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danydragons21 · 2 years

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The Shadows That Sing: Ch. 19

Read it on ao3 here.

This is the 3rd chapter I'm posting in 2 weeks and I am in AWE of myself but also do NOT get used to it because I make no promises for future updates to be this quick...But I also make no promises that they won’t be quick. lol. Anyway, enjoy ;)

Chapter 19: The House of Truth

Elain had been in Velaris for less than 24 hours, but she was already ready to leave.

Too incensed from her outburst, it had taken her hours to fall asleep, and she still woke up at dawn. Anger truly was the best alarm clock. And now, hours after waking, she found herself pacing around her room in the River House, absorbed in her resentment.

Elain was neither foolish nor cruel enough to pretend she was innocent of any blame. She had made plenty of mistakes, had done harm to people she cared about, and would spend the rest of her life trying to rectify and never repeat those mistakes. But so much of her anger — the anger she held in the deepest, darkest recesses of her heart — was directed at her elder sister.

Nesta’s cruelty was not malicious or filled with ill-intent. She knew her sister had demons that haunted her every hour, and only this past year had she truly learned to confront and tame them. But that didn’t mean the decades of words and actions Nesta had imparted on Elain didn’t leave a raw and searing mark on her soul. And after all these years, she had finally had enough of her sister assuming what was best for her. Enough of everyone, Rhys and Feyre and all the rest, making important decisions for her. It was nothing short of blatant disrespect. And she was done with it.

She kept waiting for the shame to hit her, for the regret to creep in about how emotionally vulnerable she’d been the night before. But instead of regret, all she felt was clean. Like some grimy, contaminated piece of her soul had been scrubbed raw.

Her Fae ears pricked up as she heard someone walking up the stairs, heading for her room. A groan bubbled up in her throat; she swallowed it down. Thus far, she’d successfully avoided all contact with the others in the house, a feat she’d accomplished by refusing to leave her room. She still wasn’t ready to face anyone, but it seemed that once again, she did not have a choice. Summoning all her goodwill, she tried to paste a neutral smile on her face; one glance in the mirror told her the effort was hopeless. She may as well not try at all.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Elain whipped around to find a beautiful, golden-haired female leaning against the doorframe, her bright brown eyes sparkling.

“Mor,” she smiled, genuinely this time. “What are you doing here?”

“I’d planned to arrive last night in time for the Inner Circle meeting, but unfortunately I was delayed,” Mor said. “A meeting which, after hearing about what I’ve decided to coin ‘Elain’s Great Eruption,’ I’m quite sorry to have missed.”

Her jaw tightened. “I don’t regret saying any of it,” she said stiffly.

“And you shouldn’t,” Mor replied. “You’ve been expected to say nothing for far too long. I am glad you gave them all a piece of your mind.”

Elain blinked. “Thank you,” she murmured, unsure what else to say.

Mor shrugged and then sat in the middle of the bed, bouncing slightly on the mattress. “It’s just the truth.”

“Well, you would know,” Elain gave her a crooked grin. Mor returned it with a smirk of her own.

“I would,” she agreed. “You don’t have to tell me, but…what in the gods’ names did Rhys do to you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so ashamed in his life.”

Elain sniffed. She sure hoped he felt shame. “He didn’t tell you?”

“No. Nor would Feyre, though from the way she was glaring at him, I’m certain she knows.”

Well, it was only a matter of time before everyone else knew, too. It’s not like she had tried to hide her problem with Rhys, even if she didn’t explicitly state what it was. She may as well tell Mor, even if her history with Azriel was complicated, to say the least.

“This past Solstice, Azriel and I… shared a moment,” she said carefully. Mor’s expression did not change, so she continued. “We were drunk and it was late, and I suppose we were both lonely…and we almost kissed.” Well, that was close enough to the truth. No need to elaborate on her incredibly confusing feelings for the Spymaster.

“Almost?” Mor raised an eyebrow.

“Almost. Rhys happened upon us before we could, and spoke to Azriel via his Daemati powers. Told him that he had to stop immediately, and then later ordered him to stay away from me. I just found out recently.”

Mor’s mouth dropped open. “He did not,” she said in a hushed voice. “That rat bastard!”

Unable to help it, Elain let out a dry laugh. “My thoughts exactly.”

“So…you and Azriel…has anything else, you know…happened?”

“Oh, no,” she said. Her voice was slightly higher-pitched than usual, but she didn’t think Mor noticed. “Nothing has happened. And nothing will happen. We are just friends. But it’s the principle of the thing. Rhys has no right to control what does or doesn’t happen in either of our personal lives, certainly not for such ridiculous political reasons.” In truth, Elain knew that the reasons weren’t entirely ridiculous, even if they were unfair…but she was still too upset to let rationality rule.

“He doesn’t. And I’m glad you stuck up for yourself. Rhys is a stubborn old male sometimes, and has to be reminded every once in a while that being High Lord doesn’t mean he always knows what is best.”

“Well, I’m happy to be of service in the telling-Rhys-off department.”

Mor laughed. “ So when are you going back to the Mortal Manor?”

“As soon as possible. I was hoping to leave before noon, but I think Azriel is still on a mission right now, and…” She glanced through the window, to where the sun was shining brightly. It might already be noon.

“And you don’t want to ask any of the others to take you?” Mor finished.

Elain sent her a guilty look. “Not particularly, no,” she admitted.

“I can take you, if you’d like,” Mor said brightly. “Are you sure you don’t want to say goodbye to everyone first?”

“I’m sure,” she said firmly. “And that would be wonderful. Thank you.”

“Of course,” Mor smiled, squeezing her arm. Then she cocked her head to the side slightly, a curious look on her face.

“What?” Elain asked, rather defensively.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else wrong?”

Elain didn't even hesitate. “Of course I’m sure.”

“I see,” Mor said, still staring at her intently. Elain looked away. That was the problem. She was worried her friend did see.

***

She was in Pentalos again, walking along the cobbled streets of the trading market. Salty air tickled her nose. The large golden wheel glittered in the sun. As she passed it, she took a sharp left turn, heading down an alleyway she had not visited before. A few minutes later she stopped in front of a curiously cylindrical building, made entirely of rock, seashells embedded throughout. A bright red door was built into the stone.

Elain woke up with a start, panting. A shaky hand passed over her forehead, wiping away the thin layer of sweat coated there. She was in her room at the Mortal Manor; it was dark outside. She vaguely recalled laying down shortly after Mor had dropped her off at the Manor, since all the members of the Band of Exiles were occupied; apparently, her exhaustion had finally caught up to her. As she steadied her breathing, and as she recounted the vision that had awoken her, clarity rose like the tide.

Minutes later, she was outside of Azriel’s bedroom door. She knocked quietly, unsure if he was even inside; she didn’t know if he was back from his mission, after all; didn’t know if he would return here or go to Velaris, especially given the way things had been left the last time they’d spoken. But the vision she’d just had took precedence over any residual animosity she felt about the situation. And Azriel was the only one she could speak to about it.

The door opened. Azriel stood there, wearing nothing but tight black undershorts, rubbing his sleepy, puffy eyes. His shadows were moving slower than usual, as if they too had been resting.

“Elain,” he said. “Good morning. I mean, good night? I mean—”

“I had a vision,” she interrupted.

He blinked. “Of what?”

“Pentalos. We need to go back there.”

Running a hand over his jaw, he said, “I just returned from there, Elain. I checked all the islands and still could not find a sign of the Autumn Court soldiers.”

“No. My vision wasn’t about the Autumn Court soldiers.”

His shadows stopped their lazy circles as Azriel’s eyes narrowed. “Then what was it about?”

Lifting her chin, she did her best to look authoritative to someone who was nearly a foot taller than her. “Take me there now, and I’ll show you.”

He frowned. “Now? It’s the middle of the night, Elain. I’m exhausted. You’re exhausted.”

“I’m feeling rather energized, actually.”

“We can’t just show up there, we need to plan ahead—”

“Why? It won’t take long. I know exactly where to go. You shadow-travel us there. We go where my vision told me to go, learn whatever it is I’m supposed to learn. Then we leave. Easy as pie.”

“You have clearly not been on enough spy missions if you think things will go that smoothly.”

“Please, Azriel. I need to go. Now.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, she knew she had won. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Come in while I get dressed.”

She shut the door softly behind her. Azriel was halfway across the room, pulling out his Illyrian leathers from a dresser. Her mouth watered slightly at the sight of his broad, toned back, the shoulder muscles jutting out like mountain peaks. She shook her head and cast her gaze on the ceiling instead.

“I’m surprised you’re talking to me.” His voice was flat, level, but Elain could detect the slightest trace of trepidation. Like he truly had not expected her to want to speak to him. Whatever iciness she still felt toward him melted away in an instant.

“I’ve decided that you are not the one who deserves my anger, after all,” she said as lightly as possible.

He turned around, fully dressed now. His face was just as detached as his voice, but there was a curious glint in his hazel eyes.

“So you are not angry with me?”

“No. Are you angry with me?”

He frowned. “Why would I be angry with you?”

“I sort of…let Rhys have it last night. He knows that I know about Solstice, and even though I didn’t explicitly say you were the one who told me, he’ll probably figure it out. He might be angry at you.”

Azriel just shrugged. “I truly don’t care if he’s angry with me.”

“But you care if I’m angry with you?” She asked.

He stared at her with those unreadable eyes. “Yes.”

Her throat bobbed again, and her stupid, once-mortal heart started racing unreasonably fast as he approached her.

“Ready?”

Before she finished nodding, they were twisting away into the familiar, all-encompassing darkness.

***

With the golden wheel as a marking point, it was quite easy to find the seashell-coated building she’d seen in her vision. Up close, she could see now that it was some sort of shop. It looked even shabbier than it did in her vision. Ramshackle shutters framed dirty windows, creaking eerily in the sea breeze. A hand painted, wooden sign hung over the door, bearing the words “The House of Truth.” And underneath, in smaller font: “Fortune-Telling by the Esteemed Lady Margota.”

Azriel snorted. “A fortune-teller.” He shook his head. “This is a waste of time, Elain. Fortune-tellers are nothing more than frauds, wheedling money out of those desperate for answers they cannot provide. Besides, what more could this ‘Lady Margota’ tell you that you don’t already know? You are an actual seer, after all.”

“I’m not sure. Let’s find out, shall we?” And Elain led the way into the shop.

It looked less like a business and more like a storage unit for discarded items. There was barely any space to walk; she and Azriel were uncomfortably close as they wove around the countless knick-knacks littered throughout the room: threadbare poufs and sofas missing legs; chests made of decaying wood; a dusty old glass tank, taller than Azriel, filled with murky water. Elain shuddered, deciding she did not care to ever learn what kind of creature dwelled in that tank. Shelves lined the walls, candles of every shape, size and color upon them. The smell of sickly-sweet perfume hung in the air, stagnant and overwhelming.

A stooped, short male appeared behind the counter. “How can I help you?” He asked promptly.

“We’d like an audience with Lady Margota, if she is available,” Elain said, ignoring the glare Azriel sent her.

The male nodded. “Wait here a moment.” He turned to leave before spinning back around. “Don’t touch anything,” he warned, and then walked out the door he’d entered through.

“You think they’d consider a little organization if these objects are so valuable,” Azriel muttered. Elain bit her lip to hide her grin.

The male returned. “Lady Margota will see you now.” They followed him into a long hallway. At the end stood a doorway, framed by crimson, velvet curtains. The male pointed. “She’s just through there.” And without further ado, he returned to the storefront, leaving Azriel and Elain alone once again. They began to walk toward the curtains. They were almost there when Azriel’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” he said quietly, just in case someone was listening.

She wrenched her wrist away. “This place appeared to me for a reason.” Her voice was equally as hushed. “You can either come with me and find out what that reason is, or wait outside while I find out for myself,” she said, her teeth bared. Then she whipped around and pushed back the heavy curtains.

They entered a wide and circular room. Mismatched rugs, tattered and worn, covered nearly every surface of the floor. The heavily-perfumed air was marred slightly by the musty scent of mildew and mothballs.The only light came from the candles littering the circular table in the very center of the room and the triangular skylight directly overhead; the moon peered dimly through the dusty glass.

At the head of the table sat a female Fae. From her position, Elain could barely make out the female’s features, save for her eyes. They were green and cat-like in shape, curiously luminous. Something about them reminded her of Amren’s eyes, or the way they used to be, and Elain was suddenly sure that this was no ordinary Fae.

“Hello, my dears,” the female said. Her voice was low and silky. “Sit with me, please.” A pale hand gestured to two open chairs. After exchanging a sideway glance, she and Azriel hesitantly sat down at the opposite end of the table. From this closer angle, Elain could now clearly see the female’s face. She was older for a Fae—at least twice Azriel’s age, if not more—but still classically, immortally beautiful. Raven-black hair hung in elaborate curls around sharp cheekbones, and those green eyes were even more fascinating up close.

“Hello,” Elain said. Her voice seemed to echo throughout the chamber, even though she’d spoken barely above a whisper.

“Welcome to the House of Truth. My name is Lady Margota.”

“My name is Sonia,” Elain said. No way in hell was she giving this female her real name. “And this is Roach.” Azriel did not even twitch a muscle at the ugly name, but a shadow surreptitiously poked her in the ribs.

“Sonia and Roach,” Lady Margota repeated. “Tell me, what brings you both here today?”

“I’m wondering if you could help me answer some questions I have. Questions about my magic.”

“Ah, on a quest to discover the truth of your abilities? I can certainly help with that,” she said sagely. “I’ve told many visitors all they want to know about themselves. Such is the gift of truth, which I possess limitlessly.” A long yellow nail pointed at them. “I will, of course, require payment.”

“Of course, how much do you—” Elain started, but Azriel interrupted her.

“You can cut the act,” he said angrily. “We don’t believe in fortune-telling.” Elain sent him an annoyed look. “You are not a true seer. Your trade consists of lucky guesswork and spooky ambiance. Why should we pay you for that?”

Lady Margota’s serene expression did not change, but the candles flickered ominously, as if a cold wind had blown through the room. “I am not a true seer, no. Nor do I pretend to be,” she said coldly. “My gift is something else entirely, but arguably just as valuable.”

“And what might that be?” He asked skeptically.

The Lady of the House of Truth rolled back her shoulders. Those strange green eyes seemed to glow a little brighter. “I am a Blood Oracle.”

Elain had no idea what a Blood Oracle was, but from the way Azriel immediately straightened up, one hand shooting to the hilt of Truth-Teller and the other spanning protectively across her waist, she knew it couldn’t be good.

“A Blood Oracle,” he snarled.

“You should take your hands off your weapon. It would do no good to start a fight when your friend is so close to the answers she craves.”

“We’re leaving, Sonia. Come on.” He stood up but Lady Margota spoke again. “I am not like the other Blood Oracle you have met. Or at least, I have not been that way in a long time. But you should know that, seeing as we are a nearly extinct breed. One that you helped eradicate. You are an Illyrian warrior, no?”

Azriel stared at her with dark, unreadable eyes. “The Blood Oracles went on a rampage. They ravaged villages, looted and plundered and killed,” he said finally. “We did what we had to do.”

“You’re right,” the Lady said. “We were out of control. But seeing as I am one of the few who survived, it must be because I stood down in the end, no? Turned against my own kind and was allowed to live because of it?”

Slowly, Azriel sat back down, but his eyes remained fully trained on the female.

“Will someone please tell me what a Blood Oracle is?” Elain asked.

“A Blood Oracle is a Fae whose powers allow him or her to read a person. To know the truths and secrets that make up their very essence.”

“What do you mean, read them? Like read their minds?”

“No. Blood Oracles are not Daemati, and vice versa. Our powers enable us to discover certain…attributes a person possesses. Attributes that they themselves might not even know.”

“How?” Elain’s eyes were wide.

The Oracle raised an eyebrow. “By tasting the blood of the person in question.”

Elain blinked in shock. Um. What ?

“You drink blood?” Her question was little more than a whisper.

“On occasion,” Lady Margota answered, waving her hand casually. “It is not a staple in my diet, if that’s what you are wondering. More like a dessert I get to indulge myself with every once in a while, especially these last few centuries. And don’t worry—I never drink much blood when I am reading someone.”

Deciding to move past the fact that the Fae who sat in front of her was a veritable vampire, she asked, “If you were to read me…what could you tell me? What information could you give me?”

“Oh, a plethora of things. I could tell you the color of your great-grandfather’s eyes. Recount the precise date of your very first moon blood. Discover what diseases you are particularly susceptible to. Discern how many sexual partners you’ve had, and which one brought you the most pleasure.” Elain went bright red, suddenly very grateful for the dimness of the room. “I can even tell you exactly what kind of magic lives inside of you. You see, our blood carries memories. It is our past and our present and our future written in one genetic code, flowing in our very veins. All it would take is one taste, and I could give you the answers about your powers that you so desperately seek.”

Lady Margota reached behind her and slowly pulled out a small silver knife. Azriel growled in warning. “Calm yourself, Roach,” the Oracle said dryly. She offered the hilt to Elain. “All you need to do is cut your palm—a nice, shallow cut, all the way across. Just enough so you bleed. And then… then you let me have a taste.” She smiled, and it made her stunning face look rather wicked.

“Sonia,” Azriel hissed. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

She ignored him. Her heart was beating fast. I could give you the answers about your powers you so desperately seek. Oh, gods above, she wanted those answers. Wanted the truth. Then another voice rang in her head, joining the Oracle’s. “Maybe you’ll become interesting at last, Elain.” Her sister’s cruel words still stung. But this was not about being interesting, not about impressing anyone. This was about discovering what she could do. Discovering what exactly she was capable of. As a Seer, as a Healer…as maybe something more.

A reckless abandon rushed through her. “Yes,” she whispered, and before Azriel could move, she grabbed the knife and ran it across her palm. The cut burned, but she ignored the stinging pain and held out her hand to the Oracle, watching in equal parts fear and fascination as a few drops of her crimson blood drizzled on the table.

She could feel Azriel’s gaze, fierce and scorching, burning a hole in the side of her head, but she didn’t care. No. All she cared about was finally getting the truth.

Lady Margota bent down, inhaling deeply through her nose. She closed her eyes and groaned slightly. “Your blood smells delicious.” Elain didn't even have time to process how weird that was when the Oracle latched her lips onto the cut. A gasp escaped her at the sudden burn, but a moment later it abated into a pulsing, rather pleasant pressure.

“That’s enough,” Azriel growled after a moment. Apparently Lady Margota agreed, for she lifted her head and opened her eyes. They were nearly as bright as the candles now. Like Elain’s blood had invigorated them.

“You taste as good as you smell,” the Lady told her, leaning back in her chair. A sated grin lazily crossed her face, her lips ruby-red. Elain was not sure what the hell she was supposed to say to that.

“So…what did you learn?” She asked.

“Your blood…it tastes powerful. Bright and citrusy and powerful . I’ve never tasted anything like it. Not in my thousand years of life. It is completely new to me.”

Elain frowned. “So you can’t tell me what my magic means?”

“I didn’t say that. Only that your blood is a unique sort of cocktail.” She tilted her head. “You taste like a healer, but you are…not a healer.”

"What do you mean I am not a healer? I’ve healed things before.”

“I’m sure you have. Your powers are similar to healing, but different, too. More ancient. Like finely-aged wine.” Those green eyes widened as some realization occurred. “Gods above,” she whispered. “You have…you have the gift of life,” she whispered.

Beside her, Azriel inhaled sharply. Elain blinked. “I don’t understand.”

The Oracle shook her head. “It is not for you to understand. It is for you to acknowledge. You will understand when it is time.” She glanced down at the table, where Elain’s bleeding hand still lay outstretched. Quick as a snake, the Lady of the House bent and tongued the cut. Elain snatched her hand back in alarm. Lady Margota licked her lips thoughtfully afterward, apparently ruminating on the taste. Suddenly, she froze. “You have another gift,” she whispered. Something dark and twisted slithered in the depths of her eyes. That same sinister smile blossomed on her face. Under the table, Azriel squeezed Elain’s knee in warning. A shadow whispered in her ear: We need to leave. Now.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Elain said. Her lips were dry.

The Oracle’s sneer grew more pronounced. “Don’t act like you don’t know, Kingslayer.”

A heartbeat later, a massive blast of green magic shot out of Lady Margota’s hands. Elain’s chair flew backwards; she was airborne for a terrifying moment. Then she hit the ground hard, headfirst. It was so loud, suddenly, a cacophony of sounds. Before she could even sit up, Azriel was in front of her, a swirling shield of sapphire power surrounding them. Lady Margota’s own emerald sorcery pushed against the shield, and over the powerful rush of magic echoing throughout the room, Elain could hear the female laughing, cruelly and chaotically.

“You’re too late! They will be here soon!”

“Are you okay?” Azriel yelled to Elain, his voice panicked. His siphons, all seven of them, were glowing. She nodded, even though her head was pounding, her vision going in and out. She stood on shaky legs, blinking furiously, pushing away the darkness that threatened to overtake her vision through sheer will. A stream of blood trickled down from her forehead. Her eyes met his. “Grab on to my—”

But he was cut off by a sudden blast of scarlet flames. The cobalt shield around them disappeared. Elain watched in horror as Azriel was thrown backwards, hitting the opposite wall hard. He slumped against the floor, knocked out. Or worse. Terror gripped her like she had never known, and she started to race toward him when someone grabbed her from behind.

“I’ve got her!” An unfamiliar male voice yelled. She was in a full-fledged panic now, screaming and kicking and praying to any gods that might be listening for Azriel to be okay, he had to be okay, he had to be. Another male stepped in front of her, wearing the signature armor of the Autumn Court. He was flanked by even more soldiers, all laden with weapons.

