Johanna, Johanna

by avatarakatara

Summary:

Nesta let out a bitter laugh, and gestured at herself- her thin, stained dress, her sickly and pale body. “Look at me,” she scoffed, “Look at the state of me. And it’s only downhill from here, Jo. I’ve isolated myself from everyone who’s ever cared about me. I’ve been ungrateful, and cruel, and burned every bridge there is. Is it so bad that I don’t want you to see me as I am now? That I want one person who will think of me fondly when I’m gone?”

“I’ll always think of you fondly.”

Nesta scoffed. “Then you’re a fool.”

Jo slipped her hand into hers, and only said, “Come with me, Nesta. Look after me on my birthday, and if you’re not doing well, I can look after you.”

Nesta sighed. “It’s rotten work.”

“Not to me. Not if it’s you.”

In which Nesta chooses the human lands in the beginning of ACOSF and runs into a childhood flame.

Notes:

full list of warnings: suicidal ideation, alcoholism...so. yeah. Anyways, onto the yuri!

Chapter 1: Can't find you, can't find you

 

“The human lands.” 

 

“The…what?” Feyre was flabbergasted. Weren’t expecting me to do that, were you? 

 

“You heard me. I’d pick the human lands over being locked in a house with that prick.” She knew refusing to address Cassian directly would set him off. She could almost picture the indignation on his face, but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him either. 

 

“Now she’s just being difficult on purpose.” Amren said. Nesta was right. Being talked about as if you weren’t there was infuriating. 

 

“ Nes , you can’t actually mean it.” There went Cassian, trying to sound like a kicked puppy.

 

“Yes, I can.” She felt resolute. 

 

“Think about what life in the human lands would mean, Nesta,” Rhysand urged, false concern ringing through his tone, “Even though we worked together to defeat Hybern, Fae and human relations are…far from ideal. You’d be-” 

 

“Surrounded by people who hate me? I already am.” Nesta spat. “At least the people chasing me with pitchforks and torches will be upfront about it instead of hiding it in some bullshit about being concerned for my well being.” 

 

“We don’t hate you, we want to help you-” Feyre tried to interject, but Nesta cut her off. “But I hate you. This is the best thing that could have happened, actually. I never want to see your face again.” Feyre just sighed. 

 

“That is enough!” Rhysand snarled, “Feyre has been too generous with you, time and time again, and you will not throw it in her face like this.” Both Cassian and Feyre shot him a warning look. Nesta wanted to scream.

 

“Nesta,” Rhysand tried again, using his look at me I’m being so patient and paternalistic and wise voice, “Have you ever heard the phrase 'cutting off your nose to spite your face’?” 

 

Nesta just glared at him. “The human lands. You said I could choose.” She reveled in the looks of shock on their faces. “I bet you’ll be happy to finally send me away.” 

 

There was dead silence. Nesta reveled in it. “So who’s going to winnow me there? Mor? Rhysand? Azriel?” She turned to Feyre, who gaped at her like a fish. “You?” 

 

“Azriel can.” Rhysand cut in. “He’s more familiar with the human lands than any of us,” he closed his eyes briefly, “And he’s on his way.” 

 

Both Feyre and Cassian whipped their heads towards Rhysand in shock and indignation, confirming Nesta’s suspicions that the human lands were a bluff. Feyre tried to protest, but Nesta cut her off. “Rhysand is fond of giving females choices, right? Prides himself on it. So I choose exile in the human lands. Unless you were lying, and there was no choice at all?” 

 

Feyre looked stunned. “Nesta, please think of what you’re doing.” 

 

“I’ve thought about it. I’m done. Honestly, I hope a mob with pitchforks comes and puts me out of my misery. I bet that would make you happy, wouldn’t it? Never having to deal with your evil sister again?” 

 

“That’s enough!” Rhysand snarled, but Nesta had already shouldered her way past Cassian and grabbed the handle of the door. “I’ll wait for Azriel outside.” 

She wasn’t coming back. She’d make good on her threat and find a human mob to take her out, or overcome her fear of water long enough to put some stones in her pockets and drown herself. Azriel’s protection be damned, she could find a way to get around it. And then they could drag her waterlogged body back to the Night Court and have a big hullabaloo over it as they all rushed to assure Feyre and Elain it wasn’t their fault, no, Nesta had just been defective. Or maybe they’d bury her right where they found her. She wondered if Elain would mention their house on the seaside, that they should lay Nesta down to rest in the only place where she’d ever been…well, not happy, but her happiest, surely. Nesta realized she’d never been truly content in her whole life, not as a child, not as a young woman, not as…whatever this was. And against her will, her misery had been extended from the seventy or so years humans could expect to eons. The years would  march by in humdrum and monotony and misery, dragging Nesta along with them. No, better to end it all now. At least it would be her choice.

She hadn’t even realized she was crying or that Azriel was standing beside her. “I don’t want your sympathy,” she snapped, “Don’t talk to me. Don’t try to change my mind. Just, for once, do what I want and let me make my choice . I know it’s a foreign concept to your family. ” 

Azriel remained impassive, his face revealing nothing. Nesta could hear the lumbering steps of Cassian, and her heart rate spiked. She couldn’t let him see her like this. She latched onto Azriel, one skeletal pale hand wrapping around his tan forearm like a vice. “Get me out! ” she screamed, “Get me out, get me out , get me out!” 

Azriel did, just as Cassian threw open the door. The pained look in his hazel eyes was the last thing she saw before her world dissolved into shadow. 

 

Several Months Earlier 

Her stupid boots clanged as she walked towards him. Her horse chuffed, pawing the dirt. He was a beautiful stallion, Bron admitted to himself. Perfectly proportioned. Bred for war and hunting, surely. He wondered how much those horses went for in the human lands. He wondered if he could kill her now and take her horse. The horse nickered, as if sensing his train of thought. No. Such a beast would never be loyal to him. The spurs clinked, closer and closer, until he was staring down at brown eyes and an aquiline nose, paired with a mouth that was downturned. “Can you keep your fucking people in line?” 

 

Bron huffed. He didn’t understand what the other humans saw in her, but they respected her enough to afford her significant influence. “Don’t you think I’m trying? I’m only the High Lord’s sentry . I don’t have that kind of power.” 

 

“Then create it.” Her voice was unforgiving. “If they come after humans, I’ll kill them. That’s my job.” 

 

“And if humans come after any Spring Court fae, I’ll kill them . That’s my job.” He jutted his chin out. The female was tall for a human, which was bad enough. But worse, she dressed like a male, spoke like one, carried herself like one. It wasn’t natural. Males and females had their roles to play. She should be safe in her home, the mysterious seaside manor he had heard about in whispers. 

 

“Water wraiths drowned and ate an eight year old boy last week.” Bron’s heart twisted, but her tone was flat. A female should be emotional at the loss of a child. He exhaled sharply. “I’m sorry.” 

 

She ground her teeth. “Sorry doesn’t bring him back, does it?” 

 

“You have a week to get them out of the pond before I start using them for target practice," she said with perfect confidence, "Halverstead. About twenty or so miles from here. You'll know the pond when you see it." Could she really shoot at water wraiths like fish in a barrel? He glanced at the crossbow strapped to her saddle bag. He heard stories about her aim, too. “Well, you can’t keep killing the pixies.” He retorted. She rolled her eyes. “They’re pests. They eat people’s crops. We do away with rats, birds, and bugs that try it too. Nothing personal.” 

 

“No, no.” He tried to reason with her. “Those are only the ones in Autumn. Spring Court ones are good pollinators. They might eat a little to sustain themselves, but their magic will help the crops flourish. It will more than make up for whatever they eat. I promise.” 

 

She sighed again. “And how can I tell the difference?” 

 

“The coloring. Spring Court will be blue, Autumn Court red.” 

 

“Wow. Convenient.” The wind gently blew through her hair. “I’ll spread the word, but I can’t guarantee people will listen.”

 

“That’s all you can do.” He said amiably. He thought her odd, but didn’t want her to dislike him. 

 

“And the High Lord?” She raised an eyebrow. 

 

“Which one?” Bron scoffed. She didn’t ask for clarification, just stared at him expectantly. It irked him, made him think of his childhood tutor, waiting for an answer he couldn’t give. “The High Lord of Night. Rhysand. He was here. We scented him, and now Tamlin’s in an even worse spiral. I don’t know what was said, but it was bad.” 

 

She ran a hand over her face. “What the fuck is his problem? Tamlin’s tied to the land’s magic, and he’s got no relatives or children as far as we know. I know he’s incompetent, but we can’t get rid of him when we’re not even sure who, if anyone , can succeed him.” Bron bristled at how casually she mentioned killing Tamlin, offended not only that a mere human thought she could take out the High Lord, but the casualty she suggested dispatching his old friend. Tamlin wasn’t well, had been terrible the last few years but…but there was still loyalty. Hundreds of years of him being a just and kind Lord, a loyal friend, and honorable male. She couldn’t dismiss him so quickly. It wasn’t fair. She either didn’t notice or ignored his change in demeanor as she continued, “I don’t understand why he keeps provoking him. Doesn’t he know that the whole court will follow Tamlin into disarray?” 

 

“Maybe that’s his plan. Maybe he wants to take over.” Bron had never been a schemer, more accustomed to taking orders than giving them. He couldn’t see the long game that Rhysand had, or if there even was one at all. “But he’s sending Summer soldiers to protect the border, since we can’t muster our own forces anymore.” He suddenly wanted to impress her, wanted her to stop speaking to him like she knew better. “Maybe he’s allied with Summer, and they’re both going to take over, and split our territory between them.” 

 

“Maybe.” He listened to her flat tone, peered at the dark circles under her eyes. 

 

“Or maybe they’re all working together with Autumn.” He tried again. 

 

“If they were working with Autumn, why would they send soldiers to stop them crossing into our territory?” 

 

Bron felt like a stupid child all over again, stumbling over his letters as he tried to read. “To…to trick us. Maybe they have a deal, and Summer will let Autumn through, and only pretend to be guarding our border.” 

 

“That’s a possibility.” She allowed, in a tone that made it clear she was indulging him. He stuttered out, “Well, have you seen any Autumn soldiers in the human territories? Scouts and the like?” She raised her eyebrows, as though she was about to let him in on a funny secret. “Yes, a couple. But they don’t always see me.” 

 

“Does Beron know you’re dispatching them?” 

 

“If he did, you think I’d be standing here?” 

 

“So you can really cover your tracks.” He said, impressed despite himself. 

She hummed. “I’m not that good. But I have my own suspicions about that matter that I’ll leave to myself.” The horse chuffed again, hoofing the ground impatiently. The woman went back to him, her spurs clinking. She swung herself up into the saddle effortlessly, and began to trot away. She called over her shoulder, “The water wraiths, Bron. One week. Don’t forget.” Bron watched her go, the stallion beginning to trot, and then canter. It really was a beautiful horse.

Notes:

so glad you’re reading!!! If you know me you know I love questions so:
1) Do you have any guesses about who the mysterious woman meeting Bron is, or a pretty good idea?
2) Does anyone even remember Bron Tamlin’s sentry? :(
3) What do you think of seeing a Spring Court/human perspective on Rhysand taunting Tamlin?

Chapter 2: Where are you, where are you?

Nesta, present day

The darkness warped around her to reveal the ramshackle cabin she had called home for so many years. She ripped her hand off of Azriel, stumbling forward and falling to her knees, barely able to catch her breath. “Here? Here?!” Her fingers clawed into the dirt, raking harsh lines across the ground. 

Azriel said his first words. “Rhysand’s orders.” 

Nesta let out a bitter laugh, watching her hands shake in the dirt. “So that’s it? No money?” She shivered as a cold breeze ripped through her ragged dress. “No extra clothes?”

Azriel closed his eyes, likely communicating with Rhysand, before opening his eyes. “Rhysand says if you want something for yourself, you can hunt for it. Just like Feyre did.” Nesta flinched at that. How much longer will I do penance for that? 

A small sack of coins landed by where she still knelt in the dirt. She looked up at Azriel. “I won’t tell if you won’t.” A ghost of a smile danced across his face. Nesta considered it for a moment before she snatched it up. “Fuck you,” she said spitefully, “I’m going to spend this on drinks. All of it.” 

“That’s your prerogative. It’s yours now. I can’t stop you.” 

Nesta scoffed. “It’s not mine . Nothing is anymore. This is something you’ll come back and hold over my head.” She grabbed the small black pouch and lobbed it back at Azriel. “I don’t need a…for you to have another fucking tool to control me.”

“The money is yours, no strings attached. I’m not Rhysand.” 

“Just his crony,” Nesta spat, “There’s always strings with you.” 

He sighed, looking down at the bag by his feet. “I’m not taking this back with me, you know.” 

“Fine. Then it’ll just stay here, forever.” 

Azriel sighed again. “Is there anything you’d like to say? A message you want me to bring back?” 

My last words, Nesta thought, luxuriating in the idea. They should be profound, shouldn’t they? But nothing came to mind. “Just…I’m sorry.” She croaked out. “Tell Elain and Feyre that I’m sorry.” 

“And to Cassian?” 

Nesta glared at him. She considered telling him to relay to Cassian that she had nothing to say to him, but paused. “Tell him…tell him…that this is me trying. That I was always trying my hardest.” And now he’d get to see what it looked like when she wasn’t trying. 

“Okay.” Azriel’s voice was soft now. He looked like he was about to speak, but stopped himself instead settling on “Goodbye, Nesta.” He disappeared into the shadows, leaving the bag of coins behind. Nesta looked up to the sky and screamed as loud as she could, and then curled into the dirt beneath her and began to sob. 

---

Tamlin could hear the female walking up to him. She wasn’t wearing those foolish boots that Bron had told him about, the ones with spurs that clanked and clacked while she walked, but Tamlin heard her all the same. He could hear nearly anything if he tried. He had heard her horse gallop up, heard her swing out of the saddle and into the dirt with a soft thwump. An experienced rider. He could tell. He heard her boots against the floor, the swish of her clothes, even her heartbeat if he concentrated. It was steady. The only sound he didn’t recognize was the loud click that came when the footsteps finally stopped. 

Curiosity made him turn around, meeting the dark brown eyes of the female who was pointing a metallic black something at him. That was what had made the noise, but he still didn’t know what it was. He would have cared enough to ask before he became what he was, but the curiosity was only a brief flicker in the melancholy, and faded as quickly as it came. 

She spoke first. “If you die, who’s going to succeed you?”  

He laughed bitterly. “I have no family left. No children. No legacy,” he gestured at the ruins of the manor around him, laughing bitterly, “I have nothing, least of all any clue of what will happen after I’m dead.” He paused. “And you think this…device will be the thing to dispatch me? A High Lord?” 

“It’s dispatched plenty of fae before. But I admit, I don’t know how it would fare against a High Lord fighting for his life.” She paused. “But you’re not going to fight, are you?” 

“No.” The bitter truth was heavy on his tongue. 

Instead of looking relieved, her face twisted in anger. “Get up . Your people need you.” 

“There are no people left. It makes no difference dead or fled, but they’re gone.” The words could be worked into the lyrics of a song. If only he had his fiddle… Oh, the Spring Court went all wrong, her people all are dead and fled and gon e…

 “They’re not. And they’re suffering. ” Her voice had slipped from the unaffected demeanor she had put on. But she tried to keep it together. “A true leader puts aside his individual needs for the good of the collective.” 

Tamlin snarled at her, his fangs elongating. “Don’t prate some human philosopher at me, girl. I know better than you what it’s like to lead.” The words stung because she might have been right. Should he have traded off his happiness and what he thought had been Feyre’s safety for his people? He had so desperately wanted to save her from the rape and torment he was sure she was enduring, only for his actions to inflict the very same on his people. And it was all for nothing. But what kind of male would I be if I left her there, believing she was being hurt?

“Do you even know what’s happening out there? Do you?” Tamlin shook his head, and the device in her hand trembled. “They’re eating people. They’re fucking eating people. And fae. There’s no food, Hybern salted the earth behind them and now nothing will grow.” 

Her wide eyes and the quaver in her voice hadn’t been lost on him, nor had the horror of what she said. But just like the curiosity before it, the revulsion and pity that rose within him only stayed a brief moment before fading away. “What do you want me to do about it?”

The metal thing in her hands was really shaking now. “You’re the High Lord of Spring, fucking grow something!” 

“My specialty is shapeshifting, actually.” Tamlin sighed, “Although the ability to grow plants would fit better with Spring.” 

“If I pull this trigger, your brains will be splattered on the wall behind you. Is that what you want?” Her eyes were nearly as wild as Feyre’s had been those first few days in the manor. 

“Only severing the head and an ash dagger to the heart will do it, I’m afraid. I might heal from that.”  

“No,” she said, “you won’t.”  

“So do it then.”  

“Do you want me to?”  

“I don’t really care much either way.”  

Her hand shook even more. Tamlin had deduced the device fired some sort of projectile, perhaps an ashen spike, but he doubted she would be able to hit him at this point. “I need you to care. I can’t keep doing all of this by myself.”

Tamlin shrugged. “Then stop.”  

“You…” she trailed off. She really did look in a bad way, he decided. Not as bad as him, but her clothes were wrinkled and her eyes ringed with dark circles. She was breathing heavily, practically panting. One push and he suspected she would burst into tears or a fit of rage. He wasn’t sure which yet. “You need to do something. Even if you can’t make anything grow, the health and magic of your land is tied to you . You’ve got to…you need to get up. You need to try.” 

“Just do what you came here to do.” Her hand steadied, and for a moment he thought she would. But then she dropped her arm, shoving the device back into some sort of holder on her pants. Feyre was fond of pants. She hated dresses. 

“I came here to…to scare you into doing something. Anything.” 

“You must be truly desperate to come to me.” 

“Yes,” she breathed out, “I am. But I don’t know who the magic will go to after you’re gone.” 

“Could be someone better than me. Could be worse.” Tamlin wondered if she would raise that thing at him and fire it now.  

“They’re eating people. ” She repeated it, her voice shaking. The words hung in the air. He wondered how Lucien would react in the Night Court, hearing that his citizens were resorting to cannibalism and he’d done nothing to stop it. I used to care, the thought drifted almost lazily across his mind, I used to be something.

“There’s an orchard about five miles west of here. I don’t know what sort of condition it’s in now, but it is there. Or was.” He paused. “And I know the idea of hunting all the fish in the ponds and rivers is tempting, but if you don’t leave any to reproduce they’ll be gone forever.”  

“I don’t think people are going to listen to that, but I’ll try.” Yes, people who were desperate enough to resort to cannibalism likely wouldn’t be thinking logically about the fish populations. 

“There’s a group of blackberry bushes in the woods, if you follow the river. You can harvest them and wait for the game that comes to eat them. It’s mostly birds and squirrels, but…still meat.” 

“Anything else?” Her breathing was more even now, her lost composure sliding behind a mask he had seen on hundreds of fae over hundreds of years. You’re not doing very well either, are you? he almost said, but instead continued with, “There’s plenty of game in the woods. Deer, mostly, but eating bear or wolf is preferable to dying. I will…see what I can do about it in my beast form. Drop off some kills for my people and yours. Maybe.” He preferred spending his time as an animal, anyway. 

“Probably.” he amended at the look on her face. She nodded once, looking ready to collapse.  

“Thank you.” And then he was listening to her footsteps retreat, and the door to the manor swinging shut behind her.

---

Hours passed. Or days. Or minutes. She didn’t know. She didn’t care. The dirt she was curled in grew colder, the wind biting at her back, but she didn’t care. She closed her eyes. She heard distant voices. She didn’t move. “Hey!” came a shout, “hey!” She didn’t turn around. “Maybe it’s dead.” 

“Might be it’s sleeping.” 

“Nah, the Fae can hear you coming from a mile away. Their ears are even better than a hound’s.” 

“Hey!” came the first voice again, louder this time, more accusatory. “Hey! We saw the shadows. There weren’t no footprints or hoofprints behind you. You came here with magic .” He spat magic like it was a dirty word. Nesta rolled over, still not getting up, and eyed the posse. The leader was an older man, his face weathered and lined. Her eyes dipped to a bolt of purple cloth tied around his arm. He clutched a pitchfork, his knuckles white and shaking. Behind him was another man and a woman, also clutching farm tools. Nesta recognized the signs of starvation. She’d seen it on her own face enough times. Their clothes were worn, their bodies too lean, their eyes too wide and wild looking. 

“You come here to steal from us? We don’t have anything!” The woman’s voice was accusatory. “All our things are back in the Spring Court, so go back there!” 

“I’m not from the Spring Court.” Nesta’s voice was nothing more than a croak. “This is my home. I lived here.”  

“You lived here? You were one of Hybern’s soldiers that came and set up camp in our lands ?” The woman was incensed enough to begin approaching Nesta with the hoe in her hands. Nesta eyed the dull rusty metal with detachment as it came towards her. “No. No. I used to be human.” She lay flat on her back now, staring up at the sun as it traveled across the sky. So it had been a few hours since she was escorted away. It felt like an eternity. “I liked being human.” And now she wanted to become part of the earth, let the dirt consume her, her veins stretching down into the soil like roots and letting her blood nourish it until flowers burst from her ribcage. Dead, and free, and finally contributing something. 

“Well…well, you’re not anymore. So you need to go . This town is just for humans. You don’t get to take anything else from us!” Nesta didn’t respond, moving her hands back and forth in the dirt and imagining a bright yellow patch of flowers sprouting from where she lay. Elain would like that. 

“Don’t go any nearer!” The second man, only armed with a wooden plank spoke out, “She’s playing possum. We need to call the outpost.” 

The woman reluctantly retreated from Nesta. “The outpost doesn’t answer anything anymore, Jonah. All that family is dead or beyond the sea.” 

“I heard one’s back.” said the man with the purple cloth confidently, “A son or daughter of liberation will always answer the call.” 

“None of us believe in that nonsense.” The woman was spiteful.  Nesta didn’t believe in it either. The name sparked something in her memory, dully, something from childhood, but it interfered with the flowers she was trying to picture, so she ignored it. 

“Well, let’s call them anyhow. And if someone doesn’t come, we can go at her with these damn farm tools.” The man sounded utterly certain. “Give it three days.” 

The woman huffed. “Fine, Zedekiah. Three days.” The other man agreed, and Nesta heard their footsteps retreating. Three days. Silly villagers. She would be flowers by then.  

Velaris  

“She’s just…laying there.” Azriel said. “Hasn’t moved. Some villagers came around and then left her alone. I mean…she’s breathing, but she hasn’t moved.” 

Feyre and Rhysand shared a look, before Feyre said worriedly, “We should just bring her back now. This wasn’t a good idea. I never thought she would actually pick the human lands. And I don’t like what she told Azriel to tell me and Elain. ‘I’m sorry.’ It sounds so final. I don’t like it.” Rhysand rubbed her back as she spoke, saying gently, “She’s only sorry because she finally has to face the consequences of her actions, Feyre darling.” 

Cassian said uncertainly, “She told me she had been trying. Or told Azriel to tell me.” Az nodded from his side of the room, his shadows flickering around him. Amren huffed, examining her nails, “Which means she’s still not ready to take accountability or admit she was in the wrong. I say leave her there until she comes crawling back.” 

“No,” said Feyre, “She’s my sister . And we agreed we’d only leave her there for a little while until she comes to her senses and then take her back.” 

Amren made a derogatory noise. “Then you agree, she’ll be there forever. That girl will never come to her senses.” 

“I agree with Amren, darling, but I think it’s better she comes to her senses in the House of Wind, where we can keep an eye on her.” Rhysand continued rubbing Feyre’s back. “So you can have some peace of mind.” 

“I have peace of mind,” Feyre sighed, “Az is watching her.” 

“I can’t watch her every second of every day,” Azriel warned, “But yes, my shadows are keeping an eye on her.”  

“If we just go get her right after we dropped her off, she’s never going to take any of our threats or ultimatums seriously.” Cassian protested. “I mean, what if she just refuses to train?” Amren agreed, and Rhys hummed. “He makes a good point. We have to let her know we mean business. I say we stick with the original plan. A short time, keep an eye on her, and then take her back.”  

Feyre sighed. “How long?”  

Rhys shrugged. “Three days?” There were nods and agreements around the circle. Even Amren dipped her head in acknowledgement. 

“Then it’s agreed upon,” said Feyre. “Three days.”

Notes:

Questions (not necessary, but much appreciated)
1) What do you make of Nesta and Johanna’s childhood relationship?
2) What do you think Johanna’s reaction will be when she finds out Nesta’s grandmother isn’t an evil faerie?
3) Are you able to glean some clues about the different dynamics in the Salvatorre vs Archeron household?

Chapter 3: I was drinking hard,

Notes:

Ultimatums are issued in both Velaris and the human lands. I blatantly retcon another part of Nesta’s backstory in order to setup yuri.

When the sun began to set on the first day, Nesta thought about her sisters. Not as they were now, but the way they had been when they were little. She wondered if Feyre could hear her with her uncanny daemati powers. Feyre! Feyre, they’re going to kill me! she thought. There was no answer but the wind. She lay on the grass and dreamed of her mother, calling her home.

When the sun began to set on the second day, Nesta finally went back inside the cabin she had called home. She stared at her boots, full of holes so big rocks had often slipped in and bitten into her feet. I wore these , she thought, I wore these in public . She clutched her father’s wooden figurines and wept herself to exhaustion. Even in the cabin, she could not escape the stars. They peeked through the wood, twinkling and mocking her. She turned her face away and dreamed she was being consumed by the fire Feyre had painted on her cabinet drawer. The fire burned her down to her bones, but when she emerged she was clean and free and human once more. 

When the sun began to set on the third day, Nesta walked out of her home and got ready to die. She sat on the patch of grass she had been left on when she was first dropped here, turned her back to the village, and watched the sun sink across the sky. The sun descended, coating the sky in glorious hues of pink and gold, the rays gently touching her face as if giving one final farewell. The grass was writhing in the wind, dancing and telling her the end was near. I know, I know, I know . 

The wind was making her feel weak. Weaker than she already was. It became harder to breathe. She coughed and looked down on her sleeve to see fine brown dust coating it. No wonder she had felt so feverish. From an ashwood tree , she thought, how clever. She liked that a clever person would be the one to kill her. She heard the horse first, and then the dismount, and then the steps walking towards her. Finally, Nesta heard the crossbow click. Something about her fae senses told her the bolt was ash wood, that this would be the end. Good. 

“No place for your kind, faerie. You know the rules.” Something about the drawl was familiar, but Nesta didn’t care enough to place it. She closed her eyes, waiting for it, but nothing came. “I…who are you?” demanded the man, his voice uncertain. 

“Nobody,” Nesta croaked out in a voice rusted from disuse, “Nobody and nothing at all.” She would exit the world with the sun. The grass danced back and forth, whispering and tittering as if it was laughing at her. Nobody and nothing, you’re nothing at all. 

She heard steps coming around her, and soon her view of the sunset was obstructed by the stranger. She squinted at him. He was powerfully built, to be sure, his hands clutching the crossbow. She could barely make out a strip of fabric covering his aquiline nose and mouth, confirming her suspicions about the use of ash dust. The sun went lower, and for a heartbeat he appeared to be on fire. How beautiful. 

He leaned in slightly, as if to see her better, and then startled so badly he nearly dropped the crossbow. “Nesta Archeron ? Is that you?” 

“Yes, it’s me.” The words felt distant, like they belonged to someone else. “Now do what you came here to do.” Nesta stretched her arms out slightly, feeling the wind whistle through her fingers. Her last day on Earth. It was so…undramatic. She half expected a furious storm, lightning angrily slicing through the sky, rain that would mingle with tears. 

“No, Nesta, it’s me,” The man’s voice was higher than when he had first addressed her. “It’s me. ” He ripped the bandana off his face and the hat off his head, desperately pulling out a crown of braids that spilled all around him in chocolate waves. The man was in fact a woman, and the woman was…

“Johanna?!” Nesta felt completely frozen, her throat bobbing as she stared across the swaying grass. Only one person in the world would say “it’s me” and expect her to know who she was. She almost thought she could hear the grass echoing her. Johanna, Johanna, Johanna, it whispered, she’s come to take you away, she’s come to kill you, she’s come to save you. It can’t be her, after all these years. Johanna, Johanna, why did you leave? Where have you been?

Nesta’s old childhood companion stared back at her, her eyes roving over Nesta’s abused and decrepit body, and finally said in a choked voice, “Yeah, it’s me.”

They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity—Johanna wide-eyed at the wreck of Nesta, Nesta fighting her disbelief—and then spoke at the same time. “What the hell are you doing here?” Nesta said flatly at the same time as Johanna breathed, “What happened to you?” 

---

“Azriel,” his High Lord burst into his quiet sanctuary in the House of Wind, “You’re needed in The Continent. Now. ” 

“Is it Marivena?” The country had narrowly avoided civil war after it was discovered their mortal queen, Catalina, had been working with Hybern. Her cousin Amidala had acquiesced to proposed changes in their charter that restricted the Queen’s power even further and gave the elected legislature more oversight over her movements. As soon as there had been a candidate available to replace her, Catalina had been quickly impeached (not deposed, that was different, he had learned), stripped of her titles, but not jailed because she technically hadn’t broken any laws. 

Now Amidala trotted out for public appearances, gave alms to the poor, and would occasionally be summoned for a tie breaking vote when the 24 senators were evenly split. Catalina was still able to gather supporters and cause havoc, and with such an impotent head of state every official act was so endlessly debated in the legislature that by the time it came to pass, it was ineffective. 

“Wrong mortal queen. Briallyn, Azriel. Now. Skulking about on the border of Rask. If she manages to make contact with one of their people, negotiates a deal…you have to turn her around.” Rhysand’s wings fluttered agitatedly, and Azriel stood up in response. 

If it was making Rhysand nervous, it was serious. “I know for a fact she has to meet Beron in one month, and it will take her two weeks to get there by ship, one if Beron is willing to help her, which I doubt. Confuse her and the Raskan diplomat. Scare them, send them down a wrong path. Use your shadows, work from within them, and don’t be seen.” 

 “What about Nesta?” 

“What about her?” Rhys looked a second away from screaming at Azriel to go right now, but he stood his ground, “My shadows won’t be able to reach her so far away. Feyre wanted me to check up on her.” 

“Well, do it! Check up on her!”  

Azriel closed his eyes and then said, “She’s fine, relatively speaking. Still in the same place as before.”  

“Then go, go now! The Raskans can winnow just as well as we can. One lucky guess as to her location and an alliance will be made with disastrous consequences,” he hissed, “I will keep watch over Nesta, all right?” 

Azriel dipped his head. “As you command, High Lord.” He hadn’t liked the way Nesta had been treated. It prickled something at the back of his mind, reminded him of the way he had been spoken about in his childhood. Like he was a thing. Old memories he’d rather keep hidden cropped up alongside recent ones as he rushed to the door. We need to find a way to deal with Nesta…deal with the boy…deal with, handle, control, mitigate, for her own good, for his sake… He threw the door open as he sought somewhere outside of the magic boundaries of the house where he could shadow travel. If his High Lord noticed his turmoil, he didn’t comment. Almost out of his control, his gaze was dragged to his scarred hands. I’m a person, not a thing, he reminded himself as he stared at the crude pink and white lines, I’m a person, not a thing. I am not in the dungeon. I am not in the dungeon. I’m a person, not a thing. His shadows curling up around him reminded him, for a moment, of true darkness. I am not in the dungeon. 

He stared back at the House of Wind. It was certainly no dungeon. He would have killed to be allowed in the spacious mansion, with its plush carpets, feather beds, and instantaneous food and hot baths only a command away. Nesta would not have even been trapped, really. She could go down the stairs, if she wanted. You knew she couldn’t make it down the stairs, some vicious inner voice whispered, that was the plan. You knew she couldn’t make it down the stairs just like they knew you couldn’t get past the bars. No. It was not the same at all. What was being done to Nesta was with the intention of helping her, not hurting her. You know what they say about the road to hell , that small voice whispered back. He glanced back at the House of Wind, hoping his hesitation would be interpreted as him plotting out how many jumps he’d need to make it to Rask. He glanced up at the sky and sighed. His shadows enveloped him and he was off, his only regret that he’d miss the sunset. 

She- no. You are a person, not a thing. You’re not treating her like a thing. 

 

You are not in the dungeon. 

 

You are not in the dungeon. 

 

You are not in the dungeon.

Notes:

Questions!! So much shit happens in this chapter so there’s so many!
1) Too much flashback too soon? I feel like they are important since I’m retconning in an entire relationship in Nesta’s childhood and teen years, but I also don’t want the story to feel like it’s dragging.
2) Any intrigue about the purple cloth and the “sons of liberation”? I’m interested because I’m adding a huge worldbuilding thing. But this is just a hint…
3) Do you feel like the lore for Marivena is engaging? Are you interested in the country and Salvatorre family at all? Be honest!!
4) I introduced Max in this chapter who will come back in a bigger role later. Thoughts, feelings…were you at least a little engaged about his character?
5) What about the Salvatorre family dynamic or character introduced stuck out the most to you? I introduced her uncle Max, expanded on her brother and elaborated on her parent’s marital issues.
6) Uhhh finally was Johanna’s botched confession a relatable gay experience for y’all? Show of hands

Chapter 4: acting tough,

Only moments later, in the Mortal Lands

 

They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity—Johanna wide-eyed at the wreck of Nesta, Nesta fighting her disbelief—and then spoke at the same time. “What the hell are you doing here?” Nesta said flatly at the same time as Johanna breathed, “What happened to you?”

They both spoke over each other all at once. Is it really you? What are you doing here? What happened? Who have you become? Nesta didn’t allow herself to think about the fact that Johanna never said her name, only “it’s me” so fervently that Nesta knew she thought she didn’t have to say her name at all. And she was right. She knew Johanna. There was a time in her life when she had known Johanna better than anyone. In her memories, Jo was always bright and shining, merry and mysterious and moody by turns, capricious but joyful. And beautiful. So, so beautiful. She still was, nearly a decade later, but now she looked…not as bad as Nesta did, but certainly not well.. Her eyes were slightly bloodshot and ringed with dark circles. She looked pale. That didn’t make sense, Nesta thought. Johanna loved the sun. Yet she looked haunted. She looked like a ghost. 

“You look…you look so different.” Just as Nesta was trying to make sense of Johanna, Johanna had been trying to make sense of her. “I knew you were Fae, but…” 

“But what?” Nesta snapped at her. “Now I’m in the skin of every human’s worst nightmare? I know.” 

“You’re beautiful.” Johanna said simply. Her eyes were wide and earnest, so different from the look she usually had, where every true emotion was hidden beneath a layer of irony and blase. “I mean, you were always beautiful, but…” 

“Oh.” Was all Nesta could say. Jo’s hair was moving so elegantly with the wind. What the hell? What business did she have here, dragging up old memories and looking like some sort of vision. In fact, maybe she was. Maybe Nesta was already dying, and she was some being meant to guide her gently into the good night. 

“Your eyes.” said Johanna, almost reverently, “Your eyes are…closer to silver now. There used to be more blue.” 

“Yours…yours are the same.” Nesta choked out. And they were. Jo’s eyes were a deep brown. Where Elain’s eyes were warm and golden, hers were such a dark brown they were nearly black. When she was little, Nesta had often stared deep into Johanna’s eyes when the sun began to creep down, trying to discern where the pupil ended and the iris began. She was never sure then. She wasn’t sure now. 

They stood there staring at each other. The wind caused Nesta’s dress to whip against her calf, and she jerked slightly, suddenly snapping out of whatever trance she was in. She had been so shocked she had forgotten why she was here, what her life had become. She stared at her ratty dress, fluttering in the wind like it wanted to be free of her. That was all it took for the bottomless well inside of her to open, and the dark waters rushed up, drowning out the nostalgia and longing and desire. Johanna walked over and plopped down next to her. Nesta snarled, “What are you doing here?”

“Watching the sunset with an old friend,” she said mildly, but Nesta could see the worried glances she shot her way. 

“Why are you in Prythian?” Nesta said flatly, “I thought you lived across an ocean, in your perfect homeland.” Maybe she still was, and this Johanna was all a dream, meant to ease the transition between life and death. 

Johanna sounded almost offended, “Well, we still have a house here.” At Nesta’s unimpressed stare, she sighed, “I’m trying to help people, live up to the family name. What the hell are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in the Night Court?” 

“I got kicked out.” The grass waved gleefully at that. Ha, ha, ha, ha. 

She looked flabbergasted as she took in Nesta’s appearance, her wine soaked boots, her ratty old dress. Nesta imagined she looked the same as she observed her friend, but Johanna’s clothes, while in a state of mild disrepair, were obviously expensive. “Aren’t you a war hero?”

“One who behaved very poorly.” Nesta shrugged, trying to hide the bitterness she felt. The anger. 

“My god, what did you do to get kicked out? Murder? Theft? Spying? Arson?” 

“Well…no. I just wasn’t doing well. And spending a lot of their money.” 

Jo shrugged, “I mean, stealing it takes a great amount of skill. You can take that far in life.” They were still trying to banter like they had when they were young, but it was somewhat stilted and awkward, like a rusted wheel creaking as it turned. Nesta didn’t have the heart to tell Jo, who looked happy to see her, that she wouldn’t be going far in life because there wasn’t much life left. 

She continued with interest, “How’d you fleece the High Lord?” Wait…Johanna was happy to see her. When was the last time that happened? She didn’t look to the grass to see what it was saying. Somebody was happy to see her.

