Chapter Text
Nesta often wondered if she’d still be breathing had the male beside her never barrelled his way into her life.
Tall, imposing, and impossible to ignore (despite her best efforts), he had made himself an indelible aspect of her… well everything, really: her days, weeks, heart, soul, psyche. He had pushed her, trained her, fucked her, worshipped her. He’d frustrated her so completely she had prayed the silver fire in her veins would consume him, them, the whole world, if only for a minute’s peace.
He’d teased and taunted with words until she was certain she’d humiliate herself with tears or shrieking; he’d teased and taunted with more tangible parts of himself until those fears had been made real, her cries of pleasure echoing their way through the halls of the House of Wind. Then he’d soothed, with sweet nothings, and gentle hands, and softly scented baths, leaving her all turned around with the seamless transition from earth-shattering orgasms to endearing—more so than she’d imagined him capable—loving care.
After all, wasn’t that the worst part of it? That he’d decided, for whatever gods-damned reason, to love her? Worse still, he’d managed to take that love and do it so deeply, so thoroughly, so maddeningly, she’d been left with no choice but to open her heart in turn. Then the Mother—meddling, no-good deity that she was—had gone and solidified that love, unequivocally, with a mating bond.
Now Nesta was stuck being so utterly committed to this infuriating male that it drove her from sleep some nights; such was her devotion that she had found herself, now and then, roused from dreaming, as if to ensure that the subject of her night time fantasies was indeed still sound asleep beside her.
Whenever this happened—with whatever strange magic the bond was made of, that back-and-forth tug between them—Cassian would blink awake beside her (always quick, always silent, rising to consciousness between one breath and the next, like the perfect soldier he was) as if he’d been physically roused.
Despite his flawless training, despite the fast-dawned clarity shining in his beautiful eyes, despite the fact that she knew he could be up and fighting in the time it would take her to breathe his name, his brow never failed to furrow, like he wasn’t altogether sure the earth was still spinning on its axis; like perhaps he too had been brought from dreams of her, and was not altogether sure whether he was awake or still sleeping.
It was in these moments that Nesta knew, with unyielding clarity, that she would burn and burn and burn the world to have that look levelled at her just once more.
So, the answer, she mused as Cassian slid his hand down from its chaste position at her mid-back to cup her ass, as to whether she would be here, with breath in her lungs and a heart still pumping blood through her veins, was likely not.
“As flattered as I am, sweetheart, that you’re clearly thinking mushy thoughts about your exquisite mate, you should know it’s incredibly obvious on both your face, and in your scent,” Cassian breathed into her ear, the hand at her ass squeezing slightly.
Just like that, any and all lovey-dovey bullshit swirling through her mind eddied. Abruptly.
Nesta flinched, checking herself over mentally for outward signs of her runaway musings. Her face, she was sure, was as neutral as it ever was in public: more so, perhaps, considering the company.
Her scent, she was less certain about.
She’d been getting better, in recent months, at deciphering the differences between emotional essences. Her romance-novel-obsessed best friends, and her time spent torturing Cassian meant she’d learnt the rich spice of arousal first: a heady, cloying scent, not unlike mulled wine.
Her sisters had, inadvertently, taught her the petrichor reek of devastation. The tears and hurt Nesta’s cruelty had rendered from them during the worst of her trauma had coalesced, time and again, into that awful scent; she’d realised, to her horror, that every time she’d screamed at Feyre or viciously snipped at Elain, it had been accompanied by something acrid, their pain manifesting so acutely as to burn the inside of her nose.
She would spend her immortal lifetime attempting to atone for those sins.
Apathy and resentment she’d come to know from her terse brushes with Amren, throughout their fitful months spent feuding. The former was damp: deep-winter mould and moss; the latter, nauseously reminiscent of sour milk.
