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wildlyglittering · 3 years

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The Space Between

I have a few pieces of Nessian fan fiction already pre written so I’m just going to drip feed them into my feed every Sunday.

Enjoy (I hope!)

***

Cassian left Velaris far later than intended.

He meant to fly at first light but with the previous night’s send-off drinks for the Inner Circle, all due to go their separate ways for the summer, that first light turned into the hot midday sun.

For Cassian, his departure was routine. It was a regular schedule now, this constant flying back and forth between Velaris and the Illyrian mountains. Rhys kept him busy but the camp kept him busier, so much so that at times he was more a creature of the sky then land.

The prior evenings political discussions of Rhys, Feyre and Az’s imminent stay in the Dawn Court was mindless chatter to Cassian’s ears and he tuned them out with political thoughts of his own. How many recruits did the camps have now? Was Devlon training the females? Were the rumours of an uprising true?

All throughout, one thought was stronger than the others.

Nesta.

Always, Nesta.

Between the mountains and Velaris lay the expansive wilderness where Nesta made her home. Part of Cassian’s schedule was to visit her on his flights between places but it had been months since he’d last seen her face.

Distance, he'd once told her, only makes my heart grow fonder. She'd rolled her eyes at the saccharine sentiment but a delightful blush spread on her cheeks which indicated she wasn't as stone-cold as she'd have others believe.

It was a half-truth on his part.

To say he longed for her was an understatement. Nesta occupied his mind continually and she now owned a space in his heart he once didn’t have for anyone. Distance made him yearn but it also made him cautious.

Nesta’s decision to live away from Velaris was something Cassian once thought as an attempt to distance herself from him. She wouldn’t return to the mountains, he understood why, but it was her refusal to come back to Velaris that surprised him as he thought she’d found some peace with the city.

Her refusal hadn’t been about Cassian, he understood that now. There had been an opportunity for her to regain her independence and, though she never expressed it aloud, a way for her to establish a new identity for herself in this world.

She took it.

Despite this, Cassian hoped she would eventually come back with him to Velaris. He hoped that this new version of Nesta was transferable and that she could thrive on the cobbled streets next to the shining river of his city as she had amongst the expanse of wildflowers.

It ate away at him, Nesta, however powerful, out in the nothing all alone. Still, if that thought ate at him than others consumed him, the gnawing set into motion by others he loved.

Will the bond last? Mor asked. It's uncommon for mates to be apart like this and unfair for one mate to deliberately part themselves from the other.

Nesta isn't a wing, he told Mor. Without her physical presence he still functioned and besides, the emotional connection was unbreakable.

I worry about you my friend; Rhys said. If I can't be with Feyre within minutes I don't know how I would bear the day.

Cassian deflected their words with a smile and a wave and clad himself in invisible armour.

He’d landed, finally, although hours later than he wanted. Sweat tricked down his back and face, his leathers clung to the thick muscles of his arms and thighs. The journey was over half a day’s flight from the city but he always made it in less.

The mountain peaks were visible from the wilderness but only barely, appearing so small it looked like an ant could crush them. There was a small forest and stream within walking distance but aside from those and a cottage it was nothing but thick stalked wild flowers for miles, colouring the landscape with pinks and yellows.

It was a combination of summer heat and protection spells which caused the cottage to shimmer.

Cassian had landed a slight distance away, wary of the protection magic that was always a little too keen to exert itself, and wandered through the flowers to the grey stone building ahead. Mor had expressed incredulity that Nesta hadn’t demanded a mansion with servants while Rhys joked, she was too sour to keep them even if she did.

Cassian ground his teeth but said nothing. Nesta’s experiences weren’t his to share, he justified.

Despite the poverty, despite going to bed with an aching belly and fears of starvation.0 the memories Nesta held of small cottages remained untainted. In mansions, she’d been dragged from her bed and forced to watch her sister drown before water then filled her own lungs. In palaces, she was made to recount those events to eager eared strangers. In tents, she listened to the screams of the dying.

It was those places where she’d started to lose piece after piece of herself until nothing remained.

It was this place, this small cottage, where Nesta found herself once more. The old Nesta flared again, a small spark which turned into wildfire.

Cassian let himself in, the latch opening to him easily.

The main living space doubled as kitchen and comfort. An overstuffed sofa sat in front of an oversized hearth with a butcher’s block next to it, complete with mortar and pestle and the fresh herbs Nesta gathered from her garden. Three rooms branched from this one. The first was the bathroom, the second Nesta’s bedroom and the third was empty.

There was no sign of Nesta and a glance through the window towards the garden showed Cassian that Nesta wasn’t there either. It was likely she’d grown impatient of waiting and had wandered to the woods to gather supplies.

Cassian weaved around the stacks of books, one pile fast becoming as tall as himself, to go find her when a heavy clunk of a handle sounded behind him. Nesta appeared from one of the smaller rooms, it just surprised him to see which one it was.

"Hey sweetheart," he drawled, "what were you doing in there?"

Something moved down the bond but Nesta had muted it somehow and Cassian could sense a sheer kinetic energy rumbling outside of his reach. She said nothing but took a deep breath before standing aside, leaving the room behind her open to his view.

***

The third room was no longer empty.

Cassian stood in the middle; every muscle tensed for battle; his wings snapped taut behind him.

Nesta had opened the window to clear the lingering musk and the beginnings of a soft summer breeze drifted in ruffling the delicate lace curtains that now hung from the frame.

The lazy dancing curtains were the only movement in the room. Cassian remaining locked in place with Nesta just as rigid beside him.

His heart started pound on the bones of his ribs, and he imagined it bursting straight out of his chest to land in a bloody heap on the floor.

The walls had been painted a soft yellow, reminding Cassian of the pats of butter served in small dishes when Feyre and Rhys had 'proper company.' The new bookcase and shelves, both empty, were a thick, rich cream.

His pulse beat out a rhythm on the roof of his mouth.

A rocking chair draped with a downy feathered blanket sat in the corner but the most prominent feature, positioned against the wall, stood the crib.

Waiting.

The pulse was behind his eyes now, the objects in his vision dancing as he heard the whispers that travelled down the bond. Nesta hadn't moved but those sharp blue-grey eyes stared at him all the same.

Were his legs always this clumsy? he wondered. Did he often give full control of his body to something else? Cassian was moving but they weren't his feet. He loomed over the crib like a grotesque gargoyle and touched a giant, calloused hand to the wood before reaching in to grasp at the blanket.

These weren't his hands, he decided. His were designed to clutch the handles of blades, to wrap around throats and squeeze until faces turned blue. They weren't meant to touch small blankets embroidered with bees.

I can rip this with both hands, he thought. Turn it into shreds within seconds. I am the Lord of Bloodshed and I tear things apart.

His pulse pounded in his ears now, his tongue feeling like it had engorged in his mouth ready to block his windpipe and choke him like he'd choked many others. Nesta was glaring and throwing her panic at him until he swallowed it down.

His knuckles had turned white clenching the blanket. Cassian envisioned a small body, sleeping and breathing and dreaming in this bed, relying on Cassian's hands to hold it, to keep it safe.

There was no more air in the room, no more breath in his lungs and his ears were filled with the beat of his own heartbeat, and Nesta's, and now one other joining them.

***

The later afternoon sun had dipped and outdoors had cooled significantly which was welcome, the open blue sky more so.

They were in Nesta's small garden, amongst the vegetables and flowers, and yet it wasn't obvious to Cassian how they arrived.

His chest hurt, he remembered that. His lungs were burning like flames had leapt down his throat and scorched everything they touched. He'd been grasping at his skin, digging his nails into the hollow of his throat to claw a way for the air.

Cassian walked out here. He must have. Nesta following.

She stood in front of him, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, the pulse in her wrists jumping. Cassian viewed every beat so clearly from his vantage point on the ground, the solid hard ground where he'd crumbled.

The breeze, the one which had danced around the curtains in the nursery -- dear Mother, the nursery -- was as welcome as a kiss from a long-lost lover as it caressed across his wings.

Come, it sang, fly away. The sky is yours.

Something else was singing, no screaming, down the bond but Cassian pushed it down. Panic had emanated from Nesta, rolling off her in waves and he thought he could handle it. But now, after he fled from the cottage, she was drowning him.

On the surface she appeared ready for battle, her face as sharp as one of Cassian's blades and as deadly. Had she spoken? Her voice was small as though she wasn't close at all but standing miles away, the words travelling through wind and across the mountains.

From their positions, his knees digging in the dirt, his face was level with her stomach. One glance was all he allowed himself before his eyes darted away.

Nesta still looked like Nesta. There was no glow or scent to her skin, no softness to her face or additional roundness to her already full curves. Her abdomen remained flat, giving no sign of the life existing within, the life that Cassian helped create.

It would be smaller than one of my fingers, he thought and his wings twitched. The breeze and the sky calling him to freedom.

She'd seen.

The noise fogging his mind was cleared away by a sudden blast of magic.

Nesta's voice reached his ears clearer this time.

"What exactly are you intending to do?" Her tone was so chilled he was amazed his flesh didn't blacken from frostbite.

Cassian dug his hands into the ground before lifting them to cover his face. The fresh grass and earth lingered on his fingertips, and he inhaled deeply in an attempt to tether himself.

What did he intend to do? His thoughts splintered, images and names racing through every possibility he considered. Fly away, he told himself, fly to the mountains, fly home to Velaris, fly, fly, fly.

Rhys would know what to do.

Rhys always knew what to do, as did Mor. He would seek them out and get them to decide what was best. Their presence would be a soothing balm for him and while not quite as soothing for Nesta they had an authority she would have to acknowledge. Rhys and Mor would know what is best, he thought. Nesta wouldn't think so at first but they would want to be involved.

Everything would be easier for all of them this way.

He wanted to explain but it was hard to concentrate, the whirling tornado of his mind pierced with the frozen shards of Nesta's. The more he thought of Rhys and Mor, the more the breeze turned into a wind whipping across his wings.

"We can't do this," he found himself saying. "I can't do this; you can't do this." Here. Alone. That's what he meant to add but his voice cracked and the words wouldn't come.

He dropped his hands and glanced up at her, his Nesta. On her face she wore something close to devastation, not even an expression he'd seen after the Cauldron when she was trying to bathe again, laying sprawled and soaking on the floor of the bathroom.

Her words came without hesitation.

"Get out," she hissed. The sharpness she pushed through the bond at him was done with intent. If she had been ice before then Cassian couldn't describe this now, other than a swift stab to his gut with a spike.

The link between them was now blocked.

"Nesta...." he trailed off. The wind hurt now, cold and stinging against the membranes of his shivering wings. There was a violence, an unnaturalness to it, and Cassian understood underestimating Nesta was a dangerous thing.

The surrounding torrents blew stands of her hair from her braid and ruffled her dress but didn't make much else of an impact, her body remained upright and unyielding while Cassian's began to bend.

There was a chance to stop it. Nesta's magic could have been blocked with his siphons, and he could have stood, placed his hands on her arms and told her all this was a misunderstanding.

He didn't do any of them.

Nesta had offered him an opportunity to flee and so, while her storm raged around her small garden, Cassian opened his wings and let it carry him off into the sky.

