#perhaps i will bless you with pictures of my focaccia later tonight

[ladynestaarcheron]

Like Pristine Glass - Chapter Thirteen

ao3 - ff.net - masterpost

(tagging these cuties: @humanexile @skychild29 @rhysandsdarlingfeyre @candid-confetti ​ @rhysandsrightknee @missing-merlin @azriels-forgotten-shadow @books-and-cocos @sezkins79 @city-of-fae @someonemagical @dusty-lightbulb @messyhairday-me)

my eternal thanks to @thestarwhowishes for being my wonderful beta. and to you all for being my wonderful readers<3

chapter thirteen, without further ado!

---

 November 7 - 4 years after

 It’s early morning when he arrives in Velaris. He’s exhausted, having spent a long day in the Illyrian mountains after flying back from Gilameyva. It is miserable to be back in the mountains, and more miserable still to arrive in Velaris and learn that it’s not any better.

       If anything, it’s worse. Because he had expected to be happier here than in Illyria—who wouldn’t? The two barely belong in the same court, with one so picturesque and overflowing with joy and the other  a messy series of war camps, still bleeding out from the hasty stitches patched upon it after the rebellions—and he isn’t. He can’t be happy anywhere, now.

       “You’re back.”

       Cassian turns to see the surprised pleasure in Mor’s voice echoed on her face. He gives her an easy grin. “Miss me?”

       She slugs his arm lightly as she grins back. “Not particularly.” Her tone changes, more gentle. “How were they?”

       He stifles a sigh. He worries he might break down sobbing if he lets it out. “They’re… amazing.”

       “Good,” she says, rubbing her hand on his shoulder. “That’s good.”

       Cassian sits himself down in one of  the large armchairs, draping his wings over the back. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s good.”

       She curls up on one of the couches beside him. “You miss them.”

       It’s not a question, so he doesn’t answer. Just nods his head a little.

       He’s heard before, that people who don’t have children simply can’t understand. He has, privately, rolled his eyes. For he has loved before, has he not? Rhys and Az and then Mor and even Amren, and the whole Illyria and the Night Court and Feyre and then for those few months with her in the mountains, he had loved Nesta.

       This is not the same.

       He doesn’t miss them. That’s not nearly enough. But he’s never been one for words, so the slight nod is all he can give.

       “Did you ask her to bring them for Solstice?”

       He frowns slightly; he doesn’t like how she phrases it. It isn’t consciously done, he knows. Mor has no malicious intent. But he doesn’t like the implication that she is bringing them for them, the children, to be here, and not them, a family unit that is he and Nesta and the triplets, to be together.

       But he supposes she is right. If Nesta comes, it won’t be for her sake. Not for a them.

       “I did. She’ll think about it.”

       Mor’s better at hiding her frown than he is, but he can still see it in her eyes.

       “It’s her right to say no,” he defends. Which he doesn’t like. He doesn’t like it because it’s true and it might happen and also because he doesn’t want to have to defend Nesta to Mor or Rhys or Amren, or even Az sometimes. At least Feyre and Elain love her too, and they have some semblance of camaraderie with him in that.

       He doesn’t like it rather selfishly: he wants to defend his right to have his family for Solstice, but because his other family doesn’t see Nesta as part of them, he has to defend her.

       Cassian wonders, briefly, if this is how Feyre ever felt. Trapped between two realms, two families. Or maybe even Rhys.

       “I didn’t mean it wasn’t,” she says carefully. “Just… you’re their father too.”

       “It’s different.” He looks at his hands, callused and scarred. “Even if I had been with them since they were born… I still wouldn’t be with them all the time.”

       “You’re keeping them safe,” she says. “You’re keeping the world safe for them. That’s important too.”

           Sugar Valley is safe, he thinks, but he keeps it to himself. No one will mind, of course. They will be sympathetic. They’ll think he’s bitter, upset, think they can help him get past his guilt and move on.

       But he doesn’t think it ever will. And the thought of staying anonymous in a sleepy town across the sea winks at him from the dying starlight as the sun rises over the Sidra.

