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moodymelanist · 1 year

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Where The Light Won't Find You

Nesta Archeron descends into the darkness.

What if Nesta went into the Court of Nightmares?

So... fully blaming @separatist-apologist for this one. Her evil!Elucien is so sexy that I had to get in on the fun (but for eventually evil!Nessian). No clue when I’ll keep updating this but I’m making myself post this now while I’m excited LOL

Read on AO3 here!

Chapter One

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Nesta

Nesta thought she’d been angry living with her father in that tiny hovel. She thought she’d been furious seeing him do nothing day after day, content to let them starve until Feyre went into the woods, but nothing compared to how livid she was at her youngest sister forcing her to submit. Yet again. Because somehow, little Feyre always knew best.

As she sat in Feyre’s ridiculously opulent living room, wallowing in just how out of place she was, she leveled a glare in her sister’s direction. Feyre was flanked by that arrogant husband of hers, who was clearly enjoying himself, along with Amren and Cassian. Elain was nowhere to be found, and neither was the Shadowsinger, but he at least had the excuse of likely being out on Court business.

“I’m not moving to the House of Wind,” Nesta said flatly, her tone cold as ice. “I’m not a member of this court. You can’t do this.”

“It’s not up for debate,” Amren replied just as frostily. “You can either go to the House of Wind to train with Cassian in the mornings and work in the library in the afternoons...”

Nesta turned to her sister and completely ignored Amren, careful to keep her face blank even as she raged inside. She hadn’t spoken to Amren since their fight on the pleasure barge earlier that summer, and she had no intention of changing that now. “Or?”

“Or we can take you back to the human lands,” Feyre continued, shifting in her seat under the intensity of Nesta’s gaze. “It’s up to you.”

“Those are my only options?” Nesta almost snarled. Anyone with a brain could see that these weren’t true choices; she was just picking between two prisons. One a gilded cage and the other a guaranteed death sentence, especially if she was returned anywhere near their old village. She hadn’t heard about anything of note after the war with Hybern, but she hadn’t forgotten the grove of ash trees in Graysen’s estate.

“I— yes.” Feyre squared her shoulders and stopped her fidgeting long enough to stare Nesta down. “We discussed them, and we feel that’s the best we can offer you right now.”

“You have no right,” Nesta hissed, practically seeing red from how enraged she was. She was a grown woman – how dare Feyre and her new family act like they had any authority over her. “You dragged Elain and I into this mess. You are the reason I’m like this, why I’m stuck here in this wretched body—”

“Enough,” Rhysand snapped. Night-kissed power leaked from him and Nesta made sure her silver fire didn’t shake their precious mansion in response. As far as everyone knew, her powers had vanished with the Cauldron, and she wanted to keep things that way. “You don’t get to talk to her like that.”

“Be quiet, or you can leave,” Feyre told him sternly before Nesta could hiss something back. Feyre leveled her own fierce glare at her husband before turning back to Nesta. “I don’t care what you say, Nesta. You’re going up to the House and training, and that’s final.”

“How is Elain supposed to see me?” Nesta fired back. “How am I supposed to do anything without assistance?”

“You’re welcome to walk down the ten thousand steps,” Feyre suggested, even though everyone knew Nesta wasn’t physically able to do that. “Or someone can transport you, if they’re so inclined.”

“Elain can do neither of these things,” Nesta hissed. She didn’t miss how Feyre’s shoulders tightened just slightly at the mention of their sister – perhaps Elain wasn’t folding into Feyre’s little plan as easily as Feyre assumed she would. “How am I supposed to see her?”

Nesta hadn’t spoken to Elain much since last Solstice, but it certainly wasn’t for Elain’s lack of trying. Nesta just didn’t have the words to explain how heavily the darkness weighed on her, especially when Elain seemed to be thriving here in Velaris. She didn’t know how to talk about how when she wasn’t numb to everything, all she could feel was rage.

Still, she would use every opportunity to try and wiggle her way out of yet another one of Feyre’s absurd demands. Elain would forgive her.

“You can work that out between yourselves,” Feyre answered smoothly. “But I’m sure Cassian would be happy to take you to see Elain.”

Nesta slid her gaze over to him, curling her lip as she looked him up and down. He hadn’t bothered to use that time he’d promised her on the battlefield, and she had no plans to ask him for it now. “I don’t want him anywhere near me.”

“Too bad, sweetheart,” Cassian replied mildly. His wings shifted behind him, betraying his true anxiety about the situation, and she held back from calling him out on it. “We’re training tomorrow whether you like it or not. I suggest you get a good night’s sleep.”

“I don’t recall asking for your guidance,” she snapped. It was almost painful to look at him, knowing he’d participated in planning this farce of an intervention, so she pursed her lips and dismissed his presence altogether. She turned her gaze back to Feyre, whose cheeks had turned slightly red in anger. So she could get upset on behalf of her new family, but not for Nesta. Never for Nesta. “I want to speak to you. Alone.”

“Fine.” Feyre waited until it was just her and Nesta before she spoke again. “You can’t insult your way out of this one, Nesta. No matter what you say, I’m done paying for this behavior.”

“You’re not paying for anything,” Nesta cruelly pointed out. She knew Feyre was right about not being able to insult her way out of this, but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t try. “It’s your precious husband’s money.”

Feyre flinched slightly as the mark landed as intended. “It doesn’t matter whose money it is. You’re embarrassing us, and I won’t have it anymore. We won’t have it anymore.”

“I didn’t know my life was under your discretion,” Nesta replied flatly. Her heart pounded fiercely in her chest as the walls continued to close in, but she wasn’t going to go quietly. “I didn’t know you could even feel embarrassment with all the money he throws around.”

“You spent five hundred gold marks last night, Nesta!” Feyre shouted, her eyes flashing. Nesta refused to be cowed; she’d seen Feyre get upset so many times over the years it barely even registered anymore. “Do you have any idea how much money that is? And how ridiculous it was to see what you spent it on? How humiliating it was for my family to see that?”