“I…I didn’t steal it. Rhysand gave me an open line of credit and I used it. A lot of it.” The grass was back, gleefully repeating Ha, ha, ha. Nesta shot it a glare, and it quieted. 

“Please don’t take offense to this, but are you drunk? You’re not making sense.” Johanna’s lips were pursed, and the black silk gown she was wearing fluttered around her. She had really, truly made an effort to conform to the standards of a lady in Prythian so Nesta wouldn’t have to be at the ball without a friend. She stared at Nesta, fourteen again, and said, “Are you all right? You’re looking at me strangely.”

Nesta ran a hand over her face. “I’ve been drinking, fucking, and gambling too much, and they told me I can either get my act together or be exiled to the human lands.” She spread her arms out, giving Johanna an unsettling smile. “So here I am.” Johanna’s waving hair cast ever changing shadows on her face, and each one revealed her in a new light. There she is smiling at me, there she is when she confessed, that’s how she looked leaving me. 

“You didn’t commit any crimes and still got exiled ?” She was surprised. She was always so surprised. Johanna had long been in the habit of assuming the world afforded to everyone the same love and care it afforded to her, and she was let down every time. Nesta had heard some variation of this from her nearly her entire life. Your mother won’t let you study? What do you mean you have to get married? Why can’t you come with me to university? Every tired answer Nesta gave her was met with, “But that’s not fair ”, Nesta would respond that life wasn’t fair, and it incensed Johanna on her behalf every time. Life should be fair, she said, and immediately set out to make it so. She nearly always failed when Nesta was concerned, but that didn’t stop her from trying. Nesta was surprised she hadn’t given up by now. 

She realized she had been staring at the grass too long, whose blades were now dancing and twisting into each other like they were fornicating. She reached for something to say, and settled on “Shouldn’t you be focused on the drinking and fucking? Everyone else is.” 

“Who gives a shit? Besides, I’m not exactly in a place to judge.” Johanna blew a raspberry, so childish and unexpected it almost made Nesta laugh. Almost. “So you got exiled because what, basically the High Lord said so? There’s no legitimate grounds? And you don’t have civil rights or recourse?” Lovely, Jo was using terms she had learned in whatever Marivenan university. She didn’t mean anything by it, didn’t mean to make Nesta feel stupid and slow and uneducated, didn’t even know that her words were having that effect. 

Her hair was changing too. First it flowed freely, and then morphed into the braid she wore when horseback riding, and then it was the two braids she had worn when they were children. Nesta squinted to see if the ribbons were still tied at the ends, but they faded away. That made sense. Johanna had never been able to keep her ribbons in. Nesta always found them somewhere around the house and kept them in her pocket. 

“No, there is a, um…law…about me working as an emissary…” Nesta swayed slightly, staring at her everchanging friend, but Jo was like a dog with a bone, and could not let go. “Did they tell you about this law when you agreed to the job? Was it in your contract?” 

“No, and there was no contract.” Nesta wanted to lay down again. Let’s lay down together, and share a bed again, and we can whisper secrets to each other in the dark. 

“Damn it, Nesta, always get it in writing! If he had signed a legally binding contract, this wouldn’t be happening.” 

“I do not think contracts can legally bind the High Lord of Night.” The grass was still talking to her, but she couldn’t make out what it was saying anymore. 

Johanna exhaled sharply, then muttered, “Clythia’s crucified cunt , it’s an actual autocracy.”

She ran a hand through her hair, as if trying to untangle her own thoughts, before going off about checks and balances and foundational tenets of civilization everyone learns by twelve, but Nesta was too busy trying to find the similarities between the Johanna now and the Johanna she had known to listen. It felt like she was playing a game, or solving one of those puzzles Amren loved so much. The cadence of her speech was the same, but her voice was deeper. Still muscular, but not as much. Her face was slightly lined and weathered now, telling Nesta that she spent too much time in the sun, but the most prominent were smile and laugh lines, which told Nesta it had been worth it to her. It was what she expected. She finally tuned back in for the grand finale of another Johanna ramble. 

“Ancestors, do you have any idea how bad things are out here? It’s been fucking chaos since the war. Humans fighting faeries, faeries fighting humans, casualties on both sides. There’s not enough food, either, and I’ve been shipping some in from home, but my farmland is mostly spices and tobacco, and almost all my ships are built for speed, not storage, and finding a merchant who’s willing to set foot here is damn near impossible.” Of course Johanna had her own farmlands and ships. 

“Are you…real?” Johanna was blurring around the edges. Her head whipped towards Nesta. “Oh, no, the ashwood dust, Nesta I’m so sorry-” 

The grass cheered and reached for her with a thousand tiny arms as her limp body fell to the ground to join them. Yes, was her last thought , I will be flowers now.

Notes:

Wow guys Nesta and Johanna together after all these years. Did you feel anything?
2) Anyone picking up on the random cowboy aesthetic I decided to drop in for Johanna. Marivena is already loosely Hispanic so I was like why not throw in some Mexican elements and give her a cowboy vibe. Does it make sense with the established worldbuilding as much as my other retcons no. But cowgirls are dear to me.
3) In the mainline universe everyone acts like things in the human lands are super chill because Jurian is there or something. I don’t believe that, but you can if you want to. What makes more sense to you, the solved problem human lands or my everyone is batshit crazy from their homes being burned and pillaged and whatnot?

Chapter 5: But it was just a crush

Twenty years ago

Whack. Nesta winced as the sharp wood whistled in the air and came down on her skin again. Whack. “You need to learn to take corrections ,” snapped Grandmama, raising her arm once more. 

“Hey! You’re not allowed to do that.” Johanna put her hands on her hips. “I’ll tell my mom on you. My mom and my dad and my uncle Max.” 

Grandmama turned to stare down the six year old standing opposite to her and Nesta. “Your mother may let you run about and do whatever you please, but this is my home and my granddaughter, and I expect order and civility.” Nesta froze. You couldn’t talk back to Grandmama. She continued, “When you do bad things, you get punished. Nesta only needs one more light tap and we will return to dancing.” 

She raised her arm once more, and then with a great shriek and flutter of tulle, Johanna was upon her, wrenching the stick from her hands and hitting her right back. Grandmama stumbled backward, hand flying to her chest. Johanna raised the stick in preparation for another blow. “Run, Nesta!” she cried. “It’s not your grandmamma, it’s an evil faerie!” Nesta was still frozen, so Johanna came and grabbed Nesta’s hand, leading her out of the room and through the cavernous halls of the estate. “We need to wait until my mama gets back. She knows how to kill evil faeries. But we have to hide until then.” 

“Let’s hide in baby Feyre’s room,” Nesta said, tugging at Johanna and turning their course so they were rushing up the stairs instead. Grandmama’s shouts echoed through the mansion, but Nesta took Johanna to Feyre’s nursery. They slipped inside, closing the door. Feyre peeked up at them from her crib, chubby hands grasping the bars until she pulled herself to her feet. “Netta!” she called happily, “Netta!” 

Nesta said hello to Feyre back but quickly shushed her. She pointed behind the big rocking chair with the giant teddy bear set to the side. When they crept behind it and pulled the teddy bear in front of them, no one could see them. Well, no one except Feyre, but she couldn’t really talk anyways. Her wide eyes followed them as they tucked themselves into the corner and began whispering. 

“How do you know she’s a faerie?” Nesta whispered. Johanna’s family knew lots about faeries. “Because she hit you with this!” Johanna whispered, waving the stick on Nesta’s face, “Parents and grandparents aren’t supposed to hit you, just brothers sometimes. It’s a faerie pretending to be her.” 

“But she always hits me with the stick when I do bad at dancing.” Nesta was confused.  

“Wow. Then she’s been a bad faerie for a really long time. Your real grandmamma, the nice one, got taken by the faeries, and after we deal with the mean one, we can go find her.” 

“But what are we gonna do if we’re hiding?” 

“We have to wait until my mama gets here. She’ll know what to do.” Johanna said it with such confidence that Nesta was forced to agree. Mrs. Salvatorre did always know what to do. 

“I like your baby.” Johanna said, looking at Feyre appreciatively. Feyre was still staring back at them. 

“Thanks,” said Nesta, “But she doesn’t really do a lot. Except one time she threw up on Mother, and that was a little funny. But I had to wait to laugh ‘till I got back to my room because she would be mad.” 

“One time James peed his pants when my dad was holding him.” Jo whispered. 

“My dad doesn’t really like me. He likes Elain best.” said Nesta, feeling defeated. If she could work harder to be like Elain, her father would like her too. She wasn't good enough yet, but she was sure she would be soon. 

“Elain’s no fun. She’s a crybaby. And she wouldn’t even do our fights with James.” Johanna, who often got into scuffles with her twin, had proposed that Nesta come in on her team and Elain go on James’s so they could see who was the best. Johanna and James had proceeded to hotly debate who got to have Nesta on their team, which made Elain cry, and there was no fight. 

“But I'm my mother's favorite.” Nesta said proudly. 

“I’m not anyone’s favorite.” said Johanna, examining the stick. 

“I’m sorry.” Nesta felt bad for Johanna, that she wasn’t talented or bright enough to be the favorite of at least one of her parents. “They both like James best?” 

“No, I mean they like us the same.” Johanna experimentally swung the stick through the air. “I could get the Faerie with this for sure.” 

"If they like you the same, then...then, how do you know who's best?" 

Johanna seemed confused. "We're both the best. James beats me in races, but I'm stronger and I ride my pony better. But he's better at swimming." She frowned in contemplation, waving the stick. "And, but also I'm better at reading, and he's better at numbers. But, um, but I climb trees the best, and write my name bigger, but he's better at using his inside voice. But even if I was bad at running and swimming Mama and Papa would still love me just as much as they love James, because they always told me that and they told me that again after I lost the race and I was so sad.” Johanna took a deep breath, and Nesta waited for her to continue. Everything that came out of her mouth was always interesting. 

“And Mama said that people's differences is what makes them beautiful and you shouldn't feel bad for it or always compare yourself. Mama said that people always compare twins, because she’s a twin, but you just have to focus on yourself and not let that affect you." 

Johanna's words were happy as they nearly always were, but they just made Nesta sad. She tucked her knees into her chest. Sensing this, Johanna leaned over, about to hug her, and then thought better of it. Nesta didn't like being touched if someone didn't tell her they were going to. Instead she whispered, "James didn't pee on my dad. I did because I was laughing so hard, but I said it was James because I was embarrassed." 

Nesta giggled, and so did Johanna, and they both forgot about favorites. 

---

Nesta awoke to Johanna’s face hovering over hers, haloed in moonlight. “Thank the ancestors, you’re awake. I thought I had- I didn’t mean to hurt you with the dust, but I didn’t know it was you. Listen, I don’t know if there are any faeries looking for you, so I had to go ahead and coat the area in it to stifle any magic. I’m going to give you my bandana, I just didn’t want to do it while you were unconscious. Here,” she turned away, rummaging for something, and Nesta squinted as the light of the full moon was wholly revealed to her. “Okay. I gotta grab your head to tie it, hang on.” Nesta’s head was indeed lifted and then gently set down, and she found that her breathing was now interrupted by cloth. She tried to find the man on the moon, before she heard Jo say, “Wait, fuck, you need water. I’m taking the bandana off.” The bandana was pulled down, and Nesta sucked in a full breath before Jo said, “Okay, I’m lifting your head up now so you can drink.” Nesta’s head was lifted once more, and a trickle of cool water entered her throat. She found herself drinking greedily, and the trickle turned into a steady stream as the flask was tilted further. It was pulled from her lips as Jo murmured, “Okay. Okay, back down again. Not too much at once or you’ll be sick.” 

“I’m checking you for fever,” Jo said, placing her hand on Nesta’s forehead. Her brow furrowed, and Nesta murmured, “You always say everything you’re doing.” 

“Saying it out loud helps me remember,” said Jo, “And besides, you don’t like being touched without warning.” 

“No, I don’t,” replied Nesta, “Why do I feel so achy?” 

Jo grimaced. “I had to stop by the village to buy more supplies. I didn’t have enough to carry both of us to the next town over. So…I sliced my forearm and let blood drip on you until it looked like you could be dead, roped you to the back of Don Chiflado, and rode into town and told everyone I had killed you, got our supplies, and then got the hell out.” 

Nesta could only parse out, “Don…Chiflado.” 

“My stallion’s name. It means Lord Crazy. I didn’t keep you on the back of him the whole time, you know, just when others could see us and I had to pretend you were dead. But that’s probably why you’re so sore.” 

“The whole time? What ‘whole time’? How long have I been out?” 

“Two days. Two and a half, really, since it’s nighttime.” Nesta groaned. “Everything hurts.” 

“I know. I need you to be honest with me, really honest, and then you can go back to sleep. You said you were drinking. How much daily? And you don’t need to fear judgement, because at my peak I was averaging half a bottle and at least one glass of whiskey. Per day.” 

Nesta tried to think of a number. “Three bottles of wine?” 

“Okay. Okay. A glass of this whiskey hits just a bit harder than a full glass of wine…” she screwed her eyes shut in concentration, holding her hands out. “If…one glass is this big, and the whiskey comes up to here, then three glasses of whiskey would be this tall…but the glass isn’t the same shape as the flask…fuck!” She sounded distressed. “Paper, I need paper, I can’t do it without paper. James does it in his head, not me.” 

She closed her eyes again and held her hand out, clutching an invisible glass. “This is my hand holding a glass of whiskey. The length from my top knuckle to the end of my thumb is one inch.” She crooked her thumb so the top was bent out, “I can fit one inch into the circle…one” she moved her thumb with each number, “two…two and a half times. The radius is two and a half inches…no, no the diameter, the radius is half of that…” Nesta did not care to understand those words either. Clearly Johanna had not been given a ring for her mastery of mathematics. “Radius is…1…1.25 inches. And the glass is about…this tall…” She measured with her thumb again, “It’s four…and a half…inches…” 

“What are you-” Nesta tried to ask, but Jo snapped, “Fuck, Nesta, I need to concentrate! The radius times the height times pi…1.25 times…fuck, what was the height?” She stuck her hands out again, and Nesta offered, “Four and a half.” 

“Right! Right! And I will multiply that all…fuck! Oh, wait!” Her eyes lit up, and reached over Nesta to grab a rock and started carving in the ground, “3.141…uh…times…shit, what was the height and the radius?” 

“The height was 4.5, and the radius was 1.25. And pie, don’t forget pie.” Nesta reminded her. Johanna would explain whatever weird shit she was doing when she was done, and not before. She and Nesta were alike in that way. 

“3.141 is pi,” she responded, “Or maybe it’s 3.147. Close enough. Now, long multiplication.” Nesta closed her eyes as Johanna muttered to herself and multiplied in an apparently lengthy way. “And half is…eleven…what? Eleven…eleven inches of whiskey…in the bottom and…” 

Nesta studied the moon and wondered what Cassian was doing as Johanna began to measure some sort of bottle she had, mutter to herself, and keep writing in the dirt. It had been five days. Five days since she saw the utter devastation on his face as he watched her winnow away. Had it lingered, or was he glad to have her gone? 

“And so…the equivalent…of three glasses of whiskey is…this..much!” Johanna scratched a line on her bottle triumphantly. “And a slight reduction could be…here.” She made a line slightly above it, and then turned to Nesta. “Okay, I need you to drink this whiskey until this line, got it? I don’t know how fae tolerance works, but well, you’re already weak from the ash dust and it’s really strong.” 

If Johanna was offering her alcohol, she wasn’t asking questions. The bottle was unscrewed and thrust in her face, along with an encouraging, “Drink up, party girl.” Nesta would drink, Johanna would squint into the bottle and check how much was left, drink, check, drink, check, until Johanna pulled the bottle away and declared they had reached “the line”, before glancing at her sleeping horse and guiltily taking a swig herself. 

 “Why?” Nesta gasped as she pulled it away, but Johanna misunderstood her question. “I’m not really sure why, but someone gets accustomed to drinking large amounts of alcohol in a day, and they suddenly completely stop drinking, bad things happen to their body. We call it the shakes, but it’s not just shaking…it’s sweats, and fever, and pain and…anyways, you’re not supposed to drop it to zero immediately. I gave you a little less than what you usually drink, because I’m trying to ration this out until we reach the next town.” 

“Oh.” said Nesta, the whiskey making everything pleasantly fuzzy, “Oh, but Feyre was going to cut me off. No more, not for me.” 

Johanna frowned. “Well, I suppose they wouldn’t be very advanced medically. Not much motivation for scientific discovery and technological innovation when you have magic to do everything for you.” 

“Oh, they know,” Nesta said, “Madja healed Cassian’s intestines when they were hanging outside of his body. They just wanted me to suffer.” The last thing she saw before she drifted back to sleep was the horrified look on Jo’s face.

Chapter 6: just a crush,

They had heard voices calling to them, but hadn’t responded. Johanna had found a crushed up piece of charcoal in her pocket and drawn a picture of her and Nesta. When the charcoal ran out, they had played rock paper scissors. When they got bored with that, they made funny faces at Feyre, trying to see which one would make her laugh. That stopped when Feyre began to wail upon seeing Johanna cross her eyes and stick her tongue. “Sorry,” Johanna whispered frantically, “Sorry, baby Feyre, I wasn’t trying to be scary.” They quieted themselves as the nannies came into the room to check on Feyre.  

“The lady’s having a conniption fit,” said one of the nannies, shaking a rattle in front of Feyre to see if it would quiet her. 

“They still haven’t found them?” Feyre continued fussing, and Nesta used the opportunity to lean over to Johanna and whisper, “That’s Mrs. Teague and Nadia. They watch Feyre and change her diapers.” Jo nodded, peeking out her head before darting back into cover. Mrs. Teague was almost as old as her Grandmamma and liked things to be done a certain way, but Nadia was more fun and sometimes gave Nesta sweets. 

“Do you think they ran away?” asked Nadia. She held Feyre and cooed at her, making encouraging sounds when Feyre shook her rattle at her. The sobs quieted and turned into sniffles. 

“You think the devil would take me if I said I wish?” Mrs. Teague said tiredly. “The Salvatorre girl is a whirlwind, far too rambunctious for a girl, and the twin is much too quiet for a boy. It’s just not right. And as for the children who live here-” she gave a long suffering sigh, “I raised Vera, who was a nightmare all on her own. The Mother help it, she’s actually trying to parent the oldest, which gave me quite a shock. Not much interest in the other two, which doesn’t surprise me. I’d give up on the other children too if Nesta was my eldest. It would take too much to handle her, what with her odd staring and those tantrums. ” Nesta and Johanna looked at each other. Johanna, who was fond of throwing tantrums, just shrugged. She didn’t seem bothered, but there was a bad feeling forming in the pit of Nesta’s stomach.

“Oh, she’s only-” started Nadia as she bounced Feyre on her hip, but the older woman cut her off. 

“ You saw her yesterday, sobbing because her carrots were touching her mashed potatoes, and the foods weren’t supposed to touch.” Nesta felt her stomach tightening like it did when she had done something wrong, but she wasn’t sure what. She focused on a knot in the wooden floor, tracing its edges with her eyes, willing herself not to cry. There were two other knots like it, but they weren’t the same size or shape, and that made her feel even worse. Johanna reached out and squeezed her hand. When Feyre provided some noise cover by wailing, Johanna leaned over and said, “She’s got to be an evil faerie too. Nobody who’s not evil could ever say such mean things about you. You’re my bestest friend, and I play with lots of other girls.” Nesta wiped her eyes as Feyre quieted and the conversation continued. 

“I don’t think she was throwing a tantrum for the sake of getting her way like other children do,” Nadia said gently, “She seemed genuinely distressed, poor thing. You know, some people are very particular like that. My uncle was odd too, he had to eat the very same breakfast every morning or he’d get horribly upset, but he did just fine despite it. He was a woodcutter. Always gave us the most exquisite carvings for Solstice and birthdays.”  

“Well, our job is not to raise Nesta into a woodcutter ,” Mrs. Teague scoffed, and Nadia tried to interject, “Of course not ma’am, I only meant-”

She was cut off. “You’re twenty three, what would you know about raising children?” Mrs. Teague said dismissively. “I’ve raised six of my own and eight of someone else’s, and they would have never behaved in such a way. I tell you, if you just give them the rod, they stop their foolishness.” Nesta knew one of Mrs. Teague’s sons, Androw who did the gardening. He was very dull and had big boils on his face, so Nesta figured Nadia probably did know better. Johanna looked at Nesta wide eyed at the mention of the rod and mouthed, “faerie.”

“Oh, I don’t think Nesta needs a rod ,” said Nadia. Nesta and Jo peaked out to see her shaking the rattle in front of Feyre, who grabbed for it. “She’s a sweet girl.”  

Mrs. Teague scoffed. “Elain is the sweet one. Nesta’s the odd one. Always staring at you, but when you talk, she doesn’t make eye contact, and she never smiles. Elain builds castles with her blocks like a normal child, but Nesta just sits there and sorts them into piles. What kind of child enjoys organizing over playing?” 

Nesta did like to sort things into piles. Sometimes it was by color, sometimes by shape, and sometimes she put them in order from largest to smallest. Elain’s castles always fell over anyways. Her piles stayed nice and neat…unless Elain or Feyre started grabbing her blocks. Sometimes Johanna got too excited about her towers and grabbed blocks from Nesta’s pile, but she always gave them back when Nesta asked. Not like Elain. But Mrs. Teague didn't care that Elain stole her blocks and didn't give them back, just snapped at Nesta for crying when it happened, saying she was selfish and needed to share with her little sister. She knew she was supposed to use her words to say what was wrong, but it was so hard when she was so upset. She didn't know how to tell Mrs. Teague that no matter how many of her blocks she gave Elain, she would just keep taking and taking them until Nesta had none left. 

“Just because she acts a little strange doesn’t mean she’s not sweet,” countered Nadia and continued fondly, “She’s so polite when I give her candies, like a little lady. Always says thank you.” 

“No more giving her sweets,” said Mrs. Teague with finality, “No girls get chubby on my watch, no sir! Think of her chances on the marriage mart! You think Mrs. Archeron wants her to be a big butterball like the Salvatorre girl?” Johanna was not made of butter, but her lip trembled anyway. She was very, very tall for her age. And maybe she was a little bigger than Nesta, but that made her better at fighting and climbing trees. Nesta turned to Johanna and mouthed “ faerie ” and she nodded, her eyes going from sad to resolute. 

“But, ma’am-” 

“Do you really think there’s not a dozen ditzy twenty year olds in this very manor who would be happy to do your job? Do your job and listen to what I tell them while they’re at it.” There was a pause, before Mrs. Teague leaned over and wrinkled her nose before handing Feyre off to Nadia. “Another shit. Go change her.” 

Nadia only picked up Feyre and said, “Yes, ma’am.” 

---

She woke up the next morning, covered in ash and blood and ash. She woke up sore and aching. She woke up desperate. She woke up mean. She looked down at her completely ruined dress. “Why am I covered in ash?” She demanded in a cold tone. Real ash, from a fire, not just the ashwood dust. She looked around the campsite, ringed by trees with a merry fire crackling away in the center. So they were in a new location, then. She tried her best to ignore the pops of the logs, and squinted at the sizzling pan next to the fire. Were those…eggs? 

Jo turned from stoking the fire and gestured at her horse. “Oh, yeah. Don’s coat is actually a very pale grey, but I coat him with whatever I can get my hands on to make him look darker so I’m not recognized as easily. It’s really a combination of berry juice, mud, and ashes. Sometimes it rubs off, but that’s why all the pants I packed were black.  Anyway, that’s what’s on your dress. And I know it’s nasty, but  wasn’t going to change you without your permission. But now that you’re up, I have some clothes you can wear.” 

Jo was busy rubbing mud into Don Chiflado’s coat. “I can’t let him out of my sight for one second,” Johanna said, “He might be one of the last horses in the Mortal Lands of Prythian. You have no idea how bad it gets, Nesta. People are so hungry and desperate, they’d kill him and eat him. You’ve never seen hunger like this, Nesta, I’m serious.”  

“I know about hunger,” Nesta said acidly. Johanna froze, as if remembering, and then slowly turned around. “Sorry. And I have to ask…is that cabin, the one I found you near...”

“The very one. So I can reflect on my mistakes and all my failings as a sister.” 

“I know…I heard about…I know you went hungry, but the effects of war and starvation…and I’m not trying to downplay your suffering at all..but these people, Nesta…” She shuddered, “If they had killed you and brought you back to the town, they probably would have,” her voice dropped, “ eaten you.” Nesta froze. She and her family had been desperate in those cabin years, so desperate she had thought of prostituting herself and worse, but they had never eaten another human being. The thought had never even crossed her mind.  

“I mean…fuck, Nesta,” she said again, “Whoever dropped you off there wanted you dead. Especially in that village. Everyone knows it’s full of anti Fae fanatics and desperate people.” Her eyes widened in horror, “They wanted to kill you without getting their hands dirty. That’s low, even for them.” 

“Huh.” said Nesta, trying not to be sick. She decided she wasn’t going to think about it now. 

“That’s why I’ve got to get you back to the manor, as soon as possible.We can figure something out from there.  You remember what fun we had, don’t you?” 

Yes, she did. Nesta remembered Mrs. Salvatorre had hosted them there one glorious summer. She had even taught them to swim, even though Nesta had always been told it was improper. Johanna had found her “creatures” (mollusks, clams, and some unfortunate crabs) and tried to make a zoo, but all the crabs kept escaping. Nesta and her would run after them, marveling at their little legs shuffling in tandem. Mother had sat on a chair with a frown on her face, upset they were all acting so unladylike but unable to say anything because the Salvatorres were such a prominent family. Papa had waved at them from the shore as they swam, and Johanna’s mother, (who her mother scornfully referred to as a Bohemian in private) had been running and playing with them too, hiking up her skirts so she could chase the children across the sand. Mrs. Salvatorre had told Nesta to call her Zoraida or Aida, and Mother nearly fainted. That was back when Jo’s mother had been well, but the memory burned bright all the same. She could have sworn the colors back then were brighter too, that the sky back then was a more vibrant shade of blue than it was now. 

Now the world around was cold and grey, and the hovel stood as a monument to the wretched creature the happy little girl on the beach had turned into. She remembered how the sun had left her a little burned and how the sand felt between her toes. She remembered being happy. Staying at Johanna’s summer home would be lovely. She didn’t deserve lovely. 

“No.” she spat, turning a cool glare towards her old friend. “I don’t need your charity. I got by just fine without it eight years ago. I can find somewhere to stay by myself.” 

“Oh, you’re strong enough to have it out now.” Jo raised her eyebrows, fully turning away from her horse.  “Fine. I sent you letters-”

“You should have tried harder. You could have come to see me.” It wasn’t fair of Nesta to be mad at Johanna. She had been a child herself, but seeing her made Nesta angry all over again. Or maybe she was already angry and needed an excuse. 

Nesta scoffed. “The new house wasn’t exactly a fortress. You could have visited any time to make amends for abandoning m -...abandoning us. Elain was constantly holding audiences and throwing parties.” 

 “I didn’t want Elain, I wanted y-...” her voice wavered, but she recovered, “..wanted to see you,” she amended. “And Elain insisted you did not want to be seen. Not by me.” The last three words were colored with hurt. 

“And here I thought it was because you were one of the few who was ashamed to show your face after how we were treated. That you knew better than to show up and act like nothing had happened.” Jo took half a step back, hurt welling in her eyes. Good. Now you can leave, just like everyone else has. 

Chapter 7: on johanna,

Summary:

Nesta and Jo have their first real conversation.
(Zoraida is pronounced Zor-eye-duh)

“That’s not how I would have acted. I explained, in my letters-”  

“I threw your letters away unopened. And your gifts.” And what glorious gifts they had been. Rare books written on fine vellum, a silver music box, Bharati silks and spices. All went to waste. She could have sworn the letters gave off the faintest scent of lemon verbena as they burned, like Jo was trying to torture her. That was back when the fire had been a source of joy, leaving her satisfied as she watched Jo’s letters curl up and become ash. 

“Of course you did.” There was a certain fondness in her voice that rankled Nesta. 

She snapped back. “Of course your family would offer help when it’s no longer needed!”

“Why should it have been my mother’s responsibility to bail out our fathers when they made terrible business decisions? We barely got out of the Bharat debacle by the skin of our teeth-”

“Oh no, poor little Johanna had to go live at her rich uncle’s house and then had to earn massive amounts of money all by herself, so sad.”

Johanna threw her hands up in exasperation, the crossbow now pointed at the sky. “I was halfway across the world, and I was busy, alright, I was working on getting my mom to leave my dad, I had to get him a house somewhere far away so he’d leave her alone, then I was at university, I needed at least three rings to be allowed to start participating in the family business and make my own investments, then I had to take my Caminata and you never answered my letters and I didn’t know why. I only got the full story once you and Elain showed up at the new Archeron estate, which wasn’t even the full story, because you and I both know there’s no Aunt Ripleigh !” So many words said so quickly in one breath. A Johanna staple. Nesta faintly remembered rings were something given when a university student had mastered a discipline. 

“Fuck off. You and your family are nothing more than loons and hypocrites. For people so passionate about equality and freedom, you sure love being rich, don’t you? Your father was just as stupid as mine but you got off scot free because of who you are, like you always have!” She hadn’t answered Johanna’s letters, but she had listened to idle gossip. Johanna’s near perfect life had gone on with barely a hitch. 

The Archerons and Salvatorres decided to go in together on the very last deal her father had ever made. Or rather, Johanna's father had used his wife’s money behind her back. He had declared Nesta’s father to be a great friend and a wise man, and that he'd be happy to lift the Archerons out of their debts and make some money of his own. While the Salvatorres weren’t utterly ruined the way they had been when Papa lost those ships on the way to Bharat, their wealth had taken a significant hit. There was no choice but to return to Marivena. But Mrs. Salvatorre had dozens of wealthy relatives in her homeland more than happy to receive her and her children and advise her on how to invest the remaining money she had left. The Archerons had none. Jo had been busy learning her third language and picking out which plots of land to buy while Nesta scraped by. And not once did she think to extend some of that wealth to Nesta, even though the money from one pair of her boots would have ensured her family could have eaten for a whole year. But if she was truly unaware… 

“You really didn’t know?” There was no way all the years she spent resenting Johanna for loving her and leaving her had been for nothing. I love you. I’ll come back for you. 

“No, Nesta. I was across an ocean. All I heard, months later, was that your family had sold their manor and no one knew where you had gone. I couldn’t find your village if I wanted to. I…I even asked about you, when I came to Prythian for my Caminata, but I didn’t make it much past the ports. No one knew where you were, anyways, so I gave up on going inland.” Nesta raised her eyebrows. She came to Prythian? When Johanna had returned to Prythian for the first time, she had unsubtly informed Nesta that Prythian was seen by the Continent and especially Marivenans as an “uneducated lawless backwater, stuck in the dark ages”, looked at Nesta, realized what she had said, and then apologized, as was her way. Prythian was not a destination on anyone’s Caminata , as far as Nesta knew. Something sparked in her and she knew she needed to push it down, quickly, and get Johanna away from her before she could no longer. 

 “Oh, I can tell you went on your great long worldwide trip. Picked somewhere sunny, did you? You look disgusting. Like wrinkled leather.” She didn’t want to think about what Jo had said. 

Johanna’s lips thinned. Nesta couldn’t tell if she was genuinely angry or trying to hide a smirk. Johanna touched the faint lines on her face. “Reminders of a life lived. And I suppose you’re going to look like that forever. That’s unfortunate.” The rusty wheel gave one last creak and began to spin smoothly at last. 

“For you, perhaps, now that you’re next to me. People will see the stark contrast between our looks.” 

Johanna scoffed. “I missed this, you know.” 

Nesta’s shoulders sagged in relief. “I missed you too.” It was fun to throw insults back and forth sometimes.

“I’m going to believe you didn’t mean all of that and are just lashing out because you’ve been exiled and will therefore make a choice not to be offended or take it to heart.” 

“I appreciate that.” Johanna had always understood her. Adored her blunt and uncompromising nature. The wind whistled through the grass, reminding Nesta of what she was, why she was here. She had to get Jo away from her, before the true wretched creature she was was revealed. She wanted Jo to think of her fondly. “Trying to get me to join the Salvatorre family won’t work anymore than it did a decade ago. I’m still not interested in James.” 

“You haven’t heard?” The wind ran through the trees, making a low, melancholy noise. No, no, no. 

“Ah yes, he’s married, I had forgotten. Congratulations to him and prayers for the woman who’s stuck with him.” Nesta tried to revive the witty banter, but there was no humor in Jo’s face. 

“Nesta, James came here with your father to fight in the war against Hybern.” No. “As did Jurian and my father.” Not Jurian. He’s the baby. He loved to put on shows for us, and Elain told me he’s a real performer now. He’s on the stage in Marivena, surely getting laurels. 

There was another silence. The wind sang in her ear, dead and gone, dead and gone. 

“But they came back?” Nesta choked out. “They came back, didn’t they?” 

“They’re dead, Nesta.” 

 

---

A decade past

Nesta could feel Johanna’s glare from across the room. If looks could kill, Duke Preston would be a dead man. She was grateful her childhood companion had returned from the Continent and that they had been able to continue right where they left off, but she didn’t need Jo to defend her right now. Tonight was about getting revenge for Elain. So she spun, and floated, and danced and coquettishly laughed at his poor jokes, and drew every eye in the room to her. Including Jo’s. Especially Jo's. 

Later, she went to find her, sulking in a secluded corner. Her arms were crossed over her black dress, emphasizing the muscles that were the result of horse riding, climbing, sword fighting, and whatever else she felt like doing, because her parents loved her and would let her. Nesta glanced at them. “Is it true the seamstress had to make the sleeves wider because of your arms?” 

“Nah. My arms aren’t that big.” Jo was not offended. Jo was never offended. They got on so well because they both often said offensive things, Jo because she didn’t think before she spoke, and Nesta because she never realized she’d said something wrong until there was a negative reaction. But just like dance, social interactions were made up of steps, ones that you could memorize until you could perform any conversation. It took effort, though, and made Nesta tired and frustrated. With Jo she could stare or not make eye contact or not smile as she pleased, and she was fine. And Jo, who was indulged in so many ways by her family, could count on Nesta’s bluntness to check her when she began talking over someone or rambling. She told Nesta that she adored her blunt nature, that everyone in school talked in metaphors and passive aggression. Sometimes Nesta would ask Jo what she should do or say in a social situation, but that happened less and less lately. Sometimes Jo would ask which men she found the most desirable, and parrot Nesta’s answers when she was asked who she fancied, which had been happening more and more lately. They didn’t question each other. They didn’t judge. 

“You were dancing with that man all night.” Jo accused, sulky. 

“Yes. Isn’t the Duke ,” Nesta said, emphasizing his title, “Friends with your uncle?” 

“Not anymore, now that Max has seen he likes little girls.” Men and women in Marivena got married late and had children late, because they were expected to finish their studies first. As a result, a teenager was considered only a little girl, for no one was considered to be an adult until they reached twenty. Especially the Salvatorres, who were required to complete La Caminata if they desired a position of prestige within the family and access to (alleged) ancestral secrets. A year's long journey across the world beginning on their nineteenth birthday and ending on their twentieth, with only a small amount of money and a promise only to use their family name in case of emergencies. Evidently so they could understand how the common man lived. Or whatever. Johanna had years of adolescence in front of her, while Nesta’s childhood was already becoming a fading memory.

“Clythia’s crucified tits, he’s walking over to your parents! He’s going to ask to marry you!” She whipped her head over to Nesta, “If your parents accept it, I’m smuggling you back to Marivena. This is ridiculous.” 

Jo thought marriage in general was ridiculous. She was at the ball because she wanted to be, not because she needed to find a husband. Johanna would never need to find a husband. Her parent’s estate would be split evenly between her and her siblings, and if she wanted to, she could procure a job as a ship captain or equestrian or whatever her latest fancy was. She could petition her family to let her hold the hereditary Salvatorre family seat in the queendom’s legislature, or run herself and win her own if she got enough people to vote for her. Her money and last name shielded her from every expectation and responsibility she could possibly have. Even the Salvatorre family ethos of defending humanity against the fae could be abandoned, for the Mother knew there were enough cadet branches and cousins to fill her place if she felt like gallivanting around the world instead. Anyone who married a Salvatorre, man or woman, took the last name Salvatorre. They were everywhere. She was pretty sure Johanna could traverse the known world and have an aunt or cousin or some other relation happy to receive her in every country she stepped foot in. 

“I don’t think Papa is actually going to say yes.” Nesta said, “I think you’re overreacting.” 

Jo huffed. “Why did you even need to dance with him, anyways?” 

“I told you, I had to get back at Rosalie Persimmon for how she made fun of Elain. Look at her in the corner, she’s sulking almost as much as you are.” Nesta hoped this would shift the topic of conversation to one of their favorites, talking shit about other people, especially the other husband hunters. It didn’t work. 

“I think you should let Elain fight her own battles,” Johanna said testily, “What’s next, you’re going to start spoon feeding her too?” 

“Why are you being like this?” When Jo had left for Marivena nearly seven years ago, Nesta and Elain had grown close in her absence. Elain, like Jo, seemed to understand Nesta and quickly became the only other person she never had to put a mask on for. She had thought it would make Jo happy to see it, but instead she had seemed resentful of their closeness. 