***

It was evening when Cassian returned.

The brilliant blue of the mid-afternoon sky had turned into a deep navy with streaks of ruby from the setting sun.

Everything was silent, that silence extending to their connection through the bond.

Now, when he reached out it was as though he were touching the abyss. Whatever else she might do from this point onwards; retreating from him and blocking the bond was something Nesta had already done.

Earlier, when he'd left, he'd flown over the wilderness and was halfway back to Velaris when he changed his mind. His flight was half to clear his mind and half to flee to sanctuary.

He couldn't complete his journey and continuously turned round over and over in the sky, battling with himself. To fly forward or back was the question he struggled to answer.

Could he not do both?

Now he was calmer he would explain to Nesta it was more dangerous for her to be alone during this... situation. Perhaps what happened in the garden was a lack of control, her hormones playing havoc on her abilities.

He couldn't leave her here, unable to defend herself properly if the need arose. She couldn't go with him to the Steppes, not now, but maybe he would be able to convince her to be under the protection of Rhys and Feyre.

Nesta wouldn't love his plan but this was a plan put in place because of how much he loved her.

That was the intention.

He'd landed heavier than before, an extra burden pressing down on his shoulders. Everything remained unchanged from earlier aside from when he neared the cottage and he felt a new pressure on his body.

His wings flared on instinct, to brace himself against an invisible enemy’s onslaught but none came. Each step was as though he was trudging through mud, each one clunkier than before. When he reached the border of Nesta's boundary he realised he could no longer move.

When Cassian turned to walk back where he came, the strain lifted and, along with it, so did his feet.

He tested this a few times, the weight growing with every effort he made towards the cottage until he had to give up. When he did and turned back, the feeling his spine was going to snap into two melted away.

Nesta’s shields were always up but until this point her magic had never extended to Cassian.

She'd blocked him from reaching her, physically and through the bond. He stood outside staring at the grey stones of her walls wondering if she knew he was here.

She knows, he thought. She just doesn't care.

He'd left her for a moment, for a stupid moment, and now she'd rejected him absolutely.

Cassian convinced himself Nesta’s powers were unpredictable and this was adding to the evidence she should be among others. He was sure when she realised, she would lift her barriers and come to him.

So, he waited.

She never came.

***

The summer in Illyria had been brutal and so had Cassian. The sun scorched his skin and he fought through sweat soaked leathers, pounding his knuckles into the flesh of other Illyrians, his brethren, until the heat made his head throb.

It was only when the trainees were on the verge of collapse did he allow them to rest.

His reputation of fearsome was fast becoming one of cruelty; but he didn't stop, couldn't stop, until one day he observed an Illyrian child watching him, all skinny scabbed knees and curious eyes.

Cassian reached out a bloodied, bandaged hand as a gesture to show the boy some defence moves only for the child to flinch and curl his small, developing wings around himself as some form of meagre protection.

At that point, Cassian knew he had to temporarily turn the reigns over to Devlon, however reluctantly. His head wasn't where it should have been, thoughts of Nesta and the long silence between them which now lasted over a month had taken prominent place.

He hadn't attempted to reach out to her.

It was best, he decided, to leave everything until she was ready. This situation’s resolution had to be on her terms. But there was something else stopping him. He didn't want to discuss what they evidently needed to discuss, and he was scared, that if he tried to connect with her, she would refuse him again.

He would protect himself for the pain of her rejection by not giving her the chance to reject him at all.

Cassian had arrived back in Velaris in the afternoon, the new autumn air holding the residual warmth from summer within the city. He stood on top of the House of Wind, letting the breeze drift across his wings. He'd arrived without notifying anyone, not that there were many to notify. Feyre, Rhys and Az remained in the Dawn Court and Amren had decided to live out an eternal summer in the Summer Court itself.

He didn't mind. He wanted to take a moment, to gaze out on the place he called home and feast upon the red brick rooftops and shining surface of the Sidra without interruption.

Velaris was always a welcome sight and returning was the equivalent of someone throwing a blanket over Cassian’s shoulders to ward off the chill. This time though, it was as though the cold wind he’d experienced at Nesta’s had stalked him via his bones.

Something was disjointed now. He was happy to see his city but Velaris didn't hold the same thrill of excitement he usually experienced. Now it was as though it was a muted song, still remaining a pretty melody but harder to hear.

Was this how Nesta experienced Velaris? Or did she view it with more ambivalence? Was the city received with vitriol? Less a song and more a scream.

He thought of her, as he always did, alone in her cottage but now not alone. He'd learnt to turn the thoughts off quick; the pang in his chest made him want to cry.

Perhaps his sadness radiated outwards or maybe there was a part of him which called for help without realising but as he stared outwards, a soft and warm hand slid through his unwinding his clenched fingers.

"Hello, you."

Cassian looked down to see the golden hair of his best friend as she rested her head against his arm.

"Hello, Mor." His voice didn't crack but it was close.

She raised her face, her smile slipping into a frown. "Oh, my darling," she said. "I sensed you were back in Velaris but thought it was strange you didn't come to say hello."

Mor studied him for a moment, those deep brown eyes of hers absorbing every inch of his face, seeking out the truth which wouldn't take her long to find.

"You've had a fight with Nesta. A serious one."

It wasn't a question, Mor already knew the answer.

The years had melted away some animosity but it would be a lie to say it had disappeared. Time had patched over the intensity but was unable to purge the resentment completely.

Nesta removing herself from Velaris had gone some way to soothe the mutual dislike but the resolution was more a case of ‘out of sight, out of mind’ than any deeper healing.

Cassian knew Mor had felt a sting of rejection when he and Nesta had bonded and on some level, she had taken it as a strike to their friendship. Mor had advised him all those years ago to not accept the bond, and he'd proceeded regardless. Her fear, she told him, was that Nesta would burn him out with her anger.

Mor's concerns were from a place of love, but he'd accepted the bond from a place of his love. Besides, there was a kernel of truth in Nesta's statement to him that Mor didn't want to lose the life she'd spent centuries crafting and how Cassian was part of that.

Even though, regarding him and Nesta, there was part of Mor waiting for what she deemed inevitable but Cassian chose to ignore the tinge of hope he heard in her voice at her statement.

"Yes," he replied, "but it was my fault. I didn't respond to the news particularly well."

"What news?"

The truth would out, how could it not? Before his cowardice crept in again, he told Mor everything and watched as her eyes grew wider.

"Cas," she breathed and stepped in front of him, her arms stretching around his body, her cheek pressed against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her as tight as he could. He needed this; he needed a friend.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he confessed. "I don't know if I want to do this at all."

The memory of the small child he had once been morphed into the image of the boy he had inadvertently terrified at the camps. That image warped again into something smaller and more precious, an image he quickly discarded.

"Death and destruction are my talents; I doubt I'd be soothing anyone's pain away with kisses and cuddles." He let out a mirthless laugh.

Mor pulled back, standing on her toes, so she could reach her hands to his face and positioning him to look at her. "You're the best of us, Cass. You have so much love to give anyone. You love without question, defend without question and you'd die for those you love. I don't expect you'd do anything less for your child."

She squeezed his cheeks together until he grinned at the ridiculous expression she was making him wear. "You'll make a wonderful father; I know you will."

Mor let go of his face and stepped back into his arms for another hug. Cassian held onto her words as tightly as he held onto her.

"I wish Nesta were in Velaris," he sighed.

Mor tensed in his arms.

"Oh."

"She's strong but the wilderness is no place for a pregnant female. I don't think isolation is the best place for her right now. Or for a baby."

"I agree," Mor said. "So, bring the baby here. We have space in every one of the houses for a nursery, two nurseries if you want. And we have Nuala and Ceridwen on hand. Plus, the rest of us will dote on it and when you need to go to the camps any one of us will protect it with our lives. Can you imagine such a fantastic life in Velaris, with all these aunts and uncles around?"

Something wiggled its way through his stomach, an unease which twisted like a worm. Cassian let his arms loose from Mor's body. "And Nesta."

"What?"

"Nesta will need to be here too."

Mor stepped back with a look on her face that told him she'd tried to forget Nesta was part of the equation and didn't want to be reminded. It disappeared fast into a practiced smile. "Of course," Mor waved her hand in the air like she was batting away a fly. "And Nesta, of course."

"Except I don't think she'd come," Cassian continued, watching as Mor marched to the roof edge to look down. Her body was as rigid as Nesta's had been when he had last seen her.

"Make her."

"Mor..."

"What?" Mor turned to face Cassian. "It's not just her anymore, is it? If she wasn't so selfish, if she wasn't so..." she trailed off.

Cassian's skin began to itch, like he had grown too large for it and now it wanted to split open. His tongue pressed upwards against the ridges of his mouth where his pulse began to click.

A forced smile slipped onto Mor's face. "I just mean, she's renowned for being stubborn but sometimes, in the past, her actions haven't exactly been beneficial for her, have they? Right now, she's being stubborn and though that may benefit her, it's not benefiting you or the baby. It makes sense for her to be in Velaris at this stage, so she has immediate access to healers. You just need to convince her this is for her own good."

"Even if I do, she won't stay."

"Don't make her."

His head began to hurt again, the heartbeat a pressure against the back of his eyes. "Mor, you're not making sense. First you're telling me to make her come here and now you're telling me I can't make her stay."

"Once she's here and can see how much better it would be for the baby to be in Velaris she might stay," Mor's voice conveyed enthusiasm even if her face didn't. "But if she decides she doesn't want to stay she doesn't have to. Nesta may realise it would be better for everyone if the baby was here. Think of all you can give it; think of all we can give it. What can Nesta provide in her hovel in the middle of a field? If she wants to go back let her, but she shouldn't be allowed to force that life on your child."

What he experienced with Nesta in her garden came back in an instant. His heart beating hard against his ribcage, the pulse reverberating into his skull, while his breath squeezed from his lungs.

There was an emergence of something he hadn't felt towards Mor before, something which itched and crawled in his skin the more she spoke.

"I can't begin to fathom what she'd be like as a mother, Cass. You would have all the love in the world for your child, but would she? How fit is she? Do we want to wait to find out?"

If there was a spark which existed in Nesta that turned into the occasional furnace then it was true the same could be said for him. The difference was Nesta was ice until she became fire, Cassian was warmth until he became flame.

In Cassian’s mind lived a million images of Nesta but there were always ones he visited first. She'd held his hand once on a battlefield, tended to his wounds with gentle fingers. She'd pressed her body against his ready to die with him.

When he'd been poisoned in the Illyrian civil war, she'd stayed with him when the troops moved camps, knowing he was too ill to fly and too weak to fight.

During one of Cassian’s first trips to her cottage she spoke about her plans to make a little garden all the while chopping vegetables for a broth that was his favourite.

Her cheeks blushed a dusky pink and her hair looked orange against the firelight. Cassian thought if Nesta had any siphons that would have been their colour, flame for a creature of heat and warmth.

His siphons, the seven red ones, were now glowing.

"Cass?" Mor's voice was concerned.

Mor’s words had pierced his skin like poisonous barbs and though the venom wasn't intended for him, he was not immune. Still, it alarmed him, that some primal part existed within to trigger his power. It was only his reflexes caused the surge to mute.