My family. Something Nesta clearly wasn’t a part of anymore. “You saving face isn’t my problem—”

“It is now,” Feyre retorted. “You’re going to train at Windhaven with Cassian, and you’re going to work in the library. You won’t be causing any more trouble.”

“I won’t go.”

“We packed up your things and sent them over to the House. Rhys spoke to the landlord, and your building is going to be torn down and rebuilt as a shelter for families displaced by the war.”

Nesta was so caught off guard she couldn’t hold back her power for a moment, gritting her teeth as she fought against the silver fire flowing through her veins. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“It’s already done, Nesta,” Feyre told her. She took a deep breath and schooled her features into careful neutrality, something she’d clearly learned from Nesta, before continuing. “Are we finished having this pointless argument? Everyone is waiting.”

“I’m never speaking to you again,” Nesta vowed, her voice almost shaking with rage. How dare Feyre take away one of the only choices she’d ever made for herself, as if it were nothing? Like Nesta herself was nothing, just a doll to be moved from cage to cage as Feyre saw fit.

“That’s fine,” Feyre replied, shrugging before getting up off the couch. “Talk to whoever you’d like. It won’t change the reality of the situation.”

A few minutes later, Nesta found herself standing in the entry hall with Cassian and Feyre. She said nothing as they made idle conversation around her, confirming details of how they were getting to the House and which of Nesta’s things had been packed against her will. Her skin crawled at the thought of them forcing their way into her apartment, combing their fingers through her possessions, judging her for the way she’d decided to live.

She wasn’t stupid – she knew she wasn’t living up to the standards everyone had set for her. Rhea had made her expectations for Nesta’s life very clear, and Feyre and Elain had heard her parrot their mother’s wishes for so long that they’d been appalled to see the kind of neighborhood she’d ended up in after the war. But it had been her decision, her choice about where to live, how to dress, what shops to frequent. It was supposed to be up to her to decide when she would see her so-called family; she hadn’t wanted to reveal any kind of weakness to them, so she’d kept herself as far removed as possible.

And now she couldn’t even have that.

Instead of contributing to the conversation, Nesta focused on keeping that raging power of hers under control. She might have been almost blinded with rage, but she didn’t want to explode and accidentally hurt anyone. It was bad enough that she hadn’t been able to keep herself under control during her argument with Feyre; she wouldn’t be making that mistake again.

Any hope of quieting her anger disappeared as Morrigan waltzed into the room, exchanging hugs with Cassian and Feyre before saying something to Nesta about wearing her leathers in Windhaven tomorrow.

Nesta just looked at her, an icy glare firmly in place; there was no need for a mask for that one. Morrigan gave her the fakest smile she’d ever seen before turning back to her friends – no, her family – to continue laughing and joking with them.

Feyre eventually cleared her throat before walking over to Nesta. “Today you can focus on getting settled on the House and unpacking your things. Maybe get some rest?”

Nesta said nothing, not even looking in Feyre’s direction. She decided to focus her attention on the wall across from her; as children, being ignored bothered Feyre like nothing else. Perhaps it still held true.

Morrigan and Cassian continued poking fun at one another as Feyre shifted awkwardly on her feet. “Alright. We’ll talk soon.”

We won’t, Nesta thought as she continued to ignore Feyre. When Morrigan offered her elbows to her and Cassian, Nesta reached out and grabbed one, keeping her chin high even as she wanted to scream in frustration. She remained silent as Morrigan gave Cassian a look, which he thankfully didn’t return. He winked at Feyre instead before they disappeared, which somehow felt worse.

She intentionally tensed her body as Cassian grabbed her in mid-air. He sighed before flying them safely to the balcony below, and the second his feet were on the ground, she shoved her way out of his grip and made her way towards the door. It was cold out and she hadn’t brought her gloves, but she wasn’t going to admit she needed any extra warmth, lest Cassian get any ideas.

“You’ll be in your old room,” he called out to her retreating back. She didn’t stop walking, placing one hand on the door handle before turning to scowl at him. “My room’s a level above that.”

“Why would I need to know that?” she asked, pulling the thick door open with a grunt. Had the door gotten heavier, or had she gotten weaker? Probably the latter, she realized. She knew she’d gotten smaller and smaller as the months had passed by, but to struggle opening a door was a new low.

That seemed to be a pattern for her these days.

“Maybe you’ll need someone to read you a bedtime story,” he teased while following her inside. He held the door open effortlessly and she scowled even further at him for showing off his strength. “I hope it’s one of those smutty books you like so much.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response as she walked towards the stairs, eager to get to her room and finally be alone. He followed her and easily matched her pace with his much longer legs as they walked downstairs. “I don’t remember asking for an escort.”

“I’m just making sure you make it there in one piece,” he replied easily. He didn’t seem too bothered by her attitude, which only made her bad mood even worse. “Az is two doors down from me, but he won’t be here much. It’ll mostly be only you and me.”

“Shame,” Nesta said coolly. Knowing it would get under his skin, she added, “At least he’s pretty to look at.”

Cassian laughed. “I’ll pass the message along, Nes.”

“Don’t call me that.” She leveled another cold glare at him as they arrived at the familiar door to her bedroom. “Excuse me.”

“You should eat something first,” he said, leaning against the closed door. “Get a hot meal in your stomach before training tomorrow.”

The thought of eating something knowing she would almost certainly throw it up made her nonexistent appetite even smaller. She didn’t have alcohol to block her nightmares out, and she certainly wasn’t going to warm Cassian’s bed to make herself too tired to dream. “I’m not training with you at that horrible place.”

“Like hell you aren’t,” he retorted. “You know what’ll happen if you don’t. I’m only trying to help you.”

“Right,” Nesta said, smiling in a way she knew unnerved him. She knew Feyre would never let them dump her in the human lands like garbage no matter how many times she threatened it, even though several members of her little family wouldn’t hesitate to. Morrigan and Rhysand would probably fight for the privilege. “You have quite the definition of help.”

