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popjunkie42 · 2 hours

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In Between The Lines

A/N: Happy @nestaarcheronweek ! This was originally intended for Metamorphosis but I’ll settle for cramming it in as a last minute contribution for Day 7 instead!

Summary: In her desperation to contact every friend and relative for help, a young Nesta stumbles onto a written connection with the most dangerous being of them all - a fae. She just doesn’t know that he needed the contact just as much as she did.

Rating: T, WC 3.3k

Read on AO3

With trembling hands, Nesta hands over what are now precious few coins over to the lady at the counter, thanking her before turning away. The ground crunching beneath her feet is a visceral thing. Every snap of a twig and crinkle of a dried leaf echoes in her ears.

Even coins to send out letters seem like a waste of precious resources. A cruel reminder of what they used to have in abundance being lost to them, having long sunk deep into the depths of the sea. Father had mentioned the funds they would get from selling the manor could tie them over for a good while but there is a despair and hopelessness in his dead brown eyes that boils Nesta’s insides.

It is as if he has given up.

Never mind he has three young daughters to feed and clothe, to ensure they wed well into good families. That look in his eyes was like looking at a dead fish, a reminder of a man who had all the riches on the island and still did nothing as his wife withered away. Nesta fumes just at the thought, the additional spurt of energy drives her home with hasty steps.

Nesta walks into the study where she has spent the last few weeks writing letters to every friend and relative - each one more desperate than the last. Only to receive nothing. The silence is louder than any crunch from the ground of impending winter or the trilling of birds surrounding a home that is no longer theirs.

The ink of the notepad glistens from where she had left it half written - another wretched letter she had all but signed off when the desolate realisation struck her: she has run out of contacts to write to.

She picks up the pad, a frown creases between her brows when notices fresh words forming just below where her letter stopped.

Who are you? How did you find me?

She drops the devil-willed pad, as if stung by hot iron.

No. Not the devil. Her fingers shake where she still has them stretched outwards.

Faerie.

***

For the first time in over forty years, Cassian feels something that is not fury and frustration, not the bottomless well of shame that he tries desperately every day not to lose himself in. Because for the first time after being trapped in Velaris, something from the outside seemed to have breached the enchantments hiding the Court of Dreams.

The content of the letter itself is nothing threatening. Just a letter pleading for financial assistance using words too beautiful for a bastard like him. Yet, oddly enough, there is no name or address.

The general in him hisses urgently, demanding him to plug the gap immediately. He pushes it aside in favour of the tight tug in his chest and the sight of elegantly curved scripture. The tug that pulls and pulls until the muscle beneath is sore and tender.

He tears his gaze away from the notepad and absently rubs soothing circles over his chest. Hazel eyes sharpen at the pen lying on the table a couple of inches away and he swipes it off the surface. He lowers the inky tip to the paper and watches blankly as the ink swells beneath the words and then vanishes.

With brows raised high, Cassian throws caution to the wind and scribbles away.

Who are you? How did you find me?

He drops the pen, fingers tapping incessantly against the pad, his leg joins in the restless motion soon after.

Minutes tick by.

Cassian continues to wait - knowing and needing the reply that is to come. He tosses the small knife up in the air. It flies past the height of his chest, his forehead, his wings, and back down into the waiting grip of seasoned fingers. Again and again, even as the room darkens around him.

Again and again until glimmering ink materialises, blessing the paper with its scrawl, beautiful but uncertain. Cassian leans forward, nearly toppling the chair over in its speed. Next to him, the tip of the blade embeds itself into the wooden surface of the table.

Can you help me?

He smiles widely as he pens down a reply, WHO are you?

Don’t play with me. His mysterious correspondent writes, angry in the crossing of their t, impatient in the jab of their period stop. Can you send us the gold or not?

He can’t, of course. Not while his city is still locked away. But they don’t need to know that yet.

What would you give me for it?

Dots of ink litter the space just below his question. As if they can’t quite decide how to respond. He lowers the pen to paper once more and offers, My name is Cassian. And you?

He frowns as the black ink forms more words, shaky yet stubborn. Are you here to help me or not?

A name, sweetheart. He taunts.

He can almost hear the huff in the response. You can call me Nina.

Is that your real name?

No. He barks out a laugh.

Touché.

Can you help me, Cassian?

A spark blazes a trail down his spine as he takes in his name written by his mysterious partner. He so desperately needs to see it again.