---

 November 21 - year after

 The cheery pastels of the clinic were not helping to improve Nesta’s mood. Nor were the mother and child, hand in hand, waiting across from her.

       The child blinked up at her from long lashes, blushing slightly when she made eye contact. She looked away in alarm as he gave her a pleased grin.

       There should be a different room for children, she thought. When people were coming for… this.

       It wasn’t that she felt guilty. She just didn’t want to think about it.

       So she counted the sugarberries painted on the walls, and before long, Dadashov called her name.

       “Good morning, Miss Archeron,” she said smoothly. “Can I offer you some tea?”

       “No. Thank you.” How could she eat anything now? With every movement of her stomach feeling like something entirely different than butterflies.

       “All right, then,” she said. “If you’d lie down, please...”

       Nesta did, fidgeting with her skirts.

       “How does the… procedure… how do you do it?”

       “Well,” Dadashov said, hooking some wired contraption around her ears, “The procedure itself is only a tonic. A bit sour. You’ll stay here for a few hours, until the worst of the cramps have past, so I can keep an eye on you, and you’ll be home by afternoon. Rest for the next day or so. Until you feel yourself again. Before that,” Dadashov continued, either completely oblivious to or respectfully ignoring Nesta’s panic at feeling herself again, “I’ll need to do a quick check to make sure everything is in order.”

       “Everything in order? With me, or…?”

       “Certain conditions in the uterus rendering this particular tonic unusable or harmful to your body are rare but not unheard of. And we’ll need to make sure the fetus is in its correct position.”

       “Where else would it be?” she wondered.

       “Let’s not worry about that now,” she said gently. “I’m going to listen in, all right? I have this sheet… if you could raise your skirts, please… thank you. This won’t hurt a bit; it’s only rather cold.”

       Nesta sucked in a breath as Dadashov placed the circle her wires are connected to on her lower stomach. Cold was an understatement.

       Dadashov was silent for a few moments as she listened to… Nesta wasn’t sure.

       “Hm,” she said quietly.

       “Everything all right?” she asked, feeling stupid.

       “Well,” she said, taking off her contraption and sitting up. “The heartbeat is irregular.”

       “Irregular?”

       “Erratic. Wild. No discernible rhythm at all, actually.”

       Nesta’s own heartbeat sped up, though she wasn’t sure why. What did it matter if the heartbeat wasn’t normal? It wouldn’t be beating by sundown, anyway. “What does that mean?”

       “A number of things. What I’m most concerned about right now is the natural state of your uterus. It could mean it’s shaped improperly or perhaps a growth pressing up against the fetus, preventing it from growing properly and affecting its heart rate. No cause for concern,” she said, giving Nesta a reassuring smile. “I’m calm because you are clearly healthy and if anything is amiss, I am here and we will take care of it. How is your cycle normally?”

       “Um,” Nesta said. “Normal. It’s normal, I think.”

       “Twice a year? About a week?”

       “So far,” she said.

       Dadashov smiled again, her light blue eyes twinkling. “Of course. My apologies. Until your transition, did you experience your cycle once a month?”

       She said everything so calmly, so smoothly. Transition. Like some kind of choice. Or moving up in the world. “Yes. Well. Not every month. Sometimes… but that’s normal. Sometimes human girls miss a month.” A horrible thought struck Nesta. “Is it… could it be something I did? With… a contra—”

       “Neither sex nor contraceptives could have a misshaping effect on your body, Miss Archeron,” she said firmly. “This is no one’s fault. I’m going to do a test. I’m going to be looking inside your body.”

       “Inside my body?”

       “Perhaps you’d like to close your eyes,” she said kindly. “It’s not horribly invasive, but it will feel odd. No, no, you don’t have to move. It’s a bit of magic. I put it on top of your lower abdomen.”

       On top of her… to look inside her body… “Are you going to see...” Nesta trailed off.

       “Perhaps you’d like to close your eyes,” she repeated.