Cassian studied her for a long moment before sighing and moving out of her way. “I’ll bring you something to eat later. I’m sure you’re tired.”

She didn’t say anything, instead fixing him with one of her flat looks that she knew made him uncomfortable. She really was tired, and she wanted to lie down more than anything, but she wasn’t going to show any weakness if she could avoid it. She had to stand her ground for as long as possible.

“Mor or Rhys will winnow us up to Windhaven after breakfast tomorrow,” he added once he realized she wouldn’t be saying anything else. “Get some rest, alright?”

She gave him one last irritated glance before turning and retreating into her bedroom. It felt good to close the door in his stupid, sad face and finally be alone, where she didn’t have to keep up this exhausting façade. She was angry, yes – livid, actually – but putting on her cold mask without the help of a tall glass of wine was proving more difficult by the minute.

Between her indignation at her new circumstances, the strain of holding back her power, and the headache that had been building all afternoon, she’d never needed a drink more in her life. She knew that wasn’t an option and wouldn’t even bother asking the House for it; Feyre or Rhysand had undoubtedly warded against that to make her even more miserable.

Nobody had a problem with Morrigan practically downing an entire bottle of wine with every meal, but let Nesta spend a few expensive nights in Velaris and suddenly it was unacceptable. The hypocrisy of it all made her want to throw something, but then Cassian would come running in, and she’d rather die than have to explain the source of her outburst to him.

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Nesta slept fitfully during her first night in the House. There wasn’t much to do other than stew in her anger and promise to herself that she’d get her revenge, but that eventually burned itself out in favor of a full-body ache.

She couldn’t drink to keep the nightmares away, and when she did manage to fall asleep, it wasn’t long before she was awake and running to the bathroom to throw up. The smell of a hearty dinner just outside of her door made it even worse, her stomach reacting poorly to the smell of it, and she was thankful Cassian hadn’t managed to bring it inside her room like he’d probably wanted to.

Cassian either didn’t know or didn’t care that she could barely stand when she joined him for breakfast the next morning, but even as exhausted as she was, she refused to let him get the last word in. She hated wearing the tight, fitted leathers he favored so much, but being uncomfortable was more than worth getting a rise out of him. Even when she was a ghost of herself, it was far too easy to rile him up.

When they got to Windhaven, it was all she could do to walk over to a rock and sit down without keeling over, but Cassian and Morrigan seemed to think she was just being defiant for no reason. They would run back to little Feyre and her insufferable husband, to report on her progress – or lack of it – and Nesta would undoubtedly lose something else. She didn’t see how things could get any worse, though, so it was a risk she was willing to take.

After wiping herself down using a bucket and an absolutely minuscule lunch, she managed to force herself down to the library for a few hours of meaningless work. In her experience, things had always worked out better when she kept up appearances, and she mindlessly shelved books while she thought of ideas for petty revenge. Nothing was satisfying enough for how she’d been wronged, but it was the best she could do, so she forced herself to be content until her mind could conjure up something more satisfying.

Dinner was a lonely affair, made even worse when she gave in and asked the House for a glass of wine only for her requests to be filled with water instead. She’d progressed from nausea and tremors to feeling like she was going to crawl out of her body from how badly she needed a drink. Her skin felt hot and feverish, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to make it downstairs to her bed without help. Not that she’d ever ask for help – she’d rather die before allowing anyone to see her at her weakest.

She managed to choke down a couple bites of the food before pushing the plate away from her. It was pure torture getting back to her room, but at least the House provided her with a cool compress after she’d changed into a loose nightgown. She didn’t even have the energy to take her hair down, leaving most of the pins in as she laid down and focused on not dying.

Nesta’s days continued in much the same way. She barely slept from a combination of how ill she felt and the horrific memories she kept reliving, but she forced herself to keep going on half-cocked ideas of vengeance. Cassian forced her to eat breakfast in the mornings before they traveled to Illyria, and if he noticed how she had to force down every bite, he said nothing about it. Morrigan threw her dirty look after dirty look, sometimes paired with snarky comments, and it took every bit of awareness Nesta had not to loose her fire on the female.

Nesta fought hard to stay upright and further embarrassed and infuriated Cassian in the process, ignoring every outstretched hand and motivating speech in favor of trying not to pass out. She could hardly stay on her feet during her hours in the library, but she never complained, not once. All the while, she felt close to death as her body purged whatever was left out of her system while struggling to maintain its grip on those silver flames coiled inside her.

After a week had passed, her overlords decided to grant her a day of rest. Cassian didn’t pound on her door threatening to drag her out of bed, and she was able to lounge in bed until nearly mid-morning.

By the time Nesta made her way downstairs, the only sign of Cassian was a short note explaining that he’d left to handle something in Illyria. The break from physical training — or lack thereof — didn’t exempt her from her duties in the library, however, so she ate a few pieces of toast, freshened up, and eventually made her way downstairs.

The other priestesses had long grown used to her silence, so she wasn’t bothered as she found her cart and began her familiar trek up and down the library’s halls. She was grateful for the lack of supervision; this was the one place she could practice the little bits of magic she’d picked up without anyone paying too close attention. She was terrified the House would alert someone what she was up to if she practiced there, and she wasn’t physically able to get to the much lesser-warded Velaris, so she made do with the time she had available.

Nesta also wasn’t reckless enough to practice with her fire in the building, nervous that she’d lose control and manage to destroy priceless books in the process. She had to get the magic out somehow, though, so she’d done her own research on magical skills no one had bothered to tell her were important to learn. Instead of expelling a fiery blast like she really wanted to, she focused on what she’d read in one of the tomes last night about winnowing, squeezing her eyes shut while she visualized herself appearing in the next row of shelves.

There was a muffled thump as the cart landed with her, but thankfully none of the books fell over. She had nothing else to practice her winnowing with, but she knew how imperative it was to be able to transport objects — and eventually living things — with her if she truly wanted to master the skill. She knew her true goal was to eventually leave Velaris, and perhaps bring Elain with her, but for now she was content with having her own method of transportation if she ever needed one.

