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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 1 year ago

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Begged & Borrowed Time (ao3, xxxi)

(Chapter thirty-one: After a week spent healing, Cassian is still trying to navigate the mating bond whilst struggling to keep his feelings in check.) (Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

As the early morning sun bathed Velaris in gold, Cassian stood in the centre of the House training ring and watched blood drip from his battered knuckles.

When he’d entered the ring an hour ago, he hadn’t bothered to wrap his hands.

And now, he was paying for it. His skin was torn, and each pass of the breeze against his damaged hands was like salt poured into an open wound, forcing a muted hiss to pass between his teeth as his blood pooled in the hollows between his fingers.

It might have helped, once— the training, the way he skipped through a sequence of moves with nothing but a training dummy as an opponent, his muscles burning with exertion after so long spent idle. But today, the knot of apprehension in his gut stayed, like no amount of physical strain could lessen the weight he carried in his chest.

A week had passed since that day in the library.

Every day since had been the damned same; the sun broke over the mountains only to leave Nesta sitting silent and solemn by Elain’s bedside, all but wringing her hands as Cassian looked on, drifting towards her like he was pulled by something magnetic, keeping his face carefully blank as Elain spent only sporadic moments awake. And when she was lucid enough to speak…

Not yet, she whispered, over and over and over, like something within her had been irrevocably broken when she’d been tossed into that Cauldron. Not yet.

Cassian could have sworn the blood had turned to ice in his veins when he’d first heard it - when he’d knocked on the door to Nesta’s room an hour after she’d all but ran from him in the library, and he’d heard the concern in her voice as she nodded to Elain’s room and asked if he’d ever encountered anything like this before.

He slammed his bleeding fist into the dummy now— sent the frame rattling, precarious.

For Nesta, Cassian had shrugged. He’d seen thousands of soldiers emerge from battle, he’d told her, and no two of them had ever dealt with the horror they’d endured in the same way. Perhaps, he’d said, this was just Elain’s way of coping. Sealing herself off inside her mind and letting her dreams take over.

For Nesta, he’d forced the small smile that passed his lips to be comforting and assured, burying every single hint of apprehension even as unease snaked a path through him, something in his bones begging him to back away.

Because no, he’d never seen anything like Elain Archeron lying still in her bed, talking in riddles.

But Nesta had looked so utterly lost that he’d tried to console her anyway, and even though something deep within him shied away from Elain and whatever it was that she had taken from the Cauldron - because not one part of him thought it was natural, that glazed look in her eyes when she spoke - he forced himself to sit in that room anyway, in a chair the House had left out for him, right beside Nesta’s own.

He didn’t know what else to do; where else to be other than by her side.

And every night, when Cassian closed his eyes, all he saw was that look on Nesta’s face— despondent, trying hard to fight the pain, and bowing beneath it as she turned and walked away from him in that library a week ago.

Another punch landed, his blood staining the cotton fabric that made up the dummy’s torso. Above, the sun was bright— blinding, harsh.

It fucking haunted him, whenever he thought of how they’d sat there on that sofa in the library. All the things he’d said about his mother, and she about hers. His father, too.

I don’t think he deserved you anyway.

It had been a moment of such aching vulnerability, when his soul was laid as bare as hers, and in five whole centuries of living, he’d never felt so exposed. He remembered, once, when his armour had been damaged in battle and he’d simply torn the breastplate away, leaving his chest prone to the sharp edge of an enemy blade. Somehow even that didn’t compare to that single conversation in that library. There was no more armour he could don around her now, no more protection he could call on. It had made his heart hurt in a way he’d never known before, and the damn thing only seemed to beat for her now anyway, but…

Cassian had longed to tell her, in that moment, that she might as well have scarred her name right into his chest for all that he belonged to her.

A brutal snarl ripped from his throat as his fist collided, unforgiving, with the dummy once more, and breathing hard he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back one aching hand, already bruised.

He loved her. And she wouldn’t let him say it.