“I’m not being like anything,” she snapped, “I’m just saying, if you keep treating Elain like a baby, that’s all she’s ever going to be. You and your father are going to turn her into some lily-livered coward who can only say “Yes, sir” to whatever man she’s saddled with and pop out babies just as insipid as she is.” Nesta turned and pinched Jo as hard as she could. Jo didn’t react. “I don’t know what the fuck your problem is tonight.” 

Johanna stared at Nesta for a long moment, her eyes darting to her lips, her chest and then back to her face. She swallowed and said, “Yeah, you don’t know what my problem is. Nobody does.” She wondered what problems Jo could possibly have in her charmed life, and waited for her to elaborate, but she only sighed, “Why can’t you just marry James?” Johanna had proposed that Nesta marry her twin many times, saying they’d have great fun as sisters- in-law. James had not voiced his feelings on the matter, if indeed he had any. He was shy, painfully so, and only seemed to engage with his family or books. Jo was able to make plenty of new friends upon her return to Prythian and pick up old ones besides. James had not. His mother did not pressure him into attending the ball with Jo, saying he would be ready when he was ready.

The Salvatorres were old, prestigious, and wealthy, but had odd ideas about men and women. It had already caused enough strife between Jo’s parents, her father ashamed to have his wife’s name and money, and her mother staunchly refusing to act the way women in Prythian did no matter how he retaliated. He had let her act as she willed in Marivena, where it was accepted, but now that they had returned to his home he had assumed Mrs. Salvatorre would mould herself into what was needed to garner the respect of his peers as well. He hated that his daughter acted like a man and his son a woman. He had insisted that James come to the ball with Jo and interact with the young ladies whether he liked it or not, but Jo had hollered at him and that was that. Jo, even at fifteen, was nearly as tall as her father and probably just as strong. So that was that. 

“I can’t ‘just marry James’, I have to think of what match would be the most advantageous for my family,” Nesta ground out. “We’ve been over this.”

They sat in silence for a moment, watching the ballroom. She didn't have the heart to tell her, but marrying into this particular branch of the Salvatorres wouldn’t necessarily help Elain and Feyre's marriage prospects. Their "oddities" as Mother referred to it, had been tolerated in the days when Jo's mother would go whistling into the woods and return with the corpse of a martax or thrusher that had been terrorizing some village, but she had been less and less herself recently. Her younger brother Maxim had even traveled to Prythian to check up on her, and served as Jo's escort to the ball, since her mother couldn't and she refused to have her father do it. 

Nesta could see him now, thronged by women, laughing and dazzling them while occasionally casting a critical eye at her and Jo. She understood why the women crowded him so. He made it quite obvious where Jo and James had gotten their height from, towering over everyone. He smiled at something and his white teeth flashed against his tan skin, the same shade he shared with Jo's mother. He was lean, but still muscled. A body built for speed instead of brute strength. Nesta had heard her peers giggling about his butt, his eyes, and his hair, but making fun of his nose. Nesta liked it, even though it was aquiline and crooked and not at all near the unobtrusive button nose that was preferred across Prythian. Nesta thought it made him look like an eagle, or some regal bird of prey. He was deft in his social interactions, more so than Nesta and Jo, but he couldn't hide the widening of his eyes and discomfort plain on his face when a girl Nesta's age approached him. With older women, even mothers and grandmothers, he sent them into gales of giggles and blushing and whispering, but with the girls who were considered the most eligible brides he was polite but brusque, quickly extracting himself as soon as it was socially acceptable, and sometimes before. He made eye contact with Nesta and Jo and waved. Nesta waved back, feeling a blush creep up. This did not escape Jo's notice, and she huffed, "Bad enough that you're always thinking about your family, no need to add mine to the mix." 

"I don't understand why you don't understand. You just got into a knock down drag out fight with your father over James, and your uncle crossed an ocean just to check on his sister. Why don't you understand I also need to do things for my family?"

“Why? Because my family would do the same for me, but yours never would! Your father doesn’t even like you, he only pays attention to Elain and Feyre, Elain stays with you because it’s advantageous, and your mother didn’t even want children!” 

Nesta felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over her. Johanna clapped her hand over her mouth, but it was too late. “What did you say about my mother?” Nesta said slowly, carefully. “I just…” stuttered Johanna, “I heard my mom and uncle talking about it. Your mother didn’t want to have children, but your father did and kept asking and begging until he wore her down, so she had you and your sisters for him. They said it was cruel for him to demand children and then ignore his eldest because she didn’t turn out the way he liked. They feel sorry for you.” 

Tears pricked at Nesta’s eyes. Your father doesn’t even like you. Your mother didn’t even want children. Demand children and then ignore his eldest. They feel sorry for you. Johanna tried, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”  

Nesta didn’t care what Jo did or didn’t mean, and reached for the worst thing she could think of. “Why would I listen to anything your mother has to say? She’s a loon,” Nesta sneered, “A drunken, crazed, madwoman.” Isolated from her family and struggling with the power men wielded over women in Prythian, Mrs. Salvatorre had turned to the bottle. Rumors about her increasingly odd behavior had run wild, and even Nesta had enough social grace to know not to ask Jo if her mother really swam naked in the ocean or tried to set her bedroom on fire. “I don’t want to marry James. What if our children turn out to be crazy too? Who would ever want to be part of your insane family?” 

The blow landed hard on Johanna, she could see it. She clenched her hands into fists the way she did when she was trying not to cry. And she wanted to keep going, make Johanna feel as bad as she did. “At least Elain won’t end up like your mother. Wild, breaking rules, not even getting out of bed for her own baby. ” 

That had been a deep confession whispered in the dark, that Mrs. Salvatorre had been practically a ghost nearly a year after little Jurian was born in Marivena, staying in her bed, weeping at odd hours, and leaving the care of her infant entirely to her husband and staff. That had been another rift. Mr. Salvatorre hated having to be the one who looked after a baby, feeling that it was a woman’s job. 

And the blow landed again, even worse than the first one. And Nesta still didn’t feel any better than she had before. Tears welled in her eyes, and she choked out, “That’s cruel of you to say, because… because—” A breath, a glance away. “Because James is in love with you!” The words came out in a rush. “And—and he wants to take you to Marivena! Show you the libraries, get you a tutor, take you to school with him—if you want to go. He told me to tell you.”

“Then James is an idiot,” Nesta sneered, “He goes to an all boy’s school, and he’s hardly spoken to me since you got back almost two years ago.” She stared at Johanna, waiting for her to crack and say what she suspected she really meant, and finally said, “If someone was truly in love with me, they’d have the courage to tell me to my face.”  

Johanna’s lip trembled. She took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling. She seemed to be on the verge of saying something until she met Nesta’s eyes, and then she turned and ran from the ballroom as fast as she could. That was another thing she and Nesta had in common. They couldn’t bear to let anyone see them cry.

Notes:

So Bohemia obviously doesn’t exist but I needed a term. I have questions for my readers!
1. Are you compelled by the Salvatorre family? Which family member aside from Johanna interests you the most?
2. What do you think was the final straw for Nesta and Johanna’s relationship as teens?
3. What do you think happened to Jo’s mother? Is she alive?

Chapter 8: johanna,

Summary:

Nesta and Johanna have a heart-to-heart.

She felt a pang of regret as she thought of Jo’s letters burning into ash. Her stomach churned with the thought, the acid rising sharp and fast. She had missed her chance to see the boys all grown up, and now she never would. Jurian had been eight the last time she saw him, and he would be forever stuck like that in her memory—frozen in time, like a bug trapped in amber.

“I’m sorry.” The words were simple but heavy falling from Nesta’s mouth. Her throat felt raw, her voice hoarse. Her teeth chattered slightly, though it wasn’t cold.

Johanna didn’t react, instead fiddling with her crossbow before replying, “I’m sorry about your father.”

I love you, Nesta. Three words spoken to her by two different people in such wildly different contexts she had to laugh, a dry, broken sound that scraped her throat. One was standing in front of her; the other was nothing more than rotting bones back in the Night Court.

“Yeah,” Nesta choked out, breath hitching, “I’m sorry too.”

There was a silence, filled only by the wind as it tossed Jo’s hair about. Nesta’s vision blurred slightly. Her skin felt too tight, her limbs sluggish, like she was dragging her body through a thick fog. Jo looked like one of her doomed heroines from the novels she had loved as a teenager.

“Jur…Jurian, but he would have been only…”

“Seventeen,” Jo ground out. “And no, before you ask, we didn’t send him. He snuck away from school. He thought it would be a great adventure and that he’d come home a hero.”

That was how old Nesta had been when Feyre first went out into the woods. Selfish, feckless, and miserable. And now Jurian would be forever eight in her memory, because he had been better than her. How could she take a place beside Johanna where he had once been?

“Well…I’m going to go. I’m going to find my own way.” Her legs trembled as she turned, knees locking to keep herself upright. Her body screamed in protest with every step.

“Are you actually insane?” Jo called after her. “Nesta, they are going to kill you!”

“I’m serious!” she continued. “They’ll send someone else, and it won’t be a quick death by crossbow either—it’ll be some hulking farmer who’s going to chop your head off with a dull axe.”

“I have protection.” Her mouth was dry. She could feel her pulse in her ears, pounding, sickening.

“Said the gentleman trying to seduce the maiden. An unseen guardian? You expect me to believe that?”

“They’re just trying to scare me so they can train me into the perfect little warrior. They wouldn’t let anything actually happen to me.” Her hand trembled as she waved it dismissively.

An arrow whistled by her, close enough to stir the hair by her face, close enough to leave a burning, stinging line along the tip of her pointed ear. It embedded in a tree with a thwack .

Nesta screamed, instinct taking over. Her knees buckled, her vision swimming as she clutched her ear. “What the fuck, Jo?!”

Jo shrugged, expression maddeningly innocent. “What? I thought you had protection.”

The brief vulnerability was gone, locked back up behind Jo’s steady mask of bravado.

“You—I—” Nesta spluttered, dizzy now. She pressed a shaky hand to her bleeding ear. Her fingers were trembling too much to apply any pressure.

“Ash, Nesta,” Jo said, tapping her crossbow. “Interferes with the magic. And I guarantee someone else either has it or will get their hands on you very soon.”

“What’s it matter to you?” she muttered.

Jo made an exasperated noise. “Nesta, if you’re going to kill yourself, at least come back with me to Seaside and jump off a cliff or something. The ocean is a much more romantic way to go.”

“I don’t want to go romantically.”

“Maybe.” Jo’s voice shifted, strained as she tried to play it light. “I have booze. Lots of it. Expensive. Imported. I can’t drink it all by myself.”

“I’m not your mother, and I won’t be her stand-in while you relive your greatest moments and look for the glory you felt as some kind of savior. I will not be another one of your projects.”

Nesta didn’t need to turn to know that landed. She could feel the silence shift.

“Fuck off, Nesta.”

She shrugged again, the movement making her shoulder ache. “That’s what I’m trying to do. You don’t care about me. You care about a version of me that’s been gone for a decade. She died in the Cauldron, Johanna. You don’t want me anymore.”

“That’s not for you to decide,” Jo said hotly. “Besides, I have the whiskey. You won’t get very far without it.”

Nesta’s strength gave out. Her legs folded beneath her, and she sank to the ground, sliding down against the rough bark. Her muscles spasmed and cramped. Her hands were numb. “Why are you trying?”

Johanna sighed. “Nobody at home understands me. I held myself together well while my mother and James’s wife broke down. I made sure they ate, they slept, and took their tonics. I looked after my niece and nephew and explained why their Papa wasn’t coming home. Lana, their mother, was so paralyzed by grief… so I did it. I made the funeral arrangements. I even picked out the black mourning dresses for James’s daughter,” her voice cracked, “I…I had to make the arrangements to get their bodies. To bring them home. And I made the choice to leave my father here. Marivena was never home to him.”

Jo paused. Nesta didn’t answer. She was too busy trying to keep her head from spinning. Her mouth tasted like iron and bile.

“And the rest of my family could have helped, but I needed something to do. But then things to do slowly started to run out. Mama said she loved me and appreciated me but didn’t need me to look after her anymore, and Lana said she had her own family to watch the children and care for her. So I…I came here to find something to do. When I’m not doing anything, I feel… everything. All of it.”

Nesta gave up trying to stop the bleeding. She was too tired. She leaned her head back and let her eyes fall shut.

Jo slid down next to her, and Nesta didn’t move. She could smell her—lemon verbena and salt—and the nearness made her throat tighten.

“Head wounds bleed a lot,” Jo said. She didn’t offer to bandage it, which Nesta appreciated.

Nesta’s eyes squeezed shut tighter, but it was no use. A tear slipped out anyway. “I’m in a bad way, Johanna.”

“I know. I am too.”

“A really bad way.”

“I know.”

“My sister kicked me out, Jo. And maybe tried to kill me.”

“Sounds like she’s jealous of you for having a good time.”

“It wasn’t a good time,” Nesta gasped, her voice cracking with every syllable. “I can’t sleep, I can’t bathe, I can’t eat—”

“That’s alright.”

“It’s not alright! This is miserable, I’m leading a worthless, pathetic, meaningless existence, and that’s all I deserve!” She swallowed, gagged, and barely kept her stomach down. “I am nothing but a waste of potential.”

“A waste of potential?” Jo’s voice was sharp now. “Nesta, you’ve had one bad year out of the thousands you have left. You will always be young and able to bounce back. You know who’s wasted potential? The dead seventeen-year-old I had to take back home.”

“I brought my father back to the Night Court,” Nesta said weakly. “His bones.”

“It’s not the same,” Jo snapped, her voice shaking. “My father died too. And even James… when they’re that young, it’s not the same. It’s not. Seventeen is a baby.”

She collected herself enough to add, “And we both feel really shitty right now. It’s not anyone’s fault. But I only packed enough food for myself, Don’s only one horse, and we’re tramping through the woods half the time to avoid detection. You haven’t had your usual amount of alcohol and that makes you feel even worse. It’s a shitty situation, alright? But you’re not going to feel this bad all the time.”

“You have no idea what I do or don’t feel,” Nesta hissed, “No idea. And no right to give me a little pep talk like everything’s going to get all better, because it’s not. Do you even know why I drink so much? Because I can’t stand being inside my own fucking head! I hate every waking moment that I’m not drunk or fucking someone because being inside my mind is hell! And you’re… dragging this out, making me suffer even more, because you want to feel good about yourself!”

She gestured weakly at Don. “You put a horse down when it breaks its leg. Because it’s the humane option, right? But you’re making me fucking walk on it,” she panted, every breath raw. “Dragging me after you, making everything worse. It’s done, Jo! It’s over! There’s no coming back from this! Let me go!”

Nesta felt frozen. Cold as she had been in the Cauldron. She was so, so tired. Being on the run with Jo had briefly sparked something in her, but it had guttered, leaving her cold and empty. There was nothing to look forward to. Nothing but the option of ending the pain. 

“Look, Nesta,” Jo finally said, her voice carefully controlled, “You’re an adult. I’m not going to try and control you and say it’s for your own good. I’m my mother’s daughter, not my father’s, you see? But we’re a fucked up situation right now. I’ve been spreading ashtree dust behind us to throw any other Fae off our trail, but if you were right about it not being a true exile, they’ll come looking for you. I can leave you here and let them find you, if that’s what you want. Or you can run off and kill yourself.” Nesta could feel Jo looking at her, but refused to make eye contact.  

“Or I can help you up, and we figure out a way to hide you from them. We can run with the story of you being dead. I’m sure it’s spreading already. I can be your ally. I won’t…I could never let a man lock you away, under the guise of helping you.”  

“I’m not your mother ,” Nesta spat, but Jo continued like she hadn’t said a thing.  

“And I’m not asking you just because I want you to help me. I need you, Nesta. You understand me. So either get up or walk away. But you’ve got to make a choice.”

Nesta huffed and pushed herself off the tree. “Choice made,” she said, “Bye, Jo.” 

She yelped as she felt Jo’s hand around her arm, stopping her progress. “Wait! Tell me why, damn you! What is it? You think it’s too hard? You’re scared? You’re tired?” her voice dropped into something more vulnerable, “It’s me? You don’t want to be in a house with me?” 

“What?” Nesta spun around, “No, it’s not you!” You’re too good for me.  

“Are you sure?” Her jaw clenched, and Nesta could tell she was putting on a brave face. “I’m not…I just want to be your friend. That’s all. I’m not…going to try and sway your, er, preferences. Or whatever else you’re worried about.” 

And there it was. A real vulnerability, a tear she could sink her claws into and tear at until Jo left her alone. “It is you,” she snarled, “I’m not interested in being the object of your strange teenage fantasies. The next declaration of love will go about as well as the last one, I’ll tell you that much.” The words were only said to hurt, but as soon as they came out of her mouth, she realized there was real fear behind them. It was obvious that Cassian had volunteered as her main jailer to keep on pursuing her, even after she’s thrown his gift into the Sidra. What if Johanna had similar designs? 

Jo narrowed her eyes, then said, “You fucking liar.” 

Nesta angled her chin up, every inch the haughty high society daughter. “I don’t have to lie about being disgusted by you. ” 

Johanna rolled her eyes. “I’m not asking you because I’ve been hung up on you all these years. I came to Prythian to check on you out of a sense of…loyalty, not in the hopes you’d fall into my arms. I’m not a fool. And I’ve moved on. In fact, in the village near the Seaside Manor, there’s a blacksmith’s wife I’ll be visiting on the regular. Just in case you ever worry about me being gone for a night. Or two.” Nesta paused, jaw working, trying to come up with a retort, before spitting, “Fine. ”

“Then what is it?” Johanna’s voice was trembling, “Why won’t you come with me?” It was the unshed tears shining in her eyes that made Nesta burst out, “Because I don’t deserve to!”  

The pure confusion on her face was almost worse than the hurt. “What are you talking about?”  

“You don’t know me-know what I was like, after the War, before it, during those years in the cabin with Feyre and Elain and Father-” 

“A total bitch? I kind of gathered. I don’t much care.” Jo tried for humor again. 

“I hate myself!” Nesta snapped, “And there you go, with those big brown puppy eyes and you’re going to whine “But, why, Nesta, you’re oh-so-wonderful” but you don’t understand because you haven’t spent enough time with me. If I go with you to your house you’ll get it, and you’ll hate me too, and you’ll kick me out too! I’m just saving you the time!” She panted, staring up at Johanna. 

“What Feyre did to you was really fucked up, Nesta. Even if something went horribly wrong, I wouldn’t exile you from the fucking country and send you off somewhere where I know you’re going to die . I do hope you know that.” 

“You should .” Johanna’s hand was still around Nesta’s arm. She focused on that, the light brown hand contrasting against the dull fabric of her shirt, so she wouldn’t have to look at Johanna’s eyes. 

She heard a sigh. “Are you or have you ever been a slave owner?” 

Nesta snapped her head up. “What?!”  

“Are you or have you ever been a slave owner or actively helped a faerie enslave human beings?” 

“What the fuck , no!”

Johanna shrugged. “You know my family’s history with the Church of Liberation. Thou shalt not suffer a slaver to live among you. Thou shalt not enslave your fellow man,” she recited, “Those are the only unforgivable ones. Everything else we can work through.” She tried for a smile. “Just wait until we’re off the road. I know this sucks. I know we’re having to ration the whiskey and the food and the water. We’re only a couple days from Max’s safehouse. He’s…good, Nesta. He knows about these things. He can help us.” 

He can help us. Not just you, us.

 There was another moment of silence. She wasn’t going to commit to anything, she told herself, but sank down to her sitting position all the same.. She’d just have a little moment of happiness before she left for good, she told herself. Just a breather before she took off again. She would just rest for a moment, and then she would leave. 

Nesta still hadn’t left after a few minutes of sitting. Her legs were tired, and sitting felt good. She didn’t want to stand.

“I can’t believe James got married.” She wasn’t ready to confront anything else. James had barely looked at a girl, or anyone, the entire time Nesta knew him. 

Johanna rolled her eyes. “I was just as surprised as you are. And he actually talks to her, a lot. You know what they bonded over?” She laughed, “ Dissections . They met cutting up a frog to learn about anatomy in the Collegium Salvatorre. And now she collects various marine life that live in shells and labels them, and he writes- wrote about bats.” 

“I can’t believe he found someone as weird as him.” Nesta cracked a smile. She’d once found him in the library, enraptured by a tome entitled The History of the Potato .

“I know . And she’s so…great. So fucking great. She tried to get me to stop focussing on work and draw me back into the fold, and all it did was make me look like a total bitch for refusing. I look awful next to her.” Johanna sighed and leaned her head back against the tree.  

Nesta groaned. “I know the feeling. Some people are just perpetually the favorite.” 

There was another pause as Jo held herself back from saying Elain like Nesta knew she wanted to. That had been one of the few things they had argued over. Elain will grow up without a backbone, Elain doesn’t do half as much for you, Elain needs to fight her own battles. Whatever. Instead she said, “Come with me?” 

“No.” Nesta would not give up her convictions so easily. 

“Nesta…please.” Her voice wavered. “Our birthday is coming up. I can’t spend it by myself again, I can’t . You can throw yourself off a cliff afterwards or do whatever you want.” Johanna and James had been born moments apart as the leaves turned to snow, and Nesta had spent many a happy hour in her childhood playing at their joint party. 

Nesta sighed. So Johanna indeed did not intend to fix her, and did indeed need help herself. But still, “I’m the last person you want around when you’re grieving. I’ll just make everything worse.” 

“That’s for me to decide.” She repeated stubbornly. 

“You don’t know me anymore, Johanna!” she reasserted hotly, “I’m not the same person I was when we were kids! I’m not even human ,” her voice broke at the last word, “I’m not even human anymore.” 

“I don’t care.” Johanna declared fiercely, “I’m different too. I’ve seen…I’ve seen a lot of bad things since I came here. Sometimes…sometimes I don’t feel human either. Or couldn’t believe a human could do the things the people in Prythian were doing.” 

The words settled between them, heavy and weightless all at once. Johanna tried again, “I bet you still ask genuine questions, but do it in a flat tone, so everyone thinks it’s actually an insult.” That had been plaguing her as soon as she entered the Night Court. She had been too tired and disoriented to remember to mimic the right inflection, and Mor had snapped at her for asking what she knew of battle, everyone looked shocked when she questioned Amren about her eyes…she huffed. “I bet you still misplace everything and talk over people when you get excited.”  

Jo only said, “I misplaced a very expensive family heirloom necklace my great aunt gave to me upon getting my ring for mastery of rhetoric. She keeps asking me why I’m not wearing it when she sees me, and I tell her it’s because I’m keeping it somewhere safe, but the truth is I’ve got not a clue where it is, and that I have a jeweler working on a replica. Don’t ask me where I had it last because I don’t remember that, either.”

Nesta snickered. Jo turned to her and said, “Don’t laugh, Nesta, this is very serious. If she finds out I think she’s going to write me out the will.” Nesta couldn’t hold it in anymore, and burst out laughing. Jo laughed too, and Nesta laughed until she cried, wiping tears from her eyes. Johanna gently asked, “Why are you trying to leave, Nesta?” 

Nesta let out a bitter laugh, and gestured at herself- her thin, stained dress, her sickly and pale body. “Look at me,” she scoffed, “Look at the state of me. And it’s only downhill from here, Jo. I’ve isolated myself from everyone who’s ever cared about me. I’ve been ungrateful, and cruel, and burned every bridge there is. Is it so bad that I don’t want you to see me as I am now? That I want one person who will think of me fondly when I’m gone?” 

“I’ll always think of you fondly.” 

Nesta scoffed. “Then you’re a fool.” 

Jo slipped her hand into hers, and only said, “Come with me, Nesta. Look after me on my birthday, and if  you’re not doing well, I can look after you.” 

Nesta scoffed. “It’s rotten work.” 

“Not to me. Not if it’s you.” 

Chapter 9: only want you cause

Summary:

I do worldbuilding and we get flashbacks, yaaaay

ON THE MATTER OF IRON

(Excerpts from the Salvatorre Family Histories, as recorded by the Barba Salvatorre, in the immediate aftermath of the War of Liberation)

MARGARET was born in the Autumn Court and was made to toil under THE HIGH LORD BERON , forced into servitude as a laundress until the trumpet of liberation sounded and broke her chains. She is the widow of JOEL , a blacksmith, also born in the Autumn Court, who labored beneath Beron’s yoke until he was slain for daring to flee. MARGARET testifies that JOEL wrought horseshoes of iron and that he saw a High Fae take such a thing in hand, turning it over without pain, without harm.

JULIANA was born in the Summer Court, taken as chattel to serve THE HIGH LORD HADRIAN in the wickedness of his bed from her seventeenth nameday until her deliverance in the Great War of Liberation at twenty-three. JULIANA swears she heard the whispers of rebellion, the fervent hopes of the enslaved, and bore witness to Hadrian’s laughter. He did laugh, she says, long and cruel, his voice thick with wine, and spoke thus: ‘Fools and children, let them try—iron shall break before it breaks me.’

GABRIEL was born in the Winter Court and was bound into servitude by THE HIGH LORD ELIAS , set to the bloody work of a huntsman, forced to track his own kin through ice and storm. GABRIEL confesses that those he caught were shackled in chains of iron, dragged back to torment. And yet Gabriel himself bore an iron ring at his throat, a yoke of his master's making, one that seared his skin raw—while the High Fae who fastened it about his neck did not so much as flinch. 

NAOMI was born in the Spring Court, where her hands bled in the fields of THE HIGH LORD GIDEON , sowing his grain, reaping his harvest, breaking her back beneath his sun. NAOMI declares that in the days before the Great War, whispers of rebellion reached her ears. A man, desperate, sharpened a blade of iron and sought to drive it into his master’s heart. She watched as the High Fae caught the dagger mid-thrust, wrenched it from the man’s grasp, and laughed. ‘Did you think I would burn? Did you think I would fall?’ The man was hanged at dawn.

BENEDICT was born in the Day Court and was bound to THE HIGH LORD APOLLON as a scholar-scribe, made to etch the names of men and women sold, the births of new slaves, the deaths of the broken. BENEDICT testifies that he, in his defiance, did not record the birth of a human boy, knowing he would be taken from his mother . His master caught him. He was chained in iron for seven days, left to the lash. And yet his master did take the iron key in his own hand and turn the lock without so much as a wince.

ISIDORE was born in the Dawn Court, where he was forced to mend the roads, haul stones, and kneel at the feet of THE HIGH LORD SILAS , who called himself wise and just while his chains bit into human flesh. ISIDORE swears that he was made to fashion nails and shackles, all of iron, all bound for human wrists. And yet the High Fae of the court built their grand halls with nails of iron and never suffered for it.

LET IT BE KNOWN

Iron is no salvation. 

These Faerie allies of ours speak in honeyed tongues, whispering of their fear of iron. And yet, we have seen otherwise.

ASHWOOD —blessed, sacred, true—was the weapon of our deliverance. ASHWOOD —carved by human hands, wielded in righteous fury—was the key to breaking our chains. We will not be deceived! Hold fast! Remember:

THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER A SLAVER TO LIVE AMONG YOU.

THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER THE ENSLAVEMENT OF YOUR FELLOW MAN BY FAE.

THOU SHALT NOT BOW BEFORE FAE TYRANNY.

Let the faithful stand firm. Let the wavering remember. Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!

 

They even hid when they heard Mrs. Salvatorre’s musical voice, “Cariñaaaa…”

 

Johanna shook her head. They had been hiding for so long, it seemed almost unthinkable to reveal themselves now. The sound of two pairs of footsteps reached their ears, one of boots with spurs clanking on them, the other soft and ladylike. Nesta and Jo huddled behind the chair as they walked into the nursery. 

 

“The nannies were already here.” Nesta recognized her mother’s cross voice. “I bet they’re somewhere outside.” 

 

“Maybe,” said Jo’s mother, sounding much more relaxed, “What are you looking at, Feyre?”

 

Nesta and Jo looked at each other. Feyre was indeed staring at them, just as she had been nearly the whole time. 

 

“Johaaaana….levántate….or else you’re in biiiiig trouble….” 

 

Huffing, Jo shot to her feet, putting her hands on her hips. “Ma ma !” said Johanna, “Su abuela es una hada malvada! Necesitamos-”

 

“No, baby, it’s not. It’s her real grandmother. Can you and Nesta come out from back there? And hand me the stick, please.” Johanna frowned, and she mirrored her daughter’s pout, saying very clearly, “ Johanna . Levántate. Damelo. Ahora .”

 

Johanna quickly decided to trust her mother’s expertise and crept out, sullenly handing her the stick. Nesta followed behind her, keeping her eyes downcast, afraid of the reprobation on her mother’s face. 

 

“She was hitting Nesta with the stick, Mama!” Johanna protested, evidently not ready to let go of her convictions. 

 

“Sé, cariña. Lo sé.” Nesta had always been fascinated by the language the Salvatorres spoke to each other. When she brought it up to her mother, she scoffed, saying that one language would be just fine for Nesta to find a husband with. Besides, the common tongue was well…common. The Salvatorres hailed from a southern region of Marivena called Ibera, and spoke Iberian even though everyone else had adopted the common tongue.  

 

Johanna wasn’t satisfied with her answer, and demanded, “We have to go find Nesta’s nice grandma and rescue her!” 

 

Mrs. Salvatorre sighed and Nesta stared at her wide eyed. She was wearing pants , and a billowing white shirt, and what she recognized as leather riding boots with the funny clanking spurs on the end. Matching brown gloves peeked out of a pocket. Nesta knew that meant she had ridden here on a horse instead of in a carriage like a proper lady, and worse, she had probably ridden astride it instead of sidesaddle. Her black hair was pulled into a bun, but many wavy strands had escaped from it, and she didn’t even seem to care. 

 

“I promise it was her real grandmother, darling. You know I’m the expert, don’t you?” Nesta examined the smattering of freckles adorning the brown skin on her face, neck, and hands. Mother said proper ladies did not go out under the sun and ruin their delicate pale skin. Even still, Nesta liked to stare at them, and wonder about what shapes they would make if someone connected them all with lines. Mother said staring was rude, but Mrs. Salvatorre never minded. 

 

“But mama, ella estaba golpeando, she was hitting!” said Jo, not able or willing to recognize that Nesta’s grandmother was, in fact, the real one. “Only bad faeries do that!” 

 

Mrs. Salvatorre only said, “Not all families are the same, mija.” Nesta still didn’t look at her mother, who she knew was waiting to reprimand her when Mrs. Salvatorre left the room. 

 

“How come she can hit Nesta but I can’t hit James when he makes me mad?” Johanna’s hands were on her hips.  

 

“Because not all families are the same.” Mrs. Salvatorre didn’t even sound mad at Johanna for talking back. “Now we’re going to go apologize to Nesta’s grandmother.” 

 

“No!” Johanna stamped her foot, “You said we need to stand up for people when someone is doing bad things to them!” 

 

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Mrs. Salvatorre seemed to be actually taking Johanna’s words into consideration. 

 

Nesta’s mother interjected for the first time. “Johanna, my mother is an old woman. You can’t hit her. You could have hurt her very badly. You’re very lucky that she’s okay.” 

 

“Well, Nesta’s a little girl, and you can’t hit her! Why is she serving dishes she can’t take?” Johanna was fierce, and Mrs. Salvatorre gently corrected, “The phrase is don’t dish it out if you can’t take it, darling.” 

 

Nesta’s mother whipped her head to Johanna’s mom. “Zoraida, you may allow your children to address you in whatever manner they please, but in this house, we respect our elders. You cannot let her talk to me like that.” Nesta liked the name, rolling it around in her head. Zor-EYE-duh…

 

“Personally, I think she raises some very good points. You can’t tell her to shut her mouth just because you can’t refute them.” Mrs. Salvatorre crossed her arms, towering over Nesta's mother just like Jo towered over Nesta, but acquiesced, “Johanna, you did give me and Mrs. Archeron a terrible fright. I understand that you were trying to help, but we thought you had run away and gotten lost, and something very bad had happened to you. We were worried you fell in the ocean and drowned. Nesta’s father went on a boat to look for you.”  

 

Johanna’s lip wobbled. “But, the faeries.” 

 

Her voice grew firm. “I know you were trying to help. But when I call out for you, I expect you to answer. Do you understand?” 

 

Johanna scuffed her feet on the carpet, muttering “Sí, Mama.” 

 

“I couldn’t hear you. And what are you saying yes to?” 

 

Johanna raised her head and looked at her mother, “Yes, Mama, I’ll answer you when you call me.” 

 

“Thank you. Now you owe me, Mrs. Archeron, and Mr. Archeron an apology for giving everyone such a fright. In fact, you need to apologize to everyone who spent so much time looking for you.” 

 

Johanna said sulkily, “Lo siento, Mama.” 

 

“For what?” 

 

“For hiding and scaring you and not answering when you called.” 

 

“I forgive you, baby. Who else do you have to apologize to?” Johanna turned and said, “I’m sorry Mrs. Archeron, for hiding and scaring you and making you look for me. And…I’m sorry because it was my idea and I was making Nesta do it. And she wanted to come back when you were looking for her but I told her the faerie would get us. So she really didn’t even do anything. And I’m sorry for calling your mother a bad faerie.” Nesta was startled. It was Johanna’s idea, but she had happily hid with her without needing encouragement. Why was she lying? 

 

“Thank you,” said Nesta’s mother stiffly, “I’m sure my mother will appreciate your apology as well.” 

 

“Nuh-uh. I’m supposed to be defending people who need help, and hitting is wrong, so I was only doing my job. And I wasn’t even lying about her being a bad faerie, I thought she was, so really I was doing my job, because one time Mama punched a man who was hitting a woman, so I really didn’t even do anything wrong, and ,” Johanna paused to inhale, “It was only a little whacking with the stick, I didn’t even break her nose like Mama broke that man’s, so really I was being nice .” 

 

Mrs. Archeron looked flabbergasted, but Mrs. Salvatorre said gently, “Protecting people is my job. It’s going to be your job when you're an adult like me, but right now your job is to listen to your father and I and follow the rules. Because if you don’t, you won’t learn the right way of doing things, and James will be the only one acting as a protector.” The mention of her twin being allowed to something she wasn’t incensed her, and Johanna burst out, “But you said we can’t stand by and let people do bad things! That’s what you said! You said, you said, it’s degrading the soul to act like you’re blind to evil being done!” 

 

Mrs. Salvatorre ran a hand down her face. “I did tell you that, didn’t I? I am impressed you remembered it so well. Those are some big words. But…” Mrs. Salvatorre cut her eyes to Nesta’s mother and back to Johanna before saying quietly, “No, I don’t think she will apologize to your mother, Vera.”

 

Chapter 10: cause I can't have you...

Summary:

Our duo deals with breakfasts disguises, and emotional breakdowns. Jo plays detective and gets a little more butch.

Notes:

I am literally using this as a chance to practice my Spanish. Please don't judge. Also dropping tons of worldbuilding.

Nesta had been allowed a drink of water and a lie down, with strict instructions from Johanna to yell if she started feeling “The Shakes.” Jo made quick work of most of the camp, packing up whatever currently wasn’t being used, but leaving something simmering over the fire. Neither had had a chance to eat before they had it out, and the smell of eggs sizzling was mouthwatering.

Jo called over her shoulder, “If you don’t want pants, I bartered for a skirt. We’ll have to figure out about your disguise, too. You can be another man traveling with me, or my wife or sister or something.”  

Nesta looked down at her dress, bloodstained and ashy as it was. “Right,” she said slowly, “But why exactly am I playing dress up?”

“Because, in your village, they saw a young man on a pale grey horse ride away with the body of a dead female fae with light hair and a grey dress tied to his saddle. In the one I stopped in, they saw a different man on foot bartering for supplies, and he gossiped with them about what he heard: that an old man on a brown horse had ridden into your village and slain one of the fae,” Johanna quickly tucked her hair under her hat, “It’s best if every town sees something different. The more conflicting reports get back to the Night Court, the better. I’m always a man because a woman of my height is remembered too well, but you can be either. So: skirt or pants?”

“Why can’t I just stay here while you go to the villages?” Nesta retorted. 

“One, conflicting reports of a duo or a single traveller will help conceal us, and two, I don’t want to leave you alone. You’re your own person with your own free will, but I’m telling you right now, I think it’s a terrible idea. Terrible. I felt like I was going to have a heart attack when I left you and Don alone.” 

 “I’m sure Don Chiflado would have protected me in your absence.” Nesta said wryly. The horse snorted, as if he understood. 

“I know I’m just a human, but I have a crossbow loaded with ashbolts that I can aim exceptionally well. If the Night Court catches up to us, I want to be there. My family are Faerie hunters, Nesta. I have that right.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, “Not a right, an…an obligation. Both personal and professional. So please, stay with me.” 

Nesta scoffed. “The Night Court will just drag me back and make me train. No reason to try and fill them with arrows.” 

“First of all, that’s imprisonment and it’s super fucked up so yes it is, and secondly,” Johanna looked her directly in the eye, and Nesta felt herself being drawn into their brown depths once again. She said slowly, “They are trying to fucking kill you, Nesta. They’ll be relieved when word reaches them, but they won’t rest until they have a body.” 

“They’re just trying to scare me. Feyre…Feyre wouldn’t want me dead .” Would she? No, they were sisters. Nesta was her sister. She wouldn’t do that. Cassian wouldn’t do that. 