“We need to leave,” a soldier said. The Blood Oracle was still cackling. “Someone kill the Shadowsinger and let’s get out of here.”

Kill the Shadowsinger. No. No, they could not. They could not take him away from her. She would simply not allow it.

And then a voice spoke to her. It was different from any other inner voice she had listened to before. Not the sad and sorrowful one that worried she was not enough. Not the angry, resentful one that lived in the void of her heart. No, this voice was something entirely else, soft and soothing and full of something vital, something ancient. Like moonlight reflecting off the waves that lapped against the shore. This voice…it was as much a part of her as it was a part of everything else. The essence of eternity.

She closed her eyes, letting that voice fill her with courage. And when the voice told her what to do, she listened.

And opened her eyes.

The room filled with brilliant white light, blindingly bright. Waves of raw magic, as powerful as they were pure, exploded out of Elain, encompassing everyone and everything in the room. The table and chairs flew apart; the glass skylight shattered overhead. One moment the soldiers were standing; the next, they fell to the floor. They did not scream. They did not bleed.

The light faded seconds later. Seconds. That is all it took.

It was incredibly silent for a moment; then a low groan sounded from across the room. Elain sobbed in relief as Azriel sat up. Did not hesitate as she ran to him, as she cupped his face in her hands.

“Elain,” he rasped out. “What happened?” His dazed eyes widened in shock as he looked behind her and beheld the soldiers scattered on the floor. Dead.

“My gods,” he whispered. “You…you did this? You stopped them all?”

She nodded numbly.

“How?”

“I don’t know.” Her hands were shaking.

They both jumped when a grating voice spoke from the other side of the room. “You know,” Lady Margota said.

Azriel and Elain walked over to the Oracle. She was in a curled position on the floor, breathing heavily, one hand clutching her stomach. Her silk shirt was soaked through with blood, her own knife shoved deep into her side. It appears she had landed on it when the force of Elain’s magic threw her backwards.

“You almost got me, little witch,” the Lady said savagely. “My shield was strong enough to stop the death blow…but apparently my intestines weren’t so lucky,” she gestured ruefully to the wound. “Not quite powerful enough yet, but when you master that power…you will bring down mountains, girl. You will destroy and remake thrones.”

Elain just stared at the female, her expression unmoved. Next to her, Azriel slowly withdrew Truth-Teller. “You called those soldiers here,” he said flatly.

The Oracle grinned wide. Blood coated her teeth. “I did not have a choice. They wanted the Seer. It was nothing personal.” She coughed. More blood.

Elain clenched her fists. “We always have a choice.” Held Lady’s Margota’s gaze, sure and steady, as she said to Azriel, “Do it.” Did not look away, even when Azriel ran the knife across the Oracle’s throat, even as the light in those wicked emerald eyes faded away into nothing. When it was done, she took a few steps back, letting out a ragged breath. He joined her moments later, Truth-Teller still in his hand. Blood dripped off the tip of the dagger.

They looked at each other, alone among the dead. Pearly moonlight shone through the gap in the ceiling that used to be the window. The thrill of nearly falling into death’s velvety grip lent a surrealness to the moment, and it was that thrill, surely, it must be, that had her walking toward him.

His shadows floated a little further away with each step she took. Like they trusted her. Like they knew if anyone could take care of their master, it was her. She stopped about a foot away from him. Her heart thundered in her chest. His face, his very being ,was brighter than she’d ever seen it. He was beautiful in the darkness, but he was utterly stunning in the light.

The intensity of his gaze made her blood sing. He took a step forward, dropping Truth-Teller to the ground like it was nothing of importance. Their chests touched, leather against satin, rough against soft. Scarred fingers gripped her chin, tilting her head just so. His other hand wound itself in her long hair. It was almost exactly as it was that night. She could taste her pulse in the back of her throat. The scent of anticipation and desire was thick in the air, and she did not care about what she was or what magic she possessed. Did not care about the bodies, still warm, that littered the floor. All she cared about was the hungry, hooded eyes locked on hers. The lush lips that were so close to her own she could feel his hot breath.

It was all of it—the thrill of living when death had seemed inevitable, the dreamlike backdrop of the ruined room cloaked in moonlight, the carnal ache pulsing through her veins—that had her at long last, finally, closing the space between them and pressing her lips to his.

#elriel #elrielfic #Elain #elain archeron #azriel x elain #elain x azriel #pro elain #Azriel #pro elriel #elriel forever #elriel fanfic #acotar #acotar fic #acotar fanfiction #post acosf #tsts #theshadowsthatsing

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kingandfireheart · 3 years

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Cassian's Love: words from a guy who speaks through actions

Something I love about Cassian is that he doesn't really hide the ball when it comes to his feelings for Nesta. He's most definitely an actions speak louder than words person (physical touch is his love language), but he does use words in ACOSF. I read someone say that Cassian didn't show his love for Nesta, and I completely disagree. Even though SJM never showed us Cassian saying the actual words, we see it so often through the small touches like flicking her cheek, the way that he never makes fun of her (many) questions, or the way he's always there, but he never pushes her too far.

In ACOWAR he confesses his love

" I have no regrets in my life, but this. That we did not have time. That I did not have time with you, Nesta. I will find you again in the next world -- the next life. And we will have that time. I promise. "

Yes, there is a lot he doesn't say - that they are mates, that he wants more than just sex, that he loves her. He even goes far enough to attack Lanthys to prevent him from revealing the truth. (I can write a whole post on why he wouldn't tell her about being mates, but I think Nesta's reaction to Lucien's declaration at the end of ACOMAF can suffice as explanation).

After his heartbreaking confession in ACOWAR, it makes sense that he's more reserved with Nesta. When thinking about his almost confession on solstice, he even says, "He hardly managed to walk away with some semblance of pride. Over his cold, dead body would she do that to him again." He is protecting himself by ignoring the mating bond too ("Some small quiet part of his brain whispered otherwise. He ignored it. Had ignored it for a long time now.")

Still throughout the book, he owns up to his feelings for Nesta when given the opportunity -- he just doesn't say the words "I love you" or "You're my mate". This post goes through some scenes in chronological order, since they show how Cassian does care.

(I could write another whole post on how I feel cheated of two months of happy Nessian between Solstice and Starfall, but that's what fanfiction is for, right?).

When Mor asks if it pains him to see Nesta like this, he says:

"All of it pains me... It pains me that Nesta has become... this. It pains me that she and Feyre are always at each other's throats. It pains me that Feyre hurts over it, and I know Nesta does, too. It pains me that ..."

When he's pleading her to train, she asks him why he isn't negotiating harder, he says.

"For you, I have no strategies."

Then there's the confrontation before, "I'm always thinking of that look on your face". (Yes, he's goading her here, but I don't think he's lying)

"Why so many questions tonight?" // "Because we're talking like normal people, and I want to know. About all of it." // "Let's nor retread old territory, Nes." // "It never mattered to me whether you took half the Cauldron's power or a drop. It still doesn't matter. // "Why?" "Why do you even bother?" // "Why did you stay at my side when we went up against the King of Hybern during the last battle?"

Answer: because they're mates.

After Nesta fights with Elain, he tells her he'll be there for her.

"Whatever you need to throw at me, I can take it. I won't break." No challenge laced the words. Only a plea. // "You don't understand," she said, voice rasping. "I am not like you and the others." // "That's never bothered me one bit." (emphasis added)

When Rhys gives Nesta a mental warning about Gwyn:

"I'm pissed off that you can't seem to believe one good thing about her. That you refuse to fucking believe one good thing about her."

When they are discussing the Dread Trove and pushing Nesta to scry: Yes Cassian for arguing against only protecting Elain

" There is an innate darkness to the Dread Trove that should not be exposed to." // "But Nesta should?" Cassian growled.

"It's not right to wield Elain as a threat to manipulate Nesta into scrying." "There are harsher ways to convince Nesta, boy" "You're a fool if you think threats will make her obey you." ... "If we manipulate Nesta into scrying, even by using Elain against her, then we'll do what is necessary." "I don't like it."

After Nesta's nightmare:

"Hey." "Hello" "Are you all right?" "Yes." "Good" "You want to talk about it?" "No" "That's fine." "You want breakfast?" "I like your priorities, General." (italics added)

When Rhys and Feyre mention bringing in Helion:

"He'll help...If only for another shot at her." // Nesta rolled her eyes, and and the gesture was so normal that Cassian's smile became more genuine, edged with relief // You wear your heart for all to see, brother. Rhys said without turning Cassian's way. // Cassian only shrugged. He was past caring.

When they finally have sex , we have this short back-and-forth:

"I'll hurt you." // "I don't care" // "I do."

and my personal favorite

"I'm beyond lies right now, Nesta."

When Nesta asks whether Cassian enjoyed their previous encounter, he tells her:

I enjoyed myself too much. I've thought about it for days and days.

"Whatever you want. Whatever you need from me." He knew those were a fool's words, knew he offered up too much.

And when Nesta asks "How can I need you again so soon?" Answer: because they're mates.

"I've needed you from the moment I first met you. And now that I get to have you, I don't what to stop

When they find out about the new Dread Trove, he's quick to defend Nesta to others:

This scene isn't really dialogue, but I'm including it because I love Cass.

They moved on to far merrier subjects, but Cassian mulled it over throughout the evening. The fighting was only part of it. The Training would sustain her, funnel her rage, but there had to be more. There had to be joy. There had to be music. (emphasis added)

When Nesta breaks down at the end of the hike, we see that Cassian doesn't just love Nesta, but he likes her, he may even admire her.

"I don't know how to get there. I don't think I'm capable of it" // "You are. I've seen it -- I've seen what you can do when you are willing to fight for the people you love. Why not apply that same bravery and loyalty to yourself?"

"You don't need to become some impossible ideal. You don't need to become sweet and simpering. You can give everyone that I Will Slay My Enemies look - which is my favorite look, by the way. You can keep that sharpness I like so much, that boldness and fearlessness. I don't want you to ever lose those things, to cage yourself."

"I'll be with you every step of the way... Just don't lock me out. You want to walk in silence for a week, I'm fine with that. So long as you talk to me at the end of it." (emphasis added)

When Cassian and Nesta go to the prison, there are some more telling moments:

"What if my presence would go unnoticed, but yours sets off a trap? We can't risk that." // His throat bobbed. "I can't risk you." // The words slammed into her heart. (emphasis added)

and later,

"I have always been your friend Nesta. Always"

When Nesta and Cassian return from the Prison:

Nesta brushed her fingers against Cassian's in silent understanding. His own curled against hers, meeting her stare as if to say, See? We're the same after all.

But when Rhys suggests having Nesta dance with Eris, Cassian is territorial to the max

"You're not going to use her."

"Over my dead fucking body," Cassian exploded.

"Nesta hasn't agreed to anything," Cassian snapped. "Even one dance with that prick is too much --"

"I don't like it."

He also agrees to go with her to the cottage in the human lands, and is so damn supportive and kind to her there. Action not words here but I love this himbo so much

Cassian stood beside her through all of it. Not speaking, not touching. Just there, should she need him. Her friend -- whom she'd asked to come her with her not because he was sharing her bed, but because she wanted him here. His steadiness and kindness and understanding.

And of course, the amazing and wonderful solstice scene:

"I'm sorry for how I behaved last Solstice. For how awful I was."// "I know. I forgave you a long time ago."

"Because I was fucking jealous!" He roared, wings splaying. "You looked like a queen, and it was painfully obvious you should be with a princeling like Eris and not a low born nothing like me! Because I couldn't stand the sight of it, right down to my gods-damned bones."(emphasis added)

"You're not going to marry Eris." "No" "There will be no one else. For either of us." "Yes" "Ever."

The big ole fight

"Say what I've guess from the moment we met. What I knew the first time I kissed you. What became unbreakable between us on Solstice night"

"I am your mate, for fuck's sake!" "You are my mate! Why are you still fighting it?

"You promised me forever on Solstice," he said, voice breaking. "Why is one word somehow throwing you off that?" (emphasis added)

And the conclusion that just wasn't satisfying enough:

"What do you want? // "You" // "You've had me from the moment you met me."

#nesta archeron #Cassian #nesta x cassian #cassian x nesta #acosf #a court of silver flames #nessian #kp analysis #acotar series #mtp

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duskandstarlight · 3 years

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Embers & Light (Chapter 27, Nessian multi-chapter)

Notes: Hello lovely readers! I am so sorry for the day's delay in posting this chapter. I was really poorly last week (and I'm still recovering) so I wasn't able to keep on top of my writing in order to bring you a chapter yesterday. That is not only because I found this very difficult to write, but because this is a LONG chapter. 14k words. There was so much to pack in, and as you all know, I am not one to gloss over certain elements, especially not Nessian goodness. Thank you to everyone who has sent me will-wishes this week and last. You are all lovely people and it's very much appreciated. Let me know what you think, as always. And apologies for any typos and inconsistencies—as I said, I've not been well so my brain has not been functioning like it usually does!

Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!

Chapter Twenty-Seven Cassian

Frawley and Lorrian were all ready to go when Nesta came downstairs. Those ever-perceptive eyes—ice blue and brown—fell immediately to Nesta’s chest as she stepped into the hallway. But to Cassian’s relief, the witch remained relatively silent, mounting Caerleon and casting into the sky with her husband close behind her in a glow of emerald without more than a few crisp, comments.

Nesta flew on Sala. Despite knowing that she had trained on Caerleon enough the previous week to know what to expect, Cassian could not help the fear that wound its way into his mouth as beast and Fae left the ground. He needn’t have worried. Sala’s gait seemed as natural to Nesta as breathing; her legs tucked into the manticore’s flank just before the beast’s wings with a confident, determined grip and her fingers were secure in Sala’s ruff. Cassian had launched himself into the skies straight after her, watching Nesta as if he were a hawk. He knew the magic binding Nesta and Sala would keep Nesta seated despite the battering winds and any notion of gravity, but that didn’t stop him from flying a few feet below her for the first couple of miles, ready to throw himself into a nose dive should she fall.

But later, when he realised that Nesta was perfectly at home on top of her manticore, Cassian had risen to fly beside her. And when he had winked at her, his broad wings flapping to match her furious pace, the smile she had sent back had been genuine enough for Cassian to know that if he died that day, he would die happy. That he had seen Nesta offer him a true smile without any thought of stifling it, and it was beautiful.

A few miles from the camp, the four of them landed to leave the manticores in a thicket of pine trees. Cassian watched Nesta bury her face into the manticore’s neck and whisper in the beast’s ear before she wordlessly strode over to him.

They had decided the night prior that Frawley and Nesta would leave their manticores behind. It was an idea that had been met with great protest by Frawley, but in the end, Cassian and Lorrian had talked her round. They were both of the same opinion; bringing the manticores to the Solstice luncheon would probably push the already hostile Illyrian lords to self-combust. So the manticores would remain on stand-by, out of sight but near enough to the camp to intervene if necessary.

“Ready to go for a ride, sweetheart?” Cassian teased Nesta as she walked towards him.

Cassian had expected things to be strained between them since he had given Nesta the necklace. There was also the small matter that they would be publicly declaring themselves together today, but Nesta appeared wholly unfazed. If anything, she looked happy, despite the sexual innuendo which usually had her dropping swiftly into irritation. Her cheeks were stung pink from the cold air, giving her a healthy glow, and her eyes were impossibly bright in a way that made his own heart ache.

Her lack of reaction didn’t help Cassian to stop thinking about Nesta in a sexual capacity. And the thought of Nesta actually riding him… He had dreamt of her so many times now that their imagined actions had become a well-rehearsed dance. He knew what it felt like for her to straddle his hips. Knew what she sounded like when she sighed and sank down onto the length of him, his lips attacking the column of her neck. Of how he groaned so deeply that everything in him shook. Nesta’s phantom hands always weaved through his hair at the sound, and when she bent to kiss him, she tasted entirely right...

“I suppose I’ll have to make do with you,” Nesta struck back, pulling Cassian out of his salacious thoughts with a jolt. Her tone was playful, but there was an underlying edge of disappointment that told him she was fed up of being carried around.

Even though it hurt, Cassian understood. He wouldn’t want to be carted around the skies when he could fly through them. So, he only cast a new protective shield over them, knowing that Nesta would spit blue murder if he ruined her hair. He also knew that he should look presentable for once, rather than turning up in blood-stained armour and hair so wind-snarled that running a brush through it threatened to break it more than it promised to ease out the knots.

Cassian might be the Night Court’s general, but that didn’t mean it was beneath him to look presentable.

For a long, the two of them travelled in silence. To his surprise, Nesta had curled her fingers into his chest, an action which had been lost long ago with her fear of flying. The action was absent-minded enough to tell him her thoughts were elsewhere. Indeed, when he glanced down at her she looked far away.

Cassian was just about to ask if she was all right, when Nesta asked, “Sala will be ok in the forest?”

He bit back a smile at her concern. Somehow, he knew that would upset her.

“Yes, she’ll be fine,” Cassian replied sincerely. “She’s an alpha predator and she’s with Caer.”

Darting another glance downwards, he found Nesta chewing on her lip. The action made her appear even more beautiful. Cassian didn’t know how Nesta always managed to look so arresting. Sometimes, he thought it was because he saw her through rose-tinted lenses, but then someone else would make a comment, like Lorrian yesterday, and he’d know it wasn’t in his imagination at all.

“If you need her, she’ll come,” Cassian assured Nesta, locking his eyes with hers so his words held weight. “Sala is bound to your magic, just will her presence and she will find you.”

Slowly, Nesta nodded. When she unclenched her teeth, her bottom lip was swollen and flushed. He wondered what it would feel like to kiss her when they weren’t dying. Whether she’d let him. Sometimes—only rarely—Cassian thought she might. Like earlier, when he had given her the necklace and she had twisted to look up at him. It would have been so easy to cup her cheek and bow his head that little bit further. And for a second, he’d thought that was what she had wanted. Her eyes had darted to his lips, but rather than satisfaction Cassian had felt a stab of mutual fear. Because they both knew that if Cassian was to give in to temptation—if she let him and wanted it—they would not stop until their skin was bare and their bodies were moulded into the other.

Cassian fortified his ring of fire at the thought. Made it even tighter and more formidable. Blocked out the thought of Nesta’s endless skin and her unforgiving curves. Since the kerits attack on Windhaven, Cassian felt more of Nesta down that shared tether. It was still constricted, but it was enough to get hits of emotion more frequently than before. And even though Cassian was desperate to, he hadn’t dared to reach out and touch that twisted rope again.

It hurt to deny himself the pleasure of brushing against it. The urge pulsed beneath his skin, whispering her name over and over: Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.

“You’re ok with today’s plan?” Cassian asked Nesta, because he needed to say something that didn’t make him think about how they would be sharing a bed later. How he would be so consumed by her scent it would be hard to breathe, let alone think. Needed to focus on the fact that today could be very dangerous and that he was willingly carrying her right into it.

It would not be like last time when she had been suffering from nightmares. This time she would be lucid. He would not be able to arch a protective wing over her and ghost his body alongside hers. It was going to be necessary torture and he had no idea whether she had yet pieced together that they would not have separate sleeping arrangements. Nesta was usually so quick to put two and two together, but she had not truly snapped or refused point blank to be anywhere near him, which made him suspect that it hadn’t yet clicked.

“Aside from being promised to you?” Nesta asked, a slight crease appearing between her brows.

The words were not vicious, but Cassian still had to snicker away the hurt. “Aside from that.”

“Yes, I’m ok with the plan,” she replied. She craned her neck up to look at him. “You’re worried.”

Cassian could not help but press his lips tightly together. He thought about denying it, but somehow he knew that she could read his expression too adeptly.

“I’m always wary before I meet with the war-lords. I’m even more wary when a meeting has been brought forward,” Cassian admitted. He cast his gaze forward to the skies, to Lorrian and Frawley who were flying ahead of them. Lorrian’s natural gait had always been faster than Cassian’s. Whilst Cassian’s wings were bigger, Lorrian’s build was made for speed. “I’ve got a bad feeling about it,” he admitted. “Marsh is a notoriously harsh war-lord, but he’s been unwell in recent years. Usually, a war-lord would not think twice to rid himself of a son who would pose as a threat. Kallon has openly claimed to have Enalius’s sword and his father has not made a single move against him, even though it threatens his position.”

“You think Marsh would kill his own son?”

Cassian snorted. “It has happened before. That, or a son would be cast out of the camp and stripped of his entitlement.”

Nesta frowned. “So, what you are saying is that you do not think that Marsh has long left to live and he is allowing Kallon to rule in his stead?”

“Yes, that is exactly what I think,” Cassian replied seriously, not at all surprised at Nesta’s intelligence. “And that means Kallon could soon be in a position of great power and influence, especially if he claims to have been chosen by Enalius to unite the Illyrians.”

They flew in silence for a few minutes. Cassian could almost hear the cogs turning in Nesta’s mind, as she digested the information he had just given her. But when she finally spoke, it was not about Kallon or the rising discontent. “I won’t be subservient.”

Cassian looked down at her in surprise. Did she mean today? “I don’t want you to be,” he said carefully. Honestly.

“Aren’t you going to remind me of the Illyrian customs and how I shouldn’t behave considering I’m a female?” Nesta asked stiffly.

Cassian frowned. Maybe things weren’t fine between them, after all. There was a sudden edge to her voice that he had heard when he had first shown her the necklace. That sharp, brittle parry that had almost seemed like she was purposefully attempting to put distance between them. He had felt her panic. She hadn’t been able to stifle that emotion before it flew down their tether. Nor had she been able to disguise the beating of her heart, which pattered at such a rate that it had melded with his own terrified rhythm.

