her chest and steal her breath—

“There are good people here,” Feyre said, her voice raw and pained, as though she were bleeding, too.

“Then let the high fae of Pythian defend them.”

The world snapped into focus with a jolt, the queen’s words brutal and harrowing as Nesta broke through the surface of her fury. The ringing in her head silenced, the breath sawed from her throat, and without thinking, she lurched forwards, hands curling into fists as the golden queen shrugged once more.

“We have servants here,” she hissed. “With families. There are children in these lands, and you mean to abandon us?”

Beside her, the guard closest reached for his sword, the steel singing as he pulled it free an inch.

Across the room, Cassian’s face darkened with an unholy fury.

The eldest queen looked at Nesta with something like pity, her hands crossed demurely in her lap. “It is no easy choice, girl—”

“It is the choice of cowards—”

“Please,” Feyre interrupted sharply. Nesta’s head whipped to her sister, only to find Feyre’s hands held out, palms up in supplication. “Please. I was turned into this because one of the commanders from Hybern killed me. Now their king plans to shatter the wall and destroy all of you. Please give us the other half of the book.”

Rhysand’s eyes shuttered, glimmered briefly with pain, and Nesta felt her breath catch, her anger sharp enough to shred her heart.

It had all gone so drastically wrong, and she didn’t know how or why or when, didn’t know how to claw it back, how to fix it. She was drowning, grasping, sinking and sinking and sinking—

Lost, she glanced across the room.

And when she found Cassian watching her - not Feyre, not the queens, her - she felt the world slow, felt it tremble like the first breath drawn after a heavy rain. His hand hovered by his side, ready to unsheathe a hidden blade, and though her anger was still hot enough to scald… His eyes met hers across that expanse of staggering wealth, glittering crowns upholding desolation, and she felt her aching soul settle, like he was the rock she could to cling to in a storm-tossed sea.

Slowly, he blinked.

Didn’t tear his eyes away, not for a second, and Nesta felt her breathing turn less ragged, more even, eased by those hazel eyes.

“Give us proof,” the eldest queen said sharply, pulling Nesta’s spiralling attention back. The queen looked at Rhysand, challenge in her eyes. “If you are, as you say, a male of peace… Give us proof.”

“Proof,” Rhysand echoed flatly. The queen nodded, and Rhysand considered it for a moment before his eyes turned dark, like a moonless night in the depths of winter. “Very well,” he said. “I will get you your proof.”

Feyre twisted her head, the gold of her tiara glinting as her eyes went wide. In a whisper that seemed to strain against her throat she asked, “Velaris?”

The Lord nodded tightly.

Velaris. Nesta had heard the name before— when Cassian had dropped off Rhysand’s second letter, the day she finally broke and told him the truth about her marriage to Tomas. I’ll kill him, he’d said. I’ll take you to Velaris.

She didn’t know where it was, or why Feyre seemed so distraught, but her sister’s unease was evidently shared by the rest of the fae in that sitting room, because as Nesta looked to Azriel, she saw even his stoic mask crack. He directed a sharp look at Rhysand, his jaw growing tight as his shadows slunk further against the wall, as though hiding behind their master’s bulk.

But Rhysand ignored them— only straightened the lapels of his jacket and said,

“We will summon you when we have it.”

The golden queen scoffed. “We will not be summoned.”

He exhaled, dark eyes growing somehow darker.

“Then come at your leisure,” he countered, the words slipping easily from his lips as though pleasant and polite, but there was enough bite beneath, enough of a snap, that the guards by the wall stepped forward.

Nesta blinked, let her eyes remain closed for a heartbeat, and when she opened them, the queens were rising, pushing up from their chairs in whispers of silk and chiffon. Diamonds glittered as they smoothed their skirts and prepared to leave, and before she could think, before she could speak—

They were gone.

Folded into nothing, as though they had never been at all, and in the tense, thick silence that followed, Nesta understood that they had failed.

That whatever peace this meeting was supposed to procure, whatever alliance it was meant to foster… It had failed.

***

The queens gone, Cassian watched Nesta dart from the sitting room.

We need tea after that, Elain had said, stepping away from her spot by the bay window. She had batted away Rhys’ insistence that they leave for Velaris immediately, promising that tea would fix everything, make it all seem a little less bleak. She had smiled, and Rhys had looked to Feyre, who looked pale and drawn out, nodding almost numbly as she sank back down into her chair.

So— they were staying for tea, it was decided. Cassian had taken a single step forwards, about to cross the floor and take his place by Nesta’s side, but his mate didn’t miss a beat. She was hurrying from that room and fleeing for the kitchen before he could so much as blink, instructing Elain to stay put.

I’ve got it, she said as she departed, her face blank and stony.

And now Cassian stood there, listening to Rhys and Mor and Feyre deconstruct whatever the hell had just happened with the queens— trying to figure out where it had gone wrong, how it had gone wrong. Az sat grimly on a low sofa, wings settled over the back, and though there was space for Cassian too on that sofa… he remained standing. Warring with indecision.

Did they notice, Cassian wondered. Did they realise?

Rhys, her sisters, the queens— did any of them see just how much Nesta cared?

It had stolen his breath during that damned meeting. Entranced him, the way she had risen to protect those she had never met. A fire burned beneath her cool exterior, and though Cassian had once thought her selfish and heartless, he understood now that she had never been either of those things.

And when the queens had turned their gaze on her, acerbic and sour, Cassian had felt his power tremble, quake. Even muffled as it was beneath the wall, he felt the vastness of the power he’d been blessed with suddenly yawn, stretching like an endless chasm, delving to new depths as if she brought out something new in him, some new, untapped well of strength.

He’d have torn that manor apart, reduced them all to ash, if that guard had drawn his blade just an inch more from its sheath.

Rhys raised an eyebrow. “Sit,” he said, waving a hand at the space at Azriel’s side.

Cassian only looked to the door.

Shook his head.

“I need a minute,” he said, not caring enough to come up with some excuse about where he was going and why. He moved before he’d even finished speaking, not looking back as he left, letting the door close firmly behind him.

He didn’t bother to mask the sound of his footsteps either. He let his boots ring out on the marble as he headed for the kitchen, thinking with each footfall of the fury in Nesta’s eyes, the way her skin had paled as the queens had left.

The bond was pulling hard behind his ribs, growing anxious and unsettled as it thrummed with unease. He just needed to see the spark in her eyes, needed to know the queens hadn’t snuffed it out. He’d watched her stiffen as they turned their backs, watched something like fear alight on her face, and he needed to make sure she knew, now, that he’d let the world crumble, let each and every one of those queens die, before she suffered.

That he’d watch it all burn— all of it, if it kept her safe.

He found his way to the kitchen, following the sound of a kettle whistling on the stove, and when he entered, Nesta’s hands were curled tight around the edge of the counter, her grip tight enough to whiten her knuckles. Her head was bowed, her eyes closed.

“Hey,” he said gentle, voice brittle with concern as she looked up, opened her eyes. “Are you alright?”

She nodded briskly, her hand dropping from the counter. “Yes.”

“Liar,” Cassian answered, loosing a sigh as he drifted to her side, the bond pulling so damned hard it was difficult to breathe.

She looked… tired. Weary and worn to the bone, as though the meeting with the queens had sapped her of something vital, and it made him heartsick. She blinked, not even bothering to taunt him, to tease him, to chide him for daring to call her a liar, and he’d never thought the absence of an insult could hurt but gods, it did.

It really fucking did.

“We’ll figure this out,” he promised. “Whatever it takes, whatever we have to do. We won’t abandon you or these lands.”

“How can they be so willing to let us die?” Nesta demanded, her gaze snapping to his like lightning, a blistering frankness roiling beneath like thunder. “They’re going to do nothing, and just leave us like we don’t matter—”

“It’s not your burden to bear, Nes,” Cassian pointed out softly.

“But it is,” Nesta bit out. “My sister made it so. Your lord made it so.”

And Cassian could do nothing but shake his head mournfully because… she had a point, didn’t she? They had laid this burden at her feet, dragged her into it when they’d used her as courier for Rhys’ letters, and now war was coming and his mate was here, beneath the wall, entirely defenceless.