“I’m not saying Feyre , I’m saying the Night Court. Walk with me here. Tell me again what the terms of your imprisonment were.”  

“I had to live in the House of Wind, train with Cassian, and work in a library. No drinks, but if I could climb down the ten thousand steps and find any money I could buy one.” Nesta remembered Amren’s sneering face.  

“And what does training with Cassian entail, exactly ?” And off Jo went, leading her into something like she was a teacher and Nesta a student. Nesta snarled, “Just tell me what you’re saying!” 

“Just walk with me ,” Jo snapped, “What does “training” mean?” 

 “Training my magic. And learning how to use a sword and whatnot. Combat, I guess.” 

“Have you ever expressed any interest or desire in combat training?”  

“I…no, I didn’t. Amren even said there was more than one way to be a warrior, in the beginning…”  

“And have they ever pressured you to train before?” Jo was on a roll.  

“Well, Cassian, but-”  

“Have they ever unanimously pressured you to train before?” Jo cut Nesta off. 

“No.” Nesta replied, and Jo crossed her arms. “You said you’ve been off the deep end since the war ended. Why did they choose now to interfere?” 

“I racked up an outrageous sum in the bars one night. 500 gold marks.” She still remembered the disappointed look on Feyre’s face. 

Jo pinched the bridge of her nose again and began pacing. “Look, I don’t know the fucking conversion rate so I don’t know what 500 gold marks entails-” 

“A lot.” Now it was Nesta’s turn to cut her off. Jo threw up her hands. “Yeah, a lot! But isn’t Rhysand rich as shit? Did it actually cause them any financial strain?” 

“Feyre was embarrassed about the amount.” How can I claim to rule the Night Court when I can’t even control my own sister? 

“That’s a weak excuse if I ever heard one. I’m saying it sounds like bullshit and the timing is interesting.” 

“What timing?” Nesta said coldly. She didn’t appreciate being kept in the dark. 

“I-...they didn’t tell you? I can’t believe it, she has such a vendetta against you, and they do know by now-” 

“Tell me what you’re talking about!” 

Jo stopped her pacing. “Briallyn, Nesta. She’s on the move.”

chapter break

 And she’s allied with Autumn, or at least Beron. Don’t ask me how I know, I made a bargain not to tell.” 

Nesta felt as cold as she was when she had been thrust into the Cauldron. “Briallyn?” she whispered. Jo began to pace again. “Yes, Briallyn! Listen, here’s what’s obviously happening: Plan A was to get you all trained up as a warrior, probably so you can do some dirty work for them and then take out Briallyn yourself, so they don’t have to risk one of their own. Now, you said they were shocked you actually picked the human lands, so I’m guessing plan B was possibly to have you to be bait of some kind for her, but more likely entice the humans to do the dirty work of killing you for them. Now that you’ve proven you can’t be an asset, you’ll be gotten rid of. That’s the Night Court way. Now, do I think Feyre and Elain are in on this? Doubtful. Rhysand is a notorious and ruthless schemer in all our accounts of him. I think his plan was to let you die and then pretend to be sad when word reached them. Feyre is like…1/25th of his age and I honestly doubt she’s being let in on as much as she seems to think she is. Now, you know them better than I do, so you can guess which ones were in on it and which weren’t, but all in all, we need to stick together. Now, do you think-” Jo turned around to face Nesta and froze at the sight of her tears. “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, Nesta, I’m so sorry.” 

Nesta took a step back. She’d told Feyre she wasn’t a thing to be controlled, but she’d had no idea at the time how poignant those words were. To them, she was a thing . An asset. And Rhysand…”He’s going to kill you,” Nesta breathed out, “I need to leave. He’s going to kill you, Johanna. He is so…he is so fucking terrifying.” I am not even a person to them. 

“I want to die fighting Fae.” Jo’s voice was way too calm. 

Nesta screamed at her, “I don’t want you to fucking die at all!” 

“This means something to me, Nesta! Of course I want to help you, but it’s also bigger than that! My life, from the moment I was born, has been fully dedicated to stopping Fae tyranny! I do have something I’m willing to die for! If he’s only been fooled or thwarted for a few days, then I’ll still die happy! How dare he try to fucking imprison you, Nesta! How dare he! And how dare you try to take my convictions away from me!”  Jo waved her hand her voice rising, “We can’t let them keep fucking treating us like this, Nesta. Walking all over us as if we’re ants. Like we’re nothing! Maybe your sisters have fully assimilated, but I know you still remember how it feels to be human.” 

“He will get inside of your mind and make you do it yourself! He will dissolve you into nothing but bloody mist with a thought!” Nesta shouted right back, the cold of the Cauldron creeping up through her veins as she recalled her fear, “How stubborn and bullheaded can you be? His power is pure darkness. He threatened me at the intervention, and I was scared, and I’m the one with Cauldron given powers! Do you know what he did when he sensed how uncomfortable I was? He fucking smirked at me. He was happy. Like a cat playing with its dinner!” 

“Which is exactly why he needs to be defied!” Johanna shouted, “Exactly why!” She took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “And I will fight tyrants with or without you, Nesta. I care about you, but you leaving does not take my motivation with you. I am in the same amount of danger with or without you.”

 Nesta was sick and tired of being faced with another noble hero. Cassian had cast himself in that light once, too. It was all bullshit. 

“Then where the fuck were you on the battlefield? Why didn’t you die with the rest of your family?” Nesta spat, “You’re clearly determined to go in the ground right next to them when Rhysand gets here. I’m not going to help go out in a blaze of glory. Find someone stupider.” She felt the familiar fire of anger licking at her. Finally. Anger was hot, anger was comforting, familiar, safe, good. The numbness that had overtaken her so often lately was not. She glared at Jo, who glared right back, and the cold waters of the Cauldron turned to steam. 

“First of all,” Nesta could hear the strain it took for Jo to reign in her anger, “This is not a fucking suicide attempt, and you’re one to talk. When I said I want to die fighting Fae, I didn’t mean I-” she rubbed her temples, “Actually fucking die, like right now! Just if I was going to go out, that’s my preferred way.”

“You came into the world with James, and you wished you went out with him too. Well, too little too late. You weren't there for him on the battlefield any more than you were for me.” Her crowning achievement as far as verbal barbs went. She spat each word out with as much force as she could. 

Jo’s face paled, but she continued like Nesta hadn’t said anything at all, “Second of all, I didn’t join up because your father was the one recruiting the army and I don’t respect him and never have. I don’t know why you’re even mourning him. I don’t miss mine.” She took a deep breath, “I know you’re just saying mean shit because you’re upset right now, and I’m trying to give you grace, I’m working on not being so fucking angry all the time but I can get mean too! So do you want to be mean or do you want to tell me what the fuck this is actually about?” 

Nesta was out of cruel words to say. The arsenal was empty and there was nothing she could think of to deflect. In the absence of a weapon, the tears finally overwhelmed her. “He’s the most powerful High Lord in Prythian’s history. The most. That’s what Feyre always says,” Nesta sobbed, “I don’t want you to die. I don’t want you to die.”

Jo was taking deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling and clenching her fists so hard they turned white. She finally said somewhat evenly, “I don’t want to die, either. I’m not planning on dying.” 

“It doesn’t fucking matter! He doesn’t fucking care! His power is something so far beyond a crossbow! It’s beyond everything !” Nesta shouted. She could feel the oppressive power of it even now, trying to force her into taking a seat. 

“And he’s using it to bully and intimidate someone in her 20s. That’s pathetic. Listen, Nesta, I can’t say much because of the bargain, but we have our own qualms with the Night Court as well as our own High Fae ally. Seaside is heavily warded from some old deal and fucking drowing in ashwood trees. And you have…whatever you have. We can figure that out later. But we won’t be as helpless as you think. Besides, he hasn’t found us yet.” Jo’s voice was back to its normal pitch. “Don’t cry, Nesta, okay? We’ll figure it out. Just please stop crying.” 

Nesta could not stop crying. “They were really going to kill me. They wanted to use me. Even if I didn’t die out here, Feyre knew how miserable the life of a Faerie in the human lands would be, and nobody cared. Elain packed my things .” She stumbled slightly before righting herself and bursting out, “ I was their fucking human shield! Would they ever mention that? Of course not, but it was me who took everything from Grandmamma and Mother. She never hit Elain or Feyre, just me !” 

She wildly gestured at absolutely nothing, “Poor Feyre had to go hunting for us , but it was me who was the provider first! Me ! I was the one who had to marry for conquest so those two could have fucking love matches. “Oh, sometimes you’ll have to lie back and think of something else, Nesta, a husband’s embraces are not always warm or wanted.’ And I didn’t complain about that. Old men leering at me at balls and I kept a smile on my face. I was perfect. I was perfect, ” she gave a derisive laugh, “And maybe..maybe I wanted a break! Maybe I wanted someone else to do everything for us, see how that felt! Was that so fucking terrible? So bad that I have to be punished over, and over, and over?” 

Jo hadn’t said a word, just looked on at her with an expression she couldn’t decipher. “I did everything they asked of me during the war,” Nesta’s voice broke, “Every single thing. And the first time I say no I’m thrown out like garbage. I’m nothing to them,” she ran her hands through her hair, “There’s something wrong with me. Something that’s been wrong since I was born. Everyone,” she choked on her tears, “Everyone always hated me, even when I tried to make them like me. So what was the point? What was the point of any of it?” 

Jo sighed, and then she felt arms around her, and then she was engulfed by the scent of lavender as she was crushed to her chest. “I never hated you,” Jo said fervently.

“You should,” replied Nesta, “You should.”

“Why, because that was the whole point of you saying the worst things you could think of so I’d run off? I’m angry. You hurt my fucking feelings, to be honest. But I don’t hate you.” Nesta could feel Jo’s chest move as she shuddered out a sigh. “Maybe there was just something wrong with everyone else, Nesta. My mother loved you and she would still love you if she saw you now. James…I know he didn’t talk much to anyone but me those early years, but he did care about you. He was so upset about the situation with the Duke when I told him. He said he’d propose right then, and the two of you could just live as friends.” 

Nesta sniffled into Jo’s shirt, overwhelmed. James had always stuck to books and animals, preferring his own company, barely speaking a word more than necessary. The public engagement period and the crowded wedding expected of couples at their station would have been an absolute nightmare for a fifteen year old James, much less actually being married. And yet he was going to offer himself to save her from men the Salvatorres saw as truly loathsome. She wrapped her arms around Jo in return, as if she could somehow hug James, wherever he was, by hugging his twin. 

“And there’s nothing wrong with you,” Johanna continued fiercely, “It’s just the Night Court…I know they see themselves as heroes, and they helped defeat Hybern, and you’ll understand more when we’re back at home and I can show you the records we have, but I don’t think they’re good people . I don’t think you should care about how they feel about you. They’ve sent out hundreds of their own out to die in the cold, Nesta. It’s not you. It’s their way. I…” she hesitated and then settled on repeating “I don’t think they’re good people.”

“I don’t think I’m a good person either. I don’t think I’m a good person at all.” Nesta confessed to the white fabric of Jo’s shirt.

“You did just say some really mean shit, yeah, but that’s not the sum of you. Remember, you were never involved in slavery, so it can all be worked out.” There was a forced lightness to Jo’s tone. 

“I’m sorry,” Nesta told the shirt, “I didn’t mean it.” She started to shiver. “It was so cold inside the Cauldron. It’s so cold all the time now. Anger and drink and sex will spark some warmth, but it always comes back. I’m so cold. But it made me feel something. For a little bit.”

“Alright, yeah. Okay. I’m gonna get you a shot of the whiskey and then you need to eat your porridge. Just…sit down, all right? Sit back down on the sleeping mat.” Jo lowered her down, and then said, “No, actually, porridge first and then whiskey. Yeah. Okay.” 

Nesta felt strangely disconnected from her body, but she could see the tenseness of Jo’s shoulder as she walked over to the fire and began scooping the porridge. What have I done? The familiar guilt started creeping up, choking her. “I didn’t mean it,” she called desperately, “I didn’t mean it.” 

Jo turned around, porridge in hand, and began walking back. “I know. But I’m still hurt. I’m going to get over it, but it’s not going to happen instantly because you said sorry.” She crouched down and held the porridge bowl out to Nesta, who reluctantly accepted it. “I’m not going to guilt you by purposely acting miserable, but I won’t stuff my feelings to make you feel better, either. I’m just going to feel how I feel.”

“Okay.” Nesta choked out. Her hand was shaking so badly she could barely use the spoon.  

“There’s no shame in needing my help,” Jo said gently, “The Shakes can get really bad, and well…now you see why we call it The Shakes.” 

“Just give me a minute!” Nesta snapped. She could do this. She could feed herself. What was she, a child? Jo raised her eyebrows but didn’t say anything about it. The spoon shook and clattered against the edges of the bowl. 

Jo took a deep breath and said in a slightly forced upbeat tone, “Listen, maybe I was off about the whole killing thing. He showed the Queens Velaris and said his behavior for the past 500 years was a ruse and he’s been secretly benevolent the whole time. I don’t believe it, but he’ll have to keep up the facade if he wants to make any inroads with other courts. I think you’re right, he’s probably just going to take you back and make you train.”  

Nesta let out a shuddering sigh, only dipping her head in acknowledgment. The spoon jerked and wobbled, and most of the porridge was on her dress by the time it reached her mouth. “Don’t worry, we’re going to have to burn that anyway.” Nesta felt her eyes drawn to the bandage on Jo’s forearm, grimacing as she remembered how she had cut it so she could convincingly fake Nesta’s death. “I have a new plan, if you’re up for a public appearance later today.” 

“And what would that be?”

Jo quirked half a smile. “I’ll tell you once you finish your porridge.”

Notes:

I really do live for comments. Please give me your feedback!
1. What do you think of Zoraida? Is her parenting style too indulgent?
2. What do you think of the retcon about Vassa and the origins of the Queens?
3. Did anyone pick up on the...tension Nesta felt?

Chapter 11: Remember meeting me for breakfast?

Summary:

lore drop. gay panic.

Nesta walked down to the river to “bathe”, meaning she only got in up to her ankles and used the washcloth and soap to clean herself, and washed her hair by cupping water and letting it drain over her head. She wrapped herself in the blanket she had left on a large rock and trudged back to camp. The river had given her time to think, to collect herself, but she mostly felt numb. Jo had mostly finished packing up the camp, save for some eggs merrily cooking over the fire, and Nesta wrinkled her nose at the smell of her dress being burned. 

“You make a very convincing man,” she told Johanna. Indeed, while Nesta was gone, Jo had bound her breasts tightly, stuffed what Nesta suspected to be a rolled up pair of socks down her pants, and lightly smudged her face with ash to give her the look of having a five o’ clock shadow. She turned around and winked. “Crossdressing is a very useful skill to have. Did it all the time on my Caminata. And for you? Skirt or pants?” 

Nesta hesitated for only a moment before saying, “Skirt. And I’ll pretend to be your wife. For now. Less conspicuous than a sister.” Jo held a kirtle out, an itchy green thing she took with great reluctance, and then placed a grey chemise  in Nesta’s hands. Seeing the look on her face as she felt the material, Jo wryly asked, “Would having pants under it feel better?” A pair of pants were given to her, and Jo turned her back while Nesta changed. She yanked the pants up and buttoned them, calling out, “The horse is staring at me.” She had decided she was going to put on a happy face and force herself back into normalcy. It was the least Jo deserved.  

“Sorry about that, he’s a bit of a pervert.” Johanna was willing to play along. She wouldn’t push it. 

Nesta slipped the chemise on, then the kirtle. “Lace me up?” She didn’t turn around to face Jo as she heard her footsteps approaching her, then felt the laces being grabbed. “Tell me when it’s too much,” she said, and began to tug at them. She was standing a gentlemanly–or Nesta supposed gentle woman ly distance away, but she still felt her pulse quicken slightly. It’s just confusing because she looks like a man right now , Nesta told herself, and you’re craving a distraction. Get a hold of yourself. 

“There,” Nesta breathed as soon as the laces were tight enough. Jo began to tie them, then cursed under her breath. “Give me a minute…they’re all tangled. I need to get closer. Sorry.” Then Nesta’s back was practically to her chest, and she could feel Johanna’s frustrated exhale on her neck as she tugged at the knot. She swallowed, trying desperately not to breathe in Jo’s lavender scent and failing. “You don’t smell very manly,” she said, hoping to come out cool and collected, but her voice was breathier than she would have liked, “How do you smell so nice in the middle of the woods?” 

Jo huffed a laugh, sending goosebumps over Nesta’s neck. “Bathing regularly. And packets of dried lavender in all my things.” 

“Ah,” said Nesta, desperate to change the subject from how Jo smelled “What’s your…fake name going to be? When we get to town?” 

“Joe,” she said, without a hint of sarcasm, “Ha! Got it! Damned knot!” 

“Don’t you think it’s a bit obvious?” 

“Fine, I’ll be…Don.” 

“Don is the horse’s name.” Nesta swallowed as Jo finished tying her up. 

“It’s Don Chiflado.”  

“Still. And don’t say Maxim, either, because I know that’s what you’re going to say next.” 

“Did anyone ever tell you his real name is actually Maximo?” Nesta finally turned around to see Johanna staring down at her with a wry smile on his face. “No, they did not.” 

She huffed. “We all tried to assimilate. I’ll be…Daniel. Now come up with a name for yourself.”  

“Elain.”  

She scoffed. “Very funny. No.” 

“Ah…” Nesta stared at the woods around her, “I’ll be…Willow.” 

“Your creativity astounds me. Now, get that hair in a braid that hides those ears.” Jo turned and stalked towards the fire, kicking dirt over it and finally taking the eggs off. Her ass did look good in those black pants. It was just an objective fact, really. Anyone would notice it. They were very flattering pants.  

“Once we reach Max’s, he’ll help us out.” Jo gave up on keeping her hair in her hat and then tied it in a low ponytail. Enough men in Prythian wore their hair long, anyhow. 

“Max is in Prythian?” Of course she remembered Johanna’s suave uncle, the one Mrs. Salvatorre had teasingly referred to as her “baby brother.” He had been nearly as handsome as Jo was now.  

“Yes, but he’s not living with me. I told him I needed space.” Imagine that, thought Nesta, telling someone you need space and then actually being given it. “He’s got a couple houses here he bounces around. Like me, he’s trying to get more food in and help stabilize the area, but it’s tough because he has to dodge Jurian and his cronies.” Don Chiflado huffed, as if upset with Jurian. 

“Elaborate on Jurian and his cronies.” Nesta raised an eyebrow, halfway through wrangling her hair into a coronet. 

“You know them, don’t you? Jurian, Lucien, and Vassa.” She said Vassa with distaste, and Nesta paused her braiding for a moment.

“Oh? And why is he running from them?” Johanna grabbed the pan with the eggs and continued, “It’s kind of a long story, but basically he-well he and I both-like the system that’s been put in place in Vassa’s absence much better than well, her. We didn’t send her away, mind you, but once she was gone…her successor got outmaneuvered pretty easily. So, with some help, Scythia established a strong council, the Protectorate, and they’ve made great strides in modernizing and improving the place. Up you go on Don, we’re all packed.”  

“And by ‘with some help’, I’m assuming you mean ‘my family and I funded and directly aided the coup’?” Nesta said wryly, putting her foot in the stirrup and trying to swing herself up. And trying again.  

“Technically, it’s not a coup, because we didn’t actually oust her from power, just put together something to fill the void. But it’s been going wonderfully. I’m going to lift you up,” Jo warned before her hands were on her waist and hoisting her up onto the saddle. Nesta staunchly refused to think of her hands. She continued, “ And you know, we’ve been able to spread modern ideas about hereditary monarchies, and how foolish they are, and the Protectorate has built schools, and roads, and increased trade, and well, now that the population is richer and more educated, they don’t really want her back.” 

 “But she’s the queen,” Nesta said, surprised. She didn’t like Vassa, but it seemed terribly unfair, “It’s her birthright.” 

Jo blew a raspberry and put the pan in Nesta’s hands. “Hold this out. Anyways, birthright, smirthright. It works for the Fae, I guess, because there’s tangible magical power passed down from monarch to monarch. But why should one human be raised above another when we all shared the same fate as slaves, and rose together to throw off our chains?” 

“But the Queens do have hereditary magic,” Nesta pointed out, “They can winnow, sort of, and they had their half of the Book of Breathings…why are the eggs blue?” 

“They’re some sort of faerie species eggs, not bird eggs. Bird-like enough to eat.” 

The porridge roiled in Nesta’s stomach as the smell reached her. Not because they smelled bad, but because she likely wouldn't be able to tell the difference between those eggs and the ones she was used to eating. “Are you going to eat them?” She asked incredulously.  

“Eventually,” said Jo cryptically, “Anyhow, the magic the queens have is what the Fae gave to them in exchange for selling us out by signing that stupid Treaty.” She clucked her tongue and tugged on Don’s reins, and he began to walk with her. Nesta held the pan of eggs in one hand and the reins in the other. 

Nesta raised her eyebrows. “The stupid Treaty? The one that raised the wall and kept us safe for five hundred years?” 

“Yeah, exactly. Five hundred years instead of permanently,” Jo said, “Would the King of Hybern have been able to attack again if his head was cut off 500 years ago?” She waved her hand and recited, “In general you must either pamper people or destroy them; harm them just a little and they’ll hit back; harm them seriously and they won’t be able to. So if you’re going to do people harm, make sure you needn’t worry about their reaction.’ That means you either don’t swing at your enemies in the first place, or you hit them so hard they won’t be able to get up. The first option was never possible when the enemies are your enslavers; the second was strangled in the cradle after the War, by the Fae playing buddy buddy with their old pals.” 

She had tried to put on a happy face, yet the coldness was creeping back in. But Johanna had such an animated and passionate way of talking, she couldn’t help but be intrigued despite herself. “Go on. I haven’t heard this before.” 

“Of course you haven’t” Johanna rolled her eyes, “Because the Fae and their allies try to stifle the flow of information, and Prythian doesn’t put any value on education. But listen; Amarantha and the King of Hybern literally murdered every single human slave rather than free them, and yet they were allowed to live and retain their authority. If they had killed that number of Fae, our faerie allies would not have stopped until they got their justice, but human lives just weren’t worth as much. We wanted blood, after the war. Blood and justice. But the Queens,” she laughed bitterly, “Oh the Queens. They were our leaders, raised up to their position by their people, because we trusted them. And then they turned around and signed a Treaty that shifted their authority derived from their fellow humans into a magical birthright from the Fae. I’m not surprised they betrayed humanity and turned to Hybern for a chance at becoming Fae themselves. It’s in their blood.” 

Nesta did not like this. She did not like having to change her perception of the world as it was; she never had. This threatened her stability, so carefully won after her worldview had so radically shifted after being thrown into the Cauldron.

She continued, “They went behind our backs and signed the Treaty that named them as Queens, and suddenly we were saddled with rulers we never asked for and split into six nations with borders we never agreed upon. And we couldn’t overthrow them, because the Fae didn’t recognize any authority but theirs. It wouldn’t have been safe. Luckily, in Marivena, we nipped it in the bud when one of my ancestors created a charter, allowing us an elected governing body to balance out the power of the Queen. Other countries, like Scythia, weren’t as lucky.” 

“Oh,” said Nesta, watching the trees go by and waiting for her to continue. 

“That’s why Vassa isn’t popular,” Johanna explained, “Different nations dealt with it differently. The more power a Queen has, the more her population must be kept under her heel; better for her if they’re never educated and don’t know the history of her ascension at all; better for her if other women are subjugated so she can present herself as a divine exception; better for her if the population is too poor to raise arms against her, that the roads are so poorly maintained towns can’t communicate and coordinate if they tried. I don’t know Vassa herself, and honestly don’t care to; it’s what she represents that I’m against. And Jurian, who was supposed to be our champion, is now hers. I don’t know if he’s in love with her, if his resurrection changed him, or what. But I thought he’d fight for us. I thought he’d understand. And I’m sure Lucien is with them because he’s a Faerie and monarchy is all he knows. He’s probably terrified of anything different.”  

“I think Lucien is with them because he has nowhere else to go.” Nesta said softly. She didn’t hate her sister’s mate- he had fought for their side in Hybern, and bravely went to retrieve both Vassa and her father. Nesta realized why Jo spoke of Lucien with such venom. He put her brothers on the ships that sailed them to their deaths on the battlefield; him and my father. They raised the mortal army to fight against Hybern.  

“Well of course Faerie with nowhere else to go would settle in with people who are trying to ruin things for humans. It’s in their nature.” Jo said it with such bitterness that Nesta knew her guess about her blaming them for her brothers had been right. Oh, Johanna. 

“I’m a Faerie now too, Jo.” Nesta said sullenly, staring at the grass. 

“Yes, but you’re not like the rest of them; you’re one of the good ones. You got turned into a Fae against your will, instead of betraying us like Briallyn did. Your soul is still human.” Jo said with conviction. Something about made Nesta uncomfortable, even though the words themselves were kind. And then, “Have you met Vassa? Do you really think she’d be better for Scythia than all the progress we’ve ushered in?”

“I met her,” said Nesta sullenly, “She marched up to me and Feyre right after the battle and prated at us about how wonderful my father was, how he was like a father to her, and how great he was to her.” Nesta didn’t mention that Vassa had seemed well intentioned, that she had put her life on the line to fight Hybern with the rest of them. That wasn’t what Jo needed to hear right now. 

 Jo whistled through her teeth. “Oof. Another reason she needs to stay away from that throne. No social awareness.” 

They walked in silence for a while before Nesta finally asked, “Okay, why the hell am I holding a pan of blue eggs? Are you going to eat them or not?” 

“You’ll see.” Was all Jo said. 

It didn’t take long. An agonized screech rose from the forest before a strange creature shot out from the trees, flapping its wings towards them. Nesta followed it with her eyes as Jo unstrapped her crossbow from the saddlebags. Just as Jo said, it was bird-like, but not like any blue Nesta had ever seen. Its feathers, if they could be called that, were too bright a blue; its beak purple, its eyes wide and black and entirely too intelligent. It flapped toward the pan and began to circle it, screeching. 

Jo raised the crossbow and fired. The thing went down right next to the fried eggs it had so desperately sought, and ash bolt through its neck. Nesta was frozen in place as Jo rolled her shoulders and went over to pick it up. “Did you just…cook the eggs to lure the mother here so you could kill it?” 

“Mhm,” the bolt was yanked from its neck without any fanfare, “They’ve got a great sense of smell. And besides I think your, um…aura is scaring off the other game in the area.” Don Chiflado snorted, as if he was agreeing. “Which, you know, not your fault, but this thing is the only one that would ever get near us, and it would only ever come for its eggs.”  

“You…” Nesta stuttered, “That’s…that’s cruel.” 

Jo shrugged, already slapping the thing onto a nearby rock so she could defeather it. It had been so pretty. “It’s a cruel, cruel, world we live in.” 

At Nesta’s shocked silence, she turned around, and her shoulders sagged. “Food is hard to find, all right? I wouldn’t have done this a year ago. Besides, I’m not expecting you to eat it. I will, and then you can have the food I packed for myself. Now, start thinking about how Daniel and Willow met and a bit of backstory so we’re on the same page when we get to the village.” She started to cut into the bird creature with a knife.

Chapter 12: and you complained about the waitress?

Summary:

Jo and Nesta play dress up in a bar and embark on a propaganda campaign.

Jo swaggered into the bar—if it could be called that—with all the confidence of a man. For all intents and purposes, she was a man. Spurs clanged against the floor with each deliberate step, announcing her arrival as surely as a gunshot. She dropped onto a stool with a lazy sprawl, tossed a coin onto the counter, and barked, “Whiskey.”

Nesta followed behind her, quieter, shoulders hunched, keeping her head low beneath the brim of her hat. Willow was not particularly attention seeking. 

The bar was the kind of place that smelled like spilled beer and lost wages, dimly lit and half-forgotten. A sour-faced old man hunched over his drink by the door, his jaw jutted out in permanent dissatisfaction. In the corner, two men sat close, their conversation dipping into low murmurs as they eyed the newcomers. The tired barmaid abandoned her sweeping to fetch Jo’s drink, barely sparing them a glance. 

“It’s a real nice horse you trotted up on.” One of the men at the table said, narrowing his eyes, “Where’d you get a beast like that?” His companion with a scar over his brow turned to examine Nesta and Jo critically.

“The war.” Jo said shortly. Nesta ran a critical eye over her “husband’s” clothes. They had some dirt on them, but they were obviously finely made. Johanna, despite all of her time on the road as a free spirit, did not know poverty. What it looked like, smelled like, tasted like. She had donned the mien of the villagers like a costume so she could blend in. And they could tell. 

 

“Don’t let my husband fool you into thinking he did anything worthwhile,” Nesta said lowly, “Good-for-nothing. He nicked it off his commander. Clothes too.” She had decided that Willow was rather disillusioned with her husband. Building out a backstory always made acting easier. 

 

“I nicked nothing. If he’s dead, it’s not stealing.” Jo, to her credit, played along seamlessly. The villagers seemed to buy it, but Nesta still didn’t trust the two men in the corner to not try and steal Don Chiflado. 

 

“War veteran, are you? Good man.” The old man spoke for the first time.  Jo raised her whiskey in acknowledgement. The barmaid perked up slightly. “Did you kill any Faeries?” 

 

“Sure did, sure did,” said Jo amiably. The barmaid slid the gold coin Jo had used to pay back in front of her, saying simply, “On the house.” Jo slid it right back to her, jerking her chin at Nesta. “One for my lady, please.” Nesta nursed her whiskey as the scarred man said suspiciously, “How many?” 

 

“Uh, three.” Jo clearly hadn’t rehearsed her backstory the way Nesta had, and she interjected again, “It was not three. He keeps changing it. When he first got back home, it was that he had gotten a good slice on one of Hybern’s, then it was he actually killed the bastard, and now he’s killed three.” She scoffed. Jo was once again able to remain quick on her feet despite her lack of preparation. “Damn it, woman! Can’t you let me tell a story in peace?” 

 

“Not when you’re telling lies. ” 

 

The man with the scar narrowed his eyes. “I was in the war too. Where exactly were you…in the battle?” 

 

“With the rest of the Marivenans and the other ones from the continent. Joined up when that fancy merchant man and Queen Vassa came calling, and stayed here ever since.” So perhaps Jo had thought of a backstory for “Daniel.” Another group shuffled in, a couple of slightly finer dressed men sporting purple cloth tied around their necks who politely bought a tankard of ale each and nursed them at their table, the soft murmurs of their conversation drifting through the bar.

 

Seeming assuaged, the man with the scar nodded his head in acknowledgement. “Ah, you came in on the ships near the end. I was with Jurian and the Grayson boy. I’m Finnegan.” Jo introduced herself as Daniel and Nesta as Willow. Finnegan did not introduce his companion. Nesta observed him closely. He was obviously the elder of the two, and he had a look to him that Nesta didn’t like. He was too pale. His hair was an unremarkable shade of muddied blonde, but his eyes were so light a blue that it was slightly discomforting. Sensing that he was being scrutinized, he looked up and boldly met Nesta’s gaze. She didn’t look away. Neither did he. 

 

“I can’t believe I survived. My regiment got…well…torn apart. Did you see those creatures they had on the field?” 

 

“Sure did,” Jo’s voice took a slightly darker quality, “One of them killed my brother.” The eerie man broke eye contact, and Nesta smirked to herself. 

 

Finnegan made a sympathetic noise. “I saw one of my comrades just…his head was sliced clean off. So clean I couldn’t tell for the first second. Then it just…slid off his body.” 

 

“My brother didn’t even get the dignity of death by sword. Not clean for him at all.” 

 

Finnegan’s eyes widened. “What happened?” 

 

Jo simply made a tearing motion with her hands, and said darkly, “They had to sew him together and stuff him for the funeral.” The tone of her voice made Nesta think this wasn’t a part of “Daniel’s” story. She slipped her hands in Jo’s and squeezed. 

 

“Truth is, I hate Lethe Archeron. If he weren’t dead already, I’d kill him. Sold us falsehoods about battle and glory, and had my brother sail to battle in Prythian on a ship named for his daughter so he could leave his own fatherless and grieving back in his homeland. Only good thing about him was his children.” Nesta’s hand seemed to spasm around Jo’s without control, and Jo looked to her as if to say it was all part of the act, but Nesta heard the real emotion in her voice. Johanna couldn’t lie to her anymore than she could lie to Johanna. If I tell you I love him, will you hate me too, Johanna? 

 

“Almira guide us, one of them was the only one who did what needed to be done.” Jo finished solemnly. 

 

“Which one was it? There’s the wife of a faerie, the one who was engaged to Graysen, and the eldest.” The barmaid interjected.

 

“The eldest. Nesta Archeron. Kingslayer.” Finnegan said with some awe in his voice, “She beheaded him.” 

 

Jo pointed at him. “For your beheaded comrade. For my brother. For all the humans who have suffered under him. She may be fae now, but she beheaded him because she remembered what it’s like to be human. I bet the faeries she was working with told her to spare him so they could give him the same cushy terms of surrender he got last time. But she knew what needed to be done.” Nesta didn’t know how to tell Johanna that part of the reason she beheaded Hybern was for the father Johanna hated so fiercely.  For what he had done to Elain. For herself so she could have vengeance after he violated her body by throwing it into the Cauldron.

 

Finnegan nodded. “Faerie bastards. They could give less of a damn about us. They just fight Hybern because they want their rival gone.” Nesta bristled but held her tongue. She wanted to jump up and shout and say it was all wrong, that they had been fighting for humanity, for the whole world. That everyone in the Night Court had wanted Hybern dead just as much as the humans. But to defend herself would be to show her hand. She was just Willow, the acerbic wife of an ex soldier, wandering around the ruins of her homeland on a horse he stole from his dead commander. Willow didn’t know a blessed thing about the inner machinations of the Night Court. 

 

“Oooh, I bet they were mad,” crowed the barmaid, apparently invigorated by the conversation, “I bet they had some real generous terms drawn up for their old pal Hybern. Bet they were going to send him off to his island with his head and wealth intact again, probably with some human slaves to sweeten the pot.” Finnegan slammed his glass of ale on his table in agreement, which seemed to embolden her, “Why, I bet-I bet-...I bet she’s the faerie they found on the edge of that village! I bet they exiled her because she killed Hybern against their wishes!” Finnegan gave a roar of approval at that. Johanna leaned forward, ready to play ball, and Nesta sat ramrod straight, trying to restrain herself. 

 

“They killed that faerie!” Finnegan interjected, distressed. “They got an old man, and old Salvatorre, to kill it!” Nesta’s hand tightened around her glass. Those three days spent waiting to die felt like it had been a lifetime ago, but it had only been a week. 

 

One of the men in the group finally decided to interject, “If a blessed Salvatorre were in that village, we would certainly know of it. No, they sent some farmgirl to chop its head off.” Johanna looked intensely uncomfortable at the adulation directed towards her family name for a moment before masking it, but it wasn’t missed by the blue eyed man.  

“You Church of Liberation are all Fae hating lunatics, aren’t you?” Finnegan said skeptically. 

"They're not so bad. You've all been importing food to help with the shortages, haven't you? That's what I heard from my sister down south nearer the ports." 

One of the men bowed humbly. "Yes, we are. More importantly, we are trying to heal the land so it may someday grow fertile again. Unfortunately, our irrigation projects have not reached much beyond the coastal cities, and the fractured nature of your local government makes things difficult. One Lord is happy to have his land irrigated, another says no to irrigation but yes to gypsum and limestone to counterract the salt, and then those two fight over where the borders of their lands are. And as for being lunatics,” said the man rather amiably, “I’m Antonio, charged with dealing with your local Lords, my friend with the glasses is Pedro, who helps design and build the various irrigation methods, the one next to him is Édouard, the expert on soil, and the last one is Berwyn, who we keep around for his excellent culinary skills. We want to help. Do we seem like crazed lunatics to you?” 

Finnegan took a surly drink from his tankard. “You can’t never tell these days, can you?” 

“We were supposed to be the bastion of humanity against faerie slavery, but the people’s dedication to our cause faded along with the memory of our subjugation. Our temples went to ruin, our voices ignored, our attempts to spread our message to Prythian blocked,” said Berwyn, “People thought we weren’t needed as soon as the wall went up. I’m not surprised you’ve heard some strange things about us. People fear what they do not understand.” Yes, them. I remember. Nesta had vague memories of Mrs. Salvatorre with a purple cloth wrapped around her wrist. She had never seen the family engage in any rituals or prayers, and Jo never talked about religion. 

 

“We tried to rally the people to humanity’s cause during the war, even as the queens declined to send aid. Even when we heard the army being sent was made up of volunteers and not professionals, we sent many of our fighting men out there and chopped down the ash trees in our sanctuaries to make weapons for every soldier.” Édouard said. 

 

“ ‘S true,” Jo said, passing her half full whiskey glass to Nesta, who had already drained hers, “They got me a dagger. Ash is the only thing that can kill a faerie.” 

 

“Well, if ash is the only thing that can kill a faerie, how’d the one in the village get its head chopped off? They used an ashwood axe?” Finnegan said skeptically. 