Nesta knew what the necklace was, Cassian was sure of it. Knew by now that he had dived back into the Sidra to retrieve the gift she had refused, just as she had rejected him.

Now Cassian was no longer clouded by the fierce grip of rejection, he could not entirely blame Nesta for turning him away on Solstice. She had spent the evening sitting as far away from the fire as possible during a visit against her will. And not only had she had to fight battle trauma, but she had been forced to endure how they were all moving on without her. It was what Nesta had insisted upon, but Cassian was not stupid enough to think that it hadn’t hurt, especially when he had opened Mor’s gift and laughed along with everyone, pretending everything was fine when it most certainly was not. When it had felt as if someone had already thrust a hand into his chest and thrown out his bloody, bleeding heart for everyone to see.

To see the world through a pair of dusky blue eyes rather than hazel had everything tilted sideways, but it was necessary, he knew that now.

“No,” Cassian replied shortly, and meant it. Nesta was wild and he hungered for it. To see her chained and timid went against every fibre of his being.

“Is that not what is expected of the females here?” Nesta questioned, her voice that little more pointed.

Cassian frowned again. “It is, but I like you just the way you are,” he confessed slowly. “It is not what I would ever expect of you.”

Then, he barked a laugh, missing the sudden change in Nesta’s expression. “And you’ll find your defiance is in good company. You and Frawley are going to make a formidable pair.”

A soft snort. It was as close to a laugh as Cassian was going to get, but he would settle for it, even if it was nothing on the joy that had hit him square in the stomach a few weeks prior. He had been eating breakfast in the kitchen when he had felt it: pure, radiating laughter that had somehow ghosted into his ears and wound itself around his most vital organs. He had been out of his seat and in the skies before he had a moment to catch himself, following that tether between them that was more defined than ever before. But the cold, bracing air had done him good, and Cassian had turned sharply around, suddenly understanding that it was not his moment to share. That it was something Nesta needed to experience independently from him.

So, Cassian had waited at the bungalow for Nesta to return, every second a new form of torture. And from the moment she stepped through the front door, he had known they had reached a turning point. There was a lightness to her features that he had not seen before. As if the laughter had broken through that expressionless mask and rendered her new.

Cassian had expected to have to wait for a glowing retelling from Mas the day after, but Nesta had told him herself, a ghost of a smile on her lips as he made her breakfast and a mug of chai, listening to her talk and talk and talk.

He would have sold his soul in that moment. Would have done anything for her. But he had only sat opposite with a cup of steaming coffee and watched her eat as if she hadn’t for days. And when he had asked if she wanted to come with him to oversee his camp duties, she had nodded without hesitation, telling him she had a few hours before she was due to show Feyre around the camps with Mas.

“I should warn you that they’ll be interested in you,” Cassian told Nesta after a moment.

Nesta’s body turned stiff in his arms. “What do you mean?”

“Word has spread amongst the camps about what you did,” Cassian explained.

Mas had encouraged the widows to do as much. The monthly market set deep in the mist-shrouded valley of Empyr, was the perfect opportunity for those that could fly to spread word, just as Kallon’s recruits spread vicious discourse about the Night Court. The valley was flanked by lush forest green and cascading waterfalls, and Illyrians flew from all over the mountains to stock up on essentials, from grains and spices, to weaponry and healing medicines. It was also the location of the Illyrian festival Kharon, where once a year, Illyrians congregated to sail souls to rest down the River Styx.

Cassian couldn’t wait to take Nesta there. Was waiting for the perfect moment.

“Feyre was there, too,” Nesta reminded him, but Cassian only shook his head.

“You brought Mas back to life. A lowly widow in the eyes of the average Illyrian. You gave someone worth who was deemed as having none, Nesta. You sparked an oppressed female to lead others and finally stand up against cultural traditions that have been engrained for centuries—”

“But the males don’t see it that way?” Nesta guessed, cutting him off. Her expression did not give any indication that his praise had either pleased or irritated her.

Cassian tilted his head in a shrug, but he did not stop staring into her eyes—into the smoky blue that mesmerised him even now. “Should the dissent continue to rise, we might be forced to invoke a referendum about whether Illyria should become an independent nation,” Cassian explained. “Females have the right to vote. Rhys instated the law many years ago, much to the chagrin of the Illyrian males. I think that’s why Kallon has been targeting the females who lost their husbands and sons in the war—in the hope that their support would swing the cause in his favour.”

“But if he is behind the orchestrated attacks, then we could stop a divided nation?” Nesta asked, finishing his strain of thought.

Cassian’s smile was grim. “Exactly.”

“You think he did it?”

Cassian shrugged. “I keep thinking about those bastards who have disappeared. I would not be surprised if their allegiance had been bought by the rebellion. I’m sure they have been promised a station above the lowest ranking foot soldier. You heard Devlon, they are all exceptional in the skies, but they aren’t recognised for their talents. They have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

“What would happen if you captured them?” Nesta asked quietly.

Cassian looked into the distance—at the pine-capped mountains and the craggy mountain stone. He didn’t want to think about what would befall those males. He knew them. They were good soldiers with no sense of self-worth.

Nesta touched Cassian’s shoulder. “Maybe it won’t come to that,” she said.

“Maybe,” Cassian replied, but he knew he didn’t sound convinced.

Lord Marsh’s residence was a too-large stone building set deep into the forested mountain ledge that overhung the rest of the mountain pass. Flags bearing the Ironcrest insignia—a crested hawk eagle with its wings spread wide—rippled in the breeze, and Fae males armed with spears flanked the huge double-doors, which were made of heavy pine and punctured with black iron studs and heavy handles in the shape of Illyrian wings. The guards iron helmets were plumed with pointed black feathers tipped with white, just like the hawk that had given Ironcrest the latter part of its name.

Carefully, Cassian touched down onto the stone a careful distance from both the entrance and Lorrian and Frawley. He did not give Nesta the opportunity to step away. Instead, he tightened the arm that was still wound around her waist and curled a wing around them like a shield.

Already he felt territorial. Already he did not want to let her go.

“You stay with me tonight.”

Nesta’s head whipped up at the dead seriousness of his tone. His words were not up for debate but to his surprise, she did not hiss ‘no’ and he did not feel that silver power push against her skin. Cassian suspected that Nesta’s nerves had started to fray at the prospect of being somewhere that was not the bungalow or Lorrian and Frawley’s cottage.

He touched her hand to bring her back. Nesta stared down at the fingers that clasped hers as if she did not understand how they had got there, before she tightened her grip and turned to face him. As she met his gaze, that smoky blue latched onto him and he felt as if he was a predator who had crawled into the palm of her hand and rolled over in surrender.

“If you need to get my attention when we are inside then send me a subtle signal,” Cassian told Nesta in a quiet voice. Already there would be too many prying eyes and ears. He could already feel Fae watching him from the crown glass windows, their faces distorted by both the plain whorled glass and the stained colours of the insignia set into their middle.

Nesta frowned. “How—”

Cassian pressed his fingers gently against Nesta’s stomach. He felt the wings of her ribs and the muscles of her core. “Here,” he said softly, his heart battering against his chest. “Like you did the other day at Kanaman.”

This close up Cassian could taste the sweetness of Nesta’s breath. Could see every single one of her eyelashes and the black-blue kohl that rimmed the upper lids. Nesta was not usually one for enhancing the features she already had. She did not need to. Staring at Nesta as a human had been enough for Cassian’s breath to catch in his throat, but as Fae… she was devastating. And whilst Cassian preferred Nesta windswept in leathers and a simple braid, he could not deny that when he had found her that morning to give her the necklace, his knees had gone weak.

Yet, there was something about Nesta being dressed up which made Cassian feel as if he were at a distance from her. As if the formal garments and the tight, intricate arrangement of her braid slammed a partition between them, highlighting how he was only a lowly bastard and she was too good for him. It was why he had often kept his distance before, too fearful to speak with her in front of his friends in case she were to shoot him down publicly. And the truth of it was that Nesta made him feel like he was young again. He had played games without realising it. Ignoring her to feign indifference, hoping to hide just how affected he was by her mere presence in a room. How scared he was to let his friends see just how much his wild and vulnerable heart had been flung out before this bewitching female for the first time in centuries. Because Nesta was not like anyone else he had ever met. He had never felt like this. Not just an undeniable pull of attraction, but something deeper than lust or fancy. Something more.

It was only when Cassian spied the pyrite laying below her collarbone did he relax a little. Perhaps it was too simple for someone as arresting as Nesta, but she hadn’t rejected it. Had let him put it on her and she had not taken it off, not even when she had realised what it was. How it highlighted that painful memory that was strung between them.

She had called the necklace beautiful. Had meant it.

“What—” Nesta started, but she broke off suddenly, a flicker of recognition dawning on her face. Absent-mindedly her fingers closed around the pyrite, as if touching it allowed her to understand—to tap into his mind and read his thoughts.

For a moment, they stared at one another. Both of their hearts thumping even as their expressions remained impassive. If not for the slight stain on Nesta’s cheeks Cassian would not have known she was affected at all.

It amused him that she had thought she had gotten away with sending an emotion back without him noticing. It was the first he had felt something gentle from her, rather than a blast of emotion. And whilst the sensation had still been stifled down that constricted tether, it had touched him in a way he could not explain. That she had cared enough to soothe his torment.

In that moment, Cassian had felt wholly connected to her, but Nesta hadn't even glanced his way.

Outside of their cocoon, Cassian heard approaching voices and the clink of armour. Even still, he found himself hesitating, wanting a private moment with Nesta for a little longer before they were thrown to the vultures.

So, Cassian surprised her, raising her knuckles to his lips. Her skin tasted so intoxicating the primal part of him internally growled, but he only looked at her with dark eyes as he slowly retracted his wing — at the smoky silver that slid behind her irises, and unable to help it, breathed softly, “Pulchra.”

His lips quirked against her skin when her breath hitched. Then, slowly, he dropped her hand and offered her his arm with a smile that for once he did not have to catch and shape into something else. “After you, amore,” he said.

Nesta studied him for a moment. He watched her eyes slide past him to the stone building—to the window and the faces that he knew were staring, prying and scheming. Saw the understanding dawn on Nesta’s face that told him she had believed the kiss for show, when really it had been nothing but a perfect excuse.

And then she took his arm.

Warriors on duty armed only in fighting leathers and what Cassian suspected was a number of well-hidden knives led them to the drawing room. Stone walls lit by bobbing faelights cast dark, long shadows in the hallways and onto the faded rugs. As they turned a corner, female servants came into view laden with silver plates piled high with food. In the near distance, a wide doorframe gleamed, light spilling into the corridor and with it, the rumble of forced conversation and the clink of glasses.

One step into the bright room had Cassian on high alert and scanning for every possible exit point. As usual, the Solstice Luncheon did nothing to bring the Illyrians together. Instead, the clans remained steadfast in their own groups of lords and ladies, save for the odd stiff conversation between camps with long-formed alliances. Cassian spied Lord Condor from Forktail speaking stiffly with Devlon, and Cassian immediately thought of Lorrian. How would he fare coming face-to-face with his younger brother today? Notoriously they did not get on. Rumour had it that Lord Icor Condor had not been happy that Lorrian had been promoted from outcast to Colonel. Cassian had received a hate letter for it, not that he cared. Everyone knew Lorrian was the best equipped Illyrian to get their warriors back to a high-level of skill in the skies.

It did not take Cassian long to locate Ironcrest’s war-lord. He was sitting at a large pine table laden with Illyrian cuisine in front of the right-hand bay window. In front of him, a large silver goblet was full to the brim with red wine, as well as a plate piled high with untouched food.

Lord Anguis Marsh had always been a broad shouldered male who was unusually well-kept for a warrior. His dark hair was slicked back to feather at the nape of his neck, and he sported a hooked, crooked nose and an ugly scar which effectively splitting through his upper lip. When Marsh had been in good health, he had been known for his alarming speed on the battlefield and the vicious nature with which he gutted his opponents. Now, Cassian could not find that male in front of him.

Marsh was the eldest of the war-lords—a few millennia old, perhaps—and as Azriel had reported, his health was not what it was. The lord—or prince, as all the top ranking war-lords were referred to (with Enalius being viewed as their God and King)—had not been able to fight in the most recent war, nor had he made a point of sitting in on the War Counsel. Kallon, who was Marsh’s only princeling and son, had been denied a place on the Counsel in his stead, with Cassian arguing that it was not only because Kallon was unseasoned, but because he wasn’t intending to fight against Hybern himself. It had been a decision that Cassian knew had not been taken lightly, and he did not delude himself to think that the repercussions weren’t now stacked against him.

The prince’s declining health was far worse than when Cassian had last seen Marsh. That much was evident from where he remained seated at the thick pine table rather than standing with the majority of his guests. Although, Cassian mused, he would not put it past any Illyrian war-lord to feel so superior that they remained seated at their house table as if it were a throne.

Steering Nesta over the table to get the formalities over and done with, Cassian deliberately shortened his strides to match hers. As he did so, he tracked Marsh reaching stiffly for his goblet to take a deep drink. It did little to disguise the unmistakable tremble of his hand. Only the war-lord’s eyes remained the same as Cassian remembered; small, yellow and beady — alert and vigilant in the way that only a true Illyrian warrior was. They slid from Cassian to Nesta, before moving on to Lorrian and Frawley behind them.

“General.” A deep, drawl laced with the faintest rasp. Not as fierce as it used to be, that was for certain.

Yet, the sneer that twisted the male’s tan face as they came to a stop a few feet from the table undoubtedly belonged to Marsh. The movement highlighted the scar on Marsh’s lip, the skin crumpling as the split caused it to curl in the wrong way. “I see you brought company, bastard, when usually you do not grace us with your presence at all.”

Cassian did not let a flicker of expression taint his blank canvas. He had sent word of their intended stay well ahead of time, but Cassian knew that Marsh would feign ignorance just for the spite of it. “Yes,” he replied. “As I am sure you are already aware, Colonel Lorrian has been reappointed and is overseeing the armies aerial fleet. Neither of us would miss the Rite counsel.”

It was true, Cassian would not miss the Rite counsel that would take place later that afternoon. It was unusual that it had been moved. Usually it took place mid-January, but seeing that it was Ironcrest who was due to hold the ceremony that year, combining the Solstice luncheon and the Rite counsel made sense. It didn’t stop Cassian from being suspicious. Any deviation from the Illyrian’s deepest traditions always had Cassian’s hackles raised, not because he did not appreciate progress or the ability to adapt, but because it was not the Illyrians usual way, especially when it came from one of the oldest Illyrian war-lords.

Marsh did not acknowledge Cassian’s comment regarding the Rite. Instead, he said maliciously, “I didn’t believe there was an aerial fleet left.”

Cassian did not allow his body to stiffen. Did not allow to show how they affected him, even now. He could beat them all to a pulp if he wanted, Cassian reminded himself. He had more siphons than all of them. More Killing Power. He may be a bastard but he was a worthy warrior and better suited to lead the armies than any one of them.

So, he dropped into a voice that he saved for occasions like this. A voice which promised death and destruction and was not to be disputed. “Colonel Lorrian will oversee the training of your aerial warriors tomorrow morning,” Cassian clipped coldly, as if he had not heard the rebuttal. “And we will see how much of that rings true. I am sure Ironcrest would not have allowed their warriors to sink in standard.”

Another curl of the lip as Marsh sneered. Without looking behind him, Marsh raised his goblet with a shaking hand. A female servant rushed forward with a tall, heavy pitcher of wine. When his goblet was refilled, Marsh did not shift his yellow, beady eyes from Cassian as he lifted the goblet to his lips. His hand shook with enough effort that the contents spilled over the lip and onto his arm.

A snarl unleashed itself from Marsh’s throat, the sound not unlike a whip hitting home. The goblet thunked onto the pine table, wine sloshing over the surface. “Maya, you useless female,” Marsh chastised the female servant, whose eyes had widened with fear. “You jostled me. Get me a napkin at once or I will banish you to the widows camp and be done with you.”

The hand that was still looped through Cassian’s arm tightened slightly, and Cassian felt the threat of Nesta’s magic push beneath her skin. Training regularly with Nesta had allowed Cassian to become used to the seal of her magic. It was something which had become as naturally as breathing to him since that day at Spearhead, when they had first trained with his siphon. It was almost as if Nesta’s magic had imprinted onto his very being. When it moved, he felt it. When it blazed, he burned without fire.

As if it were the most natural gesture in the world, Cassian brought a hand to cup Nesta’s where it lay on her arm. It was a reminder to stay calm. Nesta’s job was to scout out the emotions in the room, not set it aflame.

“Father,” a male voice announced.

Cassian turned to see a male standing a few feet from them. Kallon was the imitation of his father when he had been in good health: impossibly dark hair scraped back to the nape of his neck; yellow eyes; a chiselled jaw; and sharp cheekbones. He was handsome in the way that most Fae were, and his skin betrayed his youth; the majority of brown unmarred, save for a vicious looking scar on his arm and half of a missing index finger on his left hand, which left the digit intact only to the knuckle. Kallon did not have Illyrian tattoos yet—had not seen war to earn them—and on the backs of his hands lay no siphons.

Given the steadfast rule at all gatherings for the war-lord, Cassian was not surprised to see that no sword lay either in a scabbard by Kallon’s side, or strapped down his spine, as was Illyrian custom.

“My son, Kallon,” Marsh announced with the stiff flick of a trembling hand, “who I presume you have met before.”

Cassian did not bow his head. “I don’t believe we have met in a number of years.”

Piercing yellow eyes studied Cassian. “I don’t believe I would have had cause to, considering our General does not visit Ironcrest often, and given that I was not permitted a place on your war counsel.”

An insult already and one that was not entirely true. Cassian had visited Ironcrest a fair few times over the last four months, but Kallon had never been in the training ring or with his father at the same time.

Kallon’s luminescent yellow eyes moved from Cassian’s to the female beside him. They stilled and then, painstakingly slowly, they deliberately raked a path over every inch of Nesta’s body. The movement was purposefully claiming, and Cassian suppressed the growl that came roaring to the forefront as Kallon dared to flex the claws on his wings. “And who is this bewitching female?” he asked.

Nesta had turned preternaturally still, and not one part of her body moved save for her eyes, which slid to the talons at the apex of the princeling’s wings. In fact, Cassian noted, Nesta’s posture had not changed since she had entered the house; her spine stacked tall, her chin slightly raised, those beautiful eyes lined with silver shimmering mercury blue. But there was something in her stillness that made Cassian wonder if Nesta, too, had dissected that Kallon’s good looks had a cold and unreachable quality that hinted at something far sinister. As if he used them as a way of luring in victims, much like sirens tempted sailors to the rocks at sea.

Nesta would have felt distant and otherworldly if she had not been holding his arm. If he could not feel her, ever so slightly, down that bond thanks to her lowered walls.

“This is Lady Nesta Archeron,” Cassian replied, forcing all malice from his voice.

“Oh, yes,” Kallon mused smoothly, his irises flaring as if they were an extension of his nostrils. No doubt trying to scent whether Cassian had claimed her. “I have heard of you. I can feel your power. I’ve heard others call you a witch, but I have also heard that you have taken a power that is ancient beyond reckoning. Something that is not yours.”

The princeling’s voice had dropped into a purr and a snarl roared inside of Cassian as Kallon closed the distance between them to take Nesta’s hand. His signet ring flashed in the faelight as he placed a slow, deliberate kiss to Nesta’s knuckles—the exact same spot atop Nesta’s ring finger that Cassian had kissed moments earlier.

“Such a touching story,” Kallon continued, his voice unbelievably even as he looked up at her, “about how you defended one another on the battlefield.” His gaze intensified and sharpened on Nesta as he lowered her hand from his mouth. “Rumour has it that your dedication did not last long, but who can blame you for deciding not to settle for a lowly bastard?”

The way in which Kallon straightened was slow and deliberate. He did not let go of Nesta’s hand, his yellow eyes continuing to stare pointedly at the female before him, as if he had been privy to every night she had fucked someone else and Cassian had perched outside on the rooftop.

Hot and cold washed over Cassian’s body with such ferocity it felt as if he had jumped into both ice and fire. Rage and humiliation battered against his shields, but he did not lower them. Would not allow Nesta or anyone else in the room know how much those words affected him.

But then he felt Nesta’s anger fling itself hard down their tether, the sensation not akin to a blow to the stomach. It pierced through his fire, his heart, and for a moment he felt as if he had been set aflame. He knew she had lowered her shields so she could sense others' emotions in the room, but to be reminded how much she truly felt when she let every barrier fell away was astounding.

Even so, when Nesta spoke, her voice was icy and level beyond reckoning. “Evidently that is not true, otherwise I would not be here.”

She retracted her mist-wrapped hand from Kallon with such care Cassian knew that she was considering smacking him round the face.

A low, sensual laugh that was more fitting for jovial conversation than it was here. “Do not try to convince me that you, a High Fae, has settled for the lowest born faerie? Just how poor was the offering back in Velaris? I hear there was no shortage of males in your bed…”

Cassian had stopped breathing for fear that if he did he would launch towards Kallon and use his fists to beat him bloody and blue. His shield had faltered, the fire sputtering as the words hit home like a spear to the heart.

Nesta did not rise to the bait. She only clipped, “It turns out that the only male I found to be worthy was an Illyrian bastard, so that is no longer relevant.” That chin of Nesta’s rose defiant, and with it, she grew even taller; a vengeful mighty queen looking down on her subjects with pure loathing. “And I may have been Made High Fae against my will, but I am human at heart. I believe you think them to be at the bottom of the chain, so perhaps that will help you sleep easier at night.”

