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theladyofbloodshed · 2 years

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Au acosf - Chapter 76

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‘Hello Elain.’

Elain startled from her spot on the lawn as Cassian’s shadow passed over her. She wiped the loose hairs from her sweat covered brow, careful not to cake mud across her face. A layer of soil was wedged beneath her long nails.

'Hello.'

The gardens of Feyre and Rhys’ mansion kept Elain occupied for most of her days. She was content to potter amongst the flowers, on her knees by the beds dredging up weeds or trailing a finger through the small stream that later fed through to the Sidra.

‘I thought you might have accompanied us to Beron’s funeral.’

Under the sun, her cheeks glowed pink. ‘I did not know I was invited.’

Cassian let his wings span out behind him to catch the glorious heat bathing Velaris. Soon, the rain that was likely sweeping over the Illyrian mountains would come to the city.

‘Of course you were. You’re part of this court, aren’t you?’ Perhaps because he was feeling a little vexatious, he added, ‘Beron was your mate’s father after all. Lucien might have needed a shoulder to cry on.’

Without conscious thought, Elain’s muddy hands brushed against the gardening gloves near her knee gifted to her by Lucien. Her face had faltered slightly. Nesta might cut his balls off for it – but her protectiveness over Elain had shifted – so he said, ‘Have you thought about accepting the bond? Lucien’s the brother of a high lord. He’s probably first in line now to that throne. You could get rid of Eris then you and Feyre could be high ladies together.’

Elain stammered out an incoherent answer and made to pull her floppy hat over her face to hide from the world.

‘Or you could reject it,’ Cassian continued, taking a step closer to her. ‘Eris wants his brother to return to the Autumn Court. Imagine never seeing Lucien again. No more lovely gloves on Solstice.’

Abruptly, Elain got to her feet and shook her skirts, wincing slightly at the soil she’d wiped down the pale pink muslin gown.

‘Is it the eye? It’s far less distracting than wings.’ He flexed his own to demonstrate. Elain swallowed, backing up a step. ‘Is it the red hair? I’ve never been keen on gingers myself. Your bond has existed longer than mine and your sister’s. Do you not feel it straining between you and Lucien? Is it not unbearable by now?’

Elain swallowed. ‘I said I’d help an elderly fae with his garden. Goodbye, Cassian.’

Cassian snorted watching her flustered escape. The gloves were clutched in her hand though, Cassian noticed.

There was a slight nagging guilt that he’d made her uncomfortable, but everybody else had done far worse to Nesta – and still did. Not for one moment, did he think Elain would give him a straight answer. Their conversations with minimal at the best of times. He never quite knew what to talk to her about and Elain wasn’t inclined to make conversation with him. She might laugh nervously at something he said but Elain preferred to spend her time with Nuala and Cerridwen.

A pebble hit him lightly on the thigh, guided by magic.

Rhys had his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the wall of house with an amused expression.

‘Nesta had the gall to call me a busy body,’ he said walking a few paces forwards, ‘when her own mate is putting the cat amongst the pigeons in Velaris.’

Cassian shrugged a shoulder but turned his head back towards the Sidra to hide his guilty grin. Nesta’s words had struck a chord; they had always given Elain more time and space than she was ever allowed. In a strange sense of moral duty, Cassian felt as if he should put a little pressure on Elain to spur her into action one way or the other. Nesta would definitely skin him alive when she found out - but after last night’s wild escapades in the bedroom, she could do whatever she wanted to him.

‘Just ensuring the sisters are treated fairly.’

Rhys cocked a brow. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I just mean that Feyre was allowed space from you. Elain’s been given an abundance of it from Lucien. The poor male gets ignored when they’re in the same room. Nes was never given space, but at least she never ignored me.’

‘No, she just used to hiss at you and fantasise about plucking off your wings.’

Cassian smiled fondly at the memory. She still hissed at him from time to time. He’d put his weight on her hair by accident in bed a few days earlier and she’d howled like a banshee then threatened to castrate him if he did it again.

‘How was the training?’

‘Alright. No arguments. No sharp words. I’ll come again in a couple of days. She has excellent control but my worry is, because she’s not using it, the build up leads to these… explosions. Nesta has so much magic, she needs to be siphoning it off daily, really.’ Rhys sighed then his own wings made an appearance, stretching out until the tendons were pulled tight to soak up the sunlight. ‘I don’t envy her to carry that.’

‘Could we try her with a siphon?’

‘I’m hesitant. She’s afraid – and I understand. Siphons are better for focusing an attack. Her magic needs to be eased out gently, especially with the nature of it.’

That was, Cassian supposed, wise. The last thing anybody needed was a pinpointed attack from the powers of death. They’d had five hundred years to get to grips with their power. Nesta had only been given a couple of years. It would take time – but time wasn’t a luxury they could afford with the nature of her power.

‘At least she’s not Made any weapons recently. You need a better place to store them than under your bed by the way.’ Rhys rolled a stone under his shoe then tossed it lazily into the river. ‘You aren’t afraid of her?’

The laugh came out before Cassian could suppress it. ‘Absolutely not. She’s my Nesta. What’s there to be afraid of?’

‘Cauldron, I can tell why Az can’t stand to be around us for long. What have these Archerons done to us?’ The tone was mocking, but Rhys had a happy expression, eyes sparkling.

‘It has to be hard for Az. Out of all of us, he’s the one who’s always wanted a mate.’

Rhys nodded, eyes flickering over the river again. ‘He doesn’t have to wait all his life for a mate. It might never happen. He went to Iron Crest early with only a slight grumble.’

‘Probably glad to be away from us two.’

Az had pined for a long time over Mor – and Cassian had been complicit in helping her to avoid that difficult conversation. Azriel had never raised the topic, never once berated Cassian for his role as a buffer. It made him squirm with guilt. Guilt that he’d slept with Mor initially, knowing Azriel already had feelings for her. Guilt that he and Mor had flirted and teased in front of him purposefully to stamp upon his feelings. And even guiltier that Azriel had never took out his hurt on them.

‘Why are you still haunting Velaris? Get back to your mate.’

‘I’m going, I’m going,’ Cassian said, raising his hands up. ‘I just had to come and-’

��Piss Elain off?’

‘Nesta’s immune to my charm now. I have to annoy someone else or I will explode.’

Rhys laughed loudly. ‘Dinner tomorrow?’

Cassian nodded then winced slightly. ‘Not Amren. Sorry. Nes will lose her lid if Amren’s at the table.’

‘Fine, but you’re at Iron Crest the rest of the week. Cass, I walked Nesta to Emerie’s so you’ll find her there. Can I assume she’ll also be coming for dinner?’

Windhaven was blissfully quiet. The rain had come and gone, giving way to a bright day so those who could be out were enjoying the sunshine. The trainings had likely ended earlier than usual, so only a few remained sparring or cleaning weapons. Most would descend upon the streams or rivers to fish or even swim.

He gathered what he needed for the night ahead, having already frequented shops in Velaris hunting down all of Nesta’s favourite foods. All ones that would rot her teeth away. Cassian lingered opposite Emerie’s shop; neither female had noticed him. The door was propped open to allow the breeze in though the shop was quiet. It was interesting to simply watch Nesta in her natural habitat. He wished others could see her that way, to understand that the walls she built were there for a reason but she did let people in when she was comfortable. And how lovely she was when she felt safe.

Emerie had one arm bent behind her head, feet up on a pouffe. Her brows were raised and a grin lit up her face. Cassian just knew from her expression that Nesta was sharing details from the previous night with her friend. Nesta leant forwards slightly in her chair, hands spread, smirking out of the side of her mouth as she talked. Whatever she said had made Emerie screw up her face in amusement then Nesta was sinking back into the chair, clutching a hand over her mouth, colour blooming in her cheeks.

He rapped on the window, making them jump, then entered the shop, stepping over Zasha who was sleeping in the doorway. ‘Am I interrupting?’

Despite turning scarlet, Nesta merely folded her hands in her lap to feign indifference. ‘Just talking.’

‘By all means, continue then.’

Emerie’s mouth pressed together then her eyes squeezed shut, fighting away a laugh. ‘I’ll just go and check the… I’ll be back in a moment.’

The female hurried away, wings rustling behind her. Once she was out of sight, Cassian flicked Nesta’s arm. ‘You’re talking about sex. Neither of you can look at me.’

Nesta made a noise of outrage. ‘Cassian, just because your own mind is unable to dredge itself from the gutter, females have far more dignified matters to discuss.’

‘I’ve read that book, sweetheart. I had to wash with water blessed by acolytes after. Filthy content.’ He squeezed the back of her neck until she swatted him away like an unwanted fly. ‘But if that’s where you get your ideas from, I’m not complaining.’

When Emerie returned, her long, dark plait swaying, it was Nesta’s turn to suppress her satisfied, little grin. Last night had been a very good night for both of them.

‘Do you mind if I steal my mate from you?’

‘No problem. I’m meeting Balthazar soon.’

Nesta tidied away the pile of books gathered on the small, three-legged table. They were ones that he recognised from Helion’s library. There were a handful of papers on top bearing Nesta’s script and another – likely Emerie’s. He was glad Nesta had a friend to confide in and bounce ideas from.

‘You’re both invited for dinner in Velaris tomorrow.’

Emerie raised her brows, looking between him and Nesta. ‘Me?’

‘Rhys presumed that where one goes, the other follows.

Nesta clucked in agreement, getting to her feet and reaching to stroke Emerie’s hair. ‘He would be correct. A shame we aren’t the mated pair. It probably would have been a far smoother path for us.’

The female smiled in return. ‘We’d be unstoppable. The Mother couldn’t allow it.’

‘A tragedy.’ Nesta turned her sweetest smile on him. ‘Perhaps we could go to the library?’

‘If by “we” you mean you and Emerie, certainly. We’ll go a little earlier. About three tomorrow?’

Cassian had done his time in Helion’s library. He’d given up a day off in the glorious sun for a day spent sniffing ancient books with yellowed pages at his mate’s request. The library in Velaris always had a far more sombre feel to it. The acolytes still were nervous around him, preferring to skirt a large berth than interact. It made him on edge, afraid that he might move too fast or step too heavily and scare them further. They’d suffered enough. No, Cassian preferred not to enter Velaris’ library. Not to mention the festering darkness in the heart of its depths. It might have departed, but Cassian did not think for one second that it hadn’t pinned a target on his back the first time he'd looked into its eyes.

‘I hear training went well,’ he said, taking hold of Zasha’s lead and extending a hand for Nesta to take.

‘I rotted some apples. We had a chat about life. I spoke of my sisters, he spoke of his.’

His feet ground to a halt and he whirled on Nesta. ‘Rhys spoke about Seren?’

The slightest dip of her chin was his confirmation. That was a rarity. Rhys refused to ever open up those wounds, preferring to lock his memories away where they could be kept safe and treasured. Any portraits of Seren and his mother had been seized, and stored somewhere that only Rhys knew in an attempt to protect them from ever coming to any harm. He’d steer the subject away from his younger sister in the past, so all of them knew never to mention her. It was a shame, Cassian had always thought, to never utter her name in conversation, but perhaps the pain of hearing it was worse than locking her memory away.

‘I think we saw each other properly for the first time.’

Well, that was a start. An unexpected start. Perhaps Nesta and Rhys really had needed to be locked in a room together to sift through their differences and examine the similarities. Because they were there. They’d both make themselves suffer to save the ones they loved, both bore a magic with a weight none else could carry, and they were both clever and cunning with minds that seemed to work a step ahead of everybody else.

‘Whatever he said about Seren, please don’t share with anyone.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ she assured him, squeezing his hand gently.

***

They’d languished in the garden for a large part of the day. Zasha had sought the sanctuary of shade, but they’d sprawled out onto a blanket nearby watching the few clouds roll by. Cassian shared with Nesta his ideas for building an orphanage, discussing where he felt it should be built and the size that they might need. The hope in his eyes was too precious for Nesta. The Lord of Bloodshed shifting from slaughterer to saviour. She did not want to quell the pride burning in his gaze when they spoke, but Nesta felt like it was only a temporary solution. There was a reason why there were so many orphans. Females were treated as cattle – worse than cattle for some of them. Males forced themselves upon them, bringing unwanted children in the world, or females were worked to the death leaving none to care for their children. The cycle needed to be broken, thinking needed to be altered so that males no longer felt entitled to the females in their lives whether that be partners, sisters or daughters. Building an orphanage was a start, but Nesta felt it was similar to siphoning out water from a boat that had a hole in it.

Still, it was a start. Change didn’t come overnight and Nesta was trying to stop her knee-jerk reactions of scoffing at ideas or tearing more holes into them. Cassian’s hope was infectious. It was easy to forget about the Children of the Blessed approaching the non-existent Wall or Koschei wanting to snatch her away or Briallyn’s elongated silence. With Cassian, Nesta felt as if a future was theirs and theirs alone, nobody to ruin it or snatch it from her.

‘I love you.’

It stunned him into a brief silence then he leaned forwards to kiss her lightly on the brow. ‘I waited five hundred years for you.’

‘You’re so old.’

A wing snapped out, knocking her off balance so she went from her knees to face first on the blanket. She snorted into the material.

‘Witch.’

‘I presume in five centuries I will look the same, but will you be an ancient, shrivelled thing by then?’

‘You’re actually very cruel. I never listened when people said it, but you really are.’

She pressed a hand across her heart. ‘I simply need to know in what century it will appear that I am mated to a grandfather.