"What's happening?" Mor's voice was small and croaked, the verge of a teary outburst imminent. He wasn't the only one alarmed at the indication that some part of him wanted to blast his lifelong best friend from the rooftop.

"I think we're done."

Nesta, while never fond of Mor, hadn't said a word about the other female since moving away. Part of her healing was to let go of what caused her pain, and she had deemed Mor something to let drift away.

These words Mor said freely stung him. Cassian and Nesta had chosen to honour the bond and so when Nesta was struck then Cassian must also suffer the blow. Although there was a consequence of their love living in Nesta's body that he didn't want to face, it didn't negate his love for Nesta.

"I have to go."

"Cass, please... wait!"

The siphons had dimmed, back fully under Cassian's control and Mor ran forward, clutching at his arms with wide eyes as the ripples of her panic spread thick throughout the surrounding air.

Mor called after his retreating back even as he took to the sky. The irony didn't escape him, that for the second time in several months Cassian flew away from a female he loved.

***

Every morning Cassian was drenched in sweat like he’d been fighting through the night.

Screams echoed in his mind along with the splashing of water as Nesta sank beneath the Cauldron, Hybern’s leering face never far away. Dreaming of memories was nothing new but now as the images raced through his mind, he dreamt Nesta with a swollen stomach and as she screamed it was followed by the shriek of a baby’s cry.

Cassian had tried not to dwell on what Mor had said, the questioning of Nesta’s ability to mother, although those images also came unbidden. He saw an empty crib, a baby lying on the cold ground while Nesta walked away and Cassian remained absent.

He shook those thoughts away and sharpened his anger at himself and at Mor for forcing these thoughts into his head.

Cassian had managed to flee from two females but now, three weeks after his encounter with Mor, he actively sought out a third.

Elain lived on the estate of Feyre and Rhys’ river house and had done so for decades.

There was a complicated history between Az and Lucian, of which Cassian didn’t know the full details. Whenever he’d asked Nesta, she pursed her lips like she was sucking on something sour and refused to say a word.

Cassian assumed Nesta was upset that Elain chose to reside so close to Feyre and Rhys, that she hadn’t wanted to forge ahead with her own path. But Cassian never understand why Elain would want to be anywhere else when everything she needed was at their doorstep.

A cottage had been built for Elain in the gardens, some considerable distance from the house to allow for privacy for all residents. Thick trunked trees and tall flowers took care of the rest and the walls were draped with wisteria, covering everything aside from the windows and doors. If you weren’t looking, you wouldn’t have known it existed.

The door was wide open, as if she knew he would come, and Cassian stepped inside the stone floored hallway and followed Elain’s humming to where she stood in the kitchen. Her back was to him, her golden-brown hair so like Nesta’s, loose down her back and scattered with greenery. Elaine didn’t turn to greet him, concentrating on arranging flowers in a vase even as she spoke.

“Shame you and Mor still aren’t speaking.”

Cassian hadn’t spoken to anyone about their argument and to his knowledge, neither had Mor. He shouldn’t be surprised that Elain knew, Elain had a strange way of knowing everything but she sounded far too pleased about the development for her sympathies to hold true.

“Mor spoke out of turn.”

“Doesn’t she always?”

“Yes, but...” Cassian trailed off. Yes, but this time she went too far. This time. This time. To say it was a sad acknowledgement of the other times and the shameful fact he’d let them slide.

Elain turned, waiting for the completion of a sentence she knew he wouldn’t finish.

She was usually the gentlest of the sisters but there was nothing gentle about Elain at this moment. Out of the Archeron’s, it was Nesta and Feyre who looked most alike but there was something currently hard and cold about Elain that reminded him of his mate. His chest ached.

“Why are you here?” Elain’s tone was sharp, dismissive as though Cassian were a greenfly on her rose bushes she needed to squash out.

“I need your help.”

Elain raised a delicate eyebrow and leant back on the wooden table behind her, her fingers trailing through the flowers laid across it. “Go on.”

“I’m worried for Nesta, she’s all alone in her cottage and too far from help if she needs it - not that she’d ask for it, which is a concern itself.” He sighed at Elain’s immoveable expression. “I just want her to be someplace safe, just in case.”

“Just in case what?”

All the images rushed in at once, all his fears. Just in case someone breaks in and drags her out of her bed, just in case someone throws her into the cauldron, just in case someone tries to poison her, tries to set her cottage on fire, just in case she gets ill.

“Just in case she can’t cope.”

“You think you can’t?”

Cassian groaned and tugged his hands through his hair. “I don’t know! But at least if she can’t and she’s here then she’d have you and Feyre. Well at least you, Feyre is barely here.”

“And you?”

“What?”

“And you? You’ll be here and ‘not away.’”

“Yes, yes of course. And me.”

Elain picked up a flower, a cream one with splashes of pink, and twirled it. She seemed to be fixated on the petals as they spun, round and round, as the silence grew in the room. Eventually she spoke.

“You want me to convince her to come here and you think she’ll listen to me because it’s me.” It was almost a whisper how soft she spoke it.

The scene changed so fast.

Splotches of crimson appeared on Elain’s neck and Cassian watched her fingers tighten around the stem of the flower. “It’s history repeating all over again. Drag us to Velaris because you want it, exile us to the camps because you want it.” She scoffed. “And so, she comes to Velaris, for what? Nesta will watch as Feyre and Mor and Rhys cluck over the baby because it’s yours while they try and forget that Nesta had anything to do with it.”

Cassian’s mouth dropped open, a void had formed between his brain and mouth and no words took shape.

“We can’t just be shuffled around like pieces on a game board for whenever suits the High Lord.”

“I haven’t.... I don’t.... I haven’t spoken to Rhys about it. I don’t even think he knows Nesta is even.... it’s my idea. Mine. To keep her safe.”

Elain let out a shuddering breath and released her fist. The flower, its stem now a green pulp, slid from her hand and landed on the floor. “Do you believe that Nesta isn’t safe where she is?”

Cassian thought of the expanse of blue sky over Nesta’s head, the mountains looming in the distance and the dark green tops of the woods. The fields were filled with nothing but wildflowers and aside from her little stone cottage and garden there was nothing for miles and no one but Nesta.

He could imagine the sound of the wooden door breaking, the splintering as the wood split as fae forced their way in. It hadn’t happened but ‘yet’ was never a word far from his mind.

Her magic was strong though and her will greater.

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully, “but I do know I want her here.”

“That’s even worse,” Elain said looking him straight in the eye, her voice taking a harder quality. “No. Until Nesta herself wants to come back I won’t be involved in asking her. I’m not going to conspire with you or with anyone to take away her freedom no matter how desperate you are.”

She grabbed the vase and pushed past Cassian, “I’m grateful she was even able to get out.” She placed the vase on a ledge and stared at it for a moment before facing Cassian again. “Do you want this for her?” She gestured around.

Cassian couldn’t understand what was wrong with ‘this.’ A home, safe in the grounds of their High Lord and Lady. Constant protection and constant company. If they built a cottage next door to Elain than all sisters would be in the same place. Nesta didn’t even need to live in the house if she didn’t want.

He sighed, the truth edging free. “I don’t. She’d hate it.” He scrubbed a calloused hand over his face, “I just don’t know what to do. Maybe Rhys and Feyre will tell me, they always know what to do.”

A snort, far from ladylike, emitted from Elain. “They would bend everyone to their will if they could, trap everyone in this place until it suits them.” A faraway look entered her eyes, “I should be with Lucian, in Spring, Day and Autumn, floating between them all like a butterfly. They have such beautiful colour.”

There was another moment of silence, wherever Elain was she was no longer with Cassian. “Elain,” he asked, “why are you here?”

It was an assumption on his part that she loved living in the Night Court, that her heart was here along with her body.

His question snapped her back to him and she scoffed again. “I’m a piece of the game they play with Lucian, of course. An heir to Autumn, an advisor to Spring and the sole heir to Day? Mother forbid he decides to not play nice with Rhys.” Vitriol spilled from Elain’s tone. “Feyre, sweet childish, Feyre thinks I want to be here because that’s what Rhys has convinced her to think and your precious Morrigan lost her best buffer between her and Az so she needed another one. Don’t think I didn’t hear her egging Rhys on to keep me here.”

He didn’t know. Truly didn’t. That Elain was held in a prison of flowers and pleasantries. Cassian knew that her and Lucian hadn’t an easy start to their mating bond, there was some entanglement with Az yes, but this was always her choice.

It worried him how little he knew.

Maybe Elain detected something in him as her eyes softened. “People respond in extreme ways when they’re scared,” Elain continued. “You and Nesta have that in common. Unfortunately, she’s significantly more stubborn than you.”

Elain took one of the flowers from the vase and crossed over to where he stood, tucking it into a band of his armour, the peach petals a strange sight against charred black leather. At least he wasn’t completely without Elain’s grace.

“Have you tried to contact Nesta?” she asked him. “Really tried?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Then I don’t want to see you again until you have.”

***

Immortality and time were complicated bedfellows. One moved quick and left the other one floundering. What were years when there were so many decades? What were decades when you could live centuries?

Months were nothing. Weeks even less.

Feyre, Rhys and Az had arrived back from Dawn at the full change of the season. The greens of the trees had long turned gold and red and now, another cusp awaited. The trees grew barer and the petals had long since fallen from their stalks.

This was the longest he’d gone without speaking to Mor and he hadn’t tried to approach Elain again.

This was also the longest he’d gone without Nesta and Cassian believed he would have suffered less if someone slid a blade between his ribs.

He trained at the House of Wind; he ambled through Velaris. His body was one place and his thoughts another. He was in the training arena when Rhys returned.

“I’d say congratulations my friend but I don’t think that’s what you’d want me to say.”

Rhys was leaning against the wall, a grin on his face. Cassian sighed. He was in little to no mood for one of Rhys’ cocky moments.

“I don’t think I deserve a congratulations.”

“Well I’m sure you had some involvement in this escapade.”

Cassian grit his teeth. The conceiving of a child between mates wasn’t something he would refer to as an ‘escapade’ but he could hardly defend himself.

“Funny,” Rhys continued, “how the Mother works. Some she blesses with the joy of motherhood and some she curses with a joyless mother.”

That feeling wormed its way again into Cassian’s stomach, irritation? Frustration? Whatever it was, it was an ever-increasing desire to take his knuckles and smash them into Rhys’ sculptured cheekbones.

“How was your trip?”

It was deflection at its finest and Cassian watched as Rhys’ face sparked. “Excellent. We managed to get what we wanted and Feyre decided to-”

Cassian let Rhys’ voice drift into one ear and out the other. He didn’t care about the trip or negotiations or whatever wealth Rhys managed to accumulate for the Night Court. He didn’t care for what silks and jewels Feyre was now re-gifting. He wanted to ask his friend, his brother in all but blood; ‘Was the Cauldron wrong in choosing us? Will I make a good father? Will Nesta be a good mother?’

He couldn’t. He couldn’t show his High Lord that Cassian, General and Commander of his armies, was scared of something he could cradle in the nook of his arm. It was like a dying dog showing its bare throat to a hungry wolf.