Kallon blinked at Nesta, momentarily stunned. His gaze slid to her fingers, where mist was still seeping from them, curling around Cassian’s bicep. The heat was a welcoming lick rather than hot enough to burn, but the way her fire started to take form, the mist turning into a rope which blazed in coils around her forearm was enough to insinuate otherwise. And there was the fact that Nesta could will it to burn hotter if she liked. Cassian did not doubt that she could incinerate the room with a mere flick of her fingers.

The thought thrilled him. Stacked up the fire inside of his own body, his internal shields answering to hers as his flames licked higher.

Kallon did not step back, although Cassian saw the muscles in his body tense as if to fling himself out of range. He cocked his head to the side, contemplative, as if Nesta were a puzzle he wanted to figure out. And then, he slipped. For a fraction of a second his right hand fell to his hip, where a sword or knife usually hung from his weapon’s belt. But the way his fingers remained there, lingering… it was enough to tell Cassian that he was hiding something. That he was armed, even though he was not supposed to be.

And the knowledge clearly gave him courage, because he stepped towards Nesta, his eyes gleaming—

Nesta snarled, her whip uncoiling itself, the tip lashing out across the clearing with such speed Kallon recoiled.

“It’s true then,” Kallon said, his eyes bright as he took a step backwards. “Silver flames—”

But his father interjected, as if he had endured enough of his son’s games. “I do not remember inviting two witches and an Incomplete to this luncheon,” Marsh snapped.

“Scared of what we’re capable of?” Frawley asked, speaking up for the first time since they had stepped into the room. Her voice was quiet but chilling, and her ice-blue eye levelled Marsh with such a glare that Cassian found himself tensing. Frawley was not irresponsible enough to start a fight, but she had been known to provoke the war-lords when she saw fit. Usually when they insulted her husband.

“To think that you would be in the company of two females more powerful than you,” Frawley mused with the deathly sort of calm that Cassian usually harboured for himself during battle. “And that’s not to mention that one of us beheaded the King of Hybern.”

That lip twisted and contorted, but Kallon spoke before his father had the opportunity to do it himself. “I do not think that we need to thank a witch for ending a war where Illyrians were treated as disposable,” Kallon said.

A murmur went through the crowd. But that did not deter Nesta, who levelled Kallon with a gaze which had him stilling as a slow, cruel smile crept across her face. “I’m not a witch,” she vowed. “I’m something much worse.”

True silence. So quiet that Cassian could have heard a pin drop.

And that was when, without waiting to be dismissed, Cassian chose to steer Nesta away from the war-lord’s table and into the watching crowds.

Nesta moved beside him as if she were floating, as if gravity did not apply to her. Cassian challenged every stare and every curling lip they passed. When they reached the large windows farther down the room where it was less crowded, he drew them to a halt.

Begrudgingly, he dropped his arm, but then he felt couldn’t resist the temptation this partnership had granted him, so he dared to raise a hand to touch his fingers to the nape of Nesta’s neck. As well as being self-indulgent, it was also a gesture of intimacy that he thought would make Nesta least uncomfortable. It was a self-indulgent move, something that sung intimacy and was designed to stake a claim. Because he had seen the way in which Kallon had stared at Nesta. The way he had tried to scent for a bond or claim on her. The gleam in Kallon’s eyes had told Cassian he was not wholly convinced about their claim of being partners, enough for him to prod and poke about Cassian’s bastard status and Nesta’s bedding habits. To see what they said and how they behaved.

And whilst Illyrian males were not overly affectionate with their partners in public, Cassian never intended to take a wife who he did not openly cherish.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked softly.

To his surprise, Nesta did not flinch. Instead, she turned into his touch, lifting those smoky blue eyes to his as if this impromptu dance they were orchestrating was as natural as breathing. That she hadn’t just been called out on her promiscuous behaviour and her continual rejection of him.

She gave a short nod. “Please.”

Her expression, Cassian noted, might be carefully blank, but her eyes were readable to him. He had spent four months living with her. Had learnt to dissect every hollowed out stare and every dulled light whenever she was unguarded enough to let him. And whilst Cassian had expected Nesta to wear the mask she so habitually wore, her eyes were open enough for him to know that she was still angry.

Sweeping up four goblets of wine from the closest servant, Cassian tried not to mourn the loss of Nesta’s skin beneath his fingertips. Frawley flicked her hands casually at both Lorrian’s and Nesta’s drinks, turning the wine to juice before either of them had a moment to comment.

“I could do with some wine,” Lorrian confessed to Cassian in a low, bitter tone as Nesta turned to respond to something Frawley had just said. His friend’s face was wholly impassive to the outsider, but Cassian knew Lorrian well enough to catch the slightly mournful look in the Lorrian’s eyes as he glanced down into the depths of his goblet. “I give it five minutes until I have a war-lord upon me demanding for an update on the state of the aerial fleet.” He cast a slow, hard look around the room. It was a look that Cassian had honed himself over centuries of learning how to assert authority. “That being said,” Lorrian continued, “I think that could have gone a lot worse.”

Cassian grunted, the sensation making his chest jolt and his armour clink. “Speak for yourself.”

Lorrian shot Cassian an apologetic look. He watched Cassian take a deep sip from his goblet. At least the wine was good, Cassian thought bitterly, as if the silver lining would smooth over the battering he’d just received.

“If it’s any consolation, my brother has been sneering at me since we set foot in the room,” Lorrian admitted to Cassian, as if he knew what Cassian was thinking. “I’d sell my other arm in a wager that he’ll have strut over here by the end of this damn luncheon to give me hell.”

It was intended to be a joke but Cassian knew how sensitive Lorrian was about his missing limb. And understandably so. Illyrians were cruel at the best of times, but to have already been referred to as an Incomplete was enough to have a traumatised warrior drowning in a sense of underserved dishonour.

Like Cassian, Lorrian was resplendent today in his black scaled armour, and his right arm glowed a soft emerald from where he had used his magic to temporarily reinstate his limb. “At least we took Frawley’s poison blocker before we left,” Lorrian continued to mutter under his breath. “I bet the majority of this room would take great joy in our deaths.”

Another grunt from Cassian—this time one of agreement. He glanced down into his goblet which was now empty. It was not like him to drink so quickly in the company of the lords, but Kallon had Cassian’s anger pushing at his skin, ready to jump to the forefront with one sneering look.

He lifted his eyes to search for another servant, but the same female Marsh had snapped at earlier—Maya—appeared at his left-hand side with a silver pitcher of wine as if she had been watching him.

The first thing Cassian noticed about the widow was that she had large, almond shaped hazel eyes that were so light, they were almost amber. Her long, ebony hair was fashioned into a double bun at the nape of her neck—a style at odds with her servant status—and on the inside of her wrist, as she lifted her arm to pour him a drink, Cassian spied a tattoo of a sun and moon.

A twin.

Cassian was so distracted by the ink that he didn’t realise he had moved his goblet away until it was too late. The wine spilled over the rim of the cup and onto the flagstone floor, the red liquid splattering over his leg and onto the back of Nesta’s dress.

Maya’s eyes went as round as saucers and he saw the panic flood her expression in a way that told Cassian she was not treated well in the Marsh residence. Nesta turned around sharply, most presumably, from feeling the females terror with her magic.

“I—I am so sorry, my lord,” Maya stammered. Her eyes, which had been dutifully downcast, had snapped up in alarm to connect with his. “Please, let me clean this up. I—”

But Cassian only shook his head, wordlessly taking the handkerchief Lorrian passed to him and took a deliberate step backwards so Maya was deliberately placed in front of him. “I think you will find that it is me who should be apologising,” Cassian corrected kindly. “I moved my goblet.”

He turned to Nesta. “Are you wet?” he asked, holding out the handkerchief to her before even thinking about drying off his wine-covered hand.

“I’m fine,” Nesta replied, shaking her head. She had not made any movements to draw attention to herself like many other females would have done. It was as if she, too, had deduced that if Marsh was to catch wind of the incident, Maya would be cast out into the cold. “It’s only a little on the bottom of my skirts. It will soon dry.”

Maya’s eyes slowly fell to the floor at Nesta’s words. They widened in horror at the spatters of red that had already seeped into the light fabric.

“I am not wed to this dress,” Nesta assured Maya. Her usually clipped manner had fallen into something softer and more sincere. It was a voice she used with a fair few: Elain, Roksana and Mas. Sometimes him.

Sometimes.

Cassian pressed his lips together to stop himself from protesting. Because whilst Nesta might claim not be wedded to her dress, he certainly was. The floating material was the colour of dusky cornflower, a shade which made Nesta’s irises so light they shimmered ice blue. The effect was so startling Cassian’s heart had stopped when she’d opened her bedroom door that morning. If he hadn’t been so nervous he would have probably gone to hell with it all and bent his head to press his lips with hers. Instead, he had stared into those mesmerising eyes and, for a moment, forgotten the silver chain that was burning into his fist.

Avoiding the puddle of wine, Nesta stepped deliberately closer to Cassian, using their bodies to shield the spillage from the war-lord’s table. She touched his arm with her fingertips and looked up at him. “It’s nothing our housekeeper can’t fix. Isn’t that right, amore?”

For a moment, Cassian stared at Nesta, unable to process that she had not only spoke a word of Illyrian, but the term of endearment he had used earlier. Her voice was matter-of-fact, but there was something lacing the words that made him, for a stupid second, believe she meant it.

“Our housekeeper is very skilled,” Cassian assured Maya, allowing a rare smile to slip across his expression. “It won’t be an issue.”

But Maya was still pale. Her eyes slid past them, to the war-lord sat at the far end of the room.

“He can’t see you, Maya,” Cassian assured the servant evenly, as he finished wiping the wine away from his arm and sleeve. When he was finished, he wound an arm around Nesta’s waist, intending to pull her closer to his body, but she moved for him, moulding her curves against his hard lines, blocking Marsh completely from view. Jasmine and vanilla washed over him, the scent a relief. He rubbed a thumb over the fabric of her dress in thanks for playing along. For the blessing of having her pressed up against him.

“I can take care of it.” Frawley took a small step forward to close their circle.

She held out her goblet purposefully outwards, as if she were in need of a refill, and Maya tentatively topped up her a drink as Frawley subtly flicked her fingers. The puddle of wine and the stain on Nesta’s dress vanished.

Again, Maya’s eyes widened, but she was clever enough not to make any kind of movement to attract attention.

“Th-Thank you, my lord. My ladies,” Maya said gratefully, the clear relief in her voice enough to make Cassian angry. When would the injustices inflicted on Illyrians by Illyrians stop? Cassian had no doubt Maya had been mistreated, despite the fact that her twin status must provide her with a certain amount of protection. Illyrians were a superstitious race and would not risk the wrath of the Gods for casting a twin out into the cold.

In fact, Cassian was surprised that Marsh dared to keep her as a servant at all. Usually twins were the only low-born Illyrians that were established into civil society. And they were always low-born and always unbelievably rare. More often than not they were the product of lords unable to keep their cocks in their pants outside of their marriage bed.

Holding back a grimace, Cassian made himself nod at Maya as she bobbed a perfect curtsey to each of them, her golden eyes downcast and submissive, before she took leave.

Curiously, Cassian cocked his head at the widow as she quickly disappeared into the crowds, no doubt to find solace in the kitchens for a moments reprieve.

“Do you know who that was?”

Lorrian’s voice brought Cassian out of his thoughts, and he dragged his eyes away from Maya’s retreating figure to look at his friend. He continued to slowly rub his thumb over Nesta’s ribcage, the curve of her bone beneath the his skin a comfort, somehow.

“No,” he admitted to Lorrian, because he didn’t.

“That’s the widow of Halias Marsh.”

Cassian caught the eyebrows that wanted to disappear into his hairline just in time. “Marsh’s younger brother?”

Halias had not been alive in Cassian’s lifetime, but he knew that he had been a cruel male who had made Anguis Marsh look positively sweet in comparison. Whilst Anguis was known for his sharp, cunning intellect, Halias had been made of a brute strength which had led to an arrogance and dominance both inside and outside the sparring ring. It had been no secret that the brothers had an ongoing rivalry, with Halias believing he was best suited to the role of prince. When Halias had died in a fire, there had been rumours that Marsh had orchestrated his brother’s death, but those sorts of whisperings weren’t uncommon amongst the Illyrian camps, where everyone was out for glory at the expense of others.

“Yes,” Lorrian confirmed in a low voice.

“What happened to her twin?” Cassian asked with a frown.

As Cassian and Azriel’s self-appointed guardian, Rhys’s mother had done her best to teach them the history of the Illyrian camps and the war-lords family trees. They had been lessons which Cassian had found inanely dull at the time, usually because he had been exhausted from a rigorous day of training. But he did remember learning that the Ironcrest brothers had secured twins for brides. He also recalled that it had caused uproar amongst the clans at the time. Twins were rare in Prythian and a symbol of fertility, power and good luck. As was usual for twins, they weren’t of high status, but had been plucked from the mud and inserted into elevated society from birth—reared for the two princelings for when they came of age.

The tattoo Cassian had spied on Maya’s wrist was a part of Illyrian culture. When twins were born, they were marked with the tattoo of a sun and moon: separate yet integral to one another, forever entwined. They were said to be a gift from the Gods: fertile and harbouring power beyond reckoning which would be passed down to their offspring. Their wings were cut at birth. Twins were too precious to risk flying away when they could produce offspring with hearty Killing Power.

“Her twin died in the fire with Halias. I believe she was called Lyanne.”

It was Frawley who had spoken and Cassian looked at her with a frown on his face. “With her twin’s husband?”

“It was quite the scandal at the time,” Frawley said in low tones. “Her twin sister was married to Marsh but sleeping with his brother. I’m surprised you have not heard of it before.”

“Marsh loved his first wife.” It was Nesta who had spoken, and Cassian instinctively tightened his arm around her. “I felt his pain when he looked at Maya. It ran deep, as if he could not bare to look at her.”

That would explain why Marsh had not taken Maya as his wife, Cassian thought. To be wed to a replica but know that they were not the Fae you loved… The heartache would be too much, especially if the female you had given your heart to had bedded his brother, and whilst Marsh was cold beyond reckoning, it was interesting to know there was a side of him that was warm-blooded.

“I bet there’s a reason she’s not in the widows camp,” Lorrian said quietly, and Cassian’s eyes snapped to his friends so quickly his neck cricked.

His neck burned but he was too busy processing what Lorrian was saying. To think that Marsh had kept his wife’s sister in his residence so she could warm his bed when he willed it… the hairs on his arm stood up and something inside of him recoiled, even as he knew that it was incredibly likely. It would explain how well-kept Maya was. How, like Lorrian had said, she had not been turned out into the widows camp and into the cold.

“How long have you known that?” Cassian demanded quietly.

Beside him, Nesta had turned rigid. He didn’t have to look at her to know her skin had turned pale. And despite their constricted bond he felt an unfathomable icy rage force its way down the tether of twisted rope to meet his own.

He did not look at Nesta as he sent an emotion to soothe. A heat to lick against their anger until it had thawed.

He dragged his thumb across her rib cage in a slow, deliberate motion. He felt her let out a long, measure breath.

“I don’t know it,” Lorrian corrected Cassian smoothly, as if he were discussing the weather, not wanting to raise his voice so others could hear. His eyes burned when they connected wth Cassian’s. “But it would be interesting to find out, wouldn’t it?”

By the time Cassian and Lorrian headed into the Rite meeting, Cassian wanted to leave Ironcrest so fiercely that he had almost refused to leave Nesta behind. As usual, as the lords consumed more wine throughout the luncheon, they seemed to overcome their disdain at approaching rival clans. It result in the pursuit of a kind of hostile, verbal swordplay that reaffirmed why no-one had been permitted to enter the residence with a weapon.

Not, Cassian thought grimly, that it would stop any of them from magicking one with their siphons anyway.

Icor Condor—Lorrian’s brother—had been the first to stride over to them and interrupt their conversation to publicly sneer at his sibling

Despite being the eldest of the two, Lorrian had lost his right as princeling heir when he had left the camp for Frawley’s heart. When their late father had died, his brother Icor had inherited the status of war-lord, much to his pleasure and Lorrian’s disgust.

Icor was Lorrian’s sole sibling, and at a first glance, the two of them were almost identical in looks. It was only on closer inspection that one noticed the unrelenting hardness to Icor’s dark features—something that was due to the constant state of stark displeasure that hung across his expression. He was also slightly broader in build, the twisted cords of his muscles pushing against what Cassian suspected was too-small armour, and whilst Icor’s eyes were technically hazel, the majority of the time they were a light, unnerving jade.

To the untrained eye, it was Icor who appeared more formidable. But outcast or no outcast, Lorrian was the finest cut of Forktail princeling, made for the skies in a way his brother was not. And whilst Icor was undeniably an exceptional warrior—his primary skill was with the spear—Forktail’s ancestry boasted formidable warriors from the skies, and Icor had been loath to forget it.

To his credit, Lorrian had appeared completely unaffected as his brother barrelled insult after insult his way, but when Frawley’s ice eye had glowed brightly with threat, Icor had taken sudden leave, claiming that he couldn’t stand to breathe the air of someone who was not only Incomplete but a defector of his race, as well.

Nesta had dug her fingers so hard into Cassian’s armour at that point that Cassian had thought her fire might beat Frawley’s own magic to throwing itself across the room and hitting Icor square in the chest.

Now, Lorrian and Cassian followed the rest of the war-lords as they made their way to the war-room, which was situated in the right-hand wing of the residence.

They had barely had time to say goodbye as Frawley and Nesta were ushered into the parlour with the war-lords and Rite representatives partners. Frawley’s eyes had gleamed as she and Nesta floated from the room, and Cassian knew that the witch hoped to wheedle out some information from the females whilst their husbands weren’t by their sides.

The issue of oppressing others, Frawley had said the evening prior, when they were hashing out their plans, was that oppressors had a tendency to become over-confident and over-trusting in their tyranny; so sure of their unwavering power over others that their mouths became loose. And if the females did prefer to keep quiet due to fear of being found out by their husbands, Nesta would sense it.

It was, Frawley had insisted, a win-win situation, and Cassian would have been inclined to agree, if the Illyrians didn't harbour such a fear of outsiders, especially those that were not only powerful but looked terrifying, as well.

Lorrian, Cassian had noticed, hadn’t pointed that out to his wife. Nor had he reminded her that her independently moving eyes had a tendency to put Fae on edge rather than at ease.

Which, Cassian thought with a near huff of laughter, probably made Nesta the most approachable out of the two of them.

That knowledge grew inside of his mind until he wanted to howl, and he clamped his lips tightly together to stop a sound from escaping.

He supposed it was a good sign that he could still find humour in things, especially when he had a looming sense of dread that everything was about to go southward.

“She will be fine,” Lorrian told Cassian, frowning at his friend as they walked through the dimly lit corridors which were darkened all the more by heavy tapestries. “Nesta is more than capable of looking after herself, and she has Frawley with her. They are probably safest with the females, anyway.”

Cassian didn’t want to explain the reason for his expression, so he just nodded. It wasn’t as if he liked being separated from Nesta. The more time they spent together, the more he dreaded their time apart. It was a constant sort of worry that gnawed at his insides and made him feel as if someone had ripped a limb clean off his body. And since Nesta had nearly died healing Mas, Cassian had started to experience incandescent, sporadic flashes of panic that Nesta was dying and he did not know. That she was suffering and he was not there to ease it, even as reason told him that anything that urgent would fly down their shared tether.

“That’s what it was like with Frawley,” Lorrian added to Cassian, his hazel eyes discerning as they followed the hulking, retreating backs of the other war-lords.

“What it was like?” Cassian repeated, feigning confusion. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to partake in the discussion.

But Lorrian only dipped his chin. “It’s when I knew we would be chroí . After we were joined, it felt like the greatest relief, as if a spool of yarn had been pulled tight between us but now it could just… exist. Relax a little.”

Cassian thought of the constricted tether between them and the way his light was desperate to push against the inner walls, until that rope had widened into a tunnel clear of brambles.

Not once had Cassian spoken with Lorrian or Frawley about Nesta. About how he was in so deep that sometimes he thought that if she were ever to reject him again he wouldn't be able to climb out of the pit he had fallen into. Both of his friends were sharp enough to have dissected his feelings, he wasn’t naive enough to pretend otherwise. He had never introduced them to a female before, had never allowed them to get to know someone so intimately that was clearly not a friend.

Not that Cassian knew what he and Nesta were. Wouldn’t dare to ask for fear of ruining it all.

And his friends had not pressed him for more information or, to his knowledge, asked Nesta about the two of them. The latter of which he was immensely thankful for.

Yet, that didn’t mean that Cassian hadn’t felt Frawley’s ice blue eye swivel carefully between the two of them, or Lorrian’s knowing smile as Nesta joined in with his friend to torment him.

In fact, the only thing Frawley had commented on was her fondness for Nesta.

“I hope we get to keep her, Cassian,” the witch had said sternly when he had arrived at the cottage earlier that week, as if, ironically, the decision was up to him. Then, without commenting on how premature his arrival was, Frawley had waved impatiently to the back door, “She’s training with Lorrian.”

Having been thoroughly dismissed, Cassian had headed into the backyard to find the paddock to the left of the barn had been cleared of its usual horses. Instead, Nesta stood at a shooting line that Cassian suspected had been made by Lorrian dragging the toe of his boot through the mud. At the far end of the ring —20 metres or so away—stood an archery target.

