#Arcadian Rhythms | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 2 years

Text

The Grand Tour: Chapter 11 (AO3)

(It's the penultimate chapter and the penultimate court... Nesta and Cassian visit Spring and it's an endless amount of fluff. Pure, undiluted, fluff.)

Nesta remembered all of it. Every word Feyre had uttered, every doe-eyed description of this land above the wall, she remembered. As Nesta looked out at it now, at the land Feyre had saw first, the land she had loved first, Nesta understood. The rolling green hills, the gentle breeze that smelled like flowers and honey.

It was easy, looking at this land, to see why Feyre had fallen so hard, so fast. She’d left behind a cabin in the woods, cold and buried in mud and snow, and found this— a land drenched in sunlight, the ground soft underfoot. Butterflies and bumble bees humming through the hedgerows, an Arcadian paradise, rustic and peaceful.

————

“You make me forget,” Cassian murmured, lips close against her ear. The early morning sunlight drifted lazily past the curtains they hadn’t bothered to draw closed last night, lighting up the bedroom that had, for so long, been left empty. He’d woken at dawn, and almost as if something in him called to her, Nesta had woken too, blinking as her eyes adjusted in the darkness. He’d spent the hours since loving her slowly, thoroughly, until neither of them wanted to get up, until all thoughts of leaving this bed had been forgotten. Cassian held her close to his chest, content to spend hours whispering to her as the sun climbed higher in the sky outside. “Everything,” he continued. “You make me forget everything.”

Three days. It had been three, uninterrupted, days of— this. Nothing but this, of words whispered and kisses stolen, barely rising from the bed except to eat. He was insatiable, as if he couldn’t go a moment without touching her, feeling her skin beneath his palms, and Nesta couldn’t say she minded.

Home had always been a foreign concept to her, but wrapped up in Cassian’s arms, she thought she might have finally started to figure it out.

“The rebels outside. The queens on the continent. Eris and whatever he’s up to in Autumn. All of it means nothing when I’m with you,” he pressed, pretty words mumbled as the room brightened around them.

Nesta was silent, too tired for speech, too comfortable and drowsy for sentient thought. Cassian hummed, his fingers slipping over the skin of her shoulders, drifting up and down in a rhythm that was sending her back to sleep. Her eyes drifted closed as he continued to whisper, a thousand declarations of affection muttered, pressed against her skin with every brush of his lips.

“Mhm,” she managed. Her fingers lifted, twisting in the strands of his hair, as if it was the only way she could communicate, could tell him that it was the same for her, too. That every ounce of pain from the Cauldron, every lingering piece of trauma from the war, all of it was lessened, made easier to bear every time he held her. Cassian understood. She didn’t need words, didn’t need language— he understood what she meant in the way she sighed, the way she curled into him, her fingers winding into his hair.

“When we leave,” she asked after a long moment, voice thick and heavy, “what will happen to this place?”

Her eyes flicked to the bare walls, the shelves in the corner that were completely empty. The small wardrobe that held a handful of his shirts and a few pairs of leathers— the only clothes either of them had worn for days, left here decades ago and washed and dried by Cassian when she’d scowled at the prospect of wearing the dress she’d worn to Autumn for another day. He had, as per their deal, asked Azriel to bring her some new clothes when he returned— but in the meantime, she’d spent the days since split between wearing nothing but her skin, and nothing but one of those old shirts.

She’d kept her half of the deal, too, letting Cassian take her wherever he wanted, starting with his desk and ending with the kitchen counter. Her blood heated as she thought of it, of how he’d been slow at first, so endearingly gentle, as if afraid of hurting her, but all it had taken was one brush of her fingers against his wings, one whisper of Cass, please, and he’d given her everything— everything she wanted, every single part of him, hers for the taking.