“Leave,” he breathed, even though his heart cracked around the words. “Take Elain and get on the next ship. Get as far away from here as you can.”

“I can’t do that. You know I can’t.”

“If you’re worried about your husband—”

“No.” Nesta cut him off with a wave of her hand. “If he happens to die in the battles to come, I don’t think even his mother would mourn him.” She paused, met his eye and refused to look away, her gaze unflinching. Raw. “How could I get on a ship and leave the rest of mankind to the mercy of this fae king? How would I ever sleep again?”

She searched his face, and Cassian swore her eyes asked a third question, one she didn’t voice. How could I leave you?

And damn him— how could he blame her? How could he expect her to leave, when he wouldn’t dream of it either? When leaving her felt like the most potent pain in the world?

He had no answer, and so Cassian did the only thing he could— he took her in his arms and held her tight, not caring who might find them. He only pulled her to his chest, wrapped his arms around her and pressed a kiss to her hair.

“I’ll find a way to keep you safe,” he murmured. “I swear it.”

“Why?” she asked, her words muffled as she buried her face in his leathers. “Why bother?”

He let out an aching laugh, a bitter huff. “Because you’re…”

My mate.

You’re my mate.

“Everything,” he finished softly, settling for words close to what he wanted to say, yet not nearly close enough. “You are everything the world should be.”

He wanted to tell her— so badly he could taste it, could feel the words forcing their way up his throat. And yet—

Not yet.

He smoothed a hand down her braids, his palm cradling the nape of her neck, wrapping her more tightly in his embrace. Keeping her there, as if he could keep her safe, keep the world outside from touching her if they just stayed right here, like this.

She curled her fingers into his jacket, nails digging into the leather.

“Tell me,” she breathed, tilting her head up, still pressed against his chest. “Tell me about the proof they wanted. The place they mentioned. What’s it like?”

“Velaris,” Cassian whispered. “The Night Court’s most closely guarded secret.”

Nesta pulled back, a groove between her brows as she blinked. “You’ve mentioned it to me before. Doesn’t seem like that much of a secret.”

He tugged her back against his chest, let his cheek drop against her hair as a rueful smile pulled at his mouth. “Evidently I have incredibly poor judgement when it comes to you.” He shrugged. “It’s supposed to be a secret. Not a soul outside of the Night Court knows of its existence. Save for you.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a place of light and beauty. Safety. The High Lord that founded the city wanted to let it flourish before the world discovered it, and over the centuries it just… remained secret.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said softly, and Cassian huffed, breathing her in as his arms tightened around her middle.

“I know,” he said lightly, shrugging as he skirted her question, sidestepped it. She pulled her head back, fixing him with a questioning stare— but how could he answer? How could he explain that he’d told her about the secret city because even back then, back before he knew what she was to him, he hadn’t been able to hold anything back. Hadn’t been able to hide anything from her.

He shook his head.

“It almost terrified me, the first time I set foot there,” he said instead, his voice idle as he dragged a palm down her spine. “I’d grown up in the wilds of Illyria, so when Rhys’ mother brought us to the city for the first time… I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t stop marvelling at the size and the noise. Windhaven suddenly felt so small in comparison, so removed.”

He paused, smiled fondly. He felt Nesta’s hand round his waist, fingers flattening on his back beneath his wings. She relaxed as his arms engulfed her, as if hearing him speak was the distraction she needed.

“There’s a house carved right into the mountains that surround the city,” he continued, his hand still running a path up and down her spine, soothing and steady. “High— high above. It’s extravagant and palatial and yet… I didn’t sleep a wink all night. I couldn’t get comfortable in the bed.”

He shrugged. Swallowed as he felt a piece of himself grow raw. Bared in a way it never had been before.

“The sheets were too soft, you see,” he said in a whisper. “Far softer than any we’d had in Windhaven, and I’d only just gotten used to those. I’d spent so long sleeping on the ground that even the feel of a mattress and a blanket was strange to me, and there I was— lying on a bed grander than anything in Rhys’ mother’s cabin, in sheets a thousand times softer.”

There was a pause, one where Nesta said nothing, only studied his face with something like understanding— one soul raised in poverty recognising another. At length, Cassian hummed.

“That’s what Velaris is like. Comfortable. Vibrant. Alive.”

More silence, and when she rested her cheek over his heart once more, Cassian tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He let his fingers delve into her braids, holding her close.

“One day,” he promised. “One day I’ll show you.”

“One day,” Nesta echoed, but it was numbed, her words muted as though she didn’t quite believe it. A dream that was slipping through her fingers like mist, evaporating and dissolving now that the queens had proven themselves so unwilling to help them fight this war.

It had Cassian pulling back, lifting a hand to curl a finger beneath her chin and tilt her face up to the light. His eyes searched her face, lamenting every line of grief that he found, every strand of worry. He longed to take it all away, to go back to that morning, when his greatest concern had been how next to make her blush.

“I swear,” he said again. “I swear I’ll keep you safe.”

It echoed in his bones like a vow he couldn’t break, something fundamental and cardinal that he was powerless against. I’ll keep you safe, like it was his sole purpose— a basic fact that everything else merely revolved around. It had him dropping a hand to his waist, finding the dagger hidden beneath his jacket.

He slipped the blade free, watching the blade shine in the weak light as he flipped it in hand and held it out, hilt first. Nesta glanced at it, but made no move to take it. Cassian pressed it into her palm and curled her fingers tight around it, willing her to grip it as tightly as she’d gripped him.

“Use it, Nes. If ever you need to.”

“Use it on who?” she asked dryly, her eyes fixed on the way his dagger fit in her palm.

Her fingers slipped into the imprints left behind in the leather, shaped by his grip. It was his oldest weapon, forged for him not long after he earned his siphons, and one that he had taken meticulous care of over the centuries, sharpening it and oiling it until it shone, every night, like new. His favourite, balanced so perfectly in her hand.

“On whoever you need to,” he answered, keeping her fingers pressed tight around the hilt with his own hand. “Whoever tries to hurt you. No matter who they are.”

Nesta blinked, and he wondered if she recognised it. If she realised that it was the same blade she’d reached for that day on the road, oh, a lifetime ago now. If she did, she said nothing, only took the blade and tucked it in a pocket hidden in her skirts.

Cassian nodded with approval, something in him calming with the knowledge that she had something at least. That if he couldn’t be always at her side to defend her, then at least he’d given her the means to defend herself.

“Use the sharp end,” he said dryly.

That earned him a little smile, a slight roll of silver-blue eyes as she stepped away and took a deep, steadying breath. She shook her head once, sharp and brisk, before drawing away from him entirely.

Cassian watched as she reached for the steaming kettle, filling the teapot with water as she brought herself round, pulling herself together. Within a breath, her mask was back in place. Perfect, inscrutable, not a trace of vulnerability left. With a sharp look, she nodded to the tray of porcelain cups and saucers and Cassian understood that whatever moment they’d just had, it was over.

“Make yourself useful, General. Take the tray in, will you?”

***

Night had fallen by the time they had returned to Velaris.

When they had filled Amren in on the details of the meeting, when Mor had gone home and Feyre to bed… Darkness cloaked the city, and Rhys was sitting on the townhouse patio, a glass of whiskey in hand. Azriel had poured three generous measures, and they ended the day just as they had started it— the three of them, sitting around a table, trying to work out their next move.

Rhys looked out at the Velaris skyline. “We’ll go to the Hewn City soon,” he said, voice tired and weary. He dragged his fingers through his hair. “I just want a few days off before I have to deal with Kier.”

Cassian snorted, drinking deep. “I think we all do,” he muttered darkly, cradling his glass in his palm as he crossed an ankle over his knee. He flicked his eyes to the house, to Feyre’s bedroom window, in darkness as she slept.

“You think she’s ready for it?” he asked quietly. “Who we are there.”

Bastions of cruelty and malice, pillars of arrogance and unforgiving, unwavering wrath— that’s what they were. The masks they would have to don. It was a marked contrast to the prince of starlight and benevolence that Feyre had come to know in Velaris.

Rhys looked at him flatly before draining his glass, deigning not to answer. He shook his head, and looked pointedly at the empty space on Cassian’s hip, where his dagger had been buckled that morning. He didn’t need to ask where it was or why it was missing now, and in the silence, Cassian sighed.