“I’m disappointed to hear from Mor that you aren’t speaking to her though.” Cassian snapped back into the present.

Cassian shrugged and leant on the wall opposite. “We had a disagreement,” he said as disinterested as he could.

“Well she’s upset. Make it better.”

There, Cassian’s skin prickled again, his blood burning hot in his veins. Rhys not knowing, or worse, not caring why the silence occurred in the first place. Cassian’s feelings were irrelevant in this situation and what Mor said about Nesta seemed to be no concern.

Rhys had moved the conversation on again, such surety that Cassian would call to heel. Cassian thought of Elain slowly crushing flowers.

It was at the mention of Nesta’s name that Cassian dipped back in.

“They had a ‘disagreement’ too and now she won’t speak with Feyre either. Whatever slim thread of rationality that your female had has now completely gone and Feyre is distraught.”

Of course, Feyre had made this about herself. Of course, she has. Cassian’s thought was so like Nesta’s voice that he wondered if Nesta had re-opened the bond, even for a minute, to listen to his conversation. But the walls were still up and it was just his own voice inside his head.

“I told Feyre being ignored by Nesta isn’t such a bad thing,” Rhys chuckled and then stopped at Cassian’s look. “Sorry, my friend.” Rhys leant across and rested his hand on Cassian’s shoulder. “I jest.”

Yes, and he always did. Joke after joke. Time after time. Small barbs of poison like Mor’s that landed on Cassian’s skin and sank into his bloodstream.

“She tried to convince Nesta to come to Velaris. Feyre’s also tried to convince Elain to get involved because she’s the only one Nesta is speaking with. Elain wouldn’t have it,” Rhys shook his head. “She’s becoming more like Nesta each passing day.” He let out a sigh. “Were it the other way round.”

Would Rhys want that? Cassian pondered. Nesta stuck in a cottage on his estate, nursing an infant at her breast and glaring at him as he approached. It would be more than flowers Nesta would be crushing. Cassian suppressed a grin at the thought.

“I wouldn’t want that for her,” Cassian said.

“What? You wouldn’t want a safe, contented life for her? Not that she’ll be content with anything.”

Cassian thought of the turn of last autumn and Nesta joyfully showing him a full basket of berries she’d picked and how she planned to turn them into jam. There was a sharp tug, right under his rib cage and he brought his hand up, pressing his palm against it.

Rhys had noticed the movement, the arrogant smirk finally sliding from his face. What little love he had for Nesta, he still had volumes for Cassian and his friend in pain wasn’t something Rhys would revel in.

“I can bring her into Velaris if you want?” His voice was solemn. “Talking her into it won’t work but I can command her as High Lord and she wouldn’t be able to refuse.”

There was a part of Cassian that leapt at the offer. Nesta would be safe among the Inner Circle, she would have Elain as company and eventually she would speak to Feyre again. She’d be safe.

She would also hate Cassian for the rest of their lives.

“No,” he replied, “I couldn’t do that to her.”

Rhys shrugged. “If that’s what you want. If you change your mind, let me know. I’ll do it for you and Feyre. And for the child. I can’t be entirely convinced Nesta wouldn’t eat her own young.”

***

Cassian was really living up to his reputation of violence and brutality. The blood, not his own, that he washed from his fist turned the water a pale pink at the bottom of the bowl. It had been an hour, maybe less, since the rooftop ‘conversation’ with Rhys.

There was a soft noise from the corner of Cassian’s suite, an exhalation of air that could have been either a disappointed sigh or restrained laugh. “So, you’re getting into fights with Rhys now?”

“Yes,” Cassian replied, “and once I’ve cleaned up, I’m going to go back to the roof to continue my brooding before I was so rudely interrupted.”

There was a definite chuckle and Az stepped from the shadows, a smile gracing his mouth. “Don’t go swapping talents with me now, I’d hate to have to go around punching my High Lord in the face.”

“Rhys has a nose like a rock, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

The smile slid from Az’s face as he came closer, stepping next to Cassian in the designated wash corner of his room. The ornate mirror, some monstrosity chosen by Rhys or Feyre, hung above the basin and Cassian could see both his and Az’s reflections on the surface.

“I’m worried about you, brother,” Cassian watched and then felt, as Az’s scarred hand came to rest on Cassian’s shoulder with a comforting squeeze.

Cassian felt his jaw lock into place, he didn’t want to engage in another discussion today that wouldn’t go well for either party. “I’ll warn you now, if you want to be dismissive about Nesta this won’t go well.”

Az raised his hands in surrender. “Why would I be dismissive about Nesta? She’s your mate and soon to be mother of your child. Besides,” he said with a grin, “I’m not stupid.”

Cassian snorted and turned, giving Az an affectionate thump on the arm before picking up a dry cloth and walking over to his bed. He sat on the cover, scrubbing his hands dry, minding the broken skin on his knuckles. “Go tell that to Rhys and Mor.”

Az’s grin slipped away and he walked to sit beside Cassian. “Rhys knows he crossed a line and that you were defending your pregnant mate. I’m sure that’s why he didn’t hit back.”

“It was a long time coming,” the words were a truth that Cassian had taken an even longer time realising. He was filled with shame at how long.

“Yes,” Az replied, “it was.”

Cassian didn’t hide his flinch.

“Mor however doesn’t understand what she’s done wrong.”

Cassian buried his face in his hands. “Of course, she doesn’t. I’ve let her get away with comments about Nesta for years, decades even. But they’re questioning Nesta’s ability as a mother now, damning her before she’s even had a chance to prove them wrong.”

“You’re sure she’ll prove them wrong?”

“I know she will.”

“Then why not wait and let the evidence speak for itself?”

“Because I know Nesta wouldn’t want them thinking this about her, I don’t want them thinking this about her.” The next part came out as a whisper, “I don’t want to think this about her.”

Az raised an eyebrow, “You’ve thought she’ll make a terrible mother?”

“It’s crossed my mind but then I don’t think I should be anyone’s father.” He paused. “We shouldn’t be having a baby.”

There. It was what on been on his mind the second he knew about its existence.

Never mind the enemies they’d collected over the years, what if he and Nesta managed to emotionally damage the child beyond repair? What if they hurt it physically? What if it died? What if Cassian died and left it fatherless the same way Cassian had been?

He couldn’t hide how much he lived for war. It called to his blood. In times of peace he worried he was bored, worried the bloodshed was too invigorating. That’s why he craved Nesta’s company and the eternal battles using their words.

Nesta never tried to turn him into a creature of peace but instead provided an outlet for his energy, even their card games by the fire turned itself into fierce competition where only one would hold ultimate dominion.

They were happy. It just wasn’t an environment for a child.

“You won’t be ‘any’ child’s father though Cass,” Az said, “and Nesta won’t be ‘any’ child’s mother. It’s a child of you both, it will exist as part of you both.” It was like Az had read his mind, “Whichever way you raise it will be the right way – for you both and the baby.”

“I ran from her.”

“You can run back.”

“I wanted her to come here.”

“Are you going to make her?”

Cassian shook his head with vehemence. “Never.”

A hand clapped him on the back. “My friend, you’ve known for a long time what needs to be done, now you need to stop avoiding Nesta and face your future. It’s a glorious one.”

“Our resident seer has seen that has she?” It was a joke said with a smile, a way to lighten the tension of the room but Cassian saw Az’s face grow sombre. Az once loved Elain, maybe still did, but he clearly had his own issues he’d been avoiding.

“You could ask her. Even better, you could make it happen itself.”

“I need to talk to Nesta,” Cassian said, “truly talk to her.”

“You have this,” Az told him, “both the conversation and fatherhood. Nesta and you, you’re well matched. It’s agony to be around at times, but you’re well matched.”

Cassian clapped a hand onto his friends back, “You are my favourite Az, just don’t let any of the others know.”

***

The feeling was like someone had come along and removed rocks from his shoulders. Purpose, Cassian decided, gave you strength.

His leathers were on, his windows wide open and Cassian had finished wrapping his newly retrieved bundle into the satchel on his bed when Elain walked in.

He started, amazed at how she trod so gently that his fae ears couldn’t hear her approach.

Elain’s hair was bundled into a messy bun, sprigs of mistletoe decorating the strands. She’d switched to winter clothes, thicker material but still softer colours and it was jarring to see the pale pastel blues against the dark wood of Cassian’s rooms.

Cassian hadn’t thought that Elain even knew where his rooms were.

“Can you give Nesta this? She’s got back ache and I told her I’d send her some Scia Root.” Elain held out a lumpy muslin cloth tied with ribbon.

Cassian frowned as he took it. He’d realised after his conversation with Az that he was ready to go to Nesta, to grovel and beg her forgiveness. He would have thrown himself down at her feet if he needed to but he’d kept his intentions to see her quiet, telling no one.

“How did you-,” he trailed off. There was no point in asking. Elain just knew what Elain knew. He felt a sliver of something along his spine, maybe there were other reasons Rhys didn’t want Elain and Lucian together. All that power. All those Courts.

It wasn’t his concern. Elain’s comments about Nesta’s back ache however was and he shoved the roots into the side of the satchel. There was much he missed and Nesta’s body changing and the baby growing were two of those things.

Elain stood at the end of his bed, head cocked and smiling. “The baby will have your eyes you know.”

His breath stopped short, hands stilling on the strap of the satchel that he was adjusting to fit his width.

“And Nesta’s smile,” Elain continued. “I know that seems a contradiction but you’ve seen it, she has a beautiful smile.”

He had. It was. Rare but like most gifts, the most precious were rare.

He knew that there would be a baby. Obviously. His focus had been on how small, and fragile it was, how him and Nesta had unlimited potential to let it down. He’d just never really considered it as a separate entity, one comprised of him and Nesta and a whole component that would be uniquely its own.

He swallowed over the lump in his throat. “You’ve seen a vision of the future then?”

“Oh yes,” Elain replied and Cassian watched as she ambled about his room looking at every artifact she could see, her fingers touching every surface.

“Is she smiling in this vision of yours?”

“Nesta? Oh yes. The baby smiles a lot too. It’s very loved.”

“Good, that’s.... good.” He said the words flippantly, as though his heart weren’t pounding in his chest again, as though the spots of light hadn’t re-entered his line of vision. “Am I in this vision?”

Elain stopped in her meandering and turned to face him, those deep brown eyes of hers, bottomless with what they could now see, scanned his face. “It depends Cassian.”

“On what?”

“On whether you want to be.”

He’d had enough debates with Rhys and Az on fate versus free will to last him a thousand lifetimes over, often with him arguing the power of the Mother. In this moment he would argue the other way. The future was in the hands of those who would carve it out for themselves.

“Yes, I do,” he replied. “It’s taken me too long to realise it.”

“It took the time it needed.”

Cassian wanted to reassure Elain that he was ready and if there were times he wasn’t then he would make himself ready.

He wanted to say that he would always defend Nesta, he should have always defended Nesta and that he would murder and maim before he let anyone rip Nesta and their baby away from the place Nesta considered home and that included those he considered family.

He didn’t say all this because he suspected Elain already knew and besides, those words needed to be for someone else.