I want to. He tries to explain because he thinks it might actually kill him to have to lie to her. But there is a powerful ward that keeps my city hidden. I can’t contact anyone outside.

Without even realising it, he finds himself without air. Maybe in worry that she wouldn’t respond or in response to the ache in his chest. But finally, he releases it with the appearance of charcoal ink.

Then what do you call this? Comes the answer, direct yet petulant.

I don’t know. I thought that it might have been you.

Another scoff, he can almost hear it. Clearly, because he is the fae here, enthralling the young human female. Don’t be ridiculous.

I usually am. But not on this. You are the first person outside of the city that I have contacted in decades.

A long pause.

So you really can’t help me?

Cassian hovers the pen over the paper before, finally, I’m sorry.

He never gets a reply after that.

***

Nesta freezes in her path, sharp steely blue eyes taking in the angry twin pair of eyes. The tension crackles between them.

“What have you done?” She spits, “You were supposed to get food from the market.”

Feyre’s too youthful and slender fingers grip tighter around the body of the slightly battered bow slung over her shoulder. She shoots back sarcastically, “And then what? Starve for the rest of winter?”

She knows that. She did the maths weeks ago. The measly coins they had left would have lasted them no more than one more week. But it still could have been one more week of stale bread and pathetic bland stew, of not starving. Nesta’s jaw clenches, the muscle in her neck feathers in effort not to twist towards the lump of a man carving yet another wooden creature.

Instead, she tilts her chin just a degree north and her lips curl in derision. “And what can a child like you do?”

Her younger sister shakes her head incredulously, her knuckles turning white around the bow. “At least I am doing something.” And without another word, Feyre pulls her back rigid and walks out of the cottage.

Nesta ignores the all too perceptive brown orbs of her other sister, turning away to focus her attention on arranging the sparse possessions they have on the single shelf. Blue grey eyes narrow as they snag on the wide gaps between the stone walls.

A forgotten distant memory. A fevered conversation with a piece of talking paper. She pushes it away.

She draws her trembling hands back towards her chest and down to her sides. Slim fingers close in forces on the folds of the coarse material of her frock.

Useless. She is useless. What is a sharp tongue and perfect waltz in the face of starvation? What is the point of her? She thinks bitterly and turns away from the wall crevice.

The youngest Archeron returns hours later when the chill of the autumn night has begun to creep into their stoned shack, announcing her arrival with a creak of the door. Nesta opens her mouth, ready to shoot a snide remark when Feyre angrily dumps two squirrels on the table. Nesta forces her gaze away from the dead glassy look of the catch and meet-

The haunted abyss that has darkened the edges of vibrant grey blue eyes. The eyes of a girl who had just lost a piece of herself to the cold desolate woods.

The blankness vanishes with the next blink and Nesta clears her throat, snipping with distaste, “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Swallowing a growl, Feyre barely suppresses a look of bewilderment and yanks the squirrels off the table, noisily stalking out of the cottage. Only the sheer weight and ill-maintained hinges prevent the door from slamming. The entire house turns quiet in her absence, even the oscillating of Elain’s gaze is a palpable presence.

Nesta does not see that look in Feyre’s eyes when her sister steps back through the door. Instead, she takes in Feyre’s anger and bitterness and returns them with her own frosted rage.

Hours later, when sleep has eluded her for far too long, Nesta slips out of the body-warmed sheets of their shared bed and into the shivering grasp of the dead of night. Surely, only the Gods know the time now.

She crosses her hands to rub the back of her upper arms, futilely trying to stave off the eruption of goosebumps spreading along her skin. She halts to retrieve a crumbled pad from behind the loose stone.

She should have left this cursed pad in that large manor. Let the wickedness that lives within infect its next occupier, whoever is unlucky enough to buy their house. But when it was time for her to leave, she couldn’t. Her arm resolutely refused to obey its owner’s command and it was all she could do to stuff it beneath a loose rock and pray that it did not try to influence anyone else in her family.

Her fingers trace the yellowed parchment, her brain plays the scene of Feyre stepping out into the snow on repeat. Her youngest sister, taking up the mantle because the man who calls himself their father can’t. His ineptitude, her failure.

The iron bracelet jingles uselessly around her wrist as she raises a pen to summon, Cassian?

No answer. Of course, it’s been months, she scolds herself.