Besides, being able to escape at a moment’s notice was a pretty convenient trick to have up her sleeve.

Nesta cleared her thoughts and bent down to inspect all the books on her cart for any damage, sighing in relief once she’d finished inspecting them. She meant to stand and keep returning books to their rightful place, but her fingers stilled as one of the titles on the bottom row of the nearest shelf caught her eye.

She pulled it out, her eyebrows flicking up as she spied A History of the Hewn City written in emerald ink against an ink-black cover. Curious, she flipped through a few of the pages and realized she’d never seen anything like it, even though she’d heard many unpleasant tales about what the Court of Nightmares was like. She didn’t have time to read it as closely as she liked at the moment, but it was nothing to make the book disappear from her hands and take up residence inside her armoire instead.

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Nesta had naively believed she couldn’t be more disgusted with the Inner Circle than she already was, but that was before she started reading into the histories.

The authors were carefully neutral in their wording, but she’d long mastered the talent of reading between the lines. She wasn’t particularly surprised with how cruel and twisted things were for those unfortunate enough to be born inside the Hewn City, but for all their talk of being a Court of Dreamers, she couldn’t fathom how they allowed so much suffering under their watch. Surely Morrigan couldn’t have been the only person worth saving there. Surely Rhysand wanted to make sure no one suffered, especially not unnecessarily.

Nesta wasn’t so arrogant as to automatically assume she would do a better job, but considering how Rhysand and Morrigan had done piss-poor jobs of managing the other half of their court, she supposed the bar wasn’t particularly high. They only seemed to bother with the Court of Nightmares when they wanted to rile Keir up — an idiotic idea, considering the Darksingers made up a not insignifant portion of Night’s armies — and things hadn’t changed in centuries.

It was a dangerous idea, one that could get her killed, but she wasn’t afraid. She’d survived countless horrors already, had taken what she wanted from the Cauldron, even killed an ancient king; what challenge did Morrigan’s father present to her?

Nesta wanted them to regret the moment they’d chosen to try and tame her like a dog. She wanted them to be afraid to even think her name, let alone utter it out loud. To not dare risk invoking her wrath the way they’d been terrified of Stryga or the Bone Carver or even Bryaxis.

The Old Gods were all gone, anyway. It was high time for someone to take their place.

Think of the looks on their faces, she thought once she’d turned out the lights. I wonder if they’ll try to teach me a lesson then.

When Nesta finally slipped into unconsciousness, her dreams were filled with a crown of bones.

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Once Nesta had settled on a way to make them pay, it was like a fire had been lit in her mind. She had somewhere to focus her energy other than simple bits of magic during her menial work in the library, and if Cassian noticed, he didn’t comment on it.

Still, as motivated as she was toward her new goal, she knew she’d need help achieving it. She didn’t know the extent of her powers, too nervous to be caught testing their limits, and she didn’t remember the Hewn City well enough after just one visit to risk winnowing herself. She’d have to goad one of the Inner Circle members into taking her, and the only person she could think of fit for the task was difficult for Nesta especially to get a hold of.

But just when Nesta wasn’t sure things would work out, she received a summons to the river house for a family breakfast. As irate as she was that Feyre didn’t think she’d meant it when she said she didn’t want to speak to her ever again, the more logical part of Nesta’s mind knew this was the best opening she could hope for.

Morrigan wouldn’t pass up on the opportunity to lord her perfect, golden self over Nesta. If only she knew what doors she was about to open for the eldest Archeron.

Nesta kept her mental shields pulled as tightly around her mind as she could once Cassian set her down in front of the estate’s overly grand entry. He looked like he hadn’t been sleeping well, but considering he hadn’t cared when she’d been the one with dark circles under her eyes, she couldn’t find any sympathy for him within her.

“Good morning,” Feyre greeted them at the door with a smile. It dimmed considerably when she realized Nesta wasn’t really looking at her, but she carried on anyway. “Come in, come in, you must be starving!”

As if on cue, Cassian’s stomach rumbled. He stepped around Nesta and slung an arm around Feyre’s shoulders in a half-hug, the pair moving into the house while forgetting Nesta standing outside in the entryway. Typical.

She shut the door behind her and slowly made her way to the dining room, following the sound of voices to find most of their group assembled. Amren was thankfully nowhere to be found, but Rhysand and Morrigan were chatting happily at one end of the table while Azriel piled food onto his plate on the other.

Nesta didn’t bother to hide her scowl once she realized the seating arrangements would force her to sit next to Cassian. They expected that from her, so she would play up her discomfort at sitting next to the hulking bat, deepen her frowns and sharpen her insults the moment it was her turn to put on a show.

All the better to sate the dark, twisted thing inside her that wanted blood.

Breakfast thankfully passed quickly enough, Nesta managing to eat some oatmeal in addition to her toast. For once, Cassian kept his comments about her eating habits to himself, though she certainly felt his eyes on her as she added some sugar to her tiny portion. She didn’t bother to acknowledge anyone at the table, least of all him, only murmuring her thanks to Azriel as he poured her another glass of water.

By the time the rest of the group had eaten their fill, Nesta was nearly vibrating out of her skin with the need to get away. Azriel left a few minutes early after one of his shadows whispered something in his ear, and Rhysand, Feyre, and Cassian wandered off toward the outdoor patio, leaving Nesta and Morrigan alone for the first time in a long while.

Nesta took a deep breath once she realized they were alone, smoothing her hands over the simple gray dress she’d chosen to wear today. It was still a little too loose around her frame, but that had been a calculated decision; if she looked too put-together, perhaps things wouldn’t play out the way she’d want them to.

“You were quiet for once,” Morrigan commented as she conjured up a flute of wine sparkling with more bubbles than Nesta had ever seen before. “Have you learned your lesson about keeping your forked tongue between your teeth?”

Nesta clenched her hands into fists to avoid doing something she shouldn’t — drinking, using her power on Morrigan, getting up and walking away forever. “I don’t recall needing to learn any lessons, Morrigan.”