And he wasn’t fool enough to think it wasn’t starting to take a toll, spending every day grounded, stuck up here waiting for his body to convalesce whilst he sought, evermore, to strike the right balance between navigating the bond that suddenly felt so much stronger these days, and keeping the damn thing a secret. It was a dangerous line to walk, and if he thought he’d been protective of her before… Gods, now he spent every moment finding some reason to reach out and touch her. To brush his fingers across her shoulder, to hold her hand, to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. He’d always been one that needed touch after growing up so starved of it, but it was so much more intense with Nesta.

Everything was so much more intense with Nesta, and yet he had to go slowly, to consider every move in a way that he hadn’t needed to before the Cauldron.

But with every day that passed, the anger in him seemed to build and even as his body healed, frustration and desperation made a wasteland of the heart inside his chest every time he looked into her face and saw those eyes, distant.

And today… Today was a bad day.

Today felt like breaking point.

The blood smeared across his knuckles was proof of it.

Whatever power it was that Nesta had taken from the Cauldron, they still hadn’t spoken of it.

Cassian had learned to watch the silver in her eyes. To notice when it flared. He didn’t think it was a coincidence that it was only when those eyes were more silver than blue that she’d pull away from him, or that only when her hands grew unnaturally cold did she not want him to touch her.

There’s something… up with her, Cass.

Rhys’ words from when Cassian had first awoken were never far from Cassian’s mind these days.

Even the fucking House seemed to be aware of it— responding to her. Twice now Cassian had noticed the House give something when Nesta hadn’t asked for it, and it was odd, he thought, because the House had always been so infuriatingly literal with commands in the past, and yet… only the other day, it had started a fire without instruction when Nesta shivered. Had brought her tea when she seemed to need it.

He’d brushed it off, chalked it up to something strange he didn’t have the capacity to deal with right now, but…

Odd.

With a heavy sigh, Cassian dropped his fists from the training dummy. He shook the tension from his shoulders and stretched his wings until it hurt, feeling the sun’s heat sinking through the sensitive membrane like a balm, a soothing press against injuries that were only almost healed. He tipped his head back and let the same light wash across his face, closing his eyes and stretching his wings as far as they would go.

He could almost get them to full extension.

Another day or so and he’d be able to start flying again, and as he looked down over the city, he felt his blood thrumming in his veins, simmering with a week’s worth of restlessness. It was hard to shake, that unsteady feeling he got when he’d been grounded for too long. Illyrians weren’t born to be confined, or to keep their feet on solid ground for too long. Cabin fever set in quickly when those that had once tasted the skies had flight robbed from them— it was why Rhys had brought him to the House of Wind to heal, Cassian supposed. Being up so high and being able to taste the wind alleviated some of the frustration, but still. There was too many things Cassian needed to do, and combined with the absolute mess of a situation they were currently in…. Was it any wonder his head was too loud?

He rotated his wrists, loosening the stiffness that had gathered as he’d punched the dummy until his skin split. The wind brushed his cheeks, cooling the heat, and as he looked to the horizon he heard the call of the gulls over the docks, carried to him on the breeze. It still wasn’t enough to calm the tides inside him.

Turning his face, he looked to the smooth rock walls of the House, clay-red against the bright blue sky, and when a shadow darkened the archway that lead inside, for a foolish moment Cassian thought Nesta had come to find him.

For a foolish moment, his heart skipped.

Foolish, because it wasn’t Nesta leaning in the rounded doorway.

Azriel’s shadows pooled at his feet, like they were loath to slink into the sunlight, and dressed head-to-toe in his habitual black, he might as well have been a void where the light went to die, absorbing the sunlight entirely as he folded his arms and observed the training ring from a distance.

No long stretch of healing had been required for Azriel. The spymaster had woken from the sleep the healers had put him under and been strong enough to walk about a day later, the poison entirely gone from his system. That had been four days ago, and now Azriel’s gait was smooth and even as he stepped outside, his face blank and impassive as the shadows that had hung in the shadows skirted the edge of the House roof, seeking shade. Only when Azriel was a pace or two away from the painted lines that marked the edges of ring did he speak.

“I spoke to Rhys,” he said, straight to the point, with about as much of a hello as Cassian figured he’d get. “He’s asked me to fly to Cretea tomorrow to see if we can find Miryam and Drakon.”

Cassian scowled at the dummy, fingers flexing as the urge to punch it again gathered like wildfire in his hands. “Let me guess— he wants to ask if their forces could supplement our own.”

