obsessedwithallthingsbookrelated

[obsessedwithallthingsbookrelated]

You're the Kind of Reckless that Should Send Me Running

A/N: you know, sometimes, self-care is... (checks notes) making a sex bargain with a fae to get out of a marriage contract. It just be like that! But happy Day Three of @nestaarcheronweek lovelies! Hope everyone enjoys some smutty Nessian. As a warning, this is toe-ing the line with dubious consent since it is a fae bargain, so please read with care!

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A bottle of your finest alcohol and your most prized possession.

That's what the woman in the market had told Nesta to bring in offering. Whispered words shared between the brick building of the butcher and the wooden stalls bedecked in green leaves and pastel colored petals, the first sign of spring. The woman's own stall had been tucked closer to the alleyway between buildings, half cast in shadow. What little light did break through bounced off the gemstones of amulets, carved into the grooves of runes in animal bone.

Only desperate people spoke with the woman who always kept the hood of her cloak up to shroud her face.

And desperate Nesta was.

She listened to everything the woman said, carefully tucked away the instructions, the tips the woman offered for the best results. And when the woman had finished speaking, Nesta placed a single silver piece into her palm and slipped back into the crowds of the bustling market without looking back. She kept her head down, tried her best to look inconspicuous lest word get back where she didn’t want it to.

But Nesta caught Clare’s eye across the market square, her friend offering the barest hint of a nod. It was Clare that told Nesta about this woman, about the information she offered, about the outcomes that information promised. According to Clare, it was how Morrigan had done it just last week.

So, that day in the market, Nesta seeked out the woman, and now, here she walks.

She steps over roots and brambles, her soft steps doing nothing to quiet the crunch beneath her feet. With each step, she winces at the way the sound echoes in the wood around her. She glances around, between the barks of the trees that stretch out and above her, but there’s no sign of anyone else but her. It doesn’t stop the hairs on the back of her neck from standing on edge.

A twig snaps somewhere behind her, and Nesta freezes, nearly dropping the bottle of whiskey she’d stolen from her father’s reserves. She clutches it a little tighter to her chest, afraid to even breathe while she waits for another sound, waits for someone to appear. But the only sound that answers Nesta is the rustle of the wind through the branches and leaves, the distant sound of an owl hooting.

Breathing out slowly, Nesta continues trekking forward. She dares to look back over her shoulder, but there’s nothing but more trees and the streaks of silver from the moon breaking through the canopy above. She shakes her head, reminding herself of exactly why she’s here, why she’s doing this.

She just has to find the clearing. That’s what the woman in the market said, that deep into the woods to the north of the village, the trees would part into a clearing. A ring where the trees dare not grow, where the roots stretch to form an altar. Where a fae waits for humans brave enough to make a bargain.

If only she could find it.

Nesta doesn’t know how far she’s walked, but she feels as though she’s been walking half the night. She can’t help but wonder if it was all a lie, a trick. If there is no clearing and no fae who can help her. It would be just her luck.

With a huff, she decides to call it, decides she’ll make the painstaking trek back to her family’s manor house. She spins on her heel only to find herself standing in the center of a clearing that wasn’t there previously.

Fae magic.

“And what do we have here?”

The voice is deep, rough, practically a low rumble where it skates across Nesta’s skin. She swallows hard, raising her chin, before she turns to face that voice. The man is leaning casually against the trunk of one of the trees lining the clearing, arms crossed over his chest and head tilted as he watches her.

A male, really. A fae male unmistakably from his appearance.

He’s large, bigger than even the butcher back in the village, standing a header taller than Nesta with wide shoulders and a wide chest. Wings stretch behind his back and loom over his shoulders like haunting shadows. Dark curls tumble down to his shoulders, framing a pair of eyes that look almost cat-like, that seem to glint green and gold even beneath the silver of the moonlight. The sleeves of his tunic are pushed up to his elbows, showing off swirls of ink along his skin that Nesta swears shift as though a mimic of the magic she’s sure runs through the fae’s veins.

There’s a rough sort of beauty to his face, to the cut of his cheeks and his jaw. As though they’re carved by the very wind she’s sure he must ride with those large wings of his. His nose doesn’t sit quite straight, a slash slicing through his right eyebrow, but it only seems to add to his features. He’s handsome in a way that Nesta knows she’ll never find in her village, in a way that can only be fae. In a way that Nesta has to swallow hard before finding her voice again.

“Are you the fae that helps women escape their marriage contracts?” Nesta asks, refusing to allow her voice to waver, for her nerves to show.

The fae pushes off the tree, stalking closer to her. “So what if I am?”

Nesta thrusts her arms forward before the fae can get too close. “I brought these in offering.”

The fae tilts his head again, his gaze raking over Nesta from head to toe. Those cat-like eyes rover over her frame slowly, goosebumps erupting across Nesta’s skin as if it’s fingers trailing a blazing path. When his attention returns to her face, there’s something different in his expression. A fire burning amongst the greens and golds of his hazel eyes, the left side of his lips tilting up in a smirk. He reaches forward, the large span of his hands on full display as his fingers curl around the neck of the whiskey bottle.

“You have good taste,” the fae comments, examining the whiskey.

“I stole it from my father.”

“And the dress? Did you steal that from him too?”

Nesta snorts at the implication. “No. It was a gift from my mother, right before she passed.”

The fae hums, but he doesn’t say anything more. He begins to circle her, like a predator sizing up its prey, but Nesta refuses to be cowed. She stands perfectly still, straightening her spine against his scrutiny, raising her chin that little bit higher in defiance.

“Is it sufficient? To your liking?”

“Why the dress? Why not your hair?” the fae asks, twirling a strand of Nesta’s hair around his finger. He tugs it toward his face, inhaling deeply. “It’s oh so beautiful. Like burnished gold. Even beneath the moonlight.”

“If that is what it will take, then you can have it.”

The fae chuckles, the sound low and seeming to resonate from deep within his chest. “You must really dislike your betrothed.”

“You would too if you met him,” Nesta grumbles, not even bothering to swallow down her eye roll.

Tomas Mandray.

That was who her father saw fit to marry her off to. Nesta’s hated her father ever since he selfishly sat idly by when her mother fell ill, deciding that the life saving medicine she would need was not worth the steep cost. His recklessness since her death has only gotten worse, shady business deals and gambling habits digging the Archerons into a deeper hole.

Despite the confidence her father exudes around the other high society members of their village, Nesta knows it’s nothing more than a facade. She knows their family is one wrong deal away from losing everything. Knows there’s a desperation thrumming just beneath her father’s skin. It’s what led to him agreeing to the first man who came forward for her hand, without a thought for the type of man he is.

“Is that so?” the fae asks, finishing his circle and stopping in front of her again.

“It’s the worst kept secret in the village,” Nesta explains, unsure what compels her to tell this fae the truth. Perhaps there’s something in his face, in his presence, that has her wanting to trust him. “Everyone knows that Lord Mandray raises his hand to his wife, that his sons just stand by while it happens.”

“You think he’d lay a hand on you?”

“Undoubtedly.”

Real anger flashes across the fae’s face, hazel eyes practically blazing and his lips curling back in a snarl. His fists clench at his sides, muscles in his arms flexing with the motion. The rage isn’t directed at her, but that doesn’t stop Nesta’s heart from thundering between her ribs. She knows the stories of the fae, knows of their strength. This male could tear her apart with ease if he wanted to.

It’s a ferity and display of power that should terrify her, that should have her spinning on her heel and running straight back to the village, but instead she continues to meet this fae’s gaze.

The fae’s expression softens, almost curious, as his gaze sweeps over her anew. It’s unnerving, as though he can see beneath her skin and down to her very bone. As though she’s splayed open for his examination all the way to her soul. Whatever he sees, whatever he finds, it has him stepping closer still. Close enough that Nesta has to tilt her head back to hold eye contact. Close enough she can feel the heat that seems to radiate off him. Close enough that every inhale has her chest a hair's breadth away from his.

“You never told me your name,” the fae says, warm breath skating across Nesta’s cheeks.

“I don’t know yours,” Nesta fires back, raising her chin even higher in challenge.

That cocksure smirk tugs its way across the fae’s face again. “It’s Cassian.”

“Nesta. Nesta Archeron.”

“Nesta,” Cassian repeats, as though tasting her name, testing the weight of it on his tongue. A shiver threatens to skitter up Nesta’s spine, but she’s quick to swallow it down. “Should we make a bargain, Nesta?”

“You’ll do it, then? You’ll end my marriage contract?”

“Happily.”

“For my hair?”

“I’ll accept the dress, but that’s just an offering, sweetheart,” Cassian explains, holding up the dress and whiskey bottle in emphasis before tossing both away. “We still need to make a proper bargain.”

“Alright…” Nesta begins slowly, wading through her memory, through the lessons from her mother. She knows wording is important, knows that she needs to be careful about the phrasing of this bargain. “You ensure that my marriage contract to Tomas Mandray is void, that I’ll never marry Tomas Mandray, that I’ll never marry anyone in the Mandray household nor anyone that I do not choose for myself. And in exchange…”

“And in exchange, you’ll become my wife.”

“What.”

Cassian grins fully down at her, one of his hands reaching up between them to curl that strand of her hair around his fingers again. “You can’t marry anyone else if you’re already married to me.”

Nesta blinks a few times, trying to wrap her mind around it all, but Cassian's hand shifts, the backs of his fingers dragging down her temple, her cheek. The touch is distracting. She supposes it makes sense. How can she marry someone else if she is already wed. Clare never specified exactly what Morrigan had to do to break her own marriage contract to the eldest Vanserra. Perhaps, this is how it works.

But alarm bells still ring in the back of Nesta’s mind, whispering of caution. It’s too vague, gray area so expansive that it feels too risky to simply agree.

“And what does that entail? Being your wife?”

Cassian chuckles again, Nesta practically able to feel it where their chests are nearly pressed together. “You were about to be wed, and you don’t know about wifely duties?”

Nesta’s temper flares red hot, and she glares up at him. “I know what’s expected of a wife.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

“What does being a wife mean for a fae? What does a fae expect of me?”

“You can do whatever you want as my wife, Nes,” Cassian offers, palm fully cradling her jaw.

“Don’t call me that. And stop that,” Nesta snaps, knocking his hand away. “You’re trying to trick me.”

“Trick you? I’m hurt, sweetheart. I thought you wanted this bargain?”

“I do.”

Panic swells in Nesta’s chest, churning her stomach. What if he changes his mind? Goes back on the bargain? Anything she wants as his wife. It’s not specific, definitely not even close to what Nesta was taught when it comes to fae bargains, but it only hurts him really. Anything she wants. And what she wants is to live the rest of her life far away from the Mandrays and any of the other aggravating villagers who either look down their noses or leer at her.

“Alright,” Nesta finally breathes, sending a silent prayer to the Mother that she doesn’t live to regret this.

“Alright?” Cassian repeats back, bringing both his hands to Nesta’s jaw this time, tilting her head up. “So it’s a bargain then?”

Nesta swallows hard, her heart skipping a beat when Cassian’s thumb drags across her bottom lip. “It’s a bargain.”

Cassian’s mouth crashes against hers at the same moment a burning sensation cascades along her spine and between her shoulder blades. It has Nesta gasping against Cassian’s lips, but he merely uses the reaction to deepen the kiss, to press his tongue into her mouth. His arm drops to curl around her waist, hauling her closer still until she’s pressed flush against his body. She can feel every line of hard muscle beneath his shirt, feel the strength in his grip around her.

He tears his mouth away, but he doesn’t go far, latching his lips against her neck. His mouth is hot against her skin, her entire body roaring to life and reacting to his touch. She tilts her head, a quiet groan tumbling past her lips, when Cassian’s teeth find her pulse point, tongue soothing over the brief sting.

When Cassian pulls away, Nesta’s whole body sways forward, practically chasing his mouth and his kiss. Slowly, her eyes flutter open, finding Cassian’s own gaze already firmly on her face. There’s a fire in his hazel eyes, lips kiss bitten and pink. His grip on her hip holds her steady, fingers of his other hand burying themselves in the strands of her hair.

“What do you say, wife?” Cassian asks, voice low and deep. He drags his nose along her jaw until he can press his lips to her ear. “Should we consummate our bargain?”

Just his voice has heat pooling low in Nesta’s gut. Has her thighs clenching and her toes beginning to curl in her shoes. And when he presses a kiss to that spot behind her ear, a shudder ricochets down her spine. She clutches at Cassian’s shirt to hold herself steady, daring to arc against him.

“Yes.”

Nesta’s world tilts, and then her back is cushioned by grass and moss. She barely has time to register the change before Cassian’s lips are back on hers. He settles atop her, hips cradled within the bracket of her thighs. Nesta finally buries her fingers in the dark curls of his hair, threading the strands between her fingers and tugging hard until Cassian is groaning into her mouth, his hips pressing down against her. She can feel exactly what she’s doing to him, the hardline of his arousal digging into her hip.

She slides one of her hands down his chest, feeling the heat of him even through the fabric between them, feeling his heartbeat just beneath the surface. She traces down and down, but before her fingertips can even brush the waistband of Cassian’s pants, her hand is yanked away. Cassian’s fae instincts are too quick, grip curling around Nesta’s wrists and pinning her hand above her head and into the dirt.

“Don’t you know, sweetheart, that a good husband always ensures his wife is taken care of first?”

Cassian pulls back enough that he’s able to settle comfortably on his haunches. Nesta feels overly exposed, splayed out in the grass beneath him. His gaze roves over her form with a hunger that has her heart rate spiking, has heat flooding through her veins until it settles in her core. Her chest heaves with each deep inhale as painstakingly slow, Cassian unties the laces down the front of her dress.

Her nerve endings are already on high alert, and the slow drag of fabric over her breasts as her dress is pulled open has a moan bubbling up and out of her throat. Her nipples are already pebbled when the cool air hits them, and the heat of Cassian’s hand as he palms them is a welcome reprieve.

Cassian leans back down, his mouth closing over one of her breasts. His tongue laves over her nipple, teeth nipping and tugging at the bud. He pulls back with a quiet pop, switching to her other breath, and Nesta bucks up against him, desperate for friction. Desperate for more.

“Cass… Cassian,” Nesta begs quietly, moaning when he drags the flat of his tongue over her breast again.

Nesta doesn’t even hear Cassian’s laugh this time, merely feels the vibrations against her skin, but he gets the message. He kisses a blazing path down her sternum, down her stomach. His hands find the hem of her skirts, pushing them up her thighs and her hips until her whole dress is nothing more than a bunch of fabric around her waist.

He keeps sliding down until he’s settled on his stomach in the grass, wings spread wide and tall above them both. For a moment, Nesta is transfixed on the way the moonlight ripples through the membrane, the patterns of the veins and scars, but her focus is brought solely back to the fae between her legs when Cassian’s fingers hook in the waistband of her undergarments, sliding them slowly down her legs.

Her breath hitches in her throat as he settles her thighs over his shoulders, at the feral look on his face. Those cat-like eyes of his are almost completely swallowed by his blown out pupils, and his grin shows off the sharp tips of his canines. With his dark hair falling along his temples and cheeks, he truly looks like a wild man, like a beast ready to pounce and feast on its prey. Nesta tosses her head back with a whimper as he lowers his face down, already anticipating his warm breath across her cunt, his tongue, but it never comes. Instead, Cassian’s lips find home along her inner thigh, a teasing display of what’s to come.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” Cassian’s low voice rasps, lips never straying from her skin. “I want to see the look on your face when you fall apart on my tongue.”

Nesta tips her chin back down, meeting Cassian’s gaze fully again. His teeth sink into her inner thigh, sucking a bruise onto the skin. Whether it’s a reward or a punishment for her behavior, Nesta isn’t sure. A glint sparks through his hazel eyes, and it’s Nesta’s only warning before he buries himself completely between her thighs.

The first slide of his tongue over her cunt has Nesta’s thighs squeezing out of instinct, but Cassian’s fingers curl against the flesh, holding her open and exactly how he wants her. The flat of his tongue drags over her until he reaches her clit, tracing tantalizing circles over the bud that have Nesta bucking against his hold. It’s clearly the reaction he was hoping for, and the vibrations of his answering groan only add to the sensations threatening to send Nesta spiraling, send her unraveling, almost embarrassingly quickly.

And all the while, Cassian keeps his eyes on her face, pinning her in place, while he works his magic. Whether it’s his fae magic or just the magic of this male, Nesta doesn’t know. Nor does she particularly care as long as he doesnt stop. Her hands scrabble desperately for something to grasp onto, dirt digging under her nails and moans tumbling past her lips unbidden as Cassian presses his tongue into her. It curls and flicks at her walls like he’s determined to collect every last drop of her arousal, like a male parched and starved.

When Cassian finally pulls back, the sight is obscene. His hair is disheveled, lips and chin glistening beneath the light of the moon. He doesn’t even bother wiping his mouth, merely licking his lips with another low groan.

“I knew you’d make the prettiest sounds,” Cassian tells her, suddenly sinking two fingers into her cunt. “Now, come on, wife. Scream my name for the whole wood to hear.”

The pace Cassian sets is punishing, his fingers fucking into her hard and deep, thick in a way her own fingers have never been. Nesta feels like she’s on fire, her entire focus pinpointed on the fingers driving into her, the stretch of them, the way they drag along the walls of her cunt. She rocks her hips up against his hand, chasing the flames, the friction, the familiar feeling coiling tighter and tighter.

“Gods, look at you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful sight. Flushed such a pretty pink and taking my fingers so well.”

Nesta keens at the words, her hand snapping down to curl around Cassian’s wrist. Not to stop him, but to keep him there. He squeezes in a third finger beside the first two, curling them until Nesta is practically arching up off the ground. Her throat already feels hoarse from her moans, from the shouts of Cassian’s name.

“That’s my good girl. I can feel the way you’re squeezing my fingers. I can’t wait to feel you squeezing my cock.”

“Cass. Cassian. Please. Gods, please.”

Cassian groans, dropping his face to her neck, teeth dragging along the skin, across her collarbones, his fingers never stopping. “Fuck. You beg so pretty too.”

Cassian’s thumb finds her clit, working it in tandem with the three fingers still thrusting into her. Nesta’s toes curl, her thighs practically shaking. She can feel herself standing on that edge, on that precipice. Cassian shifts his face down, lips closing around her breast again, and Nesta goes tumbling head first. She clenches down hard around Cassian’s fingers, half aware of the shout torn from her throat as her release barrels through her.

Cassian continues to move his fingers, dragging out her orgasm. But soon, the aftershocks subside, the stimulation teetering toward painful. Her whole body shudders with a whimper, but Cassian slips his fingers free. He makes a big show of pushing them between his lips, groaning around the taste of her. It has Nesta reaching for his wrist again, this time, bringing his hand to her own mouth. She sucks on his fingers, curling her tongue between the digits.

“Mother, save me,” Cassian mutters, watching her with hooded eyes.

He pulls his fingers free, but he’s quick to replace them with his own mouth, kissing Nesta deeply. Nesta moans into the kiss, burying her hands back in Cassian’s hair and tugging hard. His tongue curls around her own, his hips aligning and rocking down against hers. It’s a reminder of what’s still hers for the taking, the brush of fabric against her sending sparks ricocheting anew.

She reaches for the hem of his shirt, pushing the fabric up and up, determined to take it off. But his wings. Her fingers falter as she realizes she’s not sure how to get it off around the wings. She pulls back from the kiss to try and get a better look, but Cassian is having none of that, drawing her right back in. She huffs against his lips, tugging at his shirt in emphasis, and when Cassian is the one to finally pull back again, his hazel eyes are alight with amusement.

He reaches behind his back, the snap of buttons almost as loud as their heaving breaths in the quiet wood. Fisting the fabric, Cassian tugs the shirt away with ease, leaving Nesta with the perfect view of the wide expanse of golden skin, of the muscles carved into it, of the dark hair dusted across his chest and down his stomach like an alluring path leading down and down.

Nesta traces the lines of tattoos painted across his skin with the tip of her fingers, traces them all the way down his chest and further still, daring to dig her nails in against his stomach. Cassian hisses at the sting, but the look in his eyes tells her that he really likes it. It makes her feel bolder, braver. She dares to reach down, palming the hard line still trapped in his pants.

With a groan, Cassian drops his head against her collarbones. She continues her ministrations, curling her fingers as best she can and moving her hand up and down. Even through the fabric of his pants, Nesta can feel the way he twitches, can feel the weight of him. The size. She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised, what with Cassian being fae and not an ordinary man, but it still has heat sparking along her spine, has her mouth running dry just as surely as her thighs clench together.

She pushes at the waistband of his pants until they slide off his hips, down his thighs. Cassian finishes the job, kicking off the fabric. His cock bobs free between his strong thighs, the head already glistening with his own arousal. Nesta goes to wrap her hand around it, but her fingertips barely graze before Cassian is pinning her wrists again. He’s able to hold both her wrists in the grip of just one of his hands, using his free hand to find home beneath her chin and raise her face to his.

For a moment, Cassian merely stares at her, eyes roving over her face as though he’s trying to memorize it. Warmth flares through his hazel eyes, and Nesta swears she can feel an answering spark between her ribs, can feel it grow and tether like a golden thread there. He leans down and connects their lips, the kiss surprisingly soft. Nesta tries to deepen it, tries to free her hands so she can pull him close again, but Cassian keeps the kiss a gentle slide of lips.

“Cassian,” Nesta huffs frustratedly, hooking her legs around his waist and digging her heels into the small of his back, trying to encourage him where she wants.

“So needy, my wife,” Cassian teases, gripping his cock and dragging the head along her cunt, through the wetness that’s pooled there. “Do you want my cock, Nes? Want me to fill you up and fuck you good?”

“Isn’t that what a good husband does?”

Cassian’s whole body shudders with a groan, his wings flaring wide. “Perhaps a good wife should beg for it.”

“Please,” Nesta whispers, capturing Cassian’s bottom lip between her teeth and bucking her hips up against him. “Please fuck me.”

“Good girl.”

Cassian grasps at her hips, tugging her close and tilting them up. He presses his own hips forward until the tip slides inside her, thrusting shallowly. Just the first few inches stretches Nesta in a way she’s never felt before, in a way she fears she could become addicted to. He pulls his hips back just to sink back in further, the drag along Nesta’s walls leaving her moaning.

When their hips are finally pressed flushed together, Cassian still, nosing along her neck and her jaw. Nesta feels so incredibly full, her every nerve ending on fire in the most delicious way. She clenches down around him, her cunt seeming to draw him that much deeper, and Cassian’s groan echoes her own.

“Gods, you’re so tight,” Cassian murmurs into her neck, lips dragging against her skin. “But you take me so well.”

“Cassian, please,” Nesta begs again, trying to shift her hips against his hold.

Whether the begging does the trick or Cassian merely takes pity on her, Nesta doesn’t care. All she can focus on is the way Cassian pulls his hips back only to snap them back forward. Again and again he drives his hips forward, each hard thrust sending lightning licking through Nesta’s veins. With her hands now free, she curls them around Cassian’s back, practically clawing at his skin as she rocks her hips up to meet him thrust for thrust, as she chases the unparalleled feeling of him filling her over and over.

