Nessian Fic - Tumblr Posts

Comfort Zone

Summary: Nesta just wants to have a cozy Saturday morning, but it's not easy to have when you have a new housemate. 

Notes:

A little gift for @asnowfern. Happy Birthday! 🎁 I had to write my first Nessian fic for you because you deserve all the love. 🥰

A special thanks to @tunaababee for beta-reading.

Modern AU One Shot, Fluff and Angst

Word Count: 847 Read on AO3

Another flip of a page.

Her blue-gray eyes read words but did not register them. Too distracted by the grunting sounds outside her window.

God, what unearthly exercise was that man doing outside?

It was invading the serenity of her comfort zone.

Nesta shut the book closed and begrudgingly got up from her favorite lounge chair. She shelved her raunchy romance novel in its designated place beside a framed artwork of the vixen of a main character and her broody lover, which she commissioned from Feyre. It was a lovely perk to have an artist for a sister. Anytime she discovers a new life-altering book obsession, Feyre is more than willing to bring it to life for her. No questions were asked. She and Feyre may not always agree, but this small act she cherished.

The sounds of a skipping rope continuously hitting grass spurred her toward glass patio doors, where she got a full view of the spectacular specimen of a man doing his morning workout in her back garden. 

Cassian. 

He was an Olympian god, reborn to torment her. Only in his gray joggers, his rippling muscles gleamed with sweat in the morning light. His black hair was tied into a messy man bun, and Nesta suddenly had an urge to rip the hair tie off, letting those silky strands fall towards his tattooed golden brown chest. 

She gulped. It was nonsense. Cassian was her new housemate. Not some man she should be ogling at. 

He was there for a reason. 

Six months ago, she fell into one major depressive episode. Grief and guilt gutted her heart. It was the ten-year anniversary of her father's death. It had been ten years since she guilted her father into going to her ballet recital. She threatened to never speak to him again. He traveled for work and was constantly missing out on any major milestones in his daughters' lives, and she had enough. To her horror, he died in a motor vehicle accident on the way to see her. 

She never danced after that. She did not want to.

She never forgave herself for that and drank her way into the hospital. 

Elain and Feyre were furious and heartbroken when they found out that she was punishing herself for his death, but they helped her get through it, even going to the lengths of going to therapy with her and moving in with her. But Nesta knew in her heart that she couldn't let her sisters cage themselves, caring and worrying for her forever. They had their own lives to live. Feyre was engaged to Rhysand, and they were starting their lives together. Elain had a dream job offer that would take her to countries that she had put on her vision board for ages. And so a month ago, her sisters agreed to stop mother-henning. They moved out on the condition that she'd let Rhysand's best friend Cassian move in, and she agreed. She wasn't overjoyed at the idea, but it was a compromise. A slightly reluctant one. 

Cassian needed a place to stay in Velaris after moving away from his hometown, Illyria, while she had spare bedrooms in her house. Although she was certain that her sisters had an ulterior motive—something to smooth their consciences for leaving her behind—Nesta had to admit that having someone to help pay the bills was nice. And if she delved truly deeper into her feelings, she'd realize she didn't mind having company. She actually craved it. 

Now, every Saturday she had to deal with an early-bird fitness pro interrupting her cozy, easy-going morning book reading in her pajamas. 

Why??? What did her bookworm soul do to deserve it? 

Most days they took breakfast together, and every time, Cassian would invite her to join his daily workout. Rationally, she always refused. 

"It's mind-freeing. Something I can tell you could use," he told her one morning.

"What is that supposed to mean?" she snapped back. "Fuck you." She walked towards her library and shut him out.

Moments later, she heard his gravelly voice speak through the wooden door. "I'm sorry, Nesta."

Shrugging off her mind-wandering, her thoughts returned to the present task at hand. She slid the glass doors open. Arms crossed and stiff-backed, she called out, "Elain wouldn't be pleased to see the grass demolished from your rope skipping when she returns home for the holidays. Try the garage pavement up front." 

"Trying to lure me away from your oasis, Nesta?"

"Yes." She wasn't going to lie.

He chuckled. "Only if you join me this time." 

Nesta ran her fingers through her golden brown hair, gathering strands and tying them into a makeshift bun. 

Cassian's brow raised. He stopped his skipping, intrigued by the prospect of her joining him.

She got him good.

Crushing his hopes, "No," she said, and walked back to her lovely library. 

"One day, Nesta Archeron," he said, resuming his rope skipping in the grass. 

She snorted and looked back over her shoulder, meeting his vibrant hazel eyes in the sunlight. "But, not today." 

Thank you for reading! 🩷

🌷 Masterlist

Books divider is by saradika-graphics

My Hand Was The One You Reached For (ao3)

Happy @nessianweek! Here's a teeny little one-shot for day 2 ❤️ In the midst of war, Nesta Archeron bandages an injured General's wrist, and as Cassian lets Nesta tend to his wound, he realises there's not a thing in the world that could make him pull away. (ACOWAR fix-it).

********

You’re hurt.

Two little words, whispered at the edge of a battlefield.

Blood— screams and mud, the clouds above threatening rain. A dismal backdrop to those two tiny little words, so small and so simple, and yet so loaded with meaning they were heavy off her tongue, significant enough to turn Cassian’s world upside down the moment they left her lips. 

You’re hurt, she’d said. 

Like a fool, he’d gazed at her in silence, too stunned to speak and unable to do anything but take her in with widened eyes, studying the loosened braid that he’d watched her pin tightly into place that morning, outside the tents when she thought nobody was looking. Except Cassian was always looking when it came to Nesta Archeron. Always searching for her in a crowded room, always making his way towards her.

Even now, with his wrist held stiffly against his side, he’d found himself walking towards that little circle of logs around a fire pit, instead of towards a healer.

You’re hurt.

He hadn’t said a word to anybody, and not even Rhys had noticed the way Cassian had cradled his injured wrist a little closer to his chest than he should have as he approached one of those logs, close to the flames. It wasn’t the worst injury he’d ever had— not by a mile. The skin hadn’t even broken. But it had twisted too far, throbbing now, a sprain that needed to be iced and wrapped but was far from his top priority when his men lay dying in tents nearby, bleeding from injuries so much more lethal than his own.

And then she had spoken.

The fire had cracked, his eyes had lifted. And now here they were, Nesta Archeron standing with the firelight reflected in her eyes, her lips parted and her braid so perilously close to coming undone it looked as though someone had just plunged their fingers right into it. And gods— Cassian wished the situation was different. Wished that he could plunge his fingers into her hair and make her so undone. 

“What happened?” she asked, her eyes fixed on him, like the world around them had ceased to matter.

“Nothing,” Cassian quipped, wanting to keep her eyes on him— never wanting to feel the lack of her attention. 

Softly, Nesta snorted. Her hand reached out, lithe fingers curling around his battered wrist, and he couldn’t fight the hiss of pain that escaped his clenched teeth as he moved. A frown creased her perfect brow, and as she lifted her head to look up at him with those mercurial eyes…

There was an order in the way she looked at him. A question, too. And if there was one thing Cassian knew how to do - had been taught to do since before he could even fucking speak - it was follow godsdamned orders. 