Az nodded.

“And he still hasn’t heard anything? About Hybern?”

Grimly, Azriel shook his head.

Rhys had been monitoring the situation on the continent, trying to figure out the king’s next move, but even though Az’s shadows hadn’t been able to infiltrate Hybern again, the High Lord was already on the defensive, scouting out forces that Cassian might be able to direct in battle. The siphon on the back of his hand glimmered at the thought of the conflict, the promise of warfare, and like Rhys, already Cassian was preparing for the fight ahead. Violence pulsed beneath his skin, searching for an outlet, looking for blood to spill.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t longing for a fight.

And for Nesta… oh, for Nesta he’d take his retribution. Would claw it free.

The King of Hybern would die at his hand.

Brutal and bloody and slow— he’d never exactly been one for regicide, but this was a death he’d savour. For what he’d done to Nesta, Cassian was going to tear the skin from the bastard’s bones, and he was going to relish every moment of it.

Sapphire siphons flickered, like the warrior in Azriel could sense the rage in Cassian’s chest plumbing new, wholly-murderous, depths.

“You alright?” the spymaster asked, his eyes shrewd. He glanced at the blood smeared across Cassian’s knuckles as his shadows skirted the General’s boots.

Cassian laughed, bitter. “No.”

Az swiped a roll of cotton off the trestle table by the marked edge of the ring, stepping forward, crossing that line, and holding it out for Cassian to wrap his hands. Cassian only shook his head and turned away.

He needed to feel the pain.

“You know that it’s not your fault, Cass,” Azriel said slowly, dropping the hand that held the roll of cotton.

Cassian didn’t bother to wonder at the way Az had cut right to the heart of what was bothering him. He’d always had an uncanny ability to sense exactly what was wrong, and when he glanced at Cassian’s bloodied fist again, it was like he knew without Cassian needing to say it that the blood he spilled today was spent in the hope that it might wash his hands clean of the blood Hybern had spilled at the Archeron manor that night.

Cassian’s face darkened as he turned to his brother, his back to the sun. “Yes it is,” he countered. “Of course it is.”

“Then it’s as much my fault as yours,” Az insisted. “I was the one who told you everything was fine, and I was the one who only sent a shadow to Nesta’s house, not Elain’s. I was the one who didn’t fucking know Nesta was staying with her sister.”

“She’s my mate,” Cassian shot back, reducing his voice to a low hiss as he shook his head, sharp. “I promised to protect her. To protect them both. I’m the one that broke that vow, not you.”

Another tortured laugh left him. It didn’t matter that Nesta had all but said she didn’t blame him. Didn’t matter that he’d already had some version of this conversation before, with Rhys. He’d never been particularly good at letting things go.

“What sort of fucking general does that make me?” he asked darkly, clenching his fists so hard his nails cut into the skin of his palms. “What fucking hope do we have for this war, when we can’t even protect the ones who matter most?”

In the silence Azriel’s face shifted, his eyes burning as he said nothing. He held Cassian’s eye for a long moment, something unspoken passing between them, a kind of understanding only a brother was capable of. And then, still silent, Azriel took off his jacket and began wrapping his hand in the cotton Cassian had forsaken. Cassian only turned back to the dummy, the anger beneath his skin needing an outlet fast, but this time, when he swung his fist, Azriel’s own hand darted out first, catching Cassian’s knuckles in the centre of his palm. The Shadowsinger’s own scarred fingers curled around Cassian’s bleeding fist, his grip tight as he pushed the General back, lowering his chin and widening his stance.

“It won’t happen again,” Azriel swore. “Ever.”

Determination lined Azriel’s frame, his jaw set with stone-cold purpose as he looked, unflinching and unwavering, at his brother. And suddenly Cassian saw it, the violence that lined every inch of Azriel just as it lined every inch of him. Az didn’t like to be bested, and Hybern had bested them thrice, now. The only difference was that whereas Cassian’s anger was palpable and heavy, Azriel’s was cold and slick, sharpened to a lethal point.

And both of them, it seemed, were ready to fight it out.

Az offered him the cotton again, stepping further into the ring. “Wrap your hands,” he said firmly. “I’d rather you not get blood on my shirt.”