He smirked now, letting out a low hum as her question went unanswered. “What are you thinking about?” he asked, rolling her onto her back and settling above her, dragging his eyes over her collarbone, her bare shoulders. Lower. She was thinking of him— of how, yesterday, he’d left this bed to make them both tea. Of how she hadn’t been able to stand the distance between them, and of how, when she’d followed him into the kitchen, he’d pushed her against the wall instead, and the tea had been left to go cold. She’d been thinking of how he looked in the morning, when his shoulders still bore the marks from her nails, when his hair was messy because she’d ran her hands through it. Of how it felt when she felt the muscles in his back shift, move beneath her hands, as he took her exactly as he wanted.

His hands roamed her waist, and Nesta wished they could have another three days undisturbed. Another week.

Her exhaustion melted, burned away by the fire in his eyes. She’d been half a second from dreaming just five minutes ago, and yet with each swipe of his hands across her skin, each whisper of his breath against her neck, Nesta was awake— startlingly awake and desperate for him all over again.

The bastard knew it, too. He smirked down at her, a smug kind of spark in his eyes that said he’d won— he knew exactly the power he had over her, exactly the kind of sway, and Nesta was nothing if not stubborn.

“I’m thinking you’re avoiding my question,” she said flatly, banking the fire coursing through her veins. Looking past him to the empty shelves once again, Nesta batted him on the shoulder. Rolling off of her with a sigh, Cassian shrugged, adjusting his wings, tucking them in, close to his spine, as he lay on his back.

“I haven’t decided,” he said at last, his gaze following hers and snagging on that empty bookcase in the corner. In the sunlight, Nesta could see a thick layer of dust over each of the shelves. Like the table and the mantlepiece downstairs, it was hand carved, beautifully decorated as if it were for more than just functionality. Deep shelves were crowned with a scalloped edge, and the Night Court insignia etched, again, in the centre. As if, once, there was nothing he was more proud of than belonging to this court. As if he’d wanted to mark every inch of this place with it, a symbol of his unending loyalty to this court, the one that had given him a home. A place. Now, it sat in a corner, collecting dust, holding nothing.

“Maybe I’ll close it all up again,” he continued with another shrug. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off that bookcase. “Or…”

“Or?” Nesta frowned, tearing her gaze from those empty shelves to look up at his face, his eyes that were tentative, apprehensive, as if whatever he was about to say made him tremble. As if, whatever he was about to say, it was why he’d tried to dodge her question in the first place.

“Maybe I could build you that library,” he said quietly, not looking at her, carefully keeping his eyes trained straight ahead.

She heard what he didn’t say— what he was too afraid to ask, to voice aloud. Stay with me. Stay here, help me make this place ours. Let me give you the home I never had.

As if Nesta would ever say no, ever deny him anything. A soft smile lingered on her lips as she thought of it— not just of time spent here, so far removed from Velaris and all the things that plagued her, but of Cassian in that kitchen downstairs. Lounging on the sofa as the snow fell outside, his head in her lap as she read by candlelight. A dream, it felt like a dream, and one that she so desperately wished was real. Perhaps she’d finally meet that shopkeeper he’d told her of, the one that gave him hope for a better Illyria. Nesta had spent her life being told she was too sharp and rough around the edges— perhaps she’d feel at home here, in a land so similar. She rested her cheek above Cassian’s heart, feeling it pound in his chest as she considered his offer, and felt hers pound in answer.

“Then maybe I could give up my apartment,” she answered. She felt the breath in his chest stutter as his eyes snapped to hers at last, wide and hardly daring to believe her. She shrugged. The apartment had only ever been a place to escape her sister anyway, never really a home in the fullest sense of the word. Just a place that wasn’t Feyre’s, or Rhys’, or in any way connected to his inner circle, and though, once, she had protected that fiercely… It didn’t seem as pertinent, anymore, to have a place so far removed. Cassian’s hand found hers, caging it against his chest as his palms settled over her knuckles.