He looked again to that darkened bedroom window.

“When did you know?” Cassian asked curiously. “About Feyre. About the bond.”

A soft hiss slipped between Rhys’ lips, as if fearful Feyre would overhear. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

Rhys shook his head slowly, reluctantly. “I knew after the curse was broken,” he said lowly. “Under the mountain.”

“And Tamlin—”

Rhys shook his head again, more sharply this time, cutting Cassian off with a look. His violet eyes narrowed, the stars suspended there all but winking out entirely as he leaned forwards, elbows braced on his knees.

“You shouldn’t have been so obvious today,” he said, his voice thick with something that seemed like a warning.

Cassian only laughed dryly as he tipped his glass back, drained it. “And why’s that?”

“Because it’s stupid,” Rhys countered evenly. “Reckless.”

“I don’t care,” Cassian shrugged. He set his glass down, frowning. “War is coming Rhys. That meeting might have been our last hope, and it might have just been snuffed out entirely. We could all be dead in a matter of weeks if this war goes poorly.”

It was all he’d thought on the way home.

With every beat of his wings, every leaden breath he drew into his lungs, he thought of how the time that had once stretched on before him might suddenly have grown short, grown limited, and Rhys might have had a point, because it did make him reckless, made him stop thinking of anything but how he refused to die without having spent as much time with her as he could, treasuring every single second.

Away from her, his bruised heart was wild in his chest, yearning to be back at her side, to feel her hand in his own, and if his chances were few now… If his days were numbered…

Suddenly, without even really thinking, he was rising from his chair.

“I’m sick of waiting, sick of being careful. I want to see her.”

Azriel frowned, looking up as Cassian stretched his wings as if readying for flight. One of his shadows crept forwards, brushing the edge of Cassian’s boots as if curious.

“Now?” Az asked, as that shadow went slinking back to its master, twining around his wrist.

Cassian nodded. “Can you winnow me to the wall?”

Rhys sighed heavily, rubbing his temples with a thumb and forefinger. “Cass, calm down.”

“Calm down?” Cassian repeated with a scoff as he straightened his jacket. “No.”

“She’s married.”

Cassian bristled, thought of that ring on her finger as his lip curled. A deep, primal sort of growl escaped him as he shook his head sharply, his patience snapping like an age-worn thread.

“She’s mine,” he countered, thinking of how he had been the one to hold her in his arms, to kiss her until neither of them could breathe. Thought of how it had been his voice to soothe her in that kitchen, that it had been him she had clung to.

Not her pitiable excuse for a husband, the boy who dared to think he could leash her with a feeble silver ring.

Rhys shook his head. “No, she’s not.”

“You don’t understand,” Cassian huffed.

“Don’t I?” Rhys snarled. “Don’t I? Feyre was going to marry Tamlin and I was going to sit back and let it happen, because if she chose him then it was up to me to make my peace with it—”

“Nesta didn’t choose him,” Cassian cut in darkly. “She isn’t happy.”

He felt a flicker of guilt, a fragment of regret for sharing her secret but— he couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t stand there and listen to how Rhys thought he knew better, when he knew nothing at all.

And for once in his life, Rhys was silent.

He blinked, but said nothing. Lost for words, he looked almost chastened, almost apologetic, as he met Cassian’s eye and sighed again, softer this time— resigned. Cassian only turned away and faced Azriel, the shadowsinger still seated in his chair.

Azriel let out a sigh of his own, wry as he rose to his feet. His shadows skittered, but his siphons were bright and his eyes were soft, the smile on his face almost indulgent as he extended his arm.

“You’re sure?” he asked. “She might kill you for turning up unannounced.”

Cassian grinned. “That’s part of her charm.”

Azriel smirked as he summoned his shadows.

“Well,” he trilled. “Let’s go, then.”

Taglist: @hiimheresworld @highladyofillyria @wannawriteyouabook @infiremetotakeachonce @melphss @hereforthenessian @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @the-lost-changeling

#to read

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ladynestaarcheron · 1 year

Text

I say this with my whole chest, write that daydream. Write the fic you think no one will care about. Publish the story you wrote at 2am because you had a middle of the night spark of inspiration.

No matter how insignificant or niche or obscure you think your words may be, write and post it anyways if you’re proud of it. You can’t know how people will react to it until you do so and you may just be surprised at the response you receive…

#besties this is how lpg was born

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ladynestaarcheron · 1 year

Note

I wasn't referring to anything in particular in the request, I've just read a bunch of fics where there's no apology, everyone just moves on and is civil to each other. This is probably just realistic but I wanna see justice lol. I wanna see, maybe not grovelling, but just an admission of wrongdoing yn? I just want to see them both swallow their damn pride and admit they're not perfect. Sorry for the rant I'm just petty and I want justice.

Oh I see, well yeah there'll be something in that vein in fears all the way down.

#asks #anon #not with m/or so much but with r/hys definitely

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ladynestaarcheron · 1 year

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🥰🥰🥰

A Little Theatrical

ao3

what happens when you think to yourself, gosh, nesta and cassian are just like rosalie and emmett, and oh my gosh what if nesta went on a revenge rampage just like rosalie did and also you watch a lot of criminal minds? this.

dark and violent! you have been warned!

---

When Nesta is brought to the Night Court after the war, revenge is the last thing on her mind. Too tired to want anything beyond filling the gaping hole inside of her where her soul used to be. She tries filling it with whiskey first, and then when that doesn't work, she adds males to the mix. Fairly soon, falling asleep in a drunken stupor after a mediocre orgasm no longer sates her either, but what other choice does she have?

So her days and nights continue in the same manner.

Until she discovers her other choice.

---

It is somewhat thanks to Cassian that she learns of her options, and even thanks to him for the ideas. Not his intention, maybe, but that's even better for Nesta. Now she does not have to thank him, consult him, and she can go about her life as she pleases.

He knocks on the door after she shuts it on the male from last night. She opens it, scowling at the white paper bag he holds up.

"Brunch?" he says drily.

"What do you want?"

"Why yes, that is blueberry lemon you smell. I would love to come in, thank you. Of course," he continues laughingly, as he pushes past her into her apartment, "I wouldn't dream of forgetting your coffee."

"What do you want?"

"I want you to eat something," he says seriously, dropping his vexatious façade. "I have something I need to tell you."

There isn't much Nesta can keep down nowadays, but coffee helps. And the sooner she forces down a few bites of muffin, the sooner he'll leave. She can throw it all back up in private if she needs to.

"Thank you," he says, watching her start on a muffin. She hates him for that. She'd smash his head into the table if she were strong enough. But she's not. It's a victory of sorts for her, keeping this body weak. Not so Fae now, is she?

"I need you to stay home for the next few nights."

Home. This apartment is not home.

But she refuses, anyway. "No."

"Well, you don't have to stay home," he says. "You can either go to a bar with me, or go anywhere else yourself--"

"No--"

"--but you can't get drunk and you can't bring anyone home. Montesere has spies on the ground. They know your...hobbies. It's too dangerous. Just till Az finds them. All right?"

Once, Nesta might've been mortified by his words. But it's easy not to be embarrassed when he isn't talking about her body. So she only says, interest piqued, "Montesere?"

"State across the sea," he says. "We're...well, we're not at war. But they're hardly an ally. And it looks as though they're well on their way to making themselves an enemy."

"Hm."

Cassian raises a brow. "Interested in emmisarial work?"

She rolls her eyes, too distracted to remember she's not supposed to pay attention to him. "Why are they after me?"

"They're not really after you. It's not like they want to...hurt you. Trust me, sweetheart, if we thought that..." Cassian trails off before adding, "They're gathering intel. But while our allies are inviting you to lunches and soireé so they can ogle you in peace, Montsere has decided to take the more adverse route."

Nesta only says again, "Hm." She hadn't realized some of the invitations from Feyre she'd been turning down weren't from Feyre at all. Not that it matters. Her answers would stay the same regardless.

"Anyway, want to go out with me tonight?"

Nesta puts down the rest of her muffin. "No."

He deflates, and she hates him for that, too. "Well, then, you're staying home."

Not home. "Fine."

And actually, it is fine. She has things to think about.