Cassian scoffed. “If you’re scared of getting a little bloody, Az, why the fuck are you even here?”

Azriel gave him a sly smirk. “Oh, I won’t be the one getting bloody.”

He shifted, making circles around the inner edge of the ring as Cassian twisted to keep track. His mind quieted entirely, his focus only on sparring now, like Az had known that pummelling the dummy wasn’t enough— had known that this was what Cassian had really needed.

“Wrap your hands,” Az said again, tossing the roll of cotton across the ring.

With one hand, Cassian caught it.

Slowly, he wrapped the material around his battered knuckles, and when he was done, when he brought his fists in line with his eyes, Azriel nodded again, dipping his chin before he looked up at the General and, with a feral grin, said,

“Let’s go, then.”

***

It wasn’t just Cassian’s knuckles that were bruised and bloody when they were done.

Both the General and the Spymaster were breathing hard, a thin sheen of sweat slicking both of their foreheads. As Cassian absently rubbed a hand over a rib that Azriel had landed three good punches to, Az filled two glasses with the water from the carafe the House had delivered to them. Already beneath the Shadowsinger’s jaw, a bruise was beginning to turn purple.

“Better?” he asked as he passed off one glass of chilled water into Cassian’s sore hands.

Cassian drank deeply, hardly pausing long enough to nod in answer. The fight had smoothed the sharpest edges of his temper, and though it still felt like tides were raging inside his chest, it was more bearable than it had been that morning, at least.

Idle, Az leaned a hip against the low trestle table set against the wall.

“Nesta’s hurting now,” he said slowly, keeping his voice low and careful, “but when the dust settles…”

Cassian stiffened. Already he knew exactly what it was that Azriel was about to say, could tell by the way his brother lifted his brows with something like sympathy, his eyes holding nothing but the truth as he tilted his head. But Cassian didn’t want to hear it— never wanted to hear it.

“Cass,” Az continued quietly, “isn’t this all you wanted?”

Cassian slammed his glass down.

“No,” he said flatly, definitively, leaving no room for argument.

Mother bless him, Az backed off without another word, raising his palms in surrender.

“Alright,” he said, but his tone made it clear that he didn’t quite believe him, and Cassian couldn’t even fucking blame him, because suddenly he thought back to Mor, and the tear that had slipped silent down her face at the cabin in Windhaven when she’d told him about the human she’d once loved. The human she’d lost. The grief had been written all over her, and Cassian had felt a sinking in his gut when he looked at her and had to wonder if he was looking at what, exactly, the future held for him.

And all those nights he’d spent fearing a life without Nesta in it... they were meaningless now.

But he couldn’t say it out loud.

Would never say it out loud.

Az cleared his throat, letting his shadows gather at his wrists before finally letting his hands drop. He tilted his head back, took a deep breath as he filled his lungs with the morning air.

“Rhys said he’s coming up for dinner tonight, by the way,” he said, changing the subject in a move that Cassian was grateful for. “Mor and Amren, too.”

Cassian only nodded again, a silent acknowledgement as he straightened the leather half-gauntlet that housed the siphons on the back of one hand.

“Will you ask Nesta to join us?” Az asked.

Cassian lifted his eyes, hesitating as he looked up at his brother from beneath a bunched brow. As if it were that simple— as if it were an invitation Nesta might somehow accept. He was already certain that he knew her answer and knew it would be a resounding no, and it must have shown on his face because Azriel let out a gentle sigh as he pushed off the table.

“Rhys mentioned that Mor wasn’t…” He trailed off, took another weary breath. Around his wrists, his shadows tightened, grew darker.

“Nesta’s number one fan?” Cassian supplied.

Az nodded grimly. “Mm.”

“She needs time,” Cassian said, his voice strained. Tired— he was so fucking tired, and he thought that Azriel must have known, because the Shadowsinger clapped him lightly on the shoulder as he plucked up his jacket, already preparing to leave. With a small smile, Az said,

“Ask her about tonight.” His tone was soft, a source of gentle encouragement. “Even if you know her answer. Ask her anyway.”

***

“I must say,” Amren said dryly, swirling the liquid in her glass as beyond the wide windows of the House dining room, the sun sank behind the mountains, “after everything Feyre told us, I was rather looking forward to finally meeting the eldest Archeron tonight.”