He didn’t need her to tell him to sit down.

Silently, Cassian sank down onto the nearest log by the fire, hardly tearing his eyes away from hers for long enough to make sure the log there was empty. Concern flickered in those eyes, but with his hand in hers, her fingers wrapped around that bruised wrist, Cassian had forgotten to feel the pain. Had forgotten entirely what it was to hurt the moment she’d touched him. 

The Mother only knew how she’d been able to tell he was hurting when nobody else had.

“How do I fix it?” Nesta asked quietly, tracing her fingers lightly across his skin. It didn’t hurt— her touch was so light he barely even felt it, and he might almost have convinced himself that he was imagining it, if not for the way his nerves tingled where she touched him, burning as if to remind him that it was real— that Nesta Archeron stood before him, despite the shadows beneath her eyes that said all she wanted to do was fall down and sleep.

“It’s a sprain,” he said gently. “I just need to ice it before wrapping it—“

She was already reaching for the bandages, pulling out a roll of gauze. 

Cassian wasn’t a fool. He knew that Rhys and Feyre were watching with dumbfounded stares as Nesta’s eyes flicked up, her gaze catching against his for a moment. Cassian held her stare for far longer than he should have, swallowing thickly as Nesta dragged her index finger across the back of his hand, a touch so tentative it was as though her fingertips were only drifting across his skin. 

His eyes closed.

His heart was beating loud enough that he was sure she’d hear it, but Nesta only held his wrist in one hand, her palm smooth against his callouses as she started to lower herself to the ground. He heard the rustle of her dress, the shifting of her feet, and snapped his eyes back open. Logically, he knew that if she sat before him, she’d have a better angle for wrapping his wrist. Logically, he knew there was nothing in it.

And yet he knew, too, that he couldn’t bear the sight of her kneeling before him.

Not now— not yet. If either of them were to get on their knees it would be him, and it wouldn’t be to wrap her fucking wrist.

“No,” he said, his good hand catching her by the waist, his fingers landing on her middle just firmly enough to give her pause. Confusion flashed briefly across her face before Cassian offered her a wry smile. “Let’s not dirty that pretty dress, hm?”

She rolled her eyes as his good hand fell away, opting to sit beside him on the log instead. She didn’t bother to point out that the dress was plain enough, and already mud-stained at the hem, and Cassian didn’t bother to mask the soft smile when she sat beside him, her thigh pressing against his, her scent encompassing him. He twisted to face her, his wrist barking at the pressure as she pulled it across and into her lap, but it didn’t matter. How could it?

She began to wrap the bandage tight around his wrist, and Cassian winced. But Nesta didn’t waver and didn’t hesitate, meticulous in her work as she was with everything else. Only once did she pause, her eyes darting up to his face before falling back down again. 

“Your face,” she whispered as she continued to wrap, her eyes landing on his cheek.

Cassian frowned.

Lifting his good hand, he brushed his fingers across his cheekbone, his fingers coming away red.

A small cut— tiny. He hadn’t even felt it.

“It’s fine,” he said.

She nodded, winding the bandages tight about his wrist.

“Will it scar?”

Cassian smiled softly. “Worried, sweetheart?”

She snorted gently, shaking her head in a way that was almost indulgent— endearing in a way that had Cassian forgetting all about the chaos around them; the fact that they were still dealing with the bloody aftermath of battle was so far from his mind it was almost laughable. All that mattered to him now was the woman before him, and gods, he hoped that roll of gauze never ran out. Hoped she might sit there with her hands on him forever. 

“Don’t you find my scars dashing?” he added, tilting his head and offering her his most cocksure smile, a suggestive quirk of one brow. 

Nesta’s silver eyes caught his, the air between them tightening— unbearably, impossibly. His heart stumbled, like just looking into her eyes was enough to have him tripping over himself, and as she finished her work on his wrist - tying off the bandage with a neat little bow - she sat back a little, as if preparing to leave. And suddenly Cassian felt like it would be the worst thing in the world - the most painful wound he could imagine - to have to watch her walk away.

He felt her fingers slide away, her touch retracting, retreating, and before he paused long enough to think it through, Cassian’s hand darted out, grasping hers. Tightly, he held her. So tightly, like he might convey in that one gesture all the words he didn’t know how to say yet, all the things he didn’t know how to voice. His thumb brushed along hers, tracing along the scar at the base of her thumb; the evidence of her own tortured past.

And when Cassian looked into her eyes, he swore the entire world was held there.

Still, she looked to the cut on his cheek. Warmth took root in his chest— because she cared, and she worried, and even though Cassian loved every member of the family Rhys had given him, the scars of his own childhood ran too deeply, and the notion that someone else gave a damn about him still made something twist deep inside him, made him want to weep.

He didn’t care if the cut scarred. If the battle left a mark on his skin.

It had led to this moment, and how could he ever regret that?

Distantly, he knew they were being watched, that conversation had fallen into stunned silence on the other side of the fire. If he looked up, he knew he would be met with Rhys’ startled violet gaze and Feyre’s slack-jawed surprise. But Cassian didn’t look up. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t look anywhere else but at her, like she was the most wondrous thing the universe had ever seen fit to create.

Slowly, he linked his fingers through hers, twining them together in a way that said he didn’t want to be apart from her just yet. Nesta blinked, her eyes heavy.

“Thank you,” he whispered, nodding to his bandaged wrist.

She didn’t answer— like she couldn’t find words. Cassian brushed his thumb across her hand again, and felt the way her breath caught. He gripped her hand tighter, and felt her do the same, clinging to him in the midst of the chaos, like the peace they had curated in this small corner was more precious to her than anything.

Footsteps sounded, breaking that peace. A familiar tread cut through the mud, and when Cassian looked up, Mor lingered by the edge of the circle, the firelight glimmering against the armour she still wore. Her blonde hair was pushed away from her face, her braid lying idle over one shoulder, and as he watched she stopped short, her eyes wide as she took in the sight before her. And then they narrowed— her face tightening with suspicion and disapproval as she looked at the way Cassian’s fingers were twined with Nesta’s. She opened her mouth to speak, but Cassian looked away, looked to Nesta.

“You look like you need to sleep for a week,” he said gently, taking in the weariness that she was wearing like a cloak about her shoulders. With his free hand, he swiped at the dirt that had smeared her perfect cheek. Nesta raised a brow.

“I’m not the one that just fought a battle.”

Cassian smiled wryly. “No, you’ve just been dealing with the aftermath.” He nodded to the bandages. “Hardly an easy feat.”

She rolled her eyes, and Cassian’s heart beat faster at the sight. He could hear Mor speaking— Rhys, too. It didn’t register. 

“Come,” he said, rising to his feet.

He didn’t drop her hand.

Mor’s eyes fixed on their interlinked fingers, and as Cassian turned his head, he saw Rhys’ mouth parted with surprise, and Feyre’s eyes were alight as her attention bounced between him and her sister. He refused to let it change anything— refused to let the moment he yearned for be lost. Once more, Cassian squeezed her fingers.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he said firmly. 