‘Wicked witch.’ Cassian rolled her onto her back then settled himself so his head rested on her abdomen, eyes meeting hers. ‘I have a confession.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘What have you done?’

‘I didn’t do anything. It might have been what I said.’

Nesta would have thrown him off of her if she could, but the male was immovable. Probably why he’d pinned her with his head so she couldn’t lash out.

‘I happened to run into Elain in Velaris and maybe put the wind up her a little bit.’

‘About Lucien?’

Cassian’s guilty expression was confession enough, but he continued, ‘I might have said that if she rejects the bond, Lucien would head back to Autumn and she’d never see him again or that if she did accept, they could get rid of Eris and she could be high lady.’

A laugh dredged itself from her chest. ‘You’ve presented her with both extremes. Let me guess, she scurried away? She wasn’t always like that. Elain used to love to be the centre of attention. She never tired of balls and luncheons, one after the other, filled with endless, prattling gossip.’

‘You didn’t enjoy them?’

‘No. Elain was allowed to enjoy them and make friendships. For me, it was a battle ground where I enacted my mother’s tactics. I always had instruction of whom I had to charm or tease, which families my father wanted to do business with, which sons were likely to take their wedding rings off when their wives weren’t around. My mother was a strategist you’d be proud of.’

And Nesta hated every moment of it. A weapon forged by both parents. Her mother had been the one whispering in her ear, overseeing every moment of her life, but her father had spearheaded it too. It was a daughter who bridged an alliance. And he had three of them. Sometimes Nesta was glad they lost their money so Elain and Feyre wouldn’t be put through the same grooming she was.

‘Wouldn’t it be odd for you if it happened? If Feyre was high lady of the Night Court and Elain was high lady of the Autumn Court?’

Nesta ran her fingers through his thick ebony hair, envious that it rarely tangled the way hers did. ‘Not particularly as I’ll be high lady of the Day Court beside Helion. anyway’

Cassian lurched upright. He wore the mask of general now, but there was a teasing smirk desperate to break the surface. ‘Take that back.’

‘I’m sure Helion would be glad to share you with me.’

Swifter than a mountain cat, Cassian had straddled her hips and pushed her wrists above her head. ‘I am yours. And you are mine. No sharing. Not with any fucking high lord or anyone else.’

‘I heard what they whispered of you when you fought for the Summer Court. The soldiers called you Enalius. A God.’ Cassian released Nesta’s wrists so she could cradle his face. And he had been a God that day, slicing through the enemy as if they were no more than stalks of wheat. He had been relentless, rallying his males, surging again and again at Hybern’s lines. They’d come at him like surf against a rock, finding him impassable.

Cassian smiled slightly. ‘You saw my injury when nobody else did. I think it was the first time we were ever so close to each other without snarling. I’d thought it was a dream.’

Nesta raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh yes then you threw my hand away because Morrigan appeared.’

The groan he let out as he clambered back onto the blanket gave Nesta a smudge of satisfaction. No, she would never forget that moment. No, she would never let him forget it either.

‘I should have gone to your tent and made love to you that night.’

Nesta couldn’t help her shrill laughter. ‘Cassian, I’d have fought you like a warrior God myself if you’d tried to hold my hand after that. I was ready to spike yours and Mor’s head in front of Hybern’s army as a favour.’

‘Bloodthirsty witch.’

‘Your witch.’

The food that he’d purchased earlier that day wasn’t allowed to be touched until the evening, Cassian had said. Nesta had bided her time. Every wistful look given to the box of cream filled pastries was wasted because he’d cast his mind in unrelenting iron. She’d gone as far as trying to seduce him to gain a biscuit drizzled in dried raspberries and icing, but Cassian’s will was stronger than she realised. Tonight, he’d promised.

When it was time to leave to visit another part of Illyria that he wanted to show her, Nesta took great care packing the bag for their picnic. He’d said it was his favourite place in his home land, better than the Steppes that he also promised to show her, better than the hot springs further east, or the snow-crested mountains to the north.

Cassian cradled her against his chest, lifting her off the ground. They’d managed to strap the bag of food and blankets to her front so Cassian could carry all the items as well as her too. They’d flown a long time, running from the encroaching sunset. His wings had pulsed, each powerful beat amazing Nesta with how strong he was. Those wings never seemed to tire as if he could fly her around the entire world.

Cassian had taken her to the western most point of Illyria where the world felt quieter. There were no war camps this close to the coast due to the constant wind battering it from the narrow sea between Prythian and Hybern. Yet, on this evening, the weather was calm. The earlier downpours had given way to a brilliant evening, warm and clear.

‘We need to walk this last bit,’ he said, pulling the bag on to his own shoulders and pointing towards a hill. Atop it was a large stone structure that almost resembled a foot.

‘You can’t fly us?’ Nesta asked, gazing up at the slope of the hill.

‘It’s not as steep as it looks. We’ll aim for the big toe,’ Cassian pointed. ‘Come on. The view is worth it. You’ll appreciate it more if you make the climb.’

Nesta managed most of the walk without huffing and panting too much. She’d tried to mask her heavy breathing especially as Cassian’s own hadn’t changed. Without saying a word, he extended a hand behind him to help drag her along. The palm that grazed against her own was slick with sweat though.

‘Why are you so sweaty? You’re not even out of breath.’

‘I’m not sweaty,’ he said, voice laden with defensiveness.

Nesta frowned; it was not her palm that was clammy. Onwards they went, the muscles of her legs cramping by the end of it. Once they’d reached the top of the hill, Cassian clambered up the first rock then had his arms out waiting for her. With a strong pull on her wrists, she was scarpering up after him. Over and over they went, Cassian climbing up first then standing steady and hauling her up to the next height.

‘I feel like a mountain goat.’

‘You have a temperament to match sometimes,’ he teased.

‘The company I’m forced to endure sometimes is worthy of a headbutt.’

Cassian roared with laughter. ‘I’ve never taught you how to headbutt anybody, so don’t try that in a fight.’

‘Why would I fight anyone when I have you to be my sword and my shield?’

He brought her hand to his lips. ‘It is my honour.’

They were in the cool shade until Cassian took her by the hand again, his own palms even sweatier now, leading her around the front of the rock face. There was a modest patch of grass facing the horizon and the ocean churned below, rolling against the sheer cliff face. Nesta made a little squeak of panic, but Cassian stamped his feet on the ground, indicating that it was safe. They had chased the sunset and managed to beat it. Soon the sun would slip towards the horizon and bask them both in golden warmth.

‘In Illyria, we have a saying that a day that ends in gold, paves the way for a night like no other.’ Cassian shook out the blanket then swept it down onto the grass. ‘They say it because summer only lasts for three days here and you have to make the most of it.’

Nesta stretched out the blanket on the rough grass, ensuring the corners weren’t tucked beneath itself. Sea thrift grew around them, the exact same shade of lilac that she’d worn the first time they’d been alone together. Nesta couldn’t explain why that evening had been so ingrained into her memories. Maybe it was because he’d sensed her fear over Tomas – managed to pick up on a slight change in her expression that others would have missed – and pressed her hand to his chest, vowing to hunt down who had hurt her. Or maybe it was because Cassian had seen her in ways nobody ever had and it had terrified her then.

She settled close to Cassian, still reminiscing over their first interaction without an audience. They’d brought a thick, woollen blanket as an extra which Cassian had already drawn around her shoulders. A wing came to curl around her too, blocking the slight breeze. Lightly, Nesta dragged a finger against the bony frame to make her mate shudder.

‘What a beautiful sunset,’ she sighed, resting her head onto his shoulder.

For a while, they remained in silence, glad to be next to each other. Nesta was tucked against her mate, his arm reaching around to rest a hand on her hip. The ripples of waves seemed to glitter as they pulsed towards the shore. A herd of wild sheep bleated in the distance, ambling over the craggy land.

It was the most peaceful Nesta had been in a long time. No burden was thrust into her hands, no weight pressed upon her shoulders. For once, Nesta was calm.

‘Wine, sweetheart?’

Cassian had already yanked out the cork and poured them both a glass despite Nesta’s disbelief that he was giving her free access to alcohol. It was a sign that she – and they – had travelled so far. It was a road she never thought she’d walk with Cassian.

Their picnic was all of Nesta’s favourite things without a savoury item in sight. She even sucked her sticky fingers after devouring a cinnamon pastry from a little bakery on the fringes of Velaris that she used to frequent on the odd day she could stomach food. Cassian just kept handing her food. Their conversation was easy as they played the strategy game that they’d played the night Emerie had been passed out in the spare bedroom. It was funny to play it here atop a cliff, watching as the sun dropped lower. He’d pressed a chunk of moist chocolate cake between her lips which she’d washed down with her glass of wine.

The sky was cast in a hazy pink light. Golden fingertips stretched across the lower-level cliffs. She got to her feet, stretching, after finally beating Cassian at the game. She inched as close to the edge as she dared to peer down at the frothing white waves below. If Nesta had wings, she’d swoop low over the sea to drag her fingertips through the cresting waves.

When she turned back to Cassian, he was waiting for her on one knee.

‘Nes,’ he swallowed. The pulse fluttering in his neck was the only give away of his feelings. ‘There is no other person that I’d rather spend my time with. Every night, I want to fall asleep beside you. Every morning, I want yours to be the first face I see.’

Cassian took a shaking breath to steady the quake in his voice. He shook his hair from his face, and she smiled to him, encouraging him to continue. ‘I love you. I will love you until only the stars remember our names. There is no other for me – only you. It’s always been you.’ He opened the small, black box nestled in his palm. ‘Nesta Archeron, will you marry me?’

A serene calm washed over Nesta. Her heart beat in a steady rhythm. It was perfect. No hesitation. No doubts. No nerves. It was right.

‘Yes. Yes! Of course, yes!’

In a flurry, Nesta had flung her arms around Cassian’s neck, taking them both to the ground.

Her body flush on top of his, she whispered, ‘Milujem ťa.’

‘Me too,’ he murmured, kissing her tenderly. ‘My wife.’

‘My darling husband,’ she murmured, the excitement leaking into her tone.

The smile would not leave. Not when Cassian slipped the ring onto her finger. Not when the sun had set, shrouding them entirely in darkness. Not even when Cassian bundled her into his arms and swept back towards the cabin.

‘How long were you planning this?’

‘Since we saw that mortal wedding near your old cottage.’

Nesta gaped. ‘Cassian, that was months ago.’

‘It takes a while to design a ring,’ he replied casually, eyes fixed facing forwards as he dipped low through a valley, using the wind to benefit his flight.

‘This was made for me?’

It had fitted perfectly onto her finger – a plain golden band with an oval ruby encircled by a halo of diamonds. The ruby matched his siphons which made Nesta surprisingly happy. The ring wasn’t large, nor would she want it to be. It was exactly what she would want. The date had also been engraved on the inside of the band.

‘How did you know I’d say yes today?’

‘My trip to Velaris. Asked the ring-maker to engrave it this morning. I just knew it was the right time. Being your husband is as important to you as mates are to me.’ He shifted her slightly as they flew, nestling their bodies closer to each other. ‘The ring has been in my bedside drawer for ages. I’m lucky you don’t go snooping.’

They landed near the cabin. Despite flying pressed against him for a long time, Nesta didn’t want Cassian to let her go. She stayed clinging to him, arms stretching around his wide trunk on solid ground.

‘I’ve slept next to this every night?’

‘Every night,’ he confirmed, winking. ‘I wanted to do it earlier but there have been so many obstacles for us - Koschei, the kelpie. I don’t know if there will ever be a perfect time, whether we’ll ever have a peaceful life. All I know is that there is no other for me.

#au acosf

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duskandstarlight · 3 years

Text

Embers & Light (Chapter 25)

Notes: Hi lovely readers,Thank you for everybody who commented on last weeks chapter and for those of you who fed back to say you would keep on reading E&L after ACOSF. It's great to know I can continue at my own pace, especially as work is about to pick up for me so it would be hard to write more than I have been already.

Let me know what you think of this chapter :) And as usual, apologies for my typos!

Chapter Twenty-Five Nesta

Nesta barely heard the sound of the door opening and shutting as Feyre left. Neither did she truly register the murmur of voices or the sensation of power vacuuming into nothing as Rhys and Feyre winnowed back to Velaris.

Feyre’s words had cracked her open again, and all Nesta wanted was to sleep so she didn’t have to think about her sister or the errors of her own past. Of the forgiveness her sister had granted her which she did not think she deserved. How her sister had offered a slate wiped clean, something that Nesta had secretly hungered for so long she couldn’t even pinpoint when it had started.

It was a chance to begin again, if Nesta wanted it. Or the chance to draw a line under everything and leave entirely.

A choice, either way.

Everything Feyre had said had been true. Nesta had felt her sister’s honesty in her stomach laced with her sister’s scent — pear and lilac. But was Nesta ready to forgive her sister? Seeing her sister curled up in the armchair — stationary rather than moving, the world still — made everything hurt. But when they had been in the midst of action, when together they had fought side-by side, a team rather than two opposing forces, Nesta had felt whole.

Another wave of tiredness washed over Nesta. She was too drained to contemplate it further, so she allowed the exhaustion to tug her down, down, down with both of its strong hands. She allowed her body to mould into the mattress, surrendering to the comforting weight of the midnight blue duvet and the woollen blankets.

Nesta dipped in and out of a sleep infused with pine and musk. Her pointed ears picked up the sounds of someone moving about the house, the bedroom door as it opened. She felt large hands on her forehead. The dip of the mattress. Heard the rustle of wings.