But still, Nesta foolishly stands in the cold. Staring until…

Missed me, sweetheart?

***

Cassian closes the door to his room with a small snick, one hand still ruffling the damp towel over his hair. He tosses it into a bucket in a corner, knowing it would have vanished before it actually hit the bottom. Exhaling a long insufferable breath, he collapses on the soft surface of his bed. His eyes travel to the yellowed pad lined neatly next to his blade.

Nina. Or whatever her true name is, not that it really matters at this point. They have been chatting on and off for a couple of years shrouded in masks and half-truths. Sometimes they go weeks without communicating, once even months.

A part of him still chastises himself for not having brought this to Amren - at what is clearly a breach in their wards. But how can he when he has been dying to crack them open without having the protection fall apart like a house of cards for decades? Spending hours in the library if it meant he could find a hairline fracture to slip through, to be fighting by his High Lord’s, his brother’s side? In its stead, he found a link to an all too young human female who is trapped by the Cauldron just as cruelly.

Someone, who wields sharp words as their sword and wit as their shield. With her, Cassian’s world is suddenly more than just Velaris. With her, he once again breathes the crisp air of the Illyrian mountains.

A careless hand sweeps the bound stack of paper off the table. It hits the firm muscled chest with a slight thud. His brows raise with amusement as he rereads where their conversation ended just a couple of nights ago.

Reading. I miss reading.

He spent minutes staring at the same elegant curvature that he has long ago committed to memory. He breathed it in once more, the enthrallling way she flicks the ends of her g or slopes her R, before rushing down to the depths of the House. He ignored the slight scowls of the priestesses as his wings rustled noisily past the quiet caverns of the library. It took him a couple more precious ticking minutes before he picked out a book.

With a tickling in his chest and a blooming smile on his face, he picked up a stray pen and began to write.

Cassandra’s head whirled around to take in her surroundings - the snowy mountains flanking the small town, the comforting smell of freshly baked bread, the chatters of life and energy swirling around her-

Her heart stuttered.

The male tilted himself away, facing the horse sputtering in delight as he ran a brush along silky soft fur.

Are you writing me a romance??? Disbelief playfully interrupted him.

He corrected her because he sure ain’t hell will never get away from pretending to be able to write it himself, I am copying you a romance.

A pause.

Why?

Because you said you missed it.

The lack of reply spoke louder than any words would. It compelled Cassian to put pen to paper once more and continued copying.

The sight of the long sections of fiction brings a lingering smile at the edge of his mouth, a warm flutter in his chest. Nina, being the infuriating female that she is, snipes impossible notes at the sidebars, distracting him repeatedly.

Cassian curves his abdomen in to sit up, one arm already outstretched to reach for the novel. In the next moment, he starts to write.

***

The fire crackles as the decadent scent of a hot meal wafts over the cottage. There is a lightness that traverses the house that is completely foreign to Nesta: Elain humming a melody just under her breath, lithe hands a motion in arranging a vase of beautiful flowers. Their father moves with a spring in his steps as he hovers back and forth a ledger of carefully notated accounts.

Just for a moment, Nesta lets herself pretend - immerse herself in the same reality her father and sister live in. They’re not poor any longer. Hot piping meals are readily available. The desperate kernel of hope they have held on to in the past few years has prevailed.

And she opens her eyes to zone in on the piece of broken wood left by an enraged beast of terrifying size, and the elder Archeron sister remembers.

There is no Aunt Ripleigh, there is no mysterious gold recovered from lost seas. There is no good fortune.

This is only a monster honouring some ridiculous treaty from generations past. There is no forgetting that the price of comfort is their youngest sister.

The wrongness of it leaves a bitter taste in Nesta’s mouth.

Silently, Nesta draws the paltry number of coins from her pockets. Coins Feyre had managed to barter from that female mercenary for the Wolf’s pelt, a different type of blood money. Her mind begins to run the arithmetic and forms a plan.

Perhaps if instead of a pair of new boots that doesn’t pinch, she could have enough. The weight of her plan begins to ground her, reduces the level of bitterness of every fibre of her body screaming at her that this is wrong.

The crackling logs of the fire snaps, ensnaring her attention. The gaze of razor edged silver blue eyes shifts to the fire. Behind it, the loose rock some distance sharpens into focus.

That night, Nesta leaves the comfort of her warm bed once more, digging out the thick wad of paper. She skips through pages of an indulgent fae romance, right to the end of their last correspondence some weeks back.