The bright citrus burst of joy had come from Mor, during one of their final dance lessons. It had caught her by surprise, the sudden elation pouring off of Mor as she’d led Nesta through a series of energetic, flourishing twirls. The sudden shift in Mor’s scent had drawn Nesta’s eyes up to meet her dance partner’s, and it had been clear from the faraway look she’d found there that Mor had lost herself to reminiscence, her mind clearly having drifted to something—or perhaps someone—from her past.
The tangy summer smell had disappeared the moment Mor’s eyes had refocused on Nesta’s. She’d ended their lesson early that day.
Contentedness had come from, of all people, Azriel. As she’d marvelled at his ingenious Winter Solstice gift, his blushing, you’re welcome, had been underscored by the enveloping scent of black tea, thick with milk and honey. For a good while afterward, she’d assumed that the sweet, inviting scent had signalled embarrassment, or at least bashfulness, going off of Azriel’s rosy cheeks.
But, over time, the Shadowsinger had presented her with more thoughtful trinkets—an exquisite quartz whetstone, which he’d quietly admitted to having hewn personally; satiny bands to tie her hair, after she’d complained loudly, on several occasions, about the inefficacy of pins during high-intensity training; several sets of modest, breathable undergarments to wear beneath her leathers, presented with a dryly-amused quip about the dangers of chafing (Cassian had thrown a fit over never having received anything similar in the five-hundred years they’d known each other, to which Azriel had simply replied that five centuries was more than enough time for Cassian to have procured them for himself)—and with each gift, or more precisely, with each wide, genuine grin of pleasure she gave him in thanks, she’d come to recognise that the warm, lovely scent coming off him was a sign of his being pleased—contented—by her enthusiastic receptions.
In acknowledging all this, she was still a novice at this whole Fae…thing. Especially, it seemed, when it came to introspection; she couldn’t, for the life of her, pick up on any giveaway scents coming off herself, ever. Never mind that everyone else seemed perfectly capable of telling her how she was feeling, oftentimes before she even really knew herself, simply by catching a whiff of whatever bizarre faerie pheromones she happened to be giving off at the time. It was mortifying (which, she supposed, they were all able to pick up on too).
So, she did the only logical thing: instead of answering her beloved mate, she stepped out of his grip, using her forward momentum to send a viscous elbow into his side. His answering wheeze was a fair, not to mention immensely satisfying, recompense for the teasing, and she smiled to herself slightly.
Her amusement was short-lived however, as she looked up to find her sister’s narrowed eyes trained on her—actually, flicking between both herself and Cassian. It appeared their antics had not gone unnoticed.
Feyre’s mental claws scratched lightly at Nesta’s shields, requesting access. She needn’t have bothered—Nesta had already got the message loud and clear from the look she was being given; well before Nyx had come along, Feyre had perfected that maternal glare of disappointment. It was the only thing she ever did that reminded Nesta of their mother.
Nevertheless, she lowered her shields, if only to alleviate the weight of that stare.
I know this is tedious, Feyre said into her mind, but if you both—apparently she was in Cassian’s head too—could keep your hands to yourselves, at least for the next half hour, it would be greatly appreciated.
Nesta merely looked her younger sister in the eye, pulling her lips back from her teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smile.
Cassian huffed a laugh, but cautioned softly, “Careful, Ness. She’s using her High Lady voice.”
I heard that. Feyre’s expression, which had been softening, sharpened once more as she snapped the words into their minds.
We can all hear it, Rhys snarked, joining his mate in their heads. Cut it out.
He hadn’t looked up from his conversation with Keir, but the downturned expression he’d already had in place deepened somewhat.
Perhaps it was her mate’s proximity, or the general air of teasing he’d kept up throughout most of this meeting—or perhaps it was the thing in her chest that eased everytime she was allowed to unleash the crueller parts of herself during their trips down to the Hewn City—but there was a levity to Nesta’s mood that prompted her to continue taunting Feyre. She turned her head toward her mate, but kept her gaze locked with her sister’s, whispering in mocking tones, “Uh oh. Mom and Dad are getting pissed.”
She felt, more than saw, Cassian’s head tilt back as he laughed in earnest this time, drawing the eyes of everyone in the room, halting Rhys and Keir’s conversation in its tracks.