Seated off to her right, Mor flicked her eyes to the ceiling, pausing briefly as she cut into a slice of roasted chicken. “Perhaps you should’ve been the one to take her clothes, then,” she muttered, her elegant fingers tightening around her knife as she tossed her head back.

Across the table, Cassian’s lip curled, a quiet snarl slipping between his teeth as, too late, Mor clamped her lips together. Avoiding his piercing stare, Mor busied herself by plucking up her wine, and even though some kind of guilt flickered briefly across her face, Cassian wasn’t fool enough to expect an apology. As predicted, Nesta had declined the invitation to dinner out of fear of leaving Elain, but as Cassian glanced between Mor and Amren now, he thought it was probably for the best that she’d decided to sit this one out. The words thrown to the wolves seemed to come to mind.

Beside Mor, Rhys rolled his star-flecked eyes.

“How are they? Nesta and Elain?” he asked, leaning back in the very same chair he’d occupied the first night he’d brought Feyre here. A deliberate choice, no doubt, and consciously or unconsciously, none of the rest of them had chosen to sit in the chair Feyre had that night, leaving the space to Rhys’ right conspicuously empty.

Cassian shook his head as he poured himself a generous glass of wine. “Elain is awake, but she’s not exactly present. She speaks in riddles.” The table was silent; Amren’s face was more curious than anything, but Rhys’ eyes were dark with concern. Cassian forced himself to clear his throat, taking a large sip of wine before he continued, knowing that the words he was about to speak were ones he hadn’t yet found the strength to voice in front of Nesta. “I— don’t know how much the Cauldron affected her mind.”

Grim silence answered him.

“And Nesta…”

Where did he even begin?

Nesta was exactly who she had been the first time he’d met her, a maelstrom of rage and fury that she tried so hard to contain and conceal. Every time he looked at her, he saw the pain limning her features, exactly the way it had that day in her father’s estate, when he’d stayed behind as Rhys and Az had brought down the Attor. The woman who had pulled away from him in the library was the one that had been so angry that first night in her father’s dining room, and only when she lowered her guard now did Cassian catch a glimpse of the Nesta that had, until recently, clung to him and let him see the sides of her she kept so deeply hidden.

It killed him to think she’d gone back behind her walls, drawn a line in the sand that he could only occasionally cross.

Rhys scowled. “Nesta is Nesta.”

Cassian set down his wineglass with a growl rumbling deep in his chest. “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

His brother sighed, waving a hand in a gesture so weary it might have given Cassian pause had Rhys said literally anything else. “Come on, Cass. She’s entirely Illyrian in spirit.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Cassian said, his voice low, just a shade shy of combative. Beside him, Azriel’s shadows had skittered up his master’s arms to wreathe his shoulders in darkness, like they could sense the fight brewing beneath Cassian’s skin and had flocked to Az like armour.

But the Shadowsinger himself had stilled, too.

Still staying at the House of Wind, Azriel had been the only other member of Rhys’ Inner Circle besides Cassian to make a fucking effort with the eldest of Feyre’s sisters. Cassian had even entered the private library the other day to find Nesta and Azriel sitting in companionable silence on opposite ends of one of the largest couches, a book held in each of their hands. Neither of them had looked up as Cassian entered, but Az’s shadows had skirted along the edge of the couch, and Cassian hadn’t said a word as he strode past them, knowing that Nesta would have his head if he disturbed her reading. He’d only touched her shoulder lightly as he passed, heading for the other end of the library.

“It could be a bad thing,” Rhys pointed out dryly, dragging Cassian out of his thoughts and doing nothing to calm the temper that was building like a storm within his veins. “We still don’t have any idea what power she came out of that Cauldron with.”

At that, Amren leaned forward in her chair at the head of the table, setting down her glass containing something that didn’t look even the slightest bit like wine. Her sharp eyes glinted, reminding Cassian of the birds of prey that hunted deep in the Illyrian mountains.

“You should find out what exactly she can do with that silver in her eyes. Start training it.”

Cassian whipped his head towards her. With Rhys opposite him and Amren off to his side, he couldn’t help but feel cornered.