“I could stop staying at the House of Wind.” His voice was slightly hoarse, rough and low— the timbre of it beautiful, and so deep that it made her shiver, made her skin tingle all over again. “If you’re here, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

From where her head rested on his chest, Nesta glanced up at him. His eyes scanned this empty room, glazed, as if seeing it not covered in dust, centuries of neglect covering it like a shroud. It was as though he were seeing how it could be— how it would look with her things here, beside his. Her clothes in that wardrobe, the bookcase he’d so lovingly carved all that time ago finally filled, with his books and hers— ones she’d deem too favoured, too precious, to belong with the others in the library down the hall. He sighed, a gentle, soft, sound that made her lightheaded with longing, with affection. Hers— all of this was hers. The man beside her, the home he offered— hers.

“Nowhere,” Nesta echoed. He hummed again, his hand drifting lower, fingers dancing across her skin. Need blossomed within her, a yearning so desperate that she could think of nothing else. Part of her wondered how she would survive if - when - she eventually accepted the bond, because she didn’t know how it could be possible to want him more, to need him more. She might have been more concerned, more worried, but the part of her that was dizzy with hunger for him quashed everything else, shoved it all down so completely that all she could think of was him. The warmth of him, and how she’d found home at last. Not in bricks and mortar— but in his embrace, in his kiss. A bastard-born lesser fae, who held her heart in his hands, and had, somehow, became the centre of her world, that which everything else revolved around.

The Night Court’s fearsome general was moving within a breath, slipping a thigh between hers, her skin burning as he moved above her, hands skirting her hips, her waist— But Nesta was nothing if not stubborn, and his cocksure smirk had her pushing him back, until he was the one beneath her, until her thighs straddled his hips, and he relinquished every last piece of control, handed everything to her. Cassian groaned as one hand came to rest on the small of her back, as she looked down at him and wanted this moment to last forever.

“Az will be here in a few hours,” he warned, even as his eyes darkened.

“Well then,” Nesta said coyly, tilting her head as she studied him beneath her. She dragged her finger, slowly, down the centre of his chest, from the hollow of his throat to his navel, tracing old scars as she went. “You’d better make this quick, General.”

Cassian growled, pushing himself up onto his elbows and hauling her against him, claiming her lips in a kiss that was searing. He let himself fall back against the mattress, let her take exactly what she wanted from him, and only when she was dizzy, breathless and close to the edge, did he take her face between his palms and against her lips mutter, “Welcome home then, Nes.”

***

Azriel only smirked knowingly when he arrived, holding out a parcel of fresh clothing that Nesta took with grateful hands. Whatever it was he murmured as she darted up the stairs - mortified at him seeing her in nothing but one of Cassian’s old shirts - she didn’t hear, but she heard the slap as Cassian’s palm connected with the back of Azriel’s head. She heard Cassian’s “Prick,” as she reached his bedroom - their bedroom - and Azriel’s “I told you so,”as she closed the door behind her.

When she was ready, Nesta descended the stairs, finding both the Illyrians with heads bowed, deep in conversation. Cassian’s eyes flicked to her instantly, as if attuned to her every move, every breath. Appreciatively, he took in the pale blue of her dress, the way the fabric skimmed her collarbone, only just hiding the marks he’d left scattered across her breastbone. Kisses that had marked her skin, nicks made by his teeth as she’d driven him deeper. His lips tugged up at the corners as his gaze roved across her, the smile he gave her beautiful as he straightened the hem of his own fresh shirt.

She wondered if there would ever come a day when she wasn’t left breathless by that smile. When she grew tired of seeing those hazel eyes light up.

Azriel cleared his throat, held out both of his hands. “Come on then,” he said lightly. “Lucien knows you’ll be in Spring today, and promised to try and keep Tamlin busy on the estate. Just don’t go near the manor.”