“If that’s your attempt at seducing me, it’s woefully inadequate.”

He grinned. “One step at a time, princess. One step at a time.”

Throwing an arm around her shoulder, he led her away from that circle of logs around the fire. Only when they reached her tent did he draw away, putting some small amount of distance between them, even though it made his soul ache. Nesta sighed, like the weight of the past twenty-four hours had suddenly come upon her in a wave, and it was all Cassian could do to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear, letting his fingers linger on her cheekbone, skating down to her jaw. 

“Sleep,” he said gently, nodding at the flaps of the tent where, from inside, a golden fae-light was glowing. “And in the morning…”

His throat began to close as he pulled away, wondering if this was a one-time thing. A moment fostered by intense emotion— the fear and adrenaline that came with a battle. What if, in the morning, Nesta woke and regretted every tender touch? What if, when the sun was high in the sky, she wished she’d never been so vulnerable?

“In the morning?” she asked.

Cassian reached out for her again, flattening his hand against her cheek. When she turned her face into his palm, he swore his heart hammered against his ribs so hard, he thought it might have bruised.

“Come find me, sweetheart,” he said, and he didn’t know whether it was an offer, a request, or a plea borne of desperation.

Nesta looked up, met his eyes.

“Okay,” she whispered.

And as she slipped away, her eyes already heavy with sleep, Cassian thought that single word might have been the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard in all his life.

Okay.

Taglist: (if you would like to be added or removed, let me know!) @asnowfern @podemechamardek @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @starryblueskies7 @melphss @sv0430 @that-little-red-head @misswonderflower @fwiggle @tanishab @xstarlightsupremex @burningsnowleopard @hiimheresworld @wannawriteyouabook @hereforthenessian @valkyriesupremacy @kale-theteaqueen @moodymelanist @talkfantasytome

Begged & Borrowed Time (xxxi) (ao3)

(An update to celebrate the end of @nessianweek ❤️)

Chapter 32: Cassian flies down to Velaris for the first time since his recovery and Nesta receives not one but two visitors at the House of Wind.

(Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

Nesta felt Rhysand long before she found him.

As she rose from the chair beside Elain’s bed, skirting the sunlight that streamed in through the wide windows of the bedchamber, the High Lord’s presence was something slick and dark, snaking through the corridors of the House of Wind like a long-fingered shadow— stretching, searching.

Testing.

Her attention was pulled towards the library at the end of the corridor, and it felt familiar, that pull. That power. The way it glided across her skin, needled at her senses like it was trying to lure her out; similar in the way of distant cousins, so many generations removed.

With reluctance, Nesta followed.

Every step she took down the hallway seemed to bring her closer to something heavy, a dark touch against her skin that was as cold as the midnight sky in the middle of winter. It made the silver in her veins writhe, and when at last Nesta pushed open the door to the House of Wind’s private library, she wasn’t at all surprised to find a single chair filled by the empty hearth.

In the blink of an eye, somehow two weeks had passed since Nesta had last laid eyes on the High Lord of the Night Court.

She couldn’t really say she’d missed him.

“Where is Cassian.”

It was a question that might have been wrapped in thorns for the way it came out, barbed enough that even Nesta was surprised. Her voice seemed to echo in the emptiness of the library, the vast space silent, draped with the light of the noonday sun.

The High Lord flicked a hand towards the windows, a vague gesture towards the city down below.

Silver rings gleamed on his fingers, a burst of starlight against the impenetrable black of his shirt and pants, and as his dark eyes lifted, Rhysand kept his face blank and impassive, relaxing into his chair as Nesta paused in the doorway, letting the shadows fall across her as she lingered, hardly daring to step forward into the sunlight. Rhysand was bathed in it— a warm slant of golden light burnishing his sable hair and illuminating the sharp cut of his jaw as he tilted his head to the side, cataloguing her hesitation.

If he realised that he was the last person in the entire realm that Nesta wanted to see today, he didn’t show it. Rhysand merely rested an elbow on the arm of his chair, curling his fingers towards his palm.

“Nesta,” he said, a curious expression flitting across his face, like he was trying to summon an ember of warmth when he spoke. “I came to see how you were doing.”

A lie if ever there was one.

Rhysand might as well have had ulterior motives written right across his damned forehead.

He sat back, crossing one ankle over his knee in a stance that was only deceptively casual. Nesta wasn’t a fool; Rhysand might have appeared calm, like the mirrored surface of a still lake, but beneath… she knew his display of ease was just as false as her own. Through narrowed eyes she watched him, feeling the flames lick at her bones as they coursed through her like a whisper, a lethal undercurrent every bit as potent as Rhysand’s.

“Where is Cassian?” she asked again, folding her arms over her chest and remaining, steadfast, in the shadowed corner by the door.

“In the city,” Rhysand answered, letting his hand drop to pluck at a piece of lint at his knee. “The flight will be good for him. He needs to rebuild the strength in his wings.”

Nesta said nothing.

Rhysand’s eyes glinted. “Did he not tell you?”

There was something cruel there, something biting that said the High Lord didn’t like the way Cassian seemed to act as though Nesta had become the centre of his world. Somehow, something told her he was hoping she’d say no.

But Cassian had told her. Had knocked tentatively on her door that morning, stuck his head around the frame and asked if she wanted to join him. He’d been building up to it for days, taking small fights here and there, never far from the House roof, and even though he always asked, Nesta had never stepped out to watch him. She preferred to linger in the shadows, like it might protect her somehow. But Cassian had always come right back to her when he touched ground, like he couldn’t stay away too long, and with the sun climbing higher in the sky, she thought he might have returned by now.

Not that she was concerned.

Not really.

She just couldn’t keep her mind from straying to that night when everything had fallen apart, when she’d been lying on that cold floor, unable to do anything but watch as he lay broken and too far from her reach, his wings in tatters, his blood spilling on the stone.

What if he was hurt? What if it was too soon, his wings not strong enough to bear his weight yet—

“How are you, anyway?” Rhysand asked, hauling Nesta back to the present.

It was almost conversational, almost like he cared.

Suspicion crawled along her spine, dripping thick as oil. In the five days since Rhysand had last visited the House of Wind - for that godforsaken dinner that Nesta had heartily declined Cassian’s invitation to - he had seemed entirely content to leave her be, learning of her welfare through questions posed to either Cassian or Azriel, and yet now Rhysand sat in that chair, in the library that had become Nesta’s source of peace, asking her how she was. She didn’t fail to miss the way his eyes flicked to her folded arms, like he could sense the fire gathering there behind her ribs, pooling at her fingertips.

“Fine,” she bit out, looking right past him and out of the windows, to the sun-drenched city below. The river was a silver ribbon running through the winding streets, glimmering as the midday sun beat down upon its length, and she knew that if she only stepped forward, the light would brush her cheeks and warm her skin.

She didn’t move.