The Faes are unscrupulous folks. They trick and they take. This one is different only because he can’t. He is trapped just as much as she is.

But still, he is fae.

How do I get past the wall?

She has almost dozed off when glistening ink spurs her back to alertness.

The wall? Into Prythian?

Nesta clicks her tongue in distaste at the obviousness of the question when he adds another word after his last message.

Whatever the reason - you shouldn’t.

The side of her palm presses hard into the papered surface, her fingertips turned white against the tip of her pen.

It remains at the tip of her tongue as her mind refreshes and reminds her: The deep roar of the beast, Feyre’s steely blue eyes as she steps forward, unwavering in the face of powers leagues beyond her own. It’s my sister. She’s been taken. I need to get her back. She almost spills it all out.

But she doesn’t, not trusting the truth with anyone. Much less another fae.

She asks instead, Why?

There is hesitance in his answer. Things are messy now. It is why my city is locked away. It’s not safe, much less for humans.

The blatant dismissal sets a flame alight. It sputters and hisses at the indignity. But like a steel blade stressed in an impossible heat, it eventually quenches and leaves her with a hardened resolve.

All the more reason for me to try.

She doesn’t ask any more questions. Counting and setting the last of Feyre’s coins aside, Nesta climbs back under the covers with Elain.

She will look for the mercenary tomorrow.

***

The frigid sting of water swallows her whole. It burns and burns and burns. Vapourising all that she was, forging into a being she did not want to become.

Nesta opens her eyes when the darkness and agony fades, a foreign silver fire simmers deep within her. Swirling, waiting.

Light streams through the windows and shines on the elegant furnishing of the room. Outside the clear glass is the panoramic view of a city that is not hers, that she wants no part of. Withholding a long suffering sigh, she gets dressed.

The all-too-sharp fae hearing picks up on familiar grunting which she has long identified as the two winged fae sparring. Something in her chest twists uncomfortably at the memory of the crimson siphon adorned Illyrian.

Like everything else, she pushes it away.

It is only after she finishes braiding her hair, tucking those all too sharp ears behind thick locks that she notices a new book lying on the table. She picks it up with a frown and opens to its marked page.

Cassandra’s breasts grew heavier with every breath. The darkened gaze of Matthias pinned her to the rough wooden planked walls, its coarse surface scrapped uncomfortably against her bare back. The male approached with a predator’s stride, his smirk grew as he bracketed her frame between his large arms.

Nesta scowls as she tears her gaze away from the page. Her heart traitorously stammers at the all too familiar scrawl on the thin slip of paper marking the page.

The library is on the second floor, just down the hallway from the stairwell.

For the first time since she’s spilled out of the cauldron, Nesta smiles.

#nessian #I love this #secret texting gets me every time

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popjunkie42 · 8 hours

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sirens in the beat of your heart (read on AO3)

A humble offering for @nestaarcheronweek 2024! This is for @witch-and-her-witcher who is my fearless beta and takes all my writer whining in stride!

Nesta watched Feyre breathe, watched the tension in her with some queasy feeling. At how quickly tempers still flared between them.

So different from her Valkyrie sisters. They were a unit, complements to each other. Unlike the Archeron sisters, always discordant foils to one another. An ongoing play of hurts and scores and changing allegiances that tore at them all.

The specter that was between them: sleeping but still present, of jealousy. Of hunger. Of two skinny, vicious girls scrabbling for whatever was left on the table. Teaching themselves not to need love from the inhospitable desert that was their family.

Feyre took deep breaths until her muscles relaxed, just a little.

Or: Nesta and Feyre try out a bit of their new relationship post-ACOSF.

Behind the cut or Read on AO3.

It wasn’t the dull, constant thud of knives in wood that drove Nesta to the roof.

The truth was she couldn’t sleep, feeling a restlessness inside of her that had her lacing up her boots and leaving Cassian alone, sprawled out on their oversized bed.

The House of Wind was silent at night, except for the wind that sometimes howled outside, the cold stone air smelling crisp and mingling with the ash of dead fires from the evening. Nesta moved quietly, reluctant to break the stillness, heading towards the roof for a breath of fresh air.

At the first noise she had tensed, reaching for a knife that wasn’t at her side, but quickly relaxed when she saw the familiar lazy braid of her sister.