At one point, she had cracked open an eye to see a tent of red umber. Felt the ghosting warmth of a body and soft, even breathing before she slipped back under.

She had nightmares and vivid dreams. At first it was lifeless eyes, cracked wings, screams and blood. But then she saw her mother at the breakfast table, pouring herself a cup of tea. Her father returning from a long absence, his hair smelling of sea salt as he picked Nesta up in a hug. Nesta saw a younger Feyre, her face full of innocence and youth as Nesta read to her, a book of fairytales lying across her skirts. And Elain, brushing Nesta’s hair in front of a cracked mirror, the strands a dull, brittle brown in the weak firelight…

When she woke the next morning, Nesta was still tired but the pain in her abdomen had been dialled back, gnawing quietly rather than roaring.

Cassian was not there.

Wincing, Nesta eased herself into a sitting position just as Mas bustled into the room with Roksana in tow, the latter carrying some dusky blue snowdrops in her chubby hands.

Setting down the tray she had been carrying on the bed, Mas moved to open the curtains. Beyond the deep-set window was a stretch of luminescent white snow and a sliver of startling blue sky, the colour you usually saw in paintings rather than in real life. The Illyrian sky still took Nesta’s breath away, the colours brushed across its canvas so vibrant that Nesta knew that anywhere else would seem dull in comparison.

Roksana started to clamber onto the bed, her small wings stretching as they prepared to launch her into flight, but Mas caught her before her feet could leave the ground. “No you don’t, little youngling,” Mas tutted, placing Roksana firmly back on her feet. “Tuck those wings back in and show Lady Nesta what you have brought her.”

Shyly, Roksana stuck out her hand to show Nesta the flowers and said in Illyrian, “Ecce.”

Nesta did not allow her eyes to widen as Roksana spoke, but she allowed a her lips to tug upwards. She had picked up enough Illyrian to understand the youngling: Here.

“Thank you,” Nesta told the little girl sincerely as she took them from her clenched fist. “Pulchra.”

Nesta darted a look at Mas to check she had said the word ‘beautiful’ correctly and Mas nodded as she kissed Roksana on the cheek and tickled her belly.

“What do you say, sinta?” she asked the youngling.

But that seemed to be the limit of Roksana’s conversation. A shy blush stained her tan cheeks and she stubbornly shook her head, her tangled hair moving.

Mas shot Nesta an apologetic smile but Nesta shrugged it off with a small smile of her own. One word had been enough to make the whole of Illyria that little bit brighter. She longed to give the girl a hug, but she had yet to test the range of her movement given yesterday’s injuries.

“How are you feeling?” Mas asked, bending to kiss Nesta’s cheek before she rubbed it away with her thumb. Nesta wished she wouldn’t. Wished she could let the mark of love sink deep into her skin.

“A little sore,” Nesta conceded as Mas handed her a steaming mug of Frawyley’s tea. Then she admitted, “I’m desperate for a bath.”

Whilst Nesta had woken with no blood on her, she still felt the grime coating her skin like a thick oil. She longed to scrub off the residue of blood and screams, the images of limbs and dead bodies. Durkhanai’s green unseeing eyes floated across Nesta’s vision, and she closed her eyes tightly in a bid to shut out the image.

Sweet, kind Durkhanai. A female, who like so many others, had deserve more than her harsh, miserable life. A female who had decided to fight but had been cut down before she’d been properly able to wield a blade.

Nesta swallowed and Mas cupped Nesta’s face in her hands. “We will remember them all,” Mas said quietly. “Today we will burn their bodies on the pyre and let their souls go. Then they will be free.”

When Nesta opened her eyes, Mas was staring at Nesta with a determination Nesta had not seen on her before.

Mas sat down on the mattress and took Nesta’s hands. She stared at them for a long moment.

“I think I am done, Lady Nesta.”

Nesta froze, scared somehow, at the words. Her heart thumped. “What do you mean?”

Mas’s hands squeezed Nesta’s fingers, and then she looked directly at Nesta. “What I mean, is that I am done,” Mas repeated quietly, but there was a fervent way in which she spoke. Her dark hazel irises burnt with a deliberate intent that Nesta had felt raging in her own on many occasions. A steely resolution. “I am done being ruled by males. I am done being inferior. I have been given a new life and I do not intend to waste it.”

Mas smiled tightly at her and then kissed Nesta’s cheek again. It was a loving gesture and Nesta’s heart swelled. This time she did not rub it away. “General Cassian said someone might have been behind the attacks. That us widows might have been targeted somehow.” The housekeeper huffed angrily. “As if we deserve more suffering than we have already endured, most at the hands of males. Well, I will not stand for it any longer, and neither will the fellow females in my camp.” Mas let go of Nesta’s hands and straightened up, as if that was the end of the conversation — black and white. Obvious. “I will run you a bath.”

She handed Nesta a spoon loaded with liquid. “Take this for the pain and drink the tea for your magic whilst I get it ready,” she told Nesta, “General Cassian told me to let you know that your sister will be arriving soon. There is a consul for the lords. He asked if you’d like to attend.”

Swallowing her medicine, Nesta gingerly eased herself out of bed and wrapped her fingers around her mug. She had been in too much pain the day before to be eased into different clothing and her leathers creaked and cracked as she moved. Nesta winced at the dull throb that twisted through her side. It was nothing like the pain that knocked the breath from her lungs yesterday, but it was enough to be uncomfortable.

Mas shot Nesta an admonishing look as Nesta stiffly followed the housekeeper to the bathroom, but she did not reach out to help her. Nesta appreciated it; she was fed up of being mollycoddled. Only Roksana came to Nesta’s side, her arms wrapping around Nesta’s right leg.

“Hi sinta,” Nesta said, running a palm over Roksana’s messy hair. Hi darling. Mas’s favourite phrase, but one Nesta had adopted for herself when she spoke to Roksana. “Once I’ve had a bath, shall I do your hair?”

Roksana nodded, slipping her hand into Nesta’s.

“How are you?” Nesta asked the housekeeper once she was fully submerged into the deliciously hot water. Mas had slipped in the same oils Cassian had used when he’d drawn her a bath all that time ago, and already Nesta could feel all of her muscles relax. Roksana was sitting on the carpet, drawing patterns into the thick plush of the bath mat with a stubby finger, her little wings trailing on the floor.

“I am fine,” Mas replied, lathering up Nesta’s hair. Normally Nesta would have refused to let anyone bathe her, but it hurt to lift her arms. For the first time that morning, it made Nesta glad that Cassian had not been there when she woke. Had not had to bathe her himself. The thought of Cassian having to bathe her — his hands in her hair — sent a shiver through her, goosebumps littering her skin.

“You’re cold?” Mas asked, raising an eyebrow as goosebumps littered Nesta’s skin.

“No,” Nesta replied, sinking a little lower into the steaming heat of the bath. “I don’t know if I would be fine if I had experienced what you had.”

I wasn’t fine, Nesta thought. I wasn’t fine for a very long time. It’s ok for you not to be fine, too. But she didn’t say that. Couldn’t, even now.

Mas eyed Nesta for a moment, before she continued to rub shampoo into the ends of Nesta’s hair.

“When the life bled out of me, it was not the pain or the injustice that plagued me, but the regret that I had not fought,” Mas admitted quietly. “And when you gifted me with a new chance, I realised that I had a choice; I could let my experiences consume me, or I could use them to fuel something else.”

“So I am not fine,” Mas continued, “but I will let that feeling motivate me into doing something good. I will try to do my bit.”

Nesta craned her neck to look up at the housekeeper. She had dipped a jug into the water ready to wash the suds from Nesta’s hair.

“What are you going to do?” Nesta asked, after Mas had gently poured the water over her head. Suds ran down the length of Nesta’s hair and Mas submerged the jug into the water again.

“You’ll see,” Mas said, her expression tight but promising as she carefully poured more water over Nesta’s head.

And that was that — conversation over. Nesta did not press the housekeeper. Mas had not pushed her when Nesta had first come to Illyria, when she had been a tangle of hollowed out grief and anger. Mas had not raised an eyebrow as Nesta was tapered off the alcohol, her clothes stained with vomit and her body relentlessly shaking. Mas had not forced her to eat when her cheeks were sunken and her figure skeletal. She was like Cassian in that way. Choice after choice after choice. An endless presence. Silent support.

So, Nesta would do the same. Because that’s what you did for those you loved.

Nesta was braiding Roksana’s hair when Feyre arrived. To her surprise, her sister did not winnow directly into the living room but to the front door. When she knocked, Roksana jumped. Nesta dropped her hands to the youngling’s shoulders in reassurance.

When Mas opened the door, Feyre smiled tentatively. “I don’t think we were properly introduced,” her sister said to the housekeeper as she stepped inside in a waft of pear and lilac. “I’m Feyre.”

Blushing, Mas kept her eyes downcast as she bobbed into a curtsey. “I know who you are, High Lady.”

“Feyre,” her sister insisted. “Please. How are you today?”

“I’m well,” Mas said, a blush staining her tan cheeks.

Nesta bit down on the inside of her cheek to stop in place of rolling her eyes. She was sitting in her usual spot at the corner of the U-shaped couch with Roksana sitting on the floor between her legs. When Feyre approached them, Roksana began to scrabble, her small wings flaring as if she were ready to take flight.

Nesta managed to run a hand over the little girl’s head without losing hold of the end of the plait she had been finishing. “You’re ok, Roksana,” Nesta assured the youngling. “This is Feyre, my sister.”

Roksana’s wary eyes followed Feyre as she walked to the hearth and held her hands out to the flames, but she settled back into her previous position so Nesta could finish weave the last few twists to her hair.

“How are you feeling?” Feyre asked tentatively, her softened expression moving from Roksana to Nesta’s midriff, before finally settling on her face. No doubt taking in the colour in her sister’s cheeks that was absent the day before.

“Sore,” Nesta said, because it was the truth. Then she turned her attention back to Roksana. “Now,” she said to the youngling, “what colour ribbon are we going to choose today?”

Roksana pointed silently to a ribbon the colour of pine.

“And what letter does the word ‘green’ start with?” Nesta urged.

Roksana twisted to look up at Nesta. For a moment, she thought Roksana would refuse to speak, but then she mumbled, “Guh.”

“Very good,” Nesta praised with a nod. “Perhaps we can ask Feyre to pass the ribbon.”

Eyes sparkling, Feyre picked up a red ribbon from the collection littering the pine coffee table and asked Roksana, “This one?”

Roksana shook her head.

“Silly Feyre,” Nesta chided. She tickled her finger across Roksana’s chubby cheek as if she were erasing the little girl’s somber expression. To Nesta’s relief, the beginning of a smile promised to bloom across the youngling’s face at the touch. Nesta was thankful to Feyre for playing. Roksana’s eyes weren’t as haunted as they had been yesterday and Nesta was determined to keep it that way. “She doesn’t know the difference between green and red, does she, Roksana?”

No giggle but that small, secret smile widened slightly as Feyre passed Nesta the right ribbon.

“You look lovely,” Nesta told Roksana, her heart twisting as the little girl glowed. “Why don’t you go and show Mas your new hair?”

Feyre smiled as Roksana scampered off, her wings bobbing behind her. Then she turned back to Nesta and produced a letter from the folds of her cloak.

“From Elain,” Feyre said, handing the envelope to Nesta. “She sends her well wishes. She wanted to see you today, but there’s a consul meeting with the lords. Will you attend with me?”

“Yes, I’ll come,” Nesta replied, easing her body off the couch in a movement that she knew to be stiff.

Feyre eyed her as Nesta eased her headband over her head with a wince. She had opted for leathers again today, and although it had been a trial for both Mas and Nesta to get her into her them, Nesta was thankful for it. She was wearing her favourite pair, the material stretched from hours of fighting so that it moulded her body like a second skin. She fastened a midnight blue cloak around her body, the edging lined with soft, dappled fur, and tried not to notice how similar she looked to her sister.

Feyre was also wearing leathers, the close-fitting material complimenting her long limbs and the elegant shape of her body. Around her neck, she had fastened the black leather clasps of a thick silver cloak lined with white fur.

Her hair was the only difference to Nesta. Whereas Mas had braided Nesta’s hair into a bun held in place by a woven plait that ran from the right of her hairline, Feyre’s golden strands were weaved into a tight braid that ran from her crown to the very ends.

Even so, there was no mistaking that they were sister’s.

Thankful that she hadn’t tried to thread her arms through her coat, Nesta reached stiffly for the door handle.

“I can winnow us, if you like,” Feyre said carefully, before Nesta had the chance to bear the house to the elements. No doubt her sister had clocked her grimace.

The old Nesta — the girl angry beyond measure — would have turned her sister down, merely because conceding that someone had dissected how she was feeling made her feel too vulnerable. But Nesta needed to change. Wanted to… to a point.

So, she nodded shortly. “I don’t think I can walk that far.”

Then Nesta turned to Mas, who had emerged by the alcove to see them off. Roksana peeked from behind Mas’s legs, a ring of chocolate around her mouth.

“I’ll come and meet you at the camp later,” Nesta told the housekeeper. “Shall I bring anything? Blankets and warm clothes?”

But Mas only shook her head. “We have plenty. Emerie — the shopkeeper — bought armfuls of blankets and clothes for the widows last night. Durkhanai used-“

“I know,” Nesta interrupted, not able to hear about Durkhanai when the wound was so fresh.