Nesta let of a soft huh, for the first time thankful for Elain’s mate, as Cassian nodded, placing one red-siphoned hand in Azriel’s azure-blue one. Nesta didn’t take Azriel’s other, and Cassian grinned as she stepped towards him instead, weaving her fingers through his. Az rolled his eyes, but a soft smile pulled at his lips, his eyes warm as he nodded.

“Don’t let go, then,” he warned, looking at their hands, entwined, the ruby glow Cassian’s siphon cast over her fingers. Nesta nodded, her grip tightening, but there was no real concern in Azriel’s eyes, nothing but a soft kind of bemusement, a gentle kind of teasing.

Cassian snorted, kissing her swiftly on the cheek before adding, earnestly, “As if I ever would.”

***

It was strange, setting foot in Spring.

The one court Nesta never really, truly, expected to ever see. Too much history, too much anguish, had gone before, enough to taint both her experience of this court and Cassian’s, too. Yet, standing at the crest of a small hill, feeling the sun on her face, Nesta was glad. Glad that Azriel had brought them here, glad Cassian had thought up this entire trip in the first place.

She hadn’t expected any of this.

In that healers tent on the battlefield, when Cassian had first suggested this entire thing, Nesta hadn’t ever expected it to happen. She’d slept beside him that night, let him hold her as though her presence healed him more than any tonic ever could, and yet, still, she’d never imagined their future looking like this. Never thought she’d stand in this court, him by her side, all of the trauma and pain of her past slowly, slowly, starting to recede at long last.

Hayfever, though.

That, apparently, hadn’t bothered to recede at all, and she hadn’t expected that either, when Cassian mentioned a trip to the Spring Court. As a human, she’d spent every summer with her eyes streaming, unable to breathe through her nose. She’d expected that to have been cured by the Cauldron, but as if the fates were laughing at her all over again, Nesta felt her throat dry, felt the sniffle in her nose that said the icy waters of the Cauldron had robbed her of everything— but didn’t bother to take her fucking hayfever.

Typical.

Cassian sniffed too, wrinkling his nose as he stepped over a patch of long grass. He looked with distaste at a bundle of white dandelions, their seeds blowing in the breeze. He sniffed again, and when Nesta cast a curious glance at him, he huffed and mumbled, “Allergies.”

“Fearsome warrior can’t handle some pollen?” she asked lightly, biting back a smile. They were the same— in so many ways, Cassian was her mirror, and something as slight as hayfever had Nesta smirking because right down to the little things… They were the same. One soul. Two bodies.

“Fuck off,” he grumbled, batting away the seeds that drifted close to him on the wind. “It’s the grass that does it more than anything else.”

“It’s just ironic, isn’t it?” she continued, her smile growing wolfish as Cassian glared. Grass was the worst for her, too. Flowers, she could stand— but every time their gardener had trimmed their lawn as a human, Nesta’s tears had flowed so thickly she could barely see. Not that she planned on telling Cassian that just yet. It was too easy to tease him, and far too entertaining. “The Illyrians are terrified of you,” she continued, “Think you’re a warrior god reborn. Little do they know all it takes to bring you down is a little bit of grass.”

“I take back every nice thing I’ve ever said to you,” he muttered darkly, another sniff wrinkling his nose. Adorable, she thought. Ridiculous, adorable, bat.

With a laugh that was endearing, as light as the breeze that drifted easily past them, Nesta reached up to kiss his cheek. His skin was soft and warm beneath her lips as she said, “Would it help if I told you I always suffered with hayfever too?”

“No,” Cassian answered flatly, swiping at her nose with his thumb. “Because if that’s the case, you’re evidently faring much better than me.”

“Ah, but I am better than you at most things,” she pointed out with a shrug, smirking again as he hissed.

“Witch.”

“Brute.”

“Stupid bat-“

He cut her off with a kiss, pulling her towards him with a hand about her waist, his fingers drifting across her spine as he held her close to his chest. Nesta’s words died on her tongue as she allowed herself to be swept away, lost in the current as he kissed her. It was a kiss that was as light as the sky above, one that was beautiful and honest, and as his lips curved against hers, breaking into a smile he couldn’t contain, Nesta poured all of the warmth she felt into that kiss and into the tether between them, the bond she could feel stretching between her heart and his.

