Ravaged by the Witchlight

by Cosmic_Nope

Summary:

Three overpowered sisters attempt to bring Rhysand back from the dead, salvage a crumbling Night Court, and possibly save the world. Magical Fuckery. Empowered Females. Plot Integrity. Sad meow meow Tamlin. Intrigue. Better Court of Nightmares Lore.

All because I hated how ACOWAR ended and wanted a better redemption arc for Nesta.

This one's for the mean girls. For sisters, both found and given. For anyone who has had life take away their choices, and now has to live with the person they may not have otherwise chosen to become.

150k words, finished and in editing :)

Notes:

Overall CW for the fic: Genre typical Nesta. Honestly if you made it through ACOSF you're probably good.

CW at top notes, Summaries at the bot notes for those who must skip

Spoilers: if you haven't read through ACOSF I would strongly recommend finishing at least ACOWAR before you read this fic.

Chapter 1: A Note from the Author

Hi everyone.

It's been awhile.

 

This story meant a lot to me the first time around, and thanks to all of you PSYCHOTIC internet folk with your crazy databases,

I now have the privilege of perfecting it, one last time.

 

Thank you.

 

Special thanks to Trshtffc. Girl, if you see this, hmu. Couldn't have finished this without you the first time around.

Sorry I did you dirty like that and disappeared ;_;

 

Be good to your online friends, folks.

 

To those who got this update and are returning, I apologize for the hiatus, and for deleting the original work. Life happens. Mental illness is a bitch.

I promise not to do it again.

Find me on tumblr (link below) if you want to reconnect!

 

CHAPTER ONE SHOULD BE UP LATER TODAY OR TOMORROW, PENDING GREEN LIGHT FROM MY BETA READER IS UP! 

 

Follow Me: Had to make a new tumblr (it got deleted with the last iteration of this fic), but you can follow me here for updates, mood boards, etc...

 

Without further ado, please enjoy this heartfelt work, and leave me lots of comments because I am an attention whore and love interacting with you all :3

 

photo by cottonbro studios via pexels. Minor edits by me.

Chapter 2: Welcome Home

Notes:

CW: Nesta coded alcoholism. Big sads. Everyone's crazy. Brooding Azriel. Cassian's angry stomps.

A/N: Welcome, everybody! We are in for a wild ride. I'm so excited to share this with you all. Thank you for reading my labor of love!

Mood board for chapter one here.

 

---

 

Part 1 - Velaris

 

This story begins several months after the great battle where both the King of Hyburn and High Lord Rhysand were slain.

 

 

---

 

 

Welcome Home

 

It wasn’t winter, but to Nesta it may as well have been. Icy winds tore through Windhaven unaware that there were any other seasons than Cold and Not Cold. She supplemented her heavy cloak and many layers with a flask, her only constant since the war, taking tugs of cheap, uncut liquor whenever something irked her.

 

The frigid climate— drink.

 

The miserable barbarians sizing her up like livestock— drink.

 

The leathered armor that she'd taken for granted on Azriel was now everywhere. It summoned a memory of Feyre and Rhysand fighting together on the killing field of that last battle... then of when the fighting stopped, and they all realized they'd “won”.

 

Long. Fucking. Drink.

 

Azriel walked a few paces ahead of Nesta, shadows quietly flickering along his exposed neck and wrists. His dark hair had grown shaggy around the eyes over the last few months. Bits of ice from the flight up had separated the locks into frozen clots, which he had to separate with his fingers as they made their way through the village. The shadowsinger stopped outside of a small, unremarkable house and jerked his chin towards the door, so she tucked away the flask into her cloak.

 

Taking the final one-two-three steps to the threshold, there was a loud crack when the door splintered beneath Nesta’s boot. Silver fractals were left behind to mark the center of the impact, shooting outwards towards the now crooked hinges. Smoke hissed from the charred splinters that had separated from the whole, now laying on the floor, as a heavily muscled, winged male cursed.

 

Cassian knocked a small table over as he leapt to his feet, dagger in hand. Nesta leaned, looking around him to take in the pretty Illyrian female sitting on the floor in a state of partial undress. Nesta snorted with a cruel smirk, pleased that she’d ruined his fun.

 

“What the fuck, Nesta?”

 

“Your immediate presence is required at the House of Wind.”

 

“Bitch!”

 

Nesta turned to leave, patting herself down to make sure she hadn’t lost the only material thing that mattered. Azriel waited casually where she’d left him, indifferent to her methods or Cassian's reaction.

 

Cassian was fastening his jacket as he stormed through the wreckage and into the cold.

 

“So send a note! Don’t just— HEY!”

Trying the flask and finding it empty she frowned, stumbling slightly over a rock. Cassian scoffed somewhere behind her and she ignored him. Eyeing Azriel, she wiggled her prized possession in a question.

 

Nesta had come to this backwards shithole for one thing, and one thing only.

 

“We did. Several. You ignored all of them,” Azriel said to Cassian sharply. More grumbling from the big guy, but Nesta was focused on the lithe male before her who used to complete a set of three…

 

Her hand twitched around the empty flask.

 

Shrewd hazel eyes glanced at her hand, and without another word Azriel turned and led her a short ways down the main road before veering left at a cluster of shops. Cassian swore again. Snow crunched as he began plodding after them with heavy, angry steps, though slowly enough that he wouldn’t catch up until they'd stopped.

 

Azriel paused a dozen paces off the main road and pointed. “Walk straight until you see the cliffs. Last one on the left. Ask for Emerie.”

 

Nesta didn’t thank him as she strode past in that direction. Cassian waited until she was a good distance away before approaching the other Illyrian. Their bickering- mostly Cassian’s yelling- quickly faded into the background as she hurried down the path.

 

~

 

A small bell tinkled. The door to the shop was massive, the frame tall and wide enough to accommodate Illyrian wings. Nesta huffed against the door to shut out the cold. “Inconsiderate fucking thing,” she thought. “They should really have a side entrance for the rest of us.”

 

Uninterested in the wares, she marched straight to the counter in the back. No one else was in the shop, it seemed. Inspecting the area behind the counter she noticed where they kept the Illyrian spirits, and wondered about just leaving payment for whoever came to collect it.

 

That was how the shopkeeper found Nesta, barely a minute later.

 

“What are you doing?” came a voice from above.

 

Nesta froze. She was crouched behind the counter trying to pick a lock— and failing, because she had no idea how locks were picked. Brushing the front of her wrinkled gown Nesta rose, chin high, and pointed to the liquor cabinet. “I want one of those, to put inside this.”

 

Her flask was sized to fit in a generous pocket. It never would have held the contents of a whole bottle, but she held it up anyway, serious as the cauldron was black.

 

The voice had come from a female, who now stood on the stairs grimacing at the non-Illyrian who she’d caught trying to plunder her merchandise. Nesta didn’t seem to notice or care that she looked like riff-raff with her unwashed hair and sallow face. It was with gravitas she stood, as she had been trained to do, once. In a past life, when she was still human and had a purpose.

 

The Illyrian was unintimidated, and descended the rest of the wooden stairs to close the distance between herself and her intruder. She didn’t smile as she held out a hand between them. “I’m Emerie. This is my shop, and I’ll gladly sell you the spirits—” she cast a long look at Nesta’s choice of vessel, “but we don’t sell partial bottles. If you open it and don’t want to take the whole thing when you go, I’ll dump the rest or keep it for myself.”

 

Nesta pulled out a gold coin, enough to buy a few cases of the cheap liquor. The shopkeeper tightened her lips and lowered her empty hand, reluctant to admit that she wouldn’t be able to make change with the petty cash she had on hand. Many Illyrians traded for wares, so there wasn’t typically a need for much currency.

 

Noticing the shift in the other female's expression drew Nesta’s attention back to the coin. A distant look came over her as she shrugged and said, “There’s too much money in the Night Court’s treasury, and no extravagant High Lord to spend it. Keep the change.”

 

Emerie lingered for a moment, watching the other female with measured curiosity, before moving to the cabinet to fetch a bottle. While she riffled through her collection she paused, looking up to her customer and asking, “How many would you like?”

 

That really seemed to hit a nerve, as Nesta began scuffing her boots along the floorboards with a fresh scowl. “Just one. We flew in, and even if I got them to agree to bring a few bottles back with us the cold… well, I don’t want to be dashed on the rocks when a bottle explodes and they drop me.”

 

The shopkeeper barked a laugh but Nesta barely heard it, staring intently at the prize she was mere seconds from grasping. The entire worth of this journey, of seeing him again, was right there.

 

Any novel amusement quickly faded from the Illyrian when she noticed. An elegant blue bottle was selected and placed on the countertop. Emerie stood and stretched after locking the cabinet. “My finest bottle. Hardly any of the beasts who buy from me can afford it, and even the wealthier ones wouldn’t appreciate it. You’ll find it tastes—”

 

Nesta tore out the cork with her sharp, inhuman teeth and proceeded impossibly to empty the entire bottle into the flask with a tiny funnel she’d brought, just for the occasion. The flask was enchanted to hold quite a lot more than it seemed. She’d found it among Rhysand’s things one day, snooping around the House of Wind to distract herself from Feyre’s screaming.

 

Finders Keepers.

 

Words were uttered in warning, possibly about the potency of Illyrian spirits, but went entirely unheard as Nesta handed back the now-empty glass bottle and raised the flask to her lips. The liquor was too-sweet, and burned with unfamiliar spices. When she lowered the flask the room swayed, and it took her more than one try to get the cap on so she could safely stow her precious cargo and be gone from this dreary place.

 

Cutting a nice, winding path to the front door, Nesta tried to leave as swiftly as she’d arrived. In truth, she never would have made it out that heavy door if it hadn’t been for two large figures that were coming in just as she reached the threshold. It occurred to her that she hadn’t heard the bell ring, but so it often was for one who was truly and suddenly shitfaced.

 

The warriors— because that is what they must have been with their brooding, and their strong-looking figures, and their massive wingspans— paused before the smaller, foreign creature facing them. Nesta’s patience was vapor.

 

“Move,” she hissed.

 

A low growl rumbled through one of them, but the other snapped at him, and then both fell silent. Nesta was so focused on standing in one place without falling over that she didn’t make out any words besides ‘Azriel’ and ‘Witch’.

 

The males parted for her, and it took a great deal of effort for Nesta to will her feet forward. Thank the Mother, she managed to get out the door without falling in front of them, sparing a rare scrap of her dignity that had surfaced around so many brutes.

 

The drink was strong, because the snow was pretty. Nesta couldn’t feel her face as she walked past a window at the front of the shop that she hadn’t noticed on the way in. It glowed yellow, and she slowed to study it.

 

Inside she could see Emerie’s face as the two Illyrian males entered the shop. Even sloshed, Nesta got the impression that the shopkeeper was even less pleased to see them than she had been to find the ‘witch’ trying to pick her lock. The female turned away to take something down from a shelf, and Nesta saw the bare remains of shredded, broken wings.

 

Turning back to the path, Nesta opened the flask again.

 

Drink.

 

 

~

 

 

Nesta found her way back to Azriel, barely. She was realizing that whatever the nice shopkeeper had tried to tell her about Illyrian spirits had probably been important, as the world was now spinning around her. Colors were bleeding together as she approached the male, unsure where the Illyrian’s mop of hair ended and his wafting shadows began. Cassian was nowhere in sight.

 

The shadowsinger watched Nesta stagger towards him, unsympathetic.

 

His eyes seemed to bend together into a single eye, then separate again. For what must have been the hundredth time since she left the sight of those two males, Nesta tripped on her own four feet and fell into hard, packed snow.

 

The sounds the snow made under Azriel’s boots were so small compared to Cassian, Nesta thought, as he walked over to where she had pushed herself up to sitting. With a long-suffering sigh, he reached into her pocket and stole the flask. Nesta bared her teeth, but for the way he held two and then four and then six of them, she could do little but watch as he opened and sniffed.

 

That flask of Illyrian Spirits was Nesta’s most coveted possession.

 

Azriel didn’t give it back. At least, not immediately. Nesta knew he would give it to her back at the House, because he’d promised, but she felt cross about this small betrayal in the way only a drunk could.

 

Tucking the flask safely away in his leathers the male ordered, “Let’s go,” and hauled her up to her feet. Nesta tried to take a step and nearly toppled sideways, so instead of gripping her hand as they had done on the way in, he took her forearm and winnowed.

 

Nesta had the sensation of being sucked into a place that was not a place, for a time that was not of any particular amount, and then she was falling.

 

With a lurch, Azriel hauled Nesta up by the arm and caught her behind the knees. It was a dizzying terror gliding down to the veranda of the House of Wind through that useless, cowardly barrier that prevented a saner means of fast travel. The shadowsinger landed with a keen grace, gentle as he tried to set her upright on the stones. Nesta gagged.

 

“You’re back!”

 

Elain’s voice was cautious, as if she was afraid to hear how their brief trip had gone. The fairest, and formerly craziest, of the Archeron sisters had been worried sick that without the threat of Rhysand’s power, the Illyrians would turn on them. Despite Azriel's assurance that Cassian had been living at Windhaven without incident for months, and that the warriors were too afraid of Nesta to give them any trouble, Elain had still worried.

 

Both of them returning whole had given Elain some small peace, but there could always be news to ruin it. News of more wars they would all be dragged into against their will. News of great monsters in faraway lands coming to turn everyone into even less recognizable versions of their current selves.

 

Nesta retched.

 

Her sister belonged in a storybook with her long, honey-gold waves and her clean, velvet gown, glowing in the late afternoon sun like some kind of fae princess.

 

Elain cast Nesta a glance that was offensively fleeting, then turned to Azriel to ask in a hushed voice, as if they didn’t all have fae hearing and Nesta wouldn’t overhear, “Where’s Cassian? Did he refuse to come?”

 

Only to Elain would Azriel explain anything. Ever. They had become each other’s preferred companion since the war, and Nesta didn’t blame them. In fact, if the two of them bonding over shadows and visions kept Elain off a ledge and Azriel from wanton murder, Nesta wished them the best.

 

That lack of responsibility gave her the liberty to drink away her misery liberally, and with great indiscretion. Now that Feyre was down at the River House, there was no real need for Nesta to be in on whatever they were talking about anyway…

 

Drink— no drink.

 

Azriel still had her flask.

 

Straightening from where she’d doubled over in nausea, Nesta held out an arm with too-long fingers. “Give it back.”

 

“He's putting his affairs in order. He'll fly in tomorrow.”

 

Nesta removed a soggy boot, barely, and chucked it at Azriel. She missed, but successfully got his attention.

 

Elain cut her an outraged look, voice lowering as if she were, in fact, the eldest Archeron sister. “Nesta!”

 

Nesta ignored Elain, making great effort to remove her other boot without falling.

 

Azriel drew the flask from shadow and tossed it.

 

Fumbling a bit, Nesta managed not to drop the thing. After taking a quick drink, she hobbled off toward her room wearing one boot without looking at either of them. Behind her, Nesta could still hear them talking, voices low and fading as she got further from the main hall.

 

“Do you think we should do something?” Elain asked.

 

Nesta couldn’t help but strain over the silence of the House’s interior to eavesdrop, though the substance of their conversation didn’t particularly matter to her. It was the principle. Even after everything, the part of her that was more sister than fae occasionally reared its familiar head and bade her to do such meaningless things.

 

“There’s nothing we can do unless she actually wants to change. In the meantime, it’s not my problem… or yours.”

 

Nesta slowed her steps to a stop. She didn’t turn back to look, but could imagine Elain’s resigned nod, her delicate shoulders slumped. Even faced with Death, Nesta could keep her back plumb with the invisible thread her mother still held over her.

 

“Maybe Cassian can get through to her?” Her sister’s voice was strained, likely on the verge of tears if not crying already.

 

Nesta didn’t wait to hear Azriel’s answer as she briskly crossed the threshold to the wing that held her room, fleeing to the kinder grief of solitude.

 

 

~

 

 

Hours later, and shocked she hadn’t vomited, Nesta sat on a moonlit carpet in the middle of her bedroom. She still wore the lone boot from earlier, but had managed to shed the warm layers of her outer clothing into a puddle of fabric that encircled her on the floor. The chemise she’d been wearing beneath was cool against her skin. The House had lit a fire in the hearth to warm her, and some far-away part of her was dimly grateful for it. Her knees were tucked to her chest as she swayed, fighting to stay upright and winning by steel will alone.

 

That was how she remained, until she realized she’d misplaced her flask somewhere in the mess. Extending a watery arm to pat the floor ruined her fight for balance and toppled her face-first onto the rug.

 

A knock sounded on the door.

 

Nesta sneered, because Elain didn’t visit her this late at night, which meant it was Azriel, and something was very wrong. She splayed her two hands in front of her on the floor, and wiggled her feet into position. One arm reached for a bedpost, missing twice before she gripped it firmly.