Mas did not scold Nesta for the interruption. She only smiled sadly and waved the two of them off, before disappearing back into the kitchen with Roksana at her heels.

“Roksana is an orphan?” Feyre asked Nesta, glancing sideways at her sister after they had winnowed into the midst of the camp.

Ahead of them, beyond the pointed tents, Nesta could see the outlines of the sparring plateaus. Shadowy, winged figures moved within them, the clang of steel and grunts carrying on the wind.

Letting go of her sister’s hand, Nesta settled her headband over her ears so it was snug. Despite her determination to dull any unwanted noise, she had a feeling that today was going to try her ability to succumb to battle fatigue.

“Yes,” Nesta replied shortly. But then there was a beat of a pause in which Nesta realised that Feyre was right; communication was an issue for them. So, she elaborated, “Mas fostered Roksana when she was first brought to the widows camp. When Cassian found out, he employed Roksana alongside Mas to keep her out of harsher work.”

Nesta had seen the little girls who were set to work in the kitchens, or worse, the laundry rooms. The latter was the harshest of the camp jobs, and the younglings were often required to stamp and wring cloth for long durations of time until their feet and fingers blistered from the friction. It was always easy to tell apart the orphans from the other girls. Their faces were more gaunt, their clothing ragged, their eyes hollow. They looked exhausted and Nesta had always left feeling so outraged she wanted to set the laundry houses alight.

Feyre looked at Nesta sharply. “But Roksana can’t be more than five.”

Nesta’s lips tightened until they turned white. “No,” was all she said.

Surprise wound through Nesta as Feyre took her hand. “Will you show me the camp when you are better?” Feyre asked. “I would like to get a better sense of how things are run here. Children should not be working—”

“There are many injustices here, not just to the younglings,” Nesta clipped, because she could not stand by and allow her sister to think that was the only twisted cultural tradition in the camps.

But then, slowly, she nodded in agreement. If Feyre could make change happen in the camps, then Nesta wasn’t going to let their difficult past get in the way of that. “I will show you,” she conceded. “Mas can help, too. She is like a mother figure to many of the females.”

Silence fell again, but this time it was not uncomfortable. They continued to walk through the snow towards the large tent Nesta knew was reserved for war counsel. It was huge, the canvas at least three times the size of the other tents.

“Do you think the rebellion has weight?” Feyre asked her sister. “Do you think the Illyrian’s have a reason to want a different leader?”

It was a plea for honesty and it was not in Nesta’s nature to lie. So, she said, “I think the Illyrians are a proud race who are ingrained in tradition, but they desperately need help in how they restructure the injustices in their communities. They need to do it without losing the elements of their culture which make them who they are.”

Then Nesta changed the subject, because she could not sense him. Had not sensed him since she’d woken that morning, and it was starting to unnerve her, even though logically, she knew he must be in the tent with the other lords. “Where is Cassian?”

Usually, Nesta would not ask outright, but the more things shifted between them the less she cared. There was a part of her that needed to see him. Did he not feel the same? She supposed she had driven him away one time to many. Was that not what he had said yesterday?

If I remember correctly, it was always you trying to rid yourself of me.

Sometimes, Nesta thought the both of them were traversing down a path that was tangled in miscommunication and mistranslated actions.

It was true that Nesta had told Cassian to leave her alone after the war, but had he not chosen someone else well before that? And despite his dying promise to her, Cassian had left the battlefield with Mor rather than her. That had spoken volumes for Nesta. It was not how the love story was supposed to play out in her head. It told her they were nothing but a tie strung between them, rather than being motivated by true feeling.

Even now, the thought made Nesta angry… Yet, the way Cassian looked at her sometimes, his eyes tender and his touch reverent… It was almost enough to convince her that there was something deeper.

They may be magnets but if that attraction was severed, would there by anything left or would they both part ways without a glance over their shoulders?

“Cassian has been with Rhys all morning,” Feyre told Nesta. “Azriel brought news this morning and Rhys disappeared from Velaris in the early hours.”

Nesta did not want to imagine her sister’s mate curled and sleepy around Feyre, dragging himself unwillingly out of bed. Did not want to hear about her sister existing in a home that had been made without her. A home built specifically for every member of their inner circle but her.

And Nesta had wanted to be left alone initially, but then to see how it played out… to see her erased as her sisters started anew and Nesta was forced to attend…

Well, it turned out that Nesta had not wanted that at all.

“What was Azriel’s news?” Nesta asked.

“I’m not sure,” Feyre admitted. “Rhys left whilst I was asleep.”

“Didn’t he speak to you mind-to-mind?” Nesta asked with a frown. Her sister and her mate were always doing that with one another, especially in the company of others. If Nesta were the sort, it would have made her increasingly paranoid. Instead, it just made her irritable.

Feyre nodded. “He only asked me to come to Illyria and see if you would join us in the war-tent at midday. He said there was an update.” She glanced sideways at Nesta. “It’s harder to speak to one another when the distance is great,” she elaborated. “It’s like we’re speaking under water. The sound is muffled, so he made it brief.”

Together they stepped up to the huge war tent. Feyre had fallen silent, as if Nesta had reminded her of her own abilities and she were conversing with her mate.

Nesta stared at the tent whilst Feyre’s eyes remained glazed. Stared at the black banner that flew from the top of the canvas, bearing a mountain with three silver stars above the monolith - Ramiel.

“Rhys says we are to go right in,” Feyre said finally. “They haven’t started yet.”

Inside, Nesta heard the rumble of low voices. It was not a comforting sound; rough and weathered, rather than Cassian’s gentle rumble that felt like a caress.

“Are you ready?” Feyre asked.

Nesta snorted. “What for?”

“The lords.”

A harsher snort. “I don’t care about them.”

Straightening her posture, Nesta drew up tall and formidable. Even though she knew every male in there would rival her in height, she would not allow herself to be intimidated. And she shouldn't be, not with the double-edged serpent which writhed inside her veins — her welcome friend.

Nesta allowed that power to seep from her fingers, testing it out, winding the mist until it was a string of fire around her wrists; a coiled, formidable whip.

Feyre’s lips twitched as if she were pleased to see her sister’s magic. She held up her own tattooed hand, showcasing the fire that she darted between her outstretched fingers.

Her smile was feline. “Let’s go.”

The tent was surprisingly warm once Nesta had pushed through the heavy flaps. Roaring open steel fire pits crackled fiercely, lighting the canvas and the simple yet comfortable interior ochre.

In the centre of the tent was a large pine table with studded detail, and rather than strewn with maps, it was surrounded by low-backed chairs. In them were the local lords.

Nesta recognised some of the lords cruel faces as she strode inside, her long legs carrying her despite the bark of pain that bit at her side. A quick glance around the table told her that there were no spare chairs, but she kept walking anyway, as if she were nothing but certain in a tent full of testosterone and muscle.

“Good,” a smooth voice drawled — Rhys. “We’re all here.”

He was sat at the head of the table closest to the back of the tent, bedecked in his usual black rather than leathers. A modest crown was inlaid into his unruffled blue-black hair with such subtlety it seemed as if it were a part of him. It was twin to Feyre’s, the stone the colour of the midnight sky and the same as the jewel set into the ring on her sister’s finger — her mating ring.

It was a purposeful move to wear their crowns. Neither of them had done that the last time they had visited Illyria together. The day that Nesta had first met Devlon. When he had called her a witch. The thought amused her now. Her power jumped too, as if it was also entertained by the memory.

The mist wreathing around Nesta’s wrists thickened, gleaming silver.

When Nesta found Cassian, she stopped searching. He was decked out in full scaled leathers and his hair hung wild around him.

With the flickering flames bathing him in a warm glow, he looked indisputably rugged and fierce, but his eyes were on her wrists. Letting her walls fall away Nesta speared for him, just as Azriel had taught her. The method was easy, as if her magic was already seeking him out.

When Cassian’s hazel eyes darted to look at her face, a barely detectable light danced in them. And when her stomach filled with mirth and pride, she knew he was privy to her invisible move.

“What are they doing here?”

All amusement in Cassian’s eyes winked out, his irises turning dark as he snapped his head to the lord who had sneered.

The lord — like all of the most powerful Illyrian warriors — was tall, his entire body corded with unyielding, fierce muscle. Black ink peeked out of the armour at his neck and his hair was close-cropped to his scalp, which was flecked with white scars. His eyes were depthless and such a dark brown in some lights they appeared obsidian, his irises practically blending with his pupils.

They were fixated on Nesta.

Nesta allowed the lord to glare at her. She stared right back, her expression blank but her eyes burned.

He looked unmistakably like his son, Ragar.

“Your High Lady and her sister will be joining today’s counsel, given their involvement in yesterday’s events,” Rhys said calmly, but nobody could mistake the sudden chill of starlight eternal which filled the tent.

A growl of disagreement from the lord. Grumbled murmurs from the other males also ran around the tent.

“A witch has no place on this counsel,” the lord replied bitingly.

Nesta did not let herself rise to the comment. She did not let her power leap to assert authority. Did not need to, even as Cassian’s snarl whipped around them with such ferocity that the fires sputtered.

And then, to everyone’s surprise — before Rhys or Cassian could even open their mouths — Devlon said coldly, “I believe the witch has earned her place on this counsel more than you have, Albar. She is the reason we don’t have more deaths and casualties.”

When Devlon got to his feet, his scaled armour clinked at the movement. Broad wings flared to balance him as he pulled out his chair. And rather than offer it to his High Lady, he gestured for Nesta to sit with a jerk of his chin.

Silence fell but Nesta only drew up taller. Did not allow herself to wince as she seated herself at the table. She felt Cassian’s concern anyway. Slammed up her ice to block him out. She didn’t need the distraction of his emotions right now, not when she wanted to remain collected.

Not when she was trying to block out the sounds of the roaring fires from the open pits.

Rhys waved a hand and two more chairs appeared around the table for Devlon and Feyre. The war lord sat in the chair beside Nesta, just as Cassian settled himself in a chair one place down to allow Feyre to sit next to her mate.

Another flick of the hand silenced the fires. Some of the lords frowned in confusion.

Rhys did not rest his violet eyes on Nesta. She was relieved.

“Since when have we allowed a witch to live amongst us,” Albar sneered, clearly not finished. “We are Illyrian’s. We do not accept outsiders, even if this bastard has a preference for one.”

The way in which Cassian leant forward over the table was slow, but every single lord turned to look at him as he braced his hands on the wood. His seven siphons gleamed threateningly and his face… it was brimming with thunderous calm.

Cassian opened his mouth to speak, his hazel eyes flashing, his wings rustling, but Nesta stopped him before words left his mouth.

She did not need someone to fight her battles. And Cassian did know that, but she also knew that Cassian could not help himself in his need to defend her. She was not angry at him for it. Did not judge. She would do the same. If anyone dared to speak ill of him she would burn them until they were nothing but cinders.

The knowledge was terrifying and soothing at the same time. An irrevocable conflict.

Nesta’s chin rose, determined and unintimidated. “I am not a witch and I belong to no-one but myself.”

Ten pairs of dark eyes snapped back to her, but Nesta acted as if she were entirely unfazed.

“You’re unnatural,” Albar said, his voice cold.

Nesta expected the words to spear home, but they merely bounced off her leathers as if they were made of nothing but a ball of yarn.

“Then I suggest you don’t get on my bad side,” Nesta clipped, holding up her fingers to showcase the mist that was moving with more intent, like a serpent waiting to strike with venomous, pointed teeth.

Albar bristled. But then, with a sneer he sat back, his horrible, dark eyes fixated on her hands. Nesta rested them on the table, kept her power burning slowly. A visible reminder that she would not yield.

“Now we are all here,” Rhys said, “we can begin.”

His violet eyes scanned the table as he spoke, even as he remained sat back in his chair, a powerful king relaxed amongst his subjects. He recapped over yesterday’s events, called in Feyre and Nesta to comment when it came to the start of the attack.

“Devlon,” Rhys said when they had finished recalling the ambush. “Report on the gaps in the patrol.”

A tense silence followed, but the war-lord did not snarl. He only said in his deep, rough voice, “Three of Windhaven’s warriors are missing. Their absence is the reason we were not alerted to the kerits sooner. They were supposed to be patrolling that side of the pass.”

All of the lords sat up straighter.

“Who?” One of them barked. He had a nose that had been so broken, it lay flat and twisted on his face. Nesta had heard Cassian call him Laggar.

“Druis, Alaksandar and Hakkir,” Devlon replied. “Good soldiers. Excellent flyers. Expected to perform in the Rite this year.”

Another of the lords grunted. Nesta recognised him. He was often at Devlon’s side in the sparring ring. His name was Saker. “All bastards.”

“Should we be surprised,” Albar drawled, “that bastards are the reason we have thirteen dead Illyrian’s lying on the pyres today?” He paused as his eyes tracked their way across the table to Devlon. “You have always been soft on the bastards in this camp, Devlon. Look where places of responsibility have gotten us when bastards should not have been elevated above the ranking of foot soldier-“

Nesta could not help but cut a glance at Cassian. His jaw was clenched, but he remained silent. She melted her ice a little, reached for him, felt his anger simmering in her stomach. She contemplated sending an emotion back to him, to let him know that she was not standing for these arrogant males either. That she sympathised, but Cassian was already leaning forward.

The gesture made Albar pause.

“Perhaps you should not be surprised,” Cassian replied quietly, “that bastards may have finally become fed up with those who have cast them out and left this camp all together.”