The night sky hung over the training ring like a dome, the jeweled stars of the Night Court sparkling overhead. It was a cold night, for spring, and a chill wind whipped across the stone, masking her footsteps.

Feyre was in leathers that looked a size too tight, thrown on hastily. Her youngest sister was never one to shy away from the casual or practical but tonight she looked…disheveled. Light hairs were whipping out of her braid, a halo of fine, frizzy hair framing her forehead and temples. Her boots were thrown on without being laced. She stumbled in them as she leaned forward for a throw.

There was also the fact that she was flinging knives, alone, at almost three in the morning. At someone else’s house.

Only one knife was lodged in the painted wood target, others littered around it. As Feyre released another blade, the wind kicked up and blew the dagger wide.

“Shit,” she muttered into the night.

“Your stance is crooked,” Nesta observed, walking up behind her before she could grab another blade.

Her sister gasped a little and whirled around, revealing a blotchy red face, blue eyes puffy with tears.

“Nesta,” she said, sounding guilty. Feyre quickly wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Did I wake you up? I’m sorry. I just — I didn’t want to wake anyone at home and I thought it would be quieter —”

“You didn’t wake me. What’s wrong?” Nesta’s mind ran through the options — she wouldn’t be here if something happened to Nyx, and to be alone— “What did he do?” she asked, ready to draw blood.

Feyre laughed in exasperation, sniffling. “Rhys didn’t do anything. I’m fine.”

She turned away, and another knife flew through the air, silent and fast, missing the target by an inch and clattering on the ground amidst a dozen other failed attempts.

“You need to loosen your shoulders.”

“Thanks.” Her voice was clipped, her back stiff. Nesta wondered if she had been hoping for Cassian to be the one to find her. “Do you want me to leave? You can use the ring or whatever you came to do.”

Another knife thudded against the wood, hitting the target but failing to find purchase. Feyre avoided Nesta’s eyes. She swallowed, sorting through the maze of Feyre’s emotions.

If her little sister thought she could hide her avoidance, or if Nesta wouldn’t rise to uncomfortable confrontation, she was sorely mistaken.

“Feyre,” Nesta demanded. That unsettled feeling was only growing, as Feyre’s magic seemed to crackle and hum in front of her. Like her emotions were a storm about to spill out of her body. Nesta hadn’t woken up tonight prepared to deal with this emotional powderkeg.

The way Feyre’s eyes grew cold, like she retreated in on herself, and the stubborn jut of her chin made her look so young. This was the Feyre she was used to tearing apart over a worn dining table — raw with anger and a little self righteousness, fear and cruelty simmering just underneath.

Someone she hadn’t seen in a while, under Feyre the Cursebreaker, under the High Lady.

“I was just stressed, all right? I couldn’t sleep.”

“So you came here to lose all our knives?”

Feyre went stiff.

Her own wisps of wind cast out and gathered the knives, scraping over the stone and into a gently swirling cloud she brought back to the small table beside her. “Maybe I just wanted to throw things. Maybe I don’t care if they hit or not.”

Nesta didn’t know what to say. So she grabbed a knife and stepped up to her sister.

“We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.” Maybe she could call Cassian. Her stomach sank a bit at the thought, the guilt. Maybe Cassian would be better at this, maybe he wouldn’t fumble and stomp his way through Feyre’s mess of emotions.

Thunk. The tip of Nesta’s knife buried into a bullseye.

Feyre huffed.

This time when her sister stood she anchored her back foot, setting the other in front, bouncing her wrist to feel the weight in her hand.

She pulled back her arm, stepped forward and they both watched as the knife went short, skidding loudly across the stone.

“Your stance is too tight. You need to loosen up your back a little, let your arm go.”

Feyre grunted, her lip curling up in a little angry sneer.

“Hey. Look at me.”

The eyes that met hers were like a beast in the forest.

There was her feral little sister. For a while now she had been the cool High Lady, the head of her house, the responsible sister. To see her old anger flare up again startled Nesta.

They were both far too powerful now to let it get the better of them.

“Take a deep breath. Just like me. And hold. Ready?” Nesta exaggerated the swell of her lungs, the lift of her shoulders. Cold night air filled her chest and she felt her feet ground into the stone, like she was an extension of the mountain.

Feyre fought her at first. She had to close her eyes to take in the deep breaths and let go.