New beginnings, she’d said, and as Cassian broke the kiss, as he took her hand and pulled her down a slope and into a meadow that stretched for miles, Nesta felt it in her bones. She felt a shift, felt that bond, that bridge between his soul and hers, settling, anchoring itself within as if, at long last, she’d finally reached the place she’d been headed all along.

And to think, it was in Spring that such a thing had been realised.

Nesta remembered well the tales Feyre spun after Tamlin. Stories whispered in the gardens of their new manor, after Tamlin but before the mountain, in those brief few days when her sister had returned home. A hundred fantastical tales that Nesta could scarce believe, of fae that were kind and not monstrous. Of a man so devoted to her sister that he’d rather the world crumble than see her come to harm. At the time, Nesta had scoffed. She hadn’t thought it possible that such a man could exist— after all, her only experience with men had been Tomas, a man more inclined to let her starve than have any inconvenience brought to his door. Or her father, perfectly willing to risk everything for a little material gain.

She cast a glance to the winged fae before her, and understood it all, now. Clarity, at last, because for all Tamlin’s faults… he’d been the first to show her sister what her life could be, what it should be. A golden haired prince, Feyre had whispered. One that lived in a land of eternal spring, his house covered with blossoms and roses. One who played music so fair it would make the sternest soul weep, who was elegant and refined, not the beast that had broken down their door.

Nesta looked to Cassian again, not hearing as he pulled her through that meadow, speaking at length about something completely innocuous, something to do with how far they were from the sea, how he didn’t know how Lucien coped, living here, amongst so much pollen. The hand not wrapped around hers gestured wildly at the landscape around them, sweeping through the air as he spoke animatedly, a gleam in his eyes that hadn’t been there before this trip.

Nesta wondered if she’d have done the same as Feyre. If she’d slain that wolf in the forest, if Tamlin had taken her— would she have loved him enough to die for him?

For Cassian, Nesta knew then, in that moment, that she would. There was no question. His heart was hers, and hers was, incontrovertibly, his, and as the Spring sun played gently across his cheekbones, drifting across his skin, Nesta knew in her bones that though she’d never truly known home before, she’d found one in him.

After all this time, and all this heartache… Nesta had found home.

“What’s that look for?” Cassian asked, red siphons gleaming as he pulled on her wrist, tugging her forwards so that their steps were level, so he wasn’t leading her by the hand anymore, but walking beside her, his steps perfectly in time with hers.

“What look?”

“That faraway look that said you’re thinking about something far more serious and far more melancholy than you should be,” he shrugged, sniffing again as he did.

“Not melancholy,” she answered with a shrug of her own, an easy smile as she shook her head. I’m thinking of you, she almost said. Almost, I’m thinking how, for the first time, I’m excited for the future, not terrified by it. She didn’t, though, only blinked slowly, softly, and said instead, “It’s just strange to me. That this is the land Feyre saw first, what convinced her to give her life to break the curse.”

Reaching the shade of a mighty willow tree, pink flowers littering the ground at its roots, Nesta tugged her hand free to step forwards, to cross underneath the drooping, weeping, branches that gave the tree its name. She ran a hand along the trunk, so wide it must have been here for centuries. She looked up, at the branches dipping towards the earth, at the sunlight filtering through as if this were a dream, and felt a smile on her face— effortless, for the first time, being happy felt effortless. She looked through the branches and saw Cassian standing a distance away, watching, letting her find her own feet, explore as she wished. After a moment, he shrugged.

“I’m glad she did,” he said softly, his voice carried to her on a gentle breeze. “What would I have done, if you hadn’t stormed into my world?”