The power beneath her skin coiled, curling in on itself as if preparing to strike, and Rhysand’s face was a mask of indifference as he followed her gaze to the windows. Tapping a finger gently on his knee, he looked back once more at the hands Nesta wrapped around herself. Something flickered in his violet eyes, the stars there winking out as his attention snagged on the hands she kept concealed. The High Lord cocked his head to the side, examining her the way one might look at a beast in the woods.

His lips parted as he leaned forwards, eyebrows drawing together as he looked at her with a kind of scrutiny Nesta hadn’t felt since her mother had died.

And then—

“Cassian will kill me, but I need to know what happened that night at Hybern. Inside the Cauldron.”

Every bone, every muscle, every nerve in Nesta’s entire body locked, stiffening as Rhys’ voice quieted.

She should have known, she thought, as her heart pounded indignantly in her chest. The moment she saw him there, waiting for her, she should have known the questions were coming. Questions he’d asked before— ones she hadn’t answered then, and certainly didn’t feel like answering now.

“I told you last time,” she answered, her voice a rasp that threatened to cut her throat on its way out. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you know exactly what I mean.”

Fury bubbled in her gut, stealing her breath as she watched Feyre’s mate look at her with barely-concealed disdain, his lip curling as he dragged his eyes across her frame. In another life, another time, perhaps Nesta might have found a way to get along with Rhysand. Maybe even like him. But if she was a fire refusing to relent, then so was he. All her sharpness, all her stubbornness… it was thrown back at her, reflected in his eyes. Like calls to like, she’d heard them say, and as Rhysand looked at her with a glare that she knew was identical to her own, she wondered if in this case, like didn’t call to like, but repelled it.

“Is that all you’re here for?” she hissed. “To see what you can gain by what happened to Elain and I in that throne room?”

Somehow, his face darkened even further. A shadow crossed his eyes, his hands clenched into fists as tight as Nesta’s own, and whatever patience he’d had before, it was fraying now, perilously close to snapping. His power rumbled, like a distant thunderhead about to break. He closed his eyes, as if letting it wash over him, and when he opened them again, there was a grim determination shining in the violet.

“You feel it,” he said, his voice a low whisper. “Don’t lie to me, Nesta. I know.” He held up a hand, spread his fingers and exposed his palm to her. She felt that rumble of darkness again, like it was skirting the edges of the House library, lurking. “I can feel whatever it is the Cauldron gave you. And I might have let it lie, but then Cassian mentioned the House magic had changed—”

“I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Nesta growled, and this time it was true. She really didn’t have any idea what he meant about the House changing, and Cassian hadn’t said a word to her about it—

Rhys barrelled on, as if she hadn’t spoken at all.

“Your power needs to be controlled,” he said, and if she wasn’t convinced of his arrogance, she’d have sworn that concern shaded his words. “You may not believe me, but you’re my sister-in-law now. I came to check that you and Elain were both well, for Feyre’s sake if nothing else.” He ran his hand over his hair, took a breath. “I want to see if Elain—”

“Stay away from her,” Nesta hissed.

“She may need a healer—”

“What she needs is to be kept as far away from all of you as possible.”

“‘All of you’?” he echoed darkly. “And does that include Cassian? Shall I tell him to stay away, too?”

Nesta folded her arms, refused to answer. The ice that had burrowed deep into her bones reared, and a chill skirted down her spine as pressure began to build in her fingertips, pushing against her skin, begging for release. It felt like… destruction, pure and simple. Nesta clenched her fists, taking a deep breath in an effort to force the burning cold back down again, right into the deepest recesses of herself, and when she looked up and met Rhysand’s eye, she saw his lips thin, and felt his own power rumbling in answer as her own battled to stay present.

Those starless eyes were utterly flat as he curled his hands around the carved wooden arm rests of his chair.

And then she felt something brush against her— against her mind.

It felt like claws, sharp enough to tear through the fabric of her thoughts, like he might crack her open to see what was hidden inside.

The sound that left her was one of horror as she stumbled backwards, her spine flush with the wall as she pinned the High Lord with a ferocious glare. Her palms were flat against the wood-panelled wall, the fire in her burning, and even though Rhysand’s eyes remained steady - like he was trying hard not to startle her - there was a tendril of shadow, no more substantive than mist, still pressing at the boundaries of her mind— boundaries she’d never noticed as a human.

Never needed to notice.

The hair on her arms rose, her skin pebbled as she fought to control her breathing. She knew Rhysand could enter minds, but he hadn’t ever tried to enter hers before. That brush of power felt unnervingly like a hand, tapping softly at the mental barrier she had unwittingly constructed around her mind, and it was enough to make her blood run cold— colder than the ice inside her ever could.

A snarl ripped free of her.

“Nesta, you need to learn control—“ he began.

“Leave,” she hissed.

“This is my house,” Rhysand tossed back.

Nesta glanced once to the windows— the sunlight outside, the city that she didn’t want to see any closer. Something inside her recoiled, and yet still, she scowled as she pushed away from the wall.

“Then I’ll leave,” she spat. “I’ll leave this whole damned place, and when Feyre returns, you can be the one to tell her why her sister is lost somewhere in Prythian.”

Rhysand gritted his teeth, his starless eyes cold and ruthless as he pushed to his feet. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he gave her one long, lingering look that scorched. With an elegant hand, he straightened his black shirt, a deep frown heavy on his brow as disapproval radiated from him in waves. Whatever fraction of warmth he’d managed to conjure before, it was gone now.

“Good day, then,” he said sharply.

Nesta didn’t answer, only watched him march past her to leave before she slammed the door closed behind him.

***

Velaris was a beauty in the sunlight.

The river gleamed like the shattered surface of a diamond, shifting with the current, and as Cassian looked out over its banks from ground level, he realised how much he had missed it. Missed this, losing himself in the same city he’d spent fifty years fighting to leave. He hadn’t thought at all how much he might miss this place during those long years Rhys was under the mountain, but now, as he tilted his head back and filled his lungs, he swore he’d never forget again.

From somewhere in the distance, he could hear the sound of the market, a thousand voices on the wind like chimes, and the air itself was perfumed with lemon verbena and sea salt. Cassian took another deep breath of it, leaning his forearms on the railing overlooking the river, and thanking the Mother that he was able to stand there on that bridge at all.

Grateful— so grateful that the city had survived Hybern’s attack, and he had survived Hybern’s throne room.

His wings twitched at the memory. The flight down had been a strain on the freshly-healed membrane, but the burning he’d felt had been one of muscles remembering what it was to work, not pain. He’d felt the wind on his face and the elation fizzing in his blood, and for an hour he’d wandered the city before heading to the Palace of Thread and Jewels to place an order for a handful of dresses that didn’t seem too dissimilar to what Nesta had worn below the wall. He’d ordered some for Elain too, and charged the lot to Rhys’ account. And now, he was content to merely stand by and watch, to let the city roll by as the sun warmed his face, resting his wings as he relished the ache.

It was there, looking out over the Rainbow, that a familiar scent was carried to him on the wind.