The ancient fae only sniffed delicately and dragged a gold-ringed finger around the rim of her glass before adding, “I’ll train her myself, if you don’t want to get too close to whatever it is that she stole from the Cauldron.”

“Mother knows what might happen if she doesn’t train it,” Rhys contributed, his eyes dark and troubled. “She needs to learn how to control it—“

“Or maybe we should just give her the time she needs to figure things out for herself first,” Cassian growled, his words slipping through teeth so tightly gritted it was a wonder he could open his jaw at all. “You’re asking her to run way before she can walk.”

Amren hummed. “She’ll need to run, boy, if Hybern reaches these shores.” Her lips split in a smile that showed her teeth. “Why waste time waiting for her to come to terms with that power, when what we need is for her to bring death and destruction raining down on our enemy?”

“She is not your fucking weapon.”

“Not yet,” Amren shrugged.

Cassian snarled again, the anger a living thing beneath his skin, a second pulse that had his heartbeat starting to quicken.

It had never bothered him before, when Amren spoke about him like he was only as good as the number of punches he could throw, or only as worthy as the number of legions he could lead. But when she turned that same perspective on Nesta…

Rhys was silent.

Cassian wasn’t a fool. He knew exactly why Rhys had sat in that chair tonight. It was a deliberate attempt at remembering another dinner, another time. But Cassian couldn’t sit back and think of better times whilst Amren and his brother spoke of his mate like she was some kind of tool to be utilised.

“Don’t do this,” he said darkly, the fury sinking into his blood, calcifying in his bones until it was solid and silent, but no less potent. His eyes were hard when he looked at his brother, met those violet eyes and refused to look away. “Using her like a weapon— now that’s entirely Illyrian in spirit.”

Rhys’ eyes guttered, the few stars that had shone there swallowed as Amren pursed her lips.

Midnight claws brushed against the defences in Cassian’s mind; a silent plea for entry.

I’m sorry, Rhys murmured when Cassian dropped his shield, saying nothing as his brother’s voice echoed, guilt-ridden, inside his mind. I know I said I’d back off, but with Feyre still in Spring and us still no nearer to knowing what exactly Hybern is planning to do…

Cassian met his brother’s eye across the table.

I know, he answered. I’m just as fucking exhausted with all this as you are. But don’t forget, Rhys, that Feyre might be your mate, but Nesta is mine. I won’t push her to do anything she doesn’t want to. These powers, whatever they are… she’s fucking terrified of them.

Rhys lowered his chin, having the good sense to at least look chastened. The silent conversation hung between them, heavy, but Cassian kept the memory of Nesta all but fleeing that library locked behind his shield, refusing to think of the way she’d looked so broken. Rhys said nothing more, like for once he couldn’t quite find the words, and Cassian had nothing else to say either. There was nothing else left.

And then Azriel - Mother bless him - cleared his throat.

“Well, whatever her power is, the House certainly seems to like Nesta more than any of us, now,” he said lightly.

Rhys frowned, straightening as he severed the mental bridge that connected him to Cassian. “The House isn’t sentient.”

Cassian settled back in his chair. Took a breath. Took several. When he lifted his wine to his lips and drank deep, he forced himself to calm as he looked at his brother and said,

“I don’t know. We might have always thought so, but…”

Az hummed. “Even I’ve noticed it, the past couple of days.”

“Noticed what?” Mor asked, the bracelets at her wrists singing as she linked her fingers beneath her chin, resting her elbows on the table’s polished surface.

“It seems to anticipate what she needs— what she wants,” Azriel answered.

Az had been there, in the private library, when the House had delivered Nesta a fresh cup of tea when the one she already had had gone cold. Cassian had been by the window, looking out longingly over the city, wanting to feel the wind beneath him, when Nesta had looked up in surprise. Azriel had quirked a brow, asked her if she had somehow found a way to communicate with the House silently, but Nesta had simply shrugged and said the House seemed to just… know what she wanted. Az had met Cassian’s eye curiously, and Cassian had frowned as he tilted his head, but ultimately they had both moved on because… well, what explanation did they have?

Rhys’ face turned contemplative. “You’re telling me the House’s magic is changing?”

In tandem, both Cassian and Azriel shrugged.