---

Cassian stays outside her apartment himself all night, and there's a rotation of other soldiers besides. No one knocks on her door, no one approaches her when she leaves for groceries and books in the afternoons, and only a few days have past before Feyre comes to her door and tells her she's safe now.

"We were all working on it," Feyre says. "We've put spies in Montesere, too, to gauge if they had learned anything or if they're going to try again. You were safe the whole time, I promise," she hurries to add. Then she brightens. "Elain's deathly worried. You'll come for lunch, won't you?"

Nesta goes, again too lost in her thoughts to argue. And anyway, perhaps she can make this work in her favor.

The restaurant is swanky; too ostentatious for Nesta's tastes, but that doesn't matter. She listens to Elain gush and orders what she tells her to, listens to Feyre prattle on about her art classes, and only when Elain excuses herself does Nesta say, "How did they find me?"

Feyre blinks. She might've been in the middle of saying something, Nesta isn't sure.

"Well...everyone knows you live here."

True enough. "I suppose everyone knew where I lived before, too."

Because of you, she thinks hard at her sister, without dropping her mental shields. Because of you, because of you.

Feyre pales. Perhaps she hears her. "Yes, they did."

Nesta lowers her shoulders, turning her head, as though lost in the pain of the past. "How would anyone be found, otherwise?"

"Well," Feyre says, desperate to absolve herself of some guilt. "I mean, people do look."

"But how would you look?"

"Any way," Feyre says. "You could ask anyone. You could...bribe shopkeepers. Ask them if they'd seen someone. Or you could dig through their past, see if there are places they visit. You could even guess, say, if I know you like to read, I might just stalk a few bookstores until I'd find you. So there'd be any way to find you, really."

"Hm."

Nesta lets her change the subject and doesn't bring it up again when Elain comes back. But it doesn't leave her mind.

---

Nesta's watched at night, she knows. Not just when there are Monteseren spies abound. Cassian watches her all the time.

So she goes in the morning. Bright and early, when everyone who knows her thinks she's asleep.

Gown pressed, hair pinned neatly, and eyes as bright as she can fake them, Nesta walks to the registration library by the Sidra.

"Good morning," she says politely. "I'm looking for records from the war."

The attendant's eyes widen. "Of course, Lady Nesta. What sort of records?"

"Prisoners' records, if you please."

Minutes later, she's set up at a table. She doesn't know their names and there aren't any drawings of faces, but she can guess at their unit. Something combative, obviously. Trained to fight overseas. Elite. She can skim past anything on common foot soldiers; she won't find anything helpful there.

At sunset, she's found three leads, all of them locked away in the Court of Nightmares, awaiting trial.

She doesn't waste a minute. She's at Feyre's doorstep within the hour, in the Court of Nightmares by moonrise.

---

They all balk in turn when they see her. She isn't sure if it's because they think she's Feyre or because they know it's her.

"I'm looking for someone," she says to each of them. "If you help me, I'll tell them."

Nesta has read that there is honor amongst thieves, but apparently, there is none amongst captured soldiers. They know what she wants. They each give her a separate name.

That's three of them. She'll have to figure out the fourth on her own.

Afterwards, Feyre asks her, hopefully, if talking to them had helped. If she'd found closure.

"Maybe," she answers honestly.

---

In the same vein of closure, Nesta tells her sister she'd like to take some time to travel. Feyre's thrilled, of course. "She's going to find herself," Nesta hears her say to Rhysand.

Nesta lets her think so. She's going to find someone, after all.

Cassian makes her promise to be careful--and oh, he makes it only too easy for her, when he asks her to take his knife for protection.

She was terrified of sea voyages, once, but she hardly feels the waves, her thoughts so occupied with what she plans to do abroad.

When she reaches Montesere, the one place Elain had made her swear not to go, she finds herself walking with purpose. Even though she does not quite know where she is going, even though she has no reason to believe she'll succeed...she feels calmer already, just having made this decision.

She uses a fake name to check into her hotel, a different one at the bar. And a new one at the second place the night after that, and after that. She brings no one back to her room. She's only looking for one male, and she doesn't plan on being seen with him. Fake name or not, Nesta Archeron's face is not one easily forgotten. This she knows. This she will make certain of.

It's on her fifth night, in a poker game she says, casually, "Actually, I do have a mutual friend here. Maybe you can help me find him? Geroid Rian?"

As on every other night, her companions shake their heads no, mumble apologies.

She settles in her seat, prepared to win the hand and make her departure, head back to the hotel for the night. But as she turns her head, eyes darting at the glass behind the bar to spot the reflection of her gamemate's cards--she sees him.

There are other faces not easily forgotten either.

Nesta feels her blood run cold. She keeps her head low, finishing her game, and walking out.

She waits by the door, unmoving, for hours. Shrouded in shadow, he doesn't spot her as he leaves, drunkenly stumbling out.

Nesta isn't a trained soldier, but she can walk silently, like a lady, and she does, a few paces behind him, until he reaches the door of the inn he's staying at.

"Hey, soldier," she calls, voice flirty.

He turns, meeting the base of the branch Nesta's picked up, knocking himself out.

The night is shaping up to be more a string of dumb luck than any real skill on her part, she thinks, as she drags him into an alley. But no matter. She's owed a bit of luck, isn't she? If there's any sort of balance in the world. And she isn't taking it for granted, either, making mental notes of things she'll need for next time. Rope, for one.

Cassian's knife is cool in her hand, Nesta forces herself to breathe to stay calm. Geroid Rian's putrid smell fills her nose, but so does the crispness of the night, and it steadies her heartbeat. She loosens the ribbon in her hair, pulling a handkerchief out of her pocket and tying them together to gag him.

So he'll be silenced, now. But she doesn't have any rope, so she still has to ensure he won't run away.

Allowing herself only a brief moment to flutter her eyes shut and remember Cassian's voice in her ear as he instructed her on, should she be caught, how to disarm a male.

Fist firmly wrapped around the blade, she raises her arm above her head and brings it down on Rian's kneecap with a sickening crack.

Rian's eyes fly open, screaming, and then choking on his gag.

"Shut up," she hisses, bringing the knife up to his throat. "Shut up, right now."

He starts to cry. He says something to her, but he's too muffled to understand. Begging, no doubt.

She frowns. She had assumed he'd be defiant. In her fantasies, he laughs at her. She never gets her fill, he never ceases making her seethe, as he laughs and laughs, as he had the night he ripped her from her bed and dragged her to her death. Him and the three others she's looking for.

"You've grown weak, Geroid Rian," she says, and at the fear in his eyes when she says his name, Nesta feels a flicker of something that has grown so foreign it takes her a moment to name it. Joy.

"It took four of you to get me," she says to him. "And I alone could get you. Maybe if you hadn't been drunk, been a little more on your guard. Did you not think you had any reason to worry, Geroid?" She runs the blade along his cheek, almost like a caress, pushing hard enough to break skin. He sobs. "But you must have. That's why you're hiding away here, in Montesere. You must have something to fear. But you didn't...think...it'd...be...me." She punctuates each of her words along his arm with Cassian's knife.

"A mistake," she says softly. "Surely you know by now."

He thrashes, a sudden burst of energy coming from the same spot as it had from inside Nesta that night. But just as for Nesta, it is not enough.

Nesta knocks him to the ground with her heel. His head hits the pavements. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to hurt. His sobs grow louder, wretched.

"Shut up," she snarls again, knife at his throat.

He doesn't stop thrashing. He slices his own throat against the knife, the idiot, and before he can go, Nesta drops on the ground, stabbing at random along his torso.

When he has stilled, Nesta throws herself backwards. She wipes angry tears from her face. He had gone too quickly. He had not suffered like he deserved.

She doesn't know how long she sits there before she leaves, the body cooling in the alley. At least he had been in pain, she consoles herself. And scared. Not as scared as Nesta was, of course. She had not known what was going to happen to her, to Elain. No greater fear than that.

No use in giving up now, though. Like with the rope.

She'll learn for next time.

---

Montesere has beautiful beaches, but Nesta doesn't linger. She's in Vallahan before the week is out.

She buys supplies at different stores along the way: rope in one, aconite in another. Stocking up slowly, carefully. She isn't particularly worried about being traced, but better safe than sorry.