“I don’t need a nursemaid, you know,” Cassian said dryly, keeping his eyes fixed on the city before him.

He could practically hear Mor roll her eyes as she joined him at the edge, looping an arm through his and pulling him away from the railing. Beneath the sun, she was practically gilded, her blonde hair shining almost the exact same shade as the golden necklace around her neck. She nudged him in the ribs with an elbow as she nodded to his wings and scowled.

“I heard you’d flown down here and had to check for myself.” She huffed. “Az is going to win the bet, isn’t he?”

Cassian laughed softly. “Sorry?” he offered, stretching his wings with a grin. There was only a little tug of pain now, and he was certain that he’d be back to flying miles a day within a few short weeks, well within the timeframe Az had set when he’d bet Mor those ten gold coins.

“I don’t know whether or not to be insulted,” Cassian continued, letting Mor lead him across the bridge and into the winding city streets. “Az had more confidence in me than you did.”

“It’s nothing to do with confidence,” Mor protested, her painted lips parting as her jaw dropped. “I just didn’t want you to push yourself too hard.”

It was Cassian’s turn to nudge her in the ribs. He’d almost forgotten how easy it was between them— the banter of friends who had known one another so long. And yet, he’d always thought that when Mor smiled and laughed, there were no secrets to be had between them. Nothing they failed to share. He turned his head to the side as they walked and studied her, wondering what else she’d kept close to her chest all this time.

“Drink?” she suggested, pausing at the threshold of a riverfront cafe, tilting her head towards the round wooden tables shaded by pale yellow umbrellas. Lemon trees were dotted between tables, citrus-scented candles already lit in the centre of each.

Cassian nodded, letting himself be herded towards a table at the back, and within ten minutes - like the staff had dropped everything in their rush to serve members of their Lord’s circle - Mor was seated with her back to the river, cold drink in hand as, idly, she stirred the crushed ice with a straw. Cassian didn’t know whether he wanted to grimace or not; the recognition he received on the street had buoyed him once, made him feel like the world lay at his feet.

It felt sour, now.

He shook his head, fingers curling around a tall glass of water. Gratefully he drank, but still, he couldn’t stop the curiosity from taking hold whenever he looked over at the blonde he’d come to view as a sister.

Really— what else had Mor neglected to tell him over the centuries?

“So,” he said, leaning back in his seat after letting the silence stretch for a beat too long. “Are you ever going to tell me about the human you mentioned back in Illyria?”

Mor’s face fell. Her fingers slackened around the edge of her glass. “Cass…”

He shook his head. “Come on. Don’t you think it’s been secret long enough?”

She hesitated, the bracelets at her wrists sliding down towards her elbow with a musical clink as she tucked an errant piece of hair behind her ear. He’d known her long enough to know well that it was one of her tells— an easy way of avoiding eye contact. For a moment he was sure that she was going to leave him sitting in silence, her eyes never straying from the ice beginning to melt in her drink, but then, so quietly he barely heard her, Mor said:

“We met during the war.”

Cassian felt his entire body still. Mor’s eyes were dark, like the memory alone veiled them with grief, and each word seemed to tear its way up her throat, like she had to force her tongue to shape the words.

“I was in love— so deeply I thought the world might stop turning if we were parted. I was so sure that once the war was over, we’d be together. We’d be happy, for whatever amount of time fate granted us. And I was prepared to give up everything. To leave here. To leave you, and Rhys, and Az, and never look back. I was ready to leave it all.” A pause. Heavy, loaded with hurt so many centuries old. “And then the wall went up.”

Her voice caught; stuttered.

“It took me years to find a way through, and when I did… it was too late.”

Cassian swore he could feel her loss radiating from her even now, and his heart twisted with sympathy as he said, gently, “Tell me about him.”

Still, Mor didn’t look up. Slowly she reached out, dragged a finger around the rim of her glass as if searching for something to do with her hands.

“She was a queen.”

She.

Cassian blinked.

The words stalled on his tongue, his mouth opening and closing as he searched for the right thing to say. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had his fair share of lovers of both sexes over the years, but Mor had kept this secret so close to her chest that he’d had no idea. Not even the faintest suspicion. And a queen…

He supposed it made sense now, why Mor had sneered so decidedly at the human queens they’d met in the Archeron manor.

With a frown carving a deep line between his brows, slowly Cassian leaned forward and placed his hand on Mor’s wrist, watching as her fingers stilled on the edge of her glass.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “And I’m sorry that you felt you couldn’t tell me.”

“It was just… easier to keep things the way they were,” she shrugged. Her eyes remained fixed on her drink, on the table beneath it. “It hurt, Cass. To know that she lived her life and then just… died. Without me.” Pain limned her face, tightened her jaw and made her voice a whisper. “Their lives are so brief— so fleeting. Everything I said before… I was just trying to protect you.” Another shrug punctuated her words, and at last - at last - Mor looked up. Her eyes were wide. “Maybe I didn’t go about it in the best way…”

Cassian couldn’t stop the snort that escaped him.

Mor’s eyes rolled, her huff soft as she folded her arms and rested them on the table. “Nesta and I won’t suddenly be the best of friends, but I can admit that I was wrong. I just… didn’t want to see you hurt.”

“I know,” Cassian said, shrugging as he rested an elbow on the arm of the wooden chair, curling his hand into a fist beneath his cheek. “But she’s my mate, Mor.”

It was the first time he’d said the words out loud to her, and although a shade crossed her brown eyes, she didn’t seem shocked. Her sigh was so quiet it was masked by the breeze.

“I know,” she echoed. When Cassian opened his mouth to ask how, blithely she waved a hand. “Truth, remember?” She smiled wryly. “I knew the moment she was tipped out of that Cauldron.”

He shook his head. “I felt it long before that.”

Mor hummed, welcoming the way the conversation shifted, tilted away from the parts of her left most vulnerable. “It wasn’t as strong then. Her mortality… it dimmed it, masked it just like the wall dampens our powers when we cross the border.”

And yet, Cassian thought, it didn’t really matter, did it? The how or why or when. He felt it now, stronger than ever, and as though he was pulled by an invisible string, his head turned, looking out across the river to the mountains on the other side of the city— to the House built right into the rock.

The windows gleamed, reflected the sun. And he wondered… which one did she sit behind? And how far was the distance between them now? Could he measure it in heartbeats?

“I miss her,” he said when he tore his eyes away. “I saw her this morning, and yet I miss her. What the fuck is that?”

Mor reached out to grasp his hand, and when he looked, he swore he saw tears linger behind her eyes, silver lining her lashes.

“You’re lucky” she said. “So lucky, Cass.”

He didn’t feel especially lucky, and yet, as he looked back to the House…

Cassian pushed away from the table.

“Yeah,” he said softly, nodding slowly. And as he stretched his wings and shot Mor a wry smile, he looked back across the city to the House and felt it pulling him back, a line in his chest as tight as a bow string. With one last look, and one last smile, Cassian looked to the woman he’d known for so many centuries and turned his back.

Decidedly he said,

“I’m going home.”