“Let your thoughts come to you, whatever’s on your mind. Just let them fill you and then pass through. Keep breathing.”

Nesta watched Feyre breathe, watched the tension in her with some queasy feeling. At how quickly tempers still flared between them.

Feyre took deep breaths until her muscles relaxed, just a little.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to help,” she finally said.

Nesta’s voice was as cold as ice. “I think maybe we spent so long fighting over scraps, and now it’s hard to remember —”

“That there’s enough?”

Nesta nodded.

It was hard to put into words. She was still getting used to the endless affection that poured from her mate, how she could ask for things and be given them without a thought, without a cost.

Even though a new peace lay between her and Feyre, the old scars were human, and wouldn’t heal so easily.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

Feyre sighed again, her eyes focusing on the shining knives in front of her.

“Nyx finally went down and I was trying to fall asleep, but I remembered this fae a few weeks ago who came to petition — she and her family needed help with their farmland since their father died unexpectedly. And I told them we would send assistance — and then I just — forgot.” She swallowed thickly.

“I got up and was at my office trying to find the notes, and Rhys tried to send me back to bed, like he isn’t up working late into the night most days. Like the weight on me isn’t the same as his,” she played with a knife, pricking her fingertips on the tip of the blade idly.

“Then Nyx started crying, and it was like my whole body seized up. It was weird. It was like…my body didn’t belong to me.” Feyre shook her head, looking pale. “I just thought about that family, waiting every day for help, waking up every morning thinking ‘this will be the day.’ And I just…forgot.”

For a moment, something vicious slithered inside Nesta’s gut: a preening, satisfied feeling. At perfect Feyre, finally stumbling for once.

No. Nesta breathed through the thought, watching her sister’s tight face. Checked frantically that her shields were up.

That was an old way of thinking. When she thought they were competing. Let the thought pass through you. Feel it and let it go.

Nesta shifted on her feet. This was her terrain, her familiar training grounds. How would Feyre fit in this space?

She tried to shift the way she saw her sister. How would Cassian, or Azriel, size up a new recruit? What would Nesta feel towards her if she was a new priestess, walking nervously through that door?

How had she felt when she saw Gwyn pass that threshold for the first time, scared and seeking strength? Why was her sister any different?

“I might not be able to give any High Lady advice. But why don’t you pick up a sword? Let your body work it out.”

Feyre shook her head, her arms wrapping around her stomach. “I haven’t trained in months. And — I feel different. My body feels different. Even with everything healed I just feel…changed.”

“We can start at the beginning. I won’t go too hard on you.” Nesta cocked her head, unsure of what to make of the writhing mass of Feyre’s emotions.

“I don’t want this. I don’t want to —” Feyre paused, looking away, unable to meet Nesta’s eyes. “I don’t want some competition to see who’s the better fighter. You can be the warrior now. I don’t want it. Maybe I never did.”

Nesta swallowed. Thought about the emptiness that came when she first spilled blood –

She let the thought pass through. Focused back on Feyre, circling her slowly, watching the way she was tracked with her sister’s eyes, how her body turned instinctively to keep Nesta in her sights.

Not a fighter, she said.

This one needed an anchor. A goal. Something outside of her own panic to hold to, to pull herself up.

“Koschei is coming.”

Her words were casual. As if he were arriving tomorrow for tea.

Feyre’s face hardened. “Yes.”

“And are you ready to face him? Ready to protect your family?”

“Nesta…”

“Are you?”

Silver lined Feyre’s eyes. Nesta felt her heart crack. But she stayed still.

“No.” It was a whisper in the wind.

She watched as Feyre worked through it, the seizing fear, the desperation, the stubborn Archeron resolve to face it.

Mother knew there was nothing Nesta wanted more than her life here, small but full, with Cassian in her bed and next to her in the training ring, with her friends nearby and her work. Growing every day, luxuriating in love and happiness and sore muscles like it was a warm bath.

But Rhysand had shared Cassian’s memories with them all, of a frozen lake, of a chill wind that promised death and malice. Of even Cassian’s quaking fear.

“Then we’ll get there. I’ll help you. If you want. Or Cass can or — whoever you want.”

Nesta tried not to feel the worry of rejection. Every swing of the axe, or pull of the bow in lessons between them before had been fraught with sizzling tempers and cold viciousness.