His friend had not turned as Cassian drew up beside him. Instead, they had both watched in silence as Nesta pulled back the bow string with a strength that no other Illyrian female possessed before releasing it.

Together, they watched an arrow fly across the clearing and hit clean into the outer yellow ring of the target. Lorrian had still not looked at Cassian, had only kept his arms crossed firmly over his chest as they watched Nesta stride over to the target on her long legs to collect her arrows.

“You’ve met your match,” was all Lorrian eventually said, shaking his head in disbelief, before he went over to correct Nesta on her stance.

Now, Cassian glanced sideways at his friend. Lorrian’s eyes were full of a shared understanding that Cassian could not bear. So he looked away, and before he could stop the words, he admitted tightly—quietly, “It’s going to be the death of me.”

Ahead of them, the heavy double doors of the war-room came looming into view, and with it, another layer of dread. Cassian flared his siphons, breaking the sound bubble Lorrian had encased them in, and stalked into the room.

Marsh was already seated at the long, wooden table. He had left the drawing room well before the rest of them, no doubt to hide the extent of his illness, but Cassian could almost taste death on the war-lord.

The others could, too. Those sharp, beady eyes never missed a thing. And if they had not gleaned it for themselves, the way in which Kallon seated himself beside his father was enough of an indication of who was truly intending to run the meeting.

There was a growing expectancy in the air. The deafening kind that was almost like a ringing silence, even as chairs scraped against flagstones and war-lords muttered to their Rite representatives, who took a seat beside them.

It did not escape Cassian that one of Ragar’s friends was seated beside Devlon. That beside the other war-lords, Cassian recognised lordlings who had been reported to have met with Kallon all those weeks ago.

That sense of apprehension intensified, but Cassian settled his wings over his chair and waited for the first war-lord to break the silence. Even as his mind worked at a hundred miles per minute, trying to piece together what he was clearly not seeing.

Unsurprisingly, it was Icor who finally broke the silence. “A representative can’t take place in the Rite,” Lorrian’s brother sneered from where he sat opposite Cassian and Lorrian, his lip already curled as he narrowed his eyes at Kallon.

The princeling did not rise to the barb. He only settled back into his chair with an unrivalled arrogance and smoothness that made Cassian want to smack him in the face. It was an action that almost reminded Cassian of Rhys when he was playing wicked, but there was something impossibly cold and threatening beneath the movement which set Kallon apart from his brother. It made Cassian want to sit up straighter, but he did not allow himself to do it. To let others know that Kallon held his attention so fiercely.

“I am aware of that, Icor,” Kallon replied, once he had taken his time getting comfortable. “I do not intend to partake in the Rite this year.”

Not a murmur ran down the table, but the air became tight and pregnant again. Expectant. It was almost unheard of for a princeling not to partake in the Rite past a certain age, and Kallon was near twenty-five.

It meant that he would not earn siphons of his own for another year.

It was an unusual move, especially given that Kallon was trying to stake authority amongst the Illyrians. Siphons were the quickest way to earn respect amongst Cassian’s race. It was why they begrudgingly accepted Cassian.

Kallon’s birth as a princeling meant that he was born with a natural amount of Killing Power that superseded low-born foot soldiers. Azriel’s information had detailed that Kallon usually trained with three siphons in the sparring ring. That although he was green, he was better than most with the Illyrian saber. That since he had been training with the sword he claimed to be Enalius’s, he had taken to using a fourth siphon to contain the Killing Power that seemed to still be growing within him.

That, in itself, was a worry. Cassian’s Killing Power had reached its maturity at the age of twenty-five, training with seven borrowed siphons in the sparring ring until he finally earned his jewels after the Blood Rite.

The Siphon Master had not hesitated in giving Cassian siphons the colour of blood.

For the blood glory you will earn in battle, ratnik, the Siphon Master had said at the Rite ceremony, as he placed red siphons atop Cassian’s hands, on his knee caps, his upper arms… And across his heart, a flawless star ruby. Even now, Cassian remembered how the jewel had beat a deep, dark red that took on a blueish hue, as if it were kicking into life for the first time. Cassian remembered the gratification that had flickered over the Siphon Master’s face as the ruby did not shatter but became an additional heart, pulsing gently in the spring light.

“Shall we begin, Father?”

This time, every war-lord bristled as Kallon spoke. Somehow, the air became even thicker. A princeling did not order a prince. Yet, Marsh only raked his shrewd eyes over every single male in challenge, before he waved a trembling hand at his son, commanding him to start.

Kallon stood with a confidence that superseded his age; as if he were a messenger sent by the Gods and had the intention of delivering a fucking sermon. Cassian’s stomach dropped leaden to his toes at the same time that his blood began to boil beneath his skin.

Beside him, Lorrian stiffened, as if he too knew that they had been foiled, even though neither of them had yet learnt why.

“Many of you are probably wondering why my father and I have called this meeting early,” Kallon started. The princeling stood tall, his feet slightly apart, his shoulders squared, his wings held up high… A warrior’s stance. But there was something infuriatingly relaxed about his posture, as if commanding an audience was all completely natural to him.

“Tradition states that the first Rite counsel is not held until the new year, but given that Ironcrest is hosting the ceremony this year, we thought it made sense to arrange for this meeting to coincide with the Solstice luncheon.”

There was a pause in which Kallon looked around the room. His voice was too cordial for an Illyrian, especially a princeling, and if it were not for that unfathomable chill to his voice—a carved out emptiness—Cassian would have been willing to bet that he would have been sneered back into his seat. And of course, there was arrogance, too. An entitlement that came with those born into wealth.

“Since Enalius gifted our ancestors with a drop of his power and we were able to mine siphons, the Blood Rite has become the most important tradition in our culture,” Kallon continued. “Illyrians produce the best warriors Prythian has ever seen. Our bloody history shows that whilst we are perceived by High Fae and many others of our kind to be the lowest of faeries, we are triumphant in battle and far supersede not only the Night Courts forces, but the forces in every other court. We Illyrians are relied upon for our gifts, but we are treated as disposable when our talents are not required. The recent kerit attacks on our camps has highlighted what we have known for centuries; that the Night Court does not care about our race to provide sufficient protection.”

Another cessation of speech for what Cassian expected was not for Kallon to catch his breath, but to allow his words to settle. All of the war-lords and representatives remained eerily silent, and whilst they had originally sat forward as if they were waiting to jump in and protest, they were now stock still, drawn in by the words that they all already believed to be true.

“We suffered many losses in the war against Hybern,” Kallon pushed on. “Forces across all of our camps are drained and depleted. Whilst the Rite is an important part of who we are, the loss of more Illyrian lives would be the greatest sin. Enalius gifted all of our families with a drop of his blood so we could ensure that the Illyrian lines did not die out. That we could continue to perform our duty to honour and protect. My father and I have called you here today to consider a hiatus on the Blood Rite. To focus instead on strengthening our troops rather than inflicting more bloodshed upon our kind.”

Silence fell again as Kallon stopped talking. As, with a sweeping look around the table, the princeling sat back down and leant back into his chair with a superior expression on his face. No doubt a sense of achievement that he had captivated the hostile war-lords for enough time to say exactly what he intended. To plant the seeds in the minds of those who already did not look favourably towards their High Lord’s rule.

Lord Alcathoe was the first to snap. The war-lord from Swallow’s Ridge leant forward, his expression dark and openly aggressive. “The Blood Rite has been performed every year without fail. What claim do you have to suggest a hiatus?”

“We have not ceased the Rite in the aftermath of war before,” Lord Hamel added. Hamel’s voice was monotone and bored, but Cassian had learnt from his many visits to Craggs Peak that the war-lord was as vicious as any of the other males around the table—worse than some, actually. One misplaced word and the war-lord was known to explode.

Cassian thought it only a matter of time until everyone at the table witnessed it.

“I don’t think a young whelp who has not fought in a war or earned his own siphons should be leading a discussion in which he has no place.”

“Watch your mouth, Hamel,” Marsh snarled in warning. “My son is smarter than all of your offspring, both the bastards and your true heirs. If you have any true heirs, that is.”

Hamel’s answering snarl had him rising out of his seat. The war-lord’s face had turned purple with rage and his teeth were bared. Spittle flew across the wooden surface of the strategy table. “If you weren’t already on your death bed, Marsh, I’d—”

“It is true that I do not yet own my own siphons and that I have not yet fought in a war,” Kallon interrupted, standing again with a flare of his wings. The sound snapped around the room, like a nine-tail whip cracking against skin. “But I see what our race has suffered at the hands of the Night Court. We are treated as expendable and as bodies rather than being valued for who we are and what we stand for. To put a hiatus on the Blood Rite will allow us to become stronger. It will allow our warriors to become proficient in the art of battle and for our numbers to rise. We cannot afford to lose any more warriors.”

The blood in Hamel’s face was slowly draining from purple to red. Still angry, but not as if he was going to self-combust. The war-lord had sunk back down into his seat, and it was clear that an internal conflict was going on in his mind; as he decided what held greater importance, his hatred of Anguis Marsh and his son, or his opinions on Night Court affairs.

And the issue was that whilst there were statements of Kallon’s that were wrong—namely that the war was not an Illyrian cause and that Rhys saw the Illyrians as disposable— the princeling was also right. The Illyrians could not afford to lose any more warrior blood in the upcoming Rite. It was an issue Cassian had deliberated over repeatedly. One he had brought up with Rhys and Azriel. A problem they had decided not to interfere with for fear that it would set the Illyrians against them even further.

But what Kallon was doing… it was clever. It played on the Illyrians sensibilities and the ever-growing notion that they should not be ruled by Rhys’s hand. And if Kallon could get the war-lords to agree… he would be seen as a martyr, whilst the Night Court would be viewed as complacent in further deaths of the Illyrian race.

It would gain him support amongst the most influential of the Illyrians. It would strengthen the dissent. And if the war-lords made it clear that they were openly opposing Rhys’s rule, then many more Illyrians would follow their example.

As if Kallon knew he was triumphant, he pinned Cassian with a stare. “Do you not agree, General? We have suffered the death of an entire aerial legion, plus many of our strongest warriors against Hybern. Surely you cannot argue that we should go ahead with the Blood Rite rather than strengthen our forces before we allow ourselves to suffer any more losses?”

Cassian and Lorrian were rabbits caught in a hunters snare and Kallon knew it.

“The Night Court agrees that we cannot afford to lose any more males in the Blood Rite,” Cassian replied, his voice so deep and commanding that he did not recognise his true self—the part of him that was not General but Fae. “Should another war come to Illyria, we need to ensure we can protect our kind and those throughout our court. A reprieve from the Blood Rite is the best way to prevent further bloodshed.”

A growl sounded from Icor. It was an abrupt, guttural sound that sounded too much like a temper tantrum. He had no doubt been expecting Cassian to side with him. “You have not answered the question, princeling. What right do you have to suggest a hiatus?”

Across his cruel face, Icor looked briefly triumphant. A petulant child believing he’d won a game rather than contemplating the life or death of his best warriors. “So tell me, what right do we have to interfere with the will of our warrior Gods?”

“My son has been chosen by the Gods. By Enalius himself.” Marsh’s grating voice was deep and commanding. Forceful.

A dismissive snort. “I do not think—” Icor started, but Marsh dismissed Forktail’s war-lord entirely, and looked towards his son. His heir.

“Show them,” Marsh ordered Kallon with a wave of his hand.

The princeling turned his head in a way that was more automaton than Fae. He looked towards the doors, where a male steward wearing Ironcrest colours stepped out of the shadows.

In that moment, Cassian wished Nesta was in the room with them, if only to sense the emotions of every single war-lord as their lofty expressions turned carefully blank. As their eyes fell to the sword laying atop a velvet-crushed cushion the colour of mustard.

Enalius’s sword. Or at least, a sword with ancient magical properties.

Cassian could feel the hum of it in his blood—his magic—turning over inside of him, pressing against his skin as if it was trying to leap from his body and join with the steel. His siphons pulsed, his star ruby beating like a star-blessed heart. And from the look on every other males face, they could sense the magic of it, too.

The sword looked exactly as it did in the drawing printed in Heroicis. The sword Cassian had committed to memory as a youngling, as he stared at that inked drawing—the only thing he could understand as an illiterate bastard trying to make sense of a book full of words. The blade was arced, the steel etched with the Illyrian marks of glory that each of the war-lords wore on their own skin. The curved bone pommel gleamed as if it had been recently polished, even though the handle looked well-worn and cracked.

Just as Frawley had reported, the oval jewel was missing from where it should sit on the wide guard.

Cassian knew without Frawley having to confirm it—with a certainty that was completely devoid of doubt—that Kallon was presenting them with Enalius’s sword.

And worse, that the princeling would gain the begrudging respect of the males around this table for it.

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 @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta @inyourmindeye @amelie775 @iwastoowildinthe70s @helen-the-weirdo @pizzaneverdisappoints

#embersandlightfic #embers and light #nessianfic #nessian #nesta x cassian #acotarfanfiction #acotar #acofas #acosf #cassianfic #cassian #nestaarcheron #nestafic

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bakingandbooks3 · 3 years

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Wick and Flame

Ahhh my beautiful people! I’ve written again:) This time it was a bit more angsty- Nesta confronts Rhys. I was planning on posting weeks ago but recently had to get surgery. Here it is, I hope y’all love it!

TW: Mentions of Sexual Assault and violence...

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that, Rhysand.”

“It’s High Lord, to you.”

“I never once asked to serve you. I could call you many things but the most prevalent to me is my sister’s assaulter.”

A silence swept over the room.

Feyre had planned a lovely evening for the Inner Circle to regroup after the successful invasion of the Autumn Court- Eris’s coronation. It was safe to say Nesta wasn’t enjoying herself in the slightest, and was enjoying herself significantly less when Rhysand started making innuendos about Nesta’s past and worthlessness.

She was here for her sister and was trying to be more involved for her sake. But, she missed the quiet of the mountains, and Emerie, and the children she read to. And Cassian.

Everything went to hell after Rhysand asked if she convinced Eris by coaxing him into bed. Nesta launched back with how he’s no better of a man than Eris is.

Rhys growled, “That wasn’t what that was-”

“Oh really? Just because you two are happy now you think that erases the things you did to her? The things you-”

“You know nothing Nesta-”

“I know more than you think,” Nesta fumed. “I could tell from the way she talked about it, Under the Mountain, that something had happened to her. And just as I suspected you did it. But, why should I be shocked in the first place? You sexualized my teenage sister the very second you saw her. She was nineteen, Rhysand. Would you deign to tell us about that sick infatuation of yours?”

From across the table, Nesta could see the shadows bloom over the singer and the seer look down at her plate with wide eyes, Morrigan gripping her glass tighter and saw Cassian flicking between both sides. Would he pick her or them? It didn’t matter though, because who she cared about confronting was gritting his teeth and holding the jewel ordained knife like a weapon.

Would he use it on her?

“Say it. You touched her, you touched her. You took my drunk little sister and touched her in front of everyone! Do you know how I know this? Do you know how I had to figure this out? I read it in her body language for months, and then last week when I had to go on a mission for you, when Cassian and I had to risk ourselves for you, when you used him and me as bait for you, I found out from Eris.”

Mor flinched, the name a slap. Oh, maybe Nesta had made a mistake.

“Mor… I apologize for being brash… It wasn’t kind of me. I’d like to continue speaking but if you’re uncomfortable you can leave.”

She shifted, “Anything he says is valuable… I- I think I should say.”

Nesta’s heart broke a bit, she wasn’t quite fond of Mor yet, and her obscene relationship with Cassian did not please Nesta, but she was trying. Nesta was trying.

“And what did that snake tell you, dear sister-in-law? What did he say to poison you further?” The High Lord was shaking now, his wife shell-shocked beside him.

“That snake told me you made her drink till she was sick on your boots, and he told me the things you did to her. All of it. And I refuse to speak any more of it because it is not my story to tell, but just know I have no intention of forgiving you for this any time soon.”

The air seemed a bit thicker, the food colder, and the people gathered around the table duller. Of course, she ruined it.

She always does.

The silence dragged on until the violet-eyed man said the irreversible words, “ And why would I care about the forgiveness of an alcoholic whore?

The impenetrable line had been crossed.

Nesta let the tears well in her eyes as she hiked up her skirt, maintaining as much modesty as one could, and ripped the dagger out of her garter and stabbed it into the high-lords mahogany table.

Everyone at the table jolted. Seven sets of eyes widened at the sight and Elain visibly shuttered.

“You don’t know the slightest thing about me, Rhys.”

The man before her was trying to keep his composure but was lacking. His poor table.

“I was nineteen the first time a man did something similar to me.” Once Nesta saw she had their attention she continued, “When we were little, shortly after Mother died, the three of us were thrown into a life we never asked for. I, being the oldest, was automatically deemed to be the “new” mother, but Cauldron forbid ten-year-old me was slightly lost on the ways to be a mother. I was never the best sister or the most present, you of all people don’t let me forget, Rhys. I tried, I wasn’t great and I wasn’t the most helpful, but I tried. I would steal Feyre’s extra money to get iron bracelets to fend ourselves against people like you, I would take money to repair the ax I used to cut wood, I would spend some on buying cheap daggers to arm myself when I had to experience the ways of the world on my own.”

“And what did you have to experience, Nesta? Abandoning your sister? Making her hunt for you? Doing-”

“I never asked Feyre to do anything!” Nesta raised her voice for the first time. “I never once asked her to go, in fact, I told her not to. I am… grateful for what she did. But that should’ve been our father- no child should have to provide for them self. So, your absolute blessing of a wife never took the daggers I got, never wore the bracelets, and she trekked on. I never took them because in actuality they were hers to use. I felt like she needed more protection than I did.”

Nesta was trembling now, she had never quivered once in front of these people but she needed to- she needed to tell them.

“I went to find a suitor, a man to marry so that there was one less mouth to feed and one less body to take up the bed. I found Thomas, a poor man who I despised but he was willing to wed. His father beat his mother and I knew I was bound for that eventually, but I thought I could take it. After months of courting, he asked for my hand and I said yes. I wasn’t happy, but in the worst of ways, I thought I was helping my sisters by leaving them.

“When Feyre was taken… I had a lot of time to think. And when I wasn’t thinking about her I was thinking about how miserable this life of mine would be. It dawned on me one night that this wasn’t what I deserved. I went to his sham of a house and asked to go our separate ways.”

The room was spinning, Nesta sat down. She breathed and took note of everything she could, the color of her dress, the untouched plate, the napkins.

“It was night, my hair was down and I was just in my nightgown. I remember being cold and tired, I had spent the entire day trying to find a hole in the wall so maybe… It doesn’t matter anymore. Just as quick as I told him no… he had my hair in his hands and had me pushed on a bed.

She paused to breathe a racking breath. “I never cut my hair short because my mother would tell me how beautiful it was, I’m starting to think I should’ve.”

Nesta whispered the last words. Calm down. As her eyes fluttered around the room she kept going, no one stopped her.

“Do you know how easy satin rips? Too easy, but it was cheap and all we could afford… In twenty-eight seconds I had everything ripped from me. My pride, my clothes, the very little that was left of me…”

It was so hard to breathe, so hard.

“I took the candle from his bedside table and burnt it into his back to give me a second to get him off of me. I wasn’t nearly strong enough but I was able to hit him over the head with the candle-holder.”

Nesta stopped. She said enough. You said more than enough. She breathed, one, two.

She gripped the handle of the weapon before her and removed it, strapping it back to her thigh. “This dagger in your beautiful table is what I keep attached to me, I sleep in it even. because the things I left unsaid are worse than you can possibly imagine, and I hope to never endure them again.”

“High-Lord of the Night Court, I do not owe you a thing. I do not owe you my time, breath, or story. Your cousin and wife have had experiences similar to mine, one of them your personal doing. You will not call me a whore. You don’t know the half of my life. You know nothing more than a page in my book and I won’t allow you to write me as your villain.

“Unlike my sister, I didn’t fall in love with the man who wronged me. I’m just tainted by the scars he left behind. If she is happy I will not speak of my disgust for you, but just know I have every damned reason to despise you.”

Nesta pushed her chair away from the table and regained the queen-like frost of hers.

“I’m leaving. Feyre, thank you for the lovely dinner, I’m sorry I ruined it.”

She turned to Rhys.

“As for you, I’ll have you know this whore has better places to be than here. At least the men I gamble with in bars don’t assault women.”

And with her crown of clear flames, Nesta walked away.

taglist: @perseusannabeth @nahthanks @sayosdreams

#cassian #nessian #acotar #nesta #nesta archeron #acomaf #acosf #acowar #nesta x cassian #a court of silver flames #nessian fic

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g-perla · 4 years

Text

From “Nessian Shipper!!” to “Nessian…Shipper??”

This...is going to be a long one so strap in.

Years ago when ACOMAF came out and the kind people of tumblr posted screenshots of the Wings and Embers short, I found myself looking at Nesta and Cassian, considering the idea of them being romantically and physically involved, and found myself with the following thought; that’s my SHIP. These feelings were reinforced throughout the smattering of brief interactions between the two we got in ACOWAR, probably until the very end where it was unclear if Cassian had gone to see Nesta before or after she headed up the stairs seeming distinctly not ok. That wasn’t a very big deal though. For all I know he did, and she pushed him away, or maybe they did have a talk. Feyre’s perspective is very limited after all. This didn’t really stop my Nessian shipper heart at all.