       Nesta did. Dadashov moved quickly, quietly, which made it rather eerie when something suddenly settled atop her. A bit of pressure, squeezing her—odd, not painful, just like she said.

       “Ah,” Dadashov breathed out.

       What was that Nesta could hear? Was it… awe?

       “What is it?”

       Dadashov was silent for a beat. “Miss Archeron, there is nothing wrong with your body. The heartbeat was irregular because I was hearing more than one.”

       “You mean mine?”

       “No,” she said, patient. “Not yours.”

       Her heart gave a lurch. “You mean… twins?”

       “No,” Dadashov said, softer still. “I mean triplets.”

       Triplets.

       Triplets. Inside of her. Right now.

       Nesta could feel her mind shut down. “You mean three of them?” she blurted out, in the most idiotic way she possibly could, her eyes flying open.

       “I do.”

       Nesta closed her eyes again.

       “Would you like to see?” she offered quietly.

       Nesta put her hands right over where… where they were supposed to be. She sat up abruptly.

       “No,” she said. “I need to… think.”

---

 November 7 - 4 years after

 He can’t concentrate during the briefing. After being with them for so long… and then coming back here… it’s too much. He’s angry at himself; what if he misspeaks? What if he misses something? This is dangerous.

       But he can’t help it. His thoughts are elsewhere.

       Nothing had taken away from his love and devotion to this court, to his people, his legions, before. Not even Nesta.

       That’s why she had left. He never could find the balance.

       Not like Rhys and Feyre, seated next to each other, the perfect mix of professional and adoring. Strategic discussions and little touches here and there: her hair, his thigh.

       Is he even a good commander if he can’t concentrate?

       They can sense it, all of them. It’s an odd display of cautionary tact that comes up now, whenever Nesta and the children are involved.

       So Cassian’s not surprised when Rhys corners him after.

       “I’m out of practice,” he says, jerking his head in the direction of the sparring ring. “Join me?”

       So he does.

       He’s better than Rhys at hand-to-hand, and it does force him to concentrate on something else, which is… nice.

       When they’re done, half an hour later, Rhys says, “How did it go?”

       Cassian looses a breath slowly as he swirls around the water in the cup Rhys hands him. “So well,” he says, all the gratitude in the world in his voice.

       “That’s good,” he says, echoing Mor’s sentiments from earlier.

       “I need them.” He’s never said it aloud before.

       “I know.”

       “All of them. Nesta too.”

       “I know,” Rhys repeats. “That’s why I want them here.”

       Cassian snorts. “You want Nesta here?”

       “I want you here. Happy. And Feyre. Elain. She’s a part of that. And I’m certainly not suggesting we move the children back and forth.”

       Cassian pauses. “I don’t know if… Nesta… could be happy here.”

       Rhys is quiet for a minute, drinking his water. “I don’t know her very well,” he says finally, “but I think anyone could be happy here. Given the correct circumstances.” He hesitates. “Have you thought about… getting an apartment?”

       Cassian clenches his jaw.

       “You said you want her to come for Solstice. I doubt she’ll want to stay here. Or the townhouse. Or the House of Wind. Maybe you should have a place that’s just for you.”

       He does like that—that Rhys says you as if there is a them. Perhaps he understands, in a way Mor does not.

       “I wish they got along,” he says aloud.

       “Who?”

       “Nesta and Mor.”

       Rhys laughs. “Maybe Emerie can bond them.”

       He doubts it. The idea of Nesta and Mor being friends is too ludicrous to even entertain. Neither of them are particularly keen on forgiveness, and they have plenty of reasons to loathe each other. Most of which he doesn’t understand.

       “I think she’ll come,” he says.

       “You do?” Rhys wouldn’t give him false hope. And he genuinely doesn’t know the answer.

       “I do,” he says. “Mostly because Feyre thinks she will, too,” he admits. “But also… I don’t know her well, but I do know enough. I know she’s scared to fail her children.”