***

It was with aching wings that Cassian landed smoothly on the roof of the House, yet he couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face as he tilted his head back and took a last look at the sky, the sun beating down on his skin. The wind ran fingers through his hair, brushed his cheeks, and Cassian savoured it: the elation that came with flying, that feeling that tasted so much like freedom.

It had been harder, flying up from the city rather than down. The muscles that had only slightly pulled with exertion before were protesting now, as if to remind him that he still had a little way to go before being back to full strength, but—

It didn’t matter.

The sun was shining, the day was warm and beautiful, and he’d just taken his first proper flight in weeks. As he entered the House in search of Nesta - because wasn’t he always in search of her these days? - he didn’t think there was anything the Mother could throw at him that could ruin his good mood.

And then he found her.

Nesta was curled on the sofa in the library, her legs tucked beneath her, like she wanted to make herself as small as possible. Though a book lay open in her lap, pages splayed, every line of her was stiff and weighted with tension, like she’d waded into a lake with rocks in her pocket. Her eyes didn’t move across the page— didn’t move at all in fact, not even to glance his way when he entered the room. Nesta kept her attention on the page before her, staring down like she wanted the entire room to swallow her.

Suddenly, Cassian felt like his heart was in his throat.

The grin that had been plastered to his face dropped, his steps slowing, as if he suddenly felt he had to move slowly.

“Good book?” he asked with a breeziness he didn’t feel, throwing his weight down onto the sofa beside her. Anything to provoke a reaction.

He wanted her to scowl, wanted her to glare at him, to ask him what he did with all that battlefield grace when he wasn’t using it. Come on, his eyes seemed to say when they looked her way.

Nesta said nothing.

“I went to a dressmaker today,” he said lightly, casting an arm wide and letting it rest on the back of the sofa. His fingers were an inch from brushing her shoulder, and gods, he longed to close that distance and let his skin brush hers, even if it was just for a moment.

Nesta blinked.

“Maybe you could come with me next time. Let her take your measurements properly.”

“No,” Nesta answered quickly, stiffly, her eyes still fixed on the pages of her book, like she might find solace there if only she searched hard enough.

“You liked the city before,” Cassian said gently, cutting a glance to the bracelet still tied around her wrist.

The one he’d put there.

The one that, even now, she never took off.

“No.”

Hopelessness was a bitter taste, cresting in his chest like a brutal wave as Nesta turned the page in her book. He was certain she hadn’t read a word since he’d entered, and yet she sniffed and focused her attention entirely on the pages before her, like he wasn’t there at all.

He frowned.

The silence stretched, uncomfortable, and sensing that Nesta wanted nothing but solitude, Cassian sighed before rising from the sofa. He stretched his wings, watching her, waiting for her to ask him to stay— waiting for her to just look at him.

She didn’t.

He didn’t know what had set her off today, but somehow, he didn’t think he’d get an answer even if he asked.

“I’ll… leave you to it, then,” he said uneasily.

Nesta sniffed a little, but still, said nothing.

He wasn’t fool enough to think she’d ask him to stay, and yet still, he hoped. Like a fucking idiot, he hoped that she might turn to him and let him in.  Cassian felt his heart crack, her pain like a razor that sliced into him with her every dejected blink, and his fingers twitched as he fought the urge to fold her in his arms and hold her until everything stopped hurting.

He couldn’t stop himself from leaning over, though, and dropping a kiss to the crown of her head as he rose to his feet. He didn’t miss the way her eyes closed, like part of her wanted to savour it. His hand cradled the back of her head as his lips touched her hair, like he might be able to hold her to his mouth, kiss away the pain. He curled his fingers in her hair before pulling back, giving her a gentle smile as he eased away.

“I’ll be upstairs,” he said.

Briefly, Nesta looked up. She met his eye, her face filled with regret, and it was all Cassian could do to brush a thumb across her cheek before he left— smiling gently, even as his heart broke.

***

“Well, don’t you look terrible.”

Azriel’s voice was a cutting drawl, brutally acerbic as Cassian entered the small sitting room that bridged the gap between his room and the Shadowsinger’s. His brother sat alone, occupying one of the four chairs that had sat before that hearth for centuries now, with Truth-teller balanced in one scarred palm as he inspected the blade. The flat edge, freshly oiled and polished, shone like a mirror.

Cassian sank heavily into the chair that was always reserved for him in this room, allowing the cushions to swallow him as he rubbed his temples between his thumb and forefinger. “Rough day,” he said with a barely-there shrug.

Az lifted a brow. “It’s barely past noon.”

When Cassian didn’t answer, Azriel laid Truth-teller across his knee, and leaned forward as his shadows darted out to wind around the legs of Cassian’s chair.

Nosy fuckers.

“Rough flight?” Az asked.

“Not really.” Cassian shrugged again, more definitive this time. His eyes flicked up. “Don’t worry. You’ll still win your bet.”

Az smiled, wicked, before returning his attention to the weapon in his lap. “Mor will be furious.”

Cassian rolled his eyes. With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair and groaned, dragging a palm down his face. “It’s Nesta,” he said from behind his fingers. “Something’s bothered her today.”

After a moment, Az glanced up from his blade. “Rhys was here earlier.”

Another groan rumbled from somewhere deep in Cassian’s chest, a sound so weary he was astounded he didn’t fold. “How many times do I need to say it,” he muttered. “Pushing her isn’t going to help anybody.”

“You know Rhys,” Az shrugged. “He’s curious. And you know as well as I do that he can’t just sit around and do nothing.”

Cassian tipped his head back. “Sometimes I wish he would. That inability to do nothing got him stuck Under the Mountain fifty fucking years ago, and it’s exactly what’s going to turn around and bite us in the ass now.”

Azriel said nothing. Shrewd, he looked Cassian over, taking in every ounce of tension that lay thick across his frame. A small furrow carved a path between his brows.

“How is she?” he asked.

Cassian shook his head as he straightened in his chair, leaning an elbow on the curved wooden armrest and resting his chin atop his curled fist. “She’s in the library,” he answered. “Never seems to leave it. Like the books are the only thing that can comfort her.”

It’s the only escape I have, she’d told him once. A lifetime ago, in that stable below the wall.

Shadows whispered at Azriel’s ankles as the Spymaster took a final look at Truth-teller before sliding the blade back into the rune-embossed sheath. His eyes carried the echo of concern— not as potent as Cassian’s, but still there was something there, lurking just beneath the hazel, that said Azriel cared in that quiet, unassuming way of his for the woman sitting in silence downstairs.

“This is all new to her,” Az said softly. “She needs time to adjust.”

“She’s drowning, Az.”

Azriel sighed. “It’s not good for her, staying closeted away up here. She needs some fresh air. Needs to see people that aren’t us.”

Cassian stilled.

People that aren’t us.

Something clicked.

“Of course,” he murmured. “She won’t go into the city, but maybe… Maybe I can bring someone to her instead.”

Az looked confused, but Cassian leaned forward in his chair.

“I need you to do me a favour.”