 

“That’s a common misconception,” said Antonio, “Most faeries can indeed be harmed by normal metals and weapons. Ash is just the only thing that stops their healing abilities. However, their healing abilities are mostly restorative, not generative. They cannot heal from a full beheading, bisecting, or the removal of their heart or lungs from their ribcage. A thorough disembowelment where all the vital organs in the abdominal area are removed will also do the trick.” An academic, then. He was struggling to say things in language that was familiar to the patrons of the bar. 

 

“So Nesta didn’t even need an ashwood dagger to saw the king’s head off,” said Nesta, pretending to think about it, “She could have just used a normal dagger.” 

 

“Precisely.” 

 

“You think they really exiled her and had her killed for standing up for us?” 

 

“Indeed,” said Édouard, “Your hypothesis that the eldest Archeron was sent out to die for her advocacy for the human race is most sound.” He was met with blank looks, and Johanna crowed happily, “He means it was a damn good idea!” 

 

The few patrons actually invested in the conversation cheered, and Antonio added, “When she hosted the Queens at her home, the girl Nesta did attempt to save all of the humans in Prythian by calculating the number of ships needed to evacuate them, and eventually screamed at them to do something until she cried. The youngest was in league with Rhysand, and the middle did absolutely nothing of note. My own mentor was one of her majesty Antonia’s spiritual advisors, and she asked him to commune with our icons and ancestors to divine an answer. Almira spoke quite clearly to him, and he urged the queen to save as many as possible in accordance with Her wishes. Of course, this was all a ruse by her, as her majesty’s noble mind and spirit had already been corrupted by the Fae.” Nesta had to physically hold back a scoff. She didn’t know which queen Antonia had been, but not a single one other than Demetra had come off remotely noble and she doubted any fae corruption was necessary. But they needed to spin a narrative. She stayed silent. He continued in the voice of a storyteller, “All this to say that the eldest was certainly the fiercest advocate for humanity. She was even named their ambassador to humanity. ‘They’  in reference to the Night Court, of course.” 

 

The barmaid slammed her hand down on the table. “They exiled her for speaking of us, they must have!” The conversation and alcohol flowed, and with careful nudges by Johanna, Nesta was turned into a martyr for humanity’s cause and Feyre into a power drunk tyrant, so far gone from her humanity she had no consideration for her own flesh and blood. In less than an hour, the Night Court were villains, Nesta the hero. It was rather a shocking turn from how she had been regarded for the last year. Whether her shiny new status as a folk hero would provide her a blanket of protection from the eyes of Rhysand remained to be seen. If the sentiment spread wide enough, dragging her from Johanna’s house kicking and screaming would cause them to plummet in popularity among the humans, but she had never known them to care for anything beyond Velaris unless it was in immediate danger. 

 

“You ought to canonize her,” slurred the barmaid, “She was killed because she fought for us.” 

 

The man with glasses laughed. “I am certainly not high up enough in our fellowship to do such a thing. I will certainly write to my superiors and suggest it, and at the very least the story of Nesta’s sacrifice will be shared with the masses by our brothers and sisters.” Nesta realized very suddenly that this man did not care at all whether the story was true, only that it could be believed. Finnegan had bought it hook, line, and sinker, and was making drunken toasts to Nesta’s departed spirit. 

 

“To Saint Nesta! To Saint Jurian!” he cried, his face alight. 

 

“Jurian! Pah, Jurian!” The old man spoke for the first time, his voice riddled with disdain, “Saint Jurian would never do such a thing! He’s a fake the fae used to lure us to our deaths in battle, like the Pied Piper leading children right off the mountain. And good men fell for it!” 

 

Finnegan whirled to Antonio, who seemed to be the leader of the church’s group, “Tell him he’s the real Jurian!”

 

The man with glasses steepled his hands. “That is a hotly debated topic, and the Church takes no official position as of now. If you have evidence you believe could sway the argument one way or another, you are welcome to write the office Her Wiseness, the Torchbearer of Neva.” 

 

Finnegan huffed and turned back to the old man. “He got sainthood for leading a human army against the Fae, you old geezer!” 

 

“Well back then he had no other option, weren’t it? The humans had to fight their captors to escape. But today we’re already free. Tell me, did your human forces make a big difference?”

 

“Are you saying humans shouldn’t fight for their own freedom?” Finnegan’s face colored in outrage. The old man continued, “I’m saying Faeries should clean up their own messes.” His knobby fingers clutched at some sort of talisman around his neck. “Were you sent there because they thought you could sway the battle or to draw fire? Which side suffered the heavier losses?”

 

“Both sides took heavy losses.” Nesta couldn’t stop herself from interjecting, the image of Cassian’s broken body underneath spurring her to his defense, “Both sides suffered. Terribly. ” 

 

“Ach, don’t mind her, she’s had her head done in by those Children of the Blessed nutters. I keep telling her she ought to wander off into faerie land if she’s such a believer, but here she is. Guess I must be doing something right.” Now it was Jo’s turn to save Nesta. Finnegan and the barmaid awkwardly laughed it off, and the old man’s face mottled with rage. The only one who didn’t seem to buy it was the blue eyed man. Nesta felt his gaze on her again, and patently ignored it. 

 

“Children of the Blessed! Children of the Blessed!” the old man practically shouted, “They ought to call themselves Children of the Rapers or Children of the Enslavers or Children of the Murderers, that’s what faeries are! For shame! For shame! Back in my day, we drove them out of towns with stones, yes we did, and back in my grandfather’s day they didn’t stop throwing stones ‘till they stopped moving, no they didn’t! And that was the right way of things!” His jaw trembled, “They showed up preaching in the town my daughter lived in, they did. Not three weeks later she was dead, her husband and children too. They said it was a house fire, but oh, I know the truth. I saw the ashes. Wasn’t like any fire I had ever seen.” Nesta felt the cold of the Cauldron wash over her again, a sickening feeling of realization clawing its way up her throat. He continued, “And then, and then when another mortal girl from the village came prancing back out as a faerie, throwing around sacks of gold, I knew the truth. They used some evil magic to open up a hole in the Wall, and gave those girls to the Faeries as sacrifices. My granddaughter’s body was the only one they couldn’t find, you see. The one who came back Fae is the wife of some Faerie Lord now. They were looking for wives and concubines, I say, and they must have killed her for refusing them. Or perhaps she’s still alive in the faerie lands. I’ve sent people looking, but they always come back empty handed or not at all.” 

 

“A-a fire?” Nesta choked out. Jo turned to look at her and, noticing the color on her cheeks drain, intervened. “Don’t mind her. Her mama knocked over a candle when she was little and lit her bedsheets on fire, and she can’t stand even the mention of them.” Once again, the excuse was bought by everyone but the blue eyed man. 

 

Tears tracked down the old man’s face, “My daughter, her husband, one grandson, two granddaughters. All gone. And there was never a lick of trouble in that town until those so-called Children of the Blessed showed up.” His hand that was still clutched around the talisman began to violently shake, “Where’s my granddaughter? Where is Clare?”

Notes:

I don't even have fun questions finals is kicking my ass. PLEASE leave behind a comment about what you liked, disliked, what stuck with you the most. I lost my beta reader and I feel like I'm in freefall writing this!

Chapter 13: and told me all your dirty secrets?

Notes:

Since school is so stressful I'm really just trying to publish everything I can as fast as I can.

 

ON THE KILLING OF AN ILLYRIAN MALE 

 

( Archival note: This is content from Mara Salvatorre’s personal journals and field notes, donated to the Church of Liberation by her niece to be copied and redistributed after her death. This contains easier language for beginners and more generalized students. Her formal reports and findings she submitted are in anatomical textbooks, usually only accessed by prospective anatomists and surgeons. A basic overview of her findings and practical advice of how to leverage them when encountering an Illyrian male can also be found in Fighting The Fae , A Manual for Prospective Protectors of Humanity ) 

 

On the night after the Winter Solstice, sixty seven years since the Great War of Liberation, an Illyrian male who named himself as CHAIM landed upon my lawn at the Salvatore residence called Seaside; he angrily inquired as to the location of DESDEMONA, the Illyrian female who had fled many years prior, who without her wings was indistinguishable from human women and a great comfort to generations of my family. He brandished his sword and yelled at me; I assured him I would retreat into the house to fetch Desdemona. In truth, Desdemona was now residing outside of Prythian, but had been at the house recently enough that her scent still lingered. He followed me closely, but I told him Desdemona would flee and I should go alone and bring her to him; his belief in the lie saved my life. I walked into the room, calling for Desdemona as if she were there, while quietly knocking an arrow into the bow I customarily kept in my room with quivering hands. I burst from behind the door frame and shot him through the neck, though I knew this would not hold him long, for the arrow was not ash. I did not bother with iron; I rushed to my father’s study, where I knew he kept an ash dagger. Grabbing it, I ascended the stairs once more to come face to face with the fiend, clutching his throat with one hand and a sword in the other. I marveled at his regenerative abilities for only a moment before I played possum, deftly hiding the dagger before falling to my knees and pleading for mercy. I had made sure my nightgown was slightly open in the front, and the brute took the bait. He thusly dragged me by my arm towards the couch, his neck fully healed by now. I waited until both hands were preoccupied with taking off my nightgown before I stabbed him in the neck. This was ash, but the only way to be sure was to remove his head entirely. Seeing the carpet was already bloodied, I decided I would simply procure another once I was done. I laid Chaim down on the carpet and began sawing. No breath came from his lips, but that can be deceptive. Ash is still wood, and difficult to saw with; I took a chance and left the room, returning with a proper kitchen knife, which proved much more adept. The muscles and tissue gave way quite easily. The bone was harder, but not much more difficult to handle than those of humans in other autopsies I have done (as my studies do not relate to the Fae, they have been published elsewhere, in a book called The Diseases of the Human Body, the original copy of which resides in the Citadel of Neva). After removing the head, I came to the conclusion that the Fae (or at least the Illyrian) does not possess skin, bone, and muscle that is more durable than that of a human’s, and their resilience in the face of weapons that would cause death to a human is a result of their regenerative abilities. I administered several small cuts upon the body after the death; these did not heal, as I suspected, meaning the Faerie’s healing magic had died with him. I write this the morning after, and Chaim is currently housed in my basement laboratory. (His body on the table, head in a jar.) I will return to this once I have conducted a proper dissection. 

Conclusions to be drawn: 

The faerie may heal from many wounds, but not a beheading. 

The skin of the faerie or at least the Illyrian is not impenetrable. What gives them an advantage over humans is their healing abilities.

A faerie can heal from a severe wound to the neck. 

A faerie cannot heal from a full beheading. The spine must be completely severed. 

The Illyrian, other than the obvious wings, does not have what I would classify as any major anatomical differences from humans. The organs and bone structure, sans wings, are roughly the same; it is the size and content that differ.

The heart is enlarged, weighing fourteen ounces as opposed to a human’s normal ten. The lungs are also larger, with an unusually complex branching of airways—likely to make use of as much air as possible. I hypothesize these differences are adaptations for flight, allowing for greater endurance and oxygen intake.

The bones are lighter than expected for a man of his size, yet still strong. Cutting into them reveals hollow cavities, but with inner supports, much like the bones of birds. This explains how they do not simply snap under strain. Despite this, the man weighed more than I had anticipated. His musculature is extreme, particularly in the chest, shoulders, and back. These are not just for show—without them, the wings would be useless.

Speaking of wings, their structure is not unlike that of a bat, with a strong but flexible membrane stretched over elongated finger-like bones. The attachment points at the back are fused into the scapula and spine, creating a broader, heavier upper frame. I suspect this means Illyrians cannot slouch comfortably, as the wings must shift constantly to maintain balance.

Still, for all their obvious strength, I do not see how Illyrians generate enough lift to fly in the same way a bird or bat might. Their wings, though large, should not be able to support their full weight unaided. They lack the proportions necessary for flight through purely mundane means.

This suggests one of two possibilities:

1. There is a mechanism I have not yet discovered, perhaps an internal air sac system or another unknown anatomical feature aiding buoyancy.
2. They are using something else—something unnatural.

The second explanation is troubling, but it would explain the inconsistency. If there is an unseen force assisting them, then it is not just muscle and bone that allow them to fly, but something beyond the reach of ordinary men.

I will continue my study.

Tears tracked down the old man’s face, “My daughter, her husband, one grandson, two granddaughters. All gone. And there was never a lick of trouble in that town until those so-called Children of the Blessed showed up.” His hand that was still clutched around the talisman began to violently shake, “Where’s my granddaughter? Where is Clare?” 

Clare, Clare, Clare. She and Clare had used to go on such long walks together, meandering and wandering nowhere in particular. They stayed out so long because Nesta didn’t want to go back home. Clare knew, but she had never spoken of it. Things didn’t flow as easily as they had with Jo, certainly, but by the Mother did Clare have a beautiful laugh. And she was beautiful, just as her grandfather said. So, so beautiful. The world came back into focus when she felt Johanna gently rubbing her shoulder. She vaguely heard Mr. Beddor shoo the barmaid away, mumbling something about not needing any help and felt blue eyes of the strange man trained on her once again. This did not go unnoticed by Jo. “What are you staring at, huh? Got a problem with my wife?” The man’s gaze swiveled to Jo and he said coolly, “No problem. Just observing.” 

Jo clenched her jaw. “Observe something else, or I’ll pop that smirk right off your face.” 

Nesta collected herself enough to place her hand on Jo’s, and shake her head. “I don’t need you to fight on my behalf.” 

 To her surprise, Jo acquiesced, murmuring a “Watch yourself” to the blue eyed man and slipping a protective hand around Nesta’s waist. She leaned in and her breath tickled Nesta’s ear. “Is this all right?” Nesta could only nod her head, her mind reeling. She could still see Clare’s red hair shining in the sun. After weeks of Elain blithely relating the story of the house fire and months of it being forgotten by everyone around her, she finally wasn’t the only one who knew there was something more than they were told. Her body seemed to sway against her will, sagging against Jo’s. She didn’t say anything, just gave Nesta a small squeeze. Nesta grabbed the glass of whiskey, drained what was left and set it down with a trembling hand. Only then did she dare crane her head over for another look at Clare’s grandfather. 

She had met him long ago, when she and Clare had just started to become close. He was thinner now, more sallow, with less hair and less of a sparkle in his eyes. “You know,” he accused Antonio, “I can see the guilty look in your eyes. Tell me, damn you!” 

Antonio swallowed, his voice slightly shaky as he said, “We have sent expeditions across fae borders to talk to the denizens, but most of our information about what happened Under the Mountain is second or third hand at best-” 

“Tell me!” 

Antonio let out a shaky breath. “She is gone, my friend. My deepest sympathies. If there is anything I can do-” Gone, gone, gone. Clare was gone. Her last real tether to her humanity. The part of Nesta that used to go on long walks around the village and gossip about which boys they were going to marry died along with her. There went Clare, the setting sun bouncing off her red hair, going back to her house the last time Nesta had seen her, turning to wave goodbye as she walked away, away, away.

“How.” The tone of Mr. Beddor’s voice told Nesta it wasn’t a question. Antonio looked even more uncomfortable, saying, “I often find the most comfort in knowing one’s earthly suffering is over-” 

Mr. Beddor threw his tankard of ale at the table and roared “You tell me what you know! You tell me right now!”

Most men Nesta knew from the village would have started a fight, but there was nothing in Antonio’s and his companion’s eyes but sympathy, even as the beer dripped down their fine linen clothes. “I am most sorry to say this,” Antonio began as gently as possible, “But based on all the accounts we’ve heard, we believe she was crucified.” Nesta’s body went completely limp against Johanna’s. Crucified. Jo grunted slightly as she adjusted to Nesta’s weight, taking one look at her face and then quickly ordering another whiskey. “It was a common punishment for slaves who raised their hands against their masters,” added Berwyn, “So it suggests your granddaughter had a fighting spirit until the end, if you can take comfort in that-” 

“Crucify them back!” shouted the old man, his face mottled in rage, “Get them back, I say! Isn’t that what you’re about? Justice for humans? Go out and get it!” 

Édouard raised his hands in surrender, “We are no warriors, sir. Several of our brothers and sisters are, but we were only sent to help Prythian regrow its crops. I spent most of my life in the Salvatorre Consortium studying soil.” 

“Then who do I write to? This Torchbearer woman? If my body weren’t failing me, I’d hunt them myself, but now who do I turn to? What do I do? How am I supposed to get them back now?” 

“Most of the perpetrators have already been slain. Our blessed ancestors in chains have taken their souls and are now visiting all the depravity they inflicted onto others onto them.” Berwyn said, trying to calm him. All four men looked immensely…sad. Nesta felt an unreasonable spike of anger. What right did they have to grieve? Clare was her friend. She looked down at the glass of whiskey in her hands and realized it had been drained too. Jo tucked her in closer, and Nesta allowed her head to rest on her shoulder, breathing in her lavender scent. 

“Most of them. Not all. So get your warriors and your ashtrees and go get the bastard!” 

 

“We cannot,” said Berwyn, “Even if we wished to.” 

 

“And why the hell not?” spat Clare’s grandfather. 

 

“There is only one faerie still alive who participated in Clare’s torture and death. He did not give the order, merely carried it out,” said Antonio, “And he is unreachable even to us, because he rules over the Night Court.” 

 (From the Salvatorre family archives, housed at the Consortium)

The testimony of DESDEMONA, the Illyrian woman who has sawed off her wings and fled to live amongst humans; I, Santiago Salvatore, the author of this document, attest that I have seen the remains of wings on her back, and swear this upon the graves of my ancestors who lived and died in chains. 

 

DESDEMONA says the ILLYRIANS are a brutal race. She attests that the male of the species mutilates the female upon her first blood by severing tendons in her wings, making it impossible to fly. The stated reasons are to keep the female safe, as an Illyrian who cannot fly cannot be called into battle. DESDEMONA asserts the true intent is subjugation. DESDEMONA had her wings clipped at the age of fourteen. DESDEMONA says it is painful and no pain relief is offered. DESDEMONA states she had attempted to fly away when she realized she had her first blood, but was chased and captured by the male warriors of her camp, including her own brothers and father. DESDEMONA says the Illyrian healer—himself a warrior—did stand by as the blade was drawn, offering no balm nor word of comfort, for it was not their way. 

DESDEMONA testifies that at but eight years of age, the Illyrian male is torn from his mother’s arms and cast into the war camps, that he may be made into a soldier before he be made a man. DESDEMONA states she had three brothers and that training had turned the eldest, KILLIAN , insane, killed the secondborn ALARIC , and turned the youngest, the formerly sweet DEVLON into a “ monster, unrecognizable .” DESDEMONA says whippings and bone breakings are common punishment and that she has heard the cries of young boys weeping for their mothers when it is most cruelly administered.

Thus doth the author conclude: that the Illyrian male, broken by whip and forged in battle, be made mad by the process, and that this madness be the source of his world-renowned savagery. Let it be known, then, that no woman among them is spared suffering, nor any man spared torment, and so is their strength built on the breaking of flesh. What creature forged thus can know mercy? 

Though cruel beyond reckoning, such customs befit a race made for war. Yet let it not be thought that mankind hath ever sought such barbarism for his own kin, for we do not break our children to make them men, nor shackle our daughters that they may be made less than they are. Such is the way of beasts, not men. Man is  weaker in strength, therefore he will assert his dominance in the domain of RATIONAL THOUGHT; he must strive, above all else, to use his WIT and CUNNING to defeat this foe. 

 

THE POSSIBILITY OF RENEWAL OF THE ILLYRIAN RACE; SPECULATIONS ON RHYSAND, THE NEW HIGH LORD  

 

THE HIGH LORD DAMON of the Night Court has been killed and succeeded by his son, Rhysand. THE HIGH LORD DAMON was mated to RHONWEN, a Illyrian seamstress , who was thereafter referred to as LADY RHONWEN OF THE NIGHT COURT. DESDEMONA attests that from this union came RHYSAND, a son, followed by RHAN, a daughter. DESDEMONA states the offspring of the LADY and HIGH LORD OF THE NIGHT COURT were thus half Illyrian, possessing the wings and strength intrinsic to the species. The wings of RHONWEN and RHAN were not clipped because of intercession by HIGH LORD DAMON. DESDEMONA states this caused malcontent among the Illyrians, that males and females alike were angered that their traditions were not followed, and some females were jealous. DESDEMONA states the royal family did not reside in Illyria , and that there were rumours of a secret place filled with gold and splendor where the Illyrians were not allowed entrance. This caused further malcontent amongst the Illyrians .  

Rhysand was sent to the war camps at the age of eight years, as was custom. DESDEMONA served the camp in the capacity of laundress. DESDEMONA states Rhysand pummeled his opponents most savagely, even at the tender age of eight. DESDEMONA states LADY RHONWEN OF THE NIGHT COURT, who took up residence in Illyria as Rhysand trained, did so purposefully and meaningfully recruit the strongest boys in the camp, Cassian and Azriel to be Rhysand ’s friends and allies, tutoring them and allowing them to stay at her home. DESDEMONA states the boy Azriel, who would later become the Shadowsinger, was only initiated after enduring many savage beatings at the hands of Rhysand and Cassian. DESDEMONA states Rhysand was the most powerful. DESDEMONA states Rhysand was known to be occasionally compassionate and she harbored hopes he would bring about positive change. 

Should the Illyrians be lifted from their stunted and savage ways, this author doth hold that RHYSAND must follow the course set by humankind in the wake of the Great Liberation and thusly; provide free public education; so must he establish vocational schools and apprenticeships so they may learn a trade; so must he seek to enrich their coffers, that they might partake in the high commerce of distant lands, rather than remain shackled to the crude barter of their war camps; so must he sponsor musicians and painters so they may be cultured; so must he and build roads and buildings for public use, so the wingless females may travel and enrich their minds with knowledge of other cities. This author also believes to combat the regressive culture of the Illyrians, Rhysand abolish the training of child soldiers , though it remains uncertain whether a people who have known only war shall so easily abandon it. The Illyrians would do well to heed the lessons of humankind, who cast off the shackles of oppression not with brute strength alone, but with knowledge and governance.The problem of wing clipping will be addressed once the males of the species are no longer driven to the brink of madness by torture administered by their leaders since childhood. 

For as long as memory serves, the Illyrians have known no law but that of strength. RHYSAND, being the strongest of them all shall win their respect and with this he must forge them anew, RHYSAND and break them of their ancient ways, lest they break him instead. Only time may tell if he is better than his peers.

Notes:

Don Chiflado potential mvp of the series, Berwyn is going to air out everyone's personal business like his life depends on it, what a time we're having! drop your theories on who jo's mysterious ally could be!

Chapter 14: Oh, my Johanna, Johanna

the species are no longer driven to the brink of madness by torture administered by their leaders since childhood. 

For as long as memory serves, the Illyrians have known no law but that of strength. RHYSAND, being the strongest of them all shall win their respect and with this he must forge them anew, RHYSAND and break them of their ancient ways, lest they break him instead. Only time may tell if he is better than his peers. 

“There is only one faerie still alive who participated in Clare’s torture and death. He did not give the order, merely carried it out,” said Antonio, “And he is unreachable even to us, because he rules over the Night Court.” 

 

There was a beat of pure silence. And then Nesta leaned forward and emptied her stomach all over the bar. There was a terrible ringing in her ears, but she could vaguely hear the barmaid’s cry of distress, the jingle of coins as Jo threw some on the table to calm her, and feel Jo’s arm tightening around her as her other hand came up to check Nesta’s forehead. Jo leaned in and tried to say something, but Nesta twisted herself around and asked the men, “ How? How do you know it was Rhysand?” Her head spun and her vision spotted. 

To her surprise, two of the group were already on their feet and walking towards her. She braced herself for a fight, but Edouard only pulled some sort of powder out of his pocket and sprinkled it over her sick. The acrid smell of vomit lessened, and upon seeing the barmaid still gagging, he grabbed the rag from her and began to clean it himself. Berwyn went around the back and reappeared with a glass of water, holding it out to Nesta. “To rinse your mouth with. I have some things I can mix it with, because salt cleanses and crushed limestone will-” 

Nesta knocked the glass out of his hand, sending it sprawling to the floor where it shattered. “Tell me right now!” Johanna yanked her in and hissed in her ear. “I can tell you. Just breathe, for the love of the ancestors.”

Antonio put his hands up and said placatingly, “Our primary sources are human soldiers who fraternized with the Fae during the war and the faeries who previously resided beyond the Wall coming into Prythian for the first time. A trusted ally has also spoken directly with a High Fae who was Under the Mountain.” 

Nesta opened up her mouth to say something else, but the barmaid only yelled at her. “Get out! Get out of this tavern right this instant!” 

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time Nesta had been kicked out of a bar. She shoved Jo away and stalked outside, slamming the door behind her. Jo tried to follow, but the barmaid said something about settling their bill. Good. How dare she know something about Clare and not tell her? Her boots made a satisfying crunch against the gravel in the dirt as she marched over to Don Chiflado. At least one creature here was as high strung as she was. She stopped short as she rounded the corner and saw the man with pale eyes trying to swing himself into Don’s saddle. He must have slipped out while all the commotion was happening.

“He’s very loyal. You’re probably going to get thrown.” The man froze at the sound of her voice right before he was indeed thrown off. He tumbled unceremoniously to the ground where he narrowly avoided being crushed by the stallion’s hooves by rolling safely out of range. Don stamped the ground a few more times for emphasis, before tossing his mane and giving Nesta a huff that almost seemed…proud? “Atta boy, Lord Crazy,” she murmured before stomping over to the man and grabbing him by the shirt and yanking him up. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” It probably would have been wiser to let him scurry away, but rage had her in its fiery grasp, squeezing and choking the sense out of her. She shook him and repeated “What the hell were you thinking?” His face morphed into Feyre’s, and then Rhysand’s. “Why would you do something like that?” Why wouldn’t you even tell me? Don’t you think I loved her just as much as you love your precious circle? Do you truly think I’m so unfeeling and cruel that I didn’t lie awake at night, thinking about the fact they never found her body, over and over and over again? I worried, I wept, I prayed, and you didn’t care at all. 

Nesta realized tears were falling down her face at the same time the man realized he was significantly heavier and stronger than she was. He grabbed her right back and dragged her down with him. Nesta knew she should have had some magical fae strength, but her body was weakened by the months of abusing it with alcohol. He pinned her beneath him, pulling her up and slamming her onto the ground. “What the hell were you thinking, you crazy bitch?” Nesta’s body seized as she was reminded of Tomas. But this time, instead of the crippling panic that usually seized her an eerie calm spread over her. The man’s pale blue eyes widened in shock, perhaps in reaction to the silver flames swirling in her own. She said calmly. “I’m going to kill you.” 

The man began to scream as he realized that the hands holding him were on fire. It should have burned him. She should have felt heat, but instead, she felt nothing but ice seeping through her fingers. The same icy coldness she had felt being plunged into the Cauldron leaching from her hands onto him. His eyes were wide with terror as the skin licked by the silver flames deadened and blackened. See how you feel? Not everyone likes the cold. Don’t scream too loud, now. Don’t cause too much of a fuss about it, or they’ll lock you in the House of Wind. The chill in her body was numbing instead of frightening, and the Cauldron called to her. Nesta…. it crooned… Nesta…Nes…ta…

“Nesta!” Jo’s panicked shout snapped her out of it right before the man was sent flying off of her with a kick. Johanna crouched over her, pulling her into a sitting position, ignoring the dirt on her dress and vomit on her breath. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Nesta couldn’t bring herself to answer. She only watched as Johanna’s gaze darted from her face to something behind her and her hand snaked out. Nesta barely caught the gleam on a knife as she twisted his wrist. He grunted in pain but was able to pull back without dropping it. And then they were up on their feet, roaring and dodging and kicking. Soft, wrinkled hands pulled Nesta out of range and she watched Johanna go to work. The man was big, over six foot. Johanna was taller, but he was stockier and had more muscle. And he still had his knife. 

He lunged forward, slashing with the dagger, but Johanna’s leg snapped out, the ball of her foot driving into his stomach and sending him backwards. The knife sliced nothing but air. He tried again with the same result, and finally got the bright idea to drive the knife into the leg that was kicking him by slashing near his stomach, but Jo had switched and now stomped on his knee, hard. His leg buckled and he leaned forward. As soon as he was within range of Johanna’s fists, a swift uppercut ended everything. He sprawled back into the dirt and didn’t move.

Nesta swallowed, hoping no one noticed the dead spots of blackened skin on the man’s chest but now that he was down, Johanna only had eyes for her. She whirled around, her braid whipping behind her. “Willow? You all right, my love?” Everything snapped back into focus. She and Johanna were pretending to be Willow and Daniel, a human couple. She looked behind her and realized the hands that had pulled her away from the fighting belonged to Berwyn, who looked at her with a crease between his brows. “I…yes, Daniel. I’m okay.” She gave everyone a shaky smile, but Berwyn crouched next to her, keeping a respectful distance. “Antonio was only joking about me being brought along for my cooking skills,” he said softly, “I’m a physician. Willow, do you need any sort of help? We can do it in private, or you can bring your husband with you if you feel safer.” Nesta realized what the scene looked like, with the pale stranger straddling her and pinning her down, and her face burned with shame. “I’m not…I’m not hurt. He didn’t…do anything.” 

“Even if he did, there’s no shame in it,” Antonio, having also come out of the bar, said gently. He twisted the purple cloth around his wrist, looking agitated, “I suppose us being men doesn’t reassure you. We should have one of our sisters with us to help, we usually would, but…”

“Women are the first targets when a land descends into lawlessness,” said Johanna darkly, contrasting the gentle way she pulled Nesta to her feet. “Trust me, I understand.” 

Antonio nodded. “That’s what we’re trying to prevent…but who even keeps the law in this town? What is the law? They don’t codify anything here…” Nesta almost stifled a laugh. Her assessment of him as an academic out of his depth had been correct, then. 

“Law is whatever the strongest man says it is, partner,” said Johanna, casting an ominous glare at the man coughing up blood on the ground. 

He dragged himself up to his knees, wheezing at Berwyn, “Aren’t you supposed to be helping all of humanity? I’m dying here. I was only trying to steal the horse, I swear it.” 

Berwyn narrowed his eyes at him and retorted in the tone of a school teacher scolding a child, “We saw what you did. You sit there and suffer.” 

“He really was only trying to steal the horse,” echoed Nesta weakly. She would deal with the situation at hand and deal with the swirling emotions within her later. She shoved them down, down, into a box where they belonged and sealed the lid tight. “I tried to stop him. We were fighting.” 

Berwyn crouched next to her, still watching her with that same unreadable frown. He had seen what she did. They all had. But instead of asking about it, he held out a fresh cup of water. "You still need to rinse your mouth," he said, as if nothing had happened. "Salt will cleanse, and crushed limestone will soothe the burning. But I understand if you don’t want a strange man putting powders in your water.”

“Salt and limestone.” Nesta croaked. “Go for it.” 

As she gargled and spit, Johanna looked back and forth between the man Nesta had burned and the Brothers, and said, “Why don’t we have a chat?” 

Antonio and Berwyn followed her and Nesta to an empty area behind the stables. Johanna rolled her shoulders and said casually, “That was some freak accident, wasn’t it? Guess that’s what happens when you keep matches in your front pocket.”  

Antonio and Berwyn glanced at each other before Antonio jerked his head towards Nesta. With a growing sense of horror, she realized the scuffle had undone her neat braid, revealing the tips of her pointed ears. She scrambled to cover them up again, but the damage had been done. Johanna sunk into a fighting stance, but Berywn raised his hands in surrender, saying calmly, “We have no interest in telling anyone.” 

“Telling anyone what , exactly?” Johanna growled. Her fists were still raised.

Berwyn kept his cool demeanor. “I was on the run from someone once, too. My path led to the Church, into the arms of my brothers and sisters. Yours may divulge, but know that the Church offers sanctuary; once you are inside one of our temples and claim the right of sanctuary, none can remove you. Construction of our temple in Camibra should be nearly complete. We can escort you there.” Nesta recognized the name of a port city on the southern tip of Prythian. She swallowed. “And what strings are attached? What do you expect me to do in return?” 

“You get assigned work if you choose to become an acolyte…but for just a normal claim of sanctuary…” Antonio frowned, seemingly confused, “The…the point is that there are no strings. We live our lives in service to humanity.” 

“I’m not human. You saw my ears. There’s no need to pretend anymore.” Nesta choked out. She was completely alien to them, just as alien as Rhysand must have seemed to Clare. Was his face the last thing she saw? Did he give her that same self satisfied smirk that was so often directed at Nesta as he cut her open? 

“No,” said Antonio, “You are humanity’s savior. We owe you a debt of gratitude. For five hundred years, the souls of the humans Hybern tormented cried out for justice and did not receive it. Now you have delivered him into their arms so they can take their due in the afterlife. Did you not, Nesta Archeron?”

Nesta froze, and Johanna went to swing before Berwyn said wryly, “I’ll tell your mother on you, Johanna.” 

She froze midair, her voice dropping back to its usual timbre. “Oh, what the fuck ?” 

“I was at your confirmation when you received your purple cloth. The virtues of determination, righteousness, bravery and compassion were represented on it, I believe.” Nesta didn’t particularly care about whatever weird religious ritual Johanna had taken part in. She glanced at Don Chiflado, wondering if they could make a run for it. 

“Brother Ilthell? You went completely gray since then? It’s only been…” Jo said incredulously. 

“Ten years? Yes, my dear, that’s how aging works, I’m afraid.” Berwyn said wryly, before the amusement faded from his eyes and he said gently, “I’m sorry about your brothers, Johanna.” 

“Yeah, well, me too.” Johanna muttered, scuffing her fine boots in the dirt without a care for the leather. 

“Your zeal regarding keeping order and distributing much needed food during the first few months was admirable. I am sorry we couldn’t be here sooner, but it takes a great deal of time to mobilize such a large force. We are eternally grateful to you.” Antonio said. 

“Yeah, well…didn’t last very long, did I?” Johanna scoffed. 

Berwyn glanced between the two women and said gently, “No one can carry the weight of the world on their shoulders for long before buckling.”

Johanna just crossed her arms, looking away. 

Nesta swallowed. “If they know...if the Night Court finds out you helped me…” She couldn’t bear to speak the words. He could do to you what he did to Clare. 

Berwyn shrugged. “Then they know. Such is life.” 

She almost felt the world swaying beneath her feet. With a start, she remembered Azriel. Azriel, with his daggers and the blank look in his eyes whenever he came back from an “interrogation.” 

“The torture people. They…they torture people.” Nesta choked out. It had been easy enough to ignore when it was aimed at their mutual enemies, dress it up and call it justice. But now the Night Court’s “enemies” were a kindly old man and an earnest academic who had sailed to Prythian to help. They wouldn’t go that far. They couldn’t. Could they? 

Rather than being phased, Antonio looked puzzled. “Whatever for? Can’t the High Lord read minds quite easily?” 

“I…I…he can,” Nesta admitted, having never thought of the contradiction before, “So can Feyre.”

“For sport, then. Unfortunate.” Berwyn’s voice was cheerful. “We would of course appreciate any information about the Night Court you can offer, including why you’re on the run. Please don’t take offense, but I suspect you aren’t quite the obstinate human rights crusader Johanna portrayed you as in the bar, although that was a clever idea.” Jo huffed in acknowledgment, still bothered by whatever seemed to bother her all the time. 

“Tell me about Clare. You said you knew.” Nesta whirled on Jo, who was now intent on kicking a rock. Her leg froze in midair and  Antionio interjected on her behalf, “When we spoke in the bar about a source of ours making an alliance with a High Fae who was Under the Mountain, we were indeed speaking of Johanna. Although she is magically bound against revealing who it is.” 

Jo affirmed what Antonio had said. “Yeah. But keep in mind that he’s not exactly an unbiased source. But through bargain magic, we agreed to tell each other solely the truth whenever we met to exchange information, so it is…a truth. His truth.” 

“I don’t care!” Nesta snarled, “Just tell me, for the love of the Mother!”

Jo tugged at her braid somewhat nervously. “So Amarantha hears that there’s a human girl staying with Tamlin, and she’s worried because the curse she placed on everyone will lift if a human falls in love with Tamlin. So she sends Rhysand, who’s like, her right hand man, to go over there and harass Tamlin and get this girl’s name.” Feyre. The girl had been Feyre. But why…

“And when he returns, he says the girl’s name is Clare Beddor. So Amarantha sends her minions out through a hole in the Wall, they kill the Beddor family, bring back Clare and…well, you know what happens next. Amarantha, um displayed her body. As a way of intimidating Feyre when she came to do her trials.” Jo was looking at her with a crease between her brow. Nesta felt the world tilt on its axis. Jo added, “I’m I…I didn’t know. I didn’t know you knew her.”

“But why ,” Nesta breathed, “Why Clare? She never hurt anyone. She never…she never did anything. Why would they give Amarantha her name?”

Jo shrugged, glancing at the two men standing patiently beside them. “I don’t know. We don’t even know who made the switch or whose idea it was. Maybe Feyre gave him a fake name and he didn’t know it. Maybe she gave him her real name but he gave a different one to Amarantha to protect her. Maybe he, Tamlin, Lucien, and Feyre all agreed on it because they wanted the curse broken. I’m sorry, Nesta. I’m really sorry.” 

“Why didn’t she tell me ?” Nesta breathed, “She knew. She knew. When she came over to have a nice fucking family dinner -” she kicked a rock of her own now, sending it flying into the air much further than should be possible, “And Elain blabbered about that stupid house fire story, and I looked at her, and I knew that she knew something but if I pressed her about it everyone would think I was the bitch and the males sitting across from me could snap my human bones like a toothpick!” Her breathing was heavy. 