Rhys gave them a withering look, as Keir hissed, “Is something funny, General?” spitting Cassian’s title like an expletive.
“As a matter of fact,” Cassian said, raising his gaze from where he’d been smirking down at Nesta, “yes.”
When he didn’t go on, Keir gestured impatiently at him, just as Feyre’s plea echoed through their minds. Please don’t provoke him. I really want to get home to Nyx before the sun sets.
The mention of her nephew had Nesta’s chest tightening a little guiltily.
But Cassian, who could be a sly bastard when it suited him, continued, “Keir, you’ve been talking in circles so long I’m convinced it’s merely a narcissistic ploy to hear more of your own voice. You don’t actually have anything useful to contribute regarding our upcoming meeting with the Lord of Autumn, you’re just desperate to prove that you do anything other than sit around down here, frantically thinking of ways to recycle insults for people—myself included, if that’s not too bold—who outshine you in every possible way. It is, as demonstrated, laughable.” He finished with a shrug and a smirk, both of which had Keir’s face turning an impressive shade of red.
The entire room, including the voices in Nesta’s head, had fallen entirely silent.
The High Lord and Lady, who would never lose their composure so thoroughly as to gawk, still came about as close as they dared, eyes wide and trained on Cassian.
It seemed, where Nesta had allowed her attention to drift around the time this meeting had approached the two-hour mark, Cassian had apparently been sparing at least some focus for the proceedings, gathering his own thoughts on the matter as he went—once again proving why he was such an accomplished general; an ability to split your focus in multiple directions was a crucial skill for military leadership.
…Not to mention, it was really hot. Something was stirring low in Nesta’s belly at the confidence and competence on display from her mate. She knew he’d doubted himself in the past, regarding abilities as a courtier. And yes, his words to Keir just now had been a little too coarse—too personal—to be properly suited to the delicate jibes usually exchanged in Courtly politicking. But he was learning, he was improving, using words to cut rather than physical violence. He was becoming something refined.
It was this train of thought that had her drawing herself up taller beside him, determined to present a strong, united front.
Rhys was the first to recover, stating, “Well, this clearly isn’t getting resolved today.”
Before Keir had a chance to say whatever his spluttering was leading to, Feyre said serenely, “We’ll finalise the matter at a later date, Steward. The General was correct: talk has begun to move in circles.”
Feyre, Nesta had noticed on their handful of trips to the underground city, never referred to Keir by name, only ever his title. It was, she assumed, due to the appalling treatment of his estranged daughter; the same female who Feyre now called sister... Mor, who knew more familial love from Feyre than Nesta ever had—
No . No. She would not entertain these thoughts, not anymore. Feyre loved her, had proven it time and time again. And Nesta loved Feyre, fiercely. Perhaps they would never have the open, friendly rapport that came so easily to her younger sister and Mor, but there was love between them and Nesta was determined never to scorn it, to dismiss it, ever again.
She herself out of her reverie in time to hear Rhys say, with a humourless tilt of his mouth, “Keir, this has been as pleasant as it usually is,” before offering an arm to Feyre.
Without waiting for the Steward to reply, they both turned, showing him their backs as they began to walk out. Cassian started after them, but not before shifting close enough to Nesta to smack her lightly on the ass, flaring a wing slightly to cover the movement.
Nesta followed after her mate, and only kept her mouth shut because of where they were.
As they walked, Rhys reopened the connection between the four of them. As heartily as I agree with you, brother, you’ve just undone several hours’ worth of debate. I brought you two along to intimidate, not exacerbate.
Intimidate? I thought it was because we’re so pretty. Gods know this place needs something nice to look at, Cassian crooned.
That too, Feyre assured him, laughing softly inside their heads, while her face remained carefully emotionless.
We need this to go smoothly, Rhys continued, less amenable to good humour than his mate was in this moment. The situation in Autumn is still so fresh. Eris’ ascension to the throne was…bloodier than expected—
Yeah, and we were already expecting it to be pretty fucking gruesome, Cassian interjected.