Another change she makes is switching hotels. She doesn't stay anywhere for more than two nights, and she buys a map to decide where she'll stay, what areas she'll cover each night.

Vallahan proves to be less fortuitous than Montesere, but Nesta doesn't mind. More time to prepare. She makes good use of it.

Three weeks in, she says, just as she does every night, "I actually think an old friend of mine is here. Killian Tige?"

Tonight, one of the males at her table says in surprise, "You know Tige?"

Nesta shrugs, coy. "We used to be close."

The males guffaw. She doesn't care.

"Any chance you can point me in his direction?" she asks, taking her cards from the dealer.

He takes a swig of his drink. "Yeah," he says, evidently deciding the thought of someone undressing Nesta is enough for him. "He likes Dillard's. But maybe you can bring him back here."

She smiles in response. She can't let him think it was the blond female asking after him that had anything to do with Tige's death, even if Euphrasie Turnaday can't be traced farther than check in at the Riverside Swan Hotel this morning.

After the next hand, Nesta leaves, a slight skip in her step. She walks all the way to Dillard's, and it's late by the time she gets there, after eleven. He isn't there. No matter, no matter.

She checks into a new place the next morning--Lotte Daae at Comfort Motel. She's only in her room a few minutes before leaving to camp outside Dillard's and wait for dark.

She waits. Night falls. She waits. He walks in. She waits. He walks out.

She moves.

He isn't alone, which she thinks could prove to be an issue, but his friends part ways with him soon enough. Walking faster behind him then, she readies her palm.

"Excuse me," she says, when she is close enough.

He turns, and her arm is already raised. She shoves the cloth, drenched in aconite, against his face. It's stronger than what she needs; he staggers backwards and drops.

She has her bag with her this time, packed with supplies. She has ropes with pre-knotted loops to pull around him, the better to drag him with. Good thing, too, as he's heavier than Rian was. She's lucky, she thinks, as her eyes dart across the empty street, that this area is barren.

In the alley, she realizes it would be more helpful if she could tie him to something. Next time, she surmises, she'll have to be a bit more patient--find the male, then scout a location to bring him.

But for now, she bounds him tightly, as tight as she can, and then gags him. Only when she's certain he can't wriggle away from her, rushing her process as Rian had, does she slap his face, hard enough that her palm stings.

"Wake up, Killian," she says.

He blinks, stupidly, before saying, "Mmm?" through his gag.

That might be her fault. Too much aconite.

"Look at me, Killian. Do you remember me?"

Dull green eyes look at her hazily for a few seconds before widening. Taking quick stock of where he is, Killian opens his mouth wide, to scream, then chokes. He manages to quiet himself somewhat when she hold Cassian's blade to his throat.

"Listen to me, Killian," she says calmly. "Are you listening?"

He nods, frantic.

"Good. I need to know something from you. If you don't tell me, I'm going to kill you. Do you understand?"

"Mm--mm!"

"I need to know the names of your friends from that night," she says. "I'm going to take off your gag. If you scream, I'll kill you." She presses the blade in hard, to prove her point. "Do you understand?"

Such abject terror in his eyes as he looks up at her. "Mm!"

"I'm going to take off the gag now. You're going to tell me the names of your friends." When he nods again, she lowers the gag with her left hand.

After a gulp of air, Tige says, "Geroid Rian, Cormac Theeve, and Rori Dunall."

Rori Dunall. The fourth she had not been able to name. "Where is Dunall?"

"I don't know," he sobs. "I think, I think in Rask, last I heard. Please, please, I'm sorry, just let me go--"

Nesta put the gag back on. "Hush," she says. "I didn't need Geroid's name. Do you know why?"

He shakes his head.

She smiles. "Because I've already killed him, Killian. And now I'm going to kill you."

"MM! MMMMM!"

"No, Killian, I didn't say if you helped me I wouldn't kill you. I just said if you didn't help me, I would. But, see, what I meant was, I would kill you either way. Bit of Fae wording there. I have you to thank for that."

Killians sobs the whole time. Her ropes were brilliant; he can't move, he can't speed this up. She takes her time, carving along his arms and chest lightly, so as not to nick anything important, but the thing about bones is, as long as she doesn't shatter the spine, he'll live. In deep, miserably pain, but he'll live.

Only until morning. He passes out as the sky begins to lighten, and Nesta wonders if she should leave him like this, to maximize his pain, or if she shouldn't risk someone helping him. She tries to rouse him for the final kill, but he's had too much blood loss. In the end, she only slits his throat. Unceremonious, she thinks. He deserves worse, does he not?

---

Cormac Theeve is also in Vallahan, and it only takes her a few weeks to track him down. She doesn't pounce the same night she finds him, though. She follows him for a few days. She finds an abandoned warehouse, a wheelbarrow. It's got chains, too--perfect. So much more reliable than rope.

She drugs him heavily, then loads him into the wheelbarrow. Unlike with Tige, she doesn't wake him up. Lets him sit there, chained to the wall, until he comes to, his gag muffling his cries for help.

She leaves him alone, awake, for over an hour before she walks in. He stills when he sees her.

"Hello, Cormac," she says. "You remember me." It isn't a question. She knows he does.

He isn't as vocal as Tige was. Too scared, she thinks bitterly. Too scared to yell for help or even bother fighting. Not that it matters. It hadn't done her any good, after all.

"I have something to ask you," she says, twirling Cassian's knife between her fingers. Offering him the same false promise she offered to his comrade, she lowers his gag.

"Rask," he blurts out. "Southern Rask."

Rask, then. As good as confirmed. And the southern part, that's new. She hadn't known that.

He cries out as she gags him again, but it's muffled soon enough.

"Do you know what I regret, Cormac?" she says to him calmly. "I've just met Geroid and Killian, and do you know what I regret? Do you remember the night we all met?" She runs her knife over his shirt, the buttons popping off. "Remember how you told me you would have fun with me?"

Even though he is the one at her feet now, he is the one begging, crying--Nesta cannot stop the bile that rises in her throat as she remembers their hands running over her body, as they waited for Hybern to call them in for his big reveal.

She swallows hard. "I was so caught up in the excitement of meeting them that I forgot to have some fun."

Slicing his shirt, she glances down at the pieces as they fall in ribbons to the ground. He shakes, sobbing.

"Don't cry, Cormac," Nesta says, her voice in his ear and her blade upon his skin as soft as a lover. "It'll be fun."

She's never been much of an artist, but it comes to her easily. With the knife, she draws lips upon his chest, as though she had kissed him there and stained him. She uses the flat end of the blade to flick his nipples once, twice, before slicing them clean off. She registers his screams, even with the gag, but it's almost as though she can't hear him at all.

"Hush, Cormac," she says. "The night is yet young."

His belt and his pants are next, but she's slower with them. Teasing, almost. He sobs the whole time. Louder, even than Tige had.

"Now our fun really begins, Cormac," she coos, as she runs the knife lightly over his cock, until she reaches the tip and--gone.

He screams so loudly, if Nesta felt more presence of mind, she might worry about his eardrums.

"Hush," she snaps at him. "Infants manage that all the time."

He doesn't last much longer after that. She runs her knife along the length of him, poking and twisting slightly as she sees fit, in an attempt to prolong it, but to no efficacy.

All in a night's work. And she would hardly classify this as a failure.

She finishes Theeve like she had Tige, like Rian had inadvertently finished himself: a slice to the neck.

Later, when she is washing herself and preparing to sleep the day away in her hotel room, she tries to figure out what she feels, but it's as though her emotions are being held out of reach, by something stronger than herself. She cannot tell at all.

---

She leaves for Rask before nightfall that day. Best not be in the city when the body is discovered.

Southern Rask is quite beautiful. Mountainous region. Fruit trees grow in abundance, and every day she drinks a blended juice a salesperson in a market booth makes for her from whichever fruit she picks.

The same markets are overflowing with all sorts of things: clocks and fabrics and ink that changes color and any number of things Nesta cannot name nor guess at its use. But she's not here on tour, is she?

She moves quickly, asking around if anyone's heard of Rori Dullan. She's a friend of his family's, or his old flame, or a business partner, or anything that she thinks will get the person she's talking to reason to point her in the right direction.

Nothing. For weeks. So she moves from town to town, wondering when she'll have to move north.