Nesta ducked behind the trunk, but turned and shot him a smile over her shoulder. A rare one, a smile reserved only for those she cared the most about— one she hadn’t allowed to grace her face for a long, long, time. His answering grin made her heart seize in her chest, and, as if this were a game, she stepped behind the trunk completely. She heard the branches part, heard his steps over the fallen leaves, and when she peeked next around that mighty tree, she found him standing at the other side, both hands braced on the bark, ready to give chase.

“Oh, you’d have survived, I’m sure,” she tossed over her shoulder.

He stepped forwards, following the path she forged around the willow, his smile turning playful, rakish. This was a dance, one with no music and no steps, but a dance nonetheless. Nesta stepped over the roots bursting from the ground, her balance never faltering, as she led him in circles around that tree. Occasionally, she would stop, letting him almost catch her. His hands reached for her, but never quite touched, never closed the distance completely.

“I don’t think I would,” he said, and when Nesta stopped, this time she let him reach her, let him catch her at last. She didn’t take her hand off the bark, but when Cassian stepped towards her, slowly, drawing out their game for as long as he could stand, she let him pen her in. Took a step back until her spine was flush against the willow tree, until his chest was pressed against hers and his wings caged her in on either side. Idly, he dragged a finger across her cheek. “Really. I don’t think I would. What would have been the point in surviving that war, Nes, if I hadn’t been fighting for a future with you?”

Nesta shook her head mutely, unable to find the words. She’d have survived without him too— if Feyre had never gone above the wall. She’d have continued living, but how much would that life have been worth? Had she never known his voice, his smile, the way his arms tightened around her or the way his wings would block out the sunlight in the morning— What would have been the point in surviving indeed.

A future— he’d wanted a future with her, and now it was in reach, so tantalisingly close that all they had to do was reach out and take it.

“You mean it, about Windhaven?” she asked gently. “You’d leave Velaris?”

“It wouldn’t exactly be leaving, would it?” He rustled his wings behind him, letting them spread. “It’s not like I’d never see the city again. Not like I’d never see Rhys, or Az.” He shrugged. “Besides, with the unrest in Illyria, it wouldn’t be a bad thing, me being stationed there more permanently.” His voice dropped, his eyes softening. “Of course I meant it. There’s nothing on this earth I’d want more than to be there with you.” He paused, eyes assessing as he searched her face. “Are you sure? It’s…” He ran a hand through his hair, “Illyria’s not easy.”

“Can’t be as bad as Velaris,” Nesta shrugged. She thought of Feyre, then, of how she adored the once-secret city hidden in the Night Court. Of Elain, how she seemed so happy in the gardens by the Sidra. “For me, at least.”

No. Velaris and Nesta had never gotten along particularly well. Every step there reminded her that she was there by the grace of her sister and her brother-in-law. Every decision she made— scrutinised, judged. The Illyrians might think she was a witch, but at least they wouldn’t be breathing down her neck.

Cassian nodded, and silence stretched between them as she gazed into his hazel eyes. After a moment, she bent to pluck up one of those fallen pink flowers. Twirling it between her finger and her thumb, she said idly, “I always loved these trees. We had one, at the edge of our old manor, but Mama ordered it cut down. She didn’t like how the blossoms cluttered the lawn when they fell.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but Nesta was faster— With a gentle smirk, she tucked the flower behind Cassian’s ear, neither her hayfever nor his being set off by these particular blooms. As he blinked, she drew away from him, out of the cage of his arms, and began rounding the tree again, taking small, slow, steps as she dragged her hand over the bark.

“I’m pretty sure I should be the one putting flowers in your hair, sweetheart,” he commented dryly, but he made no move to shake the flower loose. It remained there, the pink stark against the dark strands, pulled back into his usual messy bun. A fearsome warrior— so deadly, the most wicked of fae trembled at the sound of his name— yet he stood under a weeping willow, letting her put flowers behind his ear.