“She should have given you that closure, Nesta,” Berwyn said gently, “I am very sorry. When I was a child my younger brother simply wandered into the forest and never returned. Grief is a great burden, surely, but to be left wondering forever, ‘ what happened to them?’ is uniquely agonizing. It eats at you. I would never wish that upon my worst enemy. You should have been told.” 

“Yeah, I fucking should have! They should have told me a lot of shit!” Nesta could feel her face heating, “You’re right, I’m not some great hero. I did nothing after the war but drink and debase myself. I ran because they threatened to fix me.”

“Threatened to fix you?” Berwyn said gently. Jo shook her head, as if trying to tell him it was a sensitive topic, but Nesta barreled right on ahead. “Yes. I was going to be sent to the House of Wind to train , under Cassian’s supervision of course. Just me and him. Working in their library and swinging a sword in front of a bunch of Illyrians who would tear me in half if given the chance.” 

“Cassian? The Lord of Bloodshed? A man ?” Antonio seemed astonished. “No, no, no, men must never be the jailers of women. This is a lesson humans learned long ago. They will abuse that power.”

“Cassian isn’t…he’s not that sort of male,” Nesta said tiredly, but Berwyn narrowed his eyes, “Forgive me, Nesta, but is this man one you have had…romantic contact with in the past? One that you rejected, perhaps?” 

The look on Nesta’s face seemed to tell him all he needed and he continued, “It seems that this is less of a helping hand and more of a scheme, in which they hope the isolation will break you and you will turn to him for companionship.” 

“Ah!” said Antonio, “Yes, indeed. A spurned suitor tried to do that with Queen Eleanor just three hundred years prior!” 

“Yeah, I’ve been telling her how fucked up it is just fine, thanks.” said Jo, casting a glance at Nesta she couldn’t decipher, “But yeah, you know how men are. I guarantee that he’d run you ragged under the guise of training to humiliate you back for rejecting him. There’s nothing more dangerous than a man’s wounded ego. I can’t believe they would trap you with him .” 

“Oh, I forgot. I’m not actually trapped because anytime I want out I can just walk down ten thousand steps!” Nesta spat. She was glad she had burned that man. Her flames needed a release and if she hadn’t taken it out on him, she didn’t know where they would have gone. 

“Ten thousand steps? What nature of building is this House of Wind?” Antonio’s curiosity was piqued. Nesta opened her mouth, but Berwyn held up a hand. “We will keep your more personal matters private, of course, but we are men of learning. We cannot hide knowledge from our peers. Don’t say anything that could cause reprisals if they find you-”

“Oh they can reprise me all they want,” Nesta huffed, “I don’t care. Just like they didn’t care enough to tell me about my best friend.” And then told them about the House of Wind, and Rhysand, and Feyre, and the Inner Circle until she was nearly out of breath, and then kept going. The looks of shock, horror and disapproval only spurred her on. See, her mind crowed every time Berwyn would crease his brow or Johanna would clench her fists, see, you aren’t crazy. They’re all having the same reaction you did. She told them every single little thing, every detail she could remember, the full story of her and her interactions with the faeries. By the time she finished, the sun had set. She took deep gasps of air as she finished, feeling as though a weight had been lifted off her chest. 

“I knew Elain never had a spine when it came to you.” Jo muttered. 

 

“So everyone in their court lives in varying degrees of hell except for one city that they favor above all else? How have they not rebelled yet?” Antonio mused. “I mean, a disenfranchised rural population shedding blood for a city of moneyed merchants that reap the rewards of their sacrifice, not to mention the fact they were barred from entering for thousands of years. That’s a powder keg. One of them is going to get the idea to become a demagogue or a revolutionary and then the stability of the court is gone .” 

 

“I can’t believe they still haven’t taken any substantive action against the issue of wing clipping after five hundred years,” Berwyn said, a little dazed, “We have testimony from and Illyrian woman who escaped from Night when the first War broke out, and their society sounds…the exact same. The laws sound the same. The…everything.” 

 

“Change takes time. That’s what they say.” Nesta scoffed. 

 

“The more personal insights were most intriguing,” said Berwyn, trying to keep a serious tone, “The melodrama, especially between Cassian Mor and Azriel strikes me as…very juvenile. Most intriguing.” 

 

“You old gossip,” Antonio chided, “We’re meant to be looking at this academically.” 

 

“I am,” said Berwyn, “I think knowing about their interpersonal dynamic is tantamount to understanding them. The private lives of rulers are always made into public knowledge, anyways.” 

 

“He’s been bored because there’s not been any drama since we landed here,” said Antonio with a sigh. Nesta felt Jo gently rubbing her shoulder, up and down, up and down, a soothing rhythm. 

 

“He’s worse than an old fishmonger’s wife!” Antonio continued, shaking his head, “For shame, Berwyn, for shame.” 

 

“I promise I will never speak of anything I don’t think is absolutely necessary from an academic perspective,” Berwyn said serenely. 

 

“Spread their personal business to every corner of Prythian. I don’t care.” The fire had leached out of Nesta, leaving her cold. As if sensing this, Jo’s hand started moving more quickly. 

 

“So…how is this story going to get out, exactly?” Jo said, “Are we staying with the defender of humanity angle?” 

 

Nesta had completely forgotten about angles and manipulation and Rhysand’s reputation. 

 

“Why don’t we just tell them the truth,” said Berwyn, “They tried to lock Nesta away with a man whose advances she rejected. Now she’s on the run.” 

 

“You are still the woman who killed Hybern,” Antonio reminded her, “I don’t think it will be as difficult to drum up support amongst the common folk as you think it is.”

“We could contact Adelaide back in Portsmouth,” mused Berwyn, “Have her whip up some sort of folk song about Nesta’s heroism, see if we can’t spread it organically.” 

“You’ve got a printing press shipped here, haven’t you?” Jo asked, “Make some posters to nail up wherever you go. Something simple. Make a rough sketch of Clare and write ‘Are you next?’ under it or something like that.” 

“ No ,” Nesta spat, wrenching herself from Johanna’s touch, “You are not using her body as some kind of propaganda tool. It’s great of you to help me but I told you what I did out of spite, not because I want to be part of your fucked up scheme to make all of Prythian hate the fae. I’m one of them now in case you hadn’t noticed.” 

“The ones trying to completely alienate fae and humans are an entirely different offshoot of the church,” Antonio huffed, sounding offended, “You’re thinking of the Elodean sect. We’re Almirans, we’re much more moderate .” 

“I don’t give a fuck!” Nesta glared at him. 

“Look, Nesta, I’m sorry, that was fucked up of me to suggest, ok?” Jo said placatingly, “But you know my family has a seat on the Senate back home, and I’ve shadowed Abuela for enough time to know that everything comes down to perception. Everything. We need people to be on your side, not theirs.” 

“Fine. Just don’t bring Clare into it.” Nesta turned her back and stomped towards the horse. She felt exhausted all of a sudden. As if the weight of the world had jumped from Johanna's shoulders to hers.

 

Chapter 15: Who am I,

Notes:

formatting on mobile is HELL everyone send up a prayer this comes out looking okay. my laptop is a MacBook if that tells you anything about the battery life. It’s been on 7% for the last two hours.

 

(See the end of the chapter for more notes .)

Chapter Text

Before: 

And the blow landed again, even worse than the first one. And Nesta still didn’t feel any better than she had before. Tears welled in her eyes, and she choked out, “That’s cruel of you to say, because… because—” A breath, a glance away. “Because James is in love with you!” The words came out in a rush. “And—and he wants to take you to Marivena! Show you the libraries, get you a tutor, take you to school with him—if you wanted to go. He told me to tell you.”

“Then James is an idiot,” Nesta sneered, “He goes to an all boy’s school, and he’s hardly spoken to me since you got back almost two years ago.” She stared at Johanna, waiting for her to crack and say what she suspected she really meant, and finally said, “If someone was truly in love with me, they’d have the courage to tell me to my face.” 

Johanna’s lip trembled. She took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling. She seemed to be on the verge of saying something until she met Nesta’s eyes, and then she turned and ran from the ballroom as fast as she could. That was another thing she and Nesta had in common. They couldn’t bear to let anyone see them cry. 

Nesta stood, arms crossed tight, telling herself she didn’t care about Johanna’s abrupt exit. In her periphery vision, she saw a pair of long legs sidling up next to her. Maxim leaned against the wall, mimicking Nesta’s position, before huffing dramatically and saying, “Some ball, huh?” 

“Yeah.” Nesta ground out. She was a mess of tangled emotions, sadness and hurt and desire twisting and jockeying for their place. Max cast a critical glance towards her tear streaked face and said lightly, “My niece didn’t say anything terrible, did she?” 

“She did. I don’t understand what her problem is.” As handsome as he was, Max was an unwanted presence. She craned her neck up to look at him, all seven feet. Or that’s what people said. She didn’t think he was quite that tall. 

“Ah, Johanna. I think she and I may have some of the same problems.” Max gave a saucy wink to one of the barons across the room, who immediately flushed and turned away, before sighing and saying, “Would you mind telling me what corridor she ran off too? I am her chaperone, after all. It’s a terrible look for me.” 

Nesta jutted her thumb to her right. Max glanced at her. “Are you yourself all right? I don’t see your chaperone anywhere.” 

“Why do you care?” 

“Any friend of Johanna’s is a friend of mine,” Max put a hand over his heart, “And besides, I'm in the market for a new niece. She’s turned into a terrible bully lately, if you haven’t noticed. Doesn’t want to hear any of my stories about my time in Jiuzhou. Breaks my heart. Oh, but who cares about poor Maxímo’s feelings? Not a person in the world.” 

Nesta huffed. “I don’t want to hear any of your Jiuzhou stories either. If you’re looking for an audience try the ladies who have been hounding you all night.” 

“I came to you to get away from them! Heartless, the both of you!” 

“And as for my chaperone, he’s busy socializing.” Nesta continued as if Max hadn't spoken. Her father was likely thrilled to rub elbows with the elites, and his daughter had been left by the wayside. 

“So he is.” Max said evenly. Nesta couldn’t stop herself from saying, “ You’re very popular.” 

Max flashed her a grin. “I always am. There are throngs wherever I go. It gets exhausting, really.” 

“Poor you.” She saw a lord beginning to approach her, the grey hairs on his head sticking out like a sore thumb. She knew Mother would want her to stand up straight, to smile, but she felt frozen. I don’t want to. I don’t want him to hold my waist or hands while we dance. 

Noticing this, Max narrowed his eyes at him and offered her a hand. “Looks like we’re both being thronged. Care for a dance?” 

Nesta hesitated, staring at Max’s outstretched hand like it was a trick. Max Salvatorre asking for a dance had been a prominent feature of her and Elain’s wildest fantasies they had whispered to each other between giggles, but now it was happening and Nesta couldn’t even enjoy it because she was so upset about Jo. 

He gave her a look—half challenge, half warmth—and wiggled his fingers. “Come now. I promise not to spin you too many times.”

“I don’t feel like dancing,” she said stiffly.

“Sometimes doing the opposite of what we want is the best path” Max arched his brow. “That’s something I learned in Jianzhou.”

“I don’t care about Jianzhou.” Nesta didn’t know why she put her hand in his. Maybe it was just to spite the gray-haired lord, who was now veering off course, or maybe it was the way Max was looking at her—not like she was a failed daughter or a foolish girl, but someone worth rescuing.

He led her to the floor with easy grace, weaving through the glittering couples. She was sure people were staring. Let them. She had heard whispers behind feathered fans that Max was dangerous and a wild man . Good. Maybe then the Lords would be so intimidated they’d avoid her for the rest of the night, and nobody could even blame her for it

The music shifted into a slow, elegant waltz. Max placed a hand lightly at her back, guiding her through the steps, but soon pulled back when he realized it wasn’t necessary. Nesta was rigid at first, her heart still throbbing with emotion. She executed the steps perfectly, but without the rhythm and grace that was expected of her. 

“You’re thinking too hard,” Max advised, “Waltzing is mostly pretending you don’t have any problems.”

“I have a lot of problems.” 

“So do I. But Johanna says you are an excellent dancer, and right now, we are the most dazzling pair on the floor, and everyone else is deeply jealous. That’s my great goal in life, you know.”

She snorted, despite herself.

“Ah, there’s that smile,” he said, eyes twinkling.

“I wasn’t smiling.”

“You were about to. I’m counting it.”

For a moment, she didn’t feel abandoned or embarrassed or small. She felt like a girl at a ball, dancing with someone who didn’t expect her to be anything else. A girl, not a woman. She couldn’t tell why exactly it was different, she just knew it was.

Max guided them into a smooth spin. “You know,” he said softly, “when I was Johanna’s age, I used to sneak out of parties like this all the time. Too many people watching. Too many rules I didn’t want to follow. I could never dance with the people I really wanted to.”

Nesta looked up at him sharply. “Why not? You’re a Salvatorre. Everyone wants to dance with you.” 

“Except the ones I wanted to dance with,” he sighed, a wistful look in his eyes, “There are some things that a good family name and all the money in the world can’t buy.” Nesta’s feet moved effortlessly as she tried to parse out his words. Dancing was easy, instinctive. The complex web of double meanings in people’s words was not. 

“You are a very skilled dancer, indeed,” said Max, “I suspect Johanna wants to dance with you.” 

Nesta was still too shaken from their argument to put the effort into interpreting the words' meaning into anything else than what was said. “Jo doesn’t like dancing. She likes rock climbing and horseback riding.” 

“I think she would dance if it was you,” said Max, “But it would never be proper. Look around. Every partnership is one man and one woman, each expected to dance slightly differently according to their roles. Two women couldn’t dance. It would be seen as improper.” 

“Oh,” said Nesta, finally realizing. 

“She’ll be all right,” Max added. “It just takes time to figure yourself out.”

Nesta didn’t respond immediately, but her chest ached a little less. “What do you, when you want to dance with someone who…who wouldn’t be proper?” 

“We dance in secret.” 

“Doesn’t it get…tiring? Always being a secret?” 

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s thrilling, other times saddening. But it’s worth it, to me,” Max said, “And it’s not a complete isolation. My little sister knows, as do her children. She doesn’t mind, and neither do they.” 

Nesta narrowed her eyes, deciding to change the subject from dancing. “Jo said her mom was born first, and you’re five minutes younger.” 

“That is a slanderous lie and false accusation. I cannot believe Zoraida has embarked on a propaganda campaign.” 

“And you’re…here to check on her?” Nesta asked hesitantly. She regretted the harsh words spoken to Johanna about her mother, but the topic had made her curious. 

“I’m here to check her egregious slander.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “When did you last see her, Nesta? She was always fond of you.” 

Nesta had no idea why Mrs. Salvatorre would be fond of her, but responded, “I haven’t seen her since the family returned.” Max blanched and stumbled at that, and Nesta made a smooth correction, continuing the waltz at the correct pace.  “How strange. How strange indeed.” His tone was light, his eyes troubled. 

“Has Johanna’s father done something…something wrong?” Nesta was almost afraid to ask, “She’s so angry, I think she might hit him.” The question hung unspoken in the air. And would he hit her back? 

“Most men in Prythian are doing something wrong where it concerns their wives,” his smile still hadn’t reached his eyes, “But never fear. I’m here to solve things, and solve them I shall.” 

“With the skills you learned in Jianzhou?” 

“Precisely.”

They finished the dance in silence, and when it ended, Max gave her a dramatic bow, making several nearby ladies titter.

“Thank you, lady of the hour,” he said, offering his arm as they stepped off the floor. “And now, back to the shadows? Or shall we scandalize the aristocracy with a second dance?”

Nesta almost smiled again. Almost.

“Maybe later,” she said. “I need some air.”

Max nodded. “Take your time. And if any more lords try their luck, just tell them you’re already engaged to a war hero with a tragic backstory. That tends to shut them up.”

She huffed a laugh, the sound low and grateful. Then she slipped away, head held high, the ache in her chest no longer quite so sharp. 

“Alright, remind me what I’m meant to be teaching her. Knife work?” Azriel grinned at Cassian, confused when it wasn’t returned. He had scanned the mortal lands upon his return and hadn’t seen a sign of Nesta by that old cottage, or indeed anywhere else. After two weeks of routing both Briallyn and the Raskans, he was absolutely exhausted, but glad that both he and Nesta were home at last. 

“Teaching who?” There was so much he could have and should have surmised from Cassian’s tone of voice and the way he stood, but he was so, so, tired. He had wanted to cheer up his brother, check in on Nesta, and sleep. Preferably for several days. So instead of drawing his conclusions, he resorted to the old fashioned way. Words. “Nesta,” said Azriel, “Where is she, anyways?” 

Cassian glared at him, his jaw ticking. “That’s not funny at all. You tell me. You’re the one watching her.” 

“No,” said Azriel slowly, “I’m not. My shadows can’t reach her from Rask. Rhysand is watching her.” He hadn’t slept in so long, but he knew the kind of deep sleep he needed to recover from it wasn’t safe in enemy territory. So he had pushed himself, and pushed himself, and pushed himself, until he had finally arrived home. 

“Rhysand had to go to Hewn City with Mor and said that Nesta’s stay in the mortal lands would be extended until he got back,” said Cassian, “I just came back from Illyria. Feyre’s not allowed to leave Velaris in her current condition and has been completely consumed mitigating the fallout of an explosion from the alchemist’s quarters,” Cassian’s voice grew more frantic as he went on, “and when I asked her she told me you were watching Nesta. That leaves Amren, and she’s practically powerless,” Cassian’s hazel eyes were panicked, “So who was looking after Nesta? She’s still stuck in the mortal lands.” 

“She's not,” said Azriel, swaying on his feet, “I checked. She’s not there.” 

Cassian’s face paled. “Then where the hell is she?” 

“Not in a dungeon,” said Azriel, stumbling to the couch, “I didn’t put her there. I would never put anyone in a dungeon.” He collapsed onto the cushions and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.  

“How the hell could you let this happen?” Feyre wrung her hands in agitation. “You said Azriel would watch her. And now she’s gone. ” 

There was a tense silence. The Inner Circle, sans Azriel who was still sleeping, had all gathered. Cassian cast a glance at each of them in turn. Amren looked bored, Feyre scared of her mind, Mor annoyed and Rhys…Rhys ran an agitated hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I had to send Azriel away to stop Briallyn from making any dangerous alliances. And there was an open rebellion in Hewn City. There were too many emergencies. I…I didn’t think she would disappear like that. It’s not even been three weeks.” 

“And Nesta’s safety isn’t an emergency?” Feyre said, her fists clenched. 

“The girl is right,” Amren drawled, “All that power she’s holding inside of her is greater than all the fae in Hewn City combined, and you let her slip from our grasp. You should have thought critically about what posed the greatest risk to our court.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” snapped Feyre, “And I don’t appreciate you calling my sister a risk. She wouldn’t hurt us.” 

“Not on purpose,” interjected Mor, “But if magic is forcibly kept dormant for too long, it explodes. Do you really want the first news of her we hear to be that she leveled a city in a fit of drunken anger?” 

“Nesta wouldn’t do that,” Cassian growled. 

“Like I said,” Mor raised her hands, “Not on purpose.” 

“We need to wake Azriel. See what his shadows can find out.” Amren’s tone was imperious, and Rhysand bristled at it. “No,” he said firmly, “He’s been awake for two weeks straight, and we’re going to let him rest for as long as he needs.” Feyre nodded her head in agreement, and Cassian added, “Az was dead on his feet when he got here. I bet whatever check he did wasn’t up to his usual standards.”  

Rhysand’s shoulders slumped in relief. “See,” he told Feyre, “There’s nothing to worry about. Nesta’s probably in the same place we left her, or wandered around for a bit, and Az just missed her because he was tired.” 

Mor scoffed. “Who wants to wager she’s at the nearest bar? Can’t be that hard to find.”

Feyre shot her a look and then said, “I don’t care where she is or who she’s with. Rhysand, you said you’d bring her here as soon as you and Mor returned from Hewn City. You’re back. So go get her. Or better yet, I will.” 

“There’s no need, darling. We can send someone else. That’s the best part of being a High Lord, delegating the more undesirable tasks to your underlings,” Rhysand crooned, his confidence back now that he’d seized on an explanation for Nesta’s absence, “Besides, I want to show you how very much I missed you those weeks down in the Court of Nightmares.” Cassian looked down, as he always did whenever his High Lord and Lady got too comfortable in front of an audience. After a moment of silence that indicated Feyre and Rhysand were having another one of their mental conversations through the bond, Feyre relented. 

“Fine. We’ll send Mor.” 

“ Mor!? ” Cassian’s jaw dropped, “But they hate each other!” 

Mor didn’t deny it, only saying “It’s not as though they’re asking me to go to a slumber party with her. All I need to do is grab her and winnow her back. Easy.” 

“Why not me?” Cassian bit out, and something in Feyre’s gaze softened. 

“Because winnowing is faster than flying, Cass,” she said, “You can see Nesta just as soon as she gets back.” 

“Don’t tell me you’re doubting my skills?” Mor said, an eyebrow raised. It rankled Cassian that she wasn’t taking this seriously. “Back in a flash.” And indeed, with a flash of golden light, Mor was gone. 

She came back too quickly, and without Nesta. The look on her face made Cassian’s heart drop to his stomach. “Feyre…” she said haltingly, “I…I…” she swallowed, seemingly unable to continue. 

“Spit it out,” the panic in Feyre’s voice broke his heart, “Spit it out, Mor.” 

Mor put her hands up. “I haven’t seen the…aftermath. But when I winnowed to where we left Nesta, there was ash dust all over the area. As if someone had intentionally spread it. And…and…I put on a glamor, disguised myself as an old lady, and wandered in to ask the townsfolk…they…I…” 

“No,” said Cassian, “ No .” 

“They called a bounty hunter of sorts. He showed up, walked over to where Nesta was, and came riding back out with…with her body slung over the saddle. They said he rode east.” 

The world fell out from under Cassian’s feet. “No. No. If she was gone, I would feel it. She’s my-”

“She could have used a glamour of her own to get out of there,” said Rhysand desperately, “It was probably a trick.” 

“Glamour magic she learned from who? She refused all my teachings,” Amren said pointedly. 

“She must have healed herself, then,” Rhysand said desperately, “Human weapons can’t kill-”

“The bolts were ash,” said Mor solemnly, “Feyre, I…I’m so sorry.” 

Cassian couldn’t breathe.

He had heard the words, watched them leave Mor’s mouth, but his brain refused to shape them into anything real.

Nesta.

Ash.

A body slung over a saddle.

No. No. No.

“You’re sorry? You’re sorry !” Feyre shouted, whirling on her mate, “ You were the one who wanted to enact this plan! You were the one who wanted her to stay longer in the Mortal Lands instead of bringing her back!” 

“Feyre, darling, I-” Rhysand reached for her.

“Fuck you, Rhysand! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! ” she screamed, tears rolling down her face. With every successive “fuck you”, a pressure built in the room like a thunderhead gathering weight. Cassian’s wings flared instinctively, balancing against a sudden shift in the air.

“You need to calm down,” Rhys said gently, but his voice was strained, urgent. “Feyre. Breathe. I know what it’s like to lose a sister. You can yell at me all you want. We can go to Illyria and you can tear a mountain down. But an explosion of magic here, in the middle of the city-”

Cassian and Rhysand both staggered a step back as the temperature dropped, then spiked—windows rattled in their frames. A deep groan vibrated through the floorboards. She wasn’t doing this on purpose, Cassian reminded himself as the temperature ratcheted up, It the grief had nowhere to go but out. Distantly, Cassian felt a bead of sweat trickling down his face. The room was so hot he could barely breathe. Or had he been unable to since he heard the news?

A hairline crack zig-zagged across the marble floor beneath her feet. A vase exploded behind him, the plant it had been holding bursting into flames.

“She’s gone,” Feyre choked out. Her eyes, too bright, brimmed with unshed tears that didn’t fall. “The last thing we did was fight , and now she’s dead. ”

Dead, dead, dead. The word rang in his head, vaguely reminding him of something…something…

“I would feel it,” he said, his tongue feeling thick and heavy from shock, “I would feel it. We’re…mates.” He hadn’t been sure, but saying the word aloud made it feel right. Real. Rhysand looked over to him, desperation shining in his eyes and repeated loudly, “Cassian’s right. They are mates. He would know if she died. That bounty hunter…he didn’t know what he was doing.” 

Slowly, slowly, the temperature began to drop from its unbearable heat into something more normal. Feyre took a deep, shuddering breath. “So she’s not dead, ” she grit out, “Just near enough to pass as a dead body in the hands of some human bounty hunter who is more than willing to kill a female for money and throw her body over his horse like a slab of meat.” Rhysand tried to step closer to her again, but one glare stopped him in his tracks. 

“Don’t blame your mate, girl,” Amren said lowly, “Nesta could be safe and happy in the House of Wind right now. This is all a result of her own choices.” 

Mor chimed in, “We can still fetch her easily and frankly, this is better than what she deserves. I wanted to throw down into Hewn City and—Cassian, where are you going?” 

He hadn’t even realized he was walking until he was already on the terrace. “I have to find her. I have to save her.” I have to tell her I’m sorry. 

“Wait,” said Rhysand, “We need a plan—”

But Cassian was already off, his wings cutting through the dusky sky.

---

After a day of hard travel, they were finally at Max’s safe house. They’d reached the coastline, and the smell of salt in the air brought Nesta back to simpler times. Leaving Don tied by a paddock, they ascended a winding, rocky path. The moon was full, and Nesta squinted up at it, the face so many claimed to see on its surface now clear thanks to her enhanced fae vision. She started as she felt Jo’s hand clamp around her arm. “Watch where you’re going!” She looked down to see the sea churning below her, white spray leaping up like a disembodied hand reaching for her. She stood right on the edge. One more step and she would have been gone. She met Jo’s worried eyes, and shrugged. “I’m just tired.” 

A little while later, they reached their destination. Nesta cast a critical eye over the supposed “safe house.” Just a crumbling old observatory on the edge of a cliff, long abandoned by any scholars who gave a damn about the stars. The sea below hissed and spat against the rocks like it had a grudge. Jo stomped up to the thereshold and pounded at the door as if it had personally offended her. “Max. Max. Max. Tio Máximo! ” 

The door swung open to reveal Max, looking nearly the same as Nesta remembered. His once shiny black hair was streaked with grey, his face a little lined, but he was still the Max Nesta remembered. Jo pointed her thumb at Nesta standing behind her. “We need your help.”

---

 

“I don’t have a problem,” Jo said fervently. “I’m fine. Nesta’s the one who needs help.”

“Me estás mintiendo. Y a ti misma.”

“¡Estoy diciendo la verdad!”

They had stepped far enough away that a human wouldn’t overhear their conversation, but Nesta was no longer a human. As it was, she only heard half of it as they switched between their native tongue and the one she recognized. She curled up on the bed provided to her, watching the moonlight filter through the slots in the roof.

“No necesitas un bebido.” There was Max’s baritone again.

“¿Quién eres, huh?” Johanna scoffed, “¿Mi padre?”

Nesta heard the sound of a glass being slammed on a table, and then, “Es mío. No vas a beber.” So Jo had been denied a drink.

“Stop trying to play on my heartstrings. We’re in Prythian, let’s speak the common tongue.”

“Fine. You’re being foolish and reckless. I can’t believe you. Faking the death of the High Lord’s sister-in-law? Do you have any idea what that could bring down on us?”

“So what, it’s just fuck Nesta because it’s dangerous to help her?” Jo was getting agitated. “Isn’t that our whole mission, to help people trying to escape fae tyranny? They’re trying to kill her, or at the very least imprison her.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. You’ve been making increasingly reckless decisions ever since your brothers died. You think I don’t know about the Rusvenan Roulette in Kestrel? The one-woman crusades against the fae attacking the villages? The alliance with a notorious backstabber of the High Fae?”
Nesta heard the sound of a cabinet open and close, as if Max was putting away whatever Jo had tried to drink. “You keep tempting death, teasing it, and sooner or later your luck is going to run out. And I don’t want to lose you too. No puedo.”

“I can’t believe you! How dare you—I’m helping Nesta because it’s an injustice!”
Nesta leaned toward the door to hear the argument better.

“And you’re going about it in a really fucking reckless way! A dangerous way!”

“Oh, like when you came to Seaside ten years ago to help Mother and—”

“Don’t you start with me! Your father was a worm. And the Night Court is a den of vipers. Do you understand me? They’ll take Nesta and torture you to death.” Nesta heard Max’s footsteps going back and forth as he paced.

“I covered my tracks. I was in disguise. And I’ve pulled the Church into it. Nesta will be a folk hero within weeks. They can’t touch her without turning the whole human world against them.”

“How can you be so shortsighted?” Max shouted.

“And how can you be so heartless?” Jo fired back, her voice full of conviction. 

Max heaved out a great sigh. “If you’re really going through with this, you need to go to your High Fae… ally.”

“Oh? I thought he was a notorious backstabber and our partnership was reckless.” Jo’s voice was bitter.

“It is. But ashwood and human ingenuity only goes so far. You need a fae to fight a fae. Even in the first war we didn’t win alone.”

“And… what? Tamlin too? Lucien? Just gather up all the faeries remotely near the human lands and make one big happy team?”

Nesta’s heart seized at the thought. She wouldn’t so much as look at the male who had hurt Feyre so badly—and Lucien would do anything for Elain.

“Tamlin’s a wreck, and Lucien’s head is so far up Rhysand’s ass that every time he opens his mouth, you see a bit of red hair. Not to mention, we’re still maneuvering around him, Vassa, and Jurian.”

“How is that going, dear uncle? I assume well, because your head’s still attached to your shoulders. The Protectorate is well… protected?”

“I’m moving the money around just fine without your help, thank you. Jurian’s too much of a relic to understand modern banking, and Vassa hasn’t got a lick of financial sense. It’s Lucien I’ve been dancing around. And stop trying to change the subject.” Max’s voice turned sharp, but Jo’s voice retreated into something smaller—plaintive, almost childlike, as she responded, “I need your help. I thought you always liked Nesta. I thought you felt bad for her.”

“I did. I do. You’re my family. I’ve got to think of you first.”

“Nesta’s family doesn’t think of her at all. They never have. And now they’re trying to hurt her.”

That stung. She had been thought of by her mother… in a fashion. She wanted to knock the door down and yell that she and Elain had been close—had been. That she and Feyre had come to some kind of understanding. Until she was sent away.

“Don’t you have a heart, Max?” Jo asked, quietly.

“Yes, I do. And James and Jurian left a hole in it just like they did in yours. They were the closest things I had to sons.”

“Oh, don’t start—” Jo’s voice was already pitching toward panic, but Max pressed on.

“And I don’t want to watch you go, too—”

“You won’t. I’ll be smart about it—”

They spoke over each other now, voices clashing, nearly indistinguishable.

“If you would think of your mother’s wellbeing—losing all three children—”

“All I ever did was think of Mama’s wellbeing! All anyone ever thought of for the past ten years is Mama’s wellbeing. I think James ran off just to stop thinking about Mama’s wellbeing.”

Her voice sharpened. “I know you loved playing father while she was getting better, but you’re not. You always disappeared for the hardest parts. And don’t you ever bring up my brothers again to make a point in an argument.”

Jo’s voice was tight with fury now. “Who got their bodies back from the Continent? Who made the funeral arrangements? Who settled their estates? Me. Because you were too busy caring about Mama’s wellbeing.”

A heavy silence fell.

“That was wrong of me, Jo.” Max’s voice was quiet. “At the time, I… I knew you needed a distraction. James could always feel his feelings. Sit in them, let them wash over him. When I asked him if he was sad, he could tell me yes. Jurian was much the same.”

He paused. “Not you. You always ran. You threw yourself into something—or someone—so the bad feelings wouldn’t catch up until you were good and ready. You needed to feel important. Needed. So you volunteered to settle everything, and I let you run for a little while, because it was your way.”

He exhaled. “But you kept running, Jo. First, you were the star of the family, getting everything together so your mother wouldn’t have to. I waited for you to pause. To feel everything. But you turned around and sailed right back to Prythian.”

Nesta could practically feel Johanna gritting her teeth.

“You became a one-woman justice system, riding out and fighting fae who terrorized the villages, the law of the land. Then you pulled back and threw yourself into my schemes. When that stopped working, you retreated to Seaside and buried yourself in a thousand little tasks. And now…”

A pause.

“Now you’ve made yourself Nesta Archeron’s savior. You’ve been running for almost a year, Johanna Maria. Aren’t you tired?”

There was dead silence. And then Nesta heard a sniffle, and then a sob, and realized Jo was crying. 

Notes:

do we fuck with Maximo

Chapter 16: ...who am I?

Nesta stared at the steaming bowl of yellow something that had been placed in front of her. “Is this… porridge?”

“It’s jook,” said Max serenely, setting a spoon beside her bowl. “Good for the soul.”

“Jook, more like gook,” Jo scoffed, but she brought a spoonful to her lips all the same. “I’m just kidding, Nesta. It’s actually pretty good.”

After all the emotional and physical upheaval, Nesta’s body had given up soon after she heard Jo begin to cry last night; she didn’t even remember falling asleep. The dining area of the observatory could almost be described as cheery now that fat rays of sunlight had begun to filter through the slats in the roof. The white paint on the table she and Jo were eating at was faded and peeling, but it was still there.

Nesta tried a hesitant bite. The jook was certainly much more flavorful than porridge, having evidently been cooked in some kind of chicken broth and seasoned generously. She chewed, realizing the base was not oats but rice. It was warm, rich, comforting—and foreign in a way that made her want more.

“I seasoned yours extra,” Max said proudly. “I hear fae taste buds find human food unbearably dull.”

Jo snorted. “And by that he means he dumped half our stores of black pepper and garlic into it. You don’t have to humor him.”

“No, it’s… it’s good,” Nesta said, surprised at the truth of her own words. “I hadn’t realized food could be this… good.”

The food she had eaten in Velaris over the past year, when she ate at all, had not had a bit of care put into it on either the cook’s end or her own. Some cheap bread rolls at a bar, whatever a street vendor happened to be hawking, olives from a martini glass. She ate when the dull ache in her stomach became too much to bear. It had been a chore, not a joy.

But now… Nesta eagerly scooped up another bite, and then another.

“Well,” said Max, “I’m glad someone appreciates my cooking.”

“Thank you for making me breakfast, Uncle Max,” Johanna said in the flat tone of a child forced to recite something by their parents.

Max completely ignored her. “Now, Nesta, I’ve been pondering something deeply scientific: has turning fae increased or decreased your spice tolerance?”

Nesta looked up at him with a mouthful of jook. “Hm?”

“Your senses get sharper—sight, hearing, smell. Logically, your taste should be more sensitive, which would suggest you can’t handle spicy food. But if human food tastes bland to you, perhaps you actually need spice. Ergo,” he steepled his fingers, “your spice tolerance may be beyond human comprehension.”

“Mhm,” Nesta replied, only half-listening as she focused on the symphony of flavors on her tongue.

Max leaned in, hopeful. “So you’ll try it?”

“Mhm, sure,” Nesta said vaguely, more interested in scraping the bottom of her bowl than deciphering what she’d just agreed to.

Jo, wordless, pushed her half-full bowl toward Nesta.

“You’re stronger than me,” she muttered with a low whistle as Nesta tucked into it.

“Hm?” Nesta asked, before spotting the small red pepper that had quietly appeared on her plate.

“So,” Max said, with far too much delight, “you’ll try it, won’t you?”

Two minutes later, tears streamed down Nesta’s face as she choked down her second glass of milk. Her eyes were red, her nose running, and her body sweating.

Jo patted her on the back and murmured soothingly, “You’re a victim of a crazy person. Of course I like my food spiced, but Max is a fiend. A madman. Certified. He’s not allowed in most public spaces..”

“The real madmen are the Bharatis,” Max retorted, refilling Nesta’s water glass like a man who’d just won a debate. “I still remember the food I had there on my Caminata. My face turned red and I started sweating like a thief on the confession stand. It was positively the worst pain my tongue has ever experienced, and they laughed at me. Horrid.”

“I most liked the food in Jianzhou on mine,” said Jo, her tone turning thoughtful. “Not as spicy as Bharati food, but still enough to be interesting. I’ll show you the little sticks they use to eat, Nesta. I think I’ve got a pair lying about somewhere.”

“Ah, heading east on the Caminata. A girl after my own heart,” Max sighed. “You knew where all the best food was.”

Jo huffed. “Unlike James. He said they pickled everything in Fennia and Rusteva, and the food made him gag.”

The name sat between them like a dropped glass—intact, but trembling. Jo looked startled, as if surprised to have said it aloud. She pulled at a strip of peeling paint on the table, but she didn’t look up.

Now was as good a time as ever. Nesta took a breath and said, “Speaking of… I overheard your conversation last night.”

Max froze halfway to the sink. The dishes in his hands trembled, then clattered as he set them down a little too hard.

“And Jo…” Nesta hesitated, eyes flicking to her friend, “You cajoled me into coming here, but I have no interest in being a burden. Or the reason somebody’s in danger. I appreciate the food and the bed, but I’ll leave today.”

Jo opened her mouth, brows furrowing—then stopped, a flicker of guilt and panic crossing her face. But her uncle beat her to it.