 

A second, louder knock.

 

In an attempt to tell Azriel she would be there in a moment Nesta said, “Illyrian fuckery, poisoned piss wine,” but it came out in slurred vowels that likely didn’t make it through the door without losing their meaning entirely.

 

Once upright, she found handholds along the bed, dresser, and walls until she’d made it to the door. Nesta flipped the bolt of her lock as the pounding of a third, more insistent, knock began, and opened the door to a meaty fist that promptly collided with her face.

 

Knocked on her ass, Nesta found herself back on the floor where she’d started, still clueless about where the damn flask had gone. And she was throbbing where he’d hit her.

 

“Shit,” was her only warning before Cassian was suddenly next to her, turning her face towards the firelight.

 

The movements made the room spin. She scowled, swatting at him and landing a feeble hit maybe twice. He was unbothered.

 

“I think I broke your nose.”

 

Nesta felt like she was going to pass out if she didn’t do something. She closed her eyes with a groan that was half a sob, and then he did something uninvited that caused sharp, searing pain to shoot through her face.

 

She shrieked.

 

Cursing anew she wailed, “You bastard, what the hell?” before flailing dizzily in an attempt to get away from his torture. She lost her balance again and fell over, but this time warm hands caught her instead of the hard floor.

 

Nesta thought he would leave then, though she didn’t know why he’d come at all. Maybe to make a snide remark. Involuntary tears pricked her eyes as the pain morphed to a brutal ache, her body’s response to the broken bones being forced back into position. It only took a minute before the pain began to fade, and Nesta knew by morning her nose might be healed entirely— perfectly, if Cassian had done a good job setting it.

 

A confused squawk escaped her as the big male lifted and slung Nesta over his shoulder, not gently. The pressure of his shoulder in her stomach pushed the air out of her in a whoosh that was hard to get back. They were going somewhere. Nesta spotted dark Illyrian wings as she bobbed up and down in the stone hallway and fought to get a full breath.

 

Knowing better, but too gone to care, she flattened a hand against the velvety surface and swiped down.

 

Cassian staggered sideways, colliding with the stone wall. He cursed, and she sniggered, even as he spun her around so quickly she was blinded by the motion. Banding a big arm around her waist and arms, another held her legs firm, ending her mischief.

 

Leaning her head against his leather-clad chest in tired surrender, Nesta let out a rattled sigh and muttered, “Welcome home, brute.”

Notes:

Summary: Nesta and Azriel go to Windhaven to pick up Cassian, who has been living there for months. His presence is required at the House of Wind immediately. Elain worries.

Chapter 3: Letters

Notes:

CW: More Nesta coded alcoholism, mention of attempts to unalive, spoopy magic, just the tip of the edging, vague letters, IC negativity

*As an aside, I am neither Pro nor Anti IC. Please be nice to everyone in the fandom, and do not use my story as justification for being mean to folks on the internet who disagree with you. Some people LOVE the IC. That's great for them. We love them. We make space for them. We can even appreciate their art. Be kind, folks, life is hard enough without fandoms being toxic.

A/N:  Hello everybody, welcome back! Another chapter to help get you through the week :)

Mood board here.

---

 

Letters

 

 

All of the lights were too bright.

 

Cassian spoke too loudly from the table as the Archeron sisters arrived for breakfast. He paused mid-sentence as Elain guided Nesta into a chair. Nesta’s eyes were fastened shut against what was left of her still-raging hangover.

 

At least it gave her an excuse not to acknowledge Cassian for holding her hair back last night.

 

Nesta opened a single, bleak eye in Cassian’s direction and then closed it. When she asked the House to do something about the light, she spoke so softly they could barely parse out her words. There was a whisper of fabric as gauzy curtains fell in place over the windows. The flames on various candles shortened, and burned dimmer for it. Had she been in a more spirited mood, she might have thought to ask the House to do something about the general, too, just to see what would happen.

 

Risking another peek, Nesta sighed her relief at the mellow ambiance that had replaced the cheerful bright of morning. She reached for a stemmed glass to take a sip of sweet, un-debauched juice and choked. Cutting a murderous glare at Azriel, then Cassian— who was losing the battle to resist a delighted smirk— she snarled, “What the fuck is this?”

 

Instead of an answer, Azriel presented an envelope to her. It had been sealed at one point with the wax sigil of the Summer Court, but by the time it arrived in Nesta’s hand the letter had clearly been opened.

 

Curiosity, piqued from wondering what the Summer Court could possibly want with their crude assembly, had her drawing out the contents from the envelope.

 

Her hands paused on the folded letters. Why was this her problem? Nesta was not going to be dragged into any more fae fuckery. Not again. Without a word, Nesta let the papers fall from her hands, only two sheets. They glided through the air and landed haphazardly apart on the stone floor. Spine stiffening, she looked at no one in particular as she asked in a low, hard voice, “Where is it?”

 

She could feel that sleeping magic stir behind her eyes as her gaze landed on Cassian, inclined to blame him for her missing flask. He paled a little to see it. Nesta kept her expression stoic. She knew how she looked, why it unnerved him. Getting rid of every mirror in the House made avoiding the truth easier, but nothing would erase the memories, or the looks, like the one Cassian was giving her now.

 

It was Azriel who answered her question. “I took it, and I’m not giving it back until you help us.”

 

The magic guttered, and Nesta tried not to notice the wariness that Cassian tried and failed to mask.

 

Rather than answer the shadowsinger, Nesta turned to her dear sister. “When has helping them,” —she swept an arm towards the cast-off letter— “ever resulted in anything but tragedy for us?”

 

It was a tired, outdated habit for her to expect Elain to bend under criticism the way she once would have. Elain gave Nesta a too-knowing look. Her sister did not need Nesta’s protection anymore, nor did she care to humor her ruse of keeping them all safe. No one was fooled. Nesta was a coward, and left to her own devices she would have let the world burn until the fires touched their doorstep.

 

The Cauldron and the War had been silently at work beneath the surface of her sister, who did not balk. Elain held space, and Nesta looked away.

 

“Grow up, Nesta.”

 

Elain reached down to pick up one page of the letter. Azriel handed her the other. She nodded her thanks, and placed both in Nesta’s hands with a gentleness that didn’t match her stern expression. “Read it. You will participate in this meeting and give us your thoughts— useful thoughts. If you do your honest best, I will make sure he returns your flask.”

 

The males turned to Elain in surprised unison, so Nesta hazarded a guess that her sister’s negotiation hadn’t been part of the plan. Maybe she could use that later, to get out of whatever this was about.

 

Nesta skimmed the letter.

 

Then, leaning in, she read it a second time more carefully.

 

“They can’t be serious.”

 

The worried strain around Elain’s eyes was answer enough.

 

Nesta began shaking, her breaths came too quick as she nearly shouted, “How can they fucking do this to us? Damn this hateful place. Damn them, the treacherous wyrms…” She thrust the letters across the table at no one in particular.

 

None of them responded right away, because they all agreed that this was bullshit.

 

Nesta was still fuming when Azriel spoke. “Elain and I have been maintaining correspondence with the other courts. This letter speaks for all the other High Lords as a general formality, but I know there are some who will support us if we give them good reason.”

 

Nesta hung her head in her hands, muttering curses at figures she didn’t even know by name. Glancing at Elain for mercy, her sister’s brown eyes eased with sympathy, but Elain had nothing to add to Azriel’s deduction.

 

The shadowsinger continued, “Your sister says that you were a prodigy in the human courts, before your family lost their fortune.” Cassian muttered something rude, and the other male quieted him with a warning look. Turning back to Nesta he kept his words soft, as if he could pull the blow that was sure to land heavily regardless.

 

“Out of those of us who are left in the Night Court, you might be the only one who knows not just how to play the great Game, but how to win it.”

 

Nesta gave Azriel a dry look. “How convenient for you that there are no other lords and ladies in this court to ask.” Glancing around the room, she waved an arm at the two warriors. “Why not call on Rhysand’s cousin? She’s titled and well trained. Ask her.” A flinch rippled through them, and she felt a tug of smugness beneath her ebbing headache. Daring to press the weakness, she asked, “Where is your friend, anyway? I’m not sure I’ve seen her since the last battle.”

 

Cassian pointedly looked away. His hands flexed at his side, and Nesta wondered if it would be worth the consequences to push him over the edge of composure. She refrained, if only for Elain’s sake. As much as she enjoyed her position as the Drunk of Velaris, this was too serious to ignore.

 

Nesta’s question had the duel benefit of being both a dig, and a valid fucking question. One she wondered if they’d had the balls to ask before extorting her into helping them. And that question was: where the hell was Rhysand’s Third?

 

Amren had returned to her home realm, whatever that place was, so his second was unavailable, as was the High Lady. That left Mor, Third in this circle of idiots, not the unmanageable hag they all tolerated solely for Feyre and Elain’s sakes.

 

Elain had an edge of warning in her tone as she answered for the Illyrians, “No one has seen Morrigan since Rhysand’s funeral. She has sent word to Azriel now and then to let him know she’s alive, but… we have no idea where she is or how to contact her.” Nesta’s eyes slid to the shadowsinger. Narrowed. Some spymaster he was.

 

“Like I said, how convenient.”

 

Azriel pushed at the food on his plate, which had long since gone cold. “There are many other lords and ladies in both of our courts, but none that we trust to put Feyre above their own opportunistic ambitions for the Night Court.”

 

Cassian, still standing, stepped toward the table and growled. “What he meant to say is, you aren’t our first choice. If it wasn’t for her,” —he tipped his head toward Elain— “I wouldn’t have even come.”

 

Nesta blinked, innocently, folding her hands elegantly in her lap. “And why did you come, Cassian? What is your role in all this?” Her meaning was clear— what use do we have for a lowborn Illyrian bastard in a game of politics?

 

She returned his earlier smirk, as the warrior shoved the table and stormed from the room.

 

Shadows bloomed around Azriel’s shoulder, and Elain’s mouth curled to throw out a reprimand. Nesta cut both short with a leveling glare as she warned, “If he can’t stand hearing it from me, he will never make it in a court of High Fae.” She barely registered faint hesitation that indicated Cassian had heard, before he continued retreating down the hall. Good. She had said those words for his ears most of all.

 

Passing over the juice, Nesta drank water as the other two weighed her words in silence.

 

Nesta had been made an ambassador for the humans because Rhysand didn’t have any other choice but to use one of Feyre’s sisters. She had been made in the Cauldron without being offered a choice. She had fought in the war to break the Cauldron because no one else could do it, which was little better than not having a choice. Maybe if she put her foot down and refused, even refused Elain, the Night Court would find someone else. Someone better. Doing so tasted like a choice, as she considered it. It smelled like control.

 

The problem was that they really would be hard-pressed to find someone better. Nesta knew she was very, very good at this sort of thing. As she watched her sister and Azriel descend to deeper and deeper rungs of overthink, she began worrying that they were fucked without her. Mor had been raised for court life so she obviously spoke the language, but was she fluent in it? Apparently not, or things never would have come to this.

 

Intrigue was Nesta’s mother tongue.

 

Elain and Azriel were still staring at their plates, trying to come up with something to say, when Nesta rolled her eyes and decided enough. Twirling a circle in the air with her finger, she broke the silence first. “You want my help? Here’s lesson number one: if someone dishes it out, you dish it right back. You can’t always punch or magic your way out of a fight, so learn how to weaponize your words and make anyone who slights you regret it. Now, sister”—she held out her hand across the table—“I think I’ve done my part for today.”

 

Elain hesitated, then nodded. Azriel wordlessly produced the flask and handed it to Nesta.

 

She snatched her reward like a starved cat and swallowed deeply. She pulled back, glancing to make sure it was the same vessel she’d brought back from Windhaven.

 

Azriel answered her unasked question. “I switched it out for something that wouldn’t kill you by the end of the week.”

 

Free hand rubbing her temple, Nesta stood. “For once, I don’t think I mind.”

 

She left them and the letter to wander the House, drink some more, and otherwise occupy her day as she always did, with boring, purposeless leisure. The hangover faded some, with the medicine of her familiar, less-unwieldy spirits, and as her mind began to clear an idea came to her. A grand idea. One that would both help their cause, and piss off the Illyrians, in equal measure.

 

A wicked sneer pulled on her mouth as she penned two letters. She had only to snoop for a short while before finding the official seal of the Night Court in a study. A word to the House, and her correspondence vanished. Nesta could only trust that whatever powerful magic ran the place also knew how to post mail properly.

 

 

~

 

 

It was mid-afternoon when the small thrill of Nesta’s plotting waned, and she found herself staring out a set of glass doors that led to a balcony facing the city. Feyre had tried to throw herself from it when they’d first brought her here, right after the battle. Nesta added one more to countless drinks, but didn’t look away from the picturesque view as she attempted once more to sort through her blunted feelings.

 

Sending Feyre to the River House certainly made it harder for her youngest sister to kill herself, but Nuala and Cerridwen still had to watch her constantly. They had volunteered, claiming it would be an honor to care for their High Lady of Night in her hour of need. At the time, Nesta and Elain had both lacked the energy or means to refuse. Months passed, and still the broken mating bond was destroying Feyre from the inside with no hope of healing.

 

Some days, Nesta thought what had become of Feyre was worse than the Cauldron. She’d never admit it, though, because then people would encourage her to help. Nesta had no interest in being a good sister now, as if changing soiled linens and spooning opiate-laced soups could blot out all the times she’d been anything but.

 

Nesta sniffed and took another pull from her flask. This level of angst was distasteful, even for her.

 

Dark birds flew across a sky that was beginning to color with twilight. Feyre should have been here with Rhysand to take in the balmy view that was wasted on Nesta. They should have been happy, making weird faerie babies and stupid paintings that made the world sigh.

 

Anger warmed beneath her skin, and the Cauldron’s cold power answered,

 

 

They hurt you. Let us make it better. We can take the pain away—

 

 

Before she could will the voice silent, Nesta heard glass chipping, followed by a loud crash as the terrace doors shattered. Sunset colors were scattered about the room by the broken fragments.

 

Without a backwards glance, Nesta fled the scene and prayed no one had heard the noise. She was already weaving a story that she had gotten angry about the letter and threw a book.

 

Power thrummed in her.

 

She looked down, and horror twisted in her belly to see threads of silver light dancing in watery patterns beneath her skin. She hissed at the unholy thing inside of her, hurrying across the House before anything worse could transpire.

 

Those ghostly voices came roaring back, louder and more insistent the harder she pushed at them in her mind. Phantom kisses of power sucked any lingering warmth from her bones. Nesta tucked her flask into her skirts, knowing that no amount of alcohol would help if she couldn’t get to her room in time. The voices brushed at her concentration like tiny feathered wings, calling her towards a sweet dream of death.

 

 

Let us out, Let us out, Let. Us. OUT!

 

 

Nesta didn’t realize she’d been running full-out until she lurched to a stop at the sight of Cassian, who appeared to have been waiting outside of her room. He glanced up when she came into view, looking like he’d come to pick a fight. Any contrarian front fell away as he scanned her up and down.

 

His voice was laced with fear— of her, for her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

 

The voices stilled, then sang at once in a terrible, cacophonous harmony:

 

 

Lord of Bloodshed

Prince of Bastards

Mated to the Cauldron

Do you know us?

 

 

Nesta cut them off with her own shrill voice. “Get out of my way!” She tried to shove past him, and finding him unwilling to let her pass without explanation, she gave him a desperate look and begged, “Please, Cassian.”

 

His eyes widened with disbelief. He moved just enough to let her through.

 

Nesta shot past him and into her room. She tried to close the door and shut him out, but Cassian caught it one-handed and started to force his way in behind her. She might have said something else, but the voices swelled again murmuring,

 

chaos and order and beauty and evil and cruelty and loveliness…

 

Cassian reached for her, and Nesta panicked.

 

She threw up her arms and shut her eyes. It was a reflex, she hadn’t thought it through, didn’t realize what would happen until she heard the crack that rang through the hall outside her room. The sound of a heavy male body colliding with stone was followed by a pained grunt from the Illyrian, so she at least knew Cassian was alive.

 

The voices stopped.

 

Dreading what she would find, Nesta opened her eyes to survey the damage. From the center of the impact, silver lines ran like spider webs. Cassian looked a bit dazed, but otherwise intact. Before he had time to recover— to say whatever he had come to say, or worse, to ask questions about what the hell just happened— she slammed her door and turned the bolt. She even had House move her bed to block the door for good measure.

 

Another command, and the hearth’s fire was doused. Nesta found a corner and crouched, hugging her knees to her forehead and willing the Cauldron’s hold on her back to a quiet, harmless slumber. When she finally lifted her head, it was full night, and the moon’s glow was the only light in her room.