“What’s stopping you?” she asked, reaching the other side of the trunk. When she turned, she found him following her, five steps behind.

“You won’t stay fucking still long enough?” Cassian answered tartly, crossing his arms over his chest as Nesta continued to step over the roots of that grand tree, ducking under low hanging branches and drifting further away from him with every step. He sniffed again.

“I thought you liked it when I didn’t stay still,” she called, hearing an amused huff in response. “In fact, I distinctly remember you telling me how much you liked it when I moved the other day, how you wanted me to move faster—“

An arm blocked her path, red siphons burning in the light that drifted in shafts through the branches of the willow. Cassian smirked, so close that when he leaned down, his nose brushed hers. Nesta’s skin tingled, and she felt slightly lightheaded, dizzy— and it had nothing to do with the hayfever.

“True enough,” he muttered darkly, lifting a hand to hold her chin and keep her face still. “But right now, at this present moment, I don’t want you to move at all.” With soft, nimble, fingers, Cassian tucked a matching pink blossom into the braids behind her ear. When he was done, he kissed the centre of her forehead, but drew away swiftly, wrinkling his nose once more as a brisk wind made both of them sniffle.

Nesta sneezed, and with that, Cassian muttered under his breath about fucking hayfever. He swiped the pad of his thumb over the tip of her nose again, letting it drift across to her cheekbone as she swallowed against the scratch in her throat.

This court was exquisite. Stunning, almost wistful in it’s beauty, but—

It suited neither her nor Cassian, and looking at Cassian’s eyes that were beginning to turn red, she found she wanted for nothing more than snow and ice, mountains and a gloomy grey sky. Nothing more than that little house at the edge of Windhaven.

“Not your brightest idea, General, bringing us here, where neither of us can breathe easy.” She batted at his shoulder, letting him capture her hand once more, press a kiss to her fingertips.

“In my defence, when I thought of this plan, I wasn’t exactly in the best frame of mind.”

Nesta remembered him reaching for her, pain blanketing his senses, making his eyes hazy. She remembered the sounds of the healers tent, the way she’d been numb as she drifted to his side. She hummed as she nodded her agreement, and suddenly, it occurred to her— Cassian hadn’t known she would suffer with hayfever, but he’d known that he would. Known that the entire time spent here would be uncomfortable, and yet he was willing to do it anyway, because he wanted her to see all seven courts— wanted to give her the opportunity to live beyond the wall, to see what being fae meant outside of Velaris. For her, he’d been more than willing to suffer, and even now, he made no move to leave. No move to hurry her.

Looking once again at his eyes, the hazel she adored ringed with red, Nesta’s heart ached, her love for him threatening to bring her to her knees. Wryly, with a soft smile, she shook her head.

“I think I’ve seen enough of Spring,” she said firmly. “Take me home, Cass.”

“And where’s home?” he asked slowly, quietly, needing to hear her say it again, needing to know for certain.

Wherever you are, she wanted to say. Wherever you lay your roots, that’s where I’ll lay mine.

“Windhaven,” she whispered.

Cassian stepped closer, taking her face between his palms. “You’re sure?” he asked again, as if he still couldn’t believe it, that after all this time - all these years spent with Rhys and Az, who hated Illyria more than anything - somebody else would chose his homeland, too. Choose him, without question or condition.

Nesta nodded, and wrapped her arms around his waist, just below where his wings met his spine, burying her head in his chest, in the soft cotton of his shirt.

“Let’s go home.”

#nessian #nessian fic #this is so much later than i wanted to post #i was distracted by the king's (!) speech and that still feels so incredibly weird to say #and then distracted by rings of power #anyway #this chapter went in a completely different direction originally #i rewrote the acosf cabin scene with the original Archeron manor instead #but cut it out because it wasn't really adding anything and i wanted to focus on the home they're building in illyria instead #but maybe one day ill post some of the scenes that got deleted from this fic #next chapter is the last one!!

29 notes · View notes