She's far enough inland that she's meeting people who are telling her they've never seen the ocean when she begins to lose hope.

Think, she tells herself. What had Feyre said? How might she find a person...?

She switches tactics. She lilts her accent, to try and sound like she's from Hybern, and asks if anyone knows anyone else from her country. That gets her some answers, but none of them are useful. None until she meets a young male, to whom she tearfully asks if he could help find her sweetheart, she's so worried about him, she had lost him after the war, and if please please please he might know where ex-soldiers convene--

"Not in this town, doll," he interrupts her. "You need to get to Havertane Peaks." He bobs his head at her before turning away.

Havertane Peaks. All right. A lead.

It takes her another few days' travel to get there, and she can hear Hybern accents in the streets when she does. Yes. He's close. She can feel it.

She doesn't dare use his name once she's here. She's been searching for him long enough, she can't risk losing him. What if he hears of her asking and disappears out of her reach? So she skulks around town, looking...looking...and she finds him

The only problem is he's never alone.

Nesta isn't sure how wrong it would be to off people in this little Hybern diaspora, but she wouldn't really be able to manage it. She can't possibly disarm three or four or fifteen people by herself. She isn't Cassian.

But she's nothing if not patient. So she waits. Days. Weeks.

And finds she's not as patient as she thought she was.

She makes good use of her time, of course. Finds a barn, finds some chains. The place is ready. Everything is in place. Everything except Rori Dullan.

She stalks him night after night, returning to her room as day breaks to sleep. This is not what she wanted. This town isn't big enough for a new room every night. The clerk recognizes her face, greets her with her fake name. She'll be remembered here.

What should she do? She paces outside a building one night, where he is inside, laughing with his friends or drinking or whatever it is. Not thinking of her, of how he ruined her life. Enjoying himself. While she sits in this purgatory, lost in this endless nothingness.

Should she leave? She doesn't want to, not yet, but what choice does she have?

She sighs, turning on her heel, taking a few steps in the direction of her motel, but she whips around when she hears a loud thud.

She blinks, hardly believing her eyes.

It's him. Rori Dullan. There, passed out on the ground. Knocked unconscious, by the looks of the throbbing welt on his forehead.

Nesta looks around wildly. The street is empty.

She doesn't waste any more time, pushing her cart out of the shadows and smothering his mouth with acotine, to be safe, and loads him in.

Who had done that? Is she being--no, that's insane. He probably just got too drunk, got rowdy with the bartender, and got kicked out. Violently kicked out. Yes, that must be it. What else could it be?

He wakes up like Theeve had. In chains. Sobbing, choking.

"Rori," she calls softly, in a sing-song. He freezes when he hears her voice. She steps into his line of sight and begins to scream, right away.

She crosses the room in wide strides, and he stills when she puts Cassian's knife to his throat. "You're not an easy male to find...alone."

He begs something from behind his gag. She ignores him.

"It's not polite to keep a lady waiting, Rori. Don't you know that? Someone ought to teach you some manners."

Who had knocked Rori Dullan unconscious?

Nesta slices suddenly at his shirt, bleeding his skin. It doesn't wipe the question from her mind. Nor do the nicks up and down his bare legs. She inserts the knife in enough that the tip is hidden, and twists. Over and over again.

She doesn't stop thinking about it.

"Shut up," she says to him, harshly. It doesn't aleve her wondering.

She twists the knife again. Again. Again.

"I said shut up."

Again again again--and she gives in. She slits his throat.

And just like that, it's over. All these months...finished. In a barn in Rask, just her and a dead male.

She could stay there forever--but she can't. She leaves, quickly. That very night. She tears through Rask, stopping only to buy some fruit seeds and a box of paints, before crossing over to Vallahan, then Montesere, then boarding a ship back not-home.

If she can reach her emotions, she doesn't know, for she doesn't think of her emotions. She only thinks of one thing: who knocked Rori Dullan unconscious?

---

Nesta's smart, but if she wants to begin a career as a vigilante or an assassin-for-hire, she's got a few more things she needs to learn. Like how to recognize when she's being followed, for one. Cassian still can't believe she honestly thought he would let her cross the ocean by herself.

Even before Feyre had sheepishly asked him if he would mind keeping an eye on her, he already decided he would. Since she booked her ticket to Montesere. Really, Montesere? How stupid does she think he is?

At first, he had feared the worst. Was she going to Montesere to seek out the worst males she could, in punishment for him asking her to stay home that night? But every night, she went back to her hotel alone.

Until that third night, when she knocked someone out and dragged him into an alley.

For a wild second, Cassian wasn't sure what was happening. Had Nesta lost her mind? She had always preferred masochism over sadism, hadn't she?

Then he recognized the male. From Hybern. One of the soldiers who had dragged Nesta from her home in the mortal lands. From her bed.

The choice had been an easy one.

Of course Nesta is entitled to her vengeance. He's only bitter he hadn't been able to make good on his vow himself, to peel Hybern's skin off, or to find the human man who had hurt her and break every bone in his body.

He knows, of course, after what he had done to his mother's old camp, that it does not really help. The numbness remains long after the violent vindication fades. But perhaps she'll see that, feel how there is still a lacking in her life, and she'll...ask for help. Or be more responsive to his offers. And--he can admit this to himself, alone--he likes thinking of them as the same. Such beautiful brutalism Nesta avenges herself with. Cassian can't help but puff out his chest in pride as he watches, from the shadows, as she shatters kneecaps the way he had once told her she could.

He helps her wherever he can. He lets her do what she pleases, but cleans up after her. Combs through her leftovers carefully, making sure she doesn't leave any hair or footprints behind. He breaks into the hotels after she leaves, to fix the records--because really, sweetheart, he'd like to tell her, what use is a string of pseudonyms when every one of them stays in a hotel for a night under the same physical description with a name from a popular human novel? He stalks streets, too, wings out, Siphons blazing, to keep people away.

Maybe she can feel it, he hopes. His closeness, his devotion. Maybe it calms her after long nights. But even if it doesn't...he stays. He has to.

He knows he's made the right choice when she can't figure out how to get Dullan. He's grateful to the Mother that she's not so blinded by her rage to try and take him in on in those groups he hangs around with, but he doesn't have anything to be scared of. Dullan and the others might have been able to best Nesta, human and sleeping, but he's certainly no match for Cassian.

It's easy to knock him out, but it's not easy to stop there. Especially after he had heard what she said to Theeve. Remember how you told me you would have fun with me? He hadn't known what he wanted to do first. Vomit or rage or fall to his knees and sob. But had stayed quiet, given Nesta her chance. He does the same now, with Dullan. Hits him over the head, and throws him on the ground. He watches from the shadows as Nesta looks around, then, mercifully, loads him into her cart.

Flying home the night she boards her ship, he makes it back a few weeks before she does. He waits for her at the port with her sisters; Elain with a bouquet, Feyre with a bottle of wine, and him with a wide grin.

He pulls her into a hug before she can fight him off. She needs to feel it, for just a moment. How much he cares. I'm sorry, he hopes she gleans. I hope you can start to heal now.

She doesn't argue with them when they walk her to her apartment, nor does she hiss when she sees Feyre and Elain have made it a bit more...livable. Fresh paint, new furniture, fully-stocked bookcase.

"Do you like it?" Elain says. "I...we thought the colors...all new books! And Feyre painted that just for you!"

"Thank you," she says. And perhaps it's flat, reflexive, derived from exhaustion, but all three of them take it.

They leave her to rest, and he brings over a light dinner for her when the stars come out.

"So, find yourself?" he asks her, sitting down on her new couch.

She shrugs.

"Well," he says boldly, "maybe you're right here."

She doesn't answer, only looks at him with those fiercely intelligent blue-grey eyes.

"Can't hurt to look, right?" he says, half-joking, with a smile. "I could...help you." The jest fades from his voice. "I could...there are beautiful beaches here, actually. Maybe you'd like...just a day trip, I know you just got home. Maybe to the beach? With me? You could...read in the sun. There are these bars in the water. You wade up to them. They give you drinks in coconuts."

Nesta doesn't lower her gaze. He never wants her to.

Eventually she says, "I suppose I have a lot to read."