Before he left, he turned to Elain as she stood, having moved to the window next to him to watch the first flakes of snow.

“I hope-” he began and trailed off. “I mean for you and Lucian that-” again he stopped. Words weren’t his strength. Elain didn’t turn around but he saw her nod and a slight smile in the reflection of the glass.

It was a smile that spoke of war yet to come.

***

The wilderness was covered with blankets of thick white snow and spiked patterns of frost. Icicles hung from the branches of the forest trees and the ground was long in its sleep, not a trace of life to be seen.

The flakes that swirled around him as he flew caught in his hair and eyelashes until all he saw were blurs of white.

To say not a trace of life was incorrect because life bloomed in the cottage in front of him. Smoke billowed from the chimney and lights shone from every window lighting up the place like a solstice tree against the darkening sky.

Cassian squeezed the satchel strap until his knuckles turned white before he took a deep breath and strode forward. He felt himself pass though the magic barrier, the one that shielded Nesta from unwanted visitors, the one she’s turned on him all those months ago.

He didn’t know whether the shield for him was down recently or had been brought down months ago. He was too ashamed to ask.

The air shifted as he neared the cottage, she knew he was here, probably had done since he landed. It was possible she knew the second he left Velaris. As he neared it, he could see the door was slightly ajar. Nesta may not be greeting him with open arms but in her way, this was gesture enough.

Much had changed inside.

The piles of books that threatened to crush a fae under their groaning weight had been cleared away and stacked onto bookshelves. The knives that casually adorned the butchers block had been tidied away out of sight.

The fire crackled and spat behind an iron gate and a pile a green wool lay strewn onto the sofa, two knitting needles embedded into the skein. Part of the wool had already transformed into a bootie for a foot and the shape of a leg was forming.

Cassian wandered over, picking it up between his fingers and marvelled at how soft it was against the calluses of his fingertips and how small it sat in the palm of his hand. I’ll protect you, he thought, me and your mama and there’s no one more formidable.

Maybe his thoughts were a beacon for all to hear but there was a clunk of a door latch and Nesta once more emerged from the room that was now the nursery.

If Cassian thought the cottage was much changed, it was nothing in comparison to his mate before him. Nesta’s hair seemed longer but that could have been because it was loose down her back and not braided into its usual coronet.

Her hair tumbling in waves also made her face appear softer and rounder or at least that’s what Cassian thought until he realised that Nesta’s face was softer and rounder. Her sharp cheekbones may have been less pronounced but her skin glowed as though a flame was lit within her.

The greatest change was, of course, her stomach.

Even if Cassian had wanted to continue avoiding the evidence of his impending fatherhood he wouldn’t have held much of a chance. Nesta’s stomach protruded from her slight frame and straining against the fabric, the impression of her belly button pressed against the material. Cassian found himself fascinated at how glorious it looked.

Something else was edging its way in now, pushing down the shame and fear. The primal, ferocious part of him that existed was screaming to snatch Nesta away and carry her somewhere even more secluded then where she currently was.

He was still staring at her belly, still holding the woollen sock when Nesta’s hand came to rest on her stomach followed by a not so subtle cough.

Desperately shoving the nerves down, he looked back at her face. The softening of her face and glow of her skin hadn’t dampened the sharpness residing within. Her eyes were tired but not sad, a resolve existing in them that whatever happened with Cassian, whether he was there or not, she would be.

Cassian opened and closed his mouth like a fish gulping in the air unable to find the words that would ever convey how sorry he was.

Nesta just fixed him with a stare before she spoke. “I was going to make some stew. Are you staying for dinner?”

He stammered out a confirmation and watched as Nesta’s eyes flitted down to where he still clutched onto the sock before she turned away.

Though the cottage was small and the physical distance between them minimal, Cassian felt the gulf.

Sorry, he wanted to say. Please forgive me, was the other. If she wanted nothing to do with him or if she wanted him to have nothing to do with their child it was within her right even if both those decisions would smash what was left of his heart.

Nesta began chopping vegetables in silence and Cassian finally put down the sock and the satchel and turned towards the nursery.

From the corner of his eye he saw Nesta pause as he approached its door.

“May I?” he asked and she nodded without looking, continuing with her task.

The room had been filled with more items than when he’d last seen it. The lace curtains still adorned the window but now fae lights twinkled around the pane and Cassian could see snowflakes as they danced and twisted in the air.

The rooms dusty, unlived smell had completely disappeared to be perfumed with both with Nesta’s scent and that of a bouquet of flowers sat on a table and enchanted to permanently bloom.

Cassian recognised it from Elain’s kitchen, the very ones she was arranging when he visited. He thought of the peach petals of the flower she gave him and how vibrant and alive it looked next to his leathers.

The bookcase was now filled with books, all bound in cream, yellow and green and clearly recognisable as children’s stories from the Night or Day Court. There were a few that Cassian didn’t recognise but he knew enough to understand they were from the Mortal Lands.

The ones that had a shelf of their own; bashed and burnt edged, tarnished and worn with dark brown leather trims were unmistakably Illyrian.

Even though she couldn’t be sure that Cassian would be there, even though he couldn’t have been sure he would, Nesta still found a way to secure items from half their child’s heritage.

The rocking chair was now prepped with a cushion and the crib, still the most prominent feature in the room waited patiently for its impending occupant. A mobile of stars and winged creatures hung down above the centre and swayed when Cassian trailed his fingers over it.

He’d missed so much already; he’d almost missed so much more. The fear was there but next to it, deep in his belly, now lived something else. Excitement had started to take shape.

When he returned to the kitchen he strode to where Nesta stood as she buttered bread and pretended to ignore him.

“Nesta,” he murmured and she paused. Her face had affected an air of disinterest but her hand trembled as she held the knife and he remembered months ago when her clenched fists did the same.

How had he been so stupid? In his previous terror he mistook those signs for rage and yes, she had been angry, but there was the undercurrent of something else. She’d been terrified too, still was, and he’d let his own fear confirm hers.

“Nesta,” he said again and turned her so that she faced him, their bodies so close that her full belly brushed against his. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, instead choosing to focus on a point on his chest.

But she wasn’t pulling away.

“I’ve been such a fool,” he said and reached forward to cup her face in his hands. Nesta closed her eyes and a solitary tear slid down her cheek. “Such a fool,” he repeated as he wiped it away with the pad of his thumb, caressing it against her cheek.

Nesta let out a shaky sigh and nodded and that seemed to break her, a sob wrenching its way free from her mouth.

He pulled her closer, wrapping her in his arms and revelled in her presence, her scent, her everything. Another sob came from her mouth, pressed against his chest and he heard her muffled voice, “Stupid hormones.”

***

They sat side by side on the couch in front of the fire. Their bowls lay empty on the floor and Cassian’s bare foot rested against Nesta’s as she tucked herself next to his body. He played with a strand of her hair, twisting it in his fingers and watched as her eyes grew heavy until they closed, her hands resting on her belly.

The only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire and although he didn’t want to interrupt their fragile peace, he knew he needed to.

“Nesta,” he began and felt her tense by his side. “I need to-”

“It’s fine,” she said sharply, cutting him off. Although she had let him back into her home there was still ice left to thaw. He could leave it, accept the battle was done but he knew the hurt he’d caused would fester. Someday, maybe not soon, but someday, the wound that Nesta hastily patched up would only re-open.

As Cassian was the cause of that wound he needed to ensure he healed it.

He cleared his throat. “I didn’t know my father. I imagined to myself that he was an exalted Illyrian warrior, maybe even Illyrian royalty, and it was war or some other disaster which tore him away from the female he loved. I convinced myself he’d died, either fighting or fighting to get back to her.”

Nesta remained silent but Cassian continued.

“I also managed to convince myself that he would have thought my mother’s pregnancy the best thing that had ever happened to him, that he was overjoyed with his peasant female and the son she would give him. I always hoped, if he had died, his dying thoughts were of us.”

Cassian stared into the flames behind the grate.

“They were the wishes of a child. My father either didn’t know she was pregnant with his bastard or didn’t care. It wouldn’t have mattered if he was one of the best warriors we’ve ever had, he fucked a launderess in a camp and that’s where it ended.” Saying the words out loud caused a different kind of ache in his heart but to move forwards, he had to close the past.

“If he knew she was pregnant,” he continued, “then it didn’t matter - he left us. I told myself I would never do that and yet, that’s exactly what I did.”

Nesta let out a shaky sigh. Cassian continued to let the strand of hair twirl between his fingers, the firelight shading it a brilliant copper.

“I don’t know how to be a father,” he admitted. “I was scared – am still scared – that I’m going to ruin both your lives. I shouldn’t have run. I still don’t know how to be a father but I’m not going to run again.” Cassian placed a kiss on the top of Nesta’s head. “I will always be sorry.”

Nesta let out another sigh and turned in his arms to face him. “Cassian,” she began and glanced away to take a breath before facing him again.

“You’re not the only one who’s scared. My parents were present but they were never really there. You know about my father and my mother – she loved my father deeply but she resented having children. I’m scared that I’m like her and the way I was with Feyre...” she trailed off and Cassian saw her throat bob as she swallowed.

“You were a different person then. You and Feyre have made amends.”

Nesta shook her head. “When she sent me to the camps, I hated her. Hated her. Back then I would have done anything to tear her life apart.” She looked at him, reaching forward to clasp his hands in hers.

“That feeling’s gone, I’m just so tired now. Except...” Nesta took another breath. “It was something you said, about needing to speak with Rhys. I was terrified that Rhys and Mor would take my baby away. I was scared you and Feyre would let them.” She looked away again, her eyes someplace other than the room. “I knew what I would have done to you all if you tried.” A smile briefly touched her face.

Decades had passed since Cassian watched her hack at the neck of Hybern until the gristle and bone finally snapped. She’d held the severed head in her hands, her face splattered with blood and a smile, wide and ghastly, stretched across her face. It was the shadow of that smile that appeared now.

Cassian thought back to the recent conversations with Mor and Rhys, how Rhys was willing to use his authority as High Lord to bend Nesta to his will.

Even though Cassian had once wanted her in Velaris, had tried to convince her it was the right place, had considered that her and the baby should be made to live there, he would never have allowed it.

Nesta never would have allowed it.

He looked down at his hands, currently clutched in Nesta’s. His own blood had run down his knuckles and into the ground. He had wrapped those hands around the throats of traitors, had used those hands to wield blades, slicing them into the guts and hearts of enemies. His first kill was a throat split so wide he’d almost severed a head himself. He pictured the faces of his friends, the fae he had called family. If any one of them had tried to take Nesta’s baby away from her, Cassian wouldn’t have just let the rampage happen, he would have joined in.

“You’re not your mother,” he told her, flipping their hands so hers were now clutched in his. His calloused thumbs caressed her soft skin. “I’m not my father. This baby is ours, no one else’s.”

“I know,” she looked at him with fierce eyes, “I would take down anyone who would try and take it away from me. Even you.”

“I would never do that,” he said, “I promise.” He kissed the top of her head again and she let out another sigh, this one so soft it was barely audible. Cassian took a moment to breath in her scent before shifting to the satchel he brought with him, his stomach twisting.