“Always so formal,” Morrigan replied with a snort. She tipped some orange juice into her flute and downed half the drink at once. “Mhmm. I would offer you some, but…”

“I prefer my drinks untouched,” Nesta responded, looking over Morrigan with thinly-veiled disdain. “I’m sure you understand.”

“And here I thought beggars couldn’t be choosers,” Morrigan said with a sharp smile.

Nesta took a deep breath and forced herself not to rise to the bait. She needed Morrigan on this more than she needed to respond to the other female’s barb; this could just be another transgression on the list.

“Amren said it would be better to throw me into the Court of Nightmares,” Nesta eventually said, her voice the perfect mix of accusatory and irate. Her feelings for Morrigan were no secret, and there was certainly no love lost in return; she was the best candidate for what Nesta needed done, so Nesta could only hope Morrigan’s disdain for her would be enough to set the wheels in motion.

“We all heard,” Morrigan responded warily. She narrowed her brown eyes into slits, as if she expected Nesta to lash out at her over it. “What about it?”

“Do you still agree with that assessment?”

“I do.”

“So take me there and be done with it.”

Morrigan raised a golden eyebrow. “You want me to put you down there?”

“Better there than the human lands,” Nesta answered, keeping her voice flat and cold. All the better for Morrigan to make her own assumptions about Nesta’s motivations. “I’m done with this charade.”

“You’ll fit in perfectly,” Morrigan answered with a cold smile. She pushed back her chair and stood as she added, “In fact, I’ll take you down there right now.”

Read Chapter Two Here!

#acotar #acosf #nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #moodymelanistwrites #acotar what if #unhinged!nesta #court of nightmares fic

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utterlyazriel · 4 months

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how long have i searched for you?

azriel finds his mate in the most inopportune time and he convinces himself you haven't sought him out for good reason. he couldn't be more wrong. word count: 4.6k & god bless @strangerstilinski for making this fic ever get written <3

Though he'd deny it if ever asked, most of all to Cassian, there was a part of Azriel that had spent years upon years yearning for what it would be like when he met his mate.

A chance encounter. A friend of a friend. A shared look across a crowded room, your eyes catching, where you both suddenly just know.

A thousand possible ways to meet, to find each other. Azriel had run every scenario through his head, ten times over, both soothed and aching at the dreadful mixture of hope and doubt he had. With his rotten luck, he was probably doomed to a life without ever finding his mate. If he even had one.

However, in all his years of hoping and wishing, not once could he say that he'd imagined meeting his mate the way he did.

In a flash; a brush up during the battle of Velaris, where you, a healer, had stumbled into his life. There had been only a moment amongst all the chaos, where this deep strong pull had risen in his chest, glowing and hot like he'd never felt before.

His head had snapped around, finding the source in a heartbeat. Everything leading to you.

But it hadn't been the time, no matter that you had clearly felt it too, the glow, the pull, given away with your wide eyes and parted lips. Battle was being sieged on Velaris and despite every instinct in Azriel that roared at him to stay with you, to take you from the danger, he had a duty to fulfill.

And then, even once the battle finished, the war was waged and won, when was there time? Azriel could feel it in him, the yearning that seemed to sing from his very blood — he itched to go find you. However, there was still much to do, still orders from Rhys to carry out, mission and meetings to attend to.

Besides, you hadn't sought him out either.

So, when the chaos calmed finally and he finally had time to breathe, Azriel did not seek you out. He waited. He longed.

But if you wished to stay away and never see him, then Azriel would respect it. He would never impose on your life if you did not wish it, no matter how long he had waited for his mate.

One month of quiet life rolled on.

Today, the weather in Velaris greatly contrasted his state. Exhausted from his mission and a tad more scratched up that he had hoped to be, Azriel feels like a cloud on the city's sparkling sky. He's dirty, half soaked, and probably dripping blood and mud all over the tiles.

Gods, he was tired.

The fly back to the House of Wind had been harder, his landing a little ungraceful due to the slices he bore on his wings. Not the worst of his injuries but still, they throbbed painfully and Azriel felt the rivets of rain and blood trickling along them. His wings gave a little shudder and even his shadows seemed to droop.

"And he returns—" Cassian's voice announced his arrive before his feet had even touched onto the balcony. Upon the sight of his brother, hunched and not his usual self, his tone shifted quickly. "Holy Cauldron, what happened to you?"

Azriel bristled, schooling away his sneer at the thought of the fight he just won. He rolled his shoulders back, biting back his wince at the tenderness of his wounds, and grimaced.

"Same thing that always does, brother."

Cassian frowned, his concern evident with the furrow between his brows. "You're going to see a healer."

His tanned hand gestured to Azriel's drooping wing. His question was more of an instruction. Azriel felt apprehension roll through him, torn between the sweet relief he know would come with having his wounds tended to and the first healer he could think of: you.

He shook the thought away. Nearly two months since he'd first seen you had passed and he found himself infuriated with how his brain seemed intent on taunting him. You pervaded his thoughts just as frequently as you did on that first day, even with your distance.

"Madja does not reside here anymore."

"So?" Cassian pressed. "Gods, I will take you myself if I must."

Azriel huffed. He knew Cassian could make good on his words and as another ache rippled through his back, making every slice on his skin known, he let himself relent. Besides, what were the chances of his healer being you?

"I will go." Azriel replied, straightening up his slumped shoulders. A hint of smugness crossed Cassian's face before he smiled, genuine as he lay his hand on Azriel's shoulder.

"Before you go," Cassian said, beginning to grin. "Did you wipe the floor with them?"

Azriel's lips quirked, a semblance of a smile. He inhaled, preparing himself for one more course of travel before he could rest. "Of course."

—

The second flight had agony clawing deeper within his wings, a protest with every strong beat of them, as he flew to the Apothecary down amongst the city's heart. The surging pain fought for his attention, like a poison writhing beneath his bones, and Azriel was nearly embarrassed at his hard landing.

It was loud, his boots slamming down into the pavement before the Apothecary, his wings flaring to catch him. He could feel the tremor in his muscles, each leg held taut. He looked up at his destination.