He grins. "You pack whatever you want. I'll see you tomorrow."

He leaves her apartment with a high not unlike that of the one he felt the first time he flew. She's--she's not quite back. But she's going to let him bring her back.

He can't get too ahead of himself. He knows he has his work cut out for him. Killing doesn't heal; he knows that, and she's suspecting it, after months of her quest and weeks to go over it all on the ship. But he won't fail her this time. He can help bring her back.

He has to.

Because apparently, though a broken Nesta Archeron's first instinct is to hurt herself, she's more than capable of hurting others. And when a person is broken, it's hard for them to see who the deserving people truly are.

He knows. He's made that mistake. He won't let her do the same.

#murder nesta is the best nesta❤️

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ladynestaarcheron · 1 year

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you know, I'm not satisfied with Rhys and Mor being civil. I don't know if you take requests, but I want to see them apologise. Know that they were assholes, understand how they hurt Nesta, and really genuinely apologise.

Mm, in general I do take requests, but what is this in reference to?

#asks #anon

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ladynestaarcheron · 1 year

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Hi! First of all, I am a big fan of your work, your writing is amazing! Secondly, when can we expect the next chapter of who by water? I don’t mean to rush you, just curious. Thank you for the incredible content you create 🥰

Thank you so much!!! I hope you enjoy the chapter!!!

#asks #anon #compliments #(hope you enjoy because i am answering this after updating hahaha)

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ladynestaarcheron · 1 year

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I can't remember if you already mentioned this, but is The Deal on permanent hiatus? I love what you have so far, just curious if it was something you were interested in continuing.

Hi! Did not mention. Nope, I will be getting back to it! I love that one, and I have the rest planned out. I just haven't been writing fic lately, busy with school and work and (very shockingly!!!!!) some semblance of a social life haha! But I will definitely return to that one.

#asks #anon

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ladynestaarcheron · 1 year

Text

Who by Water - Part Two

masterpost - ao3

everybody say thank you @that-golden-lyre for softly bullying me till i finished this.

---

Since the first time she died, Nesta’s done some reading up on hell, and death in general. Over the centuries, for humanity, words had lingered where faith had not, and she had heard of what supposedly lies below her feet and what is suspended above the clouds, but not much beyond. In her research, she has learned of purgatory, or limbo: a spot where nothing happens, where people wait. This is where Nesta finds herself after she dies on the beach.

Or so she thinks, before she realizes it’s just a white room.

Feyre’s been decorating her new home, she knows, but she probably hasn’t gotten around to this one yet. The finished ones all bare some of her paintings upon the walls, and this one doesn’t even have curtains yet.

She kicks the blankets away. No ties bind her, but gauze is wrapped around her legs, and--she touches her midriff through her nightdress--her abdomen. You broke my ribs, she remembers saying.

They had found her. It comes back to her now; it always takes a while after she...wakes up.

She had fallen off the cliff--fallen, yes?--and then...to that state.

Waking up is always painful. Her body doesn’t heal while she is dead; only after she returns. The revival feels much like whatever caused her to go in the first place, and adds a pounding headache to boot. Nesta rubs her temples, trying to ease the pain. She spots a mug of tea, lightly steaming on a night stand, as she moves her neck from side to side.

Verbena. Elain’s doing probably, she knows Nesta likes it. Ugh. They had not been there, her sisters, on the beach. After she had vomited up water and collapsed back, she had seen him first. Cassian. Her head, she recalls, was cradled in his lap, his hands upon her face. Amren was there. And Rhysand, Morrigan, and Azriel. Her own personal hell.

Of course, Nesta has died enough times by now to know she wasn’t truly in an afterlife. That was reality, and knowing those incessant gossip mongers, it’ll now be her only one. They’ll have told her sisters, and now she’ll be forced to talk about it at length. It’ll be everybody’s business.

Or worse, everybody’s problem. What will Rhysand and Amren do when they learn of the magic that’s inserted itself into her bones, that won’t leave?

Control it. She doesn’t need a moment to debate. Either by harnessing it themselves, taking it out of her body...or controlling her.

Nesta shudders. She doesn't think Amren or Rhysand will harm her--though she certainly can’t assume they don’t want to--but when it comes to magic, there’s no way she’s escaping unscathed.

She’ll have to think of something to ensure they all stay away from her. But what? She can’t master her magic, so that’s out of the question. They won’t let her isolate herself so easily now...something more drastic needs to happen...

A soft knock jolts Nesta out of her thoughts. The door creaks open, and Elain’s face appears through a sliver before her gaze lands on Nesta’s, then she pushes in.

“Nesta,” she says, voice wobbly. “I’m happy you’re awake. How is your tea?”

Nesta glances down at her mug. “Fine.”

“Would you like me to get you some more?”

“No. Thank you.”

Elain sits on the bed. “You had quite a scary afternoon,” she says, voice pinched. She has been instructed, Nesta guesses, to keep herself level. “A healer’s bandaged you. She’d like to see how you’re doing now.”

“What time is it?”

“A little after nine. In the morning.”

Less than a day since she had died. Not so bad, all things considered. Nesta wonders, if her neck hadn’t snapped as she hit the water, and she had drowned instead, would she still be out? If Cassian hadn’t interrupted her revival by, well, reviving her?

“All right,” Nesta says, realizing Elain is still waiting for an answer. “She can come in.”

Elain leaves for a moment, then brings the healer in. It’s not the usual one, Madja. She introduces herself as Autry.

Elain turns to give Nesta privacy as she slips the nightgown off herself to let Autry see her bandages. Her eyes bore into her sister’s head; half of Velaris has seen her bare by now, what does it matter who else does?

But the healer’s eyes don’t linger in the spots she’s used to. Her quick fingers press alongside her ribs, and she clucks her tongue once as she feels for Nesta’s pulse at her wrist. “I’d like to do some tests, if that’s all right,” she says, motioning for Nesta to cover herself.

“What tests?”

“Blood. To ascertain your levels. We’ll begin there.”

Begin there. Then they might slice open her brain. But what choice does she have?

Elain grips her palm tightly as the healer draws from Nesta’s veins, as though the prodding hurts her, but she doesn’t say anything until Autry leaves. “I’ll draw you a bath now, Nesta.”

“Don’t bother,” Nesta says, sick at the thought of submerging herself. “I’ll do it.” She only remembers to ask when she stands. “Where are we?”

“Velaris,” Elain replies, surprised. “Feyre and Rhys’ house. The new one.”

Nesta raises an eyebrow. This is plain for a royal guest room. Had they stripped it for her?

“Feyre would like to see you, actually,” Elain says. “When you’re feeling better. We just want to know you’re all right, Nesta.”

Nesta pushes herself out of bed, not facing Elain as she walks into the bathroom. “I’m fine,” she says, shutting the door behind her.

There will be questioning, of course. Nesta isn’t fooled by this display of gentleness, restraint. But she’ll take advantage of it as long as she can.

It’s a few hours later when there’s another knock on the bedroom door.

“Nesta?” Feyre calls.

She groans internally. Of course they wouldn’t give her until tomorrow.

“Are you asleep?”

Not even close. “No.”

Feyre opens the door, hair swaying as she peers in. “Oh,” she says, seeing Nesta sitting upright in bed. “How are you feeling? Hungry?”

Never. “No.”

“You only had tea, right? You’ve had...a rough time. You should eat.”

“Fine.”

Feyre frowns at this, probably expecting her to argue more. “The healer says your bloodwork is...weak. You need to take better care of your health, Nesta.”

Would that were true.

“And...I want to talk to you.” Feyre settles on the bed. “We all want to talk to you, Nesta. We’re...worried about you.”

Nesta keeps her face blank.

“I know you’re not really close with anyone right now, but I hope you’ll still believe me when I tell you we just want to help you. Will you please come sit and talk to us?”

“Who is ‘us’?”

“Me,” Feyre says unnecessarily. “And Elain. And Amren and Cassian. And Rhys.”

Nesta only huffs in response, barely amused, and not surprised.

“We really do care about you, Nesta.”

Right. Sure.

Best get this over with.

“Fine,” Nesta says, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

“Not so fast, don’t strain yourself.” Feyre’s eyes widen in alarm, and her voice is higher than normal.