Nesta slid away, so that she faced him, eager to see what he was doing.

The leather was old and worn but it was sturdy, protecting its plethora of contents over numerous centuries and now protected the precious gift Cassian had brought back with him from Velaris. The parcel he pulled out was misshapen and wrapped in plain linens tied with brown string but he hoped the contents would be significantly more impressive. He cleared his throat and held it to Nesta. “It’s for you,” he said. “Well actually the baby.”

Nesta took the parcel from him and unwrapped it with careful hands, a gasp escaping her. Cassian knew that Nesta was intrinsically aware of what this was, of what this meant to him.

Even after all this time the blanket was soft. The edges may have been a little frayed but nothing that was detrimental, it was still a good blanket. The colour was a light dove grey and, embroidered in a dark thread, were the symbols for growth, strength and health.

“It’s an Illyrian baby blanket,” Nesta breathed.

Cassian nodded, his eyes not leaving her face. “Yes, mine.”

It was the only item his mother left with him at the training camp. She’d given the instruction to hide it and hide it well as the others would assume it as a sign of weakness. Cassian did exactly as he was told, burying it beneath a tree and only digging it up when the training camp moved to new ground.

For him it wasn’t a sign of vulnerability, it was a vestige, the last sacred remnant that someone had loved him. Now it was to be gifted onwards, now he had someone extra to love.

Nesta’s smiles were delicate things that could be snared by a passing doubt or remembered fear and which left her face almost as soon as they appeared. This smile, this wonderous smile now present, would be etched into Cassian’s memory forever.

“I don’t want the baby growing up without experiencing some of Velaris,” he said, “and I want it to see the Steppes but it’s going to be spending a lot of cold winters here. Even early spring has a bite so I decided it needed something warm.”

Nesta bundled the blanket up and touched the fabric to her face, rubbing it against her skin as if to test the softness.

“I want the baby to live where you’ll be most happy,” Cassian continued. “I would like to live where you’ll be most happy. Perhaps I could, in time?”

Nesta shot him a sly look. “Perhaps,” she said, “in time.” Cassian watched as she buried her nose in the blanket, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. “It smells of the sky somehow,” she said, “and the woods. It smells like you. Thank you.”

Nesta put the blanket down and leaned forward, kissing Cassian gently. His heartbeat raced in his chest like it always did when their lips touched.

She reached forward and took his hand placing his palm over the girth of her belly, resting hers on top. When she pressed in slightly there was a movement in response, a shifting of life that had been disturbed and so it kicked out in protest.

Cassian gasped. “That’s....”

“A foot,” Nesta continued, “she’s a kicker.”

Cassian grinned as he felt the kick again imagining small toes pressing against the inside of Nesta’s belly. “Wait,” he said as Nesta’s comment dawned on him, “she?”

“Yes, we’re having a girl.”

There was nothing he could say to that. A new fear now existed, to be a father of a daughter, to have two strong willed females in his life who would present him with new challenges that he couldn’t begin to fathom. The fear was part of the process, he knew this now, it would make him work harder.

Cassian would let fear sharpen him, make him stronger.

“We’re doing this,” he said, “we’re doing this together.”

Nesta smiled again, her fingers clasping round his.

“Yes,” she confirmed, “together.”

#nessian #fanfiction #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar #i wrote something #acosf #nessian fanfiction #nessianfic #nessian fic #nesta x cassian

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thatsnice13 · 5 years

Text

My entry in Lily Orchard’s writing contest, wish me luck!

Primrose hummed softly to herself as she made her way down the garden path. She loved her gardens more than almost anything. In the dozens of little flower beds along the path and around her little cottage, she had the answers to many of life's problems. She had roots that helped you sleep, grasses that calmed the nerves, berries that could be brewed into antidotes for the deadliest poisons… but alas there were no plants that grew gold pieces. The answer to the young herbalist’s problems would not be found here.

She sighed and sat on a stone bench next to a small pool she had for the growth of marshier plants. She saw her own troubled face looking up at her, plump and smudged with its usual layer of dirt, accented by short black hair, cut at a length that mud and leaves would be much harder to tangle in. “You little lady have a problem…” she said to her own reflection.

“Is it a problem I can help you two with?” A voice said from behind, making the short gardener jump.

“Don’t do that Minnie!” She called out, turning to see the only thing she loved more than her garden leaning over her fence; her girlfriend Minerva. Minerva was well named because she truly looked like a goddess and Rose would fight anyone who said otherwise! She was about six foot tall with dark skin and deep red hair tied back in a long ponytail. She dressed in men’s pants and a blue tunic with a sword at her hip, her usual casual wear.

“Sorry Rosie.” The tall woman walked around to the garden gate, letting herself in, making her way over to the smaller girl, and sitting beside her, “What were you two talking about?” she asked, pointing to the pool with a smile.

Primrose froze up; trying her best to not let her lover know something was up. Of course, she failed at that instantly. Rose was a horrible liar, so she settled for telling her girlfriend part of the truth, not enough to let the secret out, but enough so Minnie wouldn’t worry and push her. “Just thinking about our anniversary tomorrow… You always outdo me and I never feel like I do enough.”

“My sweet flower, we’ve talked about this!” She effortlessly picked the smaller woman up from her seat and pulled her into her lap, so the warrior could cuddle the gardener from behind “Having you in my life is gift enough! You always worry too much about these things!”

Primrose sighed and smiled, allowing herself to be snuggled, head resting of Minerva’s chest. “I know… But I still want to do something nice for you… you spoil me so much and I…” she paused, seeing Minerva’s hand was blistered “Hun! What happened!”

“Nothing!” Minerva sat up quickly, hiding her hurt hand.

“Show me!” the smaller girl pounced, pulling the hand back into sight. “Did you burn yourself? Why would you hide this you beautiful idiot!” She cried out, gently holding the injured hand in one of her own and lightly smacking Minerva’s shoulder with the other.

The warrior blushed “I… uh… I was fighting a dragon, and… didn’t want you to worry about me…” Minerva wasn’t a very good liar either.

“…. You were trying to cook again weren’t you?” Rose said, looking her right in the eye.

She was quiet for a long moment before sighing in defeat “I was trying to surprise you with cookies and I forgot to use an oven-mit…”

Rose couldn’t help but smile. Her girlfriend was the sweetest idiot in the world and she was all hers! “You big goof.” She said, chuckling and kissing the injured hand “Come inside love. I have just the thing.”

Rose quickly ushered Millie into her home, not hearing any of her lover’s halfhearted protests as she was pushed and pulled into the two room house. The front was all workspace, full of many herbs, salves, and poultices for everything ailment you could think of, and a few you couldn’t. She grabbed a few leaves of an aloe plant, as well as some dryad’s hair and stone giant moss. Having all her ingredients, she led her love into the second room. Here was a bed, a small kitchen, and a simple wooden table with four small chairs.

The living quarters were sparsely furnished, but vibrant and colorful with vases of fresh cut flowers, enchanted so they would never wilt, and a painting on every wall. All the pictures were gifts from Minerva, hand painted with loving care, showing the house and the gardens at the four seasons. Rose smiled warmly, her eyes lingering on the painting of the spring gardens in bloom. This wasn’t much, but she was happy here... even if it was part of her problem… “Just sit down love, I’ll be right with you.” She said, busying herself with a mortar and pestle, grinding her ingredients together with a splash of cold water to activate the simple magic in this combination.

She almost dropped the mixture when she heard Minerva cry out from behind her. She turned to see the tall proud warrior standing on her chair to avoid a large black spider on the floor. “Rosie help! Get it away! Get it away! Is it poisonous?! Help!”

Rose tried her best not to laugh, but she couldn’t stop herself from smiling “Calm down darling. She isn’t poisonous. She’s just curious and lost.” Putting down the stone bowl, Primrose walked over and scooped up the offending spider in her bare hands. “Come on little friend. I know a place you will be much happier.” She blew a quick kiss to her love as she got down from the chair and carried the spider out to the garden, setting it in the middle of a rose bush. “There you go. Sorry about my girlfriend. Spiders are just a sore point for her, but you should be much happier out here. Lots of mosquitos this time of year.”

A moment later, Rose was back inside, finding Minerva still pale, but down from the chair, “You are the cutest thing I have ever seen,” Rose said, kissing her love gently on the forehead.

The warrior blushed hard, “That wasn’t cute, it was mortifying…”

“Nope! You! Are! Adorable!’ Rose punctuated every word with a kiss to boost her love’s spirits and make her smile. It worked and she got a laugh from the taller woman.

“Ok! Ok love, you win!” Minerva chuckled and pulled her plump angel into a tight embrace. “Oh what did I do to deserve you?”

“Asides from being beautiful, kind and a warm hearted softy? Not much.” Rose playfully poked Minnie in her side to get her to release her tight grip and went back to retrieve the medicine. She gently began spreading it over the blistered skin. Minerva sighed and relaxed in the way one does when a pain you hadn’t noticed was gone, only recognizing it in its absence. “Apart from the burn, did the cookies come out ok?”

Minerva smiled in her embarrassment, “Well… most of them were thrown to the floor when I dropped the pan, but two stuck to the metal. I tried one and meant to bring you the second…” Her blush deepened, “But I think it was for the best you didn’t get to taste it. I think I must have used salt instead of sugar…”

Primrose again tried not to laugh, “Oh you beautiful hot mess! I’m always so happy when I see these adorable flaws in the masterpiece!”

“Oh hush!” Minerva playfully poked Rose in her dimpled cheek.

“Oh no! The upper class is trying to silence me!” Rose cried out with overt sarcasm. She pretended to faint against her girlfriend, “Whatever is a poor innocent maiden to do! Trapped alone with a fearsome yet gorgeous brute! Completely at her mercy!” She opened one eye and smiled mischievously “... Nothing to stop her from, say… throwing me down onto the bed and having her way with me till I can’t walk right for days… hint hint…”

Minerva had to look away to hide her face at this very enthusiastic display. “Curse you weak mortal flesh!” The warrior maiden grumbled out before turning back to her love, “You little temptress! Do you have to get me all hot and bothered!?” she let out a sigh “Unfortunately darling, as much as I want make love with you till the sun turns cold… I can’t today! I’m sorry!” she whimpered a little, “I had just meant to stop in to say hello before going on duty tonight…”

Rose’s face fell in disappointment “You could have said that earlier!” She pouted gently, “...Well this stinks. We’re both horny now and neither of us is getting any… I feel like a straight couple during a fight…” She let out a sigh and kissed her love gently on the lips “Oh well… I suppose I knew I’d have nights like this when I started dating a soldier. Just tell aunt Skara that I’m annoyed with her for taking you from me, and be safe ok? I’m sure there won’t be any baking pans attacking tonight so you should be ok. I love you Minerva.” She smiled and kissed her again, wiping off the balm that had covered the redhead's hand with a moist cloth and smiling when she saw the blisters had already vanished in that short time of treatment.

“I love you too you little monster.” Minerva said with a chuckle. Flexing her healed hand, she stood up, lifting her diminutive love up in her arms, to kiss her and spin her around the room. Once done, she sat the smaller girl down on his chair and smiled sadly, “I’ll see you for date night tomorrow ok?”