She dares to trace her fingers toward his shoulder blades. Dares to trace the spindly bone of a wing. Cassian lets out a near animalistic growl, hips digging against her own as his movements stutter.

“If you keep that up, this will be over much too soon,” Cassian warns through clenched teeth. He sits back on his haunches, splaying Nesta’s legs across his thighs.

“Sensitive?” Nesta asks. “What does it feel like?”

Cassian’s thumb presses down on Nesta’s clit, Nesta keening at the sensation and pressure. “Like that.”

Cassian works his hips back up to a brutal pace, moving his thumb in tandem with every hard thrust. It doesn’t take long before Nesta finds herself on the edge of that precipice again, before she goes tumbling over with little to no warning. Her back arches up off the ground, cunt clenching hard around Cassian’s cock. Cassian continues to snap his hips, working her through her orgasm, until he shudders and stills above her, warmth flooding Nesta’s core as surely as the fire blazing through her veins.

Cassian shifts back, pulling his softening cock free and drawing a quiet whimper from Nesta’s lips. She still feels like she’s burning, still feels desperate to dive back into the flames and the feeling sparked by this fae male. And though there’s still the lingering fullness from Cassian’s own release, her cunt still spasms with the aftershocks of her orgasm, still clenches around nothing.

She pushes herself up into a seated position, moving before Cassian can get too far. She all but clambers into his lap, steadying herself on his shoulders until she can settle comfortably. Cassian’s hands find her waist, an almost awestruck expression on his face as he peers up at her. But there’s embers in that hazel gaze too, still flickering as one of those hands glides up her spine, as his fingers curl into the long strands of Nesta’s hair that have fallen free from her updo.

“You know,” Nesta begins, reaching down until she can fist his cock, stroking it teasingly. “There’s this rumor. That fae males can recover more quickly than a man.”

“Is that so?” Cassian teases, but Nesta can already feel the way he’s started to harden again from her ministrations.

Nesta tightens her grip, quickens her pace, until Cassian is groaning and bucking his hips up against her, until his cock is standing at full attention again. She shifts forward on her knees, lining Cassian’s cock up with her cunt and sinking down on it. She moans at the fullness taking over her again, the rightness of being pressed together like this. She feels key-up, the overstimulation too much and yet everything that she needs.

She starts to rock her hips, gasping at the drag and friction, chasing the heat already climbing dangerously high. With one hand still buried in her hair, Cassian draws her mouth back to his, groaning against her lips as he kisses her. He plants his feet on the ground, snapping his hips up to meet hers.

“Gods, you’re fucking gorgeous,” Cassian murmurs against her, hands sliding down to palm at her ass and guide her movements. “Riding my cock like a good fucking girl.”

Nesta shudders at his words, clenching down hard. She picks up the pace of her hips, chasing another release. She starts to feel the burn in her thighs, can feel the stickiness of their own arousal, of both their releases dripping and smeared across the skin there. She’s half aware of her hoarse moans ringing in her ears, of the wet sounds of sex and slapping skin echoing in the woods around them. But all that matters is the slide of Cassian’s cock, the pressure building between her thighs.

She reaches a hand down, fingers slipping through the wetness there and against her clit, but Cassian is too quick. His own fingers curl around her wrist and pull her hand away. Nesta whines high in the back of her throat, tugging against his grip, but it’s no use.

“I don’t appreciate anyone touching what’s mine,” Cassian warns, squeezing her wrist that little bit tighter.

“And am I yours?” Nesta asks, sinking down fully and swiveling her hips to get the friction she was looking for.

“Always. And I’m yours.”

“Good.”

With her free hand not captured in Cassian’s hold, Nesta reaches over his shoulder. She slides her fingertips across his leathery wings, trying to mimic the way her hips move with the shapes she traces. She dares to scrape her nails against his wings, remembering how he’d responded before. With a roar, Cassian all but crushes her to him, his cock twitching deep within her. It’s enough to send Nesta crashing through an orgasm right there with him, spots dancing in her vision as she shakes with the force of it.

Nesta’s entire body feels wrung out and sated, embers banked but still keeping her deliciously warm. It takes her a moment too long to realize she’s slumped forward against Cassian, their chests pressed together and her head dropped to his shoulder. She knows that she needs to move. She knows that, now that their bargain is complete, she needs to return to the village. But trying to will her muscles to work feels like an impossible feat.

She decides to give it under her still heaving breaths even out, until her still thundering heart quiets to a soft beat. Cassian’s touch is surprisingly gentle where his fingertips trace shapes and lines up and down her spine, but soon his hands are gripping her properly. He shifts until they’re both sprawled across the soft, mossy floor of the wood, wings curling almost protectively around her. Warmth seeps into Nesta’s skin every place they’re pressed together, relaxing her all the way down to the bone.

There’s a safety wrapped up in his embrace, and Nesta allows her eyes to flutter shut, allows it to lull her under. She thinks back to Cassian’s words, his declaration that she’s his and he’s hers. And for a moment, just this moment longer, she almost allows herself to believe it.

~ * * * ~

Nesta quietly thanks the seller, carefully placing the folded fabric in the basket hanging from the crook of her arm. She slides her fingers against the pretty pink of it, the color reminding her of Elain. She’s sure that her younger sister will create something beautiful with it.

As she steps out of the small shop in the village square, Nesta can already feel eyes on her. They’re practically scorching holes through her shoulder blades, but she refuses to turn and look. The staring has been the trend the past two days, ever since that night, especially with the men in the village. Perhaps she should have found a way to work keeping the village’s disdain at bay into her bargain.

Sighing softly to herself, Nesta keeps her head held high, her shoulders back, as she follows the winding road back toward her family’s home. She keeps her grip on her basket tight, wills her breathing to come steady and slow, even as her every nerve ending feels on high alert, her heart beginning to skip between her ribs.

A hand grips hard around Nesta’s bicep, yanking her into the gap between two buildings. She barely has time to let out a shout of surprise before another hand is closing over her mouth. Her back slams against wood, nails biting into the skin of her arm, her cheek. The basket slips from her fingers, items skittering across the ground, as she comes face to face with a pair of brown eyes, ruddy cheeks, and lips pulled back in a sneer.

“Did you think you could get away with embarrassing me?” Tomas spits, leaning in until he’s right in Nesta’s face.

Nesta uses her free hand to pry Tomas’s fingers off her face. “Leave me alone. There’s no longer a contract between us or our families.”

“You think I don’t know how you did that? That the whole village doesn’t know? A lowly whore just like Morrigan.”

“Fuck you.”

“It seems you’ve dirtied your mouth as much as your body. Don’t worry. I’m more than happy to use both to remind you of your place.”

Panic flares through Nesta’s chest as Tomas uses his body weight to pin her in place, his hand reaching for her skirts. A low growl echoes in the space around them, Tomas’s entire body going rigid at the sound. They both look toward the other end of the alleyway, a large figure looming there. Even with the shadows, the silhouette of wings is unmistakable.

“A fae?” Tomas whispers, true fear leaving his voice trembling. “In the village? During the day?”

“Get your hands off her,” Cassian warns, voice low and threatening.

“This isn’t any of your business,” Tomas calls out, all fake bravado Nesta is sure.

Cassian prowls forward, each step slow but measured. “I won’t ask again.”

Tomas’s eyes dart between Cassian and Nesta, and Nesta watches the way his throat bobs with a hard swallow. Of all the things Tomas may be, one of them is clearly not stupid. He releases his hold on Nesta, stumbling back a few steps. His eyes never leave Cassian, a true prey caught in a predator’s trap, as he backs away.

Cassian’s smile is all ferity and teeth. In the blink of an eye, he closes the distance, hand snapping out and curling around Tomas’s throat, holding him in place. “Did you think I was just going to let you go?”

“This isn’t any of your business,” Tomas repeats, but even he sounds unsure at his own words.

“I don’t appreciate anyone touching what’s mine.”

Cassian doesn’t give Tomas the time to say anything else. His hand tightens around Tomas’s throat, lifting him up off his feet and slamming him against the wall opposite of Nesta. Tomas sputters and chokes around Cassian’s hold, his feet kicking out helplessly as he claws at Cassian’s forearm.

“What do you say, Nes? Should we break his fingers for committing such an offense?”

Nesta swallows to find her voice again. “Why stop at his fingers?”

Nesta can’t see Cassian’s face with the way he’s holding Tomas, but she can imagine the gleam in his hazel eyes. It’s clear from the way Tomas’s face completely blanches. Cassian’s wings flare out wide behind his back, keeping him balanced as he strikes. The crunch of breaking bone is drowned out by Tomas’s blood curdling scream. Cassian works with an almost terrifying ease and efficiency, as though he’s tearing mere parchment and not body parts.

Tomas crumbles to the ground with a soft groan when Cassian finally steps back. The fae crouches down, but Nesta can’t hear what he whispers to Tomas. He reaches his hands out and wipes them against Tomas’s shirt, cleaning the man’s blood off using the fabric. When he’s finished, Cassian straightens and turns back to Nesta, carefully retrieving her dropped basket and items and holding it out toward her. Slowly, she takes it from him, stepping over Tomas’s body and back into the village market and sun.

“You’re a hard woman to find, Nesta,” Cassian starts, stepping out of the alleyway behind her.

“I didn’t realize you were searching,” Nesta comments idly.

She pauses, hesitates, in the now empty town square before squaring her shoulders and continuing the trek back to her family home. She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised when Cassian falls into step beside her, unbothered about the villagers who clearly scattered due to his presence.

“What did you expect? Most wives don’t sneak away from their husbands in the middle of the night.”

“I thought that was how it was done.”

Cassian’s chuckle is just as warm in the light of day. “You humans have very odd traditions then.”

Nesta rolls her eyes at his teasing words. “Not that, you big bat. I meant your bargains. Do you track down every woman you make your wife to end their marriage contract?”

Cassian’s fingers curl around Nesta’s wrist, his touch surprisingly gentle as he tugs her to a stop. With a quiet huff, Nesta turns to face him properly. It seems almost strange to see him under the bright light of the sun, without the rays of the moon casting silver shadows across his face, his wings.

He’s still as ruggedly beautiful as Nesta remembers him.

With the curls of his hair scraped away from his face and secured in a bun, the hard line of his jaw is on full display. His hazel eyes seem to burn as golden as the high noon sun, and with the light stretching through them, Nesta realizes there’s a reddish hue to those powerful wings stretched behind his back.

“I only have one wife, sweetheart.”

Nesta blinks a few times, sure that she misheard, trying to wrap her mind around his words. “What do you mean?”

“What other meaning is there?” Cassian drawls, reaching for a stray strand of her hair and twirling it around his finger, a gesture reminiscent of their night together. “The only wife I have is you.”

“So you tricked me with your bargain.”

“Tricked you? I distinctly remember you agreeing. Remember the way you begged for–”

“Stop.”

Nesta takes a firm step back, Cassian’s hand dropping away from between them and back to his side. He tilts his head as he watches her, but Nesta squeezes her eyes shut. He’s too distracting. His presence, the warmth that radiates off his frame, his eyes and the kaleidoscope of emotions swimming amongst the golds and greens. She needs to think.

“Nesta,” Cassian begins, his voice soft and low.

“I said stop.”

Even his voice is distracting, the timbre and drawl of it skating across Nesta skin, wrapping around her limbs like a warm embrace. It seems to rumble from deep within his chest, and Nesta knows exactly what that chest feels like pressed against her own. She knows exactly how his lips feel dragging across her skin, against her lips, against–

“Why?” Nesta asks, her eyes flashing open again. “Why would you make that your end of the bargain then?”

“Because from the moment I saw you in that wood, I knew there would never be another for me.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“I was ready to drop to my knees before you bargain or not,” Cassian continues, stepping back into her space. This time, he wraps his arm around her waist, tugging her flush to him until Nesta has to tilt her chin up to keep eye contact. “Now, I know I said you could do whatever you wished as my wife, and that is still true, but you can’t tell me you wish to stay in this sorry village. Come home, wife.”

Warmth pools through Nesta’s chest, tugging just below her ribs, at her heart, but that voice in the back of her mind still scrambles and screams. “And how do I know I’m not escaping one cruel man just to run into the arms of another?”

The question pulls a growl from Cassian’s throat. “I would never dare to lay a hand on you unless you asked. And anyone who does dare will have my wrath to answer to, just like that sorry excuse of a man in the village square.”

Before she can think twice about it, before that voice can talk her out of it, Nesta presses up onto her toes, crashing her mouth against Cassian’s. He responds instantly, his lips dragging and sliding with her own, his arms and wings wrapping around her. There’s a comfort, a safety, a contentment here in his embrace, and that warmth in Nesta’s chest puts down roots, unfurls and blooms. It settles all the way down to the very marrow of her bones, to her soul.

When she finally pulls back from the kiss, she steps back from Cassian completely before he can drag her back under. She clears her throat and resettles the basket on her arm, turning on her heel and continuing toward her destination. Only when the familiar worn wood of the door comes into view does she finally stop again, turning over her shoulder.

“Stay out here.”

She doesn’t wait for Cassian’s response before she steps inside her family’s home, the scent of fresh bread greeting her. She spies her father asleep in the rickety chair he favors in front of the fire. Typical. With an annoyed huff, Nesta sets down her basket, heading in the direction of the bedrooms.

“Nesta? Is that you? You were in the market longer than I thought. I was starting to get worried.”

Nesta ignores her sister, continuing down the hall and through the bedroom door. She digs a bag out from beneath the bed, laying it open and turning toward the wardrobe. She makes quick work pulling out all her favorite dresses and folding them into some semblance of order.

“Nesta? Is everything–what are you doing?”

Nesta only glances toward Elain now standing in the doorway, Feyre standing just behind her and peering over the middle Archeron’s shoulder. Instead, Nesta returns to the task at hand, grabbing her most beloved books and adding them to the bag as well. Her attention dances briefly toward the old desk in the corner, but she presumes even a fae would have parchment and pen for her to write.

“Don’t ask questions,” Nesta finally says, closing the bag. “But I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?” Feyre echoes, stepping back enough that Nesta can walk back out of the bedroom.

“Yes. Now that there is no longer a marriage contract with the Mandrays, there’s no…” Nesta sighs, pausing in front of their home's front door and turning back toward her sisters, but there’s nothing but understanding on Elain and Feyre’s faces. “I’ll write once I’m settled. I swear it.”

With a final nod, Nesta pulls open the door, stepping back into the sun. As if she already inherently knows where to look, her eyes find Cassian where he’s leaning casually against the trunk of a tree. It’s reminiscent of the first time she saw the fae, only this time, his expression seems to soften as he takes her in. Nesta refuses to admit to the way her heart stutters at the smile on his face.

“Is that–”

“Don’t ask questions,” Nesta cuts Elain off. “Just know that this is what I want, that I’ll be happy. Don’t let father ever try to convince either of you that you don’t deserve that too.” She starts down the path away from their house before another thought occurs to her. “And perhaps stay out of the woods. Especially at night.”

Nesta continues down the path and across the grass until she reaches Cassian, wordlessly holding out her bag. She swears it’s purposeful, the way his fingers skate across her skin as he takes it, and yet goosebumps erupt up her arm either way. She waits for Cassian to begin leading the way back between the trees and deeper into the woods, but instead the fae takes the time to secure her bag over his shoulder until it rests between his wings.

“Oh, we’ll be flying,” Cassian explains, answering her unasked question.

“Flying?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll like it.”

Before Nesta can say anything else, Cassian scoops her up and into his arms, holding her close to his chest. Nesta is quick to wrap her own arms tightly around his neck, squeezing her eyes shut in anticipation of the rush, of the wind, but it never comes. When she opens her eyes again, she finds Cassian watching her. Waiting for her permission.

“Well? Take me home, husband.”

—

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[obsessedwithallthingsbookrelated]

Nevermind (ao3)

Twelve months to the day since she and Elain were thrown in the Cauldron, Nesta finds herself at one of Feyre’s dinner parties, trying to wrestle with an entire year’s worth of grief— until Cassian holds out a hand. (For @nestaarcheronweek day 2)

“I fell out of love again, not with you but with living in general, and I lost a lot of friends, never mind. Cause I’ve been on a losing streak, my heart’s made of stone, and I can’t trust my own damn feet to show me the right way home.” - Nevermind, Deaf Havana

It was the laughter that rankled the most.

That stung as it echoed off the crystal wine glasses and polished silver knives that lay at intervals along the grand mahogany table; glittering peals of it reverberating as bottles were uncorked and priceless wine was poured as liberally as water. Edged in the soft evening light, their joy was bright and bold and loud and warm, but as the dark crimson liquid licked the sides of her glass when someone filled it, Nesta Archeron could do nothing but sit frozen in the chair set out for her in Feyre’s expensive new house, watching the wine settle in her glass, trying not to think of how much it resembled freshly spilled blood. 

There was no air in that expansive dining room trimmed with wealth and filled with golden light and laughter, no way to breathe, and as Nesta felt herself slowly suffocate, their laughter cut and pierced her skin like an entire quiver of arrows shot from seven different bows. Each one hit their mark; each one made her bleed. 

With a hand she forced steady, she reached for the wine and lifted it to her lips, praying she might find some relief at the bottom regardless of… well, everything.

She wished they’d given her whiskey instead.

Cheap wine and strong liquor— that’s what Nesta had grown used to these past months. What she wantedmore than fine wine and elegant dinners pierced with laughter she couldn’t share. But then— when had it ever really mattered what she wanted anyway? When had it ever made a difference? 

This wine certainly wasn’t cheap. It was rich and heady, the taste lingering on her tongue and coating the back of her throat, so thick she couldn’t breathe. It clung to the side of her glass as she lowered her hand, a smear of red staining the crystal that had her stomach churning and her throat threatening to close. Blood— did none of them notice, how much it looked like blood? It had her hearing not laughter but screams— had her tasting iron and recalling the way the blood had pooled between her fingers and collected between her knuckles only a handful of months ago. 

Around the stem of her wine glass, her fingers trembled.

So little time had passed since the battle that had made an orphan of her, and yet…

They laughed.

Still, they laughed.

It was why, in the time since they had walked away from that battlefield alive if not entirely intact, Nesta had done everything in her power to distance herself from her sister and her newfound family. She had found an apartment on the other side of the city, as far from Feyre’s new house as she could get, and most nights she tried her hardest to avoid Rhysand and the members of his Inner Circle, seeking solace instead in dive bars— trying to find it in the arms of strangers whose names she never learned and whose faces she wouldn’t remember when the sun came up.

But this night… 

This night was different. 

The wine soured on her tongue, the sound of their laughter almost making her flinch. It was twelve months to the day since she and Elain had been forced into that Cauldron— twelve months since she had been broken apart so irrevocably that she didn’t think that there was a hope in hell of putting her back together again. It was the only reason - the only reason - why she had accepted Feyre’s weekly invitation to dinner when so many others had gone ignored. Why Nesta had crossed the river and stood in that grand, echoing entrance hall, looking up at portraits of damn near everyone Feyre had ever met, and finding that the only absence was her own. 

The familiar hole in her chest had widened, yawned and gaped until it threatened to swallow her, and on this brutal anniversary she had thought that she might want, for once, to be near the only people who might understand the significance of it. Who might remember what day it was too.

She’d realised her mistake as soon as she stepped over the threshold.

Elain had been holding a cake on a silver stand, emerging victorious from the kitchen and smiling as she made her way to the dining room, where the cake now sat proudly in the centre of the table. Elain always makes dessert, Feyre had whispered as Nesta stood motionless in the doorway, trying to catch Elain’s eye and hoping to find—

What?

The same pain, reflected back at her in eyes she knew as well as her own? Some flicker of understanding?

Feyre had patted Nesta on the arm and slipped away to the sitting room, leading her to the space warmed by the glow of the fire and softened by the sound of laughter. But Nesta couldn’t find it in her to make her lips bend into a smile, couldn’t force a spark into her eyes. When Elain returned, and when Rhysand complimented the cake, her sister had blushed and dipped her chin, batting away the kind words with a soft smile and a demure tilt of her head. All the while Nesta sat in her chair, blinking, trying not to feel like a ghost that had stumbled and sat, unseen and unnoticed, at a stranger’s dinner party.

The laughter rose now, filling the dining room until the space was bursting with it, their joy pushing at the seams until it felt like Nesta would break beneath the pressure. As if from a great distance she heard Amren make some dry, cutting comment that she was too far gone to fully comprehend, and Azriel’s retort was a low, dark whisper across the silverware that had Mor’s laughter pealing all over again, like the ringing of a church bell. 

Nesta’s hand tightened on her wine glass.

Did they not realise— did they not see? Or was she just screaming into the void, her pain and her anguish swallowed by their laughter?

The grief was a collar around her neck, tightening with every breath and dragging her beneath the surface whenever she was reminded that this place was not her home, this life not one that she had chosen. When she looked in the mirror and glimpsed her reflection, Nesta saw elegantly arched ears and eyes that glinted silver and she mourned every. damned. time. On the rare occasions she managed a smile, her lips felt absurdly weighty, the curvature forced and unwieldy, too unnatural to be believable given that her chest was still so empty and hollow.

And none of them noticed.

It hurt.

Every breath hurt— still. They had told her it would get better with time, that she would learn to heal, but it hadn’t, she hadn’t, and all she had come to realise was that her anger and her sorrow and her pain could not be parcelled away, couldn’t fit neatly into their little box. It had teeth— teeth and claws and a taste for blood, and it was tearing her apart, day by day by fucking day.

But it was invisible to them, because they had ticked off the days, the weeks turning to months, and now that a full year had passed… Nesta had, apparently, sailed right past the point of her pain being acceptable.

She gritted her teeth now, the meaningless and inane babble making her want to take her fork and drive it through Rhysand’s neck. If any of them spoke to her, she didn’t hear it. Didn’t register it. Instead she sat with her back straight, pushing around the food on her plate and ignoring Mor’s disapproving glance when she barely ate a mouthful and chose, instead, to drain her sanguineous wine.

A silent scream began to build in her chest, one that threatened to cleave her in two.

The laughter grew louder, another bottle of wine was opened, and for all the size of the great dining room in Feyre’s new home, the walls seemed to be closing in, the air suddenly thin as ribbons of ice crawled up Nesta’s spine. When the food was cleared away, Nesta saw as if through water when Feyre pushed away from the table, lifting her glass and suggesting that they move to the sitting room for a while before returning later for Elain’s cake.

She didn’t hear the murmurs of agreement or the clink of glasses as her sister’s family got to their feet. She didn’t hear the scrape of the chairs against the hardwood floors - not even her own - and as the rest of them departed for one of the luxurious sitting rooms overlooking the lawns, Nesta curled a hand around the back of her chair as she stood, fingers curling painfully into the carved wood. 

“Nesta?”

Feyre’s voice drifted to her as she placed a hand on Nesta’s arm, but Nesta didn’t feel any warmth or kindness in her sister’s touch— felt only the icy kiss of the Cauldron and the hands that had held her captive in that throne room— a bruising grip that had held her down before water closed over her head, before her blood had boiled and her bones had shattered. 

The memory slammed into her, made her flinch. 

Against the onslaught Nesta took a breath, fixing her eyes on the windows and the night sky beyond, dark and clouded over, without a single star visible in the sky overhead. She looked into the impenetrable black, like a mirror to her soul.