The building before him was a sage green, white trims around each of the windows. Within, through the panes of glass, Azriel could see a healer jump at his sudden entrance. His shadows wisped around him rapidly, as though they might soften his abrupt interruption.

Azriel straightened up, tucking his wings in as he reined himself in. He could feel his emotions boiling up within him, swirling and rising as he peered in the window before him. Apprehension tinged with something he wouldn't acknowledge, something too close to hope.

The glow in his chest was back. You must be near.

Azriel wasn't sure what was winning; the absolute urge to follow the tug on his chest to find the person on the other end of it, or the part of him that would prefer never knowing if you wanted him or not.

The bell above the door jingled quietly as he pushed it open. He was careful to mind his mess, far too aware of how he was tracking half a mountain of dirt in with him. Eyes scanned over each thing in the room, calculating in a way he always was.

Around him, his shadows had gotten zippier, darting about and back to him; as though, they too, could sense the nearness of his mate.

The Fae behind the counter stared, wide-eyed, whether at his shadows or simply himself. Azriel willed them to calm as best he could. They were being unnaturally eager to leave his side.

"Hello," Azriel started, unsure on the proper procedures. He wondered if just gesturing to himself might work. The Fae behind the counter, a fair women with dark hair, seemed to finally shake herself out of it.

"Hello!" She amended her behaviour quickly. Her hand waved behind her, gesturing to the corridor that stretched out behind her. "Let's do something about those wounds. If you head down and take the last door on the left, y/n will be available to get you on the mend."

The name she spoke sent a pang through Azriel and he wondered, he hoped, if a name that beautiful could potentially belong to you. Maybe, he would be better to request someone else, if it was you down the end of the hall. Hesitance kept him rooted to the floor. His eyes sweeping down the hall and back to the Fae woman before him.

"Thank you," He finally murmured. His began walking, passing the counter and heading down the hallway — mindful of his drooping, tired wings that threatened to leave a trail behind him.

Final door on the left. Azriel paused before it, deciding to knock before he entered. He could hear someone inside, bustling around in the space. His knuckles grazed against the door.

"Come in!"

A voice like honey called out, wrapping around him like the softest silk, every nerve in him trilling and burning. Azriel swallowed heavily, knowing who must be on the other side of that door. He should walk back up that hallway. He shouldn't go through this door. He should give you the privacy you so clearly desire.

And yet, the warm glow in his chest urged him forward, urged him closer, and Azriel couldn't resist being selfish. Just this once, just to see you once more. He pushed the door open and slid silently in the room.

You're everything.

Gods, as he laid his eyes on you now, Azriel had to commend himself for ever managing to keep himself from you. You’re ethereal — and the glowing tug on his chest had expanded ten-fold as you turned to face him, every ounce of his being yearning, aching, to be closer to you.

Azriel was a strong man but even he couldn’t help the way his body swayed closer, a ripple passing through his wings subtly. They gave a tiny shake behind him. His shadows seemed to be dancing across his shoulders, gleeful in their wispy movements.

Even his pain had been put aside for this moment — dialed down to barely a twinge as he drunk in the sight of you before him, his eyes scouring your face for every detail he could, lest it be the only time he got to.

Faintly, he felt his lips twitch. His hands curled up at his sides, a minuscule motion. You’re… very beautiful. You’re everything he’s been waiting for — and Azriel is sure that shine of the night sky he adores so reverently is rivaled only by your eyes.

“I—” He remembered himself, the word rasping out before he could stop it. He realised he was not sure what he intended to say. “Forgive me.”

You seem perplexed by his words if the wrinkle between your eyebrows was an indication.

One of his shadows snaked down his arm, flitting out to meet you and Azriel felt himself flush slightly. He called it back sternly and silently — only more embarrassed when it didn’t listen, circling your wrist and tickling its way up your arm.

But there was no apprehension in your face, nor in your laugh which felt like a shot of espresso to his system, as his shadows continued badgering you. Something close to mortification crept up his neck as two more shadows darted out to join the first, curling excitedly around your neck like a lover would.

“My apologies,” Azriel forced his mouth to work. “They are not usually so… misbehaved.”

You waved him off, another laugh tittering from your mouth as a shadow curled over your ear. Surprisingly, whether through some bond or not, he knew that you were not afraid of him in any sense.

Your hand waved him over to the table set up for patients, ushering him over. “That’s alright. You can tell me what I’m to forgive you for as I look over your wounds.”

Azriel didn’t move. His feet felt rooted to the floor, heart turning itself inside out. Did you not know? Could you not feel it? Were you simply sweet enough that you would still tend to him, heal him, even though you knew and had decided to keep your distance?

“I…” He selected his words carefully, watching you closely. “I did not wish to make you see me if it was not on your own terms."

You were setting up your items on a silver tray beside the medical table and when you looked over your shoulder, you seemed confused that he hadn’t moved. You urged him over with a jerk of your chin and a smile that melted through his chest, hot like candle wax.

“Nonsense.” You patted the table invitingly. “C'mon, you’re dripping blood on my floors.”

His politeness had him standing up straighter, wings bunching up as he realised they had begun to drag along the ground. It was the thing that finally got him to move, his feet stepping forward in an instant.

“I’m—”

“Kidding. I was kidding.” You intercept his apology easily, eyes bright.

Something preens within him at how you knew what he would say so soon within meeting him. Azriel took another step and let himself sink down onto the padded table, his wings resting gently around him. Even seeing you, talking to you, is not enough to chase away his fatigue. You hand him a clean cloth to clear the muck from his face and he does so silently.

“Are you fit to remove your leathers?” You asked, your gaze turned analytic as you scanned over his muscled body for his injuries.

Azriel nodded, not trusting his voice. As each piece of armor was pulled off, not a wince in sight, he was surprised at the flustering feeling within him. It was light, just a ball of nervousness, tinged with embarrassment, in his chest — which made no sense. As he pulled the final layer of clothing from his chest, Azriel realised that this feeling wasn’t coming from him.