Cassian’s voice was deathly calm. He did not move from where he was sitting, but the flickering flames of the pit fires emphasised his dark eyebrows and his angular jaw.

It made him appear as sharp and dangerous as freshly forged steel.

And to Nesta’s surprise, not one of the lords opened their mouths. They only cast their eyes downwards, to the siphons gleaming with promise on Cassian’s scaled armour.

“For all we know, the males could be dead,” Devlon answered, his chair creaking as he sat back in his chair. “Lord Slat and I already have males scouting the areas for signs of the males.”

“They are warriors with no honour,” Laggar sneered. “We—“

But Rhys cut Laggar off. “It has not yet been determined why the warriors weren't in the skies. We will not cast judgement until they are found. I believe that is what we call a fair trial, Laggar,” Rhysand said smoothly.

A snort from a number of the camp lords. Only Devlon and Slat did not grunt with derision.

In fact, the latter male tilted his head at Rhys, his round, beady eyes boring into his High Lord as if he were trying to read him. The male was shorter than the others, his hair cropped close to his head, his body leaner but still packed with muscle. His figure was not unlike Lorrian’s — built for the skies — and on the inside of his right wrist, he wore a tattoo; a glowing siphon encased by huge, mighty wings. A symbol that marked him as part of the aerial unit. On the backs of his hands, his four siphons gleamed emerald.

More powerful than the other lords, who wore a maximum of three siphons on the backs of their hands. As powerful as Devlon.

When Slat spoke, his voice was thick, “If you are searching for the males, you are searching for bodies. If they are strong flyers, they will be long gone by now. The skies will have left no trace of them.”

“Even Illyrian’s can’t fly forever,” Feyre said. “They have to rest at some point. It’s been snowing. It will be hard for three warriors to hide their tracks.”

“Not if it’s been snowing,” Albar countered, his voice thick with derision. As if Feyre was stupid.

Nesta bit back a snarl, but she allowed her fingers to spark silver and her whip to glow. A warning. Nobody spoke to her sister like that, unless it was Nesta herself.

But Feyre did not back down. “Especially if it has been snowing. They will have left tracks that can be spotted easily enough from the skies. It hasn’t snowed since yesterday afternoon.”

“What I think we really need to discuss is why warriors would go missing just before a kerit attack,” Slat announced.

“As General Cassian has already insinuated, we are considering it a possibility that the attacks might have been manufactured,” Rhys admitted, arranging his hands so his fingers were steepled in front of his body, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair. He, too, was seated in a low-backed chair, having chosen to wear wings today rather than arrive without. It was a deliberate move. It showed the Illyrians what their High Lord had in common with his subjects rather than how he was different.

Nesta would give her sister’s mate that. He was not stupid. For the most part, he thought things through.

A low murmur ran through the lords.

“Kerits have never attacked our camps before,” Cassian elaborated, when Rhys did not say anything further. Nesta wondered if it was because he was giving Cassian the ability to assert authority. “It is strange that it has happened across three separate camps in a matter of weeks.”

“I’ll be damned if Lord Beron isn’t behind it,” Albar spat, his fist coming down on the pine table so hard the table shook. “Forktail has never had any qualms about organising raids on Windhaven in the past—”

“If Forktail has had no qualms about acting on past feuds,” Nesta said coldly, unsurprised by the lack of intelligence of the males, “then they would not have beasts attack the camps. They would do it themselves.”

A flicker of pride wound through her, despite her walls, but Nesta did not glance Cassian’s way.

“Lady Nesta is right,” Rhys said, before any of the lords could open their mouths to speak. “We cannot assume that this is an attack from another camp. We are considering external forces might be at work. With that in mind, Devlon will be organising fiercer patrols around the camp and it is time for us to erect tougher boundaries around the perimeter.”

Rhys continued, “Myself, my mate and others will be putting protective shields in place for each of the camps. We will not lose any more unnecessary lives when there’s a simple solution to stopping the kerits from attacking again. Your General will work with those on patrols. My spymaster will be present in the camp over the next few weeks questioning warriors.”

“We do not need your fancy shields,” Devlon snapped. “We are Illyrians. We are born to protect. We do not need your magic-“

“Females died because your protection failed,” Nesta interjected with a snarl, her head snapping to look Devlon straight in the eye. Her voice was brimming — shaking — with fervour.

She felt her emotional shields falter, her anger too sharp and ruthless to be stifled. Nesta thought of Durkhanai’s lifeless eyes and the cook’s broken body. Of Mas’s trailing guts as she lay in a pool of blood, Roksana’s hands inside of the housekeeper as she tried to stop the bleeding. “They did not know how to defend themselves yet they did not hesitate to protect your young.” Mist was running rings around her limbs, her whip glowed bright but did not burn — not unless she willed it.

Nesta leant forward. So her face was so close to the war-lord’s that her breath touched his cheek. Devlon did not flinch. Did not move. His dark eyes stared right back at her, as she said, “You will allow your High Lord to erect protective shields around this camp.”

Slowly, dangerously, Nesta sat back in her chair, never breaking eye contact with the war-lord.

And then, to Nesta’s surprise, Devlon gave a sharp nod as he pushed back his chair. The legs scraped on the low wooden platform despite the rugs atop it. “Put the shields in place,” he told Rhys coldly. “We’re done here.”

And then he left the tent, the other lords trailing behind him.

Cassian found Nesta the moment she left the tent. Rhys and Feyre had disappeared to put the protective barriers in place, winnowing from inside the tent as the lords started to leave.

Nesta had not wanted to remain in the war-tent. Sitting straight for so long had the dull pain in her stomach elevating to an insistent throb, so she had risen stiffly with the other lords and left in search of fresh air.

“How are you feeling?”

Cassian’s voice was a low, welcome rumble in her ear — the only male voice that day that hadn’t made her power itch to escape. Nesta turned into that warmth that always seemed to radiate from him, to find him looking down at her with eyes that swam gold.

“Fine,” she replied. “Sore,” she added, when his expression didn’t change but his wings rustled.

For a moment, Nesta remembered the sleepy memory of a curled wing and even breathing close to her. Had he slept beside her? She wasn’t sure if it had been a dream or real. It had felt real, but she had taken a lot of sedatives and her subconscious had conjured images from both dreams and nightmares.

Cassian’s dark features tightened into a slight frown. For a moment, she thought he was going to suggest she go home and rest, but he only nodded shortly.

“You didn’t tell them about the carrion,” Nesta said.

Cassian threw an invisible bubble around them as they walked. “No,” he replied. “Any information like that could strengthen feuds between the camps. Illyrian’s are hot-headed at the best of times, we don't want to add kindle to the fire before we know who is responsible for leading the kerits to the camps.”

Nesta nodded to indicate she had heard him.

“If the missing warriors have sought allegiance elsewhere, I can’t say I blame them,” Cassian admitted quietly. He was staring away from her, his features twisted. “If I had not had Rhys and an allegiance with his court, I might have been bought when I was younger. I was outcast from such a young age… Those males cannot be blamed for hoping they might belong elsewhere.”

Nesta’s insides squeezed at the concession. She curled her fingers around Cassian’s arm of scaled armour, forcing him to stop and look at her. “Nobody should be outcast,” she told him. “It is not wrong for you to admit what might have been, or to understand another’s point of view. That is not a weakness, it is a strength.”

Cassian looked down to where she clutched at him before he met her gaze. Nesta did not back away, made her expression as earnest as possible.

“They are burning the pyres in a moment,” Cassian told Nesta, casting his gaze to the front-left side of the mountain pass. “Would you like to come?

Nesta swallowed. She thought of the cook… of sweet, beautiful Durkhanai who had not deserved the fate the damned Cauldron had dealt her. “Yes,” she said.

Cassian gestured with his arm to indicate that they should continue to walk to the main path that cut through the camp. “Devlon’s changed his attitude towards you.”

Nesta snorted softly, but then she admitted, “I don’t know why.”

“I do,” Cassian replied, but he didn’t expand further.

Nesta took a moment to study his face. Shadows ringed beneath his eyes, his tan skin a shade paler than usual. “Did you sleep?”

If he were surprised by the question, Cassian did not let it show. Nor did he indicate that she had thrown him with the sudden change of subject. “For a bit,” he replied.

“You needn’t have tended to me, I would have been fine,” Nesta told him, knowing somehow that his exhaustion was partly her fault.

But Cassian shook his head. “You had me worried,” he admitted eventually. “The sedative gave you nightmares but you were in such a deep sleep I couldn’t reach you.”

Nesta fought the red that wanted to flush across her face. She hoped that she had not been speaking in her sleep. Did not like anyone seeing her that vulnerable, not even Cassian.

“You settled after a while,” Cassian added, after another pause that had stretched out for a beat too long. And then to her dismay, a stain appeared on both of his cheeks.

She watched him drag his gaze away from her to stare resolutely at the ground beneath his feet.

Oh. Not a dream then. Cassian had slept beside her. Had arced his wing over her.

Nesta remembered how safe she had felt when she’d woken to a dome of umber. How the gentle, even breathing had lulled her straight back under. How she had fallen into dreams rather than nightmares.

“Thank you,” Nesta said quietly, the words barely audible, but Cassian dipped his chin to indicate that he had heard her.

Then she stopped, a sudden realisation hitting her. “Do I need to change? I - What do I wear to a funeral in Illyria?”

But Cassian’s eyes only softened as they took in what she was wearing. “You’re fine,” he replied, his head tilting slightly to consider her. “Warriors wear armour to funerals.”

The widows would be given a warriors funeral, Cassian had informed Nesta as he walked her to the front-left of the mountain pass. He led her on a route that she had not taken before, but which Cassian seemed to know with his eyes closed, his feet anticipating rock and uneven ground before it rose up to meet their feet.

Usually the burning of widows did not draw an audience or demand a ceremony; they were seen as a stain on society, a blemish of which Illyrians were glad to rid themselves. Yet… the act of the widows. The way in which they had sacrificed their lives for the younglings… Devlon had not protested when Rhys had ordered they were given an honourable send off. He had only grunted to show he agreed before he stalked off to make the necessary arrangements.

Sentiments were changing in the Windhaven camp, Cassian told Nesta with detectable hope. It was a positive sign, even if the events leading up to it had been unimaginable.

After a long while of walking along the rocky wall of the mountain pass, a clearing petered out to their left. It was full of too-small ramshackle tents and fae-made fire-pits fashioned by scooped out earth and a circle of craggy stones around the perimeter which no doubt acted as makeshift shields from the battering winds that Illyria was known for.

Somehow Nesta knew what it was without Cassian saying a word, even though the camp was deserted.

“Is this where you lived?” Nesta asked.

Cassian did not stop. “Yes.”

He shrugged, even though Nesta could tell by the tightness of his shoulders that the memory was painful for him. Because of the trauma or the reminder of what he thought to be his own unworthiness, Nesta wasn’t sure.

“This is where Rhys found me and dragged me from my tent,” Cassian expanded, pointing to a spot by a cluster of bare-looking pine trees. “The mud is frozen at the moment because of the snow, but when it rained, the forest floor would become waterlogged. The pine trees provided us bastards with the best shelter against the elements.” Nesta surveyed the thin, red trunk and the pine needles above that couldn’t do much to protect the run-down looking tents below it.

“Anyway,” Cassian continued with a shake of his head, as if he were ridding himself of an unwanted memory. “Rhys took me to the house he and his mother were living in. She was livid, but she told me to get in the tub to bathe or I could go back out in the cold. She never let me leave, after that. Rhys’s mother was full of soft-fire, but she had grown up low-born and knew what it was to suffer, so she gave me clean clothes and a bed to sleep in. I never left, after that.”

Cassian’s darkened expression had caved to make way for something smoother. Yet, it was laced with a sadness.

“She sounds lovely,” Nesta said, not knowing quite what to say. For once, she did not avert her gaze from him. Instead, their eyes locked and something started to turn inside of her. Not her power. But as if a different key were turning in another lock, opening rather than closing.

“She was,” Cassian corrected, and then he looked away, the key jamming in place. “The bastards tents are near the pyres. Whenever there was a funeral, if the wind was blowing in the wrong direction, I’d crawl out of my tent to find the ground covered in ash.”

Horror twisted through Nesta. At the thought of little boys with nobody to love them having to crawl through the ash of flesh and bone. “That’s horrible.”

But Cassian only shrugged and gave her that crooked smile of his, the one he wore when he spoke about the injustices inflicted upon his race by his race. “Yes,” he agreed. He tilted his head in the direction of the trees that ran along the mountain wall. “It’s not much farther.”

Nesta allowed him to lead her across the forest floor through the snow and pine needles. Eventually, the trees cleared and a wide ledge jutted out from the mountain pass, suspending them in midair.

Crowds and crowds of Illyrians had already gathered. No, Nesta corrected, crowds and crowds of females. And it was not just widows and female orphans. Nesta recognised the the faces of females who worked in the laundrette, in the kitchens, as seamstress’s…

Nesta spied Emerie too, standing a little away from the crowds by the mountain wall. Her unusually blank expression was twisted with grief, her tan cheeks stained with dried tears, her eyes red. Durkhanai had worked in her shop… Emerie probably knew the orphan better than anyone else.

At the bottom of the huge pyre, Nesta spotted Rhys and Feyre. Devlon was nearby speaking to Slat. The other lords were nowhere to be seen. Nesta was not surprised, but she couldn’t help the fury that heated her blood at the knowledge that they did not deem the widows worthy of a send off. It clouded her mind, until the fear she had not yet admitted to herself was pushed far, far back: that the sound of the fire would trigger her trauma.