“It’s possible, I suppose.” Rhys trailed off, tapping a finger against his chin as he mused. “Whatever power she’s been given… It does feel familiar to me, somehow. Perhaps the House has... latched onto her. The High Lord that spelled it so many years ago may have had a similar power to whatever Nesta’s is. Perhaps the House can sense it.”

Cassian shrugged again. Perhaps Rhys was right— perhaps that was all it was, similar magics reacting to one another. But silently he couldn’t help but wonder if the House hadn’t also begun to sense how great Nesta’s power was, and had already begun to yield to her. Or was that just because he’d been yielding to her every day since he’d met her?

Mor flicked her gleaming blonde hair over her shoulder as she waved a hand. “This is entirely too serious a topic for such a nice dinner,” she declared, raising her glass. “Let’s just thank the House for such good wine and leave it at that, sentient or not.”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “It’s still my wine the House brings up from the cellars, you know. How often do you thank me?”

Mor only brushed him off, practically shooing him with a flick of her fingers that had her rings clinking against one another like chimes. “I thank you plenty,” she countered. “You get to enjoy my delightful company, and isn’t that recompense enough?”

Rhys snorted.

Even Amren smirked a little, and with the banter that came so naturally between them lightening the atmosphere, the tension that had, only a moment ago, been a noose around Cassian’s neck loosened. In good-natured disagreement, Rhys rolled his eyes again, nudging Mor with an elbow in the ribs that she dodged so neatly the wine in her glass barely even sloshed. And just like that, the mood shifted.

“Anyway,” the blonde said brightly, steering the topic and leaning forwards until both elbows rested on the table. “How are the wings holding up, Cass?”

She nodded to the wings at his back, the membrane soaking up the warmth from the fireplace behind him. Wordlessly, Cassian stretched them until he could take no more, managing to get them only an inch away from full extension before he grimaced and let them rest again. Mor’s face was contemplative, and though she smiled softly to see how much he had healed already, there was something else in her eyes too— a spark in her eye that Cassian hadn’t seen for a while.

“How long till you can fly normally again?” she asked, her tone one that was casual on the surface, but one that he’d long since learned meant she was up to something.

“Too long,” Cassian grumbled in answer.

“A month at least, I bet,” Mor said, those familiar eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’d stake six gold coins on it.”

She turned her attention to Azriel, a quirk of one perfect brow matching the curve of her lips as she grinned in silent question.

The Shadowsinger hummed, contemplative as he glanced sidelong as his brother. “Three weeks,” he countered, laying a hand on the table. “Ten gold coins.”

Mor snorted, but nodded once before extending a hand for Azriel to shake. Cassian looked on, wry amusement pulling the tension from his bones, and when Az looked at him and muttered, darkly, you’d better be back flying a hundred leagues a day within three weeks, Cassian let out a dry laugh and shook his head.

“Pricks,” he muttered. “I can’t believe you’re betting on this.”

Az shrugged. “You’d do the same.”

And Cassian said nothing, because Azriel was right. He fucking would— had made his fair share of stupid bets on his friends over the centuries. So he couldn’t argue as Mor sank back into her chair with a grin. He only rolled his eyes and raised his middle finger.

Mor laughed, and Azriel’s lips split into a small smirk as, at the head of the table, Amren drank from her cup and rolled her eyes with something like indulgence as Rhys sat back and watched them.

And for a moment Cassian might have been able to convince himself that it was fifty years ago— that they were back up here before the curse had torn them apart, laughing the way they used to, the city at their feet, the stars in the sky gleaming down on them as they depleted Rhys’ wine cellar.

But then he thought of Feyre— of Nesta.

He glanced to the door.

It might have been fifty years ago, but for the shadows under Rhys’ eyes that were proof of how much Feyre had forever altered the high lord.

Might have been fifty years ago, but for the way Cassian kept glancing to the door, the bald hope on his face that he’d see her the proof of how much Nesta had forever altered him.

And still he looked. He laughed, and he drank with his brothers, and still he looked.

And he waited.

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#nessian #nessian fic #begged & borrowed time #two updates in the space of one week what is happening #this is not a new precedent though lets not get overexcited #for starters there definitely wont be a new chapter next weekend because i'll be seeing taylor swift lololol

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