Exactly, Rhys agreed. The loss of soldiers, on both sides of their civil conflict, was significant. Not to mention, Eris’ deposing of his father was particularly nasty—
Understatement. From what Nesta had heard, Eris had ripped his father apart, slowly, then burned the pieces. If rumours were to be believed, the former High Lord of Autumn had still been alive when his son began setting his limbs alight.
—Suffice to say, things in the Autumn Court are strained right now. Some love Eris’ new approach to ruling, others view him as a hateful, brutish usurper. We need to solidify our alliance with Autumn, quickly—including the extent to which we’re willing to intervene to ensure a smooth transition of power.
I still don’t understand why Keir needs to be involved, Cassian grumbled.
Yes you do, General, Rhys replied patiently. He has a longstanding relationship with Eris—he understands the way the male thinks better than any of us. And, as much as I despise it, he is the ruler of this city. He has a say in our alliances with other Courts.
Nesta still couldn’t fathom why Mor didn’t just kill her father, and take her rightful place as ruler of the Court of Nightmares. She would certainly do a better job of it. Keir might know Eris from years of scheming together, but Mor perturbed the absolute shit out of Autumn’s new lord; she’d be much more effective in dragging Eris around by the balls than Keir ever would.
Rhys’ chuckle echoed through her mind, as he said, Certainly, Nesta. Mor would be formidable. However, as I’ve had to explain to Cass on a myriad of occasions, Keir only dies when my cousin wills it. The very fact that he continues to draw breath is testament to the fact that, for whatever reason, Mor is not ready to end her father’s life.
I forget how deeply those daemati powers allow you to pry, Nesta grumbled, to cover her embarrassment at having those thoughts exposed.
If you bothered to practise modifying your shields beyond simply ‘up’ and ‘down’, you’d be able to keep them from anything you do not wish them to see, Cassian cut in, betraying her utterly.
She sent Cass a scathing look, but didn’t push the issue, unwilling to humiliate herself further by delving any further into this topic of conversation.
Cass, reading the displeasure in her face, took mercy by changing the subject. Why wasn’t Az here today? Wouldn’t he be best suited to this? Half his job is Court manipulation.
Az is on the Continent, Rhys said.
He cannot possibly be doing anything so drastic that it would keep him from winnowing back here for a few hours.
Rhys hesitated, and his failure to provide further detail had Nesta drawing hateful conclusions of his mistrust in her.
But then Feyre admitted, somewhat haltingly, We don’t know where Az is…exactly. He insisted it’s better we don’t know specifics of this particular mission. At least, not until he’s completed it.
And now didn’t Nesta feel like an asshole for assuming the worst of Rhys. Sure, her relationship with her brother-in-law was still rocky, but they’d managed to foster a tentative peace with one another in the past few years—one which included a mutual bond of respect and trust, even if they couldn’t always maintain outright civility.
These thoughts were disrupted by a sudden pang of worry, as Feyre’s words fully sunk in. Nesta asked, trying to keep any panic from her voice, Are you sure it’s safe for Az to take on a mission alone, with no way to extract him should things go south?
Up ahead, Rhys slowed, as if he had meant to turn to her. Of course, down here, that would be a damning action to take. So, he and Feyre kept walking, while he answered, I understand the concern—gods know, I share it—but I’ve sent Azriel into far, far worse. He assured me that this is nothing more than reconnaissance, and his only reason for concealing his whereabouts is that revealing them may be the very thing that jeopardises his safety.
Nesta’s brows wanted to pull together with concern for her friend, but she schooled her features, ensuring that a blank mask was all that remained upon her face.
Trust me, Cass said, squeezing the hand she’d tucked into the crook of his arm, I like this about as much as you do. But Rhys is right—Az can handle it. We’ll have him home soon.