Rose nodded and smiled, head spinning a little. “Ok. Be safe darling.”

With that Minerva blew her a kiss and slowly walked from the house. Once alone Primrose felt her mind returning to the contemplation that had started out in the garden… She loved that woman so much. She wanted to spend the rest of her life with her… and she barely had enough silver to afford a plain ring. No engraving and certainly no diamond… How could she propose with so little to offer?

She sighed and felt her spirits start to fall again. She didn’t want to be alone right now. She got up from the chair and quickly washed her face and hands. “Maybe grandma wants some company.” She said to herself as she grabbed a cloak and locked the doors before leaving the cottage. Outside dusk was falling and lights of the nearby town of Sailor’s Rest were starting to glow, but Primrose turned her back to the lights and faced the forest behind her home. She began to softly hum a tune as she made her way deeper into the woods. She had walked this trail hundreds of times in her life and she soon found her way to a house very much like her own with faint candle light coming through the windows.

She knocked at the door and felt her spirits rise to see a small willowy old elf waiting to great her. “Well Primrose my darling flower! Felt like giving an old fossil some company did ya? Come in my dear!” Her voice seemed to creak with a lilt of laughter just under the surface. She was about Primrose’s stature, but a thinner build. Though she looked to be 60 in human years, she was nearly 300.

Rose hugged her and smiled “Sorry if I’m bothering you Grandma.” She said, making her way into the very familiar home. Known to the town of Sailor’s Rest as ‘the white witch Flora’, Grandma’s house was covered in potions and talisman of varying purposes and strengths. She had taught Rose her most important lessons, and would have taught her more if the magic had been stronger in her blood. “Is Aunt Skara home?” She asked, though it was clear the elf’s most recent spouse was still out at the gate. Minerva was most likely going to relieve her.

“Nope. Just the two of us for now. I’m guessing your own gentle giant is busy on duty too?” The witch asked, casually waving her hand through the air to fill her teapot with instantly hot water, then waving it again to turn it to calming green tea blend, ready to drink.

“Yep.” Rose said simply, taking her usual seat at a very old stone table. While Grandma conjured up some scones, Primrose looked up above the gently crackling fireplace. Along the mantle were portraits of her past loves through her long life. A red haired dwarf woman, a sheepish and shy looking wood elf maiden, a tall, strong human woodsman, and finally Skara’s picture. Rose chuckled to herself, remembering the commotion caused when Flora had announced her intention to marry an Orc defector, but after about 15 years of living and fighting with the villagers, she had become loved by all, and not just the strange solitary elf. “I wanted to talk with you about something while both of our tall girls are busy.”

“Fire away dear. You know I love our talks.” She smiled, putting the tea and scones down before her.

“It’s… well… I want to propose to Minerva… But I can’t afford a diamond ring.”

Grandma sipped the tea and was quiet for a moment as if waiting for the rest of the problem “… And?” she asked when no explanation seemed to be coming.

Rose was surprised by the abruptness “Well… that’s what a woman expects when she is proposed to. I can’t do it without one.”

“Says who?” Flora sat up, as if preparing to fight someone who told their granddaughter what they could and couldn’t do.

“I… Well no one specifically grandma. That’s just how it’s done. Weren’t you given rings when you were proposed to?”

The elf laughed, eyes shining and smiling wide “My sweet child, don’t be silly. I proposed to them every time!”

“Really? Even Grandad?” She was genuinely surprised. She had never heard the story this way.

“Of course!” She counted off on her fingers. “Gonda I made us matching necklaces using the metal craft she taught me. Segune I wrote a song. Your grandpa did try to propose to me with a ring, but I beat him to it and got him a new sword I enchanted myself. And Skara and I essentially eloped, and we got matching tattoos to show our bond after the fact. There’s no one way to ask someone to marry you dear. The most important thing is that it is special to the person you love.”

Rose felt a little stunned by the realization, feeling like she had been very stupid up till then. “Something special for her…” she smiled as an idea came to her. “I think I know just the thing for Minnie. But I’ll need your help grandma.”

—————————————————————

After a long but uneventful night guarding her hometown from absolutely nothing, (The eastern gate had to deal with a thief trying to climb the walls, but no one else had gotten any excitement) Minerva had slept all day once she had gotten home. Her father knew not to disturb her after a late night and would have let her sleep the whole day through, but well into the afternoon her maid Alice gave her a gentle nudge.

“Wake up m’lady. You don’t want to keep your little flower waiting.” Alice said teasingly, opening the curtains to let in the light that was nearing twilight. Alice was a sweet girl and a good friend to Minerva. They’d known each other for years, and though Alice didn’t understand at first why the mayor’s daughter would date a poor gardener, she became one of their biggest supporters from the first time she saw how cute they were together. She only wished she could find a romance so sweet one day… She had her eye on the mayor’s secretary Jane, but didn’t even know if she liked girls… Alice helped get Minerva ready as she tried to think of a way to find out.

“Hey Minnie,” she asked, helping bush out the tall girl’s bed hair, “How did you know Rose liked girls?”

The warrior chuckled at the memory, yawning and stretching a little, “It wasn’t anything fancy. One day I knocked on her door to ask her permission to paint her gardens.”

“Oh? What did she say?” she asked, tying the long hair back in a ribbon.

“Not much. She just whispered ‘tall girl pretty’ and started at me for about a minute. It was pretty easy to guess she was interested after that.”

The maid laughed, getting a nice jacket set from the closet, “Well as cute as that is, it doesn’t help me much… I know I should just ask Jane if she’d want to go out, but I’m so nervous! She’s so focused on business that she’s never talked about boys or girls… With my luck she has a husband.”

“Hey come on you gay mess. Don’t give up hope.” Minnie said with a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Just talk to her. Talk to her about me and Rose to break the ice. Maybe you can get an idea of where she stands from that.”

Alice smiled, eyes shining a little “Oooo! Now that’s an idea Minnie! A lot better than any of my ideas… Big plans tonight with the little lady?”

“Well it is our anniversary. We recreate our first date this night every year, a picnic under the stars by candle light.” She sighed happily at the memories. After quickly checking her hair and clothes in the mirror, she grabbed a carefully wrapped package and a small basket. Taking a deep breath, she turned back to Alice “Well, I’m off. Good luck with Jane, Alice.”

The maid smiled nervously, “Do I really need to do it right now?”

“Of course you don’t if you don’t feel like you are ready… But I wouldn’t wait too long. I heard that one of the rangers has a crush on her too…”

“They what! I bet it’s that jerk Liam! He’s not good enough for her!” With the idea of her crush potentially being wooed by a lousy man galvanizing her resolve, the maid marched off to get a date before it was too late.

Minerva chuckled to herself as she made her way out of the house. None of the rangers had hinted any such thing, but she knew competition was just the push her friend needed.

A few moments later Minerva had arrived at their arranged meeting spot, a tree on a hill overlooking the river. The water was already starting to shine golden as the sun began to set. Being the first one here, Minerva set up the contents of her basket; a large blanket and a few cushions to sit on, a few bottles of their favorite mead, two glasses, and some cookies from the bakery. She had not been brave enough to try baking her own again after the salt incident. She hid her gift in the bottom of the now empty basket just as she heard Rose approaching.

“Hello my champion!” Primrose called, giving a cute little curtsy once she was in view with her own basket and a parcel under her arm. She smiled warmly and got down to the blanket to kiss her seated love. “How was the gate last night?” She asked, trying to stay casual, but she couldn’t help but feel the butterflies in her stomach as she thought of what was coming. She tried to distract from it a little bit by unpacking her basket of cold chicken, fresh bread, grapes and cheeses.

“Nothing special. Just a long slow night. Quiet is good for everyone around here even if it’s dull for me. Still it gives me time to day dream about you.” She playfully fed Rose a grape, “How was your night?”

“I was up pretty late too.” She said, snuggling up to Minerva so they could both watch the sun sink lower in the sky, “I went to see grandma for what I thought would be a little while, and before I knew it, the sun was up.”

“I go off to work under Skara and you go off for tea and gossip with Flora. It’s not a bad system for the four of us.” Minnie laughed, stroking her love’s hair. “Ready to open your present?”

Rose nodded, moving away so they were sitting across from each other. She moved her own package closer but didn’t hand it to Minerva just yet. She wanted to go second. “Ready!”

Minerva brought out her wrapped present and handed it to Primrose, leaning in to kiss her as it traded hands “Happy anniversary my darling.”

Rose blushed, feeling all warm and happy through her entire body as she began unwrapping the parcel. She wasn’t surprised to see another painting, but she was delighted to see the subject matter. It showed this very scene; the two of them laying together on this very hill, watching the distant sunset. Her smile widened seeing her small painted self in her best dress, stained with grass and mud, and Minerva’s riding jacket hanging to dry in a tree. “Our first date!” She said happily, remembering how she had overdressed to impress the strong red head and then Minnie had tripped and fallen in the river. The dress had been ruined in the attempt to get Minnie out of the water. They both had laughed, and neither of them had cared. It had been wonderful! “Oh I love it!” She cried out, gently setting it down to the blanket before hugging herself tightly to her warrior artist. She took a moment to enjoy the comfort and safety of the embrace before separating and presenting her own gift. “Happy anniversary love.” She said softly, hands trembling just a little.

Minerva noticed this but took the package. She smiled, already happy in the paper she was sure Rose had painted herself with beautiful, detailed red roses. So proud of her girlfriend’s work, she was careful not to tear the paper, but only to carefully unfold it. Inside she found a little wooden box containing a set of new brushes and jars of paints; red, yellow, blue, black, white and a 6th jar that seemed almost clear, each with runes painted along the glass.

Before Minerva could comment, Rosie felt the need to explain the paints in her nervous disposition. “I made the paint myself out of special mixtures of my plants. Grandma helped me with the runes. These paints will never dry, and the jars will never empty.” She reached in and held up the clear jar, “This one is extra special. It is bioluminescent. It will make any color glow and shine in low light… Look…” As she spoke, the sun had finished setting and the contents of the jar began to glow like the moon itself.

“Oh Rosie…” Minerva was fighting not to cry “This is the best gift I’ve ever had! I…” she froze as something caught her eye. The roses on the wrapping paper, that were red in the sunlight, were now glowing white in the growing darkness. “What’s this…” she said softly, observing the phenomenon.

“White roses….” Primrose said softly. “You know what white roses mean my love?”

Minerva looked up in time to see Rose get down on one knee. The warrior was speechless, tears of joy in her eyes as they met the gaze of her soul mate. Rose had reached into a pocket and held her hand up. It just hadn’t felt right without a ring of some sort. In her palm sat a daisy, enchanted never to wilt, and carefully tied into a simple ring, a miniscule daisy chain, the head of the flower in place of the jewel. “Minerva… Light of my entire world… I want to spend the rest of my life by your side. Will you marry me?”