Sliding her feet into slippers, Nesta shrugs off Feyre’s extended arms and pulls a fine white dressing gown around herself. Taking a few moments in front of the vanity to pin up the braid she had made after her pitiful bath, she turns to her sister. “Where are they sitting?”

Feyre leads the way slowly, conscious of Nesta’s hindering injury. Or so she believes.

They reach one of the living rooms, with seats arranged in a circle. Two are free, one on the couch beside Rhysand, and one armchair. Nesta doesn’t wonder which one is meant for her, but she does narrow her eyes at the papers everyone holds in their hands. When Feyre sits down next to Rhysand, he passes one to her.

“All right, Nesta,” Feyre says, clearing her throat. “We...as I told you, we all want to talk to you because we care about you.”

Elain already has unshed tears in her eyes. Cassian is staring at the ground. Amren is staring at her, clenching her folded paper.

“And we’re worried, Nesta. So...we’ve spoken to Autry, your healer--”

What? When did Autry become her healer, and what does she have to do with any of this?

“--and we’ve decided that in order for you to heal properly, first it’s important to give you a reason. To show you how much we care about you.”

What does this have to do with her magic? Nesta doesn’t realize she’s supposed to say anything before Feyre nods encouragingly.

“What does that mean?”

“Well, we’ve all written letters...to you. And we’re going to read them now. Elain, would you...?”

Elain, at Nesta’s immediate left, takes a shaky breath. “Dear Nesta,” she begins before unfolding her paper--letter. “Dear Nesta,” she starts again when she does. “I remember...I remember the very first--the very first time that I ever realized not everyone has an older sister.” A tear drops from her ducked head, hitting the letter, but Elain only clutches it tighter and continues. “I realized that you didn’t have one, and I knew that--that was only because you were strong enough, and I would never be able to function that way.”

Nesta’s jaw nearly drops. She looks around the room, expecting other incredulous looks, or perhaps mocking or amused ones, but Amren is still staring at her, emotionless, Cassian, hands fisted, is glaring at the floor, and Rhysand has dropped his head into the crook of Feyre’s shoulder, rubbing her arm as she covers her face with her palm.

“I have never imagined a world without you before--”

“What?”

Elain inhales sharply, startled with Nesta’s leap upwards, but she pays this no mind.

“What are you talking--what is this!”

Elain looks to Feyre, who wipes her eyes before saying, “We told you, Nesta. We need to tell you how much we care about you...”

“Stop,” she says, pulse quickening. “Stop it. This isn’t--I’m not suicidal. I did not try to kill myself.”

“The hell you’re not,” Cassian mumbles, but if anyone else hears him, no one comments.

“Nesta,” Feyre says, “you’re--”

“And I can prove it,” she blurts out.

Yesterday, she would have said there would be nothing worse than the lot of them finding the truth about her magic. There is, apparently, this. This is unequivocally worse.

She’s not surprised when Rhysand answers her first. “How?” he asks. He suspects.

Nesta breathes deeply before responding. This is her last moment of peace.

“Because it’s happened before.”

She does not know if she expects an outburst, but she is taken aback by the limp silence, defined more by the lack than its own existence.

Amren speaks for the first time. “What’s happened before?” Her flat tone tells Nesta she already knows.

Nesta swallows, fisting her hands in her robe for a moment before defiantly crossing her arms. “Dying,” she says. “And coming back.”

“What are you talking about?” Feyre demands at the same time as Amren asks, “How many times?”

Nesta only answers the latter. “Twenty-three.”

“Twenty-three--”

“It happened by accident,” Nesta interrupts Cassian.

“Bullshit,” he snarls.

Well. At first.

Elain brushes a hand against Nesta’s arm, making her jump. She hadn’t even realized her sister had stood. “Nesta,” she says, voice shaking. “You’re saying you--that you--you tried--”

“It was an accident the first time,” Nesta says aloud. And it was. She was drunk and alone. She tripped and hit her head. She went to bed. She didn’t get up. And then...she did.

She hadn’t realized anything was amiss at first; had figured the throbbing headache was just her hangover. It had taken another accident to realize even among the Fae, she was supremely unnatural. “And the second. And then I could...feel the magic.”

Feyre says, furious, “So you tested it on your own?”

“It wasn’t a test,” she says, haughty. “I could feel it. I knew what would happen.”

“Then why?”

Nesta draws herself up, shoulders back. She puts as much venom into her voice as she can: “Because it’s mine.”

Cassian doesn’t miss a beat. “Bullshit.”

“And what did you learn, girl?”

“It doesn’t matter!” Feyre says. “Nesta...that’s done. You’re done. And quite frankly...you’re moving out of your apartment and into this house with us. We obviously can’t leave you alone.”

“Finally,” Cassian says.

“Feyre,” Rhysand starts, but she cuts in.

“I don’t want to hear it, Rhys. She’s staying.”

“Of course, darling, I know, I only meant--”

“I’m not staying here.”

“We can move into the townhouse together,” Elain says, desperately. “It’ll be quiet. Just the two of us. We’ll have a lovely time.”

“That’s unnecessary,” Nesta says, not willing to accept defeat. She doesn’t need Elain stifling her, following her every move. Besides, this still isn’t how it’s supposed to go. This isn’t about her personal well-being, it’s about--

“So you control death, then. Is that it?”

Nesta meets Amren’s eyes. There it is. It stings, somewhat, coming from her instead of Rhysand, whom she doesn’t care doesn’t care about her, but Amren...no matter. This is better than the alternative.

“I don’t know,” she answers. “I only know that I keep coming back.”

“How have you tried it?”

“Amren, enough!”

“You’re not expirementing with this!”

“I haven’t burned,” Nesta says. “I haven’t decapitated. I haven’t drowned...I suppose.”

“So poisons, mostly?”

“I hit my head the first time,” she says. “I think it was a concussion. Then I...choked.”

Humiliating, that one. Choking to death alone in her apartment. Pathetic. Sometimes she wonders if some stupid sense of loneliness is what first drove her to bringing a male home for the first time.

“This is sick,” Cassian says, momentarily frightening her into thinking he can read her thoughts. “How can you be considering this?”

“No one’s considering anything,” Feyre says forcefully.

“Feyre--”

“No, Rhys.”

“We can’t just ignore what we have before us beacuse you want to handle your sister with child’s gloves,” Amren snaps. “This is power the other Courts--the other countries--will kill to have.

“You can’t leave this house,” Amren continues, nodding at Nesta.

“What?” That’s not how this was supposed to happen.

“We can’t risk someone finding out and then selling you off. Come on, Rhys, you know I’m right. I didn’t say we have to lock her up, just keep her safe. Until we figure out what to do with her.”

“We’re not doing anything with her, Amren,” Cassian says. “She’s a person.”

“Who belongs to this Court.”

“You’re supposed to be her friend. You said you were concerned about her!”

“Should we let her magic ran rampage? Should we let her continue to explore it on her own?”

“She’s not a tool.”

“For the Night Court, you’re all tools.” Amren looks to Feyre and Rhysand pointedly. “You two should know that.”

“Enough of this,” Feyre says, sudden and angry. Nesta’s heart sinks--Rhysand didn’t suggest it because he didn’t want to be the one to upset her sister, and he knew Amren would demand it anyway. To study her, to use her. Now he has everyone where he wants them. A scream coils inside her, and then, as usual, fades into nothing.

“Nesta...you can stay here with us or in the townhouse with Elain. Or if you both want to stay in that horrible apartment...fine. But you have to stay with one of us, Nesta. And Amren, enough.”

“How long are you going to let this go on, Rhys?” she asks.

“I’m not going to force anyone into your hands, Amren,” Rhys says, shrugging. Liar. “If you want to explore Nesta’s magic with her, you’ll have to convince her yourself.”

Is that supposed to be a threat?

“No,” Feyre says firmly. “Don’t even--just, let’s go. Nesta, Elain, we’re going to get you set up in the townhouse.”

And so it begins. The shepherding, the chaperoning, the surveillance. But as Nesta catches an exchanged glance between Amren and Rhysand, and feels Cassian’s gaze upon her back all the way up the stairs, and following her on the way to the townhouse, she knows it isn’t the end.

#nesta archeron #acotar fic #nessian #acosf au

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