Cassian seemed to know what she was thinking, because his eyes flicked briefly to her headband, as if he were tempted to make sure it was properly secured over her ears. But eventually, he merely jutted his chin towards the bottom of the pyre and led them through the crowds to where Rhys and Feyre stood.

Not long after they had arrived, Nesta spied Mas weaving her way through the Fae with little Roksana in tow. The youngling was clinging to the housekeeper’s hand with an apprehensive look on her face, as if she had witnessed a funeral before and it brought back dark memories. She was hanging back slightly from Mas, her footsteps heavy, her little wings drooping…

Mas did not smile as she approached, but she did not look down. Did not become subservient. Her back was straight, her short, choppy hair ruffled by the breeze. Her eyes were determined in a way that Nesta had never witnessed before

“Masak,” Cassian greeted, his voice low in Nesta’s ear before he bent down to kiss the housekeeper on both cheeks.

Nesta did not fail to hear the murmur that went around the crowd, as the General of the Night Court’s armies greeted a low-born widow not with civility, but clear affection.

“High Lord,” Masak said to Rhys after Cassian pulled back, dipping into a low curtsey. Nesta suspected the two had met many times before. That it was that familiarity that allowed Mas to bury the gender role dictated by her culture. “Thank you for sending off the females this way.”

Rhysand dipped his chin, and to Nesta’s surprise, a dark shadow passed over his features. “Of course, it’s the least we can do. I am sorry we could not prevent their deaths.”

Mas nodded shortly. Nesta watched her wings rustle, as if she were nervous, and then she said, “I would like to speak to the crowds. To the females, before you light the pyre.”

Beside Nesta, Cassian stilled. His chest was almost pressed against her right arm, and he was closer — much closer — than he usually was. Nesta assumed it was him being over-protective. She knew she had terrified him when she had collapsed yesterday. Had felt his unleashed panic, the sensation so fierce that it had practically consumed her. Had been so overcome with it that he had not even bothered to contain it within his shields.

Even so, Nesta knew he had dialled back the territorial side of him that had wanted to snarl at everyone and everything. Knew that he had made the conscious effort to reign it back because he thought she would not like it.

Yet… to know someone felt that strongly about her that they were on edge enough to fight off any threat that might compromise her safety… It was an unusual feeling, to have someone care about Nesta that way.

She didn’t find that she hated it. Perhaps because she knew she would have done the same thing for Cassian. Would not have hesitated to burn the entire camp if it meant he would be safe and well.

If they ever had to go, they would go together rather than apart. It was an unconscious choice, but a choice all the same.

Rhysand’s expression flickered with surprise for a fraction of a second, but then he bowed his head and held out a hand to the crowd. “It would be my honour.”

With a flick of his hand, magic shot from his palms and a bubble slid into place with a gentle glow of violet.

The crowd quieted.

Mas turned to Nesta, passed her Roksana’s sticky hand. Gently, Mas cupped her palms to Nesta’s cheeks, stared deeply into her eyes, as if she were able to see directly into Nesta’s soul and loved every part of it, fire and steel and all. She kissed each of Nesta’s cheeks in turn, just as she had done to Cassian, before she turned and stepped out in front of the expectant crowd.

A surprised murmur ran through the sea of bodies, but the females stood up taller, eager to listen…

“My fellow widows,” Mas started, and a quiet hush immediately fell over the crowds. Rhys had clearly done something with his magic to ensure Mas’s voice rang loud and clear, so even those at the back could hear her. “And my fellow females,” Mas corrected as her eyes ran over faces upon faces, not just from the widows camp but from Windhaven in general. “Today we remember the females who gave their lives for our safety. For the females who offered themselves for the pyre so we could walk free.”

Pausing, Mas took a deep breath. For the briefest of seconds, her dark eyes settled onto Nesta, but then she continued to speak. “Yesterday I was blessed with a new life, and with it, a fresh perspective — a chance to start again. Yesterday, the widows camp was attacked by kerits. Us widows, and the female orphans who live with us, were targeted first because we were banished up a mountain for no other crime than that our husbands or parents had passed. Our isolated camp was subject to the harshest of weather conditions and the most treacherous of paths, not to mention the least safe location in the camp should we be open to attack. Without our High Lady and Lady Nesta arriving early on the scene to fight off the beasts, many of us would not have made it to safety and our death toll would be far greater. It is thanks to them,” Mas said fiercely, looking to Nesta and Feyre in turn, “that so many of us are alive and breathing.”

Mas stopped speaking to survey the crowds, her hazel eyes falling on face after face after face.

No-one spoke.

When Nesta glanced at the sea of fae, she saw that each and every female was fixated on Masak, their expressions stricken with grief and… something else.

“I have been a mother to many of you,” Mas continued, holding out her hands to encompass those that had gathered. “I have taken you under my wing and put clothes on your back. I have never wanted anything in return. But today I do. I ask you to wake before dawn tomorrow and meet me in the sparring ring with a General who cares if we live or die and a High Fae who slew beast after beast to protect us. Two Fae, who like us, know what it is to suffer and who have emerged triumphant despite it.”

Mas was eyeing the crowd with a determination that Nesta had never seen. In the grey light, her eyes danced with a strength Nesta had not witnessed before.

For once, the housekeeper stood tall, the ancient lines of wisdom on her face powerful and indisputably fierce.

“And,” Mas continued. She had fallen into a rhythm now, her voice enchanting — addictive. “I ask that when you travel to others camps, you tell the females of what happened here yesterday. Of how we have suffered but emerged strong. Of how together, we will learn how to defend ourselves, to ensure we are not mutilated or beaten down, or cast out. Of how we will honour those who died by no longer allowing ourselves to be disposable or be told that we are not worthy, because we are. And the next time males or beasts try to knock us down, we will fight and we will win.”

The crowd roared with sudden chatter; the females who had once been silent beyond measure, sparked into conversation, as if life had been breathed into their bodies for the first time. But when Rhysand — their High Lord — walked towards the housekeeper and handed her an unlit torch, they fell silent again with a wave of hush.

For a moment, Mas merely stared at Rhysand. Then she looked down at the torch he had placed into her hand.

Nesta didn’t know what fuelled her to do it. It was as if her fingers moved independently of her body, the digits flicking with an expertise she did not know she had. Silver flames crackled across the clearing in a contained whip of heat. It struck the torch’s cloth with a precision even Nesta was surprised by — that she knew, if she and Cassian had been in training, he would have praised her for.

The torch roared to life in Mas’s hand. Silver flames licked into the fresh, untamed air of Illyria, but then, somehow, Nesta willed them to be silent and they obeyed. As if her power had rolled over at her will, subservient. As if finally, Nesta had understood that her magic was not separate from her, but part of who she was, and as such, bent to her will.

Mas’s widened eyes connected with Nesta’s, but Nesta only nodded, her chin dipping in encouragement. Her heart was bursting, full to the brim with love and pride for a female who was brave beyond measure, despite the atrocities life had dealt her.

The sensation melted through the icy cage Nesta held fierce around her emotions as if it were made of nothing but air, hitting her square in the chest, but Nesta did not try to stop it. Instead, she allowed herself to truly feel. Let her barriers fall away so she could be overcome with it. Throwing her magic out over the crowds like a fishermen casting a net out at sea, Nesta allowed it all to hit her. And as the awe, grief and determination of the inspired females in the crowds wound its way into her gut, Nesta realised that her gift was not just a curse. That it could be beautiful.

Biting back a sob, Nesta stood tall, gathering Roksana so the little girl was hugging tight to her legs. Cassian’s hand came to grip Nesta’s upper arm, but when she craned her neck to look up at him, he was not looking at her but at Mas. His grip remained tight as together, they watched their foster mother — the mother to so many vulnerable Illyrians — lower the torch to the pyre.

Nobody spoke as the flames took hold, even as the pyres blazed with silent silver. Instead, they all stood and watched the dancing flames submerge the cloth bound figures.

Cassian did not drop his hand. Did not loosen his grip, as if he were too caught up in the moment to catch himself.

His dream, for so long, finally coming to fruition. The dream he had held since he had learned of his mother’s fate. Another female who had been discarded and deemed unworthy, even as she had brought life to the world.

Nesta knew all that without him having to speak. Unthinkingly, Nesta brought the hand that was not pressing Roksana close upwards, so that she could slide her icy fingers against his warm ones.

And she squeezed, just once, before she let them drop.

At dawn the next morning Cassian, Nesta, Devlon, Lorrian, and a few of the camps best instructors watched Mas walk to the sparring ring. Behind her was a stream of females both young and old.

They were not just from the widows camp. Nesta spied Emerie and the female who worked in the apothecary. The females who worked as seamstresses, in the kitchens… No camp-matrons, but Nesta hadn’t expected that. They were too deeply entrenched and favoured to sacrifice the positions they have no doubt battled for in their own way.

“They’re determined,” Lorrian murmured to Cassian. He clapped his friend briefly on the back, as if he too knew what this meant to him. “It’s a good sign.”

Cassian only nodded to indicate he had heard, his features tightening. Nesta knew it was because he felt too much. Because he didn’t know how to arrange his expression. Because he had never dreamt that his vision for the females of Illyria might come true.

Nesta could feel all his emotions churning around in her stomach. Had let herself feel them. After the funeral, Nesta had not stacked her ice walls back to form an icy cage around her heart. Instead, she had stacked them into a wall heigh enough to block out lower level emotions. Any emotion that surged would still reach her, but Nesta had found the new height allowed her to filter out the lower-level intensities.

“You will demonstrate?” Cassian asked Nesta.

He turned his head to face her. Concern was etched upon his face and his eyes darted to her stomach, which was clad in her favourite leather’s.

Nesta’s injury had faded away with another night's sleep, and she had woken that morning feeling refreshed and new, as if she had not suffered major internal bleeding at all.

“If you like,” Nesta agreed, even though she had been going to offer anyway. Was not in a million years intending to watch on the sidelines.

“Please,” Cassian said.

Nesta blinked. In all the time that she had known him, Cassian rarely said please. When he had, it was usually when he was begging her.

Please talk to me. Please don't shut me out. Please eat, Nesta.

But this was different. It was not Cassian simply asking her to help him, but telling her what she wanted more than anything. What she had always wanted.

You are useful. You are needed.

So she just nodded, unable to find the words to respond verbally.

The males soon set to work, splitting the females into three groups dependent on age. Then Cassian started to teach. He explained that they would start with self-defence, talked through each move, demonstrating each one with Nesta. When he finished talking through the counter-assaults, he had the groups split up into the three separate training rings to begin their practice.

Today, the females would focus on learning to strike down their opponents with a forearm to the neck, followed by a hard strike to the stomach with an elbow. When they had mastered that, Cassian had informed Nesta during their walk to the sparring rings, they would move on to harder moves.

Cassian had taken his time explaining to the females why each move was important. Why every Illyrian who trained in the rings mastered the self-defensive moves first. Whilst Cassian spoke, Nesta had scanned the females faces; many of their expressions were grim, as if they had suffered from attacks before.

Nesta tried not to wonder how many females had been raped or beaten. It hurt too much, so she concentrated instead on the look of determination on their faces. It blended in with the apprehension, but not one of them walked away.

Afterwards, when the females had finished for the day, Lorrian came over to join Cassian and Nesta where they stood just inside the entrance of the main training ring. The Colonel had been training the eldest females with Slat, a lord who Lorrian appeared to have a terse but amicable relationship with. Nesta supposed that being part of Windhaven’s aerial unit, Slat respected Lorrian’s expertise in the skies. Just the night prior, Cassian had informed Nesta over dinner that Slat had fought in the most recent war against Hybern, but that he had escaped the fate of the Cauldron’s blast because of an injury to his left wing, which had forced him to remain in the war-camp.

“How many females have had their wings cut?” Cassian asked Lorrian as the Colonel stomped through the mud. The weather was still bitterly cold, but the trampling of feet had meant that icy ground had given way to thick mud just at the opening to the ring. Cassian’s expression was grim — expectant of bad news — but there had been a rare light in his eyes that morning which he did not usually allow the Illyrians to see. It was as if someone has swept a hand over his face and lightened the sense of foreboding and worry he harboured when it came to his people.

Lorrian grimaced. “Too many. A lot of the younger females can fly, but I’d imagine they lacked the training as youngling’s, so it will be slow work if we want them in the skies.”

“But not impossible?” Nesta asked, before she could help herself.

“Not impossible,” Lorrian assured Nesta. His eyes fell to Roksana. The youngling had come over to shyly clutch at Nesta’s legs.

The Colonel’s features softened, but then Devlon was stalking over to where they stood, and Lorrian straightened.

As always, the lord’s face was serious, but there was no trace of a sneer across his face. “They are all green and weak,” he told Cassian coldly, his tone matter-of-fact rather than outrightly cruel. “The trainers have been given orders to turn up five days a week.”

Cassian dipped his chin once to show he was satisfied. “Colonel Lorrian will attend every Wednesday,” Cassian replied. “Alongside Slat, he will get those able up into the skies and organise drills so the females can strengthen their wings.”

Cassian and Devlon continued to converse in short, terse sentences. Nesta wondered how difficult it was for Devlon to allow the females to train, when his upbringing told him otherwise. Nesta knew he had only been begrudgingly teaching the few female students when she first came to Windhaven because of Cassian and Rhys’s insistence. That if Cassian was not there, the lord would have let the sessions slip. But… with such a big turnout it seemed that even Devlon could not deny the females the right of learning how to fight. Had not complained to Cassian, apart from to grumble briefly about pulling extra trainers from the male rings to compensate for the amount of new recruits.