She wanted to pursue it. Her past-self would perhaps have launched into a tirade against Rhys—and, by extension, Feyre—about how careless and reckless and neglectful they were being with Az’s life. But she had to concede that Rhys and Cass had known him far longer, knew the extent of his abilities and limits much better than she did. She would allow their assurances to settle her, for now. Though, she wouldn’t be entirely at peace until the Shadowsinger had returned—until she could verify his wellbeing personally.
They lapsed into silence after that, swanning through the Hewn City; after all, that had been Rhys and Feyre’s secondary reason for being here today—performing their semi-regular check-up on the Court of Nightmares, reminding everyone here of their unassailable power and authority.
Apparently, a crucial aspect of this was to drift through the streets of the city, surveying its citizens, all while exuding immense amounts of dark intimidation.
Just as Nesta was beginning to settle into their quiet, strolling rhythm, Feyre’s voice rang through her head once more, saying teasingly, You and Cass were certainly feeling frisky today .
Nesta didn’t know whether this was a genuine attempt at light-hearted conversation from her sister, or if Feyre was trying to distract her from thoughts of Azriel’s wellbeing. Maybe both.
Her gaze swung to Cassian, but he was looking ahead, giving nothing away. Either he was remaining purposefully ignorant, or—
It’s just you and me now, Feyre confirmed. I kicked the boys out.
Usually, Nesta ignored taunts about hers and Cassian’s relationship—everyone in the Inner Circle was grown, and could learn to mind their own business. Sure, she and Cass were a little…rowdy sometimes with their escapades, but never obnoxiously so. At least, not in her opinion.
But, she was determined to mend her relationship with her sisters. She owed them that, at the very least. So, she decided to quash her instinct to block Feyre’s teasing, to slam up her shields and glare at her sister’s back.
Instead, Nesta said into the private connection Feyre had established, taking on the same teasing tone that had just been directed at her, I have it on good authority that yourself and your mate have done significantly worse down here.
For good measure, she sent Feyre a memory from one of many times Cassian had griped to her about the trials and tribulations of having lived through Rhys and Feyre’s pre-bonded days. In this particular instance, he had been recounting bearing witness to their ‘exceedingly public’ escapades on the throne.
Wasn’t that the very first time you ever visited the Hewn City? Nesta continued. Cass and I have never been that bad.
That was different! Feyre insisted, turning sharply to glare at Nesta. Before she could say anything else however, Rhys turned as well, offering a hand to Cassian. Following suit, but not softening her gaze, Feyre held out a hand to Nesta; apparently, they’d done enough parading. The four of them winnowed, returning to the river house.
Instead of heading inside, they all opted to remain in the front garden, soaking in the afternoon sun after being sequestered underground for so long.
Dropping the ominous act she reserved for the Court of Nightmares, Feyre replied aloud, “You’re right— you’ve been so, so much worse.”
“Worse than f—”
“Worse , Nesta,” Feyre interjected tersely, cutting Nesta off with a haunted look in her eye. “I fear for my senses every time I show up unannounced at the House of Wind.”
Unconcerned, and genuinely enjoying the turn her sister’s attempted mocking had taken, Nesta merely replied sweetly, “Maybe if you tried scheduling your visits, we wouldn’t run into these kinds of issues.”
From the corner of her eye, Nesta caught Cassian and Rhys exchanging glances: slightly wary, but more so amused than anything else.
Feyre, to Nesta’s shock, conceded the point, briefly opening her mouth before ultimately closing it again, and simply nodding.
After a moment’s silence, both sisters seemingly unsure how to proceed, Feyre finally said, “I suppose that’s reasonable.” And then, breaking Nesta’s heart, she continued softly, “I just— I get overeager sometimes. To see you, that is. I think of you, and I wish to see you, and it’s like I’m moving before I can consider reasons why it might not be…such a good idea.”
Gods, this had moved so far out of her comfort zone. First sisterly teasing, now genuine, heartfelt emotion. And the fact that Feyre thought of her, wished to see her so much— Nesta realised with a start that she too yearned to see more of her younger sister.