“I’ll join you in a minute,” she managed after a long silence, her voice straining against the words. 

Slowly, Feyre nodded.

She drew her hand away and looked once at her eldest sister before turning for the door, and as the sound of Feyre’s retreating footsteps grew distant, Nesta found herself standing alone and motionless before the window, looking at her reflection and mourning the life she had lived twelve months ago.

A life where she had a father still, even if he had been absent.

A life where she woke each morning and recognised her face in the mirror; where there was a path laid before that she knew she could follow. A human, mortal path.

Nesta caught sight of her eyes reflected back at her in the glass, dark and humourless, as cold and as empty as a void. From the sitting room the laughter echoed still, Mor’s voice louder than the rest as she told some ridiculous, raucous story that had Rhysand shouting something in good-natured protest, that had Feyre gasping a laugh as she allowed herself to be regaled by some tale from her husband’s past.

Nesta wondered if she would ever laugh again— ever find a reason to smile. 

She had never felt more out of place than she did now, with her arms wrapped tight around herself as she stood alone, listening to the laughter and the joy of a family she would never be a part of. 

A mistake— it had been a mistake to come tonight.

She closed her eyes, wondering how much scorn she would receive if she left right now, without saying goodbye. Glasses clinked in the sitting room, and it was almost enough to make her dart for the kitchen and the door that she knew would take her outside, but before she could commit herself to running away, the sound of footsteps approaching made her open her eyes again. Looking at the dining room reflected back at her through the windows, Nesta didn’t bother to turn as the door was opened again, letting in another sharp slice of the mirth beyond. 

Cassian hesitated in the doorway.

Through the glass Nesta watched as he stood, lingering and drawing no nearer, even though his eyes had found her in an instant— had snapped to her, like seeking her out was the only thing he was good at. Without pause, without fear, he met her gaze in the window’s reflection, standing a handful of feet behind her as the heart in Nesta’s chest twisted painfully. 

“There you are,” he said gently. “I wondered where you’d got to.”

He stood with his hands in his pockets, a stance so casual that Nesta could have forgiven herself for forgetting that he was a warrior born and bred, as ruthless as they come, with hands even more bloodstained than her own. The hair hung to his shoulders in a mass of haphazard curls, and the ruby earring he wore caught in the low light as he canted his head to the side, studying her with eyes that held no humour anymore, no hint of jest.

She wished now that Feyre had left the wine behind.

Cassian’s eyes searched hers in the reflection, taking in the hollows of her cheeks and the skin that she knew was too pale, too wan. His eyebrows inched together, a furrow forming in his brow as he took in the tracery of grief left behind, and when his throat bobbed with a swallow, something like concern alighted across his face. The scar slicing through his eyebrow was thrown into relief as his head tilted, his jaw tight as he looked her over, and something sparked in his eyes that she couldn’t bear, something so ardent and sincere that it made the hollow ache in her chest spread until she could feel it in her toes. 

She didn’t know what to do with it. How to handle it. 

So Nesta turned sharply on her heel, whirling to face him and taking some small pleasure in the fact that his eyes widened— that she had managed to surprise him. 

“You don’t want to join us in the sitting room?” he asked, his voice slow and careful. Like he was sizing up an opponent for battle.

Nesta snorted.

Regret glimmered in his eyes, edged with just the barest hint of sorrow, but it was there and gone in an instant. The hazel darkened, and Nesta felt the anger and pain that simmered beneath her skin extending its claws like a beast stretching languorous before the hunt. 

“Why should I?” she asked, poison seeping into her tone— poison as lethal to her as it was to him. Part of her knew she would regret it later, regretted it already, but she couldn’t hold back the tide of her grief alone. It was easier to let it swallow her, to let it drown her— easier to feed the anger than feel the pain, and so she lifted a chin and nodded to the doorway and the sitting room beyond, her lip curling on a sneer that only a small part of her tried and failed to fight. “So I can hear more tales about how wonderful your lives have been?”

Cassian’s eyes didn’t widen this time, like he’d expected every harsh word that had fallen from her lips. But he didn’t draw back— Cassian remained, resolute, with his face blank as Nesta’s arms tightened around her middle, as though her grip was the only thing holding her together. For half a moment she thought she saw his eyes soften— thought she saw him reach the same conclusion.

“So you can sit beside your sisters and remember what it is to be loved by them,” he suggested instead, removing one hand from his pocket and extending it smoothly out towards her. He caught her eye and raised an eyebrow, splaying his fingers like all he wanted was for her to take his hand and let her fingers slip between the gaps he’d left in his. 

Nesta’s heart twisted again, and she thought that maybe - maybe - a part of her might want that, too. 

A pity then, she thought dryly, that she couldn’t see beyond the tangled mess of emotions that were churning up her chest like dried earth. That she couldn’t reach beyond the shroud of grief to accept the hand that he offered. 

She was silent for a moment, not quite knowing the words to say. His hand hung in the air between them, not quite enough to close the gap, and she was acutely aware that before her was a man who had thrown his life before hers, who had laid his head in her lap and grasped her hand as he lay dying. A man that she had barely seen since, who had started the hours and days after the battle by giving her space, and had never quite managed to stop. The distance between them was so great now that Nesta had no idea how to bridge it. 

And then—

“I know what day it is, Nes,” he said quietly.

He made the nickname soft, breathed it like it could somehow belong to someone with a tongue as sharp as hers. His lips parted as his eyes fluttered, his gaze drifting down, and gods, it was as much of a hand extended out to her as the fingers he still had stretching towards her, a bridge offered when she couldn’t find one herself. Nesta had stilled by the windows, immovable as stone, but when her eyes shifted from his outstretched hand to the eyes that he had fixed on hers…

She had never seen his hazel gaze so earnest. 

It was almost enough to make her weep, forcing apart the cracks in her chest with enough verocity to leave her in splinters. But Cassian didn’t blink, didn’t shy away from her, and when she said nothing, he only took a single step towards her. 

“I know what it is to grieve, you know,” he added softly, in a voice hardly more than a whisper. “I know what it is to mourn.”

The laughter from the sitting room grew louder, and Nesta felt her eyes close against it, like she might protect herself from it if she could only pretend she was somewhere else entirely. She heard the rustle as Cassian’s wings spread a little, and part of her wondered if he’d thought he might extend those wings and shield her, blocking out the entire world. Part of her wished he would. 

“Do you?” she managed as she opened her eyes again, tilting her head in a challenge that wasn’t half as sharp as she had intended. His eyes softened. “Do they?”

“Yes,” he answered simply. “But they don’t allow their pain to morph them into something else—“

“How dare you—“

“Nes.” He dared another step, eyes wide, lips parted. A plea shone in his eyes, edged with desperation. “Please.”

Nesta felt her lip curl, falling back on the all-too familiar anger that served as her shield— the defence she flung up to keep them all from looking at her too closely, from seeing just how much she had been torn apart that day twelve months ago. Just how much she’d been raked apart every day since.

“Please what?”

Cassian didn’t back away, and in the face of her barbed words he only took another breath, as if to tell her he understood— and he wasn’t afraid.

“Please let me help you. Let me do something. Anything.”

There it was again— the bridge he offered, the path back to the surface.

“You think after all these years I don’t know what you’re going through? That I don’t see it?” Cassian dropped his hand at last, curling it into a fist and bringing it above his heart. “That I haven’t been standing exactly where you’re standing right now, facing down the same damn thing?”

The beast inside her bared its teeth, claws raking down her spine. It begged to be set loose again, to snap and bite and lash out and even the slightest provocation, but…

Gods, she was tired.

So, so, tired.

“I can’t sit there and pretend,” she said at last, her voice tight in her throat. She nodded to the sitting room, to the laughter still drifting through the walls. “Just because a year has passed doesn’t mean I’ve suddenly made my peace with any of this.”

“I know,” Cassian said smoothly, reaching out his hand once again. He didn’t wait for her to accept him this time, and there was no hesitation or second-guessing as he took her hand in his and closed his fingers tight around her own. His eyes burned, his face lined with the kind of sorrow that Nesta knew would be etched across her own too, and she wanted to sob, wanted to crumble. But for once there was a crack in the darkness, a sliver of light pushing against the black and begging to be let in, and as Nesta’s fingers slid home between his, she let his warmth ground her just enough to pull her back from the edge— enough to let his light filter through the gaps. 

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he whispered, and just like that… 

Suddenly it felt like the weight she had carried alone for so long was shouldered by him too. Like he took a portion of it, eased the burden with nothing but a squeeze of his hand and a look in his eyes that said that even now, he wouldn’t forsake her.

And it didn’t fix everything - far from it - but she hadn’t realised how powerful it was to have someone there beside her, to take her hand when the darkness got too much, when the ache was too deep and the world too heavy. Somehow the teeth tearing her apart felt a little less sharp, the claws a little more dulled than usual; the beast calmed if not placated. The pain didn’t vanish,  but it was easier to bear somehow, and for the first time in twelve months, Nesta could see beyond her grief to the world beyond. 

Cassian’s fingers curled around her own, his grip tight, like he was loath to let her go lest she slip away into shadow again.

“Why?” she asked, looking down at their entwined hands. “Why do you remember when they don’t?”

Cassian shook his head. “They remember,” he said softly. “Elain remembers.” He nodded to the cake still sitting on the table, waiting to be cut after dinner. “Why do you think they laugh so loudly, Nes?”

His other hand lifted to her face, his thumb brushing across her cheek, as if to wipe away the tears that had yet to fall. He angled his head to the side, as if to hear the laughter, and when it echoed his eyes snapped back to hers. His grip on her hand tightened. 

“They laugh in the face of it,” he said. “They find the joy and cling to it.”

And what do I have to cling to, Nesta thought dryly. Who do I have to lean on?

She thought of the dim bars waiting for her and the nights she had spent in the arms of strangers, and even though she didn’t ask the question out loud, Cassian’s lips lifted at the edges, giving her a gentle, plaintive smile as he squeezed her hand— as if that was the answer.

As if he was the answer.

He tugged on her hand, his smile lifting to something wider, something more mischievous. 

“If you don’t want to face the sitting room, how about we just stay here instead?” he suggested. “Or slip away to Rhys’ study? There’s a chess board in there and believe it or not, I was never much good at it.” Slowly, the smile curving his lips grew into one that felt more genuine than any Nesta had to offer, but Cassian didn’t let it drop. His eyes glimmered as he added, “Would thoroughly humiliating me in a game of strategy help turn the night around for you?”

“You’d rather sit and play chess with me than be with your family?”

Cassian rolled his eyes indulgently, tugging on the hand she still had clasped in his palm. “Of course I would.”

Nesta didn’t know how to answer, but when she glanced up and met his eyes, there was a warmth there that she hadn’t expected to find. And maybe it wasn’t enough to chase away the dark entirely, but maybe it was the tether that she needed to a world that wasn’t so completely consumed by sorrow. Cassian’s fingers were so warm around her own, still holding tight to her even after she’d spent so long pushing him away - pushing all of them away - and for the first time in twelve months, she wanted to let herself feel that warmth, to let it sink into her bones.

“Come on,” he said, giving her hand another small tug. His smile turned somewhat conspiratorial, his voice dropping to a whisper. “If we’re quick we can sneak down to the wine cellar. I know where Rhys keeps the good stuff.”

The retort bloomed in Nesta’s throat— a cutting remark waiting on her tongue about how she didn’t want anything from Rhysand, not even his most expensive wine. A scowl threatened to twist her lips, but when Cassian waggled a single eyebrow as if to say, well? What do you say? she felt the words die on her tongue, turning to ash as she pushed the scowl back. For too long, the sharpness had been her only defence, the only armour she could call on. But with Cassian’s hand wrapped around her own and the small smirk at the corner of his lips somehow telling her they were in this together… 

Maybe she didn’t need the armour.

Not all the time. Not with him.

After all, he had taken her hand when she was hurting and hadn’t flinched as she spat and cursed. He had let her sharpen her claws, but had been there to bring her back when she needed it, when he realised that those claws were cutting her to ribbons too, and so this time, when Cassian tilted his head in a silent question and squeezed her hand one more time…

Nesta nodded.

Because she didn’t want the next year to be like the last, and she didn’t think she could do it alone, and he was there, holding her hand and throwing a smile over his shoulder as he led her from the dining room and towards the kitchen, headed right for the door leading down to the cellars beneath. And even though the grief inside her continued to snarl and writhe and claw, Nesta felt her steps fall in line with his and thought that as long as she wasn’t alone, as long as he was there, waiting to pick her up when she fell down…

Well, she thought as she squeezed his hand in return, maybe the next twelve months would turn out better than the last. 

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

#nestaweek2024 #nessian fic

[obsessedwithallthingsbookrelated]

I am genuinely obsessed with this fic. Every thing about it so perfect omg

Amidst the Madness: Chapter 2

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55268251/chapters/140412451

Teaser:

7 siphons flared in response. Not a match for Rhys’ magic, but plenty threat enough. “You might have that pretty magic, but I have the one thing you never will.” Cassian’s smirk was slow and measured, a healthy reminder that this male had not been elevated from a bastard by mistake. Or by pure brute force. Cassian was not a mindless killer, unfortunately. Those were so much easier to manage. This male … he was a strategist. Cauldron, Rhys would be lying if he said it hadn’t crossed his mind to put the male in charge of his entire military force even before this war started brewing. “You need my army.”

“It is my army,” Rhysand spat.

Cassian laughed. Head thrown back, teeth gleaming. “Go tell them that, high lord,” he grinned. “No, seriously. Go order Illyria to fight in your war.” Thick arms crossed over his chest, “I’ll wait. Let me know how it goes.”

#nesta archeron #nessian #nessian fanfiction #cassian #nesta and cassian #sarah j maas

[obsessedwithallthingsbookrelated]

Do you have a schedule for the new fanfic? It’s the only thing keeping me happy this final season 🥹 the first chapter was perfect!!!

This is so sweet! As some of you may know, the word “schedule” and I are mortal enemies however I am actively working on it and expect chapter 2 by the weekend.

In the meantime have a snippet:

A gust of wind slipped through where tent flaps pulled aside. The wrong sister for comfort stepping into the small, though admittedly comfortable space. “Do you want to go back to Velaris?”

Nesta scoffed. “And be blamed for its destruction?”

“Rhysand and Azriel will control him.” So confident, so entirely wrong. “If you wish to leave just say the word.”

Nesta blinked up at her sister. Her baby sister who knew so much of swinging sword and so little of how this world worked. Whichever one they were in.

#nessian #nessian fanfiction

[obsessedwithallthingsbookrelated]

New Fic: Amidst the Madness

link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55268251/chapters/140196829

summary:

Love and war have always followed the same rules: Quick to ignite, slow to extinguish. There aren't many things Cassian has dared to openly want in his 500 years of existence. Not even the position he currently occupies as Lord of Windahaven (far too lofty a spot for nothing more than a well-blodded bastard, if you ask the other Illyrian Lords), but from the second Nesta Archeron stepped foot in his camp, the entire world ebbed into a single truth. She is his. He is hers. Everything else - the war he is meant to lead, the people relying on him, the legacy he should be fighting to protect, cease to exist the second his eyes are caught in roiling silver flames. There is pain in this female, his female. And retribution will be exacted. Rhysand has his war, and now so does Cassian. Whether the two align ... only Nesta can give that order.

teaser:

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, High Lord.” Cassian didn’t even look at the little prince as he spoke the threat. His hands and one knee pressed the spy into the dirt, but his eyes were on her. It was where they belonged. That face, those sharp, high cheek bones, deliciously scowling lips and the endless rage and power swirling inside silver eyes … that face was the reason he had been given the ability to see. The truth of that thought settled into his very bones. The mountains were no longer true North, she was. Mate. His mate. Imperious as the mountains behind them, cold as the first snow, powerful as the very wind that whipped through his camp. She was his. And there wasn’t a corner of this world Rhysand could hide her away in. “I will tear your little city down one building at a time if you take her away from me.”

#the way I’ve already read this 3 times in the space of half an hour #nessian #nessian fanfiction #acotar #cassian #nesta archeron

[obsessedwithallthingsbookrelated]

I’ve recently become obsessed with the idea of an AU where Cassian was never taken in by Rhys’ mom and instead worked his way up in Illyria as a warrior and he and Nesta don’t meet until Rhys brings them to Illyria during ACOWAR and it’s just INSTANT near bloodshed and Rhys and Cassian already have a sort of heads butting relationship characterized by mutual respect but more begrudging than actually liking each other at all and Cassian has 0 reason to hide the mating bond so he just gets all possessive real quick and Feyre is freaking out and Rhys is like of fucking course and Nesta is just like HA yeah that’s gonna be a no on the mating bond to a warlord thanks and it’s all just an absolute chaotic disaster

So anyway … if anyone wants to write that … (maybe I’ll try to get something together for Nesta week but I don’t have much faith in my free time these days)

#when I say I’m FERAL for this fic #nessian #nessian fanfiction

[obsessedwithallthingsbookrelated]

Omg I would genuinely give away my soul for this fic

I’ve recently become obsessed with the idea of an AU where Cassian was never taken in by Rhys’ mom and instead worked his way up in Illyria as a warrior and he and Nesta don’t meet until Rhys brings them to Illyria during ACOWAR and it’s just INSTANT near bloodshed and Rhys and Cassian already have a sort of heads butting relationship characterized by mutual respect but more begrudging than actually liking each other at all and Cassian has 0 reason to hide the mating bond so he just gets all possessive real quick and Feyre is freaking out and Rhys is like of fucking course and Nesta is just like HA yeah that’s gonna be a no on the mating bond to a warlord thanks and it’s all just an absolute chaotic disaster

So anyway … if anyone wants to write that … (maybe I’ll try to get something together for Nesta week but I don’t have much faith in my free time these days)

#nessian #cassian #nesta archeron #acotar #nessian fanfiction

[obsessedwithallthingsbookrelated]

😭😭

Begged & Borrowed Time (xxix, ao3)

(Chapter twenty-nine: it's the reunion we've all been waiting for, but with Cassian as desperate for Nesta as he's ever been, and Nesta not quite convinced he'll feel the same about her post-Cauldron, it might not be as smooth as Cassian hopes.) (Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

“Nesta.”

Her name fell from his lips like shards of glass, broken and cracked. 

In its wake he forgot the pain in his wings, brushed it aside as the roaring in his bones dulled to nothing but a distant, feeble whisper. Still too weak to stand, Cassian gripped the doorframe so tightly that his knuckles barked and his hand began to hurt but…

Nesta.

Nesta stood there, lingering on the other side of the room, in the doorway that connected her room to what Cassian presumed was Elain’s. The wooden frame groaned beneath his fingertips as she stilled— so completely, so preternaturally, that the air between them seemed to tighten. To sharpen. 

The world seemed to tilt, lurching and staggering— or perhaps that was just Cassian, and the way it felt like he was balanced on the precipice of some great cliff, with the rocks beginning to crumble beneath his feet. His breath came in ragged gasps, sawing from his throat, and only with effort did he force himself to straighten. To take a breath as his eyes alighted on the woman he loved for the first time in days. 

The moment stretched, indeterminate, as Cassian raked his gaze over every damn inch of her.

Mother save him and Cauldron boil him.

She had always been the most beautiful thing in the world to him, but now…

Cassian didn’t have words.

Language wasn’t enough to do her justice as those familiar eyes pinned him in place. Something flickered in his chest, a distant kind of heat as he looked on her for the first time since Hybern. Her hair was tied in a plait that hung straight down her back, far less formal than the coronet he had grown so used to, and he longed so desperately to plunge his fingers into the braid, to feel its strands slipping through his fingers as he held her mouth against his own. Her skin was smooth, glowing like the pale face of the moon, and where she had been elegant and graceful before, she was devastatingly so now.

She could ruin him— lay waste to everything that he was and ever had been, and he would probably fucking thank her for it. 

But beneath all of that statuesque beauty was a tightness that lined her face and sharpened her jaw, and an emptiness in her eyes that gave him pause. When she stilled like a deer caught in a trap, Cassian banked every ember that had begun to stir inside his veins. 

A note of caution flickered along the bond, a warning bell beginning to ring. 

From across the room, he caught her eye.

He had looked into those eyes enough to know them like the back of his own hand— to recognise anywhere that perfect shade of grey-blue, like storm clouds gathering over the open ocean. And when Cassian looked into her eyes now, he saw the glimmer of something else there too, a thin ribbon of silver skirting her irises. It shone just beneath the blue, and gods— when he looked into her eyes, it felt like falling. 

But then— hadn’t he always been falling for Nesta fucking Archeron? 

It’s her eyes, Cass.

Rhys’ words rose unbidden in his memory, and perhaps it should have concerned him, that hint of something other shining in her eyes. Perhaps he ought to have been worried. But he didn’t care, not when all he saw was the same ferocious blue-grey that had always reduced him to little more than a beggar on his knees, prostrate before the altar of a goddess. 

For a moment he, too, was frozen entirely— weak at the sight of her. 

And then his mate took a single step forward and breathed, 

“Cassian.”

Just his name, drawn from her mouth, was his undoing. 

With trembling legs, Cassian crossed the room in three strides. He was already reaching for her, not entirely certain how much longer he could bear to stand. His steps stumbled only once, but something about her fortified even the most broken parts of him, giving him the strength to stand when there was none left in his bones.

He ignored how his hands shook when he reached for her, swallowing as his fingers brushed her cheek and trembled at her jaw. He had dreamed of this, of feeling her warmth, and as his eyes darted across her face, scanning and searching and committing to memory, Cassian studied her the way he would a map or a battlefield. She blinked up at him, half-dazed as his hands dropped to her shoulders, skated down her arms and reached her wrists. Every inch of skin was one that Cassian thanked the Mother for, and every moment he had her in his hands was one he cherished. It was the kind of touch that he had thought, lying on that throne room floor in the jaws of death, that he would never get to have again. 

So he lingered, made each and every pass of his hands last. He dragged his hands down, brushing his thumb across the soft skin of her wrist, right across the string of the bracelet she still wore— the bracelet he had bought her. 

It seemed like a lifetime ago, now. That night when they had danced beneath the stars. When he had kissed her and held her and told her that she was his. 

How much had changed, since.

Nesta barely moved as Cassian checked her over, searching for injury even though he knew would find none. She stood perfectly still, the gentle cadence of her breathing the only sound between them besides the pounding of his own heart. 

She said nothing as he took her in, but Cassian didn’t miss the way her brow furrowed when she glanced at his wings, hanging limp at his back. He didn’t have the strength to lift them, the muscles required still too weak, and her lips thinned as her eyes grew wide with concern. He was certain that pain was still etched across his face, and though the burning in his spine had dimmed, it hadn’t vanished. But it wasn’t enough to stand against his need for her— to make him wish for his bed and his painkillers instead.

But before he could offer her any kind of reassurance, Nesta glanced away— like she couldn’t bear it, and didn’t want him to look too closely at the silver shifting in her eyes.

Cassian wanted nothing more than to smooth away every crease and line that anguish had carved into her brow, but there was too much— too many things he needed to say, too many parts of her he needed to hold, and he didn’t know where to start. His heart keened in his chest, something inside him wailing as the silence grew heavy, and Nesta didn’t stop him when he finally crushed her to his chest, banding his arms around her and holding her so tightly that it became a promise in and of itself.