 

Not bothering to undress or wash, Nesta climbed into bed, begging her mind not to dream.

Notes:

Summary: Summer Court texted, and now everyone needs Nesta's help deciding how to reply. She drops the mic, and then her powers do a Thing. Cassian kicked out, sad probably.

Chapter 4: The Plan

Notes:

CW: Mummy and Daddy fighting. Light Elriel insinuations. Fantasy politics.

A/N: Big shout out to Snail and Artemis, my beta readers. I've been hitting them rapid fire with these chapters, and they make sure to get everything squeaky clean for you dearies. So many commas.... Hoping to get at least one more out over the weekend! I'm too excited about where things are going T_T

Mood board here.

 

---

 

 

The Plan

 

 

“The only one who can secure the Night Court in the eyes of the High Lords is Feyre.”

 

The next day, Nesta had gathered everyone in the old War Room. It was really just one of many large, neglected studies in the House, but this one boasted a big sand table of the continent as its centerpiece.

 

Nesta trailed a finger along the rich grain of its wooden frame, a glass of House red in her other hand. “Feyre won their freedom from Amarantha Under the Mountain. With a kernel of power from each court, she is High Fae by every reasonable measure, and Rhysand made her his equal in standing, so her claim to the throne is undisputed.”

 

The wine glowed crimson in the candlelight as she swirled it, absently. “Every single one of those arrogant males loves her, or at the very least respects her.”

 

There were plush couches and feather-soft lounge chairs along the side of the room. Azriel and Elain shared one of the couches, with a small table between them littered with notes on various courts of Prythian. Cassian made an oversized easy chair look understated beneath the lazy spread of his massive body.

 

“None of that matters if she's unfit to rule.” Elain leaned forward to shuffle through the papers, searching for some detail in a sea of chicken scratch. Her bronze hair was loose tonight, and it curtained the side of her face from the movement, long enough to brush against Azriel’s leg.

 

The shadowsinger stilled, and a dark mist blurred his face.

 

Nesta snuck a glance at Cassian, who was staring aimlessly at the table with an amused look on his face. Was Azriel affected by all females this easily, or just her sister? She made a mental note to ask, so they could make sure it wouldn’t become a problem.

 

“Tamlin will buy Feyre more time. Maybe Helion, if we're lucky…”

 

“Tamlin? Why would we ask that sad fuck for—”

 

“Because we're not in a position to be precious about allies,” Nesta interrupted, coolly.

 

She gave them until she finished her glass to let the direness of their circumstances sink in. “Am I being overly cynical, Azriel?”

 

Their resident Master of Spies looked up, composed and clear-faced. “No, you're not. Despite any personal sympathy the High Lords may have for Feyre, they will still have to weigh any desire to support her against the best interests of their own people.”

 

“Then they're a bunch of cowards.”

 

All three of the others frowned at Cassian, who crossed bulging arms over his chest and squirmed.

 

“Please, be less helpful,” crooned Nesta.

 

The General Commander threw her a vulgar gesture, and she paused, regarding him down her nose.

 

Elain spoke brightly, as if she could will them away from derailing the conversation with insults. “Why would supporting Feyre’s rule as High Lady mean going against the best interests of their own courts?”

 

Nesta was still locked in a staring contest with Cassian, and winning, from how his scowling face had begun to flush. She smirked, and he flashed teeth. Sipping the magically refilled glass, she held his gaze over the lip of it while Azriel explained.

 

“Because we are a large, powerful land without a capable ruler to tame it. If Feyre were dead, or if she were less powerful than Rhys had been, the land might have already chosen a new leader for itself by now.

 

Without someone strong enough to keep the land and the fae in check, the resulting power vacuum could cannibalize the Night Court from within. Internal struggles might bleed over our borders and into other courts. Opportunists could intentionally exploit those weaknesses, leaving neighboring courts vulnerable as well.”

 

The shadowsinger’s eyes bounced between Cassian and Nesta. He raised his voice and spoke his next words with pointed emphasis as he added, “Wars have begun over much less.”

 

They had both heard every word, but neither would relent and look away first. Cassian's face was scarlet as Nesta set down her glass and clasped her hands, taking graceful steps across the study until she stood just out of reach, should he try to kick her with his long legs.

 

Nesta made a show of inspecting him. “You will have to start wearing something other than fighting leathers to be taken seriously in this court, let alone the others.”

 

With a loud scoff, Cassian threw his head back, which made his long, uncombed hair dance around his shoulders. When it settled, he cast her a mean smirk of his own, jerking a stubbled chin at her glass. “So getting thrown on your fucking ass, drunk off Illyrian spirits, is respectable?”

 

Nesta let the words wash over her, unaffected. “That was a bit obvious, don't you think? Come on, Cassian. Or is there a reason Rhysand only used you as muscle off the battlefield, General?”

 

“Both of you, stop it!” Elain shouted, standing.

 

Azriel glanced at Elain, but said nothing to discourage the confrontation, as if he found their clashes inevitable.

 

Cassian leaned forward, bracing his arms against his thighs. He gave Nesta a hard, thoughtful look, then ran his eyes down her figure and back up again. She was so sure he would take the bait and cross a line, stating the obvious about her own issues, but at the last moment, he gave her the final word and shrugged.

 

He didn’t flee the room either, and that was progress.

 

Elain was wound tight, but she rallied and tried again to bring everyone back to the task at hand.

 

“Some of the High Lords are honorable. Maybe we should compromise, and offer our favored ally temporary stewardship of the Night Court, until Feyre recovers?”

 

Turning back to her glass, Nesta gave a small shake of her head. “Bad idea.”

 

“Why?”

 

Nesta regarded Cassian from her periphery, and saw no lingering malice from their exchange, only sincerity. There was a good mind for strategy behind his olive and amber eyes, but admiration felt too close to affection and after that shit he'd pulled on the battlefield…

 

Nesta Archeron had no interest in forming attachments to idiot males who threw away their lives so cheaply.

 

She addressed Elain as she answered. “For one, there are going to be other High Lords at the summit who would never allow it. The mere idea of giving a single court that kind of advantage is enough to stoke a sizable conflict.”

 

Her sister returned the attention with a guarded expression, as if she was worried Nesta would lash out at her, too. So long as they let her drink, Nesta told herself she could live with that. She took another long swallow of her wine.

 

“Starting squabbles amongst the other courts is not the main issue, though. The bigger problem would be what happens when any power gained is threatened by the High Lady’s recovery.”

 

A dark look crossed Azriel’s face. The spymaster probably had intimate knowledge of the sort of schemes that arise when someone stands to lose their seat of power. Perhaps he had even orchestrated such cloaked daggers, for the benefit of Rhysand or his father.

 

Nesta herself knew about these things only vaguely, as cautionary tales her mother had once used to warn her against flaunting influence without discretion. ‘The problem is not standing out,’ her mother had explained, ‘but standing out to the wrong person at the wrong time.’

 

To Azriel and the others, Nesta said, “There are times to present a weak, non-threatening front. There are also times when we should aim to make them all fear how much of a threat we can become, if provoked. The upcoming accord will require both, and we won't be able to rely on a bluff, not entirely.”

 

Nesta pursed her lips, eyeing each of them until she found herself again in an exchange with Cassian's rapt attention. Careful to keep her expression neutral, she said to him, “The courts who think we are weak enough to prey on— those are the ones we need to remind of our strength, with or without Feyre.”

 

“And the ones who would support us need a small, but easily underestimated, hope that will allow them to justify giving us their support,” Cassian finished.

 

She failed to mask her surprise, and he grinned at the slip. “You shouldn’t judge someone by their leathers, Nesta. Deceptive appearances are the very technique you’re suggesting we use, all so the High Lords will believe that we should be taken seriously.”

 

Nesta grimaced at her own words being thrown back at her, then felt her eyes crinkle as her stinging pride thawed to amusement.

 

“Well put, Cassian…”

 

He straightened to hear her compliment, eyes wide.

 

Turning up her nose, Nesta gestured at all of him with her wine glass and added, “But you still have to lose the leathers.”

 

Azriel smirked. Elain looked about ready to fall into her chair with relief. Cassian sagged slightly, but attempted to play it off as lounging, settling back into the chair with his expression soldier-stoic.

 

The warlord was learning, but Nesta wondered if he was learning quickly enough.

 

“So, do you have a plan for how exactly we can pull all that off?” Elain asked, impatience edging into her voice.

 

Nesta shrugged, “Not for the summit. Not yet. Most of the in-person discourse we’re going to have to improvise, anyway.”

 

Cassian paled slightly, but didn’t otherwise balk.

 

Nesta was keeping a running list of his weaknesses in the back of her mind and added improvised social events to it as she continued.

 

“I do have an idea about how to get our own court into position, so that we are prepared to face an accord of High Lords, and hold our own.”

 

Elain, Azriel, and Cassian waited, and Nesta looked at the sand table with unhurried calm, weighing their anticipation in her palm for the sake of it.

 

“We are going to establish a stronger foothold over the Hewn City, and”—she met her sister’s eye out of the corner of her own—“we’re going to fix Feyre.”

 

Cassian’s steady air faltered, and Azriel looked at her with angry disbelief. Elain seemed to forget to breathe, having to gasp before blurting out in a rush, “How?” Her voice broke as she demanded, “If you know a way, why didn’t you tell us before now?”

 

Nesta clicked her tongue. Her glass replenished. “I have no idea how to do it, or if it can even be done.”

 

Elain sputtered, throwing up exasperated hands. “If you thought there was even a slim possibility, why didn’t you mention this months ago? We could have been looking into a cure, all this time!”

 

She shrugged nonchalantly, refusing to validate her sister’s outburst. “It never occurred to me to look into it.”

 

Cassian’s face twisted with contempt as he shook his head, disheveled locks swaying.

 

Nesta stilled, but returned his glare and braced for a knife— one he intended not merely to tease, but to truly wound her.

 

His voice was a low growl. “How is it possible for you to be so selfish, while your sister wastes away with grief?”

 

Nesta didn’t have to look at Elain or Azriel to know they wore similar, damning expressions. None of this was new from the three of them. This was how they'd all seen her for a while, and rightly so.

 

Deciding the meeting was over, Nesta asked them all a final, rhetorical question. “Why didn’t you think to do something for her? She's your High Lady after all, is she not?” Turning to Elain, she added, “And your sister?”

 

Guilt stumbled across Cassian’s face as his thoughts began wrestling.

 

Elain lowered herself back into her seat. She lowered her gaze to the long, delicate hands the Cauldron made for her, then looked out the study's window as if she could see for a thousand miles.

 

Azriel took one look at Elain, then returned an even deeper look of condemnation than before to Nesta.

 

Nesta raised a brow at Azriel, then lifted her glass to him and turned to go. It wasn’t that she wanted to be alone, but that she had overstayed her welcome and saw nothing to be gained from staying. There was no regret for the words she'd spoken, because they had been true.

 

Still, being right felt incredibly lonely.

 

Before she reached the door, Nesta remembered an important detail that couldn’t wait.

 

“I recruited allies. Two. Both trustworthy and sharing our motives.”

 

Cassian and Elain startled, as if they'd expected her to be across the House and liquored half way to the Wall.

 

The wall around her own heart groaned, and Nesta shored it up as best she could.

 

To the Illyrians, she said, “I need you to pick them up when they arrive. We can bring them here, or to the Moonstone Palace, or to somewhere nice in Velaris. I don’t care which. Talk it over with Elain, and decide where you think would be best for hosting diplomatic guests.

 

I’ll leave the rest of the pertinent details where you can find them by morning.”

 

Before they could draw her back in with questions, she left the study, but not before noticing a soft pity in Cassian's eyes that twisted her gut with emotions she wasn't ready to name.

 

 

~

 

 

From the meeting, Nesta made her way not to her rooms, but down the stairs that would lead her to one place in the House she had not dared to explore since the war. Before they could brave the Hewn City, she needed to do some research on the old High Fae families that held sway there.

 

Mor should have been here, if only to share her insight on that.

 

Nesta squinted against the clear sky as she made her way outside. Her sense of time was warped from so many sleepless nights, and the brightness of midday had been unexpected. Wind rippled around her in a steady breeze as she followed the path and came upon the ancient structure that would be her destination for the rest of the day.

 

Remembering the last time she had come here, she paused at the doors.

 

Feyre had wanted to free Bryaxis.

 

She drank.

 

Knowing Clotho would disapprove of her flask, if not the rest of her, Nesta hid it away in one of her pockets and prayed the High Priestess wouldn’t notice. There was no helping the rest of her appearance, but she did her best to smooth her gown and re-braid her dirty, greasy hair before entering. Her nose was blind to it, but Nesta knew the librarians would have the pleasure of scenting her vice in the air around her, to add insult to injury. She pulled her cloak around her to try to dampen it as she left the light of day behind, and entered a place of peace and refuge, holy in its own right.

Notes:

Summary: Nesta has a plan. Everyone tries to get mad at her. They're (mostly) wrong.

Chapter 5: Gwyneth

Notes:

CW: Wild Gwyneth appears. Important Exposition. Reading.

 

A/N: This was originally part of a much larger chapter, that I ultimately chose to break into two for readability. The next bit should be ready to go up this evening!
Mood board here :)

 

---

 

Gwyneth

 

 

There were only a handful of truly old families in the Hewn City. Their roots ran deep within that mountain, some claiming their bloodlines could be traced further back than the formation of the fae courts in Prythian.

 

Human nobles were no different when it came to lineage, and though she was an excellent courtier Nesta was low born as the rest of them— not that any human heritage would have helped with this mess.

 

Going shoulder to shoulder with aristocrats was once a challenge she relished, but her ability had since atrophied from disuse. To work her mind back into shape for the monumental obstacles ahead, Nesta gorged on any and all knowledge about the Court of Nightmares she could get her hands on, obsessive as she researched her future opponents.

 

From what she had gathered, there was one thing that would reliably triumph over pedigree in the Court of Nightmares…

 

Power.

 

Rhysand and Amarantha were alike in that respect, though their styles were obviously different. Where the late High Lord had sought to contain and dominate the darker half of his subjects, Hybern’s General had encouraged their base nature, but still ruled with absolute terror.

 

Perhaps the lords and ladies of that court would crave stability as much as the rest of Prythian.

 

Perhaps the Cauldron’s power could buy Nesta a seat at their table, and a chance to win them over to her cause.

 

To do so, she would offer them some power of their own— a new place in the Night Court, and the chance to have a say in its future.

 

It was good that Mor was away, at least for this leg of her plan, to avoid having to worm around that kernel of history.

 

On the other hand, Cassian and Azriel would still be hard to sell. To the high fae in the Hewn City, they were known as Rhysand’s barbarian general and shadow-assassin, and not courtiers.

 

If two lesser-fae bastards could be formally presented as members of Feyre’s court and hold their own, the shock would be a fantastic diversion. One Nesta could then use to carve out a foothold that, once secured, wouldn’t easily be removed.

 

As for the Summit, conquering the Court of Nightmares would give them a much stronger position then the High Lords would expect.

 

The other half of Nesta’s strategy, curing Feyre’s broken mating bond, was equally essential, but easier to bluff if they ran out of time. Her sister’s dubious sanity would have to wait until after their trip to the sister court of Rhysand’s precious court of dreams.

 

Given the long lives of immortals, and the longer histories of Prythian, there wouldn’t possibly be enough time for Nesta to feel adequately prepared. It irked her that she was at such a disadvantage against the other courtiers, but a small part of her— something entirely Nesta and not at all from the Cauldron— felt a secret thrill.

 

 

~

 

 

The lights were dim in Nesta’s alcove of the Library, and she had no perception of the daylight hours wasted, as she poured over the histories of the great Houses, their culture, and the myths and lore of the Hewn City. She supplemented these with works that spoke about the nature of titles in Prythian, trying to better understand how the High Lords and their titled families came to gain such status to begin with.

 

The days blurred together, and she became less and less aware of the comings and goings at the House of Wind as she sank deeper into her studies.

 

Eventually, after several days holed up in the same alcove from morning to dusk, so many books were piled around her that Nesta was totally hidden from passers-by. So completely was she walled in that she didn’t notice the priestess approach, until a spot of faelight glinted on remarkable auburn hair in a crack between her stacks of tomes.

 

Nesta finished the page she was reading before marking her place, and resting the text in her lap. Raising grey eyes to take stock of her visitor, she shoved the newest stack unceremoniously, parting the books to create a reasonable gap that the priestess could pass between.

 

This female was easily recognizable because of her height, and her hair. Her eyes were a distracting teal color as well, but she used her cowl to conceal them most of the time. Nesta frowned, not intentionally unfriendly, but impatient to get back to work.

 

“Can I help you?”