She was quiet for a moment, overcome by joy. “Yes. Yes! A thousand times yes Primrose my love!” She cried out, throwing her arms around her dear one again, holding her tighter, never wanting to let her go. In that tight embrace the pair of them shed many a happy tear. Rose gently and carefully slipped the flower ring onto Minerva’s hand. No words needed to be said. All that mattered was that they had, and prepared to start the next chapter of their lives together…

#lgbtq #lgbt writing #lesbian writing #lgbt fantasy #writing contest #lily orchard #original character #original work #original writing

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immiebee · 5 years

Text

A Stands for Ace!

✨Never fear Alaric is here to represent all the lovely Ace’s! ✨

Lactarius puttered about her study, quietly working on more salve for the orphans at the docks. Afterwards she was planning on making sweet rolls and small shepherds pies for the children as well. The docks get cold this time of year and most of the children were still wary of the new housing units Nadia had put in place for them. A few of the younger ones were drawn in by the warm smells and soft hearted elderly women that helped run the establishment on their free time. The elders cooing and fussing over the children. Who said empty nest syndrome was a downfall to womankind!

As Lactarius quietly worked, Alaric had made an appearance. Dawned in his causal lounge wear he shuffled in barefoot, quietly walking in with a cup of spiced cider. His ombre hair that fell mid shoulder was placed up in a messy bun. Dropping down onto the nest of pillows beside Lactarius' fire place he curled up staring into the fire, blue eyes distant.

Smile falling as she watched her son shuffle about like a kicked puppy. Cocking her head, her misscut brown hair falling over one eye, she carefully watched the nineteen year old bite his thumb as his leg bounced up and down. Going back to the salve she was working on, she patiently waited for his thoughts to mull over and demand him to seek guidance. It didn't take long, as she ground dried mint in her mortar, she felt her son standing behind her.

Dropping his head onto the top of her own he gave a soft sigh, "Momma....am I broken?"

Giving a soft chuckle she put down her pestle, tilting her head up she gave a soft coo. "Broken? My knight? My hero? I don't believe you are broken. Knights with the brightest armor are usually cowards, you ought to know that."

The young man giving a small laugh before wrapping his arms around his mother's neck. "Mom. I'm serious."

Turning around she pushed him to sit in her large chair before dragging a stool over next to him. Placing a kiss to his forehead she dropped to sit before him, gently holding his hands, a comforting smiling gracing her lips.

"Ok, my knight. What's this all about." Watching Alaric's eyes fall to their hands he bit his bottom lip.

Lactarius had seen this look before. He was distraught, but unable or unwilling to let his guard down. It had happened once when he was seventeen, a group of noblemen and their sons asking him to join in a hunting party. Alaric had been excited to go on his first hunting party, he had bought himself and Amata, his golden draft mule, all new tack and wardrobe for the occasion. Bidding his parents farewell for the day, the young man left to join the group of men.

It had been two hours later when he returned, Amata and himself barreling through the fields and over the fence into the horse pasture. The witch and Consul trying to talk to their son as he tossed his riding jacket away, eyes burning red with tears. He left his mule to pace back and forth along the fence in confusion, her tack and saddle still on her. Their son locked himself away in his room as the two tried to get him to answer their pleas. It took Lucio, drop kicking the door in and dragging Alaric by the cuff of his neck like a mother dog with a misbehaving pup, to get the young man to open up to his parents. The hunting party had come across a den of foxes and instead leaving the mother and her pups alone, the party turned their dogs loose. The three large dogs tearing the mother apart while others cruelly shook the pups to death while the group of nobles laughed and congratulated each other on a 'successful' hunt.

Growling Lucio gathered Alaric and the two left for the rest of the day. By the time the two returned it was nearly nightfall, Alaric and Lucio laughing as they walked into the manor carrying five pheasants in victory. After teaching him how to clean and prepare his kills, Lucio left the cooking part to Lactarius. The mother and son making their way to the kitchen preparing their dinner. Valerius thanking Lucio for his guidance, the Consul admitting that he was unsure how to approach the sensitive subject to his empathic son. Shortly afterwards Lucio made it a monthly event that he would take Alaric out to show him how to hunt like a TRUE hunter, not a cruel monster. Their son able to enjoy hunts, the thrill of the hunt and more importantly letting an animal die with honor and dignity.

Lactarius gently placed a hand on her son's cheek as his voice trembled, "Remember at the party a couple weeks ago. When I was talking with the other men around my age. They were talking about all the pretty girls there and flirting with them or other men." Lactarius nodding. "Well then they started talking about, um, well *blush* their conquers in the bedroom. And, when they asked me....."

Lactarius eyes slowly widened, a small blush on her painting across her face. She knew that Valerius had given him the dreaded 'TALK' after they caught him kissing one of the noble family's daughter behind the fountain at the palace when he was twelve. Alaric was a blushing mess along with Valerius for the next several days. She remembered when Alaric FINALLY figured out why so many couple came to visit his mother for her aphrodisiac potions, the boy didn't step into her study for a month after learning the truth.

"...I didn't have any stories. Well, aside from kisses and cuddling, maybe some heavy touching." Alaric fumbling with his words, "Am I broken? I-I have chances to go further with other men and women, but I didn't want to. I like cuddling and touches more."

Lactarius gave a soft smile, "Um, well, have you tried to enjoy yourself...by yourself?" Alaric placed his face in his hands, the tips of his ears burning as he nodded frantically. Giving a soft laugh she gave a soft pat to his knee. "It's ok! I know this is a little nerve wrecking! Was everything ok? Did it cause you any type of pain?" Alaric unable to speak, face still buried, shook his head from side to side, his messy bun whipping back and forth.

"It's ok! So you have some experience and you weren't in any pain." Lactarius eyes going wide, her face turned into a confused pout as she let out a soft raspberry. "Then according to my expertise on the matter, you aren't broken. You don't have to get dirty with every pretty face, my noble knight." Placing a firm finger on her son's lips as he went to speak. "There is NOTHING wrong with you. Some people don't have a sex drive or they have a low sex drive. It's fine. It's natural. Sex isn't the only way to show someone you love them."

"Like...when you and Da give each other gifts?"

Lactarius gave a small nod. "It doesn't mean you need to go out buy the most expensive thing on the market. Flowers, small trinkets, homemade treats, anything you can imagine can be a gift to show you love a person."

"But what if they don't like my gifts?" "Then they aren't the one for you. Simple as that. Be with someone who will cherish any gift you bestow on them, from the brightest diamond to the simplest daisy."

The young man looking down, a soft pout on his lips as he mulled over his mother's honest answer. His blue eyes meeting hers, tears slowly forming. "Da is going to be upset. Nobody will want to marry me! Not when their are others who will be able to make them feel good. I just disappoint them, they want more than platonic affection."

Giving a soft snort she bumped her forehead against his, "Alaric. You are worrying about the future. You are still young give it time. I'll bet you all the gold in the world, that there is someone out their right now saying that same line. Give it time. You remember how long it took me to find your father? Besides what’s wrong with just heavy petting and kisses?!”

Standing up she slowly cleaned up her work space as her son wrangled his hands in his loose light blue shirt. He carefully thought over his mother's words, his leg bouncing rapidly.

"So it's ok not to want to have sex all the time? And....it's normal to just want friendship over relationships?"

Sighing she gave a bright smile, "You are your father's son, so many doubts! Yes. YES! One day you will find love...and if you don't that's fine just as well." She turned cupping his face. "You are smart, funny, charming. Even if you don't obtain a lover then you will have made many friends. And a thousand friendships are worth more than a caged heart."

Alaric gave a tearful grin as Lacatrius blew a raspberry on his scruffy cheek. Standing back up she gathered up the salve tins as she began placing them in her bag. Waving over her shoulder she looked back at her son as his lean body followed her.

"Now that you are done. You care to help me make some shepherd pies and sweet rolls? The orphans could use some food and the salve for their cuts." Looking up she gave a large grin. "I think the younger ones could use a knight to snuggle with for a few hours."

Alaric dramatically flexing his muscles, "Alas the fair maidens will have to wait for another knight! I, Alaric the Knight of Cuddles, has a Great Sadness to scare away!"

The two loud laughter filling the hallway as Valerius exited the greenhouse, his golden eyes bright. Bringing his wine glass to his smiling lips, he chuckled at the two. Having heard the entire conversation from the balcony loft seating in the greenhouse as he was reading his book. Tapping the book lightly to his thigh he made his way to his study, he had a letter to write to his son. One that would remind Alaric no matter his blood line, or what others thought, that life was what he would make of it.

#the arcana #the arcana lactarius #the arcana valerius #the arcana alaric

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sunevial · 6 years

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The Followers: The Witch

The second installment of my DMP fanfiction made by the wonderful people at @internetremix! Hope you enjoy!

A peculiar smell wafted through the dimly lit store, weaving through the hanging plants and seeping into the wood paneling. No one who ever visited her little corner of the world could correctly guess just what it was, or maybe more accurately, no one wanted to guess just what it was. The woman had that sort of reputation. Rumors floated on the wind that she was versed in the use of potions, mixing her own infernal blood into concoctions to fuel rituals to an evil god. If she had a name, no one used it. Young and old alike just called her a witch.

The woman chuckled a little, mixing a little bit of powdered belladonna into her mortar and pestle and grinding it into the thick paste. She was young, or at least, everyone told her she looked young with that bobbed hair. Her clothes were casual enough: button up skirt, tank-top, and a loose off the shoulder blouse that exposed a small black star along her collarbone. Those townsfolk, with their wild imaginations. It wasn’t like every expecting woman bought small vials to ensure both mother and child came out well, or that jilted lovers came in the dead of night seeking her strongest draughts of poison. It wasn’t her fault the dying banged at her door early in the mornings, begging for a cure for their illnesses, nor her fault that vengeful men slipped through her back door, asking for death curses.

Well, those townsfolk got one thing right about her. She was indeed a witch. Or rather, she was The Witch, blessed with blood magics and Her only servant who could also manipulate the strings of life and death.

The woman remembered playing the game. She did not necessarily remember dying. Back when the world was young and wild, the Captain did not have enough souls yet to run games out into infinity. But there were still plenty of living people She could play with. Not as many opportunities for new scenarios, perhaps, but the show had to go on.

The woman remembered arriving. Coughing smoke out of her lungs, she stumbled into a small village along with nine of her closest friends and family, the ten of them fleeing the roaring flames. A blonde woman with incredibly short hair greeted them with kind words and open arms, saying they could eat, drink, rest, and be merry. The next morning brought the sight of her best friend, lying in a pool of blood. Those horrid nights continued, terrifying and all too long. One by one, her closest kin dropped like flies even as after they found one of the horrible werewolves. And all the while, the blonde woman just watched and smiled. No one ever thought to question her. No one dared.

The woman remembered that night. It had been the ironically named witching hours, the darkest time of night when good folk rest their heads and only foul things walk the earth. She awoke to claws glistening in the moonlight. There was so much blood. Her blood. But she, the daughter of a medicine man, had remembered her father’s tricks. Grasping blindly in the dark, she grasped a small cup she had prepared many moons ago. Her body in agony, she let some of her blood drip into the mixture, releasing a terrible metallic smell, before hurling it at her attacker. There was a screech as the concoction burned away fur and rendered flesh from bone, and the killer collapsed in a pile on the dirt floor. Gasping for air, she took