My Nessian shipper heart became compromised in ACOFAS and in the teaser to ACOSF. I still haven’t re-read ACOFAS so I just want to make it clear that I’m still dealing with 2+ years of accumulated messy, largely unexplored feelings about this ship. That being said, I wasn’t very impressed by Cassian’s behaviour towards Nesta. The interactions between them we were shown left me questioning the stability of a ship I had previously loved with reckless abandon. I questioned Cassian, I questioned Nesta, I questioned their independent trajectories, and them as a couple in the context we were given. My conclusion was that I could no longer really ship them as eagerly in good conscience.

A week or so ago I wrote in a post that Cassian seems, to me, ashamed of Nesta. This idea came to me after considering his behaviour mostly in ACOFAS and to a lesser degree in the previous books. A post by @inyourmindeye, where they put forth their arguments about why Cassian isn’t ashamed of Nesta made me reconsider, however. I read their post carefully and took some time to gather my thoughts after taking in this other perspective. I will share them now.

First, I will say that the word “ashamed” perhaps isn’t the most exact word to express how I feel about Cassian’s complex emotions when it comes to Nesta. I think a more apt word would be conflicted. Second, I want to clarify that when I wrote “ashamed” I didn’t mean to imply that he didn’t care about Nesta. Feeling ashamed of something or someone because of the feelings of attraction or care one might have is certainly possible. Additionally, these emotions aren’t necessarily contradictory, nor do they necessarily depend on each other. They do, however, complicate each other and create conflict.

But what exactly is the source of Cassian’s possibly conflicted feelings?

In the most simplistic sense, I suggest the source is Nesta and the Inner Circle. Or rather, Nesta v. the Inner Circle.

Many in the fandom and some of my own posts have discussed the inherent incompatibilities between Nesta and the IC (as depicted in the canon texts we have access to as of 21/10/20). These incompatibilities are largely ideological such as different definitions of “free will” and agency. Nesta simply does not tolerate the messy dynamics of the IC and the tacit acknowledgement that Rhys has the most authority. For Nesta to fit into this world, she would have to abandon the elements of her character that constitute her core self and which make her subversive within the narrative and without: a disdain towards authority, a resolute mind that isn’t easily moved, quick to anger and abrasive and hostile in her expressions of this anger, but capable of making concessions if the situation gnaws at her strict moral code, morally grey, not nurturing, generally unpleasant to those she doesn’t trust, judgemental, unapologetic in her sexuality or in her femininity, lacking in patience when it comes to idiots and sycophants, critical to a fault, not immune to enacting cruelty, etc. See, if this were a man and if this book had been written during the Romantic period and we were reading it now we would just say “well, I’ll be! What a text-book example of a compelling Byronic hero! We love to see it.”

Note how the men (sorry, males) in SJM novels tend to have many of these same characteristics. They are also pretty good examples of Byronic heroes. The main difference is the energy most people bring when they criticise women. One of the characteristics of a Byronic hero is his refusal to be confined. This confinement can be moral, ideological, epistemological, or physical. Basically, people in the world of such a hero (or even in ours) can’t compute when they encounter him and are unable to put him in easy categories. This often manifests as irrational hatred towards this character because it offends our sensibilities about what is known and what is unknown.

It’s attractive to think that we are immune to this as people existing in the 21st century, but we are not. We still rely on the “Other” to define our identity by both creating it and violently rejecting it. I suppose it’s as good a time as any to share the thesis of my overarching analysis project; basically, Nesta is the ultimate representation of the Other. She is Other in her womanhood (or I guess femaleness), she was Other even as a human, now that she is high fae she is Other to humans but tragically she is also Other to the high fae because she was Made. She is Other as a magical being, she is Other to the IC, she was and is Other to her bio family. She is Other to many of us because we simply cannot comprehend her actions in ACOTAR (how could she have been so cruel????). As of now, there is not a single place where Nesta can exist without offending the very core of what a lot of people value.

One framework for the Other was proposed by the French psychoanalyst Jaques Lacan. He basically said that the Other is that which we must reject when we start forming a concept of the Self. The Self is the known therefore safe; the Other is the unknown therefore dangerous and disruptive. The Self creates the symbolic order which is essentially the blueprint of accepted life to which the Other is antithetical. I can go on and on about the intricacies of this, and Lacan himself certainly did, but I’m working on a review of different conceptualisations of the Other so I will stop here. What I want to establish while bringing this up is that Nesta is essentially the Other to the IC’s symbolic order, i.e. fundamentally incompatible and an epistemological threat. This is a very theoretical way to explain the IC’s hostility and dislike towards her, but I find it compelling enough to pursue (and I am a nerd).

We can’t forget that Cassian is a known element of the IC’s symbolic order, thus one of the Selves let’s say. The Self should seek to annihilate the Other (as it usually does)…not love it, desire it, care for it. To do so is to enter a profound state of existential precarity. To pursue his feelings for Nesta, Cassian would have to question the fundamental assumptions that are at the core of his known world. There is nothing simple about such a task and I can’t really blame him for struggling.

Still, understanding something isn’t necessarily synonymous with liking it. I wish that the distance between these two characters were not so great. I wish both could just sit and talk with the respect I know them to have for one another. The constant insults and underhanded jabs made by both parties are messy and not in a fun way. As the ship stands, I don’t feel comfortable liking it with the same reckless abandon as before. I think their hostility is too raw, even if their actions contradict them most of the time. Is it unreasonable to want them to interact without reservations in situations other than those between life and death? I hope ACOSF can provide the development they both deserve. Maybe then I can stop having one leg in the ship and the other overboard.

#acofas #acotar #acowar #acomaf #wings and embers #nesta archeron #cassian #nessian #i figure sjm uses male and female because the fae are not human and quite animalistic #but goddamn if it is not cringe-inducing

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typicalmidnightsoul · 4 years

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𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓒𝓻𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓟𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓮𝓼𝓼- Chapter 6

ℍ𝕒𝕝𝕗 𝕓𝕝𝕒𝕕𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕗 𝕤𝕚𝕝𝕜

I was made heavy half blade and half silk, difficult to forget but not easy for the mind to follow- Rupi Kaur

Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4 5 <- here

The dinner went fine. Elain was rigid next to Feyre watching as the others tried to mix with the people of Rask. Cassian had…words with Leona. Whether it was regarding Nesta or their shared experiences of being generals then royalty, Feyre did not know. The Rask royal family was not that sociable, but how could they be when Nesta’s relationship with the court of dreams was jagged. Luna had taken a particular liking to Azriel who in turn blushed at her… advances, but for most of the time Audrey and Luna remained quiet their eyes on the door. Nesta had not shown up and just as they were about to leave without doing any alliance negations Nesta sent a note saying to start without her and that she would be there as soon as she could.

Amren sipped from the wine glass saying, “You would think being a Princess would make her punctual.”

Luna’s head snapped toward her, she lowered her eyebrows glancing at Jonah who in turn bared his teeth and said to Amren, “She is not just any odd person, she is the crown princess, and she has territories and people more important than the likes of you and your court of dreams to attend to.”

Amren gave a snake-like smile, “Tell me, did Nesta force you to be here?”

He looked her up and down, “Every single person you see here is here out of their own choice those who didn’t want to come didn’t.” He mock looked around, “Do you see Clare or Eris here?”

Amren was about to answer back-

“Enough.” Audrey spoke up, her eyes venomous, “We should discuss the matter holding up the treaty negotiations before Nesta gets here.”

“Wait before Nesta-”

Audrey nodded at Luna who cut Feyre off saying, “For this alliance to proceed all the territories of Rask will need to sign, if even one of them don’t the alliance will not go forward. My territory, Jonah’s and Leona’s refuse to sign until you agree to one condition.” She lifted her chin.

Rhys and Feyre exchanged a look,

“We would like to hear it first.” Feyre was sure that Rhys would give them whatever they wanted if only to assure the safety of the humans.

They all braced themselves eyes on Luna but it was Jonah who said,

“We would like you to accept this cheque of 20,000 gold marks.”

They all froze and stared with wide eyes.

“Accept?” Feyre asked in shock.

“Why would you want us to accept it?” Rhys asked his tone suspicious.

Leona looked at him eyes lit with a raging fire, “because we want to go into this relationship without any debts with you. We wouldn’t want to give you another opportunity to demean us or our other family members.”

“What debt?” Cassian ground out.

“The debt that my older sister has to you. The debt that you taunt Nesta with whenever an opportunity presents itself.” Jonah replied.

Cassian and Jonah stared each other down.

Until Jonah dragged his head to Rhys, “Will you accept?”

Rhys had that far-away look in his eyes that suggested he was conversing with his inner circle. A long time after he replied, “Nesta Archeron‘s expenses weren’t that much when she was in our care therefore we will accept half of what you are offering.”

Audrey gave them all a soft smile, “We will look forward to our alliance with you.”

“Is that it then?” Cassian asked leaning back into his chair, “Are we allies now?”

“There will obviously be a formal ceremony, but yes since all territories will have signed by tonight… we are, I guess, allies.”

Heels clicked into the restaurant, “That quick and without me?”

Nesta’s family beamed at her, a grin splitting on Jonah’s face. One that had to been there even when his mate had held his hand.

Caroline gesture for a waiter to get another chair but Nesta shook her head.

“I thought I would be needed for alliance negotiations but since I am not then it would be best for me to leave with Luna and Auj.”

Luna and Audrey raised a brow.

“We seem to have to solve a blood feud or we’ll have another Romeo and Juliet on our hands. Clare’s already there.” She went to walk out, Luna and Audrey getting up when Feyre stopped them.

“I would like to speak with Nesta.”

Luna sized up the space between them.

Audrey asked, “alone?”

Feyre froze, what did they think she would do to her sister? Kidnap her?

“Not alone but not publicly either.”

Audrey nodded and jerked her chin at Luna, “You go.” Feyre nodded at Elain to come as well.

Confusion ruffled Nesta’s beautiful face, but nonetheless she led them out to the garden below.

Luna gestured for Elain to sit with her at a nearby table and ordered tea and coffee.

Nesta leaned against the post of the gazebo that gave shelter to the diners outside, which there were none of as all the customers chose to dine on the roof for the view.

“So, what’s this about?”

Feyre knew Nesta would hate it if she beat around the bush. So she just said, “I am obviously mad at you for leaving. And I know that I must have instigated it but… let bygones be bygones. Let’s start over.”

Feyre stepped closer to her. Nesta stepped back.

“No I don’t think we should.”

Feyre flinched, “Why?”

She turned back, leaning back onto the fencing of the gazebo looking at the small, quiet little town before them.

“Do you know what you’re asking me to do? You’re asking me for the sake of your own guilt to forget the bitter behaviour I have experienced from you and your family. To forget Clare’s grieving face” Feyre opened her mouth but Nesta turned and held up a finger. “I know you think you avenged her but stabbing the attor will not bring back the Beddor family or ease Clare’s torment no matter how much conciliation it gives you.”

“Nesta I admit I may have unknowingly hurt you-”

“Well then Feyre you must be really nave and foolish because the amount of people you have unknowingly hurt? Lucien for starters has been ‘unknowingly’”-she made quotation marks with her fingers-“mocked for getting close to new people. Mocked for giving themselves the name of ‘the band of exiles’, I mean come on hypocrisy at its finest, Feyre how much better is The Court of dreams?”

“Lucien, Nesta? You hate him!” Feyre exclaimed.

“Stop trying to change the subject.” She flicked a lock over her shoulder, “Do you not think you and your friends have a god complex? Even when it came to me. Your own sister. You thought that because Love healed you it would heal me. You made my decision for me. What if I died from it? Would come to my grave and ask me to start over.”

Nesta’s face was now scrunched up tears trying to force tares back her back to Feyre,

“You acted like it was a choice. Like my depression, PTSD, anorexia was all a choice like I could just,”-She snapped her fingers-“turn it off.”

Feyre started to shake her head profusely.

“Well I couldn’t. And worst of all I blamed myself. But not anymore.” She wiped her tears away and faced her, “From now on you are accountable for your own decisions. I am no longer holding myself responsible for your mistakes. I am done second guessing myself. I have learnt to live with my mistakes, so maybe instead of trying to ‘start over’ you should as well.”

Nesta walked out of the wards of the restaurant and winnowed away. Leaving a cold Feyre with tears slipping down her face. Luna came to her.

“Feyre the document has not been signed yet. If, after this you do not want to go ahead with the alliance then you have to tell me now.”

Feyre turned to her.

“That’s why Audrey sent you. Because she knew the Nesta would blow and you had to make sure I still agreed to the alliance.”

Luna offered no explanation.

“Well I still consent to this alliance. So you can save your breath.”

Luna nodded, “If you go back in please tell Audrey, Nesta and I have left.” Feyre nodded and went up to the roof with Elain.

-----

Two weeks after the dinner, Feyre was readying her gallery for classes when a flying letter burst in through the window. Before she could grab it the letter folded itself and spoke,

“To the high lady of Night,” a posh voice said, then Caroline’s voice started playing,

“Hello Feyre, I wondered if you would like to join me for a drink before I open my restaurant now. There is something I would like to discuss. If you do just touch the letter after my message if you don’t just tell the letter to leave.

Yours truly Caroline.”

Feyre looked taken aback.

“Ah, the talking transportation letters. They are apparently a habit of Raskians.” Ressina came out of the back room and put a hand on Feyre’s shoulder chuckling at her shocked face, “You should go. We have another hour till we open.”

Feyre considered glancing at the clock. Then nodded.

She touched the letter. In what seemed like a mist travelling through the folds of the world, a sound much like a deafening howling wind Feyre was transported and now standing on the street in front of the restaurant.

She looked around, the letter was nowhere to be seen. People were busy in the street market behind her. She gathered herself and walked up to the rooftop part.

Caroline was there admiring the view. She stood up to greet her.

“Hello.”

Feyre smiled and said, “I am really sorry Caroline but this must be quick I have to open my gallery for classes soon.”

She gestured for her to sit, “Of course, I also have to open, and this will only take a few minutes.” She looked at Feyre’s face, “You have something on your mind.”

She bit her lip, “It was just… Jonah, your mate, he’s my brother and Clare’s alive… this is all so confusing. It’s just that when I find out how they… how do you think I will feel?”

Feyre winced, “Ugh, I sound so pathetic.”

Caroline smiled, “No, it’s fine. I am sorry though Feyre. I don’t really know how you will feel. I can tell you though that Clare’s story is much less complicated than Jonah’s, funnily enough. He is very protective of Nesta. So I do apologize for his behaviour.”

Feyre shook her head, “He loves her deeply. And I hurt her, his behaviour is normal. Anyway what would you like to discuss.”

Feyre sipped from the glass of coffee.

Caroline glanced at the clock, “Um, there is little time so,” She pulled a gold invite towards her and handed it to Feyre, “It is mine and Jonah’s anniversary next week. So I would like to invite you to the party we’re holding.”

Feyre accepted it, “Do you think Nesta will want me there?”

She waved a hand, “Nesta will not mind, just don’t mention any of the words you exchanged and Nesta won’t get triggered.”

“You all seem really close.”

“Oh we are. All of us. Leona, Clare, Luna and Audrey stick with her, Nesta’s mine and my brother’s partner in crime. Ollie and Ash love her like crazy, they have shopping sprees together. Honestly we are a really big group. You will meet the whole family next week if you come. Are you… planning to?”

Feyre nodded, “Yes. I intend on making the relationship with my sister stronger.”

Caroline smiled and then stood up, “Sorry Feyre I have to get to the kitchen. Feel free to stay here and finish your coffee.” She downed her own. Then stopped and turned back.

“Just a heads up, Nesta and Leo…Leona, Luna and Audrey will be coming in the next few days.”

“Why?” Feyre asked tearing her eyes away from the invitation.

“It’s tradition for Rask to give a gift to you after the alliance has been finalized.

“Do we give-”

“No, no. Just a heads-up, anyway bye see you next week.”

“You too.” She sipped from her cup admiring the place Nesta now called home. She glanced at the clock. She had to go back in the next five minutes if she wanted to be on time. She didn’t know if she should be dreading or celebrating the invitation she was now holding.

--------

This was such a long one. Sorry for the lateness, life got in the way. Up next: The party, an introduction the first love in Nesta's life and a distraught Nesta seeking Azriel's help.

Tags:@mis-lil-red @wannawriteyouabook @my-fan-side

#nesta archeron #cassian #ersi #original character #nessian fanfic #acotar #rhys #rhysand #helion #lucien #elain #mor #morrigan #amren #varian #acomaf #acowar #acofas #day court #rask #prythian

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rufousnmacska · 6 years

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Late for Dinner

Post-acofas Nessian one shot that @itach-i made me write

my fanfic on tumblr

my fanfic on ao3

The clock struck the dinner hour, reverberating across the quiet cabin. Nesta looked up from her book in a daze, slow to understand what time it was.

He wasn’t home yet.

The weeks she’d spent in Cassian’s home had been horrible. After the first few days of fighting and screaming and demanding to be taken somewhere, anywhere else, she’d simply stopped, tired and deflated.

She couldn’t go anywhere on her own. The only other place she knew was Velaris and she was not welcome there. Undoubtedly that prick of a high fae had spelled the perimeter to keep her away.

And the cabin was isolated, miles from the nearest Illyrian camp, surrounded by a thick forest full of deadly animals. According to Cassian. Not believing him, she’d tried sneaking out the second night she was here. A short distance into the woods and she’d turned back, unsettled by the eyeshine from animals of varying sizes and cursing herself for not continuing her training with Amren.

The splitting of the cauldron had diminished her powers, but there was plenty left to be a significant threat. She just didn’t know how to use it, or control it. The drinking had kept it dulled, along with the nightmares. And the sex had helped expend the built up energy. But as she had neither outlet here, her power had been steadily growing inside her.

Cassian sometimes offered to take her with him, but she’d stubbornly refused. So their days had fallen into a quiet rhythm: he’d cook breakfast then leave to attend to his armies, she’d spend her time reading or sleeping, he’d return to make dinner. Often, he’d bring her a stack of books he thought she might like, usually with a smutty romance hidden in the pile hoping to get a reaction from her.

And always, he’d talk, telling her about his day. About anything and everything; who had caused trouble with the females being trained, how he’d tried to defuse a camp eager to rebel, even gossip about some shop owner who sold him the books.

She didn’t think he was trying to make her jealous since he always mentioned how much he thought Nesta would like the female. When he’d told her that Emerie had taken over her father’s shop despite the Illyrian taboo of females having their own businesses, she had been intrigued.

But she’d refused to give him the satisfaction, refused to the point that she barely spoke to him.

And now, it was getting dark and he wasn’t home yet.

He always came home. Every night, even if he had to inspect a camp that was far away. Whenever he’d returned from a long flight, she could see it in his slightly dipped wings, and hear it in his tired voice as he recounted his day to her.

The clock rang softly for the half hour and Nesta realized she was pacing. The sun was sinking low enough to cast the woods in an ever deepening shadow..

Should she try to make her way to the camp? She knew the general direction, having watched him leave every morning. Maybe she could find this Emerie person and ask if she’d seen Cassian.

After more pacing, and another chime of the clock, Nesta made her decision. She changed into pants and a few layers of shirts before wrapping herself in the heavy cloak he’d bought for her. She’d never worn it, or the fur lined boots she now stepped into. There was no snow yet but it was coming soon. And she didn’t know how far she may have to go.

After grabbing two large butcher knives from the kitchen, she went outside and paused. The night was silent and she didn’t see anything among the trees. Pulling the hood over her head, she started off towards the Illyrian camp, refusing to dwell on the voice inside telling her Cassian was never coming back. Not because he was injured, but because he’d finally given up on her.

He flew like a demon, pushing himself to a speed he rarely reached except in battle. The moon had risen, the night air was freezing, and Mother damn him, he was late.

Damn Kyron too. The camp lord had been a pain in Cassian’s ass since long before the war. Lately, he’d been stirring up enough resentment and hate that a small contingent of his fighters had attacked a nearby fae village.

Including the females in the unit he took with him to put down the unrest had been risky. But he trusted their abilities and wanted to make a point. Things were changing, whether the old guard liked it or not. And he would not stand for dissent, let alone an unprovoked attack on civilians. Kyron’s camp was now almost empty, his forces either distributed throughout other camps or sent to prison, where their leader would waste away next to them.

He’d left the remaining mess to Devlon the moment he’d realized how late it was. As he raced for home, a dark voice told him it didn’t matter if he hurried. She would have her head in a book and pretend he didn’t exist. Maybe he shouldn’t bring her any more and force her to talk to him. Or, only bring her the smutty ones. The thought made him smile and he began planning a quick trip to Velaris to get them when a strange flash of light from below caught his attention.

As he hesitated between going to investigate and continuing home, the light flashed again. It wasn’t a bright, white fae light, nor was it the sign of a siphon in use. it was dark, black. Though that didn’t make any sense, he thought, hovering above the forest. It pulsed again and he was struck by a wave of magic trailing it. He was thrown back from the force of it, but stayed in the air. It felt so familiar... so full of anger and fear and... Nesta.

Plummeting from the sky, Cassian had only one thought in his head. Nesta was alone in the forest and he had to get to her.

As he neared the crowns of the trees, he heard snarling from below, loud enough to carry over the sound of the wind, then another burst of light and magic. With a great beat of his wings, he hurtled to the ground, landing heavily behind where she stood. His red siphons were ablaze and the small clearing around them looked as if it were on fire from their glow.

Nesta turned to look at him, eyes wide. Cassian scanned the area expecting to see some of the more vicious creatures for which these woods were known. But instead of finding them prowling around her, he saw only limp forms, blasted senseless - or worse - by her magic. He turned in a circle, growing more impressed with each second. Coming back around to face her, he beamed with pride.