 

Gwyneth, who had introduced herself days earlier, held Nesta’s gaze steadily. “The books are going to be damaged if I leave them here much longer. Clotho wants to shelve the ones you aren’t using.”

 

Nesta considered the unreasonable collection around her, suspecting that the books were magicked against such wear. She didn’t care enough to argue though, and began to cherry-pick the volumes she was still actively browsing, forming yet another tower among the already excessive stacks.

 

The priestess watched patiently, an empty cart waiting behind to ferry away Nesta’s cast-offs for re-shelving.

 

As she lifted a set of four tomes to uncover a particularly large book of public records, Nesta asked, “Why are you babysitting me today? I thought you were one of the important ones, with some kind of special job.”

 

Gwyn made an agreeable huff, crossing her arms but not coming closer. “Apparently, you’re more important than Merrill’s research. One of the great Archeron Sisters, nosing through old books to save the Night Court from peril, once again.”

 

Nesta chuckled darkly, still sifting through the small trove she’d accumulated. There must have been well over a hundred.

 

“There’s nothing great about the Archeron sisters. Not anymore.”

 

Gwyneth was quiet after that. There was the dry rustling of papers, and soft sighs of old leather as Nesta cracked a book she didn’t recognize, then promptly closed it when she realized it was one of her less useful pulls. She placed it on a return pile and continued sorting.

 

The priestess nodded her head. “Can I take these?”

 

Nesta grunted, and nodded back.

 

Gwyneth began loading her cart with the discarded volumes. They carried on for several minutes in coordinated, wordless company.

 

When Nesta was halfway through her collection the priestess asked, “I didn’t expect you to be studying the Court of Nightmares. Are you planning a visit?”

 

Nesta hesitated, but quickly resumed her task.

 

“Yes.”

 

The silence that followed was companionable.

 

After a time, Gwyneth’s cart was nearly full. She would soon have to stack volumes double, if she didn’t care to find another cart.

 

“What could you possibly expect to find in such an awful place?” she finally asked. The priestess wasn’t offended, merely curious, as if it were in her nature to always ask why.

 

Nesta stopped sorting and sat back on her heels to really look at her.

 

Gwyneth met her gaze, unafraid and without judgment for her unkempt appearance, or the flask that she didn’t hide as well as she should have. Nesta wondered at that, and shrugged.

 

“The Court of Nightmares is like any other court in Prythian— ancient, entitled, and soaked in fae tradition. Rhysand didn’t use it often because he didn’t need it until the war. Their influence, their history, their terrifying reputation… I need all of it.”

 

Sweeping her arm over her books, Nesta added, “But I don’t plan to go there unprepared. I fully intend to succeed.”

 

Gwyneth weighed Nesta’s words, then came to evaluate the remnant of selections that Nesta was planning to keep for further investigation. Gwyneth’s teal eyes were sharp with recognition as they ran over the spines, placing them from an index in her mind.

 

“I know of a few books and scrolls you might find useful.” The priestess stood, stepping back to her heavy cart. “I’ll bring them tomorrow, and we can go over your notes so I know what else to look for.”

 

Nesta watched Gwyneth roll the cart down the aisle without giving an answer, not that the other female seemed to expect one. Her copper hair caught the light again, easy to spot in the dim library until she disappeared around a bend. Her mind snagged on the unexpected ‘we’ for a while after Gwyneth had left.

 

Wanting to reach for the flask, Nesta's fingers twitched.  She refrained. The occasional pulls she had taken in the solitude of her alcove had been discreet, but the risk of being barred from resources seemed all the more with someone going out of their way to help her.

 

Eyeing one candlestick in particular, Nesta estimated the hours that had passed since it had been lit, and knew it was time to leave. Azriel had told her their guests would be arriving tonight in time for dinner, so she made final adjustments to her remaining piles before snuffing her candles and following the fae lights up the stacks and into the orange hue of dusk.

 

Notes:

Summary: Nesta reads some books. Gwyneth isn't scared of her.

Chapter 6: Feyre's Motley Band of Courtiers

Notes:

CW: More mummy and daddy fighting. Tamlin sighting. Defenestration.

 

A/N: Oops! Butter-fingered the publish while I was trying to edit. Apologies if there are errors!

Mood Board here. 

Update: I finished cleaning it up. My beta readers didn't get a chance to green-light it, but I think I did alright. Plenty more to come for my beta-readers to pick apart!

 

---

 

 

Motley Band of Courtiers

 

 

Nesta’s mind was busy sorting through the fresh information, organizing and filing it for retention, as she climbed the path back to the House of Wind. She was half-way to the entrance, when a shadow on the path disturbed her thoughts.

 

The brisk wind teased loose strands from her braid and whipped them across her face. She spat at them as she recognized the source of the shadow. There was a familiar Illyrian, just ahead.

 

Using the opportunity to take a healthy draw of liquor from her flask, Nesta washed away the anxiety about what it meant for him to be there. Everyone was back, and it was time for her to make good on her boast about allies.

 

From the look on Cassian's face, her grand surprise had pissed him off, and she wasn’t sure what he planned to do about it.

 

Why was he here?

 

They stared each other down for a long minute. His face was shadowed by the evening sun behind him, but she could mark the brooding grimace on his wide mouth easily enough.

 

Cassian moved first, taking slow steps towards her.

 

Nesta stood her ground, knowing he wouldn’t hurt her… but the knot of dread in her belly doubted.

 

When he was close enough that she could see the flecks of grey in his hazel eyes, he stopped.

 

Her hands hung loosely by her sides. She was clueless about what to expect, and didn't know how to take this— him seeking her out.

 

“Those two? Really? Why did you come all the way to the mountains to recruit me, if you didn’t actually plan on helping? ”

 

Biting back a scathing retort, Nesta glanced at the side of the path that wasn’t mountain... the one that dropped sharply in the open air, showing off Velaris far below. Taking a breath to focus, the words she finally chose came out careful, but honest.

 

“Azriel recruited you. In exchange for getting you off those gods-forsaken mountains, he showed me where I could buy the strongest liquor in Prythian.”

 

Cassian didn't react. He was far more composed than he’d been during their previous meetings with Azriel and Elain. Too composed. Nesta didn’t trust it.

 

She took a nervous step back as he looked down on her, apparently taking her measure, no doubt savoring the marrow of whatever the hell he anticipated from her. Outside of the House, with those towering wings blocking her path around, she felt small. Vulnerable, uncharacteristically so. If that was his intent, he was succeeding, damn him. Maybe later she would be proud.

 

There was a chill on the path, so high up in the mountain. The sun was rapidly vanishing. Nesta shivered, and pulled out her flask again as a reflex, but hesitated when she saw the disapproving dip of his chin, a narrowing of his eyes.

 

Out of patience, and more than a little angry that he had gotten under her skin so easily, Nesta closed the small distance she’d put between them and gave the male a shove.

 

She rebounded with a small stumble.

 

He grinned like a wolf.

 

She pulled her shawl tighter over her shoulders and said, “I’m going to be sick if I stay out here any longer.”

 

The general, still wearing his leathers, flexed his wings slightly, blocking even more of the path.

 

Show-off.

 

Nesta threw a wild hand towards the House. “If they’re already here, you might as well let me go talk to them!”

 

Cassian raised a brow, predictably unaffected by the thought of making their guests wait.

 

She was trying to come up with a way to get him to move that wouldn’t involve blasting him out of the way, when he stepped aside to let her pass. Suspicious that this wasn’t the end of his game, Nesta hesitated, but only for a moment. Best not to give him the chance to change his mind.

 

Cassian was mammoth, she thought, as he loomed over her along the cliff's edge. His eyes tracked her every step, and she had to force herself to look ahead when she finally passed him by, accelerating to put a safe amount of distance between them.

 

The low flap of wings followed Nesta as she hurried up the path. She silently wished Cassian would fly off to sort his feelings elsewhere, while she attempted to host something vaguely resembling a proper dinner.

 

He did not.

 

A dark shadow swallowed her on the path, and Nesta barely had time to glance up, before two calloused hands hooked under her arms and Cassian tossed her from the face of the mountain.

 

Air jetted into her face like water, drowning her. Nesta’s cloak was thrown back around her head, and she barely had the wits to unpin it and let it fly before it could smother her. She was so focused on recovering her breath, it took Nesta several moments to finally look down, and realize with sickening terror, that she was in free-fall.

 

There was an attempt to scream, but the wind drove the sound back down her throat until she choked on it.

 

Thrashing in the air, and finding no purchase, a small sob escaped her as the city grew closer and closer, at a morbid velocity. She closed her eyes, squeezing them as if to strangle her hysterics within, and in the darkness behind closed lids she heard the voices answer her silent cry for help.

 

 

Hello, Nesta

 

 

A hushed calm fell over her, the voices drowning out the roar of wind rushing past her ears. Nesta barely heard herself whisper, as if lost in a dream,

 

 

Oh. It's you.

 

 

Before the voices could say more, she was jolted from her trance. The musk of sweat and leather surrounded her, where Cassian’s body now blocked the worst of the winds.

 

Nesta fought off a retch, as the inertia hit her. When her stomach settled, she lashed at the uncovered areas of her abusive rescuer's arms, leaving shallow cuts beneath her nails.

 

“You tried to kill me!” she screamed, fighting his grip out of sheer spite.

 

"You're alive, aren't you?" was the general's answer, as if this was just the latest development in their ever-evolving tango of sour tempers and sore feelings. Nesta continued to fight his hold on her until he feigned dropping her, after which she swallowed her ire, and contented herself to try brooding for a change. At least until she was back on solid ground.

 

They landed at the House of Wind a minute later, and Cassian dumped her onto the dirt of the training ring before walking inside with a casual gait, as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired.

 

The hulking Illyrian didn’t acknowledge the two high fae males in the doorway, as he passed them in the threshold.

 

Nesta stared murderously after him, enraged, but wobbled before she could get her legs under her. There would be no chasing after him for revenge for several more minutes, but later? She would find a way to return his transgression. Generously.

 

Nesta cut a scathing glare to the spectators, as if they would be fine substitutes for her to pour out her scorn on in the meantime. The rage guttered as she recognized Lucien and Tamlin standing on the edge of the ring, looking disturbed, as they tried to piece together what the hell just happened.

 

With a wry snort, she slowly made her way to the entrance of the House of Wind, and motioned for them to follow.

 

Without comment they turned to oblige, but Tamlin wore a cruel smirk at her expense.

 

She bared her teeth at him, in no mood for his shit, or any other male’s at this point.

 

“You look lovely as always, Nesta.”

 

She gave him a withering look as she led them into the House, and reached a trembling hand for her flask— which had been in the cloak when she was thrown off the cliff.

 

“Cauldron-damned ass!” she shrieked, furrowing fingers through her battered hair, and stomping a foot for good measure.

 

Lucien grimaced, but Tamlin actually barked a laugh.

 

“What did he do to you? I don’t think you were this upset at Hybern’s castle.”

 

They were approaching stairs that lead to the main hall when he said it. Nesta froze, spine stiffening, and whipped frigid, silver-limned eyes towards the High Lord of Spring.

 

“Say that again, traitor.”

 

Lucien hurried past them without another glance, seeing himself to dinner.

 

The High Lord inclined his head, golden hair running long past his shoulders now, nearly to his waist. It was brushed and gleaming in the twilight.

 

Tamlin looked every part the courtier that Nesta had hoped for.

 

The Cauldron’s magic abated, but Nesta snarled and rallied her own fury, drawing close enough to bite.

 

“Say. It. Again.”

 

Her eyes ran over the loathsome excuse for a male before her, but lingered on his leaf-green eyes. There was no spark in them, not of fear or amusement.

 

They were vacant. As if he wasn’t fully there.

 

Elain called from below, “Nesta, stop it! You’re the one who invited them, now get down here so we can all eat!”

 

Something sparked under the deadened surface of those verdant eyes, in recognition of what Elain’s words had revealed.

 

“You sent the letter?”

 

Tamlin’s voice was deceptively soft, dripping with coiled malice, waiting to strike.

 

Any lingering flames in Nesta’s blood went out like a breath. She tried to relax, collecting her poise despite how she must appear to him— dusty and windblown thanks to Cassian.

 

Mother above, she could do better than this.

 

Realizing he was waiting for an answer, Nesta smoothed her wind-torn hair and straightened her gown. Meeting his eyes, recognizing a brutal listlessness behind them that she felt so constantly in herself, she lowered her voice and inclined her head in a slight— slight— bow.

 

“I should have returned sooner, so we could have time to discuss the letter before dinner. This was not how I planned to receive you. I apologize for the oversight.”

 

Tamlin’s square jaw went slack with an incredulous look, as he deadpanned, “Because etiquette is clearly the issue here. What the hell were you thinking, Nesta?”

 

She shushed him, drawing a finger to her lips.

 

Elain shouted at them again. “Nesta! I’ll send Azriel if you don’t bring him down right. Now!”

 

Nesta paced, rubbing her temples as she tried to salvage this botched encounter. It didn’t take long for her to formulate a plan and face him. There was nowhere to go but forward. Hands clasped, she kept her chin high, like her mother had taught her.

 

“After dinner, come to my room and drink with me. I’ll explain everything, just… let them get through dinner. We need your help... desperately... but my sister, Azriel, and that fucking psychopath don’t know it yet. Feyre needs you. Please.”

 

Tamlin eyed her warily, but after a moment’s consideration nodded, and followed after Lucien to the main hall.

 

The cheer in Elain’s voice was forced as she welcomed Feyre’s old lover to the table.

 

“You must be exhausted from your trip. Please, have a seat and rest... tell us how things are in the Spring Court!”

 

Nesta remained at the top of the stairs, unable to find the nerve to take those final steps that would bring her to the table with the others. She estimated that a week had gone by since Elain had begged for her help, but so far the only results she had to show for her efforts were making her feel like a washed-up disaster. Some prodigy she was.

 

Her sister, on the other hand, was doing a marvelous job hosting, all things considered. Nesta could tell that Elain still hated Tamlin, and didn’t know what the hell to make of Lucien.

 

Nesta hated Tamlin too, but it was different, because Nesta hated just about everyone.

 

Instead of descending the stairs, Nesta found a vantage from the banister above, where she could watch them all, careful not to fall into any particular line of sight.

 

Elain had seated Lucien between Cassian, and an empty seat she assumed was meant for her. Azriel was across from Cassian, next to him was Tamlin, and Elain sat across the table and opposite from Nesta. Nesta could appreciate Elain’s strategy, arranging everyone so they could make it through dinner without trying to kill each other. She smiled, feeling proud, but it quickly faded under the weight of her thoughts of the summit, and before that, their trip to the Nightmare Court.

 

None of them ready, herself included. Not even close.

 

Reluctantly, Nesta forced herself down the stairs at last. Everyone was politely ignoring each other, except for Elain, who had given up on news from Spring and was asking Tamlin about the weather.

 

They all turned when Nesta arrived, and she could imagine what they saw— a sad excuse for high fae, let alone an ambassador of any court. Sallow. Shining with sweat that stank of her liquor. A gown that she'd slept in the night before, and looked like it. Were Feyre’s motley band of courtiers to show up at any proper court tonight, even Cassian might fare better than her.

 

Nesta sniffed at the errant thought. Not in his wildest, testosterone-deluded fantasy would that happen. No matter how many cliffs he pushed her off of.

 

“I need to clean up and rest before I can properly greet our guests. Somebody,” —Nesta looked pointedly at Cassian— “tried to murder me today, and I must admit, even I have limits.”

 

Elain shot the Illyrian a puzzled look, but his eyes were fixed on his plate as he shoveled potatoes into his mouth.

 

Wanting to barb the male further for his stunt, Nesta found Tamlin and met his eye with practiced indiscretion. “Should I expect you later tonight?”

 

The table stilled.

 

The three others glanced at the High Lord, and back to Nesta.

 

Cassian tensed, but quickly went back to his food, and ignored them.

 

Tamlin gave her a politician's smile and a hollow, polite, answer to match. “It would be my pleasure.”

 

She nodded and left for her room, paused, then turned back to the table and stole a glass of brown liquor from Cassian’s setting. Reaching across Lucien’s place she snatched the matching decanter as well.

 

Azriel let out a long, weary sigh.

 

Judging from the thin, worried line that had become of Lucien’s mouth, he sympathized.

 

Cassian finally looked at her as he reached to take back his glass, but missed, as Nesta danced out of reach. There was ripe anger in his eyes, and she met it squarely.

 

Tipping the glass back, she downed its contents without breaking their shared gaze, then re-entered his range to slam the empty tumbler down on the table, firmly enough to rattle his plate.

 

“Bitch,” he murmured, as she wasted a satisfied grin on him.

 

With a wave over her shoulder, Nesta left them all to get reacquainted without her. She lifted the decanter to her lips as she walked, and resisted a wicked laugh as she heard Elain hiss, “What the fuck, Cassian?”