This was yet another thing she had brutally pushed down, fearing the implications, the difficulties that came with caring so deeply for another person. Had she not already made these mistakes with her mate? And here she was, repeating them with her sister, her own flesh and blood. The woman—female—to whom Nesta owed everything, who had saved her over and over; who had been a child when she’d been forced to step up and account for Nesta’s own failings.
“You’re thinking very loudly, love,” Cassian said as he came to stand behind her, placing a steadying hand on her waist.
Feyre smiled grimly up at Cassian, before bringing her gaze back to Nesta’s. “I was just about to say the same thing.”
Though Cassian’s firm presence at her back had eased something in her chest, Nesta was still reticent to subject herself to the humiliation of emoting publicly.
Forcing a smile to her face, Nesta disregarded Cass’ words, instead saying simply, “You’re right.” She got to enjoy the sight of Feyre’s slightly aghast expression: ‘You’re right’ probably ranked second only to ‘I’m sorry’ in the category of words Nesta rarely paired. “We don’t spend enough time together outside of meetings like today. All of us have become too immersed in our respective duties—we’ve allowed them to overrun us, monopolise all our time.”
Cassian squeezed her waist, silently signalling his agreement and encouragement to continue. She went on, “What about weekly dinners? We can alternate between your house and ours. The day will probably have to change regularly to account for our schedules, but we’ll ensure, no matter what, that at least once a week we share a meal.” After a beat of hesitation, she added, “As a family.”
She was on the verge of chastising herself for such a blatant display of emotion—theatrics, as her mother would have scornfully called it—when Feyre lunged forward to throw her arms around Nesta.
“That is a wonderful idea,” she said, a little too enthusiastically for how close she was to Nesta’s ear. “At least once a week, I don’t care how busy we are. We will make time, all of us. I know you’re worried about Az, but I’m sure he’ll return soon. Mor’s permanently back from Vallahan, so that’s good. We’ll drag Amren from Adriata. Oh, Nyx is on solid food, so he’ll get to enjoy meals with us too—”
Nesta couldn’t help smiling as her sister prattled on, and only held her tightly while she did so.
Feyre, seeming to realise she’d been rambling, eventually cut herself off, stepping out of Nesta’s embrace. She blushed slightly as she did so, embarrassed by her own antics.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Nesta said, “I’d like to invite Gwyn and Emerie too. Gwyn, especially, has been making strides in her confidence leaving the library, and I’d love for her to get to know you all—and you her. Well, both of them, actually.” Hesitating once more, but ultimately figuring she might as well round out this whole, emotionally overcharged exchange with some vulnerability of her own, Nesta finished, “They— they’re very important to me.”
“Of course, Nesta. They’re more than welcome,” Feyre beamed. “We’d be honoured to host them at the river house, and I’m certainly intrigued by what I’ve heard of the favour you all seem to have with the House of Wind. I’d love to experience it for myself.”
Nesta ignored the darker parts of her hissing horrible, possessive things—the parts that told her to spit, No, it’s mine, it’s not yours, why can’t I just have this one thing, why must you always intrude, why do you have to have everything?
Just as quickly as those thoughts had reared their ugly heads, they were quashed by Feyre continuing, “Only if you think the House would be amenable, naturally. It’s your creation after all. I— obviously I’ve no right to it.”
Nesta watched Rhys tense ever so slightly beside his mate, and knew he wished to utter some inane, reassuring nonsense along the lines of, Oh but darling, everything under these stars belongs to you .
But Feyre’s tone had be halting enough, had held enough wavering confidence, that Nesta only replied, taking Cassian’s arm once more, “We all would love to have you—I can’t wait to show you the House and everything it can do.” Smiling slightly at the ridiculousness of what she was about to say, she continued, “Gwyn, Emerie, and I will have to introduce you to the miniature pegasus.”
Feyre tilted her head in bemusement, eyes flicking to Cassian as if searching for the joke. But he merely deadpanned, “It’s adorable. You’ll love it,” and refused to elaborate, despite her slew of follow-up questions, lest he ‘ruin the surprise’.