“Nesta, I-”

Before he could say another word, Nesta ran for him and practically tackled him with a hug. Without a moments hesitation, he wrapped his arms tightly around her, breathing her in. Gods she smelled good, like a storm at sea or riding a wind into the sky. When he inhaled again, he caught the underlying scent of fear, something he’d sensed in her magic. Pulling away, Cassian took her face in his hands and studied her.

She was afraid, but not from the predators she’d killed. Not from the dangers she’d encountered in the forest.

“You didn’t come home,” she whispered, moisture forming in her eyes. “I didn’t know where to look so I headed to the camp and...” She trailed off, looking away from him as she realized what she’d admitted to.

Cassian brushed a single tear from her cheek and pulled her back against him. He half expected her to smack him away, but she didn’t. As his hand gently stroked her hair, he dipped his head to her ear and said quietly, “There was trouble with a remote camp lord and I lost track of time. I’m sorry I didn’t send word.” She trembled beneath his hold and he squeezed her tighter. He didn’t know if her shaking was from using her magic, the cold, or just relief. Either way, they needed to get inside.

“Are you ok to fly?” he asked. She nodded and let him swing her up into his arms.

The cabin wasn’t far by air and he was disappointed to get there so quickly. When he set her on the ground, he kept his arms on her waist, reluctant to let go of her. She looked up at him with eyes so full of sadness his chest ached.

"I won’t abandon you Nesta. No matter what.”

She took a shallow, raspy breath. The desire to take her into his arms again and kiss her was overwhelming, but he didn’t give in to it. He would not push her, especially knowing how easily she could lapse back into her shell of silence. So he gave her a wink and said, “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed and her mouth twisted, eventually forming a frown. But a faint smile had crossed her lips, there and gone in less time than it took for his heart to beat.

She stepped back from him and turned to go inside. With a glance over her shoulder she said, “So tell me about this lord. I hope you taught him a lesson.”

“I’ll tell you about my day if you tell me about that magic of yours” he said, making his admiration clear.

She shrugged in agreement and went inside.

Cassian grinned and followed her into his cabin. He wondered if it would ever be their cabin. A spark of hope rushed through him as he closed the door. There was something about the sight of her dirty boots thrown next to a pair of his, and her cloak hanging on a peg in the wall. And her stack of books on the table, one still open on the chair. And the way the entire place smelled like her. Like home.

#nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #nessian fanfiction #nessian fanfic #my writing #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas

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thebluemartini · 6 years

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A Monolith Between Them - Part II {Nessian}

A/N: Thank you SO much for all the likes and comments!! My heart is warmed :)

TITLE: A Monolith Between Them

PREVIOUS PARTS: Part I

FIC LENGTH: 4 Parts

FIC SYNOPSIS: Post-ACOFAS. After living in the Illyrian Mountains for six months, Nesta decides she wants to perform the Blood Rite. Cassian isn’t too pleased.

*This fic is also posted on AO3 and FF.

TAGGING: @my-fan-side @aelinashgalathynius @acotar-feels @city-of-fae @eclectichollow @strangeenemy @mindnumbmikey @saltierthanbottomofapretzelbag @fucking-winchester-trash @themoonunderstoodmynightmares @archeron-queen @jadeajibola @endlessworld246 @wolffrising @writevswrong

Part II - Weakness

Day One of the Blood Rite:

The day started out simple enough. Right as the sun had begun to rise, Devlon flew Nesta to a neighboring mountain of Ramiel to begin her journey. All of the participants had been dropped off at various points on the mountains surrounding the enormous monolith. If anyone wanted to form a team, they would have the challenge of finding each other. And if anyone wanted to strike down an enemy, they would have to determine if the challenge of tracking them down was worth it. For you only successfully performed the Blood Rite and became a true Illyrian Warrior if you completed the task of reaching the top of Ramiel within a week. If you didn’t...you were left to perish.

It was all a bit uneventful at first. When Devlon had dropped her off, he immediately flew off without a word, leaving Nesta to stare up at the daunting peak of Ramiel.

From what she could see, its slopes were filled with numerous boulders and other jagged rock formations. A layer of snow covered the entire mountain, with some areas more heavily blanketed with it than others.

On the mountain where she currently stood, she was at its midpoint. She would first need to descend this one to get to the base of Ramiel.

The cold, bitter wind swirled past her, sending strands of her hair flying around her. Not wanting to waste a moment, she had immediately surged forward to begin her descent. Despite the blast of cold air hitting in her face, she could still feel the imprint of Cassian’s warm hand pressed against her cheek.

He had come to say goodbye…

With all of her nerves about the impending Blood Rite earlier that morning, she felt touched and comforted by his presence despite his desire for her not to do this. And that comfort in this stressful, overwhelming time overrode the anger she had felt towards him.

And his words…

“Come back to me.”

A chill went through her...and it didn’t seem to be because of the weather.

Could he have possibly implied -

But no, she couldn’t afford to dwell on his words right now and what they may have meant. She needed to stay focused and remain alert of her surroundings. Plus, whenever it came to trying to figure out Cassian’s feelings, she always ended up feeling like a complete fool.

Pushing Cassian out of her mind, she aimed her attention on the terrain in front of her and continued hiking down.

She wasn’t sure precisely how much time had passed, but it certainly wasn’t long before she thought of Cassian again.

She had discovered a stream amidst the trees and kneeled down to scoop up water to drink. The action reminded her of a scene from a romance novel she had read. In the story, a runaway princess had stopped to collect some water from a stream in a forest. A scoundrel had found her and was willing to help her escape to another town away from her royal duties for a price. But of course, love blossomed between them as they traversed the woods together and shared some steamy encounters.

Cassian gave her that book.

When she first arrived in the Illyrian Mountains, she had been unwilling to leave her room for weeks and refused to talk to anyone. Despite her fury at her situation and at Cassian, the persistent bastard still tried to help her. Knowing she was bored cooping herself up in that room, he would leave a romance novel for her outside her bedroom door each day.

For the first two days, she refused to take the books, not wanting to admit she was miserably bored. But on the third day, she gave in and grabbed all three books that were waiting for her. She read them all within the following days, and each day she eagerly awaited the next book Cassian would bring her.

Somehow, he had picked ones that were of her favorite genre - historical romances. All of them were engrossing and helped her forget that she was stuck in the Illyrian Mountains.

But of course she never told him how much she enjoyed them. She never said anything about the books. And yet, somehow he already knew…

“Nesta,” Cassian called out in greeting outside the closed door to her bedroom.

“What?” Nesta replied, annoyed. She had just reached a dramatic part of the novel Cassian gave her yesterday. She only had a few more pages left to read.

“Did you enjoy, uh, ‘Seducing the Scoundrel’ last week?” Cassian asked her. “If so, I’ve got the sequel here: ‘Ravishing the Rogue.’”

“Just set it outside the door as usual,” Nesta instructed, acting like she was disinterested. However, internally, she was rejoicing that Cassian bought her the next installment of that series.

“Why don’t you open up the door and get it from me right now?” he asked in a way that told her he had a stupid, silly grin upon his face as he said it.

“Just leave it there. I’m not dressed yet.”

“I don’t mind,” Cassian said flirtatiously, causing Nesta to let out a grunt of annoyance.

“Just leave it there,” Nesta sternly said.

“No.”

“Stop being a buffoon. Just leave it there.”

“I think you need to get out of your room. It’s been over a week. So come get it.”

“No.”

“Then you’re not getting the sequel.”

Nesta let out a huff. “Fine. Then...I don’t want it.”

“Well, if you change your mind, I’ll leave it in the living room.”

“Fine.”

She heard him retreat from outside her door, then a few minutes later heard the sounds of the main cabin door shutting closed. Nesta finished reading the last few pages of her current book before putting it down on the nightstand beside her bed.

Now she didn’t have a book to spend the day reading. And one she desperately wanted to read was just sitting in the living room…

Getting up, she removed her nightgown and dressed for the day. Lately, she’d been spending all her days in a nightgown, but if Cassian was going to make her leave her room, she had to look somewhat presentable if she ran into any of the other females living in the cabin.

All she had to do was just walk down the hallway and into the main room to retrieve the book. It would be quick. She likely wouldn’t have to face anyone. Just run out and come back in.

Slowly, she made her way to her door, which creaked as she turned the knob, and pulled it open. Making her way down the hallway, she entered the living room and searched for where Cassian could have possibly left the book. Walking further into the room, she found the novel resting on one of the arms of the couches.

After she picked it up, she turned around and headed straight back to her room.

But that plan was thwarted by the presence of an Illyrian general. At the entrance to her bedroom stood Cassian, who was leaning back against the closed door with a smirk upon his face.

“I knew you’d be dying to read the sequel,” he commented.

Nesta frowned as she hugged the book to her chest. “Let me back in my room,” she ordered.

“Well, unfortunately, it’s locked. So I think it’s time we go for a walk.”

Nesta scowled. “How is it locked? I didn’t lock it! I didn’t even close the door.”

“Well someone must’ve flown in through your window to lock it and closed it behind him.”

Nesta glared at him. “You dolt!”

“Let’s go. I’ll let you back in once you walk through the camp with me. It won’t take longer than ten minutes.”

Nesta sighed out of annoyance. “Fine,” she relented. “But don’t you dare talk to me,” she demanded as she walked down the hallway toward the main door. Cassian silently followed behind her with a satisfied grin on his face.

Day Two of Being Without Nesta:

Is she still alive?

Is she safe?

Is she alright?

Has she been attacked?

Has she been able to find food and shelter?

Overcome with worry over Nesta’s well-being, Cassian couldn’t fall asleep. He hadn’t been able to sleep since Nesta began the Blood Rite. Every minute of the past two days, he’d been living in constant wonder of what Nesta was doing and if she was still alive.

Surely, if she was no longer alive, he would feel...something? Being apart from her was already a source of torment, one that was extremely hard to bear.

Saying goodbye to her the day before was painful. The thought of possibly never seeing her again was a stab to his heart. Being separated from her and knowing she could die was suffocating. It felt like a vital part of him was missing, and his soul was constantly calling to hers.

He couldn’t help but wonder if this was how she felt at the thought of leaving him to die on the battlefield against Hybern. He had pleaded for her to go, but she couldn’t.

With a sigh over his restlessness, he left his bedroom to sit on the sofa in his living room. The action didn’t help him to stop thinking of Nesta though because everything had begun to remind him of her. As he stared into the flames within his fireplace, he thought of her fiery spirit that could leave you feeling scorched or warmed. The painting that hung above his fireplace was one depicting the Sidra River flowing through Velaris, which has now become a constant reminder of the place where he discarded his Winter Solstice present for her.

And this couch...

It had been a long day. Cassian had spent most of the day with Rhys visiting various camps, trying to quell their discontent. He was ready to crash upon his bed as soon as he got home.

Instead, he had come home to an unfamiliar sight that delayed his plans of going to sleep instantly.

Upon walking into his living room, he found Nesta sleeping on his couch while the flames within the fireplace had been dying down.

Heading to the fireplace, he added more logs to the fire before turning back to face Nesta. The breaths she was taking were short and shallow. Her face kept turning back and forth. Grabbing a blanket from a wooden chest across the room, Cassian laid it over her body.

“Nesta,” Cassian said softly as he sat on the edge of the couch beside her body and gently shook her shoulder.

Nesta abruptly opened her eyes. First, they appeared terrified at being awoken unexpectedly, but they evolved into a look of relief when she saw him beside her.

“Where have you been?” she asked sleepily as she sat up.

“I was out with Rhys today, talking to camp leaders,” he explained.

“Oh.”

“Why are you here?”

“I...I had a nightmare. It’s stupid. I should go.” Nesta moved to get off the couch, but Cassian halted her and didn’t budge from his seat.

“No, tell me. What happened?”

“Nothing. It was just a dream about the war, and I just had to come here and…” Nesta stopped.

“And what?” Cassian gently asked.

“And see that...you were still alive.”

That was the first time she had just decided to waltz into his home without even bothering to wait for him to answer the door or for him to even be home. It occurred a month or so ago...and what she had said had finally given him hope that she at least cared about him.

In that moment, he didn’t tease her about it, nor try to get her to admit anything more. The walls around her had come down and he didn’t want to see them close up again so soon.

He’d do anything to see those walls brought down once more. But who knew if there would ever be a chance he could witness such a thing happen again...

Day Three of the Blood Rite:

Nesta had an eerie, unsettling feeling that she was being watched.

She first sensed it yesterday while the sun was beginning its descent. She thought she heard some footsteps crunch through the snow while she was pulling a pine cone off a pine tree she had come across.

Leaving her feeling uneasy, Nesta decided not to sleep last night. Instead, she felt it best to continue trekking down the mountain in the dark until she figured out if someone was following her or not.

She felt so weak. Her feet and legs were aching terribly. She plopped down on the ground beside a boulder, allowing her legs to lay upon the ground stretched out, while she leaned back with the palms of her hands laid against the ground to support her.

Her belly let out a loud grumble. She was terribly famished. The few pine nuts she found yesterday hardly satiated her hunger.

She knew what it was like to go hungry, considering how her father had been unwilling to take care of her and her sisters for so long. At least with her current situation, she knew she would be getting her next meal in five days...as long as she survived the Blood Rite.

While the mountain was still covered in snow, the skies were clear and the sun gleamed over her. Feeling its warmth upon her face, Nesta closed her eyes and took a few deep, soothing breaths.

When she found herself drifting off, she shook her head and opened her eyes as she attempted to jolt herself awake. But when she did, she found an unfamiliar dark-haired Illyrian male standing over her and holding a stick in his hands that had been sharpened to a point on one end of it..

Alarmed, Nesta scurried to get up. But with her weak legs, she wasn’t fast enough to get away from him. Instead, the Illyrian grabbed hold of her hair to yank her back to the ground. Nesta let out a yelp as she fell and made sure to turn on her back on the ground. The male immediately pinned her legs to the ground as Nesta squirmed and tried to get out of his grip. He acted quickly, aiming his stick for her chest.

Nesta managed to quickly wriggle her body so he missed her chest. Instead, his stick came crashing down into her thigh.

“AHHHHHH!” Nesta screamed in pain as the stick made contact. The Illyrian first groaned over missing the body part he intended to strike, but then grinned delightfully to himself when he heard her cry out. He crawled over Nesta’s squirming body as she tried to sit up and drag herself away from him.

He already had so much power over her…Her mind raced, thinking of what she could do to get through this…

“You shouldn’t have punched him. You should have slapped him, and then you would have won,” Cassian remarked as Nesta winced while rubbing her right hand. He was leaning against the fence surrounding the training ring where Nesta had just been defeated by an Illyrian male.

All the Illyrian bystanders and her opponent had already wandered off, but Nesta remained standing in the middle of the ring as she contemplated how she could have beat him.

“I didn’t ask for your advice,” Nesta snobbily replied while turned away from him.

Cassian just smirked as he shrugged. “Just trying to help you, sweetheart. If you won’t allow me to train with you, the least I can do is gift you with some of my wondrous wisdom from my 547 years of life.”

“Wow, you’re so archaic and yet still haven’t grown out of being an obnoxious twit. I’m amazed no one has paralyzed you yet for being so pompous.”

Cassian continued to smile. “Everyone knows if they tried, it would be a losing fight.”

Nesta rolled her eyes, still facing away from him. “You certainly have a wild imagination.”

Suddenly, she heard him approach her from behind, causing her to turn around. “Well, maybe I need someone to help tame my wild ways…” he said with a glint in his eye.

Nesta shook her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re the one who’s being ridiculous. You’re not letting the General Commander of the Night Court's army give you advice about your fighting tactic.”

Nesta sighed in defeat. “Fine. What should I have done to win?”

“You’re less likely to injure your hand with a slap rather than a punch. Next time, you need to cup your hand like so,” he said as he curved his right hand. “Then slap it against your opponent’s ear, which could rupture his eardrum and possibly knock him out. It’s even better if you are able to slap both of his ears at the same time.”

The Illyrian pushed Nesta’s shoulders to the ground and his hands made their way to her neck, attempting to squeeze her. “A female will never complete the Blood Rite,” he remarked cruelly.

But with his head right in front of her, she was given the perfect opportunity. She lifted both of her hands and slammed them against his ears,

Immediately, the Illyrian’s grip on Nesta’s neck slackened, and he appeared dizzy for a second. Nesta managed to twist her upper body away from him before he could collapse on her.

He crashed hard to the ground face down and laid motionless.

With her heart rapidly pumping within her chest, Nesta slowly sat up and took a look at the stick protruding from her thigh. Blood was gradually seeping from the wound.

She couldn’t yank out the stick or else she risked severe bleeding. Instead, she would just have to break off as much of the stick as she could.

Taking a deep breath, she grabbed the stick with both of her hands. One was placed against her thigh to hold the hold the stick in the wound, while the other gripped the stick.. With a cry as the wood twisted in her thigh, Nesta broke off some of the stick.

Suddenly, she heard a groan escape from the Illyrian male beside her, causing her to gasp.

She had to get out of this area as soon as possible.

She attempted to quickly stand up, but the pain pounding n her thigh made her wobbly. Her instability caused her body to come crashing back to the ground. In her haste, she forgot about the big boulder that was near her. Her head collided with the huge rock during the fall, knocking her unconscious.

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A/N: So when I first had the idea for this fic, I only really wanted to write what would happen before the Rite and after the Rite, but not really about the Rite itself. But then I was like "Well, I at least have to write a little about the Rite..." so hopefully it's going okay so far, haha. Let me know what you think! And let me know if you want to be tagged!

#nesta archeron #cassian #nesta #a court of thorns and roses #a court of mist and fury #a court of wings and ruin #a court of frost and starlight #nessian #post-acofas #fanfiction #nesta x cassian #acofas #acotar #acomaf #acowar

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highladyofthenightcourt5 · 7 years

Text

Bright as the Night Sky (Part 14):

WHAT!!!! Can’t believe we’re here! Btw so sorry for not posting yesterday. My sister wanted to watch a movie on my computer and then we both ended up passing out in my bed after a long day at work and I was just like “ehhh...there’s tomorrow.” Currently struggling to overcome my first cold in a year...not enjoying it but here I am typing what I love so I guess there’s a win. ☺️

Shout Out: @dr-woodsprite @feyreismeiamfeyre @acourtofrunesandwands @rowanismybae @rowanrhysand @mm23219 @acourtofredqueens @dragonbound135 @daughterxofxnight @theroyalwords @fulmenetaestus @aqueenpromised @feysand9299 @iwouldtrustmylifetohagrid @velaris-starlight @sarahmcclune

Sections:

[AO3]:

Part 1:

Part 2:

Part 3:

Part 4:

Part 5:

Part 6:

Part 7:

Part 8:

Part 9:

Part 10:

Part 11:

Part 12:

Part 13:

Part 15:

Part 16:

Part 17:

Part 18:

Part 19:

Part 20:

I knock hesitantly on Mor and Azriel’s door, hoping beyond hope that they didn’t go out for the night. But before I can raise my fist and knock again, the door swings open on silent hinges and Mor’s worried expression alerts me that Azriel probably told her about my morning escapade.

I try to wipe the salt from my face and hide the wobble in my tone as I ask her; “Can I come in?”

Mor nods vigorously. “Of course, come in.” She takes one look at my haggard expression and she responds “I’ll send Azriel over to Cassian and Nesta’s place in Velaris. You’re sister came to see you and Elain but you weren’t there…” She trails off and her eyes land on her mate coming down the stairs, shadows swirling around him.

“Are you alright?” He asks as he embraces me in a brotherly hug.

I shake my head but reply; “Please keep an eye on Rhysand…he’s not doing very well.” I breathe and show him the source of my misery onto his mind. The only shock on his face is the widening of his eyes and the hitch in his breath before he plants a quick kiss on Mor’s forehead and gives me a quick bow.

“I’ll go to him right away and bring Cassian with me. Nothing will happen to our High Lord. Rest assured.” He answers before striding towards the front door and taking off into the night sky.

Sitting on Mor’s large mattress with a cup of wine I tell her everything. From Tamlin’s letter, to the wings…and then when I told Rhysand.

“I thought he would be angry…and heartbroken.” I whisper, wiping away the rogue tears that refused to stay inside. “But not…this. Not this empty shell. Mor I tried to talk to him, tried to reason with him! But it was as if he was under a spell. He just couldn’t comprehend anything else!” I hide my face in my hand as I try to wipe the memory of his empty countenance. “I don’t know what to do.” I mumble.

“Feyre?” Mor says and I raise my eyes to her chocolate orbs. “You have been a wonderful mate, wife, High Lady, and sister. So I’m going to tell you what you told me oh-so-many weeks ago; I, more than anyone, know how much Rhysand loves you. He would do anything for you. Just how you would do anything for him. And I know how much your hurting about this…but he’s also hurting…and perhaps there’s a deeper meaning behind his rejection. I know it has nothing to do with you…I feel like this might have to do with him and perhaps he needs a little more time.” She counsels and I nearly giggle at the ironic twist in our situations. No one can understand the eddies of the cauldron.

“I should sue you for copyright.” I tease, wiping the stiff salt from my eyes.

“All jokes aside Feyre.” Mor’s voice turns serious. “When he calms down, talk to him. Get him to tell you what’s on his mind. If I managed to do it with Azriel who speaks about as much as a mute then you can get Rhysand to speak with you. And when you do, everything will work out.” She says as she pats my knee and grabs my free hand that isn’t nursing a cup of wine and places it on her flat stomach. “Because of your help I’m having a child and he or she will never have to grow up wondering why their father is so distant.” She breathes and smiles through the tears dripping from those soulful eyes. “Thank you Feyre.”