***

The early afternoon light slanted across the library, warm where it fell across the patterned carpets. The room was washed with ochre, bright and rich, and yet—

Nesta hadn’t moved since Rhysand had left, frozen like one the statues that used to grace her father’s gardens.

Motionless and cold as stone, she sat with the same book in her lap that she had been pretending to read when Cassian had returned from the city earlier, the pages unturned, unread, as cracks formed in her chest that felt like valleys. She had watched the sun trace a path across the sky, pretending to read in the hopes it might help her forget all else, but it was useless. Just like the statues in her father’s garden, she was stiff, immovable— her eyes flat and hollow, feeling more like an imitation of life than anything else.

Bitterly, she sighed.

And just when she was about to close the book and give up altogether, the library door opened with a whisper against the carpeted floor. Cassian entered first, shouldering his way through the doorframe, holding the door open for Azriel and, behind him, a woman that Nesta did not recognise. A woman with wings— an Illyrian.

“Hey, Nes,” Cassian said, his voice quiet, like she was a deer he didn’t want to startle.

She blinked— said nothing. Both Azriel and the woman smelled of cold, like snow and wind, and though she wanted to ask so many questions, she couldn’t find the energy to speak.

The stranger stood in the centre of the library, the light gliding smoothly over her burnished skin as warm brown eyes took in the scene before her. With something like wonder on her face she looked at the windows offering a vista of the city below, and only with effort did she tear her attention away, noting the towering shelves that lined the walls before letting her gaze land, finally, on Nesta, sitting curled upon her sofa.

She took one look at her - just one - before turning sharply on her heel and looking up at Cassian and Azriel both. The move exposed her back, and the wings she kept tucked tight against her spine. As Nesta looked, she fought the urge to gasp, smothering the horror as it built. With the sunlight shining at an angle, each raised welt on the stranger’s wings was cast into brutal relief; deep valleys made by old and deliberate wounds appeared all the more vicious in the direct light, and the membrane of her wings was littered with so much scar tissue Nesta thought it was a wonder she could lift them at all.

But the stranger did not seem to care that the sunlight exposed her scars. She merely tilted her head, the movement causing her ruined wings to shift.

“You can go now,” she said simply.

Azriel nodded, slipping back through the door without another word, but Cassian… he hesitated. The stranger put her hands on her hips, a gesture that suggested she would brook no argument as she jerked her head towards the windows, braided ebony hair falling over her shoulder.

“Go down to the city. Go to Windhaven. Go anywhere. Surely you have better things to be doing than supervising a conversation between friends, General.”

Nesta frowned. Friends— she didn’t think she’d ever had many of those, and yet the dark-haired stranger stood there with her damaged wings, her cheeks still flushed from the cold of wherever she’d been before, and declared herself Nesta Archeron’s friend. She blinked against the strangeness of it, and as she watched, Cassian looked up and met her eye, a glimmer of hope dancing across his face that made some small part of her want to reach out and grasp it, if only to keep that spark in his eyes for a little while longer.

At length, he nodded.

“I’ll be training on the roof if you need me,” he said.

The woman grinned.

“We won’t,” she said, so saccharine it almost pulled a laugh from Nesta’s throat. Even Cassian smiled softly at that, his eyes flicking back to Nesta as if he, too, had sensed the laugh she’d almost loosed. Holding his hands up in surrender, he backed away, slipping through the door without another word. In his wake, the woman turned and offered Nesta a smile that was gentle and soft— kind in a way so few had ever been towards her.

“Nesta?” she said, walking slowly across the library floor. “It’s me. Emerie.” She gave her a small wave. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”

There was hesitation in the way Nesta unfolded on that sofa, letting her feet drop to the floor as she sat up straighter. Every move was slow, like she was still waiting for a trick to be revealed. Her eyes darted to the door, but Emerie shook her head.

“They’re gone,” she said with a shrug. “Nosy busy-bodies the pair of them, but I figured it would be good for us to catch up, just the two of us.” She nodded to the sofa, to the empty space that yawned beside Nesta. “May I?”

Nesta didn’t know what to say.

Suddenly, she felt the absurd urge to cry. The encounter with Rhysand that morning had plagued her all day, the words he’d said thrown back at her in the empty silence of the library. If not for Cassian - and Azriel, she supposed - Nesta didn’t think she’d see a single friendly face, what with Elain rarely able to leave her bed, and it was beginning to build now— a kind of loneliness she’d never really felt before, starting to wear her thin.

She looked to the door again, nodding as Emerie sat down, adjusting her wings with stiff movements over the low back of the library sofa.

“Cassian has been kind to me,” Nesta began, “but I’m glad to see another friendly face.”

Emerie’s brow furrowed. “Are they in short supply around here?”

Nesta shrugged. “You could say that.”

Her eyes travelled to Emerie’s wings, to the scars right down the centre of each. The injuries were a mirror of one another, the jagged edges and raised tissue in the exact same place, like somebody had taken a careless hand to each wing with purpose. Emerie’s face turned a shade paler as she watched Nesta take in those deliberate wounds.

“My father is a cruel man,” she said in explanation, as if it were the only thing that needed to be said.

Behind her ribs, Nesta felt her heart constrict.

“So was my mother,” she whispered in answer. Her eyes went to the scar on her thumb, the brutal reminder of all she’d endured. “And my grandmother, too.”

Emerie pressed a hand to that scar on Nesta’s thumb, as if she might be able to mask it somehow. “I trust they’re gone now?” Nesta nodded, and Emerie patted her hand lightly, like the news pleased her. “Good. Maybe soon, my father will be too.”

Her voice was blithe and dry, and yet there was still a spark in her deep brown eyes, one that Nesta suspected Emerie had fought hard to rekindle. She studied the woman before her— Emerie’s scars so much more obvious and devastating than Nesta’s own, and yet… Emerie had written her letters, had found joy in her books. Was still living, despite it all.

“How do you…” Nesta started. Failed.

How do you carry on?

How do you open your eyes each morning and still drag yourself from bed, despite everything you’ve endured?

Emerie seemed to understand anyway.

“He gave me life,” she answered, “but that doesn’t mean he can bend me to his will. He might have broken me once, but that doesn’t mean I am without value.” She shuddered, cleared her throat. “And besides, broken things can always be mended. And they are always stronger afterwards.” She met Nesta’s eyes without fear, and if she noticed the silver there, she said nothing. After a moment, her dark eyes sparked. “But I didn’t come here to cry, Nesta Archeron from Below the Wall.”

She said it like it was a title, and Nesta couldn’t help the wry huff of a laugh that escaped her.

“Then why are you here?” she asked with a raised brow.

Emerie grinned in answer, lifting up the canvas bag she’d brought and pulling out a book. “I’m here because I’m  sick of talking books with you over letters. They’re so incredibly drawn out and slow. I’d rather do it in person.”

She handed it over, the cover emblazoned with the name Sellyn Drake. Nesta felt the smile pull at her mouth, a feeling so foreign these days that she almost wanted to hide it.