Nothing was ever going to take her from him again.

He didn’t care that his wings protested the movement, tugging painfully when he engulfed her in his arms. He didn’t care that he could feel the stitches pulling taut again, threatening to rupture. 

As Nesta splayed her fingers across his chest, Cassian cared only that he could hold her.

“You’re here,” she whispered against him.

“I’m here,” he said, his lips against her hair. He swallowed, closing his eyes and taking a breath, ignoring the way his knees felt weak. He held her against him, every line of his body singing where it lined up with hers, and gods— he was so close to unravelling, could feel himself coming undone. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, the words spilling out before he could contain them. And like the breaking of a dam, he couldn’t stop once he had started. Suddenly his tongue was clamouring for the words he needed, like he couldn’t get them out fast enough. “I should have stopped it— should have never let this happen. I should have been there that night when they…” His voice broke, his hands clutching her tighter as though he was afraid she might slip away. “I knew something was wrong. I knew, and I got Azriel to send a shadow beneath the wall, but he didn’t know… I didn’t know - didn’t think - that you would be with Elain, and I didn’t…”

Cassian had never been one to lose control of his tongue, never one to be so at a loss for words in front of a beautiful woman. But he was grappling now, searching for the right thing to say as a thousand different things rose up from his chest— a hundred apologies. 

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. 

Her silence was louder than anything else, the look in her eyes more painful than any wound.

“I didn’t do enough,” he said, his hands fisting in the silk of her nightgown. His temper flickered as he remembered that this was all she had, nightgowns and Mor’s cast-offs. 

But Nesta hardly moved. She was still and silent in his arms, her face impassive, and his heart cracked as the hand she had rested on his chest moved to rest above his heart. To feel its beat or push him away, he wasn’t sure. With the furrow still in her brow, Nesta didn’t seem sure either. Her eyes were wide, like she had too much to say too. 

“Sweetheart,” he said, his voice breaking once more as he brought his brow down to rest against hers. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she said, her voice hoarse and her tone flat. His eyes flicked down to the hand she still had pressed against his chest, her bare fingers curling in his shirt. Bare fingers, with no band encircling her third finger. Cassian practically stopped breathing when he saw that space on her finger where her wedding band had once been, but he didn’t dare to hope. 

Not yet. 

The scar was still there too, he noticed, on her thumb. The Cauldron hadn’t wiped it away.

Cassian’s soul ached at the sight of it, and the temper that had flickered when he noticed the nightgown she wore surged. The anger he’d felt when he was with Rhys bubbled in his gut, reaching new depths, carving a ravine inside him so jagged and sharp he wondered if he might bleed. He could have killed Rhys. And Mor. And Amren. All of them— he could have killed them for letting Nesta open her eyes to find nothing but silence waiting to greet her.

Oh, he wasn’t just angry. He was livid.

The siphon on his hand pulsed. His mate had been forced to become something she despised, had been broken so completely whilst he had looked on, helpless. And now she stood like a statue in his arms, the distance between them feeling greater than ever before. 

And when Nesta pulled back, retreating from his touch, Cassian felt his heart break.

His eyes closed. He heard the whisper of her movements as she took a step away, but when he opened them again and searched for her, all of that anger… melted. It didn’t cool, not entirely. But it retreated too, like an invading force that recognised a greater foe, a power it couldn’t withstand. 

Because Nesta stood before him now, her back straight and her head held high like a queen despite the pain he recognised in every inch of her. There was a fury in her too, hiding just beneath her skin, and it was so potent that it put his own to shame. 

And fuck, half of him wanted to stoke that fury. Wanted to see what she might do, how many worlds she might tear down. The warrior in him couldn’t breathe in the face of it, torn between wanting to fall at her feet and longing to kiss her until he breathed his last.

He might have stumbled a little, drawing a breath sharpened by the pain still spearing through his wings. Nesta reached out a hand, as if she might touch those wings now, but she drew back, cradled her hand to her chest as if she’d been burned.

“You’re alive, then,” she whispered.

He gave her a crooked smile. “Disappointed, princess?”

She didn’t rise to the teasing, only turned her face away. 

Something in his chest cracked. The bond that he clung to seemed to be slipping through his fingers, and though he knew there was no way of breaking it, suddenly it felt… fragile.

That thrumming sense of unease spiked, the warning bell still ringing inside his head. 

Cassian scanned her again, taking in the braided hair and loose nightgown. He scowled, resolved all over again to find her something better, and when Nesta evaded his gaze with expert precision, Cassian stepped forward and curled a finger beneath her chin, urging her face up towards the light. Reluctantly she met his eyes, and her own widened— with anguish, with pain, with grief. His heart broke for her, and keeping one finger beneath her chin, Cassian’s other hand darted out and drifted to her middle, rounding it and finding the small of her back, pulling her closer because he didn’t have the strength to take another step himself. 

He just needed to touch her, to reach out and feel her warmth beneath his hands.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered as he pulled her flush, once more, against his chest. She was stiff, and though her hands rested on his chest, she didn’t sink into him the way he expected.

Apprehension pooled in his gut, coalesced with concern until it was thick in his throat. For the first time since the day the Attor had attacked Feyre in the woods, Cassian had a sinking feeling that he was on the other side of those high walls of hers, completely locked out. 

“Don’t shut me out,” he murmured - pleaded - dragging his hand from the small of her back to the nape of her neck and back down in long, soothing strokes.

Nesta shook her head, closing her eyes tight. 

But Cassian knew enough of grief and despair to recognise it for what it was— to know that she was simply hurting too much, with too much to adjust to, and though he had foolishly hoped that she might let him take her hand and guide her through it… she had closed herself off, letting the pain and the anger and the worry consume her.

Every year he watched as warriors stumbled from the forests around Ramiel, emerging bloody and broken from the Blood Rite. Every damn year he saw boys come home from the week long trial, still so green it made him feel sick. He’d watched them receive their tattoos, watched them plaster over the horror with a victorious smile, and when the sun went down and the night went quiet, he’d been the one telling his soldiers that it was alright, too, to acknowledge the brutality of what they had just been subjected to. He had seen too much not to recognise a soul in pain; knew too much firsthand not to see the way Nesta coiled like a wounded animal caught in a trap, ready to snap at any who came near.

She pulled away again, and this time Cassian let her. 

Her jaw was tight, her teeth clenched. Her hands were curled into fists, and though her face remained blank, he could sense something roiling along the air between them, something tumultuous that made his instincts sharpen. Like the darkening sky before an almighty thunderstorm.

The space between them was charged. It always had been, had always felt alive somehow, but there was an edge to it now, something sharper that said that one false move would make the both of them bleed— would cut them both to the bone.

For the third time, her eyes fell on his wings.

He wanted to hold her— to feel her against him one more time, to cradle her in his hands until the stars stopped shining. And he wished she’d reach out again, wished she’d graze the membrane with her fingers. Just so he could prove to her that she still could— that nothing had changed between them. 

Illyrians don’t let just anybody touch their wings, he’d told her once, and she was still the only one he would ever let near his wings. The only one beside a healer that he would ever allow to touch them.

“It’s alright,” Cassian said slowly. “I’m alright. Grounded for a week or so while they heal, but I’ll be fine soon enough.

Nesta lifted her chin, glancing briefly to the window. Something in her voice guttered. “So we’re both trapped here then.”

“You’re not trapped.”

“Aren’t I?” Nesta challenged, her voice low and bitter. He could feel her temper fraying, like a wave about to break. “If I wanted to leave, would you let me? Would Rhysand let me?”

It took everything in him to stay standing when he caught the pain in her voice, the grief she was trying to hard to bury beneath her anger. “It’s not about that—“

“When does it end, Cassian?” she demanded, the silver flaring in her eyes— like lightning forking through the sky. It didn’t scare him. No, instead he felt that same crackle of electricity, that same swell of power calling out to him. It made the siphon on the back of his hand glimmer. Nesta shook her head, sharp.  “When do I get to start making my own decisions about my life?” 

Cassian made himself step forward, reaching for her, but Nesta jerked back. Her lip curled, a snarl sounding from deep in her throat. 

“I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted to be here,” she said, quietly furious, and there it was— the crux of it all. “I never wanted to be one of you.”

She said it like an insult, imbued with so much venom it might have stung had Cassian not been expecting it.

He let it roll off his shoulders like water. “I know,” he said carefully. He noted the ire in her eyes and added, “Say what you want to me Nes. Whatever it is you need to get off your chest. It’s not going to make me run.” He blinked, his voice turning gentle. “You know I always loved that sharp tongue the most.”

She took a shuddering breath, and it killed him— as sure as a blade slipping between his ribs, angled up to nick his heart. It killed him, the way she looked at him like she might break if he reached out to hold her. 

“Tell me what you need,” he said, an edge creeping into his voice. “Tell me what I need to do.”

“Nothing,” she answered, deadpan. “I don’t need anything.”

She was cold, like a candle flame close to snuffing out. One that needing coaxing to be brought back. He let out a small breath, looking her in the eye and remaining exactly where he was. He didn’t blink, didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He meant it, when he said that nothing she could do was enough to make him run.

“I don’t believe you.”

Her eyes flashed, a spark that was there and gone in an instant, swallowed by the darkness. He wanted to clutch at it, to bring the spark back before it could die, but it flickered in her eyes, fading until there was nothing left to grasp. And he knew, knew without her needing to say it, why she had shut herself off. She had watched Elain be dragged towards the Cauldron, watched him lie bleeding on the floor. Could he blame her for drawing back, for trying to find a way to breathe around the grief of it all? 

Something passed between them, unspoken. The bond seemed to tremble, and though Cassian felt it stronger than ever before, he wondered if she felt it, too. There had been so many times, even when she was mortal, that her eyes had widened when it tugged, when she seemed to feel the weight of it behind her ribs. Could she feel it now, he wondered, when every piece of him seemed to be holding on to that bond for dear life, clinging to it in the hopes that it might somehow prove a bridge between them, something to keep her with him even when she drew back from his reach?

With everything he had, every ounce of strength left, Cassian poured all the warmth he possessed into that bond, hoping she could feel it, unaccepted and unacknowledged as it was.

It was all he could do— standing there, trying to prove in the only way he could that he wasn’t about to turn away now. 

“If you want to talk about it…” he began slowly, lifting one shoulder in an offer that was only falsely casual. He watched every breath she took, every swallow that caused her throat to bob. 

Talk to me, he begged internally, whispering it along the bond as if she might somehow be able to hear him. Let me in. 

Silence reigned for long moment, where even the House seemed to hold its breath. 

At last, Nesta shuddered, and when she opened her mouth to speak, Cassian thought he might have wept. 

“I lost your dagger, you know,” she began, in a voice that was so detached it hurt. “That night. I tried…” 

Her voice faded to nothing as she turned to face the windows. The light was a halo about her frame, lining her silhouette with gold as she hid her face from him, and Cassian’s fingers twitched by his sides, longing to reach out and feel her in the palms of his hands. She shook her head, drawing a deep breath before finding the words she needed. 

“I don’t know what happened to it,” she said quietly. “But they took it from me.”

It took him a moment to sense the weight in her tone. The remorse. The fucking apology.

Cassian could only stare at her back, bewildered. His brows bunched as he tracked his gaze over the nape of her neck and down her spine, his frown deepening. After a stunned moment, he curled a hand around her shoulder and turned her to face him. 

“You think I give a fuck about a dagger?”

Nesta blinked. “It was clearly old. It must have been a favourite for you to have kept it for so long.”

It was. He’d had that blade centuries. Kept it oiled and cleaned and so meticulously looked after that even Azriel teased him about it whenever he got the chance. But did he mourn its loss now? No. Not at all.

“It was,” Cassian answered easily. He kept his voice slow, every word deliberate. “But forgive me, sweetheart, for putting things into perspective. I’d rather have lost that dagger a thousand times than lost you for a second.”

Her eyes rolled. “I don’t know why.”

The bond pulled uncomfortably in his chest, twisting and wringing as unease snaked a path through his entire body. He had watched as his words had landed, watched as her eyes had dropped to that scar on her thumb. Her lips had pressed together, thin, like she couldn’t understand why he’d ever value her life over a prized possession. 

“Don’t you?” he asked softly, daring to take a step closer. The scent of her filled his lungs, made the bond constrict around his heart. “I thought I’d made my feelings for you quite clear.”

She didn’t answer.

It was like they were standing back in that morning room below the wall, whilst Feyre and Rhys and Azriel dealt with the Attor. Nesta had the same look in her eyes now as she did then, the same patina that coated her every move. She was wounded and angry and trying hard to keep her own heart from breaking, and when he extended out a hand and silently begged her to take it, she left him standing there, fingers curling in thin air.

“Nes,” he breathed, caring little that the desperation in his chest had leaked out into his tone. His heart hurt, and though he wanted to beg her again not to shut him out, somehow he couldn’t speak. Somehow he could think only of the three little words he should have said long ago— the ones he should have said that day in her father’s house, before Rhys had dragged him away. “Please. I love—“

“Don’t.”

Nesta reared back as though he had slapped her. Her voice was a pained rasp in her throat, sharp and cutting as she drew in a ragged breath. 

“Don’t,” she repeated, whisper-soft.

But Cassian couldn’t breathe around the weight in his chest, the agony that had nothing to do with his broken wings. 

“Why not?” he asked, searching her face, trying to find her eyes. With a half-turn of her head she avoided his gaze, leaving him standing there with his heart on his sleeve, bleeding and exposed.

“Because I’m not that person anymore,” she answered, the eyes he’d crawl over hot coals for flicking down to her hands, to the space where there had been a ring, once. “Whatever you felt before, I’m not the one that you…”

A soft snarl sounded in his throat, one of disbelief as Cassian stepped forward, bolder.

“Not the one that I what?” he asked, shaking his head and pushing the hair from his eyes. He caught her gaze and held it, refusing to let her turn away this time because fucking hell, he had loved her then and he loved her now. Did she think that what had happened in that throne room was enough to change things for him? Did she really think his heart could be so easily swayed? 

“Say it, Nesta.”

When she shook her head, Cassian supplied the words for her. 

“You don’t think you’re still the one I fell for so fucking hard, you had me over a barrel from that very first day?” 

His voice didn’t waver, didn’t tremble. 

It was the most fundamental truth he’d ever known, the fact that he loved her more than he’d ever loved anything in all his long years. He took another step closer and felt an ember of hope flare in his chest when she didn’t back away. Cassian tipped his face down, swallowing as he came close enough for her chest to brush his. The bond strained so tightly he thought it might be the death of him, and when he heard Nesta’s heartbeat flutter, he raised his hand and drifted his fingers across her face, ghosting his touch across her jaw. He kept his voice low as he said, at last,

“The one that I fell in love with?”

Her eyes closed, like she couldn’t bear it. 

“It’s my fault,” she whispered. “All of it.”

“No,” he countered, his voice firm. He pressed his palm against her cheek, looking down into those blue eyes edged with silver and refusing to look away, even when the silver coiled and curled around her irises. “No, it isn’t.”

Nesta shook her head before turning her face down into his palm. Her lips brushed the base of his fingers, and in one smooth movement Cassian angled his thumb beneath her jaw and lifted her face back up into the light.

“If you want to search for someone to blame,” he whispered, “then blame me. I’m the one who promised to protect you. I’m the one who didn’t think to check your father’s estate that night. I’m the one that failed you.”

“I don’t blame you,” she said, taking a deep breath as Cassian’s thumb lingered beneath her chin, stroking idly along her jaw. He relished the touch; savoured it. 

“And I don’t blame you,” he said smoothly. “So we’re agreed, then.”

Nesta huffed, and he swore then that there was the barest hint of something— a kind of sardonic laugh that was so quiet that even with fae ears he barely heard it. There was a tentative spark in her eyes when she looked up at him, searching his gaze with her own for the first time since he’d stumbled into her bedroom. 

There she is, he thought.

He offered her a small smile in return, relief swelling behind his ribs. 

Whatever hand he had extended, whatever rope he’d thrown down to her in the darkness, she’d taken it.

“Elain,” he said a minute later, glancing towards the door left ajar on the other side of the room. “How is she?”

Slowly, Nesta eased from his grip. Cassian’s hands mourned the loss of her warmth the moment she drew back, but he gave her the space she needed as she, too, looked towards that door. She shook her head gently, as if that were answer enough to his question. Cassian didn’t know what else to say— what comfort he could offer her. There was none. 

Elain had been the first to go into the Cauldron, the first to emerge from its depths.  And fuck, one of the first things she’d heard afterwards was Lucien’s stunned revelation about being her mate. 

“About Lucien…” Cassian began slowly.

“No,” Nesta interjected, cutting him off. “I don’t care what claim he thinks he has on her. Elain isn’t his.”

Cassian hesitated. “Should he not have told her, then?”

Nesta laughed, bitter. “No,” she answered with finality. “No, he shouldn’t.”

“And how long would you have had him keep it secret?” he asked, just a shade shy of a challenge.

She only waved a hand. “He should have said nothing, should have done nothing. He should have left her alone entirely. She was engaged. What makes him think he has the right to—“

“He’s her mate,” Cassian cut in carefully. Nesta shook her head violently. Her eyes were like flint, just begging to be ignited, and her indignation sparked like an oil spill by an open flame. 

“And that gives him the right to her?”

“It gives her the right to know,” Cassian countered. “Gods, it gives him the right to speak it out loud rather than bear the burden of it alone.”

“Burden?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?” she snapped.

Cassian let out a heavy breath. “I just mean that it must be heavy.” It was his turn to shrug now, to turn away. “To have felt it snap on his end and not hers. It can’t be easy.”

He couldn’t look at her as he said it— couldn’t bear to see her scowl. He thought his heart might break for good this time, because Mother above, he’d once thought that letting Nesta slowly adjust to the idea of a mating bond was the right thing to do, but now… Fuck, he couldn’t see a way out of it at all now. 

Nesta huffed, frowning as she folded her arms across her chest. His heart bleated behind his ribs, but when Cassian found the strength, at last, to turn and look at her…

His resolve slackened, frustration dissolving.

The light danced across her face, playing in the strands of hair that had escaped her plait and strayed across her forehead. Her jaw was tight, but when she caught him looking, her eyes softened. Her lips parted on a breath, and Cassian blinked slowly as he took her in, from the tips of her newly-arched ears to the hem of her borrowed nightgown. 

More than anything he wanted to tell her he loved her. 

He sighed softly, running a hand through his tangled hair. He was tired of fighting, of her being more than an arms length away. If she wouldn’t let him tell her he loved her, then he’d fucking show her. So Cassian shook the tension from his shoulders and stretched his wings as much as his wounds would allow. Her eyes widened, lit with concern, but Cassian waved her off with a flick of his hand. Wryly, he smiled.

“Tell me they showed you the library, at least?”

Nesta blinked at the change in topic, dropping her folded arms. It took a moment, but slowly she shook her head. Cassian lifted his eyes and glared darkly at the ceiling. 

You fucker, Rhys.

He added it to his mental tally, the list of things he was going to make sure Rhys paid for. A grim smile curved his lips as he thought of it, and when he brought his eyes back down, Cassian turned to his mate and felt warmth blooming along the bond that tied them together. Something flickered in Nesta’s face, cutting through the silver in her eyes, and as Cassian extended a hand, he didn’t fail to notice the way she slid her fingers between his without hesitation.

He squeezed her hand; a silent I love you.

And as Cassian clung to her like she was the beginning and the end of his everything… Nesta squeezed back. 

Giving his mate a tentative smile, he tugged on her hand and said, “Well, then. Let me give you the tour.”

Taglist: @hiimheresworld @highladyofillyria @wannawriteyouabook @infiremetotakeachonce @melphss @hereforthenessian @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @the-lost-changeling @valkyriesupremacy @that-little-red-head @sv0430

[obsessedwithallthingsbookrelated]

Begged & Borrowed Time (xxviii, ao3)

(Chapter twenty-eight: After three days spent healing, Cassian finally wakes and finds that he has several things to say to his brother.) (Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

At first it was the village.

Not quite a dream, but a nightmare laced with memory as Cassian found himself standing right back in the ashes of his own  rage, watching the smoke drift, bitter and acrid, toward the sky. Blood stained the snow and seeped across grey rock, and he could have sworn, even in delirium, that screams still echoed through the mountain pass.

Broken siphons lay shattered, the shards as sharp as drawn blades, and in the dream Cassian looked down at his hands and saw Illyrian blood dripping thick from his fingers. It blurred in his mind, the deserted, desecrated camp high in the mountains looming in his memory as the nightmare sunk its claws deep into his flesh.

And then the screams shifted, a warrior’s pain morphing into something else. The blood on his hands thinned, turning dark— turning to Cauldron-water as the rock beneath his feet turned smooth, blood-stained snow replaced by polished marble.  The scene around him changed, until it wasn’t blood on his hands but water, water that needled his skin like acid as it pooled beneath him in a puddle so dark it seemed to swallow the light whole.

Pain— there was so much pain.

His, but not his.

The world began and ended with his every breath, an aching kind of cold pressing at his fingertips and spreading up through his veins as the village he had destroyed once in his fury bled into the throne room like ink, the horrors of both twining until the screams of anguish he heard echoing through the mountains weren’t his anymore but hers—

The floor of Hybern’s throne room was slick with dark water, as black as the night itself. Cassian’s hands slipped as he tried to rise, struggling to find purchase, and gods, it burned. Where the Cauldron’s water kissed his skin, Cassian felt an ice so deep it beggared belief sinking into his veins. He heard screaming, heard her screaming, felt her drowning like it was his own heart ceasing to beat, his own blood beginning to boil. He pulled away, or tried to, but the memory dragged him down, reality converging brutally with the dream, and in his chest hoarfrost gathered, beginning to crawl, and when he opened his mouth to scream—

All he tasted was medicine, a sleeping tonic thick and bitter on his tongue, keeping him chained and trapped within the nightmare until at last, blackness swallowed him… and Cassian remembered nothing at all.

***

When he opened his eyes at last, Cassian swore he could feel her.

Nesta’s scent lingered in the air, draped lightly over the sheets as though she had only just been there, sitting beside him as he lay healing. He seemed to have missed her by a hair’s breadth— by a moment or a second, a heartbeat or an hour, he wasn’t sure. The light danced across the bed, sharp in the wake of his dreams, and as Cassian breathed in the scent of his mate, slowly, slowly, he stretched out a hand, reaching for the ghost of her left behind.

But the movement sent sent a bolt of fire spearing right down his spine, drawing a livid curse from his lips as pain - unrelenting pain - shot like lightning across the broken mass of his wings.

It didn’t stop him.

Couldn’t stop him, not as he reached for the empty space on that mattress, hoping he might bring her back if his fingers could just graze the sheets that still smelled, faintly, of her.

But the space beside him was cold, and if Nesta had been there, it had been hours ago.

Cassian’s brow furrowed, fingers curling tightly in the sheets.

In his chest, something broke.

He loosed his grip on the bedsheets, drawing a gasping breath as he flexed his hand. The movement was stiff, and the siphon he wore was shining as if through fog as pain radiated from the bottom of his wings to the nape of his neck. At his back, pinned beneath him, those wings were nothing but a blistering ache, so sharp his breath got caught in his throat.