You were staring as politely as you could, eyes darting around the injuries scattered across his torso but with a nervous flush to you. Your eyes flitted across his chest, once, twice. Barely a glimpse— something that would’ve gone unnoticed if he was not the spymaster of this court.

Azriel couldn’t resist. “Everything alright?”

If he had made voice a tad gruffer than usual, that was between him and the Cauldron.

“Yes.” You smiled at him again and it nearly made him miss the pinch in your voice. Nearly. “Just thinking that if you look like this, I hardly want to imagine the other guys.”

Azriel bit back his smile, only half succeeding in hiding it. It was wiped as you finally stepped closer, examining him properly. A furrow between your brows. Azriel could feel the hot burning want to smooth it out with his thumb, to take your worry from you.

His shadows had slipped further from him, more and more of them following your gentle hands as you skimmed atop his skin, deep in thought. They swirled around your hands, festering where you were nearly touching him, and Azriel desperately willed them to relax. They did not obey.

“The shadows,” He began, already apologetic.

Your eyes flashed to his and then back on the laceration splitting the skin on his shoulder. You pulled one of your hands back, just an inch, focusing on how the shadows followed you. Tiny wisps dancing around your hand, light touches that reminded you of a thousand tiny kisses.

“It’s alright.” You hummed, sweet with a smile. “They’re sort of lovely.”

And if Azriel had felt your momentary fluster, he had no doubt he would be unable to hide the swell of surprise within him.

You finally pulled your hands back, beginning to circle around the table to take a closer look at his wings. Azriel couldn’t repress his shiver at the thought— his mate, so close to something so precious to him. He was torn between emotions; his body buzzing at the thought of your touch and his mind adamant that you wanted to keep your distance for a reason.

“I must say, I have heard of Illyrian wings before,” Your voice breathed over his shoulder, distracted by the view. Without meaning to, Azriel’s wings gave a little twitch. “But never seen them this close. They’re very beautiful.”

Azriel blinked and willed himself to remain neutral even if all his shadows seemed to give him away; their flitterings only increased at your words.

He bowed his head. “Thank you.”

Then there was a soft touch along the leathery skin of his wing, your fingers, tentative and gentle. Azriel swallowed the noise in his throat. His wings gave another involuntary shiver.

“Is it alright to… touch?”

It’s sweet of you to ask even though he’s sure you’ll have no way of healing him if he says no. Azriel steeled himself, forcing himself to remain neutral.

“Yes,” He murmured. The wounds across his torso had already begun to heal themselves, his Fae blood clotting and knitting the skin back together at an achingly slow pace. He was too tired to heal himself properly. He had known his wings would require the most attention.

It was an effort not to jump when your touch returned, tiny fingertips that felt startlingly warm suddenly. Azriel could feel the tendrils of your magic as it poured out through your fingers, a healing salve to the agony of his wings. It felt so good he struggled to not sigh aloud, his scarred hands flexing in his lap.

“You know,” You began, voice quiet. “I was hoping you might seek me out but perhaps, for a less painful reason.”

While Azriel fought to keep his head from snapping around, his shadows did no such thing— all of them jumping from their usual hiding place. He swatted at them, mortified at how revealing they seemed to be in your presence.

Still, there was no battling away the kernel of hope that sat deep in the pit of his stomach, mixed tightly with disbelief.

Another touch along his wings, another warming healing glow. Azriel cleared his throat and fought to keep his voice even.

“You were… waiting for me?”

Gods, he couldn’t have sounded more pathetic if he tried. But his head was spinning, the glowing pull on his chest tightening, the kernel growing larger and larger. You were waiting for him, you were waiting for him.

“Of course, why would I not be?”

“I…” He had never been so lost for words in all his centuries of living. Never sure how deep the rift within him ran, a part of him convinced that the reason he had not found a mate in all his time was because he had not deserved one.

“I did not want to impose on you, I know that not all—”

It was all coming out wrong. Azriel reined in his rampant emotions, the swirling of his shadows dimming for a moment. Your hands had paused their ministrations on his wings, listening intently. He couldn’t bear to turn to face you as he spoke.

“I wanted to give you space to decide yourself. To leave the decision in your hands. Because I would understand if—”

He cut himself off with a sharp inhale. Voicing it, suggesting the possibility of you hoping and waiting for a mate all your life, just as he did, only to be disappointed that discover it was him— he couldn’t say it aloud.

He was sure you must be able to feel his fear and clamped his mental shields down as tight as he could. He would not guilt you into this.

“I can see why the Mother made us mates.” You mused after a moment.

Azriel nearly shuddered at the word, at you referring to him at your mate so casually— a yawning chasm of want spreading over his entire body. Gently, slowly, your hands began to work again.

“Here I was,” you continued, voice light and hands warm. “Thinking that, maybe, the shadowsinger had his duties and would come find me if he wished. And that I would understand if he never came to find me at all.”

This time, Azriel could not resist turning around to see your face. His heart ached terribly to hear what you had thought. His shadows spun around his shoulders and as he turned, they twisted and ran for you.

“No,” He said severely. He couldn’t help the way he shook his head, like a petulant child but you were just so wrong. “No, I— I’m sorry, I never meant for you to think— please forgive me.”

Despite his evident distress, you smiled easily with a little shake of your head. “There is nothing to forgive. It would be, well, almost hypocritical if I let you apologise for doing the same thing I did to you.”

Amongst his relief, Azriel felt his chest pulse in adoration, a smile forming on his lips. Twisted back on the table, your hands mending along his wings, the thing he’d wanted for — had spent so many years envisioning — finally finding him. He would not have it any other way.

“I’ve waited for you for five hundred years.” He croaked.

Your eyes widened a fraction and you blinked owlishly at him for a moment as his words sunk in.

“Well,” You chuckled somewhat awkwardly. Azriel could feel the nervousness radiating off you in waves. “I hope after that all that waiting it wasn’t too underwhelming—”

“It wasn’t.” He interrupted. “It isn’t. You’re…”

It was an effort to restraint himself — to not be too much, too soon.