Nesta’s attention was pulled away from Cassian and Devlon as Roksana began to tug urgently at Nesta’s leg. The youngling’s wings were flapping with such agitation that Nesta was worried, but when she bent down she realised that Roksana’s face was alight with excitement.

Roksana’s hands slipped around Nesta’s neck, pulling her head down by the loose tendrils of hair that had slipped free of the plait that Nesta had braided down her back when she had woken.

Nesta was so astounded by the fact that Roksana wanted to whisper in her ear, that she didn’t make out what the youngling was saying until she had repeated it for the third time. “Manticore.”

Nodding encouragingly, Nesta looked over to where Caerleon was lying in the mud as if it were a throne. His beautiful, sandy head was raised regally, and he was surveying the scenery with a look that was all-seeing.

“That’s right,” Nesta told Roksana, her lips twitching upwards. “M is for Manticore. His name is Caerleon. Would you like to say hello?”

But that seemed to be too much for Roksana and she scampered off, her wings flapping every few strides as she went to join some of the other young orphans just outside the training ring. Mas was conversing with some of the widows a few feet away and Roksana was no doubt waiting for her foster mother to take her back to the camp.

“That little one has small wings.”

Nesta’s head snapped Lorrian who was nodding in the direction of Roksana. His expression was thoughtful.

“Is that bad?” Nesta asked with alarm.

Lorrian shrugged. “She might have a late growth spurt, but it wouldn’t hurt her to start strengthening them as soon as possible. If youngling’s don’t learn to use their wings, it slows down the growth rate.” When Nesta continued to look concerned, he elaborated, “As a lot of older widows have clipped wings, it is not unusual for orphan younglings to grow up without witnessing their guardian’s fly. It means that many of the female younglings have wings that are underdeveloped.”

“I can tell Roksana wants to fly,” Nesta told Lorrian. “She is always scooting over the ground.”

Lorrian jerked his chin at Roksana with a small smile, and Nesta saw the orphan skate over the mud to meet Mas. “I’ve noticed. Will she let me examine her?”

Nesta frowned. Roksana did not like males. Cassian was the only male Roksana did not shy away from. He had even held her the other day, and that morning, Nesta had felt a fist clench over her heart when Roksana had hovered over to Cassian when he had bent down to say hello.

Nesta knew how it had affected Cassian. Had felt joy flare inside of him as he fell into soft Illyrian which Nesta could not follow. Had seen the way his eyes lit up as Roksana had quietly said thank you as he complimented her hair.

“We can try,” Nesta told Lorrian. “You’ll have to bend down to her level. She’s wary of males.”

Lorrian just nodded to indicate he understood. “She will need to stretch her wings for me.”

When Nesta called to Roksana, the little girl spent no time coming over to her, but she still clutched at Nesta’s legs and stared up at Lorrian with an apprehension which hurt Nesta to look at.

Smoothing a hand over Roksana’s braided hair, Nesta said, “This is my friend Lorrian, Roksana. He wants to take a look at your wings. Would that be ok?”

Silence fell as Roksana’s hands tightened on Nesta’s leathers. When Lorrian knelt down to eye-level, she darted behind Nesta’s legs, only her face peeking around the tops of Nesta’s knees.

But Lorrian did not let her movement faze him. He smiled kindly, wiping all traces of Colonel from his face. It made his features less harsh, revealing the male that Nesta had come to know since first day in The Steppes when she and Cassian had been attacked by kerits.

“Hello, stella,” Lorrian said. “Can you stretch your wings out for me?”

He puffed his chest out with mock importance and pulled his wings wide, straining the tendons. After a little hesitation, Roksana followed suit.

“What beautiful wings,” Lorrian said conversationally. “I’m just going to touch them quickly. Would that be all right, Roksana?”

“Roksana?” Nesta prompted gently, running her hand over Roksana’s head when the little girl remained mute. The youngling was still clutching at Nesta’s legs, but she dipped her chin just once in agreement, the action so wary Nesta’s heart ached.

“Atta youngling,” Lorrian said with another gentle smile.

Quickly, he examined Roksana’s wings, running his hands brusquely over the tendons and bone. He asked the orphan to open and close her claws, to curve and straighten her wings, for her to hover above the ground.

For the latter, Roksana wobbled as if she were unable to balance herself.

When Lorrian nodded to indicate that he was finished, Roksana half-scampered, half-skimmed the ground as she went to join Mas.

Nesta and Lorrian watched her go.

“She’s got excellent control considering her wings are under-developed,” Lorrian told Nesta. “I’ll speak to Cassian about ensuring all of the orphan younglings aren’t being missed out when it comes to flying lessons. I can oversee them myself during my weekly trip.”

“She’s a quiet little thing,” Lorrian added after a moment. “Do you know what happened to her parents?”

“No,” Nesta said. “She’s only just started to say the odd word. The grief rendered her mute.”

Lorrian’s expression tightened. “It’s a good job Frawley isn’t here,” Lorrian said finally, but he didn’t offer anything else, even though the following silence was pregnant. In the end, he added, “If you want to help Roksana strengthen her joints, you could hold her hands whilst she practices flapping her wings a few feet off the ground.”

Nesta nodded. She would do that. Would do anything to make sure Roksana tasted the skies. Nesta knew Roksana hungered for it. The same way that she did, herself.

Roksana deserved that freedom. All of the females did.

“You have Caerleon today,” Nesta observed.

When Lorrian had arrived at the training rings, the manticore had been padding silently by his side. It had only taken Caer moments to spot Cassian. Nesta had noticed the beast’s ears prick forward, but rather than bounding over to the General, he had remained close by Lorrian, his spiked tail flicking leisurely from side to side as his hips swayed. And the Illyrians… they had stepped backwards, their eyes wary as they took in Caer’s huge body and impressive wings. To them, he was a deadly predator under Lorrian’s control. It certainly made a statement. It told them that Lorrian was not to be messed with.

It hadn’t stopped Caer from pushing his head into Nesta’s hand when he had passed her, or butting his head lightly into Cassian’s midriff. The action had been enough to tell any watchful eyes that Caer held an allegiance with them — that they were his to protect.

“Yes,” Lorrian replied. “Frawley insists that Caer likes to stretch his wings, but I think she likes to know that having a manticore reminds the Illyrians that they would be wrong to challenge my authority.”

Nesta’s lips twitched upwards. “And does it work?”

Lorrian snorted. “It certainly makes them cautious.” He turned to Nesta, then. “Cassian says you chose the bow.”

“Yes.”

To Nesta’s surprise a pleased expression wound itself across Lorrian’s face. “Would you like another instructor?”

Nesta blinked at the Colonel. “You want to teach me how to use the bow?”

Lorrian crossed his arms firmly across his chest, as if to demonstrate that he was immovable on the subject. “Of course. I’ve been told you’re formidable in the sparring ring. I’d be honoured to teach you how to fight with my weapon of choice.”

Nesta studied Lorrian’s expression, tilting her head to try and decipher whether he was being serious or not. In the end, she dropped her emotional shield and felt around until she found that air of heat laced with sandalwood - Lorrian. And she felt… no humour. No mocking. Only honestly.

Feeling guilty for having doubted him, Nesta stacked up her wall again.

“I would like that,” she conceded.

A smile broke across Lorrian’s face. It wasn’t the true, unfettered smile she had been privy to in his home, but it was unguarded and genuine enough. “Frawley wants you to come and visit. Perhaps I could oversee some of your training whilst you are with us? Otherwise, I can give you a lesson when I’m here to oversee the aerial legions. It would only be once a week, so I’ll have to trust you in the hands of that brute for the rest of it.” Winking, he jerked his head to Cassian who was striding towards them through the mud.

“You don’t have to visit,” Lorrian added, seeing Nesta’s taken aback expression, “but we would love to have you.”

Nesta thought of the warm cottage, a place that brought only a sense of comfort despite the way she had first ended up there. And… Nesta liked Frawley as much as she liked Lorrian. The witch was brusque and direct, but clearly kind-of-heart. Someone who predominantly chose to heal rather than injure.

Perhaps Nesta could use the opportunity to take up Frawley’s offer of mastering her healing magic. It was the first strand of her power that Nesta truly liked. It felt like it was a manifestation of the most secret part of her, a chamber which barely anyone knew about or understood. That she did not thirst for her ability to bring about death, but to give life to those who deserved it.

The thought sent a thrum of power through her veins, silver turning over to give way for white light.

“No,” Nesta assured Lorrian, who was still looking at her with reserved expectation. “I would like to come.”

“Come where?” Cassian asked as he drew up beside them, so close that his chest was inches from Nesta’s side.

“I’m going to visit Frawley and Lorrian next week.”

Mock-wounded, Cassian threw a hand to his heart as he said to Lorrian, “And you didn’t ask me? One of your oldest friends?”His eyes were sparkling when Nesta craned her neck to look up at him. He winked at her and magic spiked in her veins.

Grunting, Lorrian replied wryly, “I don’t know why you’re pretending that you won’t hound us for a visit. Pick up Nesta and come for dinner. We’ll see you the following week for Solstice, anyway.”

At that, Lorrian turned to the manticore who was still lying in the mud, his large almond eyes blinking in the pastel sunlight. “Caer,” Lorrian called, as he started to spread his own wings wide. The manticore stood, stretching slowly with a wide yawn which showcased his long, sharp teeth and his leathery wings. As Caerleon trotted over to Lorrian, his ears perked forwards and his tail shot up so it was engaged and upright, the deadly bristles at the tuft soft rather than pointed.

“I’ll take you back to the cottage with me when I visit next week then,” Lorrian told Nesta. He looked to Cassian, “Start Nesta on the basics before then.”

And then, with a wide stretch of his large wings, he shot into the air.

Mas found Nesta shortly after Lorrian had left. She and Roksana were the only females left in the sparring grounds. In the distance, Nesta could see the last of the retreating figures of the widows as they made their way back to their new camp, which was set up at the back of the mountain pass, not far from the sparring rings. The new camp was full of green pine trees and forest floor rather than treacherous, ominous rock and battering winds.

“Come,” Mas urged to Nesta, taking her by the hand. “Not you,” she told Cassian firmly, but he had only grinned in that unbridled way of his, before he shot into the skies in search of breakfast.

Together, Nesta and Mas walked up the mountain to the old widows camp with Roksana in tow. Nesta watched the youngling skim across the patches of deep snow. The path was a blanket of white, but despite the bite in Nesta’s feet, she did not complain. Nor did she moan about the dull ache in her side. Instead, she walked hand-in-hand with the housekeeper, allowing Mas to lead her up the zig zag path until they reached the even ground.

The destruction and death in the camp had been covered by the snow, but Nesta could still feel it: the sorrow, pain and terror seeping into her skin, lining her stomach in a way that was so intense that her power surged. Yet, Nesta did not try to push the sensation away as Mas led her with purpose to the Eastern side of the camp. They passed the makeshift canteen, the shell of tents scattered with snow and the rusted fire drums, until they reached the far point where Mas had lain on the ground as the life bled out of her.

The mountain wall loomed up into the dusky sky to their left, running until the ground round at the tip, leaving only a sheer, terrifying drop to the right.

When Mas stopped, so did Nesta. Roksana was a little way off, approaching the edge, and Mas scolded her to come back before she fell off the precipice.

Roksana skimmed over the stone, her little wings flapping at a rate that was faster than normal, as if she had to work extra hard to stay aloft. She collided with Mas’s legs, but the housekeeper only tutted in a way that held no bite, before bending to press a kiss to the little girl’s head and ordering her to stand back.

Nesta did not say anything. Not even as Mas clasped her dry, weathered hands in Nesta’s and peered into her face.

“Diyosa,” Mas said quietly, her voice brimming with feeling — love and anticipation — as she led Nesta slowly to the edge, carefully stepping backwards. “I wanted you to see it first. I wanted you to witness the freedom you have granted me.”

Despite the tears lining her eyes, a toothy grin spread across the housekeeper’s face.

Nesta watched Mas stretch her wings out wide, the movement slow and purposeful, as if she were flexing unused muscles.

And then she stepped backwards off the cliff.

For a second, Nesta was consumed with a terror that gripped fiercely at her throat, but then the boom of wings sounded around the mountain pass and Mas soared up on the wind, her beautiful wings beating hard as she caught an upward draft to climb above them.

Beside her, Roksana let out a cry. Her little hands clapped together and from her mouth… a laugh. Not one of Roksana’s small, secret smiles, but a delighted laugh that was so joyous it rang around the mountain wall.

And it was that, coupled by the whoop of delight from the housekeeper, that made Nesta laugh, too.

Nesta could not remember the first time she had truly laughed. As if it were a forbidden sound, her hands flew up to clap over her mouth, but then Roksana was hovering high enough in the air to pull them away, tearing off that mask that desperately wanted to cling on out of years and years of habit.

And Nesta allowed the youngling to do it. Clasped her fingers around Roksana’s as for the first time that Nesta could remember — through the tears of happiness that poured down her face — Nesta felt joy.

So Nesta laughed. She laughed for the female flying above her who had got her freedom back. For the little youngling who was holding onto Nesta’s hands as she hovered in the air, her wings flapping in desperation to join Masak… to taste freedom, too. And Nesta laughed for herself. For having finally done something right. For giving life rather than death. For bringing happiness rather than sorrow.