Notes:

Summary: Cassian yeets Nesta. Diplomatic guests arrive in the form of Lucien and Tamlin. Nesta steals Cassian's drink. EVERYONE needs to get their shit together.

Chapter 7: Tamlin

Notes:

CW: Cauldron-coded PTSD. Character development for Tamlin. Implied smut*.

*Real smut pending on these blorbos having to first Develop (bleck) and Grow (gross) before they have Any Business fucking around.

Prepare to be ✨️edged✨️ 😎

---

 

A/N: Hope you are enjoying a beautiful long weekend (US)! I have a novel intensive with my writing group coming up in a week, so my posting will necessarily slow down to accommodate "serious" writing 😒 but this fic is complete, and just in need of edits, so I should still be able to post at least weekly!

Mood Board here.

 

---

 

Tamlin

 

 

The water in the tub mirrored Nesta’s memories.

 

She had managed to undress, had unbound her braid… she clutched the decanter of liquor as tightly as she dared without risking shattering the glass.

 

Vapor became smoke, then transformed back to warm mist again. The water swirled clean and clear, then darkened to a cosmic blackness that pulled at her likeness to come home—only for Nesta to blink and have it be a normal washtub again.

 

The Cauldron was gone. Hidden, far from here. Rhysand had died to… to keep it from destroying everything.

 

She would have destroyed everything, had he not.

 

The least Nesta could do is make sure his last wish was honored—that Feyre would indeed take his throne, and rule the Night Court in his place.

 

Nesta had plans for this, sure, but none of them could be set in motion until she did this one mundane, insignificant thing.

 

And yet here she was, standing naked, drunk, and filthy in her own washroom, unable to convince her body that this was about nothing more than hygiene, and the Cauldron couldn’t hurt her anymore. Not from another fucking continent.

 

Catching a glimpse of her reflection on the water’s surface didn’t help. Nesta’s lip curled with distaste. This was another reason she avoided baths, and water. They were too revealing.

 

Nesta didn’t merely despise the made qualities of her fae body. She hated the plum circles under her eyes. The sickly damper, on the short-lived radiance of her immortal skin and hair. Her dry, cracked lips, paler than they should have been. Even starving and destitute, she had managed her appearance better than this.

 

What would her mother say, if she could see Nesta now?

 

A knock sounded from across her bedroom, and she cursed, realizing she’d wasted over an hour on this bullshit. A linen robe was conveniently draped over a dressing screen, no doubt a kind gesture from the House, and Nesta quietly thanked it as she covered herself and crossed the room to answer.

 

With the wave of her hand, a digestif service appeared on the small tea table in the sitting area of her large room. There was already fire in the hearth, and she glanced around to make sure nothing unsavory had been carelessly left on display. She didn’t have anything in particular in mind, only the alcoholic paranoia of someone who didn’t trust yesterday’s self.

 

Satisfied that she wouldn’t spook her Very Important Guest, Nesta grasped the handle and opened the door for Tamlin.

 

He balked at her state of undress, and she glanced down, realizing she was the unsavory thing that would send him running for the hills.

 

Before he got the chance, she gave him an exhausted look and snatched the lapel of his velvet coat, yanking him into her bedroom, and slamming the door shut behind.

 

As much as Nesta hated Tamlin, for his legendary arrogance, and that pea-brained deal with the King of Hybern, she found his presence surprisingly tolerable. She supposed there was a sort of closure, in knowing that both the High Lord and his Spring Court had paid dearly for his mistakes. Also, he had saved Elain’s life during the War, at his own expense.

 

All these things aside, Nesta saw loneliness, and apathy in the male that resonated with her own. They were a weird sort of kindred souls in this mess, or at least there was potential for them to be. A tiny, hard, finicky seed of potential, that was unlikely to ever deign to sprout.

 

And yet this possible affinity, above reason, is what Nesta knew would win Tamlin over, despite every deserved grudge that existed between their two courts. She may have summoned him here by pretending to be Feyre, but this was a gap that her sister could never fully bridge, no matter how badly Tamlin’s broken spirit wanted to believe she could.

 

Nesta made her way to one of the upholstered chairs in the sitting area, and sat gracefully to serve the port wine House had summoned. Nesta wasn’t worried Tamlin would ravish her, and he was in no place to be offended, given he had chosen to live as an animal for, what, a year? So she simply shifted her focus to the matter at hand: diplomacy.

 

After taking a moment to reorient himself, Tamlin found his own seat by the small table, and raised the tumbler she’d served him before downing it in full.

 

Her second pour filled the glass to the brim, an outrageous portion, but Tamlin sipped a third of it down as if she were a barmaid, and her quarters were a common tavern.

 

“At least I won’t have to slow down to make you comfortable,” she remarked.

 

Tamlin studied her, more relaxed than when she’d first greeted him, earlier, but unapologetically guarded.

 

“I don’t think you would have bothered, anyway.”

 

Nesta clicked her tongue, easing into the back of her chair, wearing her dressing gown more proudly than some ladies could manage in ballgowns.

 

“For your sake? Probably not.”

 

His voice was wry, skeptical, as he asked, “But for someone else, you would have?”

 

Her own drink remained untouched, in spite of her words. She lowered it to her lap, holding the glass delicately between her hands as she tilted her head, pretending to consider.

 

“Maybe once... but nowadays, I doubt it.”

 

Tamlin’s response was a noncommittal hum. They allowed the port to settle in them, though Nesta only sipped sparingly, as she formulated the words that needed to be said between them. The High Lord no doubt took the moment to do the same.

 

Nesta was watching the fire when Tamlin finally spoke.

 

“You were going to take a bath.”

 

He was looking towards her bathroom, which she’d left open to the room in her haste to answer the door. The tub was still full, steam wafting into the air as enchantments warmed it, long after it should have cooled.

 

Nesta hadn't been expecting to address this particular failure so soon, though she knew it was bound to come up sooner or later. The lapse that followed his observation was conspicuous, which drew Tamlin’s attention back to her, curious for her imminent explanation.

 

Her eyes lingered on the bath as she answered, “I was going to try. I haven’t been able to since the Cauldron.”

 

Nesta’s tumbler was far from empty, but she reached for the bottle of port to busy herself, in an attempt to distract her buzzing nerves. Tamlin’s hand was there already, waiting to pour for her.

 

She met his eye and saw an offering there. Not an apology, because it was far too late for that, but perhaps an invitation to hear her out. He kept her drink larger than proper, but manageable. She reclined into her chair and motioned for him to ask what he really wanted to know.

 

Tamlin’s voice was a fragile thing, when the words finally came.

 

“How is she?”

 

The muscles tightened in Nesta’s neck, twisting to give her the beginnings of a headache, at the thought of how Feyre was doing. She made an effort not to show it.

 

“I haven’t visited her in awhile, to be honest. Not much has changed since the funeral.”

 

She followed her answer with a garishly large gulp from her glass, and then set it on the table, to force herself to slow down. Nesta needed to have this conversation with her mind intact. Drinking herself into oblivion could wait until after Tamlin retired for the night.

 

He was watching her closely. She couldn't hide it when her eyes grew distant, remembering, drawn away to the past by scenes she dreaded reliving. Some of Hybern. Some of the War. Some of the ruin that had unfolded after.

 

Intuiting how bad it was from her reticence, Tamlin sighed and ran a broad hand over his handsome face.

 

“I should have known better than to believe it was her. It seems that your sister will forever make a fool out of me.”

 

Nesta snorted, finding her way back to the present.

 

“As long as it works out in our favor, feel free to never change.”

 

He shot her a warning glare, and she laughed at him.

 

They were both past the point of self-pity. There was nothing left to do with all their regrets but to laugh.

 

Tamlin seemed to sense this as he shook his head, and made a chuffed grunt. The moment passed, and that void from earlier filled his eyes again.

 

“Why am I here, Nesta? Lucien, I understand… but what could you possibly want from me?”

 

Any humor leeched away from the room, leaving Nesta feeling like ice, even with the fire. Silver flames licked at her bones, but she couldn’t shiver to warm them.

 

“Did you get word about an accord in Adriata?”

 

Tamlin sat straighter and nodded, brow furrowed, looking every part the High Lord, if only from centuries of habit.

 

“Yes. Tarquin made it out as a way to sort out the aftermath of the War, between courts. Did you hear otherwise?”

 

Nodding, Nesta explained neatly, “He added to our summons that, given the current state of the Night Court, we should prepare to consider the possibility of inviting other High Lords to foster stability, in Feyre’s stead.”

 

Tamlin's eyes widened, his eyes glinting emerald for a breath.

 

“They wouldn’t dare.”

 

Expression grim, Nesta dipped her chin and answered, flatly, “Of course they would.”

 

She could see the words turning in his head like clockwork. It would take him time to consider the implications, that she had already spent a week considering, and forming a plan to counter. Several minutes passed, and his drink lay untouched as she finished hers and fought the urge to refill immediately.

 

When he roused from his thoughts, his voice was careful.

 

“You want to beat them before they have a chance to make their move.”

 

Nesta nodded.

 

Tamlin gave her a bewildered look. One that she might have given herself, were their positions reversed.

 

“How?”

 

She clasped her hands loosely in her lap to keep from fidgeting.

 

“We are going to win the support of the Court of Nightmares, then we are going to find a way to heal Feyre’s broken heart.”

 

Tamlin blinked several times with surprise, but to his credit seemed to consider her ideas, rather than dismiss them immediately. Maybe it was because he was drunk, or maybe he had been wrong so many times that he’d learned not to underestimate others too quickly. She played with the best way to tell him her ideas, while he weighed the possibilities.

 

Picking her words like her sister would pick an arrow, Nesta said, “My sister turns you into a fool. You said so yourself—” He frowned, and she pressed on to finish her thought—“Only the desperate, and the foolhardy, would try to win a game of intrigue against six High Lords, with no leader, no advantage, and no leverage. An alliance with the Spring Court would lower that number to five, and increase our odds of success, by a non-zero margin.”

 

Tamlin huffed an airy laugh, waving an elegant hand in an intelligible gesture.

 

“And after your sister destroyed my court, here I am, foolhardy enough to consider taking up your cause....”

 

The High Lord placed his drink on the table between them, stood, and crossed the room toward the bathing chamber. He stopped a few paces back from the open door, hands clasped military-perfect behind his back, as he processed her words.

 

His voice was soft, but held no pity, as he shared his thoughts.

 

“You look terrible.”

 

“I know.”

 

He glanced over his shoulder, then away again towards the unused water.

 

“Do the others know how bad it is?”

 

There was a bitter taste to the words, as she ground out, “No. And your discretion, though unearned, would be sincerely appreciated.”

 

Tamlin turned, leaning against the stone arch of the chamber’s threshold. He crossed his arms over his chest, his hair unreasonably pretty in the firelight, and gave her a somber look.

 

“Would you let me try to help, if I offered?”

 

The offer should have thrown Nesta off-balance, but it didn’t. She pressed her lips firmly together as uninvited thoughts drifted through her mind. What could have been different for Tamlin, had he let someone help him before his fears destroyed everything he loved? If he had been better equipped to help Feyre with her own trauma, after everything her sister had been through Under the Mountain?

 

Still, Nesta would not let Tamlin use her trauma to nurse his own wounds, like some pantomime of what he could have had with Feyre, had things been different.

 

Sensing the shift in Nesta’s mood, her guest returned to the sitting area and gripped the carved, wooden frame of his chair as he looked her over, his face impassive.

 

“Think about it. The offer stands, if you can’t face it alone.”

 

Letting that be the last word between them for the night, Tamlin silently excused himself and left to find his own rooms. The door closed behind him with a small click.

 

 

~

 

 

 

Nesta stared at the fire until the hour was too-late. Tamlin’s invitation had likely been more strategic than charitable, and she heard the subtext for what it was: appearances would be critical for the battles ahead.

 

As the moon rose high, adding its pale light to the warm glow of the fire, she moved across the room towards the bath once more.

 

The glossy marble floor was smooth, and cool under her bare feet. The sensation brought a flashback of terrible, damp stone that shocked through her mind like lightning, but she gave herself time to cast it out, and continued. When the beating of her heart calmed, Nesta extended a hand to the copper rim of the tub, which triggered a surge of dread, conjuring anxious bumps along her flesh and the hair of her arms to stand up.

 

Nesta’s hand hesitated midair, but she grit her teeth, and forced it the rest of the way to clasp the edge. There was no supernaturally cold iron, only pleasant warmth. There were no horrible voices. For once, her mind was quiet.

 

Again, she gave her body long minutes until her pulse had slowed. Flames from the other room cast moving shadows across the chamber.

 

Without bothering to disrobe, Nesta lifted one leg, then the other, over the tub’s rim, and into the hot water. Sinking her mind deep behind those imagined iron walls that kept her safe, the ones Amren had helped her build once, what felt like a lifetime ago, she lowered her body to the bottom with shaky arms.

 

The metal groaned, warping where her inhuman deathgrip crushed the tub’s edge. Willing her eyes to stay open, to remain here in the House, and not lost in her memories of Hybern, she focused on what was real—the therapeutic temperature of the bathwater. The gleam of copper in moonlight, and how it reminded her of Gwyneth’s hair when the faelight shined on it. The window that peered out into the night sky, with a million stars glittering above.

 

This was the House of Wind.

 

The open door to her bathing chamber was right there.

 

Nesta could leave through it any time she wanted. Nothing and no one would stop her.

 

Her treacherous body wasn’t convinced.

 

Nesta bit her lip painfully as she fought against her blurring vision, her tightening throat. Her breathing was shallow and too-quick, but she couldn’t convince her body she wasn’t drowning.

 

When the glow beneath her skin began to fill the tub with silver light, she made a desperate yelp, and looked up at the ceiling as if ignoring the magic would make it go away. Feeling the cold flames eating at her, wearing her down until she couldn’t hold them in anymore, she looked around wildly for anything that could distract her.

 

Her eyes landed on a tray that hooked onto the side of the tub, and an empty wooden stand where a book might sit.

 

Too frantic to consider the absurdity of her idea, she spoke a shrill plea into the empty room.

 

“Give me something that will distract me. Anything, just help me stop this—”

 

A novel appeared on the stand.

 

A windless breeze blew open the cover, fluttering through until it lay open to a page in the middle.

 

Nesta snatched it from the stand and devoured the words, ignoring her luminous fingers as they began to singe the cover where she grasped it.

 

The burning chill in her fingers flickered as she read, and slowly receded.

 

Nesta flew through paragraph after paragraph as her throat gradually unclenched, her breaths became deeper, and more regular. It wasn’t until that wicked magic curled back into its dormant slumber that the words finally registered consciously, and she became aware of what, exactly, the House had used to save her.

 

Brows snapping together she whispered, “What in the hell is this?”

 

She closed the book, forgetting her fear entirely, and turned it over to see the title.

 

Nesta fumbled, almost dropping the book into the water.

 

Her mouth hung open as she scoffed, heat filling her cheeks at the brazen engraving of a bare-breasted woman on the cover, draped sensuously over a large wolf.

 

The title read, The Wolf Who Ate Me.

 

Nesta’s gape lingered for a long moment, stunned, until her mouth curved helplessly. Low giggles bubbled out of her before swelling into full, hysterical howling. The laughter came wave after wave, and every time she thought it might settle, Nesta would take one glance at the novel’s cover, or recall one of the absurd lines she had read in her desperation, and sputter into another roaring fit.

 

Exhausted tears pricked, and fell down her face from the absurdity. But dammit if it hadn’t worked.

 

When she could manage it, Nesta chuckled out, breathless, “Well done. Well fucking done.”

 

A glass of wine appeared on the tray beside the book, and she wrung out a contented sigh as she wiped away the last of the salty wetness from her face. Taking a drink, she opened to the very first page, and only took a break at the end of the first chapter so she could scrub herself down with fragrant soap.

 

There must have been a time-hardened tension in her that was released during her comedic episode, because by the time she was pulling her clean body from the bath and reaching for a towel, her body felt loose and feather-light.

 

She scratched absently at her dry scalp, still itchy from filth, as she strode back into her bedroom feeling renewed for the first time in recent memory. Nesta couldn’t bring herself to wash her hair, even with the aid of stimulating diversions.

 

Not yet, she promised herself.

 

Glancing back toward the bathing chamber as she toweled off, Nesta felt a delicious sense of victory. A magical sheen flared behind her eyes, but for once, it didn’t frighten her. Content to accept this achievement as a breakthrough, rather than an exception, she found a clean chemise waiting for her, courtesy of the House, and slipped into it.

 

Nesta nodded off a few pages into chapter two. The novel lay peacefully on her chest, gently rising and falling with her slow, even breaths.

Notes:

Nesta and Tamlin are friends now? House of Wind is on booktok.