“Despite the knots we both seemed to tie ourselves in,” He huffed a silent laugh, melting as you relaxed too. “Please believe me when I say I would not have it anything other way.”

You glowed, a sweet emotion singing from you so loudly that Azriel couldn’t not feel it. You hadn’t accepted the bond yet and still… he could feel the strong emotions as they rippled through you. Joy. He was so happy that it was joy, more than anything else. His shadows seemed to be split between the two of you, protecting you as much as they did himself.

Then suddenly, your eyes widened again, as if another thought had occurred to you.

“Wait a minute, five hundred years?” You repeated his words back to him with an air of disbelief. “You’re an old man!”

His laugh escaped him before he could capture it, entranced at your delightful quick wit. Your eyes were bright, your pretty mouth pulled into your smile.

The ache in his wings had dulled almost completely and Azriel absentmindedly noticed you had managed to heal up the majority of his wounds during your conversation. They fluttered appreciatively and your eyes darted back down to them.

“Is that to be a problem?” He teased lightly.

Your obvious flustering pooled off you, sliding down along the bond even as he felt you desperately trying to curb it. Even then, you couldn’t resist another glimpse at his toned back.

He certainly didn’t look like an old man— not with the taut tan muscles of his back, his large biceps, nor his handsome young face. His hazel eyes watched playfully as you allowed yourself one long look over him.

“Nope,” you said decisively, pressing down your grin. You held your hands up defensively, as if it would aid your point. “No problems here.”

Your footsteps were light as you rounded the table to face him from the front, your healing job completed. For a quiet moment, Azriel could only stare — holding his breath, waiting.

He schooled away any thoughts of how much it would hurt to part from you, now that he had finally found you, and spoke again.

“It doesn’t have to be now.” He said, hazel eyes fixed on your own. He made sure his emotions were unwavering, that you would not feel swayed to spare his feelings. A shadow skittered across your shoulder.

“I want you to be sure. I would never want you to feel as though you had no choice. We— I can wait, I have waited years for you, I can—”

His words were smothered in his own breathy gasp as you reached out, one finger trailing across the peak of his wing. Something like pure desire shot down his spine and he did everything in his power to hold in his growl.

“Something told me that would get you to stop talking.” You said, with a hint of teasing.

A seriousness flicked across your face, settling into your expression as you took in the male before you, your mate — and you could feel his want, the enormity of his yearning trickling down the bond— and yet, you knew that he would walk away from it in a second if you asked him to.

You had no intention of doing any such thing.

“While you may have me beat on the waiting,” You said softly. It didn’t feel right when you’ve only just met him to reach out, but the urge swims within you anyways.

You reached out to touch his face, your hand as soft and warm as a sunbeam on his skin.

“I do not wish to extend that waiting for any longer, my mate.”

Your words had an instant effect, a shudder that passed across his face, eyes fluttering, the flick of his wings spreading out and forwards, as though reaching for you. You kept your hand steady.

Azriel allowed himself to lean into your touch. Allowed every feeling to flow down the warm tug in his chest, over the bridge that kept him inexplicably connected to you — overwhelming bouts of relief, of love, all of it unrestrained. And he could feel you on the other end, meeting it all with the softest, kindest assurance.

“Can…” He murmured, nearly embarrassed. He would have been if you were looking at him any way other than completely adored. His shadows had finally slowed, soft caressing motions along your shoulders and neck. He dared to ask. “Would you say it once more?”

You smiled, brighter than the sun and softer than moonlight, unable to resist your temptation to get nearer to him. You inched closer, letting yourself breathe in the scent of him greedily, knowing he was doing the same. Both of you desperate to memorise each other, despite knowing you had forever to come.

Your nose brushed his and you nuzzled against it gently, eyes sliding closed. Azriel released a shaky breath, his scarred hands clenching tightly in his lap, terribly overwhelmed in a way he’d never been before. If you had peeked over his shoulder, you might have seen the slight quiver in his wings.

“Azriel,” you whispered. “My mate.”

The shadows around both of you suddenly laid down very still, as if they had encountered a feeling within their master that had not yet before; a calming tranquility. The moment lingered as you let your words sink in, watching his closed eyes. You let yourself steal this moment with him.

“Though,” you pulled back from him, watching his hazel eyes open again. The shadows around him picked up, lazily flitting around. “If you want to get all cleaned up before dinner, you best head home soon.”

“Dinner.” Azriel repeated, the smallest scrunch between his eyes.

You stepped back from him, smoothing your hands down your front almost nervously— but no, it was closer to excitement, he realised.

“Dinner, yes.” Azriel said, catching on, his wings flaring out for just a moment. You grinned, endeared entirely by all his little tells despite his apparently stony demeanour. You could see him beneath it, the soft kind Male that the Mother had made for you.

“It would be an honour.” He added seriously, finally getting to his feet, preparing to leave. You ached at the thought — but more of you preened, knowing you would see him not long after. His seriousness made you laugh.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re kinda intense?”

Azriel smiled, his shadows moving more deftly now. “And yet, never has it sounded so sweet as it does coming from you.”

You flushed and it was made entirely worse by the chuckle you felt down his end of the bond. You jabbed him in the shoulder, a bit miffed when he didn’t sway in the slightest.

“Alright, no more mud on my floors.” You ordered, faux serious as you pointed to the door. “I will see you later tonight.”

“Promise?” He asked, once more to check— but mostly to see that elated grin he was already falling in love with.

“I swear on my mate." You promised back, delighted when he grinned — properly, teeth and all — and you stole one final glance at your forever as he disappeared out the door.

part two here

#hi! if you're reading this i'm new here! :D #well #i read these books awhile ago but... new to writing... for azzy baby <3 #so feel free to tell what you think (unless you think it suckssss then keep that one quiet ples)#azriel #azriel shadowsinger #acotar #acotar fanfiction #azriel acotar #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger x reader #azriel x you #azriel fanfic

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