       It’s a chilling line, miserable to hear. Cassian doesn’t want Nesta to come because she’s scared of what will happen if she doesn’t; he wants her to want to come.

       “There’s a place I think you’ll like,” Rhys continues, either unaware of Cassian’s reaction or respectfully ignoring it. “Property just went up for sale. Four bedrooms. Nice yard. Good location.” Rhys gives him the address.

       “I’ll look at it,” he says.  Four bedrooms, he thinks.

---

 December 19 - Year of

 Despite what Nesta told Emerie before her dinner with Cassian, the past three weeks had not been fake cordial. They hadn’t even been real cordial.

       They had been… friendly.

       They had breakfast together, when he was there. And dinner, too. He always had dinner ready for her when she came home.

       (That was something alarming: she began to think of coming back to Cassian’s house as coming home.)

       He brought her more books to read. He didn’t speak of his brothers or her sisters. Neither did she. They talked about food. About the going-ons in the neighboring camps. About themselves.

       He still teased her, but when she snapped at him for it, she wasn’t really angry.

       She had almost forgotten they were supposed to be treading on eggshells until he reminded her.

       He said, “I need to go back to Velaris. For Solstice.”

       Her eyes flashed, but she was still staring at her book, so perhaps he didn’t see. “Oh, when is that?” she asked, in a would-be casual tone. She knew full well, and he knew she did, too.

       “Two days.”

       “Oh.”

       Perhaps the both of them were thinking… no, they were both      definitely     thinking of their last Solstice together. If they could call it that.

       Then it was Cassian’s turn to pretend. “Do you want to come along?”

       Nesta put down her book and leaned back against the couch. “No,” she said, looking up at the ceiling and locking her fingers behind her head. “I think I’ll stay here.”

       “All right,” he said evenly. He sat down beside her—a little closer than he had ever done before. “Well, I leave you then with this… to keep you company.”

       Nesta looked down at his outstretched hand.

       The chocolate bar. The one she still hadn’t touched.

       A wry sort of chuckle escaped her as she rolled her eyes at him. “Thanks,” she said as she took it from him, her fingers jolting as they brushed his.

       He grinned wickedly. “Anytime.”

       She dropped her gaze quickly. “You’re bothering me.” She took her book back.

       He laughed. “I’ll see you in a few days, Nes.”

       “Don’t call me that,” she grumbled.

       But again, it was only halfhearted.

---

 November 21 - 1 year after

 What Nesta wanted when she stumbled out of the clinic was somewhere quiet, alone, to gather her thoughts. Or scream.

       Instead she got that deer-satyr from Sugar Books, holding up a cup of something steaming.

       “Hey,” he said pleasantly. “I was just coming over to bring you this.”

       “Oh, for the love of all that is holy,” she said under her breath. Louder, to him, she said, “I really can’t right now.”

       “Just a drink,” he said, holding it out to her. “Do you like chocolate?”

       She bit her lip. She did like chocolate. She did not like feeling like she owed males something.

       “Just take it,” he encouraged. “And come on. I can show you some place nice to sit.”

       It wasn’t that she wanted to go with him. It’s that she had nowhere else.

       “I don’t know what to do,” she said, not realizing she had spoken aloud until he answered.

       “About what?”

       “I don’t...” she mumbled to herself. “I don’t think… I can’t...”

       “Woah, Nesta. Here. Sit down. Here, drink some of this.”

       It wasn’t the same. One was quiet, a bad memory, hazy. Something she could convince herself didn’t happen.

       But three? Three was so… real. Three different beings. Three different people! How could there be three people inside of her, growing and feeding off of her? All together? How small must they be, for them all to fit?

       And they all had heartbeats. Three tiny hearts, beating out of sync with each other deep inside her. Each of them with its own rhythm, its own strong pulse.

       In another life, another world, another body, three sisters had once shared a bed. What would have happened if they had shared time in the womb? All three of them, together?

       Sisters deserved beds of their own, that much she knew for sure.

       Three was too much. Too much to think about, and yet too much to have.