“Nesta, no,” Max said fervently. He stepped away from the sink, wiping his hands on a towel he didn’t seem to realize he still held. “I owe you an apology. For being such a coward. I’m not…” he scrubbed a hand through his hair, “I haven’t been myself lately.” 

“You were always there for me,” Nesta said quietly, “At the balls and dinner parties. You started showing up without Johanna, and you said it was because you liked the company, but I knew it was to keep an eye on me and Elain. Whenever there was an old lord or baron or earl I didn’t want to deal with, there you were offering me a dance, acting as a shield. ” 

Max scoffed. “Someone had to. Your father couldn’t be bothered.” Nesta felt something jerk inside of her chest. Was it shame? Anger? Sadness?

Jo coughed into her elbow and Max straightened up. “I forgot. It does no good to speak ill of the dead.” 

“Jo said you…saw him? In Neva?” Nesta’s voice wavered. 

“Yes, he was, ah…raising funds for the war, I do believe. Trying to drum up support and soldiers. He had the audacity-er, the courage to come knocking on our door. James seemed to believe him-” 

Jo huffed, standing up with a screech of her chair. “I’m going outside,” she announced to no one in particular, and summarily stormed off. Nesta listened to the door slam and turned back to Max who looked…tired. 

“He was very passionate when he arrived.” He offered to dispel the silence permeating the room. 

“Did you discuss…” Nesta couldn’t bear to say it. 

“You and your sisters? Yes, we did. I suppose at that point I had no more care for social decorum and made my opinions on him a bit more evident. I will say, to his credit, his attempt at reconciliation was much better than Thaddeus’s.” Nesta recognized the name of Jo’s father, and asked, “What was his like?” 

“A new family to prove he was a new person. Letters and such. Saying he wanted to make amends. James was open to it, Jurian somewhat indifferent. Johanna was not. She staunchly ignored him and her half siblings.” 

Nesta’s jaw dropped. “Her half siblings?” 

Max sighed. “I’m not surprised she hasn’t mentioned it. But yes. He moved himself back to Prythian and had two little girls. Delicate, ladylike, and pale, just like he always wanted.” He scoffed, flinging the towel back into the sink, “James at that point was a family man, with his daughter already born and his son on the way. Maybe it matured him. I wouldn’t know,” Max said, looking in the direction Jo had run off to with a crease in his brow, “I don’t have kids.” 

“Right,” said Nesta slowly. Talking about Jo’s father meant she could avoid talks of her own, and so she nudged him a bit more, “And…his daughters?” 

“They live with their mother and her family. Jo makes sure they get their yearly allotment that James set aside for them, not that they need it. They’re well, from what I hear. Close in age to James’s own.” 

“And…how old are they? James’s children?” 

“I forgot, she won’t talk about anything with the remotest possibility of upsetting her. Carmen is four, and although he and Lana pretended otherwise, we all knew she was a surprise baby. They had her while they were both still in university. They got married and had Carlos two years later. I think they were planning for a third.” Max sunk down into a chair opposite to Nesta, saying with forced lightness, “This is a quid pro quo, by the way. I’ll tell you everything the Salvatorres got up to in the missing decade only if you do the same for the Archerons.” Nesta acquiesced, and got a fuller picture. 

Johanna’s parents, with much urging from her, had split almost as soon as they returned to Marivena. Jo had procured a house for him, but he only stayed for a few months before setting off for Prythian. While Nesta had been desperately scrounging together whatever resources they had left, Thaddeus had changed his last name back to Montague and was busy marrying a rich aristocrat twenty years his junior. By the time her family had realized he was broke, she was already pregnant, and to save face they quietly sent funds to support the couple. Zoraida went into the loving arms of her extended family, and Max was able to pull them out of debt with some clever investments. Jo and James had flourished in the absence of their father. Their Caminatas went off without a hitch, with Jo returning claiming to have gone all the way around the globe with a theater troupe and James complaining bitterly of the cold in Rusvena. Upon their return, they attended the same university where Jo rode for the equestrian team. And did the discus throw. And mounted archery. And wrestled. And climbed. All in all, Jo had won dozens of shiny plaques and medals and trophies for the school, and James was a shining star for discovering something to do with bats (Max could not quite remember.) Jurian, always the dramatic one, spent his time in school goofing off both on stage and off. 

Jo had written perfunctory letters to her half sisters and paid someone to make sure they were sent gifts on their birthday, but had not met them and did not plan to. She was too busy in Marivena, participating and training for the athletic competitions held across the Continent every four years. She took home big winner’s purses and medals and dabbled in farming, horse breeding, sailing—whatever she fancied. James’s children adored their Auntie, she visited her mother and Jurian and Max often, and had become something of a public figure. It turned out citizens loved the people who had won loads of medals for their country. She trailed her grandmother to senate meetings when she felt like it, shook hands with the most powerful people in the country, and then was off again to one of her manors.

It was the exact kind of charmed life Nesta had always imagined her having. Unbothered. Admired. Untouchable.

Until, of course, her father and Lucien had come knocking on their door.

“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” Max said lowly, putting his face in his hands. “But I’ve got to tell someone. If I bring it up with her, she might break my nose too.”

Nesta blinked. “Go on.” Her voice came out quieter than she intended. There was something about the way Max curled in on himself, like someone carrying a private ruin. A secret? Nesta wanted to know. No—needed to.

“They weren’t on good terms when he left, you know,” Max murmured. “Jo and James.”

The words didn’t register at first. Twins. Not on good terms. Nesta couldn’t imagine it. Her mind reflexively conjured Johanna and James as they were at fifteen, at ten, at seven—elbows bumping in shared jokes, shouting over each other at dinner, roughhousing in a blur of limbs and loyalty. They’d always made up. That was just how it went. Nesta had always envied that connection. A twin. An ally in the womb. Someone born knowing how to love you.

“Because James was open to forgiving their father and she wasn’t?” she asked.

“It’s not just that. Zoraida took steps during her forced confinement that were…drastic. Johanna was always squarely on her side, no matter what she did. James knew it wasn’t fair, but he felt that Aida didn’t care if she endangered her children in her pursuit of freedom.”

A flare of unease flickered in Nesta’s chest. “Is it true, then?” she asked, voice carefully neutral. “She tried to burn the house down?”

“And very nearly did,” Max said grimly. “And so when James left, he and Johanna fought.”

Nesta could picture it too easily. The shouting match. She could picture Johanna’s face red with fury and James’s quiet grief turned sharp.

“She felt betrayed. He accused her of being immature, she said that sounded like he wanted her to settle down with a husband and children like everyone else, and on and on. They were each trying to get Jurian on their side like two dogs fighting over a bone. She was furious when Jurian seemed to agree with James. And now she’s…” He scrubbed his face again. “I don’t even know. I told her all the usual things, you know? That they would’ve made up eventually. That James and Jurian knew she loved them even though they were angry, but…”

He stared out the window, expression lost to time, and Nesta followed his gaze. The trees outside were quiet. So still they might have been painted. Max looked older than she remembered, she realized. There were lines on his face that hadn’t been there before. 

“And Zoraida?” she asked softly.

He sighed. “And Zoraida. She told her children they could see whoever they wanted to, but that he would never be welcome wherever she was. If they had a wedding and he was invited, she wouldn’t come. Things like that.”

Nesta didn’t say anything for a long moment. She had always seen Johanna as unshakeable, shining, somehow above it all. But even stars had fault lines.

And maybe—just maybe—Nesta wasn’t the only one who had been split down the middle by the people she loved.

Chapter 17: Couldn’t tell you, couldn’t tell you

Summary:

Jo scares Nesta and Max with her outdoor enrichment activities. Based Chappell Roan reference near the end.

Notes:

Uhm I’m not sure how I can link just one chapter to a collection but this is for you Nesta Archeron week. Thank you for your service

He said too cheerfully, “Your turn!”

Nesta raised an eyebrow. “What is there to say about the Archeron family in the past ten years? We were rich. Then we were poor. We lived in a cabin and Feyre hunted and provided for us. I was wretched and miserable. She was taken by Tamlin, and I was the only one who remembered what happened.”

“You could see through the glamour,” Max filled in, tilting his head. “Clever girl. Some people say it’s a gift, but it just takes willpower.”

“I tried to get her. Feyre.” Her voice thinned. Nesta looked past him, gaze unfixed. “I hired a mercenary. I tried to find a hole in The Wall, so I could…I don’t know, rescue her.”

“That was good of you.”

Nesta scoffed, the sound brittle in her throat. “Who cares? My bad deeds outweigh my good ones.”

A glass thunked beside her, startling her out of the spiral. She looked up to see Max watching her closely.

“For the shakes,” he said encouragingly.

She didn’t hesitate. The brown liquid scorched her throat going down, and she coughed violently, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “What is it with your family and brown liquor?”

Max just laughed and stood in one fluid motion. “Let’s find Jo, shall we? And then we can plan out our next steps.”

The sky was so offensively cheerful Nesta almost resented it. Fat white clouds drifted lazily across a watercolor sky, and the breeze teased at her hair, carefree and ignorant. It felt like the whole world was soft and bright—while something inside her was still a raw wound.

They walked a little ways from the observatory before Max suddenly stopped. His shoulders tensed. “Oh, she better not be—”

He broke into a sprint, long legs devouring the path toward the cliff’s edge. Nesta followed, but she already knew she’d never catch up.

By the time she reached the precipice, Max was leaning over it, shouting, “Damn it, Jo!”

Nesta’s breath came in shallow bursts as she edged forward. She peered down—then froze.

The cliff dropped away for what had to be six hundred feet, a vertical wall of craggy rock and wind-slicked stone that looked like it had been carved in half by some giant being with a sword. 

Johanna was scaling the sheer cliff face. Her knuckles were white with strain, but her face was… calm. Determined. Not in the way Nesta had seen her during competitions or feats of sport. No joy. No exhilaration. Just a steady, dogged purpose that made Nesta’s stomach twist.

Jo raised one hand and waved cheekily, but Nesta saw it—the absence behind the smile.

“What are you doing?” Nesta cupped her hands and called down.

“Climbing!” Jo shouted back.

Her shirt whipped in the wind. That braid of hers swung behind like a pendulum, but Nesta couldn’t shake the image that Johanna wasn’t climbing for fun—she was fighting the cliff. Digging her fingers into the rock like it had insulted her. The rhythm of it struck Nesta oddly. Too methodical. Too even.

Reach. Test. Pull.

Pause. Balance. Breathe.

Reach. Test. Pull.

It was beautiful, almost—if it hadn’t felt so much like self inflicted punishment.

Max turned away with a muttered curse. “I cannot watch this.”

But Nesta did. She couldn’t look away.

Something about the way Johanna moved—intent and silent—made Nesta’s stomach ache, but she couldn’t voice what it was.

“You’re a madwoman!” She shouted down at her.

“Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin!” She hollered back, “Are you gonna watch me for the whole twenty minutes it’ll take me to reach the top?” 

Nesta sat down, dangling her feet over the edge. “Nothing better to do!” She yelled, and Jo smiled, and this time there was something behind it. 

She wondered if Jo could have scaled down the side of the House of Wind. She wondered if she could really cover a couple hundred feet in twenty minutes. She wondered whether it was fast enough to leave whatever she was running from behind her, in the churning waves that pushed against the meager strip of sand that was the “beach.” 

She called down alternating encouragements and chastisements, swinging her legs and enjoying the feeling of the breeze whipping along her legs. 

“I can see up your skirt!” Jo yelled. Mortified, she slammed her knees together before remembering she was wearing pants. She looked down to see Jo cackling, her body shaking so hard she was afraid she’d fall right off. But she recovered, climbing with that same steady strength that had marked the whole of her journey. 

“I’m going to push you off as soon as you get up here!” Nesta called down to her, but Jo only laughed and kept going. Soon she was next to Nesta, sprawled out on the grass and panting heavily. “Did I give good old Maximo a heart attack?”

Nesta looked around, realizing that Max had stalked back to the observatory. “Did you do it to provoke him?” 

“I did it because I felt like it.” Jo said waspishly. With a sigh, Nesta lay flat on her back next to her, staring up at the clouds. “That one looks like a butt,” Jo said, pointing at one rolling by. 

“What are you, five?” 

“I’ve been spending too much time with my nephew and niece, clearly.” 

“Max told me about your half sisters...” Nesta started.

She huffed, “Well that’s not his business, is it?” Nesta turned her head to look at Jo, whose head was still resolutely staring at the sky. There was a light sheen of sweat on her forehead, but it wasn’t…bad looking. She had climbed up a five hundred foot cliff in under an hour, and she only looked flush. 

“Do you just…not like them?” 

“You can’t dislike someone you haven’t met.” Jo resolutely refused to look at her, picking at a blade of grass instead. “I’m not a terrible person, you know. I send them money and birthday gifts. I just have no desire to see my father’s version of his perfect fucking family.” 

“Max mentioned that they were very…ladylike.” 

“And not blatant evidence of him marrying a foreigner, either.” Jo bit out. “Their names are Angelica and Arabella. Have you ever heard anything so…pretentious? And of course he had to have his alliterative names as well. We were all Js, so his new and better family would be all As.” 

“And your stepmother?” Nesta prompted. She didn’t know how she’d feel if her father married someone new after her mother had passed.

“Yeah, Sabine. She is…a fucking victim, honestly,” Jo put her hands to her face and groaned, “I am such an asshole. I terrorized her when she came over to Marivena with my father. Just imagine seventeen year old me meeting my father’s twenty year old wife, if you will.” 

Nesta snorted. “I don’t think I need to.” 

“Who the fuck marries a twenty year old when they’re old,” Jo opined, “What the hell was wrong with him?” 

“And James still wanted a relationship with him?” Nesta raised her eyebrows. 

“No, well, yes, but…He was always more mature than me. It was less about dear old dad and more about our half sisters. And Sabine. He felt bad for Sabine before I did, you know. Realized it quicker. He was always a…he was a better person, I think.” 

“I think you’re a good person,” Nesta said quietly. The wind blew gently through her hair, shaking the blades of grass next to her. 

“Yeah, but he was better.” 

There was a pause. “He really loved his kids, you know. I loved them too, but he…he really loved those kids. He was determined not to be a fuckup like our father. And he was doing a pretty good job, in my opinion.” 

They were teetering on the edge of something vulnerable that Nesta didn’t want to go over, so she changed the subject. “Did you ever want them? Kids?” 

Jo was busy trying to make some sort of whistle out of a grade blade, but paused to say, “I dunno. Jurian did his own thing, James was a bit more like our mother, but I think I take after Max. The bachelor lifestyle suits me. Plus, there’s the process of making them, which is just…ew.” 

Nesta stroked her hand lazily through the grass as Johanna’s blade finally gave a high pitched squeaking sound. “What if I could get you some faerie magic, and we’d toss a piece of your hair and some other woman’s into the Cauldron, and then a magic baby popped out that was a perfect combination between the two of you?” 

Jo laughed. “That’d be perfect. And what about you? You want kids? I’m an exceptionally good auntie, you know. Ask Matteo and Carmen. Great reviews all around.” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m meant to be a mother.” Nesta admitted. The weight of words said long ago hung between them. Your mother didn’t even want children. “I don’t even know what being a mother means.” 

“People usually get the title once they have a child. Or multiple.” Jo discarded her blade of grass and reached for another one.

“Yes, but what would I do with them?” Nesta asked as the wind made her hair tickle her face, “There’s no marriages I’d need to procure. No inheritance to make sure is in order because I’m never going to die.” She huffed out a hollow laugh, “What would even be the point?” 

“Mothers do more than procure marriages, you know.”

“Well, that’s all I know how to do,” said Nesta bitterly, grabbing a fistful of grass and ripping it out, “So what? I should learn horseriding and crossbow shooting so I can teach them something useful, like your mother?” 

“I meant there is typically more of an emotional aspect.” Jo commented, having found another candidate for her makeshift whistle. 

“I’d only make them miserable, anyways,” She loosed her fingers and let the grass slip through and fly away. “All the time, they’d be miserable. Like with my own mother.” 

“You weren’t miserable with her all the time,” Jo said softly, “I remember. I was there. I don’t know if caring about her makes you feel guilty because you thought she was a bad person or what, but you should at least be honest.” 

“My mother was awful. A worse version of me,” Nesta ripped up another handful of grass, more aggressively this time, pulling herself into a sitting position, “Some people aren’t meant to be mothers. Mine wasn’t.”

Jo didn’t try to contradict her. “No, she wasn’t.”

“Why couldn’t she have just been normal?” Nesta snapped, “Why couldn’t she just have been a nice mother who kisses you on the forehead and makes…I don’t know, pies!” Wasn’t that how mothers always were in books? A beatific smile permanently on their face as they comforted and encouraged their children? The mothers in storybooks were saints; they were never angry, always gentle, and never cared for anything as much as their children. They barely existed outside of their children.

Vera Archeron had existed outside of her children for the best twenty five years of her life. And Nesta, deep down, had always known she wished she still could. Her face lit up at an invitation to a ball in a way it never did when Nesta or Feyre or Elain would come running up to show her a picture they drew or something they caught. Her smiles then were perfunctory, slightly strained. Perhaps because she was the first, perhaps because she looked the most like her, her mother had grabbed Nesta and tried to jam her into the high society parties and balls and social visits she loved so much. Maybe so she could love Nesta too. Maybe because she didn’t know any different. 

The wind whistled through the grass as Jo seemed to contemplate her next words. That gave Nesta pause; Johanna had never thought through what she was about to say the entire time Nesta knew her. 

“Sometimes people do the best they can with what they know,” Jo said softly, “My mother did. And it wasn’t enough. And I still love her. I don’t think it makes me a bad person.” 

Nesta paused midway through throwing the grass over the cliff. “What? Your mother? Your mother is a saint. You love her. She was perfect.” She remembered Johanna’s mother, who had never cared if Nesta stared at her or asked strange questions, never made her feel bad for not wanting a hug but was always there if she needed one. 

“She wasn’t well.” Jo said quietly, still sprawled out, “She wasn’t well after Jurian was born, and she wasn’t well after…everything with my father. And it’s not her fault, but it sucks to have to be the parent when you’re the child. It really sucks. But she was trying, and that’s what I always try to focus on,” she flicked the blade of grass out of her hand, “She was trying her best. That’s what matters.” 

“So that’s all there is to being a mother?” Nesta scoffed, “Trying your best?” 

Jo grabbed a dandelion next, holding it up and letting the wind disperse it. “Maybe.” 

“My children would hate me, even if I ‘tried my best.’” Nesta scoffed.  

“I think you’re pretty neat.” Jo said simply. 

“That makes one person,” Nesta replied wryly, focusing on a cloud passing by. 

“Max likes you. And so does Don. So there’s three.” 

“That’s two people and a horse,” said Nesta, rolling her eyes. 

“I’m telling you, I swear Don has human intelligence sometimes. It’s uncanny.” Suddenly, Jo pulled herself into a sitting position, gazing out at the sea. “The only thing James ever outmatched me in, physically, was swimming. It was because he was a twig, you know. My muscles just slow me down. Not my fault.” 

Nesta pulled herself up as well. “That must have hurt.” 

“He’d always go out in the mornings,” said Jo, her hair blowing around her, “Whenever we lived by the sea, he’d go out each morning and swim and swim and swim. Over a mile each way usually. Sometimes more. I never figured out what he was looking for out there. I never asked.” 

“He might have just been swimming.” offered Nesta. 

Jo rubbed her eyes. “He never just did anything.” 

They stared out at the ocean, the waves crashing against the rocks, the little peaks of white that surfaced and disappeared as the water rolled over itself. After a few moments, Nesta said, “I can’t bathe. After the Cauldron. I can’t be submerged in water.” She felt Jo turn and look at her, but she kept her stare resolutely ahead. 

“Well…that sucks.” Jo said awkwardly. Nesta, to her surprise, laughed at that. A real, genuine, laugh. That hadn’t happened since…well she couldn’t remember the last time it happened. She laughed harder, again, feeling like she was using a muscle that had gone stagnant. 

“Aw, fuck off,” Jo muttered, though there was no real venom in her voice, “I’m trying to be comforting.”

“You suck at it,” Nesta laughed. 

“Well, lucky us, we got modern plumbing installed at Seaside. So you can take a shower instead.” 

“A what?” 

“A sho-wer. You know,” Jo wiggled her fingers above her head and said, “Spssssh. The water comes down on you.”

“Huh.” said Nesta, imagining what that would be like. A thought struck her as she watched Jo gazing at the ocean, the muscles rippling under her shirt. “You know, you’re kind of like a female version of-” 

“Don’t finish that sentence or I’m going to throw myself off the cliff.” 

“Not…the bad parts. The good parts. The…I don’t know…” 

“I don’t have a penis, if that’s what you meant by good parts. Unfortunately. I’d wield it exceptionally well if I did.” 

Nesta laid back down, putting her hands over her face and groaning. “You’re crazy.” 

“I mean, I could. There are substitutes, you know. Do those ever pop up in those Sellyn Drake novels you told me about on the way over?” 

Nesta peeked at the sky through her fingers. “What?” 

“Oh, come on! Y’know, you just…strap it on and go to town. There’s no way you’ve never heard of it.” The image of Johanna going to town on someone burned itself into Nesta’s mind, and it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “How is having sex with men, anyways?” 

“Boring, mostly. Sometimes it’s nice, sometimes it kind of hurts. I just wanted a distraction.” 

“Gross.”

“Yeah.” 

“The male form is just…”

“Less aesthetically pleasing than the female one?” Nesta filled in.

Jo nodded. “Exactly.” 

“But it gets the job done.” 

“You make it sound like it doesn’t.” 

“And you do?” Nesta didn’t know where that came from, but she asked anyway.

“I always get the job done.” Jo raised her eyebrows, and Nesta shrieked and laughed like she was a little girl at a sleepover to hide the lick of heat that went through her. If she had a pillow, she would have thrown it at her. Jo laughed too, and then said, “Do you want to hear something awful?”

“What?” 

“I’m pretty sure I saw a Sellyn Drake novel in Max’s library once.”

When they returned to the observatory, Max asked why they kept giggling, but they didn’t say. 

Notes:

When Jo was weirded tf out by her dad marrying a twenty year old…yeah that’s right Rhysand GET FUCKED.
(It would be helpful for me if you could tell me what part of the chapter was the most impactful for you or your favorite…or even just hit me with your reactions, any of them)

Chapter 18: I was feeling loved,

Summary:

Acupuncture time.

Notes:

Max came back from the ACOTAR equivalent of China and by god is he going to make sure everyone knows. also guys i know acupuncture isn't clinically proven but it is to ME. who cares if it's the placebo effect as long as there is an effect amiright ladies.

 

“No,” said Johanna flatly, “That is total bullshit. It is not happening.” 

Max waved the thin needles in the air. “Oh, but it is. If you want the glamour charm…” 

“This is exactly what I was trying to get Nesta away from! Bartering safety for cooperation, what sort of person are you?” Jo snapped. Their things had been packed, Don combed until he shone, and a plan settled on. Johanna would simply return to her usual manor with a female companion, as she often did. The glamour would give Nesta a different appearance, and hopefully shield them from too much scrutiny. 

Max looked wounded before saying quietly, “You’re right. But I’m trying to help you, and I don’t know how.” 

“I’m sorry,” Jo said softly, “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I don’t know why…” 

Max waved the needles again, “Because your chi is all tangled up. Let me untangle it.” 

Jo sighed. “Fine.” She flopped down on the bed, huffing another, “Fine.”

Nesta stood by, arms crossed, as Max stuck little needles all over Jo. He had sworn “ acupuncture” was a respected practice in Jianzhou, but she had her doubts. “Now breathe,” he encouraged her, and she took a deep breath. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“I said it wouldn’t, didn’t I?” Max twisted a needle, murmuring, “Ah, the heart meridian…” 

“I don’t feel anything,” Jo said stubbornly, but her voice seemed a bit off. 

“Take a deep breath…feel every part of your body…” Max coached, “Feel the chi flowing…” 

Jo closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She opened her mouth, her signature smirk on her face as if she were about to tell a joke—but all that came out was a strangled, wet sound. And then the sobbing started. 

“What the fuck, Max?” she bawled, “What the fuck is this?” 

“It’s you,” said Max gently, patting her shoulder, “Let it out.” 

Jo cried like a child, furiously wiping at her eyes. “They fucking ripped James in half.” 

“I know,” said Max, sitting on the bed next to her. 

Nesta hovered at the edges, unsure if she was supposed to be here. No one had ever looked to Nesta for comfort. But Max made eye contact and jerked his chin as if to say Get over here ! And so Nesta did, gingerly easing herself on the bed. 

“Why didn’t I write to him?” Jo choked out, “Why didn’t I write him a letter?” 

Hesitantly, her hand shaking, Nesta stretched her hand out. It hovered over Jo’s forehead, trembling slightly, before she steeled herself and found the courage to lower it, gently stroking her hair back as her mother used to do for her. Jo didn’t flinch from her touch or look disgusted. It almost seemed to…soothe her. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” she choked out through her tears, “Why didn’t I write to him? Why didn’t I say I wanted him to be safe, that I wanted him back? I didn’t-I didn’t even know Jurian was there until it was too late, but James, James…what the fuck is wrong with me?” 

“The same thing that’s wrong with me,” Nesta replied softly, still stroking her hair. It was true. She and Jo hated vulnerability more than anything. Hated being the one to apologize, to bow and scrape and grovel. 

“You didn’t write not because you didn’t love him,” Nesta added while Max busied himself twisting the needles, “But because you thought he would come back.” 

“How could he die?” Jo gasped, “How could James die, how could Jurian die, how could I be the only one?” 

She cried harder. “I’m the only one left. I’m all by myself.” Nesta wondered what that would be like, to lose Feyre and Elain both. Not just the loss of someone close to her, but the memory of a shared childhood suddenly being hers alone. No one she could talk to about remember when Father did so-and-so and have them immediately understand. A shared past carved into a lonely future by the hands of fate. 

“I know,” said Nesta quietly, “I’m sorry.” 

“They’re fucking dead, ” Jo sobbed, her voice strangled, “They went off to fight a war in Prythian and they died. They’re not coming back.” 

“I know,” replied Nesta, still stroking her hair, “I know.” 

Once Jo’s sobs had quieted, the three of them sat in exhausted silence, broken only by the creak of the bed. Jo was curled on her side, facing Nesta, their hands interlocked. Max fiddled with the needles, brow furrowed, glancing over at Nesta.

"You know," he said lightly, "your chi is very tangled as well. I can sense it."

Nesta gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "I'm fine."

Jo shifted under her, lifting her tear-streaked face. "It helped," she said hoarsely. "Let him try."

 She knew those goddamn big brown puppy eyes were going to get her, but still Nesta looked at her — at the way Jo hadn’t flinched from her touch, hadn’t hidden her grief. The way she'd trusted someone enough to let it hurt. Nesta didn’t believe in magic needles. She barely believed in herself.

But...
Maybe she could believe in this.
In Jo.

Without a word, she let Max start placing the needles. He directed her to inhale, exhale, inhale. Close her eyes. Meditate. She drifted in the darkness…

The power. 

The struggle. 

The cold. The cold. The cold. 

So cold it burned. 

She was in the Cauldron.

“It’s burning me alive,” she screamed, “It’s fucking burning me! It’s boiling the skin off!” She screamed louder, harder, and the silver flames around her crackled, like her skin had crackled and popped as it sloughed off, exposing her muscles and nerve endings to the furious heat of the Cauldron. Her blood was being burned to steam-her bones being cracked and reforged, cracked and reforged. “Get me out,” she screamed, “ Get me out! ” 

Jo launched herself forward, pulling out some of the needles, but it made no difference. Nesta couldn’t tell where she was, if the weightlessness she felt was because she was floating in the air or waters of the Cauldron.  She heard pounding footsteps retreat, then return—then cold water splashed over her. The sheer absurdity of it: that Johanna had stared down death magic as old as time itself and decided to throw a bucket of water at it. The water itself had no effect on the flames, but the fact that it was thrown caused them to bank and flicker. 

Seeing it, Jo took a few steps back, and with a running start, lept into the air and grabbed Nesta. At her approach, her flames seemed to shrink back into her, as if they recognized her. Their bodies collided with an umph and her arms wrapped around her. They both fell on the bed, bouncing before settling.

 The smell of singed sheets lingered in the air as they panted for a moment. She felt Jo shift under her, as if she were going to get up, and she wrapped her arms around her in return, clutching her like a lifeline. She smelled like lavender as always, with some of the sweat and salt from her oceanside climb mixed, and Nesta inhaled the familiar scent. Her body began to shake, and she realized she was sobbing. 

“It’s okay,” Jo murmured, rubbing a hand up and down Nesta’s back. “You’re safe. You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

Notes:

I feel like one of those annoying people who makes an overpowered OC like "yeah, Rhysand might have needed all his powers to stop Nesta's nightmares, but MY OC just needs the power of friendship and lesbianism" like ok miss girl.

Chapter 19: being used

Summary:

We circle back to the Inner Circle

Rhysand picked up one of the posters, his lip curling in distaste. “Looks as though we’re not very popular here, Feyre darling.”

Feyre glanced over. On the poster was a rough sketch of Rhysand, or something resembling him. His teeth and ears were too pointy, but it did the job. Feyre’s stomach dropped as she read the words emblazoned beneath the crude portrait:

Where are Clare’s bones, High Lord?

“Where… where are they? I hadn’t… I didn’t think about… How could I have been so selfish?” Feyre breathed. “They took her down. She’s not on the wall anymore. I remember that. But where…”

“You weren’t being selfish, Feyre darling,” Rhysand murmured, rubbing her shoulder. “You were overwhelmed by everything that was happening. So was I.”

They glanced around the now-busy little town. The only signs there had been a war were the ash daggers at nearly everyone’s waist and the abundance of posters. One bore simple block letters:

CAN YOUR CHILDREN READ THIS?

—We Will Teach Them.

A sigil of hands breaking chains was underneath. 

Feyre gasped as she reached another. This one had been carefully drawn: a striking portrait of Nesta, holding Hybern’s head in one hand and broken chains in the other. The eyes weren’t blank, as they so often were in propaganda—they were calm. Steady. Her chin tilted slightly upward, daring the viewer to try and wrench the severed head from her grasp.

Beneath it, only two words:

Sankta Nesta.

Feyre reached out and touched the edge of the paper, reverently.

“I’m glad someone appreciates it. I spent very long working on it.”

She whirled around. A kindly pair of brown eyes met hers. She was at ease, but she felt Rhysand’s flash of discomfort as his gaze dropped to his purple robes. A priest of the Church of Liberation, he spoke into her mind, I’ll explain later. 

She forced a smile. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you, sister. I’m called Berwyn. And who might you two travelers be?” 

“I’m…Alis,” Feyre jutted her thumb at Rhysand standing behind her, “And this is my husband…Simon.” 

Simon? Really? Rhys’s amused voice rang in her mind. To any of the humans looking, his brilliant violet eyes were just blue, and his ears were rounded. Feyre had dulled her appearance too, rounding her ears, ridding herself of her freckles, and giving herself brown eyes and hair. She doubted any of the mortals here would recognize her now that she wasn’t a scrawny half starved thing with a bow…but one could never be too careful. 

“An incredible likeness,” Rhys said smoothly, stepping forward. “As if you’ve met her in real life.”

“I have had that honor, my friend,” Berwyn said. “But pray tell, how do you know what she looks like?”

“I saw her on the battlefield,” Rhys lied without a hitch.

“Ah! Did you! You must have seen her killing Hybern, then!” His face lit with excitement.

“She… no. She had help. Her sister stabbed him in the neck first. It’s not some big… saint thing,” Rhys said, crossing his arms.

“But that won’t kill a faerie,” the man said serenely. “You must know the only sure way is beheading or removing a vital organ. They heal from everything else.”

“Right,” Rhys said. “So you’re here to… spread the good news of Nesta?”

The man chuckled. “I’m just an old man who likes to draw in his free time. No, I’m here to help. I’m a physician, you see. In towns like this, you tend wounds and teach letters in the same breath.”

“That’s nice,” Feyre said, her smile still taut. Rhys cut in, “So you’ve seen Nesta? Where is she? Where was she going?”

The man clutched a hand to his chest. “Ah, the brave soul. I have rehomed several unwanted offspring born of Hybern’s brutality—so I hope I don’t sound a hypocrite—but what a terrible thing, to abandon your own blood! Your sibling!”

“You don’t know what she might have done to deserve it,” Rhysand growled.

“Oh, throw her out of your house if there’s truly an unmendable rift, but to cast her from her homeland? To leave her in a town that hates the fae, alone, to die? She wasn’t tried for any crimes I know of. So the High Lord and Lady exiled her on a whim! A grudge! A feeling!”

His voice rose, hands animated. “Can you imagine that? Living under the thumb of two tyrants, knowing they can exile you at any moment for whatever reason they please? No law. No protection. No due process.”

Rhysand’s jaw clenched. “A High Lord must make the best decisions for his people.”

“And what gives him the right?”

“The magic of the land chooses him,” Rhys said, as if stunned to even be asked. “It’s divinely ordained. His birthright.”

“Most scholars think that’s a load of shit,” the man replied mildly. “It reeks of tampering. Same as our Human Queens, who were fae-appointed. If it’s impartial land-magic or some divine Mother, why does it seem to hate women? Wouldn’t a Mother want to choose a Daughter, as it were? No. Some male magical being made a spell to choose someone like him. An illusion. A farce.”

“There’s a High Lady now,” Feyre snapped, chin high.

“Because her husband let her be one,” Berwyn scoffed, “I know I’m a man, but that doesn’t exactly sound like one of Almira’s Three Pillars of Female Liberation, does it?” He snorted, like it was a joke, and then his shoulders slumped at the blank looks on their faces. “Nobody reads these days,” he muttered, “That’s the problem.” 

“Where is Nesta?” Rhys cut in sharply.

“Hopefully far away from her so-called family,” he said with a sad smile. “She did what none of the fae had the conviction to do and none of the humans had the strength to.”

Rhysand scoffed. “Every fae on that battlefield would’ve killed Hybern, given the chance.”

“They didn’t last time. We begged them not to leave him armed and wealthy, but who listens to humans? For all we know, they were drawing up even more generous terms.”

Rhys’s teeth ground together. “Nesta?”

“Oh, yes, Nesta. Let me see… I met her in Rotterdam. She went…” He closed his eyes in thought. “If the sun was setting in that direction, then she must have been headed… east.”

“Was she with anyone? Did she speak to you?” Feyre asked eagerly.

“A lone wolf, I’m afraid. We talked. She told me she’d been kicked out of her home. I told her I’d left mine to help people here. We went peacefully on our separate ways.”

“Did she say where she was going?” Feyre pressed.

The man gave her a soft smile. “Let me let you in on a secret. Saints are often more impressive in death than they are in life. Let Nesta go on her own journey.”

---

“Well, Azriel was right. She was definitely here,” Rhysand muttered, crouching near the cold hearth of the crumbling cabin. “I can hardly smell her under all the ash dust, but she was.”

He straightened with a wince, brushing soot from his hands. The layer of ash on the floor was thick enough to muffle footsteps and dull the sharp scent of old wood, smoke, and something bitter beneath it—maybe regret.

Feyre hovered near the back wall, her fingers ghosting over the faded flame she had once painted on a drawer. Nesta’s drawer. The red-orange was now dull and cracking, the flames little more than memory.

“Don’t tell me you’re all huffy just because some priest doesn’t think you’re a good High Lord,” Feyre said with a teasing note, though her voice was soft. Reverent, almost, like the place demanded it.

“I don’t care what he thinks,” Rhysand said, leaning back against a beam. “I just hate being somewhere you suffered. Forced to be a provider at fourteen. It never should have come to that.”

Feyre didn’t answer at first. Her hand dropped from the drawer.

“It wasn’t all bad,” she said finally, her voice barely more than a whisper. “It wasn’t all bad all the time.”

He tilted his head. He knew what she meant, even if she didn’t spell it out. The rhythm of chopping wood in winter. Elain humming while cooking. Nesta’s sharp-edged laughter, rare but real. There had been moments, slivers of something almost soft, before survival dulled them all.

The cabin creaked. One of the old floorboards groaned beneath Feyre’s foot. She looked down and saw the old carving still etched by the hearth—her father’s knife mark. A rough rendering of a ship, crude but careful. It looked smaller now.

Rhys didn’t say anything, just watched her come to the conclusion they had both been circling.

“She hasn’t been here in a while,” Feyre admitted. “And the ash dust destroyed any chance we have of tracking her. We need to move on. What was the town Berwyn mentioned?” asked, straightening.

“Rottersdam,” Rhys tapped his temple. “I told Mor as soon as I heard. She hasn’t found anything yet, but she will. Cassian’s still flying across all of Prythian. He won’t stop until his wings give out. And Azriel’s doing all the recon work he can—but he’s getting more contradictions than facts. The priest’s story is the clearest we’ve gotten.”

Feyre chewed her lip. “Berwyn didn’t mention any wounds, said she was alone. So… she escaped. Healed herself. She must have.”

“She must have,” Rhys echoed, though his tone was grim.

They stepped out into the clearing. The forest had started reclaiming the edges of the house, green creeping through the rot. Rhys glanced over his shoulder once more before setting his pace toward the village.

“I wish you would let me go back and take another crack at his mind,” he said, eyes narrowed. “There’s more in there. I know it.”