Then Mas was diving, her form flawless as she swooped down to take Roksana’s hands in hers, taking the youngling up, up, up into the Illyrian sky brushed with pastel hues.

That was when it happened. Nesta’s laugh fell into an untethered smile… a smile which had been imprisoned for so long. And as she did that, Nesta allowed her magic to reach out again… to sense the emotions that seeped up from the ground from years and years of suffering. But Nesta did not let them surge through her veins to charge her power. Instead, she gave something back. Nesta added a new layer upon the rocky ground that was tainted with death and pain. A comforting blanket of her own joy and happiness. A layer that symbolised that there was hope. That there was a way out of the inky black and the biting cold.

And the camp, which had been full of anguish and pain and unimaginable suffering, suddenly burst with light so pure that it was dazzling. The promise of healing shone from Nesta’s palms, and she stared down at her upturned hands in awe. At the light which travelled upwards to bathe the two females dancing in the air, as they laughed and laughed and laughed.

Tags: @arin1030 @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @iammissstark @lovelynesta @melphss @nestalytical @darkshadowqueensrule @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @grouchycritic7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @princessconsuela02 @lavendergoomsltd @little-diyosa @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @sjm-things @imwritingthesewords @nestable

#acotar #acosf #nessianfic #nessian #cassian #nesta archeron #nesta x cassian #acotar fanfiction

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epochofbelief · 4 years

Text

Breath Control, Chapter Seven

An A Court of Mist and Fury College Swim Team AU

All characters belong to SJ Maas!

Feysand.... and welcome to Elriel.

Warnings: cursing

Let me know if you want to be tagged!

Authors Note: This chapter is a BIG gateway chapter to a lot of things. . . also VERY lightly edited... and enjoy the new POV shift... ;)

Masterlist Link!

SEVEN

~~~Elain~~~

It was around 9 am. I’d been in the kitchen for an hour already, trying to decide what to make for breakfast. I’d started making pancakes, then switched to waffles, then omelets. I’d be set on my decision for as long as it would take me to pull out all the ingredients for my choice, then I’d change my mind, put everything back, and pull a bunch of different things out.

My father walked in at around 9:30, as I was pulling the muffins I’d made from scratch out of the oven. I’d decided muffins were neutral enough that everyone in the house would like them and that I could make them well enough to everyone’s satisfaction. Nesta said I worked too hard to please people.

No clue where she got that idea. . .

“Is no one else up?” my father said.

I shook my head. “Just me and the muffins.”

He took one, buttered it, and made to sit down. He seemed to think better of it, though, because he set his muffin down and stood up straight. “I’d better go wake Feyre. I want to ask her about all those paint cans and supplies she’s left in the garage, and someone has to be here to eat these muffins. Best to do it know while Mr. Night sleeps; I know how sensitive that girl can be about her painting.”

I nodded, standing alone at the counter before I remembered.

“Dad, Dad, Dad! Let me wake up Feyre. I--um--”

He was halfway up the stairs when I caught up to him, pausing to look down at me. I went with the oldest trick in the book. “Girl stuff.” I widened my eyes meaningfully. “Best if I check up on her first.”

I prayed my father didn’t see through my very feeble attempt to make him uncomfortable. But it worked. He clicked his tongue and descended the staircase. “I’ll take your word for it, Elain. Hurry down. And tell Feyre to hurry too…”

It was like he knew. Oh Feyre was so going to owe me.

I bounded up the stairs, not slowing until I was at the top of Feyre’s own narrow staircase. I knocked and entered, ready to get a kick out of what was about to happen.

“Oh, Feyreeee, Dad needs you downstairs.”

Nothing for a few moments. I thought I heard whispers but from where I stood, I couldn’t see anything besides the large lump of her white bed coverings. “I guess I could send Dad up here…”

The whispering became clearer, now, and I made out something like, “Shut up!” and “I’ll handle it” and “Calm the fuck down.”

Feyre suddenly appeared in a very large t-shirt and nothing else. “Thanks, ‘Lain.” She practically hissed my name. She stalked across the floor toward me. “How’d you know?” She murmured.

“Got up for a glass of water last night. Saw Rhysand’s ass as it cleared the top of the staircase. Figured I’d save you from Dad’s wrath.”

Feyre rolled her eyes. “We didn’t do anything. And Dad has no right to dictate what I can and can’t do.”

“Obviously not,” I agreed. “But he could make things very awkward.”

“True. We’ll--I’ll--be down in a second. Please don’t tell Nesta. She’d be unbearable.”

“Tell me what?” A voice like iron floated across the small landing.

Feyre shut her eyes and I cringed. Nesta’s judgment might be worse than our father’s.

“Hey, Nesta,” Feyre said guiltily.

“Feyre. Hi Rhys!” Nesta raised her voice imperceptibly.

A tan hand rose from the bed. “Why the fuck do you have so many sisters, Archeron?”

The light that shone behind Feyre’s eyes was like nothing I’d ever seen before. In either of my sisters’ faces. Or my own. I bit back my own grin. After Tamlin, and the shitty year Feyre had had, I just wanted her to be happy. And Rhys was so good-natured. Didn’t hurt that he was hot, too. She deserved to look all happy despite being caught out by her two older sisters.

“I’d get downstairs quick. And arrive separately.” Nesta was fighting back a laugh. “I can’t wait to hear Dad chew you out for your sex life. For once, it won’t be me.” She smiled wickedly.

“We didn’t--I didn’t--get out!” Feyre screeched at us.

“You’re welcome,” Nesta and I said in unison, and we grinned at each other. Feyre pushed us out with surprising strength and slammed the door.

“That was fun.” Nesta started down the staircase first.

I was about to respond when my phone vibrated in my back pocket. I pulled it out.

Azriel: Mooorning

“Who’s that?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Nesta dropped her voice to a low whisper as we descended the main staircase and headed for the kitchen. “You’re grinning like an idiot, and not in the ‘I just caught my sister with a boy in her bed in my dad’s house’ way you were earlier.”

“Uh, just looking at a meme.” Weak.

“Because you spend so much time scrolling through memes.”

Thankfully, Nesta let the subject drop. I honestly wished she hadn’t. Everyone had been treating me like a fragile piece of glass since the whole Greyson debacle. And while, yes, I wasn’t quite ready to share that I’d been secretly talking to Azriel for the past two months… I was strong enough to handle some sisterly teasing, or even fatherly teasing. Or any kind of teasing.

Instead, everything was, “Oh, Elain, your cookies taste so good!” and, “Oh, Elain, the garden looks wonderful!” and, “Oh, Elain, how’s nursing school?” Nobody wanted to talk about anything real with me, because they thought I wasn’t ready. And if I was the one to start down that road, they’d continue to tread on ice around me and just be grateful I was talking at all. Too grateful to really listen to what I had to say.

Which was why I’d downloaded a dating app two months ago, swiped right on all of two guys before I’d found someone worthy of deleting the app immediately after we started messaging. It’d been a constant stream of texting and snapchatting ever since, even if we hadn’t met up in person yet. My romantic past, Azriel’s loner tendencies, and the fact that he was one of Rhys’s best friends and Feyre’s teammate had made us decide to take things slow. But seeing how happy Feyre was with Rhys--and she didn’t even know it quite yet--made me think that I should tell my sister and then get Azriel to take me out.

That would certainly surprise everybody. Elain made of glass, indeed.

Before I could lose my nerve, I texted Azriel back. Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I reentered the kitchen with a smile on my face, trying not to ponder on the message I’d just sent.

Elain: I’ve been thinking. . . We should meet up… Face to face.

Elain: Like on a date.

I got a response within a moment and didn’t need to check my phone to know what it said.

Azriel: Hell yes.

~~~FEYRE~~~

I slammed the door shut. I looked behind me to find Rhys, breathtakingly shirtless, propped up on one elbow behind me.

“What are the chances that both of your lovely sisters keep their mouths shut about this? Cuz I have a feeling even a mutual love for collegiate athletics won’t stop your father from kicking me out of the house for staying the night in your room.”

I slumped onto the bed and he was suddenly there, filling all the empty space in the room as he hovered over me. I closed my eyes, fighting back a smile. “They’ve had their fun. Sisters don’t snitch.”

He rested his forehead against my shoulder. “Great. Not that I care about you, of course. I’m just very concerned about where I’ll have Thanksgiving dinner if your dad kicks me out.”

I sat up and pushed him back against the blankets all in one motion. “You take that back,” I said playfully.

“Make me.”

“How about I go down there and confess to my dad before Nesta or Elain can rat us out? Then I’d be rid of your sorry ass much more quickly.”

“Feyre!” Elain’s voice floated up the stairs tauntingly, interrupting our flirting.

“This isn’t over, Archeron,” Rhys said threateningly.

I pointed to the door. “Go put on something presentable. Your hair’s a mess.”

He scowled. But he kissed me lightly on the lips before he left the room and I almost told him to forget about family breakfast and stay up here with me, instead.

------

The day passed in a blur. We spent the majority of it in the kitchen prepping for Thanksgiving lunch tomorrow afternoon. After a while, we all retired to the living room and marathoned the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Rhys sat next to me on the couch and as soon as it got dark enough outside that my father, Nesta, and Elain probably wouldn’t notice, he took my hand under our shared blanket and I set my head on his shoulder.

I stayed in his room that night, although we were both too tired to do much other than fall into bed after a day spent in the kitchen. I woke before him the next morning and tiptoed downstairs to let him sleep.

I found Elain and Nesta arguing in my kitchen.

“Why don’t you just tell me who he is,” Nesta was saying in a very low, very dangerous voice.

“Butt out, Nesta. It’s no one.”

“If it was no one, there’d be nothing for me to butt out of, now would there be?”

Elain was gripping the island countertop in the center of the kitchen. Nesta, surprisingly, was cooking up a huge skillet of scrambled eggs. It smelled as though they were starting to burn while her attention was focused on Elain.

Elain’s phone vibrated. “Who is he?” Nesta shrieked.

“Fuck off!”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

They both started speaking at once.

“Elain’s being stupid--”

“Nesta won’t stay out of my own fucking business--”

“Help me convince her--”

I held up my hands. “Oh, both of you shut up! Elain. Explain.”

Nesta mumbled something under her breath that I chose not to hear as Elain sighed. “Nesta thinks I’m talking to a boy. She thinks that she has a right to know who he is--if he even exists,” Elain added with an eye roll, “and that she deserves the right to approve. I told her to fuck off, but she’s not listening.”

I’d never heard so many “fucks” from Elain in one conversation. There was definitely a boy.

“Well, why don’t you tell us? After everything…”

Elain pushed herself back from the countertop, throwing her hands up in the air. “I’m not some fragile teenager who doesn’t know how to speak to boys! Despite what you think about how terribly broken I am after Greyson, I know what I’m doing! And now I don’t want to tell you even more. So leave me alone.”

She turned and pushed through the door that led from the kitchen to the side yard.

I looked at Nesta. She looked at me.

“She better be getting it reallll good to get so upset with us for asking about it,” Nesta said.

I took a seat at the barstools surrounding the island. “Do you think she. . . Do we really treat her like a teenager who doesn’t know how to speak to boys?”

“Maybe. But that’s because she doesn’t know how to speak to boys--or men, for that matter.”

Nesta thought she knew what was best for Elain--and she usually did. But Nesta also liked getting her way. When her way wasn’t Elain’s way. . . It was difficult for both of them. I resolved that no matter what Nesta thought, I’d try to give Elain some space when it came to her Mystery Guy. Even if I was dying to find out who it was.

“Speaking of boys. . .” Nesta began, but at that moment, Rhys stepped into the kitchen. Thank God. I didn’t know what exactly was going on between us at the moment. Discussing it with Nesta would be torture.

“Good morning,” I said brightly as Rhys took a seat beside me.

“Is it?” He asked. Nesta had turned around to find her eggs burnt to a crisp, ignoring Rhys entirely.

“What’s wrong?”

Rhys leaned his elbows on the counter. “My father called. He’s in town. And wants me to spend the weekend with him in my hometown.”

I couldn’t help the fear that gripped me at his words. Was he just making this up because he wanted to escape me? I struggled to keep my voice steady. “Where’s that?”

“Two hours north of here.”

“Well I can take you and drop you off tomorrow morning,” I managed to say. “Would that work?”

He blinked. “I did tell you that my father is a horrible person, right?”

“Not sure you mentioned it. . . But it’s Thanksgiving. You should be with family.” Which was true. Although I’d rather he stay here.

He rolled his eyes. “I can’t burden you with driving all the way out there and back just so I can spend the weekend with a very unideal candidate.” He gave me a look that told me who was the ideal candidate. Maybe he wasn’t making this up. . .

“Um. . . Uber?” Stay here, stay here, stay here.

“Too expensive.” He glanced at Nesta, and then turned to face me more fully. “You could stay with us. We can just make it ‘meet the parents’ week.” He smiled hopefully.

Relief flooded my body. “Well…” I definitely wanted to go with him. Right now I didn’t want to leave his side at all after the past two nights sleeping in his arms. But I didn’t want to offend my family.

Nesta banged the skillet against the edge of the trash can, causing both Rhys and me to jump about a mile. “Go with him, Feyre. I’ll talk to Dad.”

I couldn’t help the smile that exploded across my face. “I guess you’re stuck with me.” I grinned at him.

“There’s no one else I’d rather be stuck with.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag List: @sleeping-and-books @musicalfae @queen-of-glass

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