           Bad things come in threes. Didn’t they say that? People said that, she was sure of it.

       Maybe, she thought wildly, she could keep one. Just one. And the others… somehow…

       No. That was crazy. She couldn’t do that. Could she?

       And how would she choose?

       “I can’t do this,” she said again.

       “Nesta, please, drink this.” Zayn wrapped her fingers around the cup. “Go on, drink.”

       As the hot, berry-chocolate drink slipped down her throat, she realized three other people were going to have it, too.

       “I—I,” Nesta stammered.

       “What is it?” He sounded too eager. Was that concern?

       “I… I have to… get a house.”

---

 November 8 - 4 years after

 Rhys was right. He does like the house.

       It’s a great location. Comfortable walk from the bank of the Sidra he always sees families play. Close enough to the Rainbow that they can walk there, too. A bakery on the corner, a butcher’s just beyond, and a market a block down. And a nursery, too, just three streets away.

       It’s spacious. Big windows and less doors than there are rooms. There’s a proper dining area—Nesta’s house doesn’t really have one, just the table in the kitchen.

       Of the bedrooms, two are a bit smaller than the third, so that, he supposes, is where the children can stay while they all sleep in the same room. A nice tub in that bathroom, which is good, they’re still small enough that they bathe together…

       And he’s just pushed open the door to the master when he hears Amren say from behind him, “In the market for a family home?”

       He turns. “Are you? I thought Varian was looking romanced last I saw him. That explains it.”

       She rolls her eyes where she once might have bared her teeth. “Close to a nursery,” she says, pushing past him to stand in the room. “And you can see all the way to the park from here,” she adds,  peering through the window. “Good for if you’re staying in bed.”

       Now Cassian rolls his eyes, if only to hide the clench in his jaw.

       “Is she coming for Solstice, then?”

       Amren says it the same way she says everything: cool, detached, unbothered. But Cassian knows. “She hasn’t given me an answer yet.”

       Amren pretends to take interest in the sample decorative pillows. “What do you think she’ll say?”

       “I don’t know. Yes, I hope.”

       She puts down the pillow. “You’re too hopeful. It doesn’t help you think.”

       “You’ve not asked about her at all,” he says, sitting down on the bed.

       “I don’t think there’s anything I want to know.” She doesn’t say it with malice.

       “You don’t care?”

       “She’s alive. She’s fine.”

       “We thought she was dead.”

       “We were wrong.” She pauses. “If you had known… where she was… would you have gone?”

       “Of course,” he says immediately.

       “Why did you not go when you knew she was in Montesere?”

       He flinches. Do you even care about her? is what she’s asking. Is it only for the children?

       Every regret he has has something to do with her.

       “Why didn’t you go?”

       “I do not go now,” she says simply. “I was angry when she left. When we thought she was dead and we looked for her I was angry. And I’m angry now.”

       “She’s not the only one to blame.”

       Amren shrugs. “I can be angry at more than one person. Don’t sit on the bed like that.”

       “Like what?”

       “Longing. Yearning. Pathetic.”

       “I’m not yearning.”

       “You are. It doesn’t flatter you. Nesta will come.”

       “How do you know that?” She sounds so certain, so matter-of-fact and cavalier.

       She gestures to him. “It’s not one-sided.”

       Cassian moves his eyes out towards the window, feeling very out his element. “She has a life of her own.”

       “I know about her bookstore. That doesn’t matter.”

       “It matters.”

       She waves a hand. “Not in the grand scheme of things. Nesta Archeron is very much herself. She doesn’t change. She decides on things before she knows she wants them. And she doesn’t change her mind.”

       Amren leaves him alone with his thoughts. She’s simplifying things, he knows, but he desperately hopes the core of it is right.

       She had asked him why he didn’t go. He waits in masochistic anticipation for the day Nesta asks him that as well. Why he had not followed up on her letters, vague and frustrating as they were.

       There’s nothing he can really do about it now. Except maybe make an offer on the house.

---

Chapter Fourteen