Chapter 8: Pain

Notes:

CW: Arguing. Dresses. Exposition (sorry not sorry)

 

A/N: Another chapter that I wound up breaking into two! I thought 6k for one chapter was a bit excessive 😳 also, this way I get to post sooner. There's a bit of exposition here, but we have a long long journey ahead of us, so some bits must be summarized for the good of the story! Hoping you enjoy my take on the canon, especially as more of the character dynamics come to light.

 

Mood board here!

 

---

 

Pain

 

 

Gwyneth insisted on being called Gwyn, and the two females fell into a casual partnership that tripled Nesta's progress. Their days became weeks, as long hours were spent combing through anything—everything—that could give Feyre’s Court of Dreams an edge, once they left Velaris for the Moonstone Palace.

 

In the meantime, Lucien and Tamlin got to work, beating the basics of civilized society into the Illyrians. Nesta avoided the tense sessions whenever possible, shamelessly abandoning Elain to smooth things out between the males, as her sister was better suited to do. Any bickering, though counter-productive, bought Nesta more time. Time to ply answers from the Library, and time to conquer her irrational fear of bathing.

 

Cassian sometimes waited for her, around the House. They still hadn't spoken, since he'd given her impromptu flying lessons. Since the confession he'd laid bare between them, as he'd bled out in front of her, almost a year had passed. The one time he'd tried to bring it up after the war, Nesta had shut the conversation down. For good, she had thought, considering her exact words had been, ‘Just because you escaped the grave doesn't mean those words shouldn't stay buried.’ 

 

Cassian’s response had been to run off to the mountains, long before he was cleared for flight. If he knew they were mates, he didn't show it.

 

Nesta knew. She had known since he'd lost a legion, merely hearing her say his name in battle. It was yet another terrible power she had not asked for, and did not want.

 

That being said, Nesta had no idea what Cassian could want from her now, and she didn’t particularly care. He didn't make it hard for her to avoid him, so she didn't dwell on it. There were plenty of more important things to occupy herself with—and if he intended to be useful, Cassian would do the same.

 

Tamlin would visit her in her rooms late, after she'd missed dinner. Nesta required far less coaching than the warriors, whose slow progress he compared to cloven-hoofed beasts, leaving the bulk of their time to discuss her research over drinks. Her hair was still pulled into a greasy, smelly braid that no amount of clean dresses or perfumed soaps could mask. Tamlin never brought it up. Never warned her that the clock was ticking, and their time to prepare would eventually run out.

 

If it came down to it, she would have Tamlin hold her head underwater and scrub… but she hoped it wouldn't come to that. She had found a rhythm in her baths, with a glass of wine and a dirty novel to distract her mind and body from her fears. Things were going well, and she didn't dare rush them and risk upending her progress.

 

And so, all of them fell into a routine around Velaris over the passing weeks. There was an electric hum in the air, of purpose that hadn't colored the House of Wind since Rhysand was still High Lord. But it wouldn't last forever. The Summit burned under everything, like the low fire under a slow-boiling pot. None of them dared waste a moment, lest they find themselves in hotter waters then they could hope to survive.

 

 

~

 

 

Nesta was reading a manifest of relics aloud to Gwyn, after an already lengthy discussion about an annotated piece of sheet music. The priestess sat in her usual spot by Nesta; on the stone floor, her outer cloak discarded over the back of a chair piled high with books. Her ruddy hair was arranged freely around her shoulders in a pretty mess.

 

Noticing her words were falling on deaf ears, Nesta stopped reading, letting the hand which held the parchment rest in her lap. Gwyn hardly noticed, her attention fixated on the bronze plait that had fallen over Nesta's shoulder.

 

Narrowing her eyes, Nesta bit out, “Stop staring.”

 

Unphased, Gwyn leaned in to get a closer look, before lifting her big eyes in a stubborn challenge.

 

“I haven’t left The Library since they first brought me, you know.”

 

Nesta tensed, keeping her face unreadable as stone, and twice as hard.

 

Her fine-boned companion gestured unapologetically toward Nesta's dull braid.

 

“We’re the same.”

 

They weren’t the same, but Nesta grimaced silently as the words to explain escaped her.

 

Reading the rejection plain on Nesta's face, and curling a lip in unmasked offense in return, Gwyn pressed, “You’re not the only one afraid to dream of having a place in the world, out there—"She nodded her chin up the stacks, towards the entrance of the Library.

 

Sighing, Nesta conceded the staring contest and began to organize selections to bring back to the House with her. It was earlier than usual, but she was suddenly tired and didn’t want to fight. Not with a priestess, in the Library. Not about this.

 

“We’re not friends, Gwyn. I appreciate your help with my research, but I don’t want to talk about it, and frankly,” she huffed as she straightened with a few, thin ledgers in hand, “I’m not a great listener.”

 

Gwyn rolled her eyes, following as Nesta began to strut up the steps, her cloak forgotten in the alcove.

 

“Rhysand gave the Library to us— priestesses, yes, but many of us have suffered, just like you have. You insult us by acting like your problems are any different… Pain is Pain, Nesta!”

 

Nesta whirled, facing the normally taller female eye to eye, from higher ground.

 

“Do not judge me—”she threw an arm towards the distant light at the top of the path, and stabbed at it with her finger—”You will never have to walk back out into the world and face it, if you don’t want to. I am doing my best, and you have no right to force your way into my business!” Some nearby priestesses were starting to slow, lingering to overhear the heated exchange.

 

Gwyn merely crossed her arms, impatient, and unbothered by the growing crowd.

 

“Stop being so defensive. I am offering to help. You can’t actually go to the Court of Nightmares looking like—”

 

“I don’t want your help!”

 

Nesta’s voice rang out into the open chamber of the Library like a bell. Ignoring the worried whispers of the priestesses, she promptly turned and climbed further up the stacks.

 

Gwyn stayed close behind. Nesta despised the priestess's long legs in that moment, more pronounced in the wrap all of them wore beneath their heavy cloaks.

 

“My grandmother was a river nymph. It’s second nature for me to be in water— all kinds. Maybe I could find a way to share some of that with you…”

 

“Shut up,” Nesta barked over her shoulder.

 

The entrance to the Library was in sight, the late afternoon sun still hanging in partial descent beyond the open doors. Clotho’s sharp gaze marked the tension between the two females, as Nesta handed over her selections to be marked in the records.

 

Gwyn practically cornered her, planting her feet between where Nesta stood, and the exit.

 

The older librarian returned Nesta’s ledgers with a warning look that passed to Gwyn as well.

 

Nesta nodded grimly, then turned to brush past Gwyn. As her shoulder touched Gwyn's, she raised her lips to the nymph's pointed ear and said softly, like sweet poison, “If you want to help me, priestess, you know where to find me.” Taking a few more steps, Nesta kept her chin high as she added, as if it were merely an afterthought, “If you cannot walk out those doors, then keep your meaningless promises to yourself. I do not want them.”

 

When Nesta’s focus left Gwyn, she was startled to see Azriel standing by the entrance, watching them. Fighting off a flinch, Nesta heard a breathy curse, and followed the shadowsinger’s gaze behind her.

 

The priestess paled at the sight of the Illyrian. Nesta slowed to a stop, frowning between the two of them, and trying to read their relationship. Azriel took a single step towards Gwyn, and she fled back into the Library, quick as a wink.

 

After she’d had a moment to consider this distracting new development, Nesta noticed that Azriel wasn’t wearing his leathers, but a dark tunic and matching pants. She surveyed the work and approved.

 

“Nice.”

 

Ignoring the compliment, the moody male asked, with more than a little edge to his voice, “How do you know that priestess?”

 

Nesta scoffed, passing him through the exit, and onto the path beyond. “I would introduce you, but apparently you scare her.”

 

He followed her up the path to the House, rather than fly. Nesta paused at a particular spot and scuffed the dirt with her boot.

 

“This is where your sadist brother threw me off the mountain.”

 

She regretted glancing back at his reaction when he merely smirked. She shot him a glare before continuing.

 

“Will you be escorting me back from The Library tomorrow too, or was this a one-time thing?”

 

“Tamlin says he needs you at dinner tonight. He asked me to pick you up early so you would have time to freshen up, but you overstayed your welcome before I even arrived. I should have taken a nap instead.”

 

She murmured the words to herself before asking, aloud, “You take orders from Tamlin now?”

 

Dodging her question, he hesitated. Then answered, almost tenderly, “Be kind to that priestess. You have no idea the horrors she suffered before we brought her here.”

 

Nesta found his response interesting, but shelved it away in her mind for later. She had made her boundary clear— if Gwyn wanted to share that part of herself with Nesta, her pain, then she needed to face it first. Nesta wasn’t going to take sympathy from someone who was still hiding from their own fears any more than she was going to pry with Azriel. They climbed the rest of the way to the House of Wind wordlessly, and Nesta left Azriel to his brooding as she made her way to her rooms to dress for dinner.

 

The dress she stepped out of was a simple linen thing, and she kicked off the dusty boots that had become a staple for her. Standing in front of the wardrobe, she wondered when she had last put any serious thought into what she would wear. Her fingers tip-toed over unfamiliar garments she’d never worn. There was a rich array of textures in a diverse palette, for her to choose from.

 

Removing her chemise, she settled on a long white slip, and a high-necked, sleeveless gown in an aged rose-pink. The sleek drape of the fabric hugged an hourglass body she hadn’t shown off in a very long time. Without a low neckline, the dress was deceptive, giving the impression of modesty while casually flaunting her silhouette.

 

There wasn’t a mirror in her room, because she had removed them months ago. Nesta looked around, realizing she needed one now, to finish her look. Asking the House, one that was floor-length appeared next to the armoire. She approached it with an intellectual practicality, assessing if the same styles that once suited her as a human girl would also suit her as an immortal fae.

 

The dress was well-crafted, and the color was soft and flattering in all the ways she’d intended, for what was bound to amount to a first impression of sorts. As Nesta considered whether or not she would need to make a future trip to Velaris for accessories, her door opened, and Tamlin let himself in.

 

“So you don’t even knock now?” she asked, dryly.

 

“Just making sure you’re on time. I need you to set an example, for the others.”

 

She eyed him sharply through the mirror, as her fingers moved instinctively to unbraid her hair— and stopped. The way her hair was now, she wouldn’t be able to style it without making things worse.

 

Tamlin noticed her hesitation and took a step closer.

 

“I could glamour it for you.”

 

Nesta shook her head, her eyes flicking to the reflection of her hands before dropping the braid. She turned back towards the armoire.

 

“I don’t need your help. Now get out of my room, I’ll come out when I’m ready.”

 

He looked like he would insist, but Nesta threw out a finger in silent command, and a nameless Wind spun around the High Lord and threw him out. Her door shut, and locked itself behind him, and she glanced around curiously.

 

“Was that you or me?” Nesta asked the House. She wasn’t sure, but decided to worry about it later, instead searching for an excuse to delay her arrival to the main hall. Not because she was nervous. Sometimes, being late was strategic.

 

Notes:

Summary: Gwyn tries to call out Nesta, gets called out. Gwynriel? ✨️Dresses✨️

Chapter 9: Omens

Notes:

CW: Hot males. Glaring. Six people at a dinner table. Magic Things. Mention of Patriarchy.

 

A/N: The challenge with edits, especially when you post as you go, is that sometimes you have to retroactively fix details you messed up. I thought I was so clever and went off-script from the original on a couple minor things, and it turned out those were actually important later, haha. Nothing plot-breaking, but in case this chapter has you scratching you head, I've included the retroactive changes to the published chapters in my summary notes at the end, to avoid spoilers. Previous chapters have already been updated, so if you don't notice any inconsistencies, disregard. Thanks for understanding!

mood board here!

 

 

---

 

Omens

 

 

Tamlin was waiting in the hall to escort Nesta to dinner. She threaded her hand gracefully through his bowed arm, following his lead to the main hall. He faced her, annoyed.

 

“You wanted me to set an example,” she said blithely, as if she were commenting on the decor.

 

His hair was tied back tonight into a long tail that fell to the center of his back, a thin green ribbon tying it together. The candlelight danced on it, and she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy.

 

“Not that kind of example, but sure. We’ll try it your way.”

 

“That’s how I usually prefer it, thank you.”

 

He huffed a humorless laugh, turning back toward the main hall.

 

Nesta took a final, deep breath to steel her nerves. The whisper of her slippers against the floor was a forgotten secret brought to light. Tamlin slowed, noticing her tension, and turned them so that he stood before her, blocking their view of the dining table.

 

“You look lovely, Nesta. Forgive me for my rudeness in not saying so sooner, and thank you for allowing me to escort you tonight.”

 

She blinked up at him, surprised. He’d thrown her for a moment, but once it passed she scoffed and strode off without him, choosing what she assumed was meant to be Tamlin’s seat at the head of the table for herself. She didn’t need his empty flattery. She needed everyone in this alliance to do their part.

 

Lucien hurried to stand, offering her due politeness by pulling the chair for her. His brass eye whirred between them, but his smile was all genteel courtier as she accepted the gesture with a quiet nod, and settled in to survey the field before her.

 

It was only then that she noticed Cassian, sitting opposite her at the other end of the table. Their eyes locked, and a thrill hummed between them, tugging at a spot just below her navel. Silver light glinted behind her irises, and he returned a closed-lipped smile that was a bit too familiar for her liking. When he raised his glass in salute, she snubbed him, instead watching her sister greet the High Lord. Lucien’s eye kept buzzing, and Nesta threw him a twisting grimace that clearly said, if you don’t keep that thing to yourself I will pluck it out.

 

The Son of Autumn, once a fellow ambassador, rolled his eyes and began eating as soon as Cassian did. Why was he at the head of the table? Rather than indulge in that particular curiosity, Nesta leaned over to Azriel on her left and said, “Your transformation is outstanding. I hardly recognized you at the library, who should I credit for the outfit?”

 

His wings were relaxed, and confidently draped around the back of his chair, but otherwise he looked every bit as high fae as any of them. The theme of his costume seemed to be the rich, rust-colored mountains that surrounded Velaris. She hadn’t given much thought to the ruddy brown fabric, or the elaborate gold detailing when he’d met her earlier… It was an admittedly louder design than she would have thought to put on the shadowsinger, who preferred to linger on the edge of a room, shrouded in his shadows. No shadows tonight, only the confident male beneath.

 

Lucien gave a vulpine smirk, russet eye glittering more brightly than its clockwork counterpart. “I think that would be my handiwork, though Azriel himself deserves the most credit. We worked a lot on presentation. More handsome-yet-mysterious noble, less spy-and-sometimes-torturer.”

 

Azriel tipped his glass toward Nesta, “And I was on time.”

 

A duet of flutes was playing softly in the background, easy to pick up under the low hum of conversations. Nesta hadn’t noticed it coming in, but she did recognize it then— one of the transcriptions she’d found in the Library. The melody wove long, legato beauty over a slow but driving drum, while the alto harmony trilled and staccato’d at unpredictable intervals. What should have been jarring was oddly intriguing, and Nesta couldn’t help but wonder how people in the Court of Nightmares might dance to such a song.

 

The ending left the listener unsatisfied, yearning for more.

 

Another song came on, and Nesta smirked at Azriel, “I don’t suppose a little threat of torture would hurt in the Hewn City.”

 

Lucian snorted, “I would think not, but Azriel and Cassian don’t suffer from a lack of intimidation.” Azriel shifted his shoulders casually at the compliment, every part the spoiled high-born lordling… was he preening?

 

Noticing Cassian had fallen into a comfortable conversation with Tamlin and Elain, she trailed off. While he was distracted, she stole the moment to assess him.

 

His suit was burgundy, complementary to Azriel’s but darker, bolder. It matched the severe lines of his high cheeks, his jaw, which seemed as a blade’s edge for how it gleamed, shaved smoother than she could ever recall seeing it. Smooth was not a word she would have chosen to describe any part of that male, and yet… there were black glass fastens, for buttons and at the cuffs of his jacket. His dark hair they’d left straight, but it was clean and brushed, laying in a silky curtain just past his shoulders, drawing the eye to the top of his broad chest. Where the fuck had they found clothes for someone that big in Velaris?

 

Regardless, Cassian was affecting her alarmingly like fine spirits; smokey, powerful, and smooth.

 

He caught her appreciating him and glanced up, but Nesta turned abruptly back to Azriel and said, “Tell me they taught you how to dance.”

 

The answer came from the other end of the table, in a baritone voice that could melt butter. “Would you care for a demonstration?”

 

She cut him a glare. It was a little too obvious for their exercise of practicing social niceties, but dammit, he’d thrown her off a cliff. “No.”