I can’t control the onslaught of emotion and resolve to pulling the bright blonde into my arms and crying into her hair while spilling wine all over the mattress and our dresses as I celebrate with her.

For the spark of hope and wonder that would be joining us very soon.

Author’s Note:

So yay! Pregnant Mor and Inner Circle bonding!!! I really love these scenes and the next few Feysand ones are to die for! I just love them and can’t wait for this fic to end so I can have all my ideas finally down on paper! I love it!

SHOUT OUT:

@adiposesherlock

@bats-and-hawks

@joolsreads

@bookswillruletheworld

@sparkleywonderful

@dunmergirl

@tntwme

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#bright as the night sky #feysand fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction #fanfiction

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aliciasqinnet · 7 years

Text

All That I Am — Part 2

a/n: i’m so glad people have liked this so far! i wasn’t planning on posting this until i was halfway through with part three, but i’m super excited about this part and i really just wanted people to read. the other parts will probably take a while before they get written/posted because i have rehearsals coming up this week. comments welcome!

Rating: T

Word Count: 4,638

Part 1 / Part 3

Elain’s first day with Lucien in the gardens was nothing like she had expected it would be. He didn’t force her to say anything and he hadn’t spoken much either. Elain had scrounged up a more comfortable outfit, loose trousers and a top that flowed off her dainty form. She’d realized begrudgingly that she’d picked something more akin to what she had worn during her time in the Night Court and less like what she would have worn at home.

She didn’t work up the courage to ask him about anything of importance, and she didn’t think he trusted her enough to tell her anything yet, anyway. Mate or not, they still had no relationship at all.

Being around Lucien made Elain feel like she was betraying Graysen, betraying herself. She knew her love for the Lord’s son had been real, but this newfound bond with Lucien felt like it was forcing her to negate the feelings she’d had for the human boy. Since humans didn’t have mating bonds, could they really feel love at all? The question kept Elain up late many nights in a row.

She sat at the window in her bedroom, looking over the gardens. She slept in late most mornings, sat flower-side with Lucien in the afternoons, retired immediately after dinner, but didn’t sleep.

She wore her hair down every day. If she didn’t look in the mirror, it was easier to pretend that nothing had changed. She was at home in their tiny village, Graysen just a few minutes away from coming to get her. This was her garden. These were her roses, her tulips. She was normal again, human. Everything was as it should be.

But some days Lucien would sit next to her and she’d feel that strange tug towards him, the center of her gut urging her to get closer, to see what it would be like to run her fingers through his hair, over his lips, across his jaw. Elain told herself that it was just primal. The mate bond didn’t mean anything. It never would. Not for her, not for them.

One day, Lucien sat next to her as she tended to the roses, choosing only the most beautiful and unblemished to snip and put into a bouquet. She picked a new batch of flowers to place by the windowsill in her room every day. It comforted her to have the sweet fragrance floating through the foreign chamber.

“How do you decide which to pick?” He said it quietly. Everything Lucien said was quiet, she noticed. She shrugged nonchalantly, examining the bud between her fingers closely.

“If there are too many petals, the rose looks cluttered. If there are too few, it looks sickly. You have to find the perfect balance between the two in order to find the perfect rose. It takes practice.”

“You practice picking roses?” It sounded almost like he was teasing her, but Elain had never heard him say an ill word to anyone in the manor, save for an argument she’d overheard with Tamlin. She narrowed her eyes slightly and turned to face him.

“I assume you practice with your sword,” she said defiantly. “It’s no different. I find all your armor and… violence ridiculous, but I’ve never said anything.”

She turned back to her roses. For they were her roses. The servants had stopped tending to the garden when she’d gotten there, and she didn’t think the High Lord paid much attention to anything other than her sister and his attempt at a kingdom.

Lucien let out a breath. It might have even been a laugh. If she would have turned around, she would have found disbelief on the redhead’s features, his lips turned up in a devilish smirk.

“Thank you for sparing my feelings, my lady.” He was teasing her. Elain fought a smile.

“You did seem rather fragile,” she said, under her breath. But Lucien heard her and laughed outright, a quick bark of amusement and surprise.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in a comfortable silence that had not been present before. Elain felt her shoulders relax for the first time since being in the Spring Court. Lucien would point to flowers, silently asking if they were perfect enough for her. They never were and she’d shake her head, fighting an exasperated sigh after the fifth attempt.

When they got up to leave, Lucien turned to face Elain. She was wearing a pretty pair of light pink trousers that glossed over her curves and her hair fell in careful waves, like it always had. To those on the outside, it would look like Elain was permanently ready to be seen by the public. In reality, she was just so pleasant looking that it was hard for her to look anything less than pretty.

“Would you like to join me for a ride tomorrow?” Lucien paused. “Elain.”

He had never said her name before, at least not while in her presence. It had an oddly chilling effect. Elain’s muscles tightened and then released in rapid succession. She opened her mouth to kindly refuse his offer, but before she could, he spoke again.

“In the morning. We’ll be back before it’s your gardening time. I promise.”

Elain considered it for a second longer, squeezing her fist again.

“I will be holding you to that oath,” she said finally before turning on her heels and strutting back into the manor, her gentle curls bouncing across her back.

Lucien let out a breath, a blush spreading to his ears, but Elain didn’t turn to see.

Lucien took her out among the grounds for a while, letting her get used to the feel of a horse beneath her. She had admitted to him that she’d never been very good with the beasts, but had assured him that she did not need, or want, to ride along with him, atop his own steed. He coached her gently. Pull up on the reigns here, loosen them here.

Elain was grateful. She’d never been good with animals and had been more worried than she would have cared to admit that she would be bucked off the horse within the first few minutes.

“I have something I’d like to show you. May I?” Elain voice her consent and Lucien steered his horse off to the left, into the rolling hills of the Spring Court’s lands.

They didn’t have to ride for long before Lucien slowed and helped Elain down from her horse. He tied both of the beasts up to a tree and led her though a patch of aspens and oaks. The sight she was met with was definitely not what she was expecting.

The clearing in front of them was overflowing with the most beautiful wildflowers she’d ever seen. No two flowers were the same, each of them mixed in with every other blossoming bud. Elain drew in a breath, not even bothering to look at Lucien before she darted into the fray. Each flower was a distinctly different hue, all complimenting one another. She almost felt tears draw into the corners of her yes.

“Do you know what they are?” Lucien asked softly, his fingers tracing a batch of Maximillian sunflowers. Elain nodded. She moved through the field, running her hands carefully along the petals as she told Lucien all of their names. Blanket flowers, blue sage, foxglove, Iceland poppies, gerbera daisies. Elain wanted to fall to the ground and lay amongst the comfort of her flowers for the rest of eternity, but she would never risk squishing any of them.

Instead, she walked up to where the flowers ended and the soft grass began, sitting down. It was a slight uphill climb and from here she could see the entire field spread before her.

“Tell me about them.” Elain looked up at Lucien, startled. He sat down next to her, not close enough to touch but not too far either. He nodded out at the field.

“Foxgloves, the purple, bell-like ones, don’t grow until their second year, but then they reseed on their own. So, you have to plant them two years in a row before you’ll see them, but never again. They get tall. I have some at home that are almost taller than me.” Elain paused. Her home. Oh, how she missed the simplicity of having a home. Somewhere to return to when she was feeling upset or lonely. She continued on.

“The gerbera daisies, they’re normally that red color. They work nicely inside because they don’t require a lot of care as long as you can give them a lot of sunlight. Then you just water regularly and they’ll thrive. I put a pot of them in Nesta’s room. It has the most sunlight in the house.”

Elain told him more about the poppies and about other flowers, too. She told him about the windflowers she’d planted last spring, but they hadn’t lasted very long and she didn’t think she’d plant them again. The snapdragons that had been her very first flower in their new garden. They were still her favorite. She told him of the columbine flowers she’d made into a bouquet for Nesta after Feyre had left. Nesta had been an absolute wreck then and Elain had tried to cheer her up. Nesta had ended up throwing the flowers on the floor and stomping on them once Elain had left the room.

Lucien listened carefully. Elain was surprised at how nice it was to get to talk again. Everyone always assumed she was the quiet sister and she was; when hidden behind Nesta’s boisterous personality. But Elain liked to talk, too. She liked to share things that had happened to her and go to parties and dance all night. She’d done those things with Graysen. She was struck again by how much she missed everything about him: his dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes, the softness of his hands from the cream his mother made, the way he’d whisper in her ear when they were at parties, secrets just for them. She missed the way he made her laugh, a bubbling, overwhelming kind of laughter that she could never hold in. And Graysen had never wanted her to.

Elain scooted further away from Lucien. He was still looking at her. This time, he spoke.

“My mother loved flowers, too. I’d play in the gardens when I was growing up. There are very few flowers that bloom as beautifully in Autumn as others do in Spring. My favorite were the lanterns. They were all over the garden. Have you ever seen them?” Elain shook her head. “They’re yellow and red and orange. They’re like little heart-shaped boxes made out of petals. I loved them. Once, I tried to pick them to put in water, but they’re hanging flowers and I didn’t cut them correctly. They died within the next day.”

Elain and Lucien returned to the field every morning after that. They talked more now, after their first day, and Elain felt calm around him. It was easy to talk to Lucien. He never interrupted or discounted what she was saying. He just listened, nodded and understood.

He talked, too. He told her about growing up in Autumn, an incredibly toxic environment for him. He talked of how it had hardened him and eventually forced him to denounce his title in favor of the Spring Court and Tamlin. It made Elain hate Tamlin a little less. No one who was truly wicked could take someone in the way he had with Lucien.

After a few weeks of visiting the field with him, Elain felt comfortable around Lucien. They’d still yet to talk about the pulsing, flowing bond between them, but Elain didn’t mind. Whenever she thought about it, it only confused her more.

“Tamlin thinks we will be safe from this war,” Lucien said to her one day, both of them laying in the grass above the wildflowers, each of their elbows propped up so they could look at one another. “He believes that if we allow them use of the outskirts of our lands, Hybern will not attack us.”

“And what do you believe?”

Lucien scoffed, pulling his hair from his left shoulder and moving it behind his back.

“I think he’s a damned idiot and he’ll get us all killed.” Elain thought for a minute.

“I’d rather he didn’t,” she said finally. Lucien barked his laughter again. Elain loved when he did that. Each time, it was like he was surprised at what she was saying, didn’t expect humor from her.

“Me, as well, flower.” Elain felt a blush creep up to her ears, thankfully still covered with her hair.

“He’s blinded by Feyre being here. He thinks it makes everything alright. Like nothing could go wrong. I don’t see how he could stand by and watch as Hybern tries to enslave us.” Elain winced at her mistake. “Them.”

He studied her face carefully before saying anything, his russet-colored eye sweeping across her features, gaze seeming to burn wherever it touched. His metal eye and scar didn’t look so grotesque to Elain now. In fact, it was part of what made Lucien so beautiful.

Lucien leaned forward carefully and touched a thumb to her brow. It was calloused and hard, but surprisingly gentle when wisped across her skin.

“You’ve got a lot going on up there. Why doesn’t anyone know that?” He asked softly. Elain held her breath. He didn’t drop his hand.

“No one has ever asked,” she said, equally as quiet. It was the truth. Even Graysen had never truly thought she’d had ideas of her own, thoughts and convictions on things.

Elain’s eyes fluttered closed as Lucien began to carefully run his thumb along her face, outlining every dip and curve of her bones, every soft stretch of her skin. Her breathing hitched. It had been a long while since anyone had touched her so gently.

“I see you, Elain,” he mumbled. She swallowed hard.

“I know.”

A few days later, Elain was practically bouncing up and down as she waited for Lucien to find her in their usual gardening spot. He was only a few minutes late, but the excitement rushing through Elain was almost unbearable. When she saw him coming through the double doors, his bright hair tied into a braid cascading down his back, a grin broke through her lips. She hadn’t smiled that wide in months, a year maybe.

“You look happy today, dove.” Elain nodded.

“I have something for you.” Lucien faked a gasp, pressing his hand against his chest.

“For me?” Elain rolled her eyes and hit him lightly on the shoulder.

“Shut up and follow me, you insufferable lout.” Lucien laughed, but did as he was bid.

She stopped in front of a section of the garden they hadn’t been to before. It looked mostly the same as the other sections, but clearly there was something special about this specific area. Lucien looked at Elain through the sides of his eye.

“Very nice, Elain. But I’m fairly certain it’s quite similar to the other parts of this garden.”

Elain pushed him forward a little.

“Look closer, Lucien. Do you really think I’d bring you to look at something you’ve already seen dozens of times?” Lucien stepped forward, bending down to be able to see the details of the flowers better.

When he noticed them, his heart stopped for a brief minute. Lucien kneeled, not caring that his trousers were going to be covered in dirt. Elain came to join him, sitting closer than they normally did. Lucien lifted his hand to touch the orange box of petals.

“Do you like them?” Elain wasn’t looking at the flowers, she was studying the mix of emotions on Lucien’s delicate face.

“Yes,” he said, his voice choking on the word. “Yes, very much.”

“I thought… well, since you can’t be there, then at least these can be here. I thought they might comfort you.”

The day Lucien had told her the story of his favorite flowers; Elain had gone straight to a servant and asked her to find them for her. She researched in books, trying to find out if the flowers could live in Spring as well. They could. She’d planted them a couple weeks ago, but waited until they were flourishing in the gardens before showing them to Lucien.

“They will. They do.” Lucien set his hand on hers and she felt pinpricks go up her arm. “Thank you, flower.”

He reached his other hand up to push her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering there on her cartilage. Elain winced and pulled back from him, turning her face slightly away.

“Elain?” Lucien’s voice was dripping with concern.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m still not… used to them.” She said, settling on the right word choice to share with this male. What she wanted to say was that she hated them, that they were a symbol of the world she was taken away from, the disgusting creature she was turned into.

They were silent for a while, angry tears threatening to burn down Elain’s cheeks.

“Do you know why I like watching you garden? Why I sit here and watch you water and preen each of the flowers individually?”

“Because you can’t do it yourself?” Elain asked, trying to throw a joking lilt into her voice. Lucien chuckled quietly.

“Because you look so at peace. Everywhere else, your brow is furrowed, your eyes darkened and closed off. But out here, it’s like the flowers have seeped into your skin. It’s the only time I see you smile.”

“Peace,” Elain said, considering Lucien’s words. “I am not at peace. This body is not made for peace. I am meant to be a creature of destruction and pain and hardship. I mourn the days when I was at peace, Lucien. I never will be again.” Her tears had finally spilled and Elain stood abruptly, walking as quickly back into the manor as she could. Lucien did not follow her.

Elain avoided Lucien like a disease for the next week. It was too painful to be around him, knowing what she’d said about herself and his kind. It also hurt to know that Lucien now knew a part of her that no one else did.

She missed the gardens. She missed their field. But if she was to stay away from the red-haired male, she couldn’t go to either of those places. So, she was miserable. She stayed confined to her room, like she had back in the Night Court. Servants brought her meals to her when she was hungry and then removed them when she was done.

But every day, she still had a fresh vase of flowers in her room. A servant brought them in with her lunch daily. The buds were not all perfect, and sometimes there were too many flowers stuffed into the vase, but she was grateful to have them.

She watched out her window each morning to see Lucien studying each patch of flowers, deciding which to cut for her today. There were daisies one day, imperfect roses another, even a day with blue bells. But her favorite vase that he had created was filled with all the flowers that could also bloom in the fall. He must have looked them up, or he remembered them from home. The thought made Elain sad. Helenium, golden rod, dots of candy tuft and Lucien’s precious lanterns. Cut perfectly this time so they sat in the water and draped over the edges of the glass.

She didn’t let the servant take that vase away. She changed the water every day, ripping off dead leaves so the flowers could continue to grow and thrive. Sometimes, she’d be reading in her bed and see them out of the corner of her eye. Her heart would start pounding. But the red in the flowers was not a glimpse of Lucien’s hair.

She missed him more than she cared to admit; he was her only friend at the manor. Nesta didn’t visit her often. Elain’s elder sister spent most of her time with Feyre or snooping around various crevices, searching for something useful to bring back to the Night Court when they were finally rescued. Feyre never left Tamlin’s side, though Elain knew that it was not out of affection. Her sister’s eyes were cold whenever the High Lord was near her, but he never seemed to come too close. Elain didn’t know how Feyre had forced Tamlin to keep his distance, but it was clear that she had.

The manor house was lonely. The servants were forbidden to talk to her, it seemed, and there was nothing much to do. She’d read the same book thrice now because she didn’t know where the library was and was too afraid to ask anyone to show her.

Lucien never came looking for her, either, the fact of which made her a little disappointed. She had figured he’d at least come to speak to her, however briefly, but he did not. He just picked her flowers every day and left her alone. So, Elain took matters into her own hands.

She didn’t want to be the one to cave first and go looking for him, but it was her fault that they weren’t talking in the first place. She figured she could forge through the pain.

As it turns out, it’s rather boring here without you.

It was all she wrote, but she hoped it was enough. Elain sent the small piece of paper, decorated with her elegant handwriting, with a servant. Elain told the tall female that the note must be delivered immediately, no dilly-dallying. She had nodded and left Elain to go back to her book.

She watched through the window as the female darted into the gardens in search of Lucien. He was easy to find, his broad shoulders and tall figure easy to pick out amongst the short, pruned bushes and carefully planted flowers. The servant handed him the note and he quickly squared his shoulders. Elain could practically hear him clearing his throat as he strode past her and into the manor.

She jumped to her bed, fanning her skirt out around her carefully, burying her nose back into her book. At least she would be able to tell him what it was about in the blink of an eye, if he happened to ask. A careful knock sounded at the door and she called out for him to enter.

He really was quite beautiful. His cheekbones were sharp and pronounced, but not in a way that made him look sickly. His auburn eyebrows arched carefully in, giving him a constant expression of incredulity, and his eyes, both the real and metal one, were framed with lashes of garnet. She’d missed seeing him this close. Elain forced herself to look away.

Lucien cleared his throat.

“You wanted to see me?” She shrugged.

“Well there wasn’t much else to do.”

Lucien strode across the room to take a seat on the side of her bed. If she was being honest, it scandalized Elain more than she would have liked to admit. He was sitting so close to her, his body touching the fabric that she slept in every night. Images popped into her mind of her hands gripping the sheets beneath her as he— Elain blushed and looked down, thankful he was looking towards the painting hanging on the wall directly to the left of her bed.

“Is that really how you feel? Like you’re a monster?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. She was ashamed of what she’d said to him. Elain didn’t know she’d had that much resentment inside her. Or she did, but never thought to let it anywhere towards the surface.

“Do you— Does that mean you think I—” Elain cut him off.

“Lucien, I never meant— “

“I know.” She crossed her legs underneath her.

“Did you know that I was engaged? Before all of this?” She said, her right hand instinctively coming up to touch her pointed ear. “He was a nobleman’s son. Kind, good-natured, smart. All the other ladies in our village would sneer at me when I walked past. He was mine and not theirs. When he proposed, I was ecstatic.

“My engagement ring was made of iron. When I was… Made, I wasn’t only taken away from my old life, but my betrothed. I was turned into the one thing he hates more than anything else. I am alone here, Lucien. And my wretched, traitorous body is telling me that I want to be near you. After losing everything—” Elain broke off, tears streaming steadily down her cheeks. She kept her gaze on the door, away from Lucien. He cleared his throat before speaking again. A nervous habit.

“Just because we have this… bond… none of this means that you never loved him, Elain, that you don’t still. Or that you ever must love me. I have spent my entire life praying to the Mother that one day I find a mate. Until a year ago, you didn’t even know such a thing could exist for you, for anyone, maybe. I will not force you to love me, Elain, this I swear to you. Everything we do is on your terms.

As for me, I am lost to you. I looked into your eyes that dreadful day, your hair soggy and anguish plain on your face, and I knew I would never hurt you. Elain, I would love you as human, as Fae, I’d probably even love you if you were a troll.” Elain laughed softly at that. “You find the beauty in things, Elain. Have you found any in me?”

Her breathing stopped for a minute, her focus intently on the golden finish of the door handle.

“Yes,” she said simply. She felt the mattress shift as he turned and moved closer to her. She felt his thumb on her cheek, just the barest brush, before she recognized his form in front of her.

“Then I do not doubt that you can find some in yourself. If you do not hate me for the reality of my species, my body, you have no right to hate yourself.”

Her focus shifted to his face as he caught a tear on his thumb, carefully bringing it to his mouth. Her gaze wouldn’t tear from his lips. His gaze moved to the left slightly, where she knew he’d find his flowers in the windowsill. Her cheeks turned pink and she hunched her shoulders.

“I gave those to you over a week ago,” he mumbled, as if to himself.

“I suppose so.”

“Elain, they aren’t even wilting.” She looked up at him. Of course they were wilting. They had to be wilting. They were sitting in direct sunlight and all she did was change their water. She stood carefully, sliding off the bed towards the window. Elain examined each flower and petal carefully, her eyes searching for any form of imperfection, a fallen petal, a drying leaf, but she found next to nothing.

She brought her thumb and forefinger up to touch one of Lucien’s lanterns. She yelped in surprise.

“Oh!” The petals had turned a darker shade of red at the brush of her fingers. Lucien was standing beside her now.

“Try again,” he urged excitedly. She dusted a nail across one of the Helenium. At the bottom of the vase, the stem grew until there were roots shooting out of it. She gasped again. Lucien shook his head beside her.

“You said your body was made to destroy. You could never destroy, Elain. You give life.”

#a court of thorns and roses fanfiction #acotar fanfiction #elucien fanfiction #acotar #elucien #fic #mine #elain x lucien

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