And— fuck, when he twitched them, to test how much strength they had left, they were as spindly as the legs of a newborn deer. Wrapped in so many bandages it was a wonder there was any linen left in Velaris at all, he forced his wings to shift. But a roaring pain engulfed him, a tidal wave of it he felt down to the tips of his toes.

His entire body felt hollow, bones aching like they had been snapped too, and he hissed as the pain barrelled through him, a sound of pure agony building within his throat.

It was a brutal reminder of just how close he had come to death.

He had been bleeding and broken, wings shredded, and though he was no stranger to risk or injury… it was different, this time. This time he had felt death in a way he never had before. It had cracked open an eye in the darkness and saw right through to his soul, staking a claim on him as the pain had dragged him under.

A chill coursed through him, kith to the ice still burning in his chest.

But he forced it away.

It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered.

His own pain, his own anguish, was nothing. He recalled the dreams that had haunted him in his sleep, the screams he knew would dog him for the rest of his days. His hands reached again for that space on the bed beside him, her name echoing with each beat of his broken heart.

Nesta.

He could still see her eyes, brimming with terror and rage as the king’s guards forced her into that Cauldron. Could still feel the bond, taut as a bow-string and thrumming the way it had the moment their eyes had met across that godsforsaken throne room. Absolute, inexorable need surged through him as the bond tightened, stealing his breath, and it was for Nesta that Cassian took a breath and braced both palms against the mattress. For her he ignored the barbs of pain that shot through his wings as he pushed his weight against the heel of his hands, trying to rise.

For her.

“Fuck,” he gasped, breaths turning ragged as agony knifed along his spine, spreading across his shoulders.

And across the room, from a half-hidden corner by the window that Cassian hadn’t even glanced at before now, another curse echoed his own.

“For fuck’s sake, Cass.”

Sharp footsteps sounded from the wall of windows opposite, but before Cassian could force his broken body to rise another inch, Rhys’ hand was pressed flat against Cassian’s shoulder, firm and immovable.

“Don’t even think about it,” the High Lord said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

Cassian didn’t stop for a minute to study his brother— to really note the anguish that cloaked him like a second skin. Nor did he pause to wonder how or why Rhys was the only one waiting for him to wake. His brother has been so lost in thought standing in that corner, staring listlessly out of the window, that it seemed he hadn’t even noticed Cassian opening his eyes until that whispered curse had been torn from his throat. He’d never known Rhys to be so distracted but…

No, Cassian didn’t pause. Not for a second, because he couldn’t fucking breathe.

He pushed once more against Rhys’ palm, gritting his teeth against the riot of pain working its way up and down his spine.

“Let me up,” he managed through clenched teeth.

Stitches were pulled taut in wounds not yet healed, and the new, fragile membrane of his wings threatened to tear as his arms began to tremble. His muscles ached, like keeping himself sitting upright was challenge enough, but it didn’t matter, didn’t matter, didn’t matter—

Rhys didn’t move.

“Rhys,” Cassian snarled. “Let. Me. Up.”

The High Lord said nothing, violet eyes dark and determined as he refused to relent. He kept his hand pressed against Cassian’s shoulder, and fucking hell, Cassian thought grimly, any other day he’d be able to force Rhys away without so much as blinking. But the blast that had taken out his wings had all but decimated his strength, leaving him with nothing but the sweat gleaming on his brow as he fought to stay upright.

After what felt like an age of bone-cracking agony, Cassian could do nothing more than collapse back against his pillows, staring furiously at the ceiling and cursing his sudden weakness.

“Not yet,” Rhys said mildly as he removed his hand at last. “Give it another day— give it until tomorrow.”

Cassian slammed a fist against his sickbed. “Another day? How long has it been already?”

His voice was cold, but Rhys didn’t flinch.

“Three days.”

Cassian swore the world began to tilt beneath him, the balance suddenly off-kilter.

“Three days,” he echoed, deadpan.

“And a half,” Rhys added, turning to the window at his back, as if tracking the movement of the sun. “It’s almost noon.”

As if Cassian gave a fuck about what time it was.

“Where is she.”

The demand came out rough, like gravel, and his voice seemed to quake beneath the weight of the temper he was only barely keeping in check. Deep within, something primal and primordial began to howl.

Rhys only rolled his eyes. Under his breath he muttered something that sounded a lot like ‘both the fucking same,’ and Cassian’s brow lowered over narrowed eyes as he began to wonder if Rhys had faced similar questioning from Nesta herself. But then— why wasn’t she here? Where was she? And Mother save him, how was she?

They were the only questions worth asking, the only things that seemed to matter.

“She’s here,” Rhys said after a pause, waving a hand in a gesture so casual it made Cassian clench his jaw. “And she’s awake, which is more than I can say for Elain.”

“Elain isn’t awake?”

“No.”

Cassian glowered. “So Nesta’s been on her own for three fucking days then,” he countered darkly, running a hand over his ribs to make sure those, at least, were still intact. Feeling nothing broken he shifted, more than ready to try and rise again regardless of the pain, but Rhys stopped him with a glare so glacial it made chasms of his eyes.

“Not alone,” Rhys said bluntly. “I checked on her, and Mor took her some clothes.”

Cassian was silent. His eyes seemed to burn as he looked pointedly at his brother and waited for him to continue— because if Rhys thought that was explanation enough, then he was so severely mistaken that Cassian might have started to wonder if the High Lord had hit his head on the way out of Hybern’s throne room. As it was, his brother sighed heavily before running a hand through his already-mussed hair.

“The Cauldron took its toll,” he explained. “Neither Nesta nor Elain were fully conscious when we made it back to Velaris, and after Mor and I winnowed them up here… they were out of it for a little while. Nesta woke after a few hours, but Elain is still drifting in and out.” When Cassian’s gaze turned sharp, bladed with concern, Rhys added, “There’s no injury. Physically, they both seem fine.”

A note of caution entered his voice, one that had all of Cassian’s instincts sharpening like a blade against a whetstone.

“Mor brought Nesta clothes,” the Lord continued flatly, violet eyes devoid of stars. “But she didn’t even bother to look at them before casting them off. Mor wasn’t exactly happy—“

Cassian snarled again, a sound of abject consternation so abrasive it was a wonder it didn’t rake claws down his throat.

“What the fuck,” he asked, in a voice so rough it was little more than a growl, “were you thinking?”

The glare he gave Rhys was one that so rarely crossed his face these days— one that even battle-hardened warriors had run from in the past. But he didn’t bother to temper it. Of course Nesta would refuse whatever it was that Mor had offered. Night Court fashion was a world away from what they were used to below the wall, and though Mor had shaken off the shackles of her upbringing, it was plain as fucking day that Nesta hadn’t.

As well-intentioned as it was, was it any wonder it had brought out Nesta’s claws?

Rhys didn’t answer, only pressed his lips thin.

“Get her something else,” Cassian said sharply.

“I tried,” Rhys retorted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She doesn’t want anything else.”

“Then I’ll fucking do it,” he huffed, his hands curling once more into fists so tight his knuckles began to ache.

“You can’t get up,” Rhys hissed. “It’s a fucking miracle you’re even alive. It wasn’t just your wings, you know. Whatever was in that blast— you’ve had a temperature for days that even the healers can’t understand. Like you were burning from the inside out.”

Cassian stilled. The dream came back to him in a rush, an echo of that burning heat thrumming distant in his veins. Like it wasn’t him burning at all.

The bond twining around his ribs trembled, and in the silence that followed Cassian shoved it all away and clenched his jaw before demanding roughly,

“Tell me what happened.”

Rhys looked uncomfortable with the question, his shadowed face stony. “I haven’t been able to glean much. All I know is that Hybern broke in whilst they were sleeping. Killed the servants—“

“And the Illyrians?” Cassian felt his anger harden, cool into something far more difficult to break. “Where the fuck were they? I swear, if they—“

“They’re dead, Cass.”

It took Cassian a moment to understand. For the words to sink in. And when they did, there was a ringing in his ears so sharp he had to shake his head to clear it.

Fuck.

“Ash arrows were found in the grounds,” Rhys continued darkly. “And the other four men you sent to the Mandray house never saw Nesta. By the time they arrived she had already gone to stay with Elain. They didn’t know she wasn’t inside.”

It was like being dragged into a riptide.

The waves kept coming, kept pulling and pushing and holding him under, each new kernel of information Rhys offered one that made Cassian feel like his lungs were taking on water. Four men dead— men who had families, friends, loved ones. Cassian had personally picked the ones to go below the wall. He hadn’t been about to put Nesta and Elain’s safety in the hands of any of the more… conservative Illyrians, especially when Devlon had been so reluctant to let them go at all. No, these had been soldiers who respected him, who had only barely grumbled about being stationed so far from home.

Dead.

He’d have to tell their families, have to visit them personally.

And the servants. Gods— who would tell their families? Or Nesta’s father? Cassian didn’t have an overwhelming amount of respect for the man, but still. Would he return to an empty house, dilapidated and dark, a ruin filled with nothing but shattered glass and the echo of violence?

Each thought made his head spin, and yet it was nothing - absolutely fucking nothing - to the weight in his chest, the crushing heaviness where his heart should be.

Because the sharpest undercurrent of all was…

He’d known.

He’d known something was wrong. That night, after Hybern’s attack, he had been so consumed with worry it had almost eaten him alive. He had felt it, as certain as anything.

If only he’d sent a shadow to the Archeron estate that night too. If only he’d known Nesta wasn’t with her husband at all, but with her sister. If only he’d insisted Azriel somehow find the strength to command two shadows across the wall, or better yet, if he himself had flown there despite his exhaustion…

If only, if only, if only.

His eyes closed.

“So when Az sent that shadow…” he began, hoarse. “Nesta wasn’t even at home that night. She was with Elain the whole time.”

His heart felt as brittle as cracked glass, his eyes stinging. Somewhere inside him was a pendulum, one that swung wildly between spikes of terrifying fury, and deep valleys carved of guilt and grief.

He could have saved her.

Could have stopped her being taken in the night, bound and gagged and thrown into that Cauldron. All of it could have been avoided had he only been looking in the right place that night, when the bond in his chest had been so damned insistent that something was wrong.

He should’ve listened. Should have paid more attention.

How many lives would have been saved? How many grieving mothers would have been spared a loss? Most importantly to Cassian, how much pain could he have kept Nesta from? How much agony might have been avoided?

When he slid his eyes open again, he saw Rhys nod.

“That’s all I’ve been able to gather. Nesta hasn’t exactly been… forthcoming with the details.”

Cassian blinked slowly, eyes darkening. “Can you blame her?”

Rhys sighed, taking a step closer. Slowly, carefully, he added, “There’s something… up with her, Cass.”

“Up with her,” Cassian echoed, in a voice as that was cold and flat, as desolate as a Winter Court snow plain. He could have sworn his brother cringed.

“I can sense something,” Rhys continued. “I don’t know what, exactly. She won’t tell me what happened inside the Cauldron—“

“Rhys,” he warned, “back off, would you?”

The dream lurched once more in his memory— the cold, the aching in his bones. That distant feeling of ice searing him right through, stealing his breath with its ferocity. It lingered, even now, like it had been fucking real. Cassian suppressed a shudder.

“It’s her eyes, Cass. There’s something there, some kind of power she won’t speak of—“

“Rhys.”

Cassian fixed his brother with the kind of glare reserved usually for soldiers out of line— the kind that made his entire face harden. He didn’t give a single shit about what Nesta may or may not have emerged from that Cauldron with. It wouldn’t be enough to change anything— to stop him loving her with everything he had left.

“Let her work it out in her own time,” he added gruffly, his tone one that threatened retribution if not flat-out violence.

“We might not have time,” Rhys countered dryly.

Cassian snarled. “I said back off.”

For a second Rhys looked prepared to argue his point, a scowl twisting the corners of his mouth, but Cassian snarled again softly, little more than a growl of patience lost, and Rhys’ scowl vanished. He exhaled heavily and raised a hand in surrender, giving his brother a small nod.

“Alright,” he said tightly. “Alright.”

Cassian nodded once too, brisk, and settled back against the pillows, careful not to disturb the mass of bandages and scar tissue that was his wings.

There was a beat— where Cassian felt the ache deep in his bones collide with the weariness that gnawed, ravenous, at his edges. He sighed, and let himself relent. For now— just for now.

“And Az?” he asked after a moment, forcing himself away from the memory of Azriel’s blood slicking his hands in that throne room.

“The healers are still keeping him under. The poison… it had almost reached his heart.” Rhys shuddered. “It’s the same poison that tipped the arrows I was hit with, only in a far more concentrated dose. If Feyre were here, she could probably heal him just as quickly as she healed me, but…”

The High Lord stumbled over his mate’s name, like it pained him to speak of her. He trailed off, eyes darting back to the window he’d been staring out of before Cassian had opened his eyes, like he was trying to follow the bond and see all the way to the south, to wherever Feyre was now.

“She’s in Spring,” Cassian breathed, not quite a question.

In the dimness of his memory he recalled the way Feyre had drifted back to Tamlin’s side in that throne room, the way Rhys had fallen to his knees. Cassian didn’t remember much— couldn’t remember words or put it all together in any kind of narrative that made sense, and he’d been dragged into unconsciousness soon after his brother had screamed in pain. But he remembered the way Tamlin reached for Feyre, a wary kind of relief igniting in his green eyes and mingling with the reflected candlelight until they were an evergreen forest consumed by flame.

The lines on Tamlin’s face had smoothed as he placed a hand on Feyre’s wrist. No matter that Cassian’s vision had been growing dark, or that Azriel’s life hung by a thread. No matter that Elain trembled in a puddle of Cauldron-spilled water, or that Nesta scrambled towards her sister even as her eyes remained fixed on Cassian.

None of that had mattered to the High Lord of Spring.

A sharp, terse nod was Rhys’ only response.

“There’s something else you should know too,” Rhys said, his voice made heavy by the bitterest sort of irony. He turned back to the bed and looked Cassian in the eye, lifting his chin with all the bearing of a High Lord. “Before we went to Hybern, I made Feyre High Lady.”

For a moment, Cassian forgot the pain in his wings.

He thought he must have misheard, must have been hallucinating from all the tonics the healers had been giving him—

“Mor and Amren were told as soon as we got back,” Rhys said, “but with you and Az unconscious…”

“You fucking what?” Cassian spat, scrambling on his hands to raise himself from the bed. His wings protested again as his muscles shifted, stitches close to tearing, and once more Rhys stepped forward with ease and halted him with a palm flat against his shoulder.

“Don’t start. I’ve already had all this from Mor and Amren.”

Cassian hissed. “And if you think you’re not going to get it from me too then you’re sorely mistaken. You didn’t think we deserved to know that we weren’t just taking the Lady of the Night Court into Hybern, but the High Lady? Have you lost your fucking mind?”

A dark laugh bubbled in his chest, one that ached in his throat. Suddenly all those feelings he thought’d he’d buried, the ones left over from when Rhys went Under the Mountain… they came screaming back, every ounce of inadequacy and failure returning in a wave as he realised that once again he’d been left out of Rhys’ scheming. That the High Lord had left his General in the dark.

He knew how it looked— how it seemed. Every sensible part of him clung desperately to the knowledge that Rhys trusted him implicitly, that theirs was a bond forged of blood and sweat and tears that could not be broken idly…

And yet.

“You didn’t think we needed to know?” Cassian asked again, blunt as an axe. “That we deserved to know?”

Rhys took a breath. “It’s not about that. It was never about that.”

“We were unprepared,” Cassian snapped. “We never would have—”

Rhys drew back, as surely as if Cassian had slapped him.

Everything in the High Lord appeared to crumble. His eyes, dark before, seemed abyssal now. The tension in his shoulders evaporated, the harsh lines at his mouth and his brow vanishing as the fight seemed to leave him entirely. He looked up to the ceiling, the shadows beneath his eyes seeming darker and more prominent than before. A pang of remorse echoed through Cassian’s chest as his words died in his throat and Rhys lifted a hand, not in surrender this time, but something like supplication.

“Enough. It’s done, Cass,” he said, his tone just a touch too resigned to be considered sharp. He sighed again, maudlin. “It’s done.”

Cassian took a breath, willing the waves of his anger to subside. That twinge of remorse in his chest surged as he looked to the windows, where Rhys had been gazing so forlornly. Gods, had he been any better when it was Nesta so far away? How many times had he stared out at that same horizon, wishing miles were inches?

Nesta.

Just the thought of her had everything else fading.

“Tell me something else,” Cassian said, breaking the heavy silence, remembering what was important. “Tell me about Nesta. How was she— when she woke?”

The question lingered, and Rhys… hesitated.

The sure and certain High Lord, who had an answer for everything, hesitated. The silence that followed spoke louder than anything Rhys might have said, and as Cassian’s eyes narrowed, he gave his brother a look of warning that said he’d better come up with an answer, and a good one, fast.

“Rhys,” he said slowly, his voice sharpening. “You were there. Right? Tell me you didn’t let her wake up alone.”

Silence.

The ruby siphon on his hand began to pulse in time with his raging, racing heart, flaring as his temper spiked. His hand curled into a fist so tight his fingertips began to feel numb, and behind his ribs the bond strained so tightly it stole his breath, like a blade had pierced his lungs.

Rhys only scowled, plucking at a piece of fucking lint.

“We’ve been preparing for war,” he said flatly, lifting his chin. “And in case it escaped your notice, I’ve been down a commander and a spymaster. Mor and Amren and I have just about managed to hold this court together, so forgive me for not sitting idle by your sweetheart’s bedside while the world around us goes to shit.”

Cassian growled, a rumble in his chest so deep his entire body seemed to thrum.

“My sweetheart,” he echoed with a low, dangerous laugh. “You’re a fucking cunt sometimes, Rhys, you know that?” His brother was quiet, and Cassian felt the reins of his temper slip through his fingers as he uncurled his hands, leaning forwards as if he was only a breath away from rising from that bed and closing those hands around his brother’s fucking throat. “Never mind that you’ve clearly been sitting idle by my bedside. Never mind that she’s your mate’s sister.”

His lips curled back over his teeth, something feral and unrestrained howling inside, hammering against his chest, begging to be set loose. His siphons flickered.

“She’s so much more than my fucking sweetheart and you damn well know it,” he seethed. “Give her the respect she deserves.”

The voice that left him sounded foreign even to his own ears. It was sharp and bladed and angry— he hadn’t felt like this since that day in that village in the mountains, when he’d slaughtered so many of the men who had sneered when he’d asked where his mother was. Rhys didn’t balk in the face of that anger; his brother stood stoic and firm, letting Cassian’s rage wash over him in a wave.

Cassian took a breath, clenching his fists as he tried to find the moment where everything had gone wrong these past few weeks. It seemed like only yesterday Nesta was in his arms by the water, watching the stars fall from the sky. Only yesterday that Rhys had told him to go and get her, to bring her to Velaris for the night.

And now— somehow they had ended up here. With Rhys separated from his mate as the entire continent faced Hybern’s threat, and Nesta no doubt in more pain than she’d ever been before, no matter how fine Rhys thought she was.

He loosed a single breath, forced the thrumming in his veins to steady.

“I get it,” Cassian bit out as the waves of anger receded just enough to let him breathe again. “Feyre’s not here and you’re losing your mind. But that doesn’t mean you can be a prick to the ones of us left behind with you.” His jaw grew tight, his voice dipping low. “After all, maybe now you’ll understand how we felt all those years you were Under the Mountain.”

Rhys snapped his gaze back to Cassian’s, starless violet meeting furious hazel. His lips parted, as if ready to argue, but something Cassian had said must have resonated because he quickly looked away, back to the windows. Regret flickered in those dark eyes as he ran a fist through his hair, turning his face away.

“You’re right,” Rhys said quietly, like it pained him to admit it. A heavy sigh rattled through his chest. “I’m sorry, Cass.”

Cassian sighed too, the atmosphere shifting as he sat back. Their heated words died in the silence, anger melting and giving way to something else, the kind of acceptance and acquiescence only found in the wake of a blistering argument between those who loved one another as family.

“As soon as I can get out of this bed,” Cassian said darkly, “I’m going to hit you so fucking hard you’ll see stars for a week.”

A tentative smirk pulled at Rhys’ lips.

“Fair,” he answered with a shrug.

And with that, all of the resentment was gone— just like that. Cassian let himself fall back agains the pillows, the burning in his wings easing as they lay flat once more. Looking up at the ceiling, he felt his heart pound as his mind wandered, a different kind of guilt pulling at him, fraying his edges until he was half afraid there would be nothing of himself left by the time it was done.

I’ll find a way to keep you safe. I swear it.

Who could have guessed it would turn out to be such pointless vow, a hollow promise?

“I made her a promise,” Cassian said quietly now, his voice too close to breaking. He spoke more to himself than to Rhys, but still his brother was there to listen. “I swore to protect her and I didn’t.”

“How could you have stopped it?” Rhys asked mildly. “You were in no position to—“

“I could have done something,” Cassian interjected hotly. “I should have done something.”

Gods— the guilt would eat him alive. Would destroy him, and he couldn’t quite tell whether he wanted to run to her or hide from her forever. His entire soul, every tiny facet of his being, longed to find her— but could he bear the betrayal in her eyes, knowing he was the reason she’d been dragged into that throne room? Knowing his failings had cost her her life?

And after all hadn’t he thought, once, that he’d give anything for Nesta to be fae?

Like a fucking fool, he’d once dreamed of her living above the wall, living forever… and for his stunning hubris, his stupid fucking arrogance, the Mother had granted his wish.

He turned his head, eyes catching on the sheets beside him that still carried that lingering trace of her. She’d been sitting there— right beside him. Maybe that meant she didn’t hate him after all.

But maybe she should.

Maybe someone ought to.

He closed his eyes, feeling wave after wave of anguish swallow him whole.

“She still doesn’t know, does she?” Rhys asked gently. “About the bond?”

Cassian shook his head, hardly able to speak. He felt sick.

Rhys let out a dry laugh. “The way you snarled in that throne room… how could she not have realised?”

Cassian didn’t want to think of it, didn’t want to be taken back to that expansive stone room, thick with the scent of spilled blood. But he couldn’t help but recall Lucien and the three little words that had burst from his mouth, like he hadn’t physically been capable of keeping them inside.

You’re my mate.

Gods, the Autumn prince had made it look so fucking easy. Part of Cassian wondered now why he hadn’t just done the same weeks ago, torn off the bandage and made it quick.

Fuck.

Given how badly Nesta had reacted to Lucien’s little outburst… well, Cassian could hardly tell her now, could he? She’d made it clear with the way she’d scrambled to Elain’s side, horror written all over her face, that the last thing in the world she needed - wanted - was a mate.

He’d thought he needed to give her time. To let her adjust to the idea of a mating bond before he sprung one on her, but now…

“Gods,” Cassian groaned, “it’s all so fucked, Rhys.”

Rhys snorted his agreement. “Yeah,” he said dryly, glancing down at his hands. “Yeah, it is.”

The High Lord glanced at the sky again, the sun high in the centre. He looked back to the bed, eyes softening.