 

Amusement flickered around the corner of his mouth. Lucien coughed, subtly, and Nesta glanced first towards Vanserra, then Tamlin. Reluctantly, she added, “I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunities for Cassian to flaunt his new talents with the ladies of the Nightmare Court.” The room went taut, and no one seemed to want to pilot the conversation to its next topic.

 

Elain raised her glass in a toast. With a strained smile, she cheered, “May our alliance outlast this dinner, and succeed in our goals thereafter. To the Night Court, and to Feyre.”

 

Nesta mirrored the others, drinking to the toast. Her sister's words eased them all over some precipice, and back into a normal rhythm she could expect at any formal dinner, which was more than she dared to expect from a month’s progress. Spring and Night breaking bread.

 

Elain even attempted shy pleasantries with Lucien about the centerpiece, a lovely creation that she had apparently put together herself. There were large orchids of an indigo so rich that they appeared almost black, surrounded by an array of broad white leaves and curling shoots of dark green vines. Nesta thought she could perceive the vines slowly growing, but wrote it off as the drink distorting her senses. She had been drinking less this month, but could not be described as sober for any reasonable definition of the word.

 

In other words, things appeared to be going well. Too well. But Nesta tried not to linger on that suspicion, as it wouldn’t do her any favors to discourage everyone before they’d even left Velaris.

 

“Tell me about the lessons,” she pressed Azriel. “I assumed no one would pick a literal fight tonight, but it seems you’ve all set aside your loathing entirely. Is everyone friends now?” Nesta could smell the spiced meat on her plate, and gladly found it was as delicious as she’d imagined. Her stomach was empty, having skipped lunch in the library as she did most days. The first juicy bite could have been the first food she’d tasted in years, for how it relieved the gnawing ache in her belly. The one she’d learned to ignore as a human.

 

Azriel rested between bites to answer, “Ironically, one of the first things they taught us was that the key to life at court is to know that everyone probably hates each other, but pretends to like each other anyway. I can’t imagine having better tutors. It’s great practice, really.”

 

Nesta laughed, and it was genuine. “That’s certainly one way to approach it.”

 

He dipped his chin demurely, then lower, in an exaggeration of etiquette Lucien had likely instilled in him.

 

She chidded him with a click of her tongue, but her heart wasn’t in it. With a start, she realized this might have been the most polite, genuine exchange she’d had with Azriel to date. He seemed to notice it too, and met her eye for a beat, before giving a slight nod that was much more him, peeking out through the character.

 

Elain caught her eye then. She turned to Nesta with a silent plea, as Lucien continued talking about wildflowers in the Spring Court. Nesta gave her a look, because like it or not her sister was going to have to get used to her mate’s presence, but leaned over anyway and said to Lucien, “Tell me, why is Cassian at the head of the table instead of yourself, or Tamlin? If it’s a matter of rank I wouldn’t have expected this seating arrangement.”

 

Lucien’s words trailed off, his eyes darting shrewdly between the two Archeron sisters. He sighed, taking a long sip of his wine before answering, “Technically Tamlin was going to be at the other end, but should we really be surprised that you had your own ideas about that?”

 

She showed him a closed-lipped smirk, and he glanced towards Cassian, auburn hair jewel-like as it flowed around the movement. Lucien shrugged. “You’re the one who sent us notes about the Hewn City’s society. Between that, and their first-hand knowledge, it was obvious that a male needs to lead your delegation. They’re steeped in millenia of patriarchal tradition, and seeing as both Tamlin and I are from other courts, it made the most sense to put someone from Night in that position.”

 

Azriel had picked up a conversation with Elain, Nesta noted. Lucien read her thoughts and explained, “He isn’t much of a party face. Lovely to look at. Not particularly generous with words.”

 

Nesta chuckled, and Lucien gave her a genuine smile, pleased with himself.

 

“I’ll admit, it's similar in the human courts… I don’t think Elain and I will have any trouble playing into that dynamic. In fact…” Nesta’s mind began to brick together a myriad of ideas, until a strategy became clear. The energy had shifted, and conversation paused to hear what she would say next.

 

“This is good on many levels. For one, it forces the Houses of that court to deal with an Illyrian directly from the start. Having Tamlin or Lucien as our principal diplomat, or even a female, would have made it easy for lords and ladies of the Nightmare Court to sideline you both.” She acknowledged Cassian only fleetingly, and was relieved that he was as rapt as the rest of them. He didn’t try to provoke her, or interrupt with a jab.

 

Landing her gaze on Azriel, she continued, “I had anticipated that it would be an uphill battle to have you both acknowledged as proper emissaries at all, but if you can establish yourselves as their primary contacts as soon as we arrive, it will save a lot of time and unnecessary maneuvering.”

 

“You mean, you’re okay with letting me take the lead?” Cassian asked.

 

Nesta met his eye and looked, really looked. He was too sincere, but it was a relief from their usual cruel games. The general was giving her every bit of focus she would expect him to give one of his commanders in a strategy meeting before battle, which, she supposed, was an apt metaphor for what they were doing now.

 

To answer his question, she returned an equally sincere, but stern expression. “It will bring more pressure than I would have put on you both, but Tamlin and Lucien know what they’re doing. I don’t believe they would chance having you lead our delegation, if either of them thought you would be easily outwitted and undermined. I respect their judgment and, seeing your progress, would agree enough to take that risk.”

 

Cassian sat up a little straighter, a hint of the military posture peaking out. She felt that tug again, just below her navel. His nose flared, and she narrowed her eyes, before turning her attention to her dinner and willing the sensation to fade.

 

Conversation stagnated for a few minutes, as everyone considered Nesta’s thoughts, or made headway with their own food. Elain was the one to break the tension again, with a question of her own.

 

“Have you made any progress finding a way to help Feyre?”

 

Nesta’s utensils returned to the table beside her plate, likely for good. Thinking about Feyre had a tendency to chase away her appetite.

 

“It hasn’t been the focus of my research, but I explore leads as they appear. Most are dead ends, and the ones that aren’t are unlikely to be fruitful. I wanted to get us through the Court of Nightmares before I put my full attention into that problem—”she looked up to Elain, only to feel the weight of everyone’s expectations suddenly slam into her. She studied her wine, swirling it— “but I will try anything I can, if the opportunity presents itself.”

 

Tamlin’s elbows rested on the table, hands folded over the spot where his plate had sat. The House was disappearing dishes as people finished their meals. Tamlin asked, “Are there possible leads you could pursue while in the Hewn City?”

 

“It would be convenient to work out both of our goals at the same time—” Cassian paused before he took another bite of food—“Kier does have a good collection of magical items. I can only imagine what some of the other lords might have hidden down there.”

 

His eyes lingered too long on Nesta, suddenly wanting something from her. She wanted to throw a roll at him and tell him to leave her alone. If she hadn’t spoken to him over the past several weeks, why would she want to get personal now?

 

In her periphery, Nesta could see the high collar of his tunic was fastened with a lone button, and that insufferable part of her badly wanted to watch his throat swallow beneath it. Anger quickly slated the desire. She had resented the tether between them long before she knew what it was, or before she’d seen its capacity to totally unravel one's soul. Blaming him, she found herself sneering to mask her discomfort.

 

Cassian reeled in whatever he’d been feeling, withdrawing his coyness until he embodied the indifference of granite.

 

From her left, Azriel asked, “Is that what those ledgers in your room are for?”

 

Nesta’s head snapped up. “You’ve been spying on me?”

 

A noncommittal shrug was his only reply, but there was a telling arrogance in his eye that told her he was likely tracking many things that she wasn’t aware of. Sneaky bastard. Useful, but criminally annoying.

 

Hard criticism edged her voice as Nesta warned, “It’s no secret you were—are—an exceptional spymaster, but be careful who you flaunt that particular talent to. It gives our enemies an excuse to turn others against you, when they claim you’ll be equally invasive to your allies.”

 

Azriel’s puzzlement seemed genuine. “Everyone does it. We all have agents and counter-agents at work. Leveraging the information they don’t know we have keeps them guessing, and increases our ability to bluff, until they tell us something more important. Like how you still want to sleep with Cassian and hate him for it.”

 

A coughing fit erupted at the head of the table as Cassian choked on his wine. The air whooshed out of Nesta’s lungs, a cold spark waiting to scream to life the moment she gave herself over to outrage. Lucien had to cover his amused grin with a napkin, but Tamlin laughed at them outright. Elain was glaring at Azriel, and seemed ready to throttle him on Nesta’s behalf. Or maybe Cassian’s. She wasn’t sure where her sister stood on that particular dynamic at this point.

 

Attempting to recover the conversation, Nesta’s voice was cool as she said, “If my recent disinterest in your brother is all you could find to get a rise out of me, I wonder if you aren't losing your touch, Shadowsinger.”

 

Tamlin was still smiling openly at her expense, but nodded his approval at her deflection. He threw her a line then, segueing back to the original topic Elain had raised. “There’s not much to say about what could be found in the Hewn City. I’ve been helping Nesta with her research, skimming over entries about heirlooms and artifacts, hoping to recognize something with special properties that we could use. However, it's unlikely that they managed to hold on to anything strong enough to help a broken mating bond, when the Dawn Court didn't.” He raised his glass to take a drink and paused to add, “And before you ask, a Suriel won’t be able to help us. Some knowledge is beyond even them.”

 

“Do you think…” Elain’s words fell off mid-sentence. Her eyes became unstuck in the present, going glassy, and moving wildly at something none of the rest of them could see.

 

Lucien’s metal eye whirred as it focused and retracted over the alarming change.

 

Her sister’s lips began to move, but no sound came out. Nesta stood, prepared to go to her, when icy dread crept up her spine as the Cauldron’s magic buzzed between the sisters.

 

In an ugly chorus, Nesta could hear Elain’s voice in her mind, joining the dissonant whispers as they echoed a thousand times in a chant.

 

 

The abyss spat out seven flames

Not Made. Not Made. Not Made.

We woke him, sisters of ruin and renewal, and one other not Made

He comes to claim seven thrones

What will he do, when he finds us here among his Seven Crowns?

 

 

~

 

 

Nesta was trembling when the Cauldron loosened its grip on her. Her first thought was that she didn't know how much time she had been lost in her trance. Raising a hand to her forehead, she felt clammy and lightheaded. Lucien’s steadying hand was on her shoulder, even as his eyes were locked on her sister.

 

Elain’s disturbed gaze met Nesta’s, her normally warm face entirely drained of color. Nesta knew from that look that Elain had shared the experience, which was unprecedented. Elain opened her mouth like she would say something, but then the table began to shake, rattling the dishes.

 

The House vanished the tableware, but not before a wine glass fell and shattered on the stones below. Tamlin cursed, stumbling as he attempted to stand. A low tone droned loudly enough to rattle her bones, and the entire House began to shudder violently. Only Lucien’s arm around her back saved Nesta from being thrown to the floor, anchoring them both to the heavy table.

 

Azriel tried to help Elain, and she shook the male off as if she were still skittish from the voices, not wanting to be touched, falling over in the process with a sharp yelp. Her sister crawled under the table and gripped a leg to keep from being tossed about by the quake’s rolling waves.

 

Nesta’s eyes found Cassian at the other end of the table. His swagger had been forgotten, and he moved stubbornly closer over the treacherous terrain to get to her, as the noise became impossibly louder, until she covered her ears against the discomfort of it. Cassian winced at the same.

 

In a blink it all stopped.

 

The House was quiet, and abruptly righted itself, tossing Nesta, Tamlin and Lucien to the floor. The Illyrians had the lift from their wings to keep themselves upright, but it was still a clumsy effort to recover from the sudden stop.

 

She held Cassian’s gaze still, breathing heavily against her frantic heart. Two more steps and he could reach out his arm and touch her. The urgency faded, but concern still colored the way he was flexing his arms beneath the jacket, the way his jaw clenched. The greens and browns and flecks of grey in his eyes seemed ever-changing, as if they churned to match his uncertain feelings.

 

“What did you do?” Tamlin’s voice was a sharp accusation, and Nesta turned to see him already standing as he looked down at Elain, anger darkening his normally bland eyes.

 

Lucien let loose a soft growl, and Tamlin returned a snarling answer. Flinging a finger at Elain, he shouted, “The quake began when she had a vision! I want to know why.”

 

Elain sputtered from the floor, but her face was already regaining some of its natural coloring. “I—I don’t… Nesta?” She turned her wide eyes to Nesta, and a memory came back to Nesta in a burning flash—her sister’s soft, naked form, wet and shivering on the dark emerald dais, even as it glowed radiantly with feral magic and unnatural beauty.

 

Nesta shook the unhelpful visual out of her head, only for another to take its place—Elain staring listlessly out the window in The House of Wind, hardly able to eat or speak in the early weeks after that terrible day.

 

Nesta turned to the side and vomited.

 

A warm hand appeared on her back, trying to stroke reassuring circles as she coughed and wiped her mouth. Nesta swatted at the hand, feeling raw and horribly afraid that whatever had torn through her mental walls so effortlessly. Searing Cassian with a glare she spat, “Don’t touch me.”

 

Cassian let his hand fall away but stayed by her side, a grim furrow of unmasked concern between his heavy brows. He was still too close. Nesta’s throat began to tighten, and her bones became hollow and chill. It was an effort to stand, but she fought for it, if only to get away from him sooner. “I need to think,” she whispered. Looking to Elain she automatically held out a hand, “You should rest. Visions take a lot out of you.”

 

Elain’s eyes cleared on the spot. She regarded Nesta’s hand briefly, incredulous. “I’m fine. Are you? What were those voices just now?”

 

Nesta took an unsteady step back. She didn’t want Elain to know. It was too much for the Cauldron’s voices to be made real outside her own cage of a body and mind, but for Elain to not only hear them, but join them? Telling her anything about the Cauldron’s presence in her would be too much to bear.

 

It was the wild look of utter disbelief from Tamlin that made her get a grip, saying, “I don’t know any more than you do, Elain. I have no idea what the hell that was.” Nesta told herself it was an honest answer. The Cauldron’s magic had never sounded like that before, never pulled her under so completely outside of scrying, and the occasional nightmare.

 

Lucien asked, “What did the voices say?” He sounded calm, but by the way he was clenching and unclenching his hands suggested near-panic.

 

Elain cringed, but made an effort to meet his eye as she stood and answered, “We heard something… like a poem, or some kind of incantation.”

 

“An omen.” As soon as the word had left her mouth, Nesta could feel the Cauldron’s agreement, deep in her marrow.

 

“Tell us what you heard, exactly.” Tamlin pulled paper and a fountain pen out of the air, and placed them on the table, nodding when he was ready.

 

Nesta crossed her arms tightly beneath the dress, letting Elain recount the words and describe the voices. It wasn’t clear if Elain was aware that her own voice had joined them, or if her sister was withholding that information for her own reasons, but Nesta kept the detail to herself regardless.

 

Cassian didn’t take his eyes off of Nesta, looking her carefully over as if to uncover her secrets. She ignored him the way she was ignoring her itchy scalp. Her fingers twitched, and she missed her flask dearly.

 

After Tamlin had penned it out, Azriel looked over his shoulder to read over the record as well. No one cared to speculate on what it meant, which was a small blessing Nesta did not take for granted.

 

After some consideration, Azriel said he was going to check on Velaris to survey any damages from the quake. The city was warded well enough that he didn’t expect anything catastrophic, but wanted to reassure the people anyway. He promised to visit Feyre and Cerridwen at the River House while he was there.

 

Tamlin asked if he could help. They all looked at him, and it wasn’t a secret his true motive was to see Feyre. After some hesitation, the Illyrian gave a curt nod and made for the stairs without further discussion. With a simple gesture, the other male swept away his transcription, and the materials, into that magical pocket between spaces, before turning to follow.

 

Elain suggested that she should write to the other High Lords, and ask if they’d felt the quake in their lands too.

 

Lucien disagreed. “Azriel’s spies will know and send word, if they’ve had similar events in the other territories. We don’t want to add to the notion that there’s trouble brewing in the Night Court. This…" he grasped for a benign word, "revelation should be kept secret for as long as possible. At least, until we stand to gain something by sharing information that wouldn’t require risking even more in return.”

 

Elain began wringing her hands, but nodded. Nesta knew she was the type to want to help, and likely struggled with not having anything to do after such a shock.

 

Running a tanned hand through his hair, Lucien carefully offered, “We could write to some of the other settlements in the Night Court, and see if they need any help. Smaller towns and villages won’t be as well protected as Velaris, and if they felt anything close to what we had here, it could have caused rock slides or flooding, in addition to structural damage.”

 

Elain eyed him for a moment, pursing her lips, but ultimately gave him a grateful nod and left for one of the studies.

 

If that male were a dog, his tail would have wagged for it. He made quick work of following behind from an unassuming distance, and Elain hesitated at the threshold, noticing, but only for a beat. She didn’t reject his company when he joined her to search for a map of the territory, and to pen the letters.