She thought about Gwyn and Emerie, about Roslin and the other priestesses she worked with, encouraged, cheered for everyday. Thought about those emotions like a cloak and tried to see how it would fit around her sister.

“You would train me?” Feyre asked. Nesta tried not to bristle at her surprise, at whatever part of that offer caught her sister off guard.

“I could show you the Valkyrie techniques that will work with your Illyrian training. Sometimes these days, I’m the one teaching Cassian things.”

Feyre gave a watery grin. “I’m glad. Someone needs to check that Illyrian arrogance.”

“Maybe that’s why we’re mates. The Mother knew they all needed to be put in their place.”

A blade turned slowly in her sister’s hand. “You’re the Oristian.” A small, wistful smile came over her face. “I wish I could’ve been there when Devlon and the camp lords found out.”

Nesta’s smile was cold. “They don’t know what they’ve unleashed.”

“I’m proud of you,” Feyre said, her voice a choked whisper, Nesta's eyes going wide. “Not that — I know you don’t need —”

“Feyre.” At her tone, her sister stopped babbling. “That’s —” Nesta took a deep breath, letting all the discomfort and swaying emotions from her sister settle and pass through. Whatever anger or resentment she might have from before had washed away when she smelled the blood in that birthing room, when she had to beg for her baby sister’s life from the Mother herself. “Thank you. It was really hard, for a long time. But I’m happy. I’m happy here.”

Her sister’s chin wobbled and her face crumpled just before she buried it in her hands.

Breathe. In and out.

Nesta thought about her Valkyrie sisters. How sharing their heavy stories had made them feel lighter. How they looked into each other’s souls and didn’t turn away.

“Feyre. It’s ok.” Nesta rested her hand on Feyre’s arm, feeling her body shake with sobs under her palm.

At her touch, Feyre fell forward, burying her face in Nesta’s shoulder, covering her leathers with tears.

Nesta stiffened, unused to her sister’s touch.

Hating how she felt like her mother.

How would she want her mother to hold her? How would they all hold Nyx from this day forward —-- without reservation?

You can do this.

She could do it —-- accept love, and give it too. It would be hard but —-- she reached out her hand, pulling Feyre closer, rubbing her back gently, breathing through her discomfort and trying to bring down those walls.

When Feyre had tired herself, she stepped back, looking somewhat ridiculous with a swollen nose but with a new lightness in her eyes.

“I thought — I worried — you and Elain might never be happy here.” Nesta thought of her library and her friends there, of Cassian’s scent, and his stupidly handsome face. Happy.

The moment sat quietly between them, Feyre’s fears and the miles they’d traveled unraveling.

“I’m sorry I’m falling apart,” her brow furrowed in frustration. “I had Nyx and everything makes me cry now. Yesterday I stepped on a worm in Elain’s garden and Rhys raced home from the Governor’s council because he thought I was dying.”

Nesta’s lip curled. “I think Nyx has the power to turn all of us soft.”

“Do you ever look at him, and —” Feyre stopped short, like the words died in her mouth.

“What?”

“Sometimes I look at Nyx, and I think…I hate them. Mother. And…father. Sometimes.”

Nesta stayed still. Like the admonition would have her sister bolting at any wrong move. “I think I know what you mean.”

Feyre nodded. “I love him so much. And how could they have seen us so young and still do what they did? How could they have let themselves look away? It seems impossible. And then I worry: what if there’s some secret terrible thing that will happen that will make me feel the same way someday?”

“You will be a thousand times a better mother than our parents ever were to us. There’s no way you could ever be like them, Feyre. It’s impossible.”

“But —”

“Feyre. You’re a good mother already.” Feyre’s chin wobbled again. “And if you do slip up, I’m sure your sisters will let you know about it.”

Feyre took a deep breath, in and out through her nose. “You promise?”

“Try and stop us.”

A smile was on her sister’s face.

Nesta grabbed a throwing knife, the metal warming in her hand.

“Ok, do ten shoulder rolls, then we’re working on your stance.”

The yellow-pink fingers of dawn were pulling at the horizon by the time Feyre’s boots were tied, her muscles stretched. It wasn’t enough to warm them, yet, but the light shone on something brighter in Feyre’s face. Nesta reveled in the new feeling of being the cause of it.

She turned to her new recruit.

“Are you ready?”

#nesta archeron #nestaweek2024 #feyre Archeron #Archeron sisters #acotar #ACOSF #acotar fanfic

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