“I told Amren I’d meet with her after noon,” he said, brushing a hand down his black shirt. “I should go. There’s still work to be done, and someone needs to keep an eye on those queens. Especially in the wake of….” He waved a hand, gesturing broadly at the chaos that surrounded them. “…All this.”

Cassian started. “You can’t mean to go yourself.”

“Someone needs to, and Az is hardly up to it.”

“You’re a fool, Rhys.”

“I am capable of looking after myself, you know.”

Cassian was about to argue, but as the sun slanted across Rhys’ midnight hair, he looked at his brother— really looked, for the first time since he’d woken. Stress was carved so deeply in his face that every plane of it seemed strained, and his eyes were flat and empty, like the stars there had simply given up hope of shining. He looked like every single drop of anguish Cassian felt had scarred him too, and Cassian’s own eyes softened as he shook his head.

“I’m not going to be the one to tell Feyre when you get yourself hurt,” he said archly.

Rhys laughed, bitter. “Let’s worry about that when she’s home, shall we?”

Cassian rolled his eyes, absently lifting a hand to his chest. It was something subconscious, something innate, that had his fingers splaying across his ribs, right above where he felt that bond tying him so resolutely to Nesta. It was brighter now, more alive, like her being turned fae had amplified it. Rhys tracked the movement and blinked, nodding in understanding. His own fingers twitched, like he’d reach for Feyre if only he could.

“I’ll come back later,” he said gently, nodding to the bedside table where several small glass vials were laid out. “If the pain gets too much, take three drops from the green bottle. Six drops for sleep.”

Cassian nodded, even though he had no intention of sleeping any time soon. He’d spent three days sleeping— it was more than enough. There were more important things now than sleep, more pressing things than pain.

Rhys glanced pointedly at the bottles once more before raising an eyebrow and fixing Cassian with a knowing stare.

“You really should stay in bed for a little longer,” he said, stepping forward to clap him lightly on the shoulder. His voice was weary, but the resignation in his tone said he knew that, short of tying Cassian to the bed, there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop him.

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “And you really should have told us before making Feyre High Lady.”

Rhys rolled his eyes, drawing back. “Alright, alright,” he conceded. After a minute he loosed a long breath, shaking his head in surrender. “Swear to me you’ll be careful.”

“I’m not the one going to spy on the same queens that sold us down the river to Hybern,” Cassian pointed out flatly, a scowl settling above his brows. Rhys grimaced.

“No, but I’m not the one who almost died from blood loss.”

Cassian waved a hand, like it was nothing. Like he didn’t still remember the way his fingers had slipped in pools of his own blood, staining his skin crimson.

“I promise I’ll be careful if you will,” he offered instead, and this time Rhys rolled his eyes, resting his hand on Cassian’s shoulder once more.

“I promise,” the High Lord said, dipping his head. And then he drew back, his steps almost silent as he pulled away. He looked to the door, straightening his spine and plucking at his sleeves before adding a soft, “I’ll see you later, brother.”

It was the only farewell he offered, and even though Cassian muttered a quiet see you later in return, Rhys didn’t say anything more before sweeping from that bedroom, leaving only silence in his wake.

Cassian waited for one breath— then two, three. Just enough to ensure Rhys wasn’t about to come storming back.

And then, arduously, he began to rise.

Every nerve he possessed protested as he forced himself upright. His bones barked beneath the pressure, the bottoms of both wings burning beneath the bandages, like someone had just taken a match to them. He felt every single one of the small, intricate muscles straining as he straightened his spine, pulling so painfully that darkness gathered once more at the corners of his eyes.

But he refused to black out this time.

Cassian gritted his teeth, biting back the groan that rose to his lips.

He eyed the bottles on the side, wondering if he ought to take those three drops after all.

But he pushed— pushed and pushed and pushed, his body screaming.

With effort, he managed to swing his legs off the bed. Somehow, he made it to the door, pulled it open.

In his mind was a singular focus, a sole purpose that kept him going as he staggered down the hallway, each step a labour. He dragged one hand along the wall as he went, using it as a support. And then he was at the stairs, swallowing as pain bloomed in every part of him, as he looked at the downward spiral of steps and knew that the effort might just make him faint.

But for Nesta, Cassian knew he needed to make it down those stairs— come hell or high water.

He was sweating by the time he made it to the landing a floor below. The guest corridor stretched out before him, seemingly endless, and his heart thundered as he made his way down its length. He had guessed this was where Rhys would have housed the sisters, and even though he’d never gotten confirmation, the bond in his chest was thrumming with his every step, like it was leading him right to her. Cassian didn’t know what room Nesta was in, but that thrumming grew louder and louder until he found himself standing in front of a closed door.

Instinctively, he knew this was it.

Already he could hear her heart.

If he wasn’t already so desperate, Cassian thought he might really have collapsed then. If his body could have handled it, he thought he might have sank to his knees.

His mind went blank; his heart pounding against his ribs.

And Cassian didn’t think— didn’t knock.

Like a man starved, he pushed open that door and all but stumbled over the threshold. Instantly he was met with her scent, and with a gasp his mate turned her head, silver eyes glinting across the distance between them that suddenly seemed vast enough to wound.

But as Cassian looked upon Nesta for the first time in days…

Every single thought eddied from his head.

Every single word he knew was forgotten save one.

Nesta.

Her name. Just her name— the only thing in the world that still held meaning.

It bubbled to his lips, his strength failing him as he grasped at the doorframe and felt his knees go weak. He couldn’t pretend arrogance, couldn’t find it in him to flirt. As she lingered, still, on the other side of the room, Cassian felt himself growing brittle as, at last, he found it in him to rasp a single, aching,

“Nesta.”

Taglist: @hiimheresworld @highladyofillyria @wannawriteyouabook @infiremetotakeachonce @melphss @hereforthenessian @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @the-lost-changeling @valkyriesupremacy @that-little-red-head @sv0430

#nessian #begged & borrowed time

[obsessedwithallthingsbookrelated]

When she might just come out of hiding because she’s furious about the state of Nessian in that HOFAS bonus chapter.

Will be writing to rectify it immediately. Don’t worry huns, I’ve got you and the Cassian that lived rent free and untainted in our minds.

If anyone else wants to run off into E&L land where SJM doesn’t ruin their Nessian paradise, I can assure you there is plenty of room.

@noirshadow will you still be my beta? I think it’s time to dust off my keyboard.

[obsessedwithallthingsbookrelated]

I’m soooo excited🙌🙌

Happy WIP Wednesday! ✨

Here's a snippet from the next chapter of Begged & Borrowed Time, and I know that since it's Valentine's Day I should probably post something soft and romantic, but.... all I have is angst and/or Cassian furiously putting Rhys in his place. So yeah. Here's that instead:

Rhys sighed, taking a step closer. Slowly, carefully, he added, “There’s something… up with her, Cass.” “Up with her,” Cassian echoed, in a voice as that was cold and flat, as desolate as a Winter Court snow plain. He could have sworn his brother cringed. “I can sense something,” Rhys continued. “I don’t know what, exactly. She won’t tell me what happened inside the Cauldron, but—" “Rhys,” Cassian warned, “back off, would you?” “It’s her eyes, Cass. There’s something there, some kind of power she won’t speak of—" “Rhys.”  Cassian fixed his brother with the kind of glare reserved usually for soldiers out of line— the kind that made his entire face harden. He didn’t give a single shit about what Nesta may or may not have emerged from that Cauldron with. It wouldn’t be enough to change anything, to stop him loving her with everything he had left.  “Let her work it out in her own time,” he added gruffly, his tone one that threatened retribution if not flat-out violence.  “We might not have time,” Rhys countered dryly.  Cassian snarled. “I said back off.”

#nessian

[obsessedwithallthingsbookrelated]

As You Wish - Part 1

Nesta has a small procedure and is stuck with Cassian being the one to drive her to and from. Little does she know he's planning on sticking around all day to take care of her.

Warnings: Fluff | Word Count: 2,418 | Read on AO3

Nessian Masterlist

a/n: Written for Day 4 of @sjmromanceweek - Little Things

Beep…beep…beep…

The incessant sound was music to Cassian's ears as he sat by Nesta's bed, the only sign that she was still alive, still breathing.

Her body was entirely motionless. Any movements spreading from the rising and falling of her chest were barely visible from where he was, her back to him. Apparently, the procedure called for her being laid on her side, and they didn't let visitors sit on that side of the bed. The nurses needed access there.

It had Cassian tapping his foot and rubbing his hands against his legs as he waited. She'd been out of the procedure room for over ten minutes now. How much longer was he expected to wait patiently? At what point was he allowed to worry?

He pulled out his phone and texted Az. She's still not awake.

Didn't she just go in? Az asked back, likely over the frequent updates Cassian's been giving. He wasn't allowed in the prep area initially. They'd made him stay in the waiting room until Nesta had gone into the procedure room. Only once she was back out after the procedure did they let him go back there. Likely checking to make sure Nesta felt safe with him.

It was good how the doctors would separate their patients from others and ask about their safety at home. How they'd find a way to ensure the patient had all the control over who was allowed to be with them when and where. He liked that they did that.

He liked even more that he'd been granted access to the prep room once she was back. That she'd allowed him in. Considering how hard Nesta had tried to find someone else to be her ride, he figured she would keep him as far away as possible for as long as possible.

She's been out for at least ten minutes, he typed into his phone. It was his best chance at distraction.

I'm not dignifying that with a response.

Dick.

Cassian rolled his eyes and shoved his phone back into his pocket. Fine, he would wait without any support from his brother. He'd just watch Nesta.

It was one of his favorite pastimes.

Her golden brown hair was pulled back into a messy bun, strands of hair poking out from her hairband. Cassian had nearly lost it when he showed up that morning, seeing Nesta in a hairstyle other than her pristine braided coronet. Her hair was always so immaculate. Even at the end of the day, the wisps of hair that had fallen out of her standard updo always looked purposeful. But this, this was disheveled and honest. It said, 'This procedure is far too early for me to do anything but brush my teeth and put on leggings,' and Cassian loved it. Almost as much as he imagined he'd love her hair down.

Maybe he'd get the chance to see that today, too.

A nurse came to stand at the computer in front of Nesta's bed, checking that and her monitor. "Should be any minute now," she said to Cassian, her eyes relaying the kind smile she was offering him behind her mask. "Remind me who you are? Her boyfriend?"

Cassian's heart fluttered at the comment, the possibility. And nearly broke as he answered honestly, "No, just a friend."

That's all he'd ever been. For years. Sure, he wanted more. He'd be an idiot not to. Nesta was everything he'd ever wanted. Sharp, funny, challenging, devastatingly beautiful. It wasn't for lack of trying, though. He'd been flirting his little heart out since the day he met her three years before. Sometimes she reciprocated, other times she may as well have kneed him in the balls with how she responded. And then there were the times when he showed her all he was, when he took off his funny-guy mask and let her see his true self. And every time she'd offer the same, revealing a soft filling within a shell of iron. It was gorgeous, and gave Cassian the hope everyone told him he was a fool for holding on to.

"I'm sure she's glad you're here," the nurse said in her soft voice. Cassian wasn't so positive. "When she wakes up, she'll likely be a bit disoriented, but she should come to relatively quickly. It wasn't general anesthesia, so her mind won't be too cloudy."

He nodded just as the monitor's beeping quickened slightly. And then her body stirred. It was barely a twitch, but it was some form of movement. A sign of life, of growing consciousness.

Cassian still couldn't see her face, but her head moved a bit, and then the nurse was speaking. "Hey there," she said gently.

Nesta must've opened her eyes to prompt that from the nurse. Right? Those storm cloud eyes that haunted every one of Cassian's dreams. Mother above, he wished she would turn and face him. That he would get to look into those eyes, that perfect face, make sure she was truly okay.

"How are you feeling?" the nurse asked after a long silence.

"Fine," Nesta replied in a sleepy, scratchy voice. "My throat…"

"Yes, it will likely be sore for a day or two," the nurse explained. "If it's still sore by Monday, please let us know. Would you like to try and sit up?"

Cassian watched Nesta's head move up and down. The nurse walked over to the other side of the bed and helped her, adjusting the bed so that the head would be propped up a bit. Nesta grunted softly, as if the movement took more effort than normal. But soon enough she was settled against the pillows and sitting up enough to be able to turn and see him.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice remaining groggy.

He gave her a crooked grin as he said, "You let me in, sweetheart."

Nesta rolled those grey-blue eyes, shaking her head at him. A very Nesta reaction, which likely meant the sedative was wearing off quickly. It warmed Cassian's heart, even as she replied, "Next time, I'm taking the bus."

"Good luck with that," he chuckled. She didn't respond, switching her focus back on to the nurse who was now asking her if she'd like something to eat.

The nurse grabbed her the Cheez-Its Nesta requested after being given a list of the options, and then began chatting with her as she undid the wires and all that was attached to Nesta. "So remember, you'll need to take it easy today. No driving or operating machinery, and you shouldn't work. You should have mild side effects, maybe a bit of bloating. I'd suggest eating smaller meals today. You might feel some slight nausea, but if you can't keep anything down please let your doctor know immediately. But you should be okay, it's one of the reasons we give people some food after the procedure."

Nesta was nodding along, listening fairly intently, but her eyes kept darting to Cassian, who was watching her shamelessly. He didn't care what anyone thought, she was the one who just had the procedure. He could hear the nurse and keep his eyes on Nesta at the same time.

"Once you're ready to get up let me know, we'll leave the space so you can change," the nurse continued. "And then you can go into the office and wait for the doctor."

"I'm ready!" Nesta said, sitting up straighter. The nurse panicked slightly as Nesta started fidgeting with the railing on the bed, attempting to get it to go down.

"Hold on," the nurse sighed, rushing over. "Let me help you." She folded the railing down and then held out a hand for Nesta. At first, Nesta didn't accept the offer of help. But the second her feet were on the floor and she was putting weight on them, she was reaching out for that hand, for a steadying weight. "Sir, if you can wait on the other side of the curtain?"

Cassian let out a small chuckle, gaining Nesta's attention. "Sure you don't want my help, sweetheart?"

"Why don't you go warm up the car," Nesta spewed out, sounding more like a grumpy child than the ice queen she typically perfected.

"As you wish." He bowed his head slightly and then smirked over at her as her eyes narrowed at him. No doubt she was attempting to understand his meaning, to decide if the quote from one of her favorite movies was purposeful.

He was always purposeful with Nesta.

"What are you doing?" Nesta demanded as she saw Cassian turn off the car, remove his seatbelt, and open his door.

"Getting out of the car?" he said in more of a question than a statement. He shut his door again, cars flying past them faster than they should be going in her neighborhood. Philly drivers.

"Why?"

He cocked an eyebrow up at her. "To help you out and get you into your apartment."

"I'm fine Cassian. I don't need your help. I only needed the ride because it was required." And that was the truth. Nesta felt perfectly fine. Maybe a bit hazy. Enough that she could admit to herself she did need someone else driving her home, but she sure as hell wouldn't say that out loud. To Cassian.

She took off her own seatbelt as he shook his head and sighed, "Too bad, sweetheart."

Gods, he moved fast. Before Nesta could step out of the car he was already at her door, holding it open and offering a hand to her. One she certainly did not take. But damn it, she couldn't stop him from grabbing her bag out of his car before she could. He'd likely hold it hostage, force his way into her apartment just so he could annoy her all day.

"Are your keys in here?"

"Don't go through my bag!"

"I never would, Nes," he said as he closed the car door. He let out a mockingly offended scoff. "Without your permission. Though that reaction does make me more curious."

Nesta could've growled at him. Well, sadly, she couldn't, because that wasn't exactly a skill most humans had. But if she could… Perhaps her cat would. Instead, she just snatched the bag out of Cassian's hand, losing her balance for a second. But Cassian was there, a gentle hand at her arm, helping her stay upright. It had Nesta's face heating.

To keep him from seeing that, she fished her keys out of her bag and started toward the door, beginning the dance with her door. Did she get the right key for the right lock? She almost never got it right on the first try, with three identical keys used for the four locks she had to get through. Her landlord sure hadn't made it easy to access her second floor apartment in the converted townhouse.

He stopped her from closing the front door on him, making Nesta roll her eyes. "You really don't have to come in."

"I do," he disagreed. "Someone needs to make sure you get settled and are doing okay today. Make sure you drink enough water. All that."

"Cassian."

"Nesta," he countered. He held her gaze, matching her ice with the fire that was always sparkling in his eyes. Gold flakes danced in the sea of hazel, drawing her in, holding her stare captive.

She took a deep breath, steadying her mind before it danced off into the fantasies she tried to ignore. Then Nesta sighed a small, "Whatever," and turned to open the second door. She ignored the massive grin he put on at her response, already feeling the weight of the sleepiness beginning to build.

It took barely three minutes for Nesta to hang up her coat, remove her shoes, and find herself on her small sectional couch, nestling in to the chaise part. Her cat was even quicker to hop up and snuggle next to her.

Cassian was slower to make his way into the living room. After another few minutes he finally showed up, pillows from her bed in hand. "I thought you might like to have these," he explained, placing them next to Ataraxia, who started at the sudden wind rustling her silver fur.

Nesta nodded her agreement. They'd be useful if she actually decided to lie down.

Cassian walked in front of the couch and grabbed at the handle beneath the mid-section, pulling to bring out the pop-up part that turned the couch into a queen-sized bed. She lifted an eyebrow at him, making him chuckle as he said, "So you can spread out as needed. Are you comfortable? Warm enough?"

"I'm fine, Cassian," she breathed, even as she wrapped her arms around herself.

"Sure you are." He lifted her legs to get the electric blanket from under her feet and then spread it across her. "What setting do you like, again? Four?" Nesta nodded softly, the throes of sleep already setting in. She could feel her eyelids beginning to fall as Cassian clicked the blanket on and fiddled with the settings. "I'm going to do a quick grocery run for you. Anything special you want?"

"I have food," Nesta mumbled.

Cassian let out a chuckle that sent a chill up Nesta's spine. "You have snacks and an absurd amount of chocolate."

It took nearly all her remaining strength to roll her eyes, but it was worth it to display just what she thought of his comments. She was fine on food. So what if she ate take out every night? That just meant she was eating good food every night. But whatever, she was too tired to bother trying to stop Cassian. Though, if he's really here to serve her, she started to realize, she might as well milk it. "Can you get my Comfy before you go?"

The grin on Cassian's face when he handed her the plush, light purple wearable blanket was almost too much for her. The way his eyes crinkled as his lips curled upward, how they seemed to sparkle even brighter. It was the last thing Nesta needed to see. It was the first thing she wanted to see every morning. Traitorous mind.

Nesta snatched the Comfy out of his hands, but his only reply was a soft and kind, "Get some rest. I'll be back before you wake." He really needed to stop doing that.

She'd barely gotten the blanket on before sleep completely took over.

@live-the-fangirl-life @generalnesta @secretlovelybeauty @julemmaes @boredserpent @autumnbabylon @moodymelanist @sv0430 @nesquik-arccheron @gwynrielsupremacy @katekatpattywack @moonstoneriver77 @swankii-art-teacher @lemonade-coolattas @emily-gsh @my-fan-side @champanheandluxxury @imsointobooks @sayosdreams @simpingfornestaarcheron @perseusannabeth @shinya-hiiragi @a-court-of-milkandhoney @pintas3107 @embersofwildfire @superspiritfestival @thewayshedreamed @lunabean @xstarlightsupremex @mis-lil-red @wannawriteyouabook @dealfea @bridgertononmymind @daydreamer-anst @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens @hiimheresworld @c-e-d-dreamer @kale-theteaqueen @charming-butt-insane @charliespringsleftconverse

a/n: Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list!

There will be a part 2 to this. This was meant to be just a one shot, but someone is bad at time management and she wanted to get something posted on the right day. XD

#nessian

[obsessedwithallthingsbookrelated]

Would u consider a fic where nesta attempts to leave Cassian/separates herself from a him a bit- doesn’t speak to him, doesn’t sleep in the same bed etc (after the recent events in Hofas) because I feel like he’s never actually recieved any sort of consequence for constantly choosing Rhys’s side over nestas and I NEED him punished. Your mating bond ain’t gonna save u now buddy boy.

I took some creative liberties as always, but here you are!

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30357864/chapters/135580333

Teaser:

Nesta and Cassian trained in silence for three days. If the priestesses noticed the icy wall between them, the lack of charged smirks and challenging grins, then they didn’t comment. 

Feyre felt horrible. Nesta knew she had spoken mind to mind with Cassian late 2 nights ago. It was like feeling an intruder just outside the gates of their bond whenever she or Rhys did that. And Nesta knew it was Feyre. Knew she was apologizing and cursing out Rhys, and possibly Cassian as well, for sending Nesta back inside her own head.

Except that she wasn’t.

For once, Nesta was not rending herself apart from the inside out. For once, Cassian’s disappointment was not a dagger to the heart of everything she was and might ever hope to be.

Nesta was calm. Certain. Entirely at home inside of the choices she had made and the reasons she had made them.

#nessian #nessian fanfiction #hofas

[obsessedwithallthingsbookrelated]

I would read anything you write, I’m js..

New One-shot: A Different Kind of Weapon

Three weeks have passed since Rhys and Nesta's latest fight. It's time to have a real conversation about it. (no CC3 spoilers, but ... we all know what the fight was about)

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30357864/chapters/135505468

Teaser:

Nesta snorted. “You want to make sure I’m not going to run away in my rage and take your brother with me?”

Rhys met her unreadable stare with one of his own. “You do not do well when you feel caged in.”

“The time to realize that was a year ago,” Nesta spat.

“I know you think I am power hungry and cruel.” He said and Nesta did not deny it. “That I scream and throw the weight of my power around for selfish gain. And you are not wrong.” He shrugged. Rhysand had never once hidden what he was. Neither had Nesta. Perhaps it was why they were in a constant, silent battle. “I have my reasons for what I do.”

“If you pick a piece of invisible lint off your collar and try to say we aren’t so different I will slice your arm off.” 

#nesta archeron #hofas #rhysand

[obsessedwithallthingsbookrelated]

Begged & Borrowed Time (xxvii, ao3)

(Chapter twenty-seven: In the House of Wind, Nesta has a run in with not one, but two members of the Inner Circle.) (Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

“Here. I brought these for you.”

Mor’s bracelets clinked, chiming like silver bells as she held out her hands.

A small pile of folded fabric lay balanced evenly in her palms, like some kind of offering, and as she thrust her hands forwards, her voice was bright, a melodic peal through the hushed silence of Elain’s room. Deep reds and bright pinks shone in the sunlight that streamed through the wide windows, sliding over the thin silks and satins that made something deep inside Nesta’s chest begin to crumble.

Mor had brought them clothes.

No matter that it was a gift Nesta did not want, or that it came a day too late to matter.

A smile graced Mor’s lovely face, and if the corners of her crimson mouth faltered - if the sincerity of that smile wavered for just a heartbeat - then she masked it quickly, the gold of her earrings gleaming in the harsh light as her head tilted a fraction— the only indication that the blonde was losing her patience.

But what did Nesta care?

Where had Rhysand’s cousin been yesterday, she wondered, when Nesta had woken alone? Where had she been then, when Nesta had to piece together the small fragments of herself that remained, barely able to stomach rising from bed long enough to find her sister?