 

As everyone else burst into motion, Nesta remained fixed in place, watching. Cassian waited nearby. She didn’t want to be alone, but she wasn’t ready to talk to him, not now. He didn’t rush her to decide anything, looking perfectly content to stand like some sculpted rendering of himself indefinitely, as long as neither of them opened their mouths and ruined it.

 

After a few quiet minutes alone in the main hall, he moved marginally closer to Nesta but took a seat at the table instead of approaching. She stared at the back of his stupid, considerate head. Part of her wanted to tell him about the terrible voices that scratched at her, stirring even now as they hummed for his nearness. They were louder, since her flask had been lost to the wind. He should know that, some bitter part of her thought.

 

The flask wasn’t the worst of it, she knew. Cassian had a way of marching through her carefully managed walls, as easily as a hand brushing through a stream of water. The male was clueless that when he pushed her, he brought her carefully close to breaking what little hold she held over the silver fire that lurked under the surface. Magic of ruin, she mused.

 

Choosing to be selfish, she seated herself across from him with a deep sigh, holding her head in her hands as she confessed, “I need a fucking drink.”

Notes:

Summary: Nesta and Elain have a Frozen moment. Cassian and Azriel being hot. Foreshadowing. Earthquake. Nesta needs a Drank.

Minor Retroactive Changes: Feyre is at the River House with Nuala and Cerridwen, NOT Alis. Nesta's rejection of Cassian in the last chapter was about his confession/feelings, NOT the bond. Sorry for confusion T_T

Chapter 10: Bonds

Notes:

CW: Toxic relationship. More drunk Nesta. Mention of SI/attempts to unalive.

AN: I think maybe Saturday will be my post day from now on. I'm almost 30k words into my novel intensive, so that's where I've been for the last several days. Also, this chapter was a challenge. I had to change a lot to clean it up, but still keep the heart of it and make sure the plot was consistent, so giving it time to sit for a bit between edits helped a lot. Hope you all enjoy how it turned out :3

Mood board here.

 

 

 

---

 

 

Bonds

 

 

8 months earlier

 

 

 

“As her sister, it has to be your call.”

 

Nesta rolled her head towards the sound of her mate’s voice. Mate. As if she needed any more surprises forced upon her. Not that he knew it. She held a bottle of liquor in her hands that she’d swiped from the kitchen that morning. It was barely after lunch and she’d nearly finished it.

 

She’d already forgotten what he said. Trying to ask, her words came out in a mash. Disgustingly inarticulate, and terribly unrecognizable. Speaking slowly, she tried to shape her words by chewing the consonants. “What. Are. We—”

 

A frustrated groan issued from the male. “FEY-RUH. We’re talking about Feyre. Could you have at least waited until noon? You’ve got a serious problem Nesta, and poor fucking timing.”

 

She raised a dizzy finger towards him, “You are my problem. My ooooonly problem.” She was sitting on a couch, looking up at him. The couch swayed. It was drunk too, she thought. Lowering her accusing arm, she gave the couch a sympathetic pat. It took concentration to keep her words untangled from each other. “Feyre will be fine. She’s dramatic when she’s upset, always has been; but she always finds her way beck. I mean, back.” And Nesta believed this, wholeheartedly. It was how they’d survived winters without money. It was how her sister had survived Amarantha, and fucking Tamlin.

 

What happened to Rhysand was admittedly tragic, but it had been a War. A big one. Cross-continental, and with destructive cosmic powers to boot. Rhysand was a hero. Heroes so often wound up dead.

 

Nesta knew her own sister, despite all the changes from the last two years. Feyre wasn’t a hero, she was a survivor. Even sober, Nesta would have staked her own life on the knowledge that Feyre could pull through, if she really wanted to. This broken mating bond just needed time to dull. Just like her own wounds. Just like Elain’s.

 

Someone yanked the bottle from her hand.

 

A displeased noise escaped her, but she was too boneless to go after it. The couch swayed beneath her and she gripped it, to hold it steady. The poor thing was more sloshed than she was.

 

“Your sister isn’t being dramatic, her mind is fractured. Rhys— Rhysand’s death ripped the bond inside her, leaving a wound in her soul. Even if, and that’s a big if, she would recover on her own, the House is a deathtrap. It’s only a matter of time before we fuck up, and she finishes what she started this morning.”

 

As if on queue, a stricken wail resonated against the House’s walls. Deathtrap for jumpers that it was, the House of Wind also had inconveniently fantastic acoustics. There was a really tragic song in Feyre’s crying that was waiting to be composed… Cassian probably wouldn’t appreciate it if she told him that thought, but it was true.

 

The tragedies were always Nesta’s favorites, when she and her sisters were not in them.

 

The general tensed, glancing behind him towards the door. Nesta rolled her eyes, choosing not to feel what he and the others felt when Feyre did that— or when she did anything else driven by grief. Everyone’s grief was their own burden to shoulder, and Nesta refused to drown in it with them. “I’m going to my rum. Room. It’s time for Elain’s lunch.”

 

Nesta moved to stand, lurching as the room spun around her.

 

Cassian made no move to steady her. He’d been careful not to touch her since they’d returned to the House of Wind. His wings were wrapped, bound up to keep him from risking re-injury to the ligaments, and she stared at them. He glared back, running a self-conscious hand through his messy hair, uncomfortable with evidence of his weakness displayed so obviously. Uncomfortable with how he’d gotten his injuries, and what a sad irony had come from his sacrifice.

 

Moving felt more like swimming, and Nesta stroked her way toward the doorway to get on with taking care of Elain. The suite she shared with her middle sister wasn’t far, just a little ways down the corridor.

 

She tripped over herself as she meant to pass Cassian, falling into the Illyrian. He had the decency to catch her, but held her warily at arm’s length. His nose flared, and anger darkened his eyes. If Nesta stared long enough, she wondered if she would hear a harmony from him through the bond. One that would match the melody that she always carried around in the back of her mind, in secret. A song that had grown savage and discordant over the years with rage. Pain. Fear. Anything but grief.

 

Clearly distressed by how close she was, by her gazing up at him without one wicked thing to say, Cassian looked away. His lip began to curl, and she saw his jaw tense as he ground his teeth, but his eyes flicked back to her again, conflicted. She felt his grip on her arms soften as he wrestled with his thoughts. Leaning into the pause, her parted lips reached out and caught him by the mouth.

 

 

Home.

 

 

The male froze against her, but Nesta wasn’t desperate and waited patiently for him to engage her properly. When he shoved her away, her vision spun from the force of it.

 

Nesta took a breath so deep it was painful. Cassian ran the back of his hand over his mouth in a rough gesture. The look on his face was a mix of disarm and terror. Outrage quickly overtook both.

 

Just say it again. Say that you meant it, she thought.

 

Instead he said, “That was fucked up, Nesta.”

 

She had to know, just once, if he could feel it too. If he could hear that explosive potential for something better than… better than a life poured out in blood on the battlefield, and promises that only came from his lips on the brink of ruin.

 

Maybe things could have been different if Rhysand had lived.

 

A long moment passed before she shrugged, taking a wobbly step towards the door. “Send my sister to the River House.”

 

Her hand searched for the bottle, open and asking. Cassian schooled his face into a mask as he considered, then handed it over wordlessly. She swayed into the corridor, imagining herself dancing to the melodies of her past life. She held the wall up with her free hand. It seemed so unsteady, and she feared it might fall without her support.

 

The House was an excellent drinking buddy.

 

Nesta sometimes wondered if keeping Feyre alive against her will was no better than trying to separate a fae from their bonded mate. She wouldn’t know. Her bond was one-sided and unwanted, and separation would be a welcomed reprieve.

 

Was it better to have the real thing and lose it? Or to have this teasing, diseased version of love shackled to her, until she could find the courage to burn it forever?

 

 

~

 

 

That afternoon Cassian and Azriel saw to moving Feyre into the River House. Nuala and Cerridwen would take turns as her sister’s round-the-clock caretakers. Someone had managed to get magic-proof shackles from a dead Hybernian soldier, their only way of keeping the High Lady from overpowering them all with her insanity.

 

By the end of the week Nesta had crushed any hope of a future together, because if Cassian was only drawn to her because of some bullshit faerie mating bond, was it really worth the risk? Her cruel words had driven him to Windhaven, and she had thought it was for the best. It was practically an accusation when Azriel informed her Cassian wasn’t planning on coming back. ‘Good’, she'd answered, before returning to her day-drinking and brooding.

 

Without the screaming to drive her deep into the corners of her own mind, Elain started to recover. She wouldn’t talk to Nesta, and Nesta had nothing to say to her sister either as long as she ate, bathed, and didn’t try to throw herself from a balcony. Elain spent gradually more time with Azriel, her rare words for his ears alone.

 

Nesta told herself this was for the best, too. She’d rather be alone, without anyone depending on her for anything. No one complained when she moved into the far wing of the House. It gave her privacy to process her own business, and to realize that everything she had lived for had either come to an end, or no longer seemed worth the trouble.

 

She made a mistake when she agreed to go to the mountains.

 

Nesta had never considered that Cassian would actually return to the House of Wind, just because she told him to. And when they roped her into helping with the summit in Adriata… Well, Nesta had no one to blame for agreeing to that but herself.

 

Maybe deep down, the bond blistered in him as much as it did for her, even if he didn’t fully recognize it yet for what it was.

 

Sitting across the table from him in the present, Nesta realized she had forgotten all of these things during her month of research and trying. In the middle of an earthquake when Cassian had reached for her, when their eyes had met and he hadn’t looked away or shown even the slightest hint of indecision, everything had come back in a flash. In light of her trip to Windhaven, the memories hurt even more than before because she now knew there was no spirit in Prythian that could fully drown out the ache of an unrequited bond. An ache which had become as much a part of Nesta as her own, Cauldron-cursed flesh.

 

 

 

---

 

 

 

Present Day

 

 

There was a crystal tumbler in Nesta’s hand holding a moderate amount of dark liquor. She had dismissed the music with a wave of her hand, and asked the House for a bottle that she was sharing now with Cassian. They had sat in silence for several minutes, but neither made progress on their drinks. As she searched the hearty amber color for direction on how to handle this inevitable conversation, no one else came through the main hall.

 

They were finally alone.

 

Cassian cleared his throat, and she stole a peak at him to find him staring at his own interlaced fingers. His voice was surprisingly unsteady as he finally managed to string together, "You look well. I mean, compared to when you came to Windhaven. I mean...shit. I don't know how to do this."

 

Nesta didn't share the male’s nerves, feeling empty and calm after so much excitement in one day, but she knew what he meant. Her response was flat. Hollow, even.

 

"Oh."

 

The buzz of the bond against her mental walls was impossible to ignore in the silence, with just the two of them in the large hall, and just a table between them. For once, Nesta found herself unafraid of it. The bond felt… tired; like a fraying rope left to rot beside a seaside mooring for too long. She could picture the grey threads in her mind so clearly, and imagined silver flames beneath them. Intuitively she knew that she could focus that flame to a point. Just a bit longer beneath that rope, and it would break—

 

"Stop!"

 

The visual in Nesta’s mind was snuffed like a candle when Cassian’s hand took her own. Her bones were cramping from his painfully tight grip. Panic scored his face, his breath was ragged. A memory of that day in the library, of his disgust, came over her so powerfully she reeled from it, wrenching her hand from him.

 

Nesta stood to leave, abandoning the untouched liquor on the table. Her shame was nauseating. She wanted to be alone.

 

His voice was thin and trembling as he called after her, "Please don't break it. Not yet."

 

Her feet slowed to a stop. The silence was charged. Waiting, as if even the House wasn’t sure what she’d do next. Slowly, she turned her head, looking at him over her shoulder. There was too much white in his eyes. Betrayal, and beneath that rage, roared until it filled the hole in her heart where before she’d carried only a quiet emptiness.

 

Nesta would have rather been a void.

 

Like smoke on the wind that would disappear the moment he looked away, she breathed, "You knew?”

 

Cassian flinched, but said in a desperate rush, "I saw it. The rope, the fire… I don’t know if it was through the bond, or if it was just the Cauldron’s magic but—”

 

Nesta whirled and made quick work of crossing the distance between them. Cassian stumbled back until he was leaning against a column, looking ashen. She raised a hand to strike him, and stopped, shaking with wrath.

 

Both of their chests heaved for a few, dangerous breaths, before she lowered her hand. Instead, she brought her face an inch from his, sneering, giving him the exact parts of her that he’d found so unforgivable in the past. "Do not speak to me about the fucking Cauldron, Cassian."

 

The lights in the House flared, and then settled. Nesta felt a familiar energy like cold magma behind her eyes, and chose not to look away from her mate. She let him see it, and did not hide. Cassian, at the very least, did not shove her away with disgust. But he didn’t seem to be breathing either, did he? And he didn’t want her to break things off, once and for all…

 

Though the House was shuttered, an eerie breeze swept across Nesta’s gown. She could barely register the flames that had begun hovering silently over her skin, or the veins of glowing power threading outward in the stone from beneath her feet.

 

“Nesta,” Cassian warned. He raised a hand to touch her, then lowered it, unsure if it was safe to follow that particular instinct.

 

It most certainly was not.

 

Forcing her eyes shut against the mounting fury within her, Nesta’s voice was a shout in the night for how loud it was in that quiet room, with him standing an inch away.

 

"How long have you known?"

 

"Take a step back, okay? I’ll tell you whatever you want to know just… pull the magic back a little.”

 

Without opening her eyes she let a twisted smirk darken her face. “Are you afraid of me?”

 

She heard him take a deep breath, exhale, then answer with a voice that was unexpectedly calm. Steady. “I remember what it was like to have a power I couldn’t control. You’ve been bottling it up, trying to douse it with alcohol… Between the two of us, I would bet that you’re the one who’s scared shitless right now.”

 

Her head snapped up at that. The flames went out in a wink. Fingers of glowing quicksilver that had vined across the stone from beneath her slippers faded to black scorch marks. Only a slight luminescence limned her eyes when she straightened, face carefully neutral against his painfully honest assessment. She didn’t retreat, keeping them a half step apart. Her eyes flicked to his jewel-like siphons, but only for a second.

 

The absence of her flames eased a tension in the Illyrian. Cassian ran a hand through his hair as his eyes searched over her arms, her shoulders, and finally came to rest on the curve of her cheek. It was as if he were taking her in for the first time, all over again. “When you came to Windhaven, I felt a pull to follow you back here. I could have tried harder to stay away… but it would have hurt. Over the last month I began to suspect, but when I saw your flame under the rope just now I knew for sure. I swear, I’m not half as clever as you, to figure it out sooner and hide it so well." There was a spark of angry heat towards the end of his admission, but he kept any sore feelings off his face. Just stoic, non-challant Cassian, with a smirk on his roguish face as if this was just another day in his 500 year life. The smirk didn’t match his eyes, which were wary. Assessing.

 

Nesta took a stilling breath and exhaled in a huff. The rest of the magic retreated deep behind the walls around her heart, cocooning it in ice. From that place deep within she heard the voices, and listened.

 

 

We're here.

I know.

He's mated to the Cauldron.

And now he knows it.

We can reject the bond, make him suffer?

 

 

The chill in her heart wavered. Emotion flickered in her eyes, but she wasn’t seeing through them in that moment, her focus inward.

 

 

Not today.

We want out

I know.

We need to be and grow and make and destroy

I know.

 

 

A pause.

 

 

What will you give us, Sister of Ruin?

 

 

Before Nesta could answer, she heard the groan of something heavy moving, followed by a smack into her side that staggered her sideways. The House had moved the table on its own, to get her attention. Her brow furrowed in confusion. She looked around the room, deaf to Cassian’s squawked, “What the fuck was that?” Whether he was referring to the sentience of the House, or if he’d heard the voices, she had no idea, but that wasn’t important.

 

The sight of copper hair and grey-blue robes stole her breath as Gwyn appeared, led by a fae light. She was shivering as though it were freezing, and her eyes turned to saucers at the sight of the hulking Illyrian warrior.

 

Nesta spoke dumbly, yet sincerely. "You came."

 

The priestess spared her a delicate glance before returning her skittish focus to Cassian. "There was a quake in the library—” the priestess was white as a sheet as she forced her eyes back to Nesta—"Which was a convenient excuse to come find you.” She took a shaky breath, and a slow step forward, lowering her cowl. Her eyes were striking in the faelight as she confessed with heartfelt sincerity, “I choose to face this, if only to show you it can be done. Not to say you lack confidence," Gwyn gave her a weak smile, “but at least now you won’t have to face it alone.”

 

Notes:

Summary: Flashback to why Nesta and Cassian are Nesta and Cassian. She almost breaks the bond, he stops her, asks for more time. Gwyn enters the chat.