“The smuttiest I could find,” Emerie said before Nesta could bury that smile beneath a glare. When Nesta looked up, the Illyrian’s eyes were practically dancing with glee, and Nesta couldn’t help it. She laughed— laughed, for the first time since Hybern.

She’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

She felt her face drop, felt heat build behind her eyes. Not the burn of the silver fire, but the warmth of tears threatening to spill, and Emerie leaned over, patted her on the hand once again, as if to tell her it was okay— to cry if she needed to.

Nesta shook her head, forced away her tears. Emerie smiled softly, and as if already knowing what they needed, a silver tea service appeared on the low table before the sofa, steam rising in curls from a decorated silver teapot. Courtesy of the House, Nesta assumed, and for a moment her mind went back to what Rhysand had said earlier, about the House’s magic changing.

She hadn’t asked for the tea.

And yet there it was, two porcelain cups sitting beside a bowl piled high with sugar cubes, a pair of small silver tongs lying perfectly straight alongside. Nesta tilted her head, frowned as the tea fragranced the air, but said nothing as Emerie clapped with delight and reached over to lift the teapot, filling both porcelain cups before reaching for the sugar.

“You know, I was surprised,” Emerie began after a moment, dropping a cube of sugar into her tea,  “when the almighty General of the Night Court came into my father’s shop and asked for book recommendations.”

“Like I said,” Nesta shrugged, leaving her own tea to cool. “He’s been kind.”

Emerie raised a brow. “More than kind, I’d wager.”

Nesta felt the heat of a blush on her cheeks, but flipped open the cover of the Sellyn Drake novel instead of looking up and meeting her friend’s eye. Still, Emerie pressed.

“Come on, Nesta. You’ve got to be sleeping with him.”

Nesta’s mouth dropped open— in disbelief, in protest, in laughter; she wasn’t sure. At length she took her head, dipping her gaze again.

“No,” she answered at last.

Emerie almost choked on her tea. “What? Why?” she asked, her voice rising in pitch as disbelief wrote itself across her face. “Nesta, he’s enamoured with you. And you obviously feel the same.”

Nesta waved a hand, refusing to focus on how obvious she apparently was. “Before, maybe. But it’s different now.”

“It’s easier now,” Emerie countered. “Surely.”

Nesta shook her head once more. “No, it’s not. I’m not…” she trailed off. Didn’t know how to say it. “I’m not who I was before.”

Emerie shrugged as she set down her tea. “I think he’d love you anyway.”

It was Nesta’s turn to choke.

That word— love.

She’d stopped him from saying it. Hadn’t been able to bear it; didn’t think she could stand to hear the words fall from his lips, to hear him tell her he loved her, when the woman he had fallen for was gone.

“I’m not me anymore,” Nesta whispered.

“The Nesta Archeron that wrote me letters to thank me for lending her books…” Emerie reached out, taking Nesta’s hands in her own. Her palms were warm, and Nesta wanted to pull away, afraid that the flames might make an appearance, but Emerie held tight. “I’m certain that I’m talking to her right now.”

She pushed before Nesta could protest.

“I know what it is to be… irrevocably changed by someone else’s hand. After my father cut my wings…” She shook her head. “I don’t know what happened to you in Hybern. Azriel wouldn’t tell me anything beyond the basics when I asked before he brought me here, but I think I know a little of how you’re feeling. I felt like my father had robbed me of everything that made me who I was.”

“They couldn’t heal them? Your wings?” Nesta thought of Cassian’s wings; entirely rebuilt. The way he’d looked so mournfully to the windows over the past few days, like the inability to fly had been a wound in itself. She didn’t know how Emerie had coped, if flight was as integral to the Illyrians as Cassian had made out.

Emerie shrugged. “Not in Illyria. And certainly not while my father lives. Maybe someday.”

Silence fell, but not uncomfortable. Emerie offered her a small smile.

“My point is that I remembered who I was, eventually.” Her eyes glinted. “And besides, I don’t think the General is a fickle man. I mean it, Nesta. I saw his face when I arrived. He’s exactly the same as when he walked into my shop and asked what kind of books a mortal woman might enjoy.”

Emerie’s face was soft, and Nesta glanced to the door as if expecting him to walk through it, and a small, tiny voice at the back of her mind, whispered that maybe… maybe he would still love her, regardless of what had changed.

And as she looked at Emerie, suddenly…

Suddenly, the darkness didn’t feel quite so impenetrable. Like there might be a crack somewhere that would let the light in.

“Now,” Emerie said, sinking back against the cushions and letting her wings stretch the little her scars would allow. “Are we going to keep being maudlin? Or are we going to discuss this?”

She held up the Sellyn Drake novel with one hand, its pages gilded by the afternoon sun. Nesta managed a smile, reaching for her tea and lifting the porcelain to her lips as she jerked her chin at the book Emerie held aloft.

“Go on then,” she said. “Show me just how smutty it gets.”

***

After a handful of hours, when the sun had gone down and darkness gathered on the horizon, Cassian ventured back downstairs.

It had been agony, forcing himself to remain on that roof, throwing the same punches and tossing the same daggers in a cycle, and over the course of the entire afternoon he’d tried hard to keep his mind away from the library beneath his feet. Away from the woman inside it.

Nesta hadn’t left the library yet, and Emerie hadn’t ventured upstairs to ask whether Azriel could winnow her back home.

Cassian wondered whether something had gone wrong.

After retrieving the dagger he’d just thrown from the chest of a training dummy, he abandoned the pretence and headed inside, his boots heavy on the stone floor. With each step the library grew nearer, and the silence in the House was so complete even his breaths seemed to echo.

The door was still firmly closed when he reached the hallway, the sconces lining the walls glowing gently as he approached.

And as Cassian reached for the door handle…

Nesta laughed.

The sound drifted through the thick wood of the library door, the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. It was enough to make him weak, and fuck, he’d die for that laugh.

He gripped the handle to steady himself, fingers curling around the metal, but he didn’t turn it. Even though he wanted so desperately to open that door and see her smiling…

Softly he drew away from the door, smiling to himself as Emerie’s laugh joined Nesta’s. Another peal of it rang through the hall, following him as he turned his back and walked away, chasing his steps as he headed right back the way he came. And as the sun fell fully behind the mountains and left the House of Wind in shadow, Cassian looked over his shoulder and heard that laugh again, quieter now but no less precious, and felt hope bloom in his chest.

Beautiful, fragile, perfect.

Taglist: @asnowfern @podemechamardek @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @starryblueskies7 @melphss @sv0430 @that-little-red-head @misswonderflower @fwiggle @tanishab @xstarlightsupremex @burningsnowleopard @hiimheresworld @wannawriteyouabook @hereforthenessian @valkyriesupremacy @kale-theteaqueen @moodymelanist @talkfantasytome @pyxxie

the second part of Twister is right here!

tysm for the people who read it and wrote me good comments about it, that helps me a lot to continue writing this sorts of things

and anyone who hasn't read it, I invite you to read it! if you haven't read the first part, you can read it here

ilysm, thanks for reading it, I love you guys so much 😭💖