Too late— Mor had come too late, and Nesta didn’t have it in her to feign appreciation.

She had barely left Elain’s bedside since waking, and seated at the foot of that bed now, she didn’t have it in her speak or move either. She only eyed that pile of fabric with a kind of disdain she knew flickered plainly across her face. 

The silence deepened, interrupted only by the whisper of the wind from beyond the windows, but Nesta still didn’t - couldn’t - bother to break it. The blonde across from her let out a barely discernible huff; a soft exhale sharpened by displeasure.

Didn’t she understand, Nesta thought as she looked once more at that pile of borrowed clothes, how much strength it took to speak? How much energy it would take - energy she did not have - to explain that to wear the dresses Mor offered would be like being thrown in the Cauldron all over again, another thread of her humanity severed? 

The satin seemed to shimmer, and Nesta pressed her lips together, feeling ire rising in her chest. 

Just clothes— they were just clothes. And yet her throat tightened as she thought of the plunging necklines and slits to the thigh that Mor seemed to be so fond of. Whatever Nesta had left, whatever scraps remained of the life she had dared, once, to call her own… they would shatter with those clothes. With the acknowledgement that this was her place now, resolutely above the wall. She couldn’t escape the feeling that the moment she donned one of those dresses, it would be recognition, on her part, that the Cauldron had broken her apart just to fit her into a Night Court mould.

Slowly, a frown crept into Mor’s brow. The silence grew stilted and awkward, and her brown eyes flickered, like she couldn’t understand why Nesta wasn’t lurching forwards to snatch her proffered gifts. Those eyes turned flat, shoving the pile closer, and when she spoke, her words had an edge as sharp as any blade.

“I thought you might be tired of wearing the old nightgowns the House keeps in the wardrobes,” she said tightly, nodding pointedly to the nightgown Nesta had, indeed, found in the wardrobe. 

She hadn’t paused to wonder where the nightwear came from. She had merely opened the doors to the wardrobe in the corner of the room she had awoken in and found it empty, save for a pile of nightgowns on a low shelf. In shades of silver and blue, with long sleeves and a neckline that was flattering but not daring in the least, they were much more palatable to her than the crimson Mor offered now. 

Still, Nesta said nothing. 

Mor’s smile fell away entirely. Her lips pursed, the bracelets at her wrists clattering as she dropped the pile of clothes onto the foot of Elain’s bed.

Nesta only lifted her head to meet the blonde’s unwavering stare as Mor crossed her arms over her chest. 

There had been no gentle greeting from Rhysand’s cousin. No acknowledgement that Nesta’s life had been taken and broken and bent out of shape. No, Mor had swept in and looked at Nesta sitting on the edge of Elain’s bed, and chirped a bright hello, like her joy wasn’t an assault to every one of Nesta’s newfound senses. In what was probably some attempt at lightening the atmosphere, Mor had swept irreverently into the room and held out those clothes, hardly noticing that what she offered was neither gift nor kindness. 

And at some point it had turned into a battle of wills that Nesta did not have the strength for, one that Mor had already resolved to win. Nesta saw it in the way the blonde’s spine stiffened as she stood there, waiting for Nesta to do something, to say something. 

She would not leave. 

So Nesta relented.

Still holding tight to her silence, her eyes fell to the pile lying on the bed beside her. She flicked her gaze back to Rhysand’s cousin, who gave her a small, terse nod as a menial smile forced its way back onto those painted red lips. She dropped her folded arms and clasped her hands together, rings clinking against one another as she interlinked her fingers. 

Lifting the first dress gingerly from the pile, Nesta felt her heart sink, even as not a single lick of surprise coursed through her. The neckline was deep and plunging, an arrow that would cut right down the centre of her chest. The fabric clung to her fingers, and every sense of mortal propriety seemed to shudder as she held that slip of deep red fabric. She might have felt colour rise to her cheeks, if she hadn’t been so entirely hollowed out. Instead, she looked blandly at the dress dangling in her hand. 

“Is this Night Court fashion, then?” 

Her voice was hoarse, as if it had gone unused for a century, and it was more flat than it had ever been before, like there was simply no emotion, no warmth, left within her. 

Mor’s smile faltered. “Yes.”

Nesta blinked— like the blonde’s false happiness was an affront in this room, this place, where Elain still slept and where Nesta was trying hard to mend the cracks in her broken soul.

“I don’t want your handmedowns,” she said curtly, letting the dress fall back into the pile at the foot of her sister’s bed. The fabric pooled there, silken. 

Mor only sighed heavily, all pretence falling away as she threw up her hands in exasperation.

“None of us have the time to go shopping for you,” she said flatly. “Do you even understand what happened in that throne room? How much shit we are trying to deal with—“ She cut herself off with a hiss, shaking her head. She took a single steadying breath, and tucked her blonde hair behind one arched ear. “Perhaps you should take what we can spare and be grateful.”

“Grateful,” Nesta echoed.

Mor flinched, as though realising too late how poor her words were. Her eyes dropped to the carpet beneath her feet, some kind of regret flickering swiftly across her face. But if Nesta expected an apology to drop from those painted lips…

Mor only let her face soften before looking to the bed, to Elain lying still in the centre, covered in blankets as she slept.

In all the hours that had passed since Nesta had opened her eyes yesterday, Elain had woken only once, and her gaze had been so flat that icy terror had swept down Nesta’s spine. Her sister had made no move to rise from that bed, only lay there, staring at the ceiling as a single tear slipped slowly down her cheek. Nesta had brushed her shoulder, asked her ten, twenty different questions that went ignored before she began pleading with Elain instead, imploring her to say something, anything. 

Elain hadn’t even looked at her, as though she were so divorced from this new reality that sound and light and feeling meant nothing to her.

Mor scanned Elain’s face now, noting the bloodless cheeks. “How is she?”

“Sleeping,” Nesta answered tightly. Her tone added an obviously that went unspoken. 

Mor didn’t answer, and in the silence that followed, Nesta watched the blonde bite her tongue so hard it was a wonder she didn’t draw blood. Her eyes drifted to the clock on a low table against the wall, and Nesta knew that she was wondering if she had done enough to justify leaving yet— if she could later say, hand on heart, that she had turned up and tried her best to help. 

Never mind that all she’d done was stride into Elain’s bedroom and offer Nesta a pile of dresses she could never wear. 

A moment passed, and with it Mor apparently decided that, yes, she had fulfilled enough of whatever duty it was that had brought her here in the first place. 

“If you need anything,” she said as she straightened her spine, brushing a hand down her front as she looked towards the door, “ask the House. It will make food for you.”

Nesta made herself nod. She remembered, once, how Cassian had told her the House had magic. How it might bring them breakfast in bed.

The memory hurt, now. Scorched that part of her she was trying and failing to heal.

Cassian.

His name clanged through her, echoing through the hollow space where her heart lay cracked behind her ribs. It bleated, a sharp and insistent pang that had her feeling weak, like if she so much as tried to stand, she would crumble. 

And even though Nesta wanted Mor gone - unable to stand the silent judgement in her eyes - as the blonde turned away, her hand closing around the door handle, Nesta rose from the bed so quickly her head spun. Her knees shook, and she gripped the curving iron rail at the foot of the bed, fingers closing tight, because it was the only thing keeping her standing. 

She inhaled once— a quick, sharp breath to steady herself for the question she knew she needed to ask, and for the answer she was already dreading.

“Wait,” she said, her voice rough. “Where is he?”

Mor stilled, her hand falling away from the door. Nesta’s brow furrowed, weighed with anguish.

“How is he?”

She didn’t specify who. Didn’t think she’d need to. 

A beat passed, strained and heavy, and Nesta’s heart thundered as Mor glanced over her shoulder.

“He lives,” Mor said tightly, though her tone added an unspoken no thanks to you, and Nesta didn’t fail to notice that she’d avoided the first question— as though, for whatever reason, the Morrigan did not like the claim Nesta had on Cassian, nor the claim he had on her.

But she didn’t care, not as relief swarmed in her veins, some weight lifted from her shoulders like a shaft of brilliant sunlight through the darkest of storm clouds. He was alive— at the very least, he was alive. Her heart seemed to skip a beat or two, but before she could ask again where the general - her general - had been taken, Mor had turned away, slipping through the door and closing it firmly behind her. 

She was gone, and in her wake, the pile of dresses remained at the foot of Elain’s bed, untouched.

***

A firm hand on her shoulder awoke her the next day.

Nesta jerked awake at the touch, dragged roughly from the uneasy sleep that had plagued her since the sun had set.

Cassian. She had been dreaming of Cassian, and as the dream faded - taking with it the sound of his agonised screams and the feel of his blood slipping through her fingers - Nesta dared to hope, for one foolish moment, that she would open her eyes and find that the fingers curling around her shoulder now were his.

But—

“Nesta.”

She started, heart hammering as those cold fingers drew away. 

Cassian’s hands had never been cold. 

Never, not even that night in the rain, when they had both of them been soaked through. 

The touch retreated, Nesta’s heart sinking to new depths as awareness slowly began to filter back in. She heard a clipped apology, words that were distant and strained. Somehow she had fallen asleep last night kneeling by Elain’s bed, her arms folded on the mattress, her cheek resting on top. Those dresses still lay in a crumpled pile at the foot of the bed, and, turning, Nesta found not Cassian but Rhysand standing above her. 

He looked like hell.

She had never seen the High Lord looking even slightly ruffled before, not even in Hybern’s throne room when everything had gone south. No, even then he had radiated some kind of flawless, arrogant grace. 

But all of that was gone now.

He looked tired, worn. His eyes were dark, no stars there at all, and his usually immaculate hair looked as though he’d spent too many sleepless nights running his fingers through it. Tension bracketed his mouth, and when he looked at her, he did not smile. He was drawn and pale, like he had been cut off from half of himself. 

Do you understand what happened in that throne room, Mor had spat yesterday. How much shit we are trying to deal with. 

Whatever it was, it had Rhysand looking like his entire world had ceased to spin, and as Nesta looked at her sister’s mate, she had to wonder what exactly Feyre had done to allow their escape from that castle. 

Somehow, she didn’t think Feyre had made it back to the Night Court yet. 

But before she could demand answers, Rhysand clicked his fingers, and from thin air another bundle of fabric appeared, one he balanced in one hand. 

“Clothes,” he explained as Nesta rose from her spot by the bed and straightened the clean nightgown she had pulled from the wardrobe last night. “Mor said you didn’t like the others.”

His eyes alighted on the dresses in question, still in the exact same place Mor had left them. Elain had lain so still she hadn’t disturbed them, and Nesta had already resolved not to touch them again. 

Rhysand held out the replacements, and though every single nerve she had told her to dig in her heels and resist, there was something about him - something that seemed half as broken as she felt - that had her taking the pile he offered. He dipped his chin in a nod as she sank onto the mattress by Elain’s hip, resting the bundle in her lap. There was no silk this time at least. Thin cotton met her instead, and something gauzy and sheer. 

Rhysand folded his hands behind his back, eyes flicking to Elain as Nesta silently unfolded the dress that lay at the top of that pile. Except… 

It wasn’t a dress. 

Loose pants unfolded before her - she’d never worn pants in her life - with cuffed ankles, and a low waist that made her shudder. Her mouth turned dry, a sigh leaving her as she plucked up a cropped top with sheer sleeves that would leave the skin at her midriff entirely bare. 

Gods, this was even worse than the dresses. 

She let the top flutter to her lap, half of her bucking against it, half of her wanting to weep.

She didn’t want this. Didn’t want any of this.

Wordless, broken, she let the remainder of the clothes Rhysand had brought them lie before her, untouched. 

And at her lack of thanks, her lack of gratitude, Rhysand’s face tightened further still. 

No, Nesta would not wear these clothes either.

She’d sooner stay in nightgowns. There were, at least, a generous pile of those folded in the wardrobe in the other room, a pile that seemed to constantly replenish itself. Like the House itself knew better than to give her any of the Night Court fashion it surely kept on hand. 

Rhysand’s disapproval radiated from him in waves, his hand tightening into a fist.

She wanted to laugh— might have, had she not felt so empty. 

He was unimpressed with her. 

Never mind that she had no idea what had happened in the days since Hybern—what had happened to Cassian, or Feyre, or Azriel. Never mind that she and Elain had just been left up here, not knowing where they were or how they’d gotten there. Nesta had been left to figure it out herself in those first few hours after waking, and still he had the nerve to look at her like that?

Heat built in her veins, a pressure that made her fingers twitch.

Rhysand’s eyes widened as he tilted his head and looked at her, a spark in the violet at last. She sensed something— some skittering across her skin, like she could feel his magic searching, assessing her. 

“What happened?” he breathed, leaning forwards. “That night— what happened.”

It wasn’t a question exactly— wasn’t voiced with any sort of gentleness. His voice was quiet, but it carried with it a dominance that said he expected to be answered. Nesta bristled.

Apathy warred with rage; stunning numbness competing with an anger so strong it began to burn.

“They took us,” she answered bluntly.

“Yes, but…” He trailed off, sighing as Nesta scowled, folding her arms over her chest. “What was it like in there? Inside the Cauldron?”

She didn’t answer.

Nothing in the world could make her answer that question to satisfy his curiosity.

Nothing in the whole. fucking. world. 

There were flashes in her memory— the cold and crushing dark, a whisper through the void as her bones were shattered and remade. The Cauldron was a crucible that had forged her into something else, something other, and as something in her chest began to pound, that new ache flared once more in her fingertips. Something cold swept through her, a shadow of the burning the Cauldron had forced through her. Whatever it was, Rhysand sensed it. 

His eyes widened a little with something that might have been concern, but she wasn't fool enough to think it was for her. No, it seemed unnervingly like concern for what she might do. 

What had he glimpsed in her that had him studying her so intently now?

She had felt the fire burning under her skin; what had it etched across her face?

She thought of the silver in her eyes she’d glimpsed in the mirror. Was that what the High Lord saw now? 

“Really, Nesta. What happened in there?” His eyes scanned her again, wary. “What were you given?” 

Nesta clenched her fists, praying it might bank the heat in her veins. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

He studied her again for another long minute before he drew back, eyes sliding over her as he took a step away, shaking his head and letting his raven hair brush his forehead almost haphazardly. The shadows beneath his eyes seemed to deepen. 

But Nesta was done answering questions— done being the one left in the dark. As the heat at her fingers began to fade, the fire in her chest dimming, she took a step closer and met his dark-eyed gaze.

“Feyre,” she said firmly, watching as her sister’s name spoken aloud made the High Lord close his eyes. Like he didn’t have the strength to bear it. “Where is she?” 

Rhysand swallowed. Nesta tracked the movement of his throat, watched him slowly open those violet eyes, an ocean of anguish there in place of the usual stars. 

“Spring,” he said, his voice detached. “She went to Spring. To give us the chance we needed to get out.” He paused, swallowed once more, like the words were shards of glass, tearing his throat. “She’ll come home once she’s learned everything she needs to about Hybern’s plans.”

Stone faced, Nesta looked at the man her sister had bound herself to. 

“She left Tamlin— because of what he did to her, and now you’re happy to leave her there? Alone?”

“Happy?” Rhysand sneered, lip curling back over his teeth. “Do I look happy to you?”

No. No, he didn’t.

So Nesta merely huffed, clenching her jaw as she shut it tight. 

She did not remember much from those last moments in that throne room. She had been on her knees, staring across the space at Cassian and the blood that had pooled around him. She had been gripping Elain’s hand so hard that, had they not just been thrown into the Cauldron and robbed of their humanity, she might have broken bones. Words and sound and speech had been lost to her. She hadn’t paid attention to anything as the wards had shattered. 

“And Cassian?” she demanded next, forcing her voice to steady as she lifted her chin. Still, it trembled. “Where is he?”

Rhysand was silent a moment, as though, like Mor, he too would rather leave her question unanswered.

That cold heat threatened to gather once more in her palms, but Nesta ignored it, forced it down as she looked, unblinking, at the High Lord. He made no move to speak, instead looked her up and down with those starless, violet eyes. But when his gaze reached her chest…

Something there pulled sharply, so hard it almost stole her breath. Rhysand might have looked like hell, but he wasn’t the only one. Nesta felt it too, every part of her begging to seek out the only one who had ever really bothered to see her for who she was. 

Cassian. 

Her heartbeat stuttered, that tugging making its beat uneven, and she thought Rhysand might have heard it because he lowered his gaze and nodded once, like he knew what it was, too, to feel that insistent beat.

“He’s healing,” he answered at last. 

“Where.”

He sighed. “Here.” He waved to the ceiling. “His room is a floor above.”

Nesta nodded curtly, but unlike the day before, there was no flood of relief waiting to engulf her. Something about the darkness in Rhysand’s eyes, the concern there he couldn’t mask as he said Cassian was still healing…

All this time, he had been just a floor above her, and yet he had not come to find her. In her heart she knew that if Cassian were able, he would have been at her bedside already. Would have stopped her from waking alone. That he hadn’t was enough to have dread raking its icy fingers down her spine, clawing at the composure she fought so hard to keep intact. 

“He’s been sleeping for a few days,” Rhysand added carefully.

“Is that normal?” 

“When the body needs to heal wounds as severe as his, yes.” 

Severe. How severe? 

Nesta thought she might have stopped breathing altogether. Her chest felt tight, like the air was too thin and her lungs wouldn’t work— but Rhysand’s eyes softened a fraction, like he understood, at last, how it felt to feel so utterly at sea. His gaze didn’t turn warm - far from it - but there was something like begrudging respect there, an unwilling admission that Nesta really did mean something to the warrior sleeping above. 

And as Rhysand turned to leave, halting just before he reached the door, he turned his head and murmured,

“Third door on the left.”

***

It was hours before she had the strength to leave that room.

To walk that hallway, climb those stairs.

After all - some small voice whispered, one that sounded disconcertingly like her mother - what if he didn’t even want her there, at his side as he slept? After all, it was in defence of her and Elain that Cassian had surely lost the soldiers he had sent to guard their father’s manor. It was in defence of her that he had spat at the king of Hybern and been injured so greatly he still hadn’t woken. What if his wings were so permanently damaged he would never fly again? How could he bear to face her?

Nesta had done her best to ignore it, to shove that voice down as far as it would go, but as she stood before that third door, innocuous and plain, it surged again, and it took Nesta more than a moment to find the will to turn the handle.

Because it was more than just Cassian— more than whether or not he could stand to see her.

She was different now, too, that voice whispered. 

So entirely different from who she had been before. Mama had always said that nobody liked her sharp edges, that no man could ever withstand them, and though Nesta had never once dulled herself around Cassian… the Cauldron had made those edges even sharper, and somehow she wasn’t so sure now that Cassian could endure it.

Endure her.

She wasn’t even sure she could. 

Beside her, set into the wall to light the dim hallway, a little orb of light glowed in a glass bowl, flaring slightly in a soft pulse that seemed to be encouraging, somehow. As if the House itself sensed her hesitation and urged her forwards.

She paused, shaking her head and bracing a palm flat against the wood of the door.

The little light flared once more, brighter now.

The message was clear enough— so before she could think twice about it, Nesta turned that handle and opened that door. 

She was met instantly by the cloying smell of aniseed and healing liniment, and straight ahead on a small table beneath the window lay myriad jars and containers that she assumed contained ointments and antiseptics, all sorts of healing potions. Beside them was a roll of crisp white bandages.

But Nesta’s attention glanced off of that table; slid away from it like water sliding from a roof. 

It went, instead, to him.

Like a moth to a flame, her eyes found him. In the almighty bed sitting directly across from the windows - like when he had arranged this room, he had wanted the sky to be the first thing he saw each morning - he lay there, motionless, one hand resting on his chest and wings spread wide on either side of him, wrapped in bandages and held together with splints.

And whatever was left of her broken heart…

It cracked all over again as a splintered gasp escaped her, one borne of horror and grief and desolation. 

It was worse than she had imagined— so much worse. 

The bottom half of his wings were encased entirely by bandages, and though somebody had cleaned the blood from his hands, his face, Nesta saw the ghost of it still, saw his fingers slipping in puddles of it as he dragged himself along that stone floor. Her heart thundered behind her ribs, rioting as though the sight of him like this wounded her as deeply as the Cauldron itself. 

She swallowed past the lump in her throat, and as she lingered there, too afraid to step any closer, those wings twitched— as if he sensed her there, somehow. The talons crowning the tips glinted, the bandages whispering against the sheets, and a soft, pained groan slipped between his lips, like even that small movement had cost him dearly. 

“Fool,” she whispered, drifting to his side. His wings settled, ceasing their quivering.

But he didn’t wake. No matter how much Nesta longed to see those hazel eyes, to hear his voice, he didn’t wake. 

Night had fallen completely by now, and in the soft glow of the light on his bedside table, every scar he had was thrown into terrible, stark relief. His bare chest rose and fell evenly, but there was a hitch to his breath and a rasp in his throat, and the light didn’t just fall on that golden-brown skin scattered with old scars. It illuminated the pile of painkillers and sleeping aids that lay on his bedside too.

The king had done this.

Had broken her and had broken Cassian too, and one day, Nesta swore quietly in the silence and seclusion of Cassian’s sickroom, she would make him regret everything that happened in that damned throne room. 

Cassian shifted again, as if he really could sense her there despite his unconsciousness. On the back of his hand, his siphon began to glow. 

Instinctively, Nesta reached out and swept back the hair that had fallen across his brow, letting her fingers brush across his forehead. The crease there smoothed beneath her touch, his breathing growing deeper, smoother. She tucked an errant curl behind one of his rounded ears— the ear he had once said was exactly like her own. 

The memory stung, like salt in an open wound.

My ears are almost identical to yours, he’d whispered in the darkness of her father’s study, his teeth catching her earlobe after she’d dared to suggest he had bat ears.

They weren’t identical, not anymore.

She was different now, and as she watched him sleep she began to mourn all over again, because even though she’d let him in before, she wasn’t sure she could stand to let him in again— to let him see just how twisted she had become inside that Cauldron, how warped she was with anger and grief and rage.

She didn’t think he’d laugh and tease her now, either. How could he? She wasn’t the same girl that had gone into the Cauldron.

Nesta Archeron had died.

Her heart had stopped - she had felt it - and whoever she was now, it was a world away from the girl who had walked that road shrouded in fog and felt her heart swell when the warrior before her pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

But he was alive.

Despite it all, Cassian was alive, his heartbeat steady, and Nesta clung to that and that alone, letting it ground her in a way that nothing else could. 

His fingers twitched— just once, just barely, but it seemed like he might try to reach for her, to hold her hand in the dark. Blindly Nesta slipped her fingers between his, wishing she could close her eyes and go back to the way things were before.

She didn’t know how long she stayed there, like that. Hours must have passed, but she didn’t sleep— instead she only watched him breathe, feeling the warmth of his hand against hers, cherishing each and every thud of his still-beating heart. Only when the sky began to lighten did she pull away, and as she slipped from that bedroom, unable to bear much more, she only looked back once to the warrior sleeping soundly now in his bed, the hair at his forehead smoothed back by her touch.

She didn’t whisper a goodbye as she went, only let the door close silently behind her.

***

It was her own room that Nesta made her way back to. 

Not Elain’s— not this time.