“You said you couldn’t go deeper without tipping him off.”

“I did. And I meant it.”

“Then why would you risk it?” Feyre stopped, folding her arms. “It’s not right, Rhys.”

He turned. “Do you want to be right, or do you want to find your sister?”

She stared at him. For a moment, the ache in her chest was bigger than her breath.

He changed direction without waiting for her answer. Feyre realized he was heading back to the village.

“Don’t, Rhysand.”

“You want to know about the Church of Liberation?” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “They’re not just anti-fae zealots. They’re organized. Trained. And they’re growing. You think they’re just people in robes holding torches, but they’re not. They’re a movement. And they see people like us as monsters.”

He scoffed. “They hate us for being fae the same way people in Hewn City hate me for being Illyrian. You can’t reason with a creed that needs your destruction to feel holy.”

Feyre swallowed. “You’re not wrong. But we can’t become monsters just because they already see us as ones.”

Rhysand stopped walking, turned fully. His expression was harder than she’d seen it in weeks.

“Then what would you have me do, Feyre? Stand here while Cassian burns his wings to the bone flying across snow and sand? While Azriel runs down every false trail? You think this priest just happened to forget a few details, or do you think he left them out on purpose?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t know the answer.

Rhysand’s voice lowered. “She’s out there. And I don’t think she wants to be found. Not by us.” He stopped in his tracks, closing his eyes. “Mor has something.”

Notes:

So did you guys cheer for Berwyn like it was a post credit scene for a marvel movie. if only poor berwyn could have explained that his sect of the church moderate
1. Do you guys still think the church of liberation is eeeeevil
2. How close is the Inner Circle? What will they find at the bar?

Chapter 20: Revisions!!!

Hello lovely readers,

I don’t know if you noticed but the “no beta we die like Papa Archeron” tag is gone! One of my mutuals has kindly agreed to help me and given me some feedback that I want to incorporate into the first 18 chapters before I move on. I love Johanna and Nesta, but I was never totally satisfied with the work as is, yet couldn’t articulate why or what I needed to do to fix it. Luckily now I know, and I’m going to go back through and fix the things that need fixing, mostly involving pacing and exposition dumps. The core of the story has NOT changed-I am simply moving some things around such as the flashback sequences and expositional dialogue so it reads better. Once I’m done, I’ll post another announcement, and you may want to go back and reread it. I think it’ll be a much smoother and more engaging experience once I’m finished. If you have any questions (or suggestions, which are welcome) please submit them to the ask box on my tumblr, kataraavatara! 

Cheers, 

carly <3 

Chapter 21: But now I’m so confused…

Summary:

trauma dumping(not really). i’ll provide Spanish translations at the end but part of the experience is that Nesta herself doesn’t understand what they’re saying and has to get stuff from context clues

Notes:

If you’re reading this that means revisions are done. I might go back and delete that last chapter later but I want there to be an explanation as to why some of the comments don’t match with the chapter material, things have been moved around!

There were two things Max gave them for the journey that were of great interest to Nesta.

The least interesting was the glamour charm. It was a simple crystal pendant, hung around a thin leather band. Nesta wrapped it around her neck and didn’t feel any different, or see a change when she looked in the mirror. Jo pricked her finger and let a drop fall on the crystal. She still saw Nesta exactly as she was, but Max assured them that to anyone else, Nesta was now a brown-haired, brown-eyed human. Completely unremarkable. Nesta stopped thinking about it—or how a human could get their hands on such a charm. She was too fascinated by the second item.

The gun was an odd, curved metal thing. There was a chamber in the middle that spun around with a soft, metallic shk-shk-shk sound. She didn’t need to be told it was a weapon—that much was obvious—but how it worked was a mystery. Max loaded it with strange metal pellets before holding it out to Jo.

“Can I trust you with this?” The question was loaded. He could have been saying, Can I trust you not to use it on yourself? Can I trust you to only use it on people who deserve it? Can I trust you to be sober enough to hit your targets?

Nesta didn’t know all the history behind the question, but even she felt the weight of it in the silence that followed.

Jo’s jaw clenched. She’d read all the meanings behind his words, too. “You can trust me.”

Max didn’t move to hand it over. The gun stayed in the air, its cold gleam at odds with the cheerful wallpaper—sunflowers, faded and peeling at the edges. Real, genuine hurt flickered across Jo’s face.

“I’ve cut my drinking by a lot. A lot.” Her voice was almost pleading. 

“I know you have,” said Max gently. “Lo sé, está bien. But I worry for you.”

“I don’t need you to worry for me, I need you to believe in me!” Jo stepped forward and took the gun herself, shoving it into a sheath at her hip. “Why don’t you just focus on whatever bullshit you have going on with Vassa and Jurian, huh?”

Nesta could sense this was a family matter and quietly slipped outside. The grass waved to her, the cliff Jo had climbed only yesterday not too far in the distance. Don Chiflado stood ready, saddlebags already packed for the trip to Seaside Manor.

“You’re not my father!” Jo’s voice rose behind her.

“And thank God for that,” Max snapped. “I know you’re having a hard time. I know you’re hurting. I know that’s why you’re lashing out. But I can’t be your punching bag anymore. I loved them too. I lost them too.”

There was a pause. Nesta couldn’t not hear them with her fae ears, even if she tried.

“I never had children. You were my sister’s kids, not mine. But you’re the closest thing I have,” his voice turned pleading. “Necesito que dejes de correr. Deja de jugar con tu vida. No sé qué voy a hacer sin ti.”

There was no response from Jo, other than the scrape of boots on wood.

“You’ve nearly destroyed yourself, grieving two. Do you ever think about what losing a third would do to your mother and me—”

“Yes, I do! We’ve already been over this!” Jo shouted. “That’s why I stayed behind for the war against Hybern. I’m tired of living for other people. Maybe I want to do what makes me feel better. And maybe that means climbing without ropes or shooting at fae. Maybe you should just butt out of it—for once!”

Johanna's boots hit the floor hard as she stormed past Max and toward the door. His voice followed her. “¿Por qué no te preocupas con su familia? Ya no puedo soportar esto. ¡Ya no puedo!”

Nesta didn’t know exactly what it meant, other than guessing familia meant family—but the rawness in Jo’s voice, the way her shoulders curled inward like she was holding something in her chest that might shatter—it said enough.

Max followed close behind. “Tal vez quiero ser egoísta!” Jo shouted over her shoulder. “¡Quiero ser egoísta! Siempre fui desinteresada, ¡estoy cansada!”

“Suenas con su padre,” Max snapped.

Jo stopped dead. Max, six feet and seven inches, was one of very few people in the world who made Jo look small. And she did look small for a moment. Like a child being scolded. But she straightened her shoulders. 

Slowly, she turned back to him, her face darkening. “Repítelo.”

Max hesitated. Then, with a steady voice, said, “Él era egoísta también.”

The moment stretched, quiet but dangerous. Max looked like he couldn’t believe he’d said it—but he didn’t take it back. He squared his shoulders instead, standing by it.

Jo’s expression hardened. Her voice was low and cold. “Veo.”

She turned on her heel and marched toward Nesta, who was still lingering by the horse, unsure if she should pretend she hadn’t heard a word or offer comfort.

Jo didn’t give her time to decide.

“Estamos— we are leaving.” 

The scene was so familiar to Nesta. Too familiar. Nesta had cut off anyone and everyone who might have cared for her even slightly. Maybe Jo wanted them to be alone, together. Maybe she wanted to numb herself. Maybe, maybe, maybe…Nesta put her hand on her arm as she marched past. “Wait.” 

Jo stopped, looking almost offended. “For what?” Nesta wasn’t going to sway Jo like this. Nesta couldn’t be swayed by this. She paused, thinking. “I…I need to talk to Max. Just look at the ocean for a minute.” 

She rolled her eyes, yanking her arm out Nesta’s and muttering, “Miras al mar, ella dice. Si, voy a mirar. No tengo otras cosas hacer. Miras al mar, si.” She walked off to the edge of the cliff, staring off the edge with her arms crossed. 

Nesta walked over to Max. “I don’t actually have anything to say,” she said quietly, “I’m just waiting for Jo to come to her senses.” 

Max turned to her. “Why?” 

“Because your stupid needles made me start feeling everything I didn’t want to feel,” Nesta snapped, “And one of them is that I really wish my parents cared about us that much. If my father even showed half your concern when Feyre went into the woods…well.” 

“Best not to dwell on roads untraveled,” Max said, and then, “I am sorry about the acupuncture experience. I didn’t think you would…” 

“Explode into flames?” 

“Yeah. And Nesta…” he grabbed her hand and looked at her, really looked and saw her, “I heard you say something about being burned alive. While you were there. That it was boiling your skin off.” 

Nesta’s hand tightened around him, and he winced, but didn’t say anything. 

“When I was on my own Caminata,” he started, “I traveled to Alemania. I wanted to see the mountains. Everyone said they had the most beautiful mountains. I stopped by a town to buy some hiking supplies, and I heard a commotion in the town square. I was nineteen, of course I ran and looked.” 

Nesta waited. “In Marivena, when we execute someone it’s either hanging or a clean shot to the head,” he explained, “I know you’re still not sure how the gun works. But if you point it at someone’s head and pull the trigger, they are gone, just like that,” he snapped his fingers for emphasis, “Hangings can be messier. The hope is that someone’s neck breaks instantly, but well…that’s beyond the point. The point is that I did not know that Alemania burned people at the stake. I did not know such a thing could be done.” 

Nesta’s stomach dropped. Sweat beaded on her brow. I don’t want to hear this. But she couldn’t make her lips move and say it. So Max continued, “I saw them tying a man to a wooden pole with hay underneath–I thought the townsfolk would throw rotten food at him or something like that, and the hay was to keep the streets clean. I’m very tall, but I was very far back in the crowd. When I first saw the fire, I thought it was a mistake. I looked around, to see if anyone had a bucket of water, and realized none of the villagers were holding food in their hands.” 

“I don’t know what crime the man was accused of,” Max said, “There was a sign, but I can’t read Alamanian. But he was very stoic. Did not so much as flinch as he was tied. Very clearly set on maintaining his dignity. But when the flames reached him…he did not.” 

“You were put through a very terrible thing. The worst thing that can be done to a human, in my opinion. Give yourself grace,” Max said quietly. 

“It didn’t change me or turn me into anything,” Nesta burst out. She didn’t know why she had even said it. “That’s what everyone always says. The Cauldron changed us into fae, as if it was the same as a child growing into an adult. And I see why it’s easy to think that, because my new body looks so similar to the old one. But it’s not true. It burned away everything I was except my soul and built me up from scratch. I’m not…I’m the same thing my mother carried in her womb anymore. I’m…something else.” 

“Physical pain has a way of lingering with us. Look at Jo. See how she tugs at the fingers on her left hand, or shakes it, or taps it on her thigh?” Max watched, reminding Nesta ever more of a hawk or some bird of prey. But his gaze wasn’t predatory, only contemplative. 

Nesta looked at Jo, who was indeed pulling at the fingers of her left hand as she stared pensively out to the sea. “She broke it climbing when she was seventeen. Stuck it in a fissure, slipped, and her hand got caught. Snapped in half under her body weight. It’s perfectly healed, of course. But still, she pulls at her hand and fingers like she’s reassuring herself it’s still there. One day, my mother asked her ‘Juanita, why are you pulling your hand like that? It’s healed, you’ll break it all over.’ She couldn’t answer. But I knew. Pain stays with us like a memory. I bet if you ask even your faerie friends, they have old injuries that ache sometimes, ones they poke and prod when they’re nervous or bored. But for you…” 

“It’s my entire body,” Nesta guessed, “But this technically isn’t the body that got burned. It shouldn’t hold any memories from before or during the Cauldron.” 

Max shrugged. “The mind is a mysterious thing.” 

Nesta watched Jo, wondering what was going through her mind. Whenever we lived by the sea, he’d go out each morning and swim and swim and swim. Over a mile each way usually. Sometimes more. I never figured out what he was looking for out there. I never asked. Jo stared at the sea as if it would reveal the answer, but it only continued back and forth from the shore. Push, pull. Push, pull. The white capped waves cropped up and then disappeared, and suddenly Johanna was turning on her heel and walking over to them. 

“Lo siento,” she said to Max, then inhaled and continued in the common tongue, “I shouldn’t have spoked to you like that. But you can’t…tell me what to do because you’re afraid of losing me. You’re playing a dangerous game with Jurian and Vassa, and I haven’t said a word, because I know it’s important to you. I promise I won’t take unnecessary risks, but I don’t promise to not take risks at all.” 

Max sighed, scrubbing his face with his hands. “I know. I’m…sorry too. You’ll do what I asked? You’ll contact your…faerie ally?” 

“I will,” said Jo, “I promise. We haven’t spoken in a while, but I’ll work something out with him.” 

“And as soon as either of us hears a hint of either Briallyn or the Night Court we’ll contact each other.” Max said, stress lines etched on his face. He seemed so much older now, Nesta mused. So much different from the laughing man who dazzled everyone at the ball. 

“Promise.” 

Max grabbed her and pulled her into a bone crushing hug. He said something in Iberian Nesta couldn’t make out. She fidgeted with her hands for a little before awkwardly turning around and walking towards Don. 

“Ah-ah!” She heard Max’s voice behind her, “You too!” 

“She doesn’t always like to be hugged,” Jo hissed, but this was a time where Nesta did. She allowed herself to be wrapped into the arms of Max and Jo and just be. It almost felt like home.

Max gave them one final squeeze before letting go, saying softly, “My girls.” 

As they walked away from him towards Seaside Manor, he cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled “You were always my favorite of Jo’s friends, you know.” 

The sea breeze whipping through her hair, Nesta did something she hadn’t done in a while. She laughed. 

 

Translation services: 

Lo sé, esta bien = I know, it’s okay

Necesito que dejes de correr. Deja de jugar con tu vida. No sé qué voy a hacer sin ti. = I need you to stop running. Stop playing with your life. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.

¿Por qué no te preocupas con su familia? Ya no puedo soportar esto. ¡Ya no puedo! = Why aren’t you worried for your family? I can’t take this anymore. I can’t! 

Tal vez quiero ser egoísta! ¡Quiero ser egoísta! Siempre fui desinteresada, ¡estoy cansada! = Maybe I want to be selfish! I’ve always been selfless, I’m tired!

Suenas con su padre = you sound like your father 

Repitelo = Repeat that

El era egoista tambien = He was selfish too

Veo = I see

estamos = we are

Miras al mar, ella dice. Si, voy a mirar. No tengo otras cosas hacer. Miras al mar, si = look at the ocean, she says. Yeah, I’ll go look. I don’t have other things to do. Look at sea, sure. 

Lo siento = I’m sorry

 

 

Notes:

I’m using this as Spanish PRACTICE so yes the translations are all from me and might not be perfect Spanish speakers please don’t judge me. If you went ahead and reread with the revisions tell me which version you like better, I promise my feelings won’t be hurt

Questions:
1. Max has already lost family members that are very dear to him and is desperately trying to cling onto the few he has left, and Jo’s self destructive behavior is scaring him. Jo feels stifled and already feels like she’s lived her life for others & is tired of it. Do they both have valid points? Were you on one person’s side when they were arguing (who’s?) or did you see both points?
2. Do you like the direction I’m taking to explore Nesta’s trauma? Body horror has always been interesting to me and the idea that her body was rebuilt from scratch is just too good to pass up on.
3. What do you think made Jo turn around and apologize? Was it the memory of James, seeing Max comfort Nesta, or something else entirely?

Chapter 22: So confused…

Summary:

We revisit Johanna’s childhood home.

Notes:

Sorry this took so long :( I had to revise the entire work and then I floundered a little from there. I had another fic that I orphaned that was much more popular than this one, and the lack of engagement in comparison left me feeling kinda unmotivated. But if even one person is excited for this, that’s reason enough to keep going.

“Home sweet home!” Johanna crowed, throwing the doors open with theatrical flair.

Seaside Manor stood just as grand as Nesta remembered it—though maybe a little rougher around the edges. The grey stone facade was weathered by salt and wind, and the brightly painted window sills and doors had faded, the vibrant blues and greens now dulled and chipped. The air carried a familiar tang of brine and lavender, and somewhere overhead, gulls wheeled and called, as if nothing had changed.

Inside, the living room stopped her short.

There were the mainstays she’d expected: The Comeuppance, The Terms of the Treaty, and the portrait of Almira Salvatorre, Johanna’s venerated ancestor and the for Reverend Mother of the Church of Liberation. Mrs. Salvatorre’s seascapes still lined the north wall, wavy and beautiful, the kind of art that made you think you were squinting at something instead of viewing a perfect reproduction. 

But the rest of the room—*

Nesta took a step forward, eyes sweeping the walls. Sketches. Dozens of them. Charcoal, pencil, bits of watercolor and ink. Not framed, not even mounted properly—just tacked up like notices, some overlapping, some curling at the corners.

She scanned them: still lifes, mostly. A vase. A twisted lemon. The leg of a stool. Then portraits—unfinished, smudged, or precise depending on the page. People she didn’t know. Anatomy practice—shoulders, wrists, muscles sketched in long arcs. And—

She blinked.

There. Jo’s younger face in profile, laughing. And next to her—herself. Barely finished, but unmistakable. The high cheekbones, the crease of her mouth. The posture.

Her fingers drifted toward the scrawl at the bottom corner. Jo & N., from memory – J.S.

All of their names started with J, but only one sibling had ever been artistically inclined.

Jurian.

Behind her, Johanna’s boots clicked back into the room. “I know it’s a little chaotic,” she said, watching Nesta’s expression. “I got kind of carried away.”

“You tore these out of his notebooks,” Nesta said.

“I wasn’t going to leave them boxed up.”

Nesta turned to look at her. “You didn’t do this to remember him.”

Jo exhaled through her nose. “Don’t start.”

“You did it to punish yourself.”

“Gods, Nesta—”

“You filled the house with reminders. Not just of him. Of what you didn’t do. Of what you should’ve done.”

Jo hesitated, jaw clenched. She didn’t deny it.

Nesta nodded toward the sketch of the two of them. “He remembered my face.”

Jo crossed her arms. “Of course he did.”

“Feyre never painted me,” Nesta said softly.

Jo blinked. “She what?”

“She painted everyone else. Even our father got a portrait. Elain. Feyre painted herself, too. But not me.”

Jo stared at her. “Wow. Am I allowed to say she grew up into a little asshole, or-”

“You’ve made your feelings on my sisters very clear. There’s no need to go over it again.” Nesta huffed.

”They suck,” Jo said, shrugging her shoulders and offering a winning smile. 

There was a beat of silence. Then, a sound—metal on metal. Outside, at the gate?

Jo flinched slightly. Her head turned toward the window, a flicker of calculation in her eyes.

“Shit,” she muttered. “Okay. I need to go meet someone. Just—don’t answer the door if anyone comes. I won’t be long.”

Nesta raised an eyebrow. “What kind of someone?”

“An ally. Of sorts.” Jo’s voice was casual, too casual. “One of the fae. Don’t look at me like that, it’s not that kind of arrangement. It’s a MALE, for crying out loud. He’s… useful.”

Nesta narrowed her eyes. “So this is THE ally you’ve been talking about. Useful how?”

Jo was already pulling on a coat, tucking something into the inner lining. “In the kind of way where if I don’t meet him exactly on time, he starts playing games.”

That, more than anything, made Nesta suspicious. “Do I know him?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.” Jo opened the front door, then paused. “There’s tea in the kitchen if you’re still impossible to be around without it. I’ll be back before dark.”

Nesta stood in the silence that followed, the door still faintly swinging on its hinges. She waited a minute, just in case it was a trick. When nothing else happened, she turned back to the sketches. The one of herself stared out with blank eyes.

She moved away, drifting down the hall. The floors creaked beneath her like they remembered her weight.

The library still smelled like old paper and brine. One of the windowpanes had cracked—probably in a storm—and been sealed with wax instead of replaced. She ran her fingers along the back of the couch where she and Jo had once curled up with stolen novels, narrating the juiciest scenes in scandalized whispers.

In the sitting room, the carpet still had the burn mark from when Jo had tried to light a birthday candle with an oil lamp. Nesta had covered for her.

In the upstairs hallway, the crooked mirror was still crooked. Nesta stared at her reflection, older now, but not softened.

She passed Jo’s old room, the door half open. Inside, the bed wasn’t made, the boots tossed at the footboard still muddy. A dress hung on the back of a chair. This wasn’t a place kept neat for guests—it was lived-in, chaotic, fraying. The way Jo had always been.

Nesta reached the end of the hall. Her own room—well, the one she’d used when she stayed here—was clean but sparse. A dust-covered vase on the windowsill, a folded blanket at the foot of the bed. She stepped inside and sat slowly, looking out the salt-streaked window toward the grey sea.

And for the first time in what felt like years, she let herself miss being young. Was I happy? Was I happy? Surely I was. 

As if in a trance, Nesta walked up to the top of the stairs. It was practically a wall of glass, giving a pristine view of the ocean. On either side were shelves of books, and in front of it were comfy chairs and wooden tables.

She remembered the summer when they were both thirteen. Johanna had invited her to come with her family to their summer home for two months, and father and mother had actually said yes. Nesta had spent hours here as a child, curled up in a chair reading. This was where she spent her time with the quieter half of the Salvatorre family. Johanna had always preferred to be on the beach, running or swimming or climbing. Nesta did too, but Johanna had boundless energy and no aversion to risk taking. Nesta had felt obligated to stay with her because she was Johanna’s guest, after all, but one day Mrs. Salvatorre said she was welcome in their home and that Johanna could “tire herself out” without help. Johanna was allowed to be alone on the beach as long as she didn’t swim too far and stayed in sight, and had just shrugged when Nesta said the sun was making her dizzy and she wanted to go back to the house. So Nesta had gone up to the observatory, usually engrossing herself in a book and peeking over the rim to see Jo trying a cartwheel on the sand.

Sometimes Mrs. Salvatorre would join her so she could sketch or paint the ocean outside. She never made Nesta feel bad for being there or for how she was sitting. She didn’t interrupt Nesta in the middle of her book and demand she engage in conversation because it was rude to ignore your elders. She’d just waltz in, say hello to Nesta, and paint. Sometimes she offered wry commentary on Johanna’s efforts. 

“Gymnastics is something of a new sport in Marivena,” she said one day, “And I fear it is Johanna’s new obsession.”

“She’s been doing it more recently,” Nesta added shyly. Johanna on the beach attempted a handspring and fell flat on her face. 

“Sometimes passion is a necessary substitute for natural talent,” Mrs. Salvatorre sighed. Sometimes she came in with Jurian, who had work from his tutor to complete. He was only six back then, sandy haired like his father and freckled like his mother. Six was young enough to still be in a time before little boys learned they needed to have a mean streak to succeed with their peers. What she most remembered about Jurian is his little voice asking “Whatcha reeeeading?” and the grin that followed when she answered, the scratching of pencil on paper and the swinging of his legs as he worked on whatever math or grammar problems he had that day. 

The ocean was still there, as it always was, but the glass was much more dingy than Nesta remembered it. The whole home was. It was a grand manor, meant to be maintained by a staff and for a family. Johanna had been here alone.

Nesta reached out and pressed her fingers to the cool glass. She could just make out the beach below, empty and windswept.

Jo had always loved it out there.

And she had let Nesta stay inside.

Chapter 23: Author’s Note: I’m still here!

Not a chapter yet (sadly) but just wanted to let you all know my July/August schedule was incredibly hectic (I got my wisdom teeth out!) but i have lots of drafts and am hoping to publish soon.

Chapter 24: Electric Lights

Summary:

We get an update on the Inner Circle and Nesta discovers the wonders of modern plumbing. I debut an original song (be nice).

Notes:

I’d like to dedicate this chapter to the lovely @zerofirelight whose kind comment on the last update gave me the motivation to keep going!

“I’m fucking telling you, mate,” the pale eyed man said, sweat trickling down his cheek, “She burned me. In her hand was…was silver fire.” 

 

“The “silver fire” you saw in her hand was the blade of a knife,” the priestess by his bedside said tiredly, “I’m sure with it glinting in the sun, it might have looked as though it was on fire-” 

 

“I’m not a bloody fucking liar!” The man shouted, his face turning red. Feyre grabbed a wet washcloth, wrung it out, and placed it on his head. 

 

“Why don’t we give him a moment?” Rhysand interjected smoothly, and the tired woman nodded, following him outside. Rhysand kept a pleasant smile on his face as he looked at her purple robes and thought of all the ways she’d like to kill him if she knew what he was. 

 

“It’s kind of your wife to volunteer to ease him into his final moments,” she said, dabbing at her face with a handkerchief. 

 

“His final moments?” Rhysand inquired. So Nesta is a murderer on top of everything else. 

 

She nodded. “I’ve never seen so much necrotic tissue spreading so quickly. I cut it away only to see more. He’s either got the worst infection in the history of infections or the woman who stabbed him used a poison I’m not familiar with. I don’t know what I can do.” 

 

“You’ve exhausted all of your options as a healer? There’s really nothing more to be done?” He couldn’t let Nesta get her hands on Feyre. 

 

“I’m a doctor, not some folk woman handing out herbs around the village,” she snapped, “I went to school for nearly a decade to be as qualified as I am. And I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s as if every facet of his body is just…dying.” 

 

“My apologies, Miss…” Rhysand could have gone into her mind for her name, but he would play nice. For now. 

 

“Helena del Cruz,” she responded, “And it’s not Miss. It’s doctor, or priestess.” 

 

Feyre came outside, nodding at Rhysand. She’d gotten everything she needed. Helena’s partner, a hulking man in purple robes holding an axe, glared at Rhysand. They always come in pairs. 

 

Helena looked at her expectantly. “Nothing, then?” 

 

“No changes. He just keeps complaining of pain and the silver fire.” Feyre offered her a grimace. 

 

Helena scrubbed her hand across her forehead. “Ancestors. I need the laudanum I do have for the woman I was called here to see. One who will certainly survive. I only needed to remove a finger she caught in a-…ah, well that’s not your problem, is it? Thank you for helping.” 

 

In exchange for the information inside the man’s head, Feyre had fetched water, ground poultices, and stood in the company of a woman who would have killed her on sight for hours. These acolytes were too canny—Rhysand just knew that the glazing over of his or Feyre’s eyes when they used their damaeti powers wouldn’t go unnoticed. 

 

“I know I’ve been short,” Helena said amiably to Feyre. No apology, just an acknowledgement. “But thank you very much.” 

 

“We must be on our way,” Rhysand said, putting an arm around Feyre’s shoulders, “It was nice meeting you.” 

 

Helena nodded, waving them on their way. Her partner with the axe sidled up to her as she agitatedly twirled her scalpel between her fingers. Rhysand had a feeling the failed horse thief wouldn’t be long for this world.  

 

——

 

Morrigan had charmed much of the same details out of the blushing barmaid when they reconvened. Now the three of them sat at a sticky table, pretending to enjoy their cheap beer.

“So,” Mor said at last, “whatever happened with the mercenary, she’s won him over. And now the two of them are running about, spreading tall tales.”

Rhysand steepled his fingers. “And we know now that the priest lied to us. Nesta’s aligned with the Church of Liberation.”

Feyre shook her head. “She could have been under duress. Drugged. Threatened.” The din of the tavern pressed in on her, a drinking song starting up at the next table.

“More likely she’s been brainwashed with some twisted version of Clare’s story.” Rhysand’s jaw tightened. “I’d wager she’s been told I tortured her for the sheer pleasure of it. I should have explained everything in those months you were gone, Feyre, but I—” He broke off, pressing his hands to his brow. “I was consumed with worry for you.”

Feyre reached across the table, her fingers brushing his shoulder. His regret throbbed through the bond, heavy and raw. It’s all right, Rhysand. I love you. I forgive you. It isn’t your fault.

Mor sighed into her mug. “Wherever she is, it’s likely still in Prythian. I know someone who can check the ports—send word if she tries to slip away by ship.”

A silence settled. Feyre tried to ignore the song nearby, but the words carried too clearly.

“…told him no, she told him plain,” the men sang, “She said it once, and then again—”

Feyre’s head lifted, heart stumbling as the chorus rang out:

“I’m the one who took King Hybern’s head!”
Glasses lifted, a raucous cheer:
“And I don’t want you in my bed!”

Her stomach turned.

The verses spilled on, the bar now echoing with laughter and stomping boots:

Can’t let her leave o’ her own accord,
Spurned suitor says to his High Lord,
So they schemed, devised a plan,
T’ make her a prize for the old man…

Rhysand’s face darkened, unreadable. Feyre’s chest tightened, every word striking closer.

And in their house, they sat her down,
High Lord said he ruled the town,
And now she’d sleep with no other man,
‘Cept for his good friend Cassian—

Feyre’s eyes snapped to Rhys, but the song only roared louder.

I’m in charge of your whole life,
And all of your affairs,
You’re free to leave at any time—
Oh, down ten thousand stairs!

The tavern shouted the refrain, mugs slamming the tables in rhythm. “Down ten thousand stairs, hey!”

Freedom rules the human heart,
She knew she could not stay,
Oh, she took ten thousand steps alright,
Ten thousand steps away! Ho!

Feyre felt sick. After everything they’d given—everything they’d sacrificed—this was what her people sang? This was Nesta’s legacy?

Rhysand’s hand closed around his mug, so tightly the ceramic cracked in his grip.

The cheer of “Down ten thousand stairs, hey!” still rang through the tavern when Mor set her mug down with a sharp thunk.

“They’re calling us slavers,” she muttered, her voice low but edged. “That’s what this is. Nesta’s painted us as no better than Hybern.”

Feyre’s throat was dry. The mocking chorus clanged in her ears, drowning out her thoughts. Entrapment. They thought she had lured her own sister into the Night Court like bait. That Rhys had offered her up. That Cassian—

She swallowed hard.

Rhysand didn’t move, but the shadows around him pulsed, a warning in the dark. “Entrapment.” His voice was a razor. “That’s what they think rehabilitation is.” He looked as if he might shatter the mug in his hand—or the skulls of the men singing, if they didn’t stop.

“Rhys,” Feyre murmured, brushing the back of his hand, though her own pulse raced. “They don’t know what they’re saying.”

“They think I set her in Cassian’s path deliberately.” Rhys’s tone was calm, too calm. “As if she were a prize to be bartered, a body to be controlled.”

Mor leaned forward, her eyes hard. “They think all of us were in on it. That we trapped her. That we sat her down and decided who she’d warm the bed of. And now they’re spreading it as song, as history.”

Feyre’s stomach turned again. The thought of her sister—her own sister—putting those lies into human mouths made her want to scream.

Rhys lifted his head at last, violet eyes burning. “Then we will silence it.”

Mor raised a brow. “And how do you propose we silence a song already sung in ten taverns?”

“By finding Nesta,” he said flatly. “By cutting this off at the root before it spreads.”

Feyre nodded, though a part of her quailed at the hunger in his voice. The humans thought they’d schemed and trapped Nesta. Lied about her freedom. Lied about Cassian. Lied about everything.

Her nails dug into her palm. She would find Nesta, too. And when she did, they would have words. 

 

It wasn’t long before Johanna came back with tight lips and a singed braid. Nesta had just wandered the house, dusting off old books and memories. 

 

“We’re fine,” she said, “For now. My guy says he likes to play games with Azriel, whatever the fuck that means. But if you do see a shadow squiggling around irregularly, holler.” 

 

Nesta snorted. “So you can shoot it?” 

 

“Maybe,” Jo called over her shoulder, already walking down a long hallway, “C’mon, come pick your room. Just one that’s not mine.”

 

Jo showed off her room, the same one she and Nesta had stayed in all those years ago. The wallpaper was fading a bit, but it was still cheery. 

 

Nesta eventually chose one down the hall. Not right next to Jo, but close enough they could run to each other in an emergency. She couldn’t tell who’s, if anyone’s, the room had been. She stepped in, anxiously looking around, waiting to see a sketchbook page or toy peeking out that reminded her that the person who used to sleep here wasn’t there anymore. Jo came in behind her, noticing her look, and said quietly, “This was a guest room. No one ever stayed here really.” 

 

“Good.” Nesta said. She didn’t feel like rooming with ghosts. 

 

“I’ll get you fresh sheets while you shower. Wait, I have to show you how the shower works.” She grabbed Nesta and tugged her into the washroom, intricate white and blue tiles forming waves across the wall and a churning ocean on the floor. Jo pointed to the toilet at the end. “That’s a toilet,” she said helpfully. 

 

Nesta glared at her. “I know what a toilet is.” 

 

Jo put her hands up in mock surrender. “How should I know? Yes on toilets and no on showers. They do things strangely over in Faerie land.” She walked over and pulled a curtain aside, displaying a porcelain bathtub. On the wall above it was some kind of giant sink spigot, complemented by a protruding metal circle with holes in it. 

 

“Alright,” Johanna said, hands on her hips, “So. You twist this one to turn the hot water on-” Instead of a giant version of a sink like Nesta had expected, the water came out in a fine spray, almost as if it was raining.

 

“And this on to turn the cold water on,” Jo twisted the other one, “You can mix and match until you get your perfect temperature. Got it?”

 

“Got it,” Nesta replied, glancing around the tiled walls, “But I do believe I need a towel.” 

 

“Aw, fuck. They’re-well, shit, I forgot where I put them. I’ll find them,” she jogged out of the room, calling behind her, “Just give me a minute!” 

 

Her footsteps retreated down the hallway, and Nesta wandered around the room a bit. She took in the room. She certainly wouldn’t undress when Johanna was still on her way with the towels, but she could at least start with her shoes. She unlaced her boots and tried to put them neatly under the bed, but they hit…something. Something soft. She got on her knees, and reached under the bed, pulling out a little stuffed wolf. She coughed as she brushed off the layers of dust coating it, and stared down at it.

 

It tickled a memory in the back of her mind. Mr. Salvatorre’s friend or business associate had some kind of master toy maker and seamstress under his employ, so the Archeron and Salvatorre children were all presented with an exquisitely made stuffed animal for All Saint’s Day, (even though the Archerons didn’t celebrate.)  Each child got a different animal, and each was exquisite—carefully sewn, stuffed with the finest cotton, and incorporated the animal’s real pelt. Nesta had been given a sable, Elain a bunny, and Feyre a fox. Johanna had got something called a “chinchilla,” James a bobcat and Jurian…Jurian had the wolf. By then, the Archeron sisters and the twins had been too old to care much for stuffed animals and they were politely put on a shelf and forgotten about. But Jurian at six had adored his wolf, which he called Wolfie. He had taken him everywhere. 

 

Johanna walked into the room with towels in her hand and stopped dead in her tracks. “What’s that?” 

 

Nesta held it up. “It’s Wolfie. Remember the fit Jurian threw about not being able to find it when he left?” 

 

The towels shook slightly. “Yeah. Me and James both gave him ours, but it didn’t do much. Eventually Mama wrote him a letter from Wolfie saying he was having a great time at the beach and wasn’t mad at Jurian for leaving him.” She stared at the wolf as if it was a real thing that would grow claws and teeth and bite her. Nesta held it out. “Trade you?” 

 

Johanna jerked back into motion, setting the towels down on the bed and grabbing the wolf. “There’s a nightgown in there for you,” her voice sounded a bit shaky, “Let me know if it doesn’t fit. We’ll buy you some new clothes tomorrow.” 

 

She turned and practically ran from the room. 

 

A fine mist of water spilled out, not from below, not from something that could drag her under, but from above.

Like rain.

Nesta stared at it.

It didn’t look like the Cauldron. It didn’t even look like a bath.

Still, her body reacted before her mind could explain. Her breathing got shallow. Her throat tightened. She gripped the side of the tub hard enough her knuckles went white. The sound of water—even gentle as this—rushed in her ears. Like being pulled under again. Like drowning without ever getting wet.

It’s just water. She told herself that, over and over. You’re being a baby. 

But for so long, water had been the enemy. Submersion the trigger. Even baths had to be kept shallow. She’d learned to wash quickly and stand up fast, before her mind could pull her back to that moment—the darkness, the pressure, the cold.

This was different.

The air was already turning warm, steam curling lazily along the tile like it belonged there. Like she belonged there.

Still, Nesta stood on the tile for a long time, watching the water fall in a delicate arc, the droplets splashing gently in the porcelain tub. It was oddly mesmerizing. She reached out a hand and let it hit her palm.

Not cold. Not scalding. Just…there. Soft. Comforting, even.

She stepped in.

No hands pulling her down. No overwhelming current, no ancient magic forcing its way into her. Just heat. Just rain.

And then—she breathed.

For the first time in what felt like years, she let her shoulders fall. Let the water fall over her hair, her back, her chest. She leaned her head back, eyes closed, and didn’t panic when water hit her face.

There was no fight to have here.

No ritual to survive. No Court watching.

Just hot water and a locked door.

Her knees buckled, and she caught the wall with a trembling hand. She wasn’t crying, not exactly. But her throat was tight in that same way—like tears were trying to decide whether they were grief or relief.

She stayed like that a long time.

Letting the water rinse off dust and sweat and a dozen things she didn’t want to name.

 

Notes:

That awkward moment when your sister ignites a propaganda campaign against you it’s kind of working. Life update:I finally ditched my ancient laptop for a new iPad which has been an overall improvement except for when it keeps autocorrecting “Feyre” to “Ferrell” and “Morrigan” to “Morocco”