After so long spent at Cassian’s side, she simply didn’t think she could stand to see her sister lying there, unwilling or unable to wake. Didn’t think she had it in her to stand vigil over someone else she cared for, like the only living soul in a house filled with ghosts. 

The walls pushed in, the silence complete and suffocating. 

She barely managed to close the door of her room before her knees gave out. Sinking to the floor, back against the wall, she let her head drop. 

All her fault.

All of this was her fault, in one way or another.

She should have insisted she and Elain go to Velaris when Rhysand first offered, should have stopped Elain from ever being thrown into that Cauldron. She shouldn’t have ever let Cassian in, let herself feel something for him, because he hadn’t thought twice about throwing himself into that blast, had stepped forward to help her when the king had brought them into that throne room. 

She shook her head, tears threatening to spill.

Her eyes caught the scar by her thumb, the one that, somehow, the Cauldron had left behind. Suddenly Nesta’s chest was cleaved apart by sobs, that scar just another reminder of all she had failed in. 

She had never been good enough for her mother or her grandmother— had failed them both by marrying so low, by letting Tomas put that ring on her finger. And they were just the first in the long list of people she had failed, every barbed retort and every venomous word they had ever slung her way repeating now as she let the darkness swallow her. They were right— her mother, her grandmother, her unfortunate husband. All of them were right. There was nothing she could do that could set right all of her mistakes. 

With that thought, fire rose within her. Ice snaked through her blood just as it had done before, when Rhysand had looked at her with trepidation in his eyes. It burned, and with the cold came a surging terror, her hands beginning to shake as she tried to force it down. Heat kissed her palms as she shut her eyes tight against the onslaught. 

No— no, no, no.

She pushed it away, forced it back down.

It went— oh, it went, but it burned, clawing to remain, fighting her every step of the way until her bones hurt. With gritted teeth Nesta doused that fire, smothered the hoarfrost in her chest. At last it retreated, faded, and in the grey light Nesta took a shuddering breath, one hand lifting to her chest as if hoping it might calm her racing heart. 

It didn’t.

Her breaths were shallow, her head spinning.

And yet, as she began to fall apart, a candle suddenly flared to life across the room. Not one of those magic orbs of light that decorated the hallways and the walls, but a real candle, one that she didn’t think had been there before. She hadn’t asked, hadn’t said a word, and yet somehow the House had known that she needed the darkness to break, needed something solid and real.

Her tears halted, even as she struggled to wrap her head around how casual the magic of the House was. She hadn’t thought it would be like this, but it was comforting somehow, a touch familiar, like there was something about it that was kin and kith to her. 

A box of tissues appeared beside her.

Curling her knees to her chest, Nesta lifted her eyes to the ceiling, whispering a soft, “Thank you.”

A new low, she mused bitterly. Talking to a house. 

A tap began running in the bathroom, but Nesta shook her head once, sharp and definitive.

“No bath,” she said, trying her best to ignore the way her chest tightened, the fear that crept in at the sound of the water. The great porcelain bath was a world away from the inside of the Cauldron, and yet… “I can’t.”

Immediately the tap stopped.

A blanket appeared next to her instead, large and soft and scented with lavender. A book came next, materialising out of thin air as Nesta blinked, her tears banished by surprise.

The House was trying to… comfort her, she realised.

She blinked once more, as if expecting this to be some illusion, a trick her mind played on her. But the blanket remained there, the book beside it, and with the wall at her back, Nesta didn’t bother to rise but instead pulled the blanket towards her and covered her legs. It was the only thing that had felt soft against her sensitive skin, the only thing that had brought her a kernel of warmth that didn’t seem to burn, and with a trembling hand Nesta reached for the book.

For the first time since the Cauldron, she almost wanted to smile when she saw the title. It was a sad smile, small and tentative, but the corner of her lips just barely lifted, and she sniffed as she pulled the book into her lap.

It was a romance, as though the House already knew what she liked.

“Thank you,” she said again

The candle flame flared— a silent you’re welcome.

Taglist: @hiimheresworld @highladyofillyria @wannawriteyouabook @infiremetotakeachonce @melphss @hereforthenessian @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @the-lost-changeling @valkyriesupremacy @that-little-red-head @sv0430

[obsessedwithallthingsbookrelated]

Begged & Borrowed Time (xxvi, ao3)

(Chapter twenty six: In the aftermath of Hybern, Nesta wakes at the House of Wind.) (Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

The darkness spoke to her like a lover, at first.

Softly, low and edged with promise, it hummed as the water closed above her head and it forced its way inside. It murmured like it might lay the world at her feet as icy fingers pressed against her skin and scratched at her soul. It spoke her name— the Cauldron spoke her name within its depths, as though it were a fragment of something substantial lost in the abyss, whispered through the cold. 

Nesta.

Nesta.

Nesta.

It echoed— in the void, where time and space and air and light could not find them. On and on and on, endless it stretched as she kicked and thrashed and cried and fought, until the whispering voice inside her mind turned into a hiss.

And then, in the black, everything began to burn. 

Burned like ice as her veins expanded, collapsed, and through every eddy and swirl she felt it— felt the Cauldron’s hunger, how desperately it wanted to devour her. It swarmed, knifed against her throat and punctured her skin, and though she opened her mouth to scream, there was nothing— a deep and empty nothing with all the silence of a grave. She didn’t know which way was up, couldn’t find a way free, and as that cold, cold water began to boil her blood, she screamed in earnest as she drowned. It was death and destruction and a breaking so brutal that through the silence Nesta could hear her bones snap as the Cauldron swept inside her, forcing the way until its essence was snaking through her veins, smothering and strangling and stopping her heart until there was nothing left. 

Nothing.

Everything ended; everything ceased.

She didn’t know how long had passed— whether the Cauldron had taken a moment or an eternity to cleave her from her humanity. It felt like the latter, and when her heart started to beat again, it hurt. Shards of ice radiated from her chest, and every pulse was a hammer against new-formed ribs threatening to shatter, a physical pain that burrowed deep into every single bone, every muscle torn and every nerve frayed. And as the icy depths of the Cauldron broke her apart…

Nesta Archeron found her fury.

It was the kind of molten, incandescent rage that filled the gaps in her broken bones, and with teeth and nails and a scream not a soul could hear, Nesta writhed in the nothingness, searching for something to hold onto— something to cleave apart with her fingers.

The Cauldron had broken her— and she wanted to make it break, too.

Her chest caved with the force of the scream that left her, and as the cold water forced its way down her throat still she clawed and grasped, until she felt something irrevocable snap beneath her fingers. As she begged for death, something fundamental sundered, something ripped as she thrashed, and this time… she didn’t think it was her bones snapping.

The water swirled and twisted, turned violent.

The Cauldron didn’t whisper her name now. It shouted— it screamed, and still intent on breaking her, it grew colder. Crueller. The darkness shifted, churned, and then—

Light.

After an age of pain and screaming, there was light— breaking through, painful and bright - far too bright - and the world tilted as Nesta was tipped from that Cauldron and thrown onto the cold stone floor. As if no time had passed, as if nothing had changed. The darkness slipped away, leaving only a shadow of itself inside her veins, and as she tried to breathe her lungs ached. 

The burning was everywhere now, as though it had become part of her.

And in that puddle of dark water, her world fractured and broke apart all over again as she tasted blood, smelled it in the air. A familiar voice drowning in its own agony whispered her name, and as Nesta lifted her head, she realised with terrible, terrifying clarity that this was real, not a dream or a nightmare but real, and that was real blood coating the stone floor. His blood, his voice, his—

***

With a start, she woke.

A dream— an awful, terrible dream.

Blinking against the morning light, she stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling and listened to the silence as the dream faded. 

No— not silence.

She could hear the wind. Could hear birds singing distant songs and far away - far, far away - the crashing of the ocean. The light still hurt her eyes, unadjusted and ill-equipped, and as she lay there, in a strange bed in a strange bedroom, wrapped in sheets she knew ought to have been as soft as silk… 

They scratched against her too-sensitive skin, sliding across her bare arms as she sat up. She didn’t recognise the nightgown she wore, the material a kind of satin that felt as uncomfortable as the sheets. Everything was sharp, too sharp, like the keen edge of a knife. Even the air felt different. Tasted different— like it, too, was sharper somehow. Crisper. 

She shifted, extending a hand to shove away those damned sheets.

But the movement was too fluid— her limbs longer, her skin smoother. Foreign, it all felt so foreign, like her mind didn’t recognise her body anymore. 

Horror crept up her spine and coiled within her as she glanced around the unfamiliar bedroom once more, taking in the plush carpets and the sound of civilisation beyond the walls. She ran a hand over her hair, her cheeks, her ears—

Her ears.

Not a dream.

It hadn’t been a dream at all.

Nesta felt the tips of her ears, tracing the new arch there that served as a brutal reminder that everything she’d relived in her dreams was real. As her hand fell away, she couldn’t help the sob that tore from her chest. Her throat was raw, her voice weak from disuse, but her cries left her anyway as she wrenched herself from that bed and stumbled to the dressing table and mirror sitting along the opposite wall. When she looked into the glass, she stilled.

Feyre might have been made beautiful by immortality, but it had made a stranger of Nesta.

Her hair was longer, its colour brighter, and left unbound it lay in a curtain across her neck, made even more elegant by the loss of her humanity. She pushed her hair back, revealing her ears, and catching sight of those pointed tips…

Her tears came thicker, faster.

Silver glinted in the mirror, a flash in her eyes that had Nesta’s heart skipping a beat— skipping several. They were almost the same, her eyes. Almost the same blue-grey as before, the same as her mother’s. And yet— beneath, there was silver writhing there, ribbons of it encircling her irises.

Something else seemed to twist beneath her skin too, something as cold as ice that burned like fire, and it made her fingertips twitch with unease as she looked in that mirror and watched her tears slip down unfamiliar cheeks. 

Feyre had been granted immortality and emerged with a whole host of extra gifts, and when Nesta had been inside that god-forsaken Cauldron she had felt something come away in her hands, some part of it she had taken for her own, and as she looked at that silver in her eyes, felt that burning in her fingers—

She forced the thought away— pushing herself away from that dressing table so hard the mirror rattled.

Not going there.

She wasn’t going there.

Instead she crossed the floor to the window, to see where she had been taken in the aftermath of Hybern. Pulling apart the curtains revealed the sun streaming through the clouds beyond the glass, the sky a brilliant, azure blue above a river curving through city streets. She’d seen it before— been there before, and as her eyes alighted on a small, half-hidden dock…

Nesta recognised it.

Velaris.

No longer was she in that castle, then— the one they had been taken to in the dark, that fortress of roughened stone. There, they had been kept in a cell so far beneath the ground that neither light nor sound could reach them. The stone walls were rough and unfinished, the cold and the damp seeping between the cracks. Elain had cried silently, curling her knees to her chest and tucking her head in her arms as if hoping it might shield her, and Nesta had wished she could shield her sister from it all too. Wished she could spare Elain the terror. For hours - or moments or minutes or days, she wasn’t sure how long they were down there - she’d kept her eyes on the bars that held them, only barely discernible in the dim light. Watching that black space, she had hoped against hope that someone might come to save them. 

That he might come to save them. 

She had lost his dagger.

Cassian’s dagger.

It hurt too much to think his name, but when she’d been woken by Elain’s screams, Nesta had grabbed the dagger he had once pressed into her palms. She hadn’t been quick enough, and the shadowed figures that burst into her bedroom wrenched the blade from her hand before she had chance to move, forcing a foul-smelling cloth against her mouth. When she woke, she was in that cell, wishing she’d been faster. Wishing she still had that dagger.

Don’t touch her.

Don’t you dare fucking touch her.

His voice drifted from some chamber deep inside herself, one she had tried to keep locked. The snarl he’d directed at the king had given her a kernel of hope in that throne room, and she’d watched as he’d stepped forward, the light of his ruby siphons trembling with the force of the power he was aching to spend. She had seen his face - the scar through his eyebrow made pale in the candlelight, the fury etched in every familiar, beautiful plane - and she had known that he would see no harm come to her. That he’d take on the king and the guards and every soul in that castle if he had to.

But then he’d been caught in that blast, unable to even lift his head, and Nesta’s last hope had died. Her humanity had been shredded along with his wings; her life as broken as his bones.

And oh, gods—

She had wanted to run to him, to make sure that he was alright, but when she’d been poured from that Cauldron she couldn’t breathe, the blood in her veins still settling after boiling. On her hands and knees, nobody came to help her stand. She might have remained there forever, curled in on herself, if it hadn’t been for Elain’s sobs echoing through the cavernous space. If Nesta hadn’t hadn’t lifted her head just enough to see that other fae male, with the golden eye and the red hair, reaching for her sister. 

For Elain, Nesta lifted herself off that damned floor.

Her new limbs protested the movement and she didn’t get far, and only then had she seen Cassian kneeling too, his arms shaking as they tried and failed to hold his weight. His wings were a tattered mess at his back, and with her heart breaking she remembered how she’d once ran a finger along the outer edge, how he’d draped one of those mighty wings around her shoulders to keep her warm as she curled into him and slept. A fractured sob built in her chest, and though she’d tried to speak, to stand, tried to cross that room… she couldn’t.

Everything hurt.

And then the fae with the auburn hair had draped a jacket over Elain’s shoulders and said you’re my mate, and even though every single instinct Nesta possessed was begging her to go to Cassian, to stop that flow of blood, she saw Elain shivering on the stone and couldn’t move— couldn’t choose. Then the auburn-haired fae had reached for Elain again and Nesta had been so terrified that he would just take Elain away that she hurtled forwards and— there she was, her choice made.

Her heart had sank, rioting in her chest as her breathing began to feel like knives had pierced her lungs, because Cassian remained lying in his own blood, and Nesta didn’t think she would ever have the strength to cross to him on the other side of that expansive throne room. 

And when he had looked up, their eyes meeting across that vast space, Nesta had tipped forwards, her hands slipping from Elain’s arms. Those hazel eyes, shuttered with pain, his lips parting as if to form her name— nothing in the world mattered quite as much as that. As him. And even though her blood still burned and her bones still felt fragile, too newly-forged to withstand much at all, Nesta tried once more to stand. Bare foot, she couldn’t find purchase on the stone floor slick with the Cauldron water both she and Elain were drenched in. Elain turned her head, dark eyes distant and hollow, and it was at that precise moment that Feyre made her move. The room erupted in chaos as Cassian slipped under, and there was nobody to hear Nesta shout his name as the wards shattered and Rhys fell to the floor, screaming as though his bond with Feyre had been broken.

Cassian’s eyes had closed, his hand outstretched as though even death could not stop him from seeking her out.

In the confusion Nesta remembered Morrigan crossing the floor— taking her hand.

Then— nothing.

As if the pain were too much for her new body to bear, she closed her eyes and let go, and when the crushing, aching darkness surged up to swallow her again, she let it. Let it consume her until her eyes opened again and she found herself in that bed, with no memory of how she got there.

She didn’t know if he was alive.

Didn’t know if he’d made it out.

One hand rose to her chest, palm above her heart, as if she might be able to tell by its beat if Cassian still breathed. 

He had to.

Had to.

But there was nobody around to answer her, and the silence of the house - Rhysand’s, she presumed - turned static. No footsteps echoed down the hallways, no voices drifted from distant rooms. Nothing— there was nobody there waiting for her to wake. 

So Nesta stood by that window, alone, and looked at the reflection staring back at her. Every inch of smooth skin was unrecognisable, from the crown of her head right down to her feet. Her wrists had been rubbed raw by the rope they had bound her with in that castle, but there was no mark there now. She had broken her fingernails clawing at the soldiers that had held her, but those, too, were perfect now. In those dungeons, she had pulled so hard on her chains that bruises had marred her arms beneath the torn sleeves of her nightgown, and yet— gone, too. As if it had never been. Everything had been wiped clean save for that single scar by her thumb. Like even the Cauldron could not erase the damage done by her mother and her grandmother. 

Nesta had been completely reforged, but those wounds— no, those wounds still would not - could not - heal. 

And— gods, when would it end?

The city beyond the glass bustled a thousand feet below, small ships navigating the river as birds soared on the wind across the mountains, and Nesta pressed her palm flat against the glass, dipping her chin as the cold and bitter press of her own anger threatened to close her throat. She gritted her teeth— wanted to scream until her lungs gave out.

When would it end? When would the last of her choices be ripped away?

She didn’t want this life. Hadn’t wanted the one that came before, either. 

She had never wanted her mother to raise her the way she did, chipping away at her until she resembled something that might have been perfect in her mother’s eyes. Her heart started to stutter, her breathing growing unsteady. She had never wanted to marry Thomas fucking Mandray, and the ring on her finger glinted once in her reflection before Nesta tore it from her finger and cast it into a corner, because just like the scar the Cauldron could not wipe away, it hadn’t robbed her of her wedding band either. 

She hadn’t ever wanted to get involved in this war, or play courier to Rhysand and Feyre and yet she’d done it anyway, to the ruination of herself. 

And now here she was, left with nothing.

Less than nothing.

Another sob threatened to slip through her clenched teeth, but before she could let herself fall to pieces, something shifted. Some movement cut through the heavy silence that lay over Rhysand’s house like a shroud. Sheets— the rustle of sheets sounded through the door at the other end of the bedroom, left ajar. 

Nesta smoothed a thumb over the now-empty space on her ring finger before lifting her chin and wiping away the tears that clung to her cheeks. She steadied herself, the way she had a thousand times before, and took a breath.

And when she looked through that door, she found Elain lying in a bedroom almost identical to the one she had woken in herself, her face blank as sleep kept her in its clutches. Her eyelashes fluttered with her dreams, her hand twitching against the covers. 

And despite the hollow, aching kind of grief that was beginning to spread through Nesta’s chest, she looked at her sister and knew she could not leave that bedroom.

For Elain, Nesta had married Tomas Mandray. To protect Elain, she had taken Rhysand’s letters and posted them. Now she pushed aside her own pain and sank to her knees by Elain’s bedside, too weary to find a chair.

And in the silence, she waited.

Taglist: @hiimheresworld @highladyofillyria @wannawriteyouabook @infiremetotakeachonce @melphss @hereforthenessian @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @the-lost-changeling @valkyriesupremacy @that-little-red-head @sv0430

#nessian

[obsessedwithallthingsbookrelated]

For @asnowfern, a gift for @acotargiftexchange! The support and positivity of your responses left me brimming with creative inspiration, so please enjoy this Nessian First Hybern War (and after) AU.

Thank you @popjunkie42-blog and @wilde-knight for your beta reading and handholding. <3

Ao3

--

nessian | E | marriage of convenience, first hybern war AU, angst, whump, emotional slow burn

War brings them together, a bond binds them - but is that enough for two broken people to find love with each other?

It’s impossible to tell what pulls Nesta from bed in the wee hours of the morning.

All she knows is one moment she’s curled up under the shared warmth of the comforter with her sister, the next she’s scrambling towards the door with bleary eyes and clumsy fingers shoving her too-small boots on.

Stumbling into the waking dawn. 

Fighting inertia, failing and temporarily tripping into stone and dirt.

A distant booming sound echoes from somewhere behind her, indiscernible in the haze of half-awake panic.

Movemovemove

Nesta grits her teeth, ignores the gashes seeping from her knees, palms, and rises to her feet once more. Keeps running. The rocks can be cleaned out later. 

The sleepy town’s outline cuts out the light from the peeking sun’s rays, instead it's the moon and stars hazily illuminating at her back. The visibility is low. The distant echo of sound is growing closer.

Fasterfasterfaster

The urgency in the pit of her stomach is leading her, the tug in her chest nearly cleaving her ribs from her flesh with the pull. Adrenaline surges. What is she doing? Where is she going? Nesta doesn’t understand what is propelling her, until —

“ — the alarm! Humans! Raise the alarm!”

The booming sound is no longer distant. 

“Hybern approaches! Hybern! Ready yourselves, it’s an attack!”

As the shouting becomes clearer, so does the beacon of red light on the bell tower. The bell tower. The bell tower Nesta is running at breakneck speed to. Throwing herself onto the ladder they had placed against the crumbling brick after enemy forces had blown out the stairs within the tower during an attack the previous spring.

The red beacon is a reflection on tarnished silver.

Nesta is on the platform just as the glowing, giant-winged phantom surges beyond her. He is still shouting, raising the alarm. A great longsword glitters with the promise of violence, wielded in his massive hand.

There’s no time to take in more details. Only a hulking fae warrior, red as death’s lantern, and his gleaming tool of pain and sundering, before Nesta is focusing all her might to wrap herself bodily around the massive bell’s rope. Dropping into a squat. Sounding the alarm that rings through her, deafening.

Black dots loom on the horizon at this vantage point.

Nesta’s lungs can’t draw air.

The dots grow in mass, drawing nearer, until like some mirage they’re shifting and splitting into black shapes on the brilliance of orange hues.

Hybern.

Wicked soldiers.

Death. Death on wings.

She clamps her eyes shut against the bile that threatens to rise, the fear that threatens to freeze her muscles, and hefts the rope up and down. Up. Down. Up.

Down.

Call to arms sound throughout the village beneath her.

The last few rings of the bell, she pushes out her terror.

Beams of great red light shoot through the horizon like focused shots of flame — The Warrior. He’s taking on the swiftest of the attacking force, cutting them down like a hot knife through butter. But the numbers approaching are swarms of the hideous Hybernian creatures with their gray skin, their horrible snouts of fangs and dripping jowls. Alone. The ally Fae faces too many alone, no matter the enormity of the power he is welding between those crimson beams of light and his sword already dripping in enemy viscera.

A fist is pounding on her shoulder before Nesta drags her attention from the one warrior defense against the onslaught of a surprise attack. A slight boy, the village baker’s son, motions to take over Nesta’s position.

Right. She needs to join the forces she has assisted in training for this exact moment. The resistance she’s helped breed into a people who were ready to be conquered a year ago — until the first wave of Hybern was barely suppressed and they had their first taste of war.

Whatever the mortal slaves and freed alike had thought their lives were like under the thumb of the ruling Prythian fae, it paled in comparison to the horrors of torture, rape, and death the Hybernians delighted in.

The boy’s lips move soundlessly. There’s no clash of steel on steel.

Nesta fears she’s already dead. Watching this from out of her body.

No, no. Her bones are still shaking with the tremors of the great bell’s tolls. Temporarily deaf, that’s all.

Nesta only allows herself to look when she is turning to swing her legs over the edge of the tower, to feel with her foot deftly for the first ladder rung.

More allied winged warriors have rushed into the fray.

The one with the crimson beacons was just the tip of the spear. Behind him the might of an army swells — but can’t smother his presence. Other sparks of light dance across the sky that seems frozen in perpetual dawn now that battle has begun and time herself has frozen to the whims of life ending life. 

But none shine as brightly as his.

Searing into the back of her eyelids like the intensity of the full sun.

The overwhelming force in her chest heaves.

Fightfightfight

Nesta snaps herself back into her body, bids her mind to the will of instinct. She’ll ensure Elain makes it to the church with the other non-combatants while she changes, grabs her sword, and meets her. To defend this village, her home, her sister, until either nothing remains of herself or her enemies.

#nesssian #nesta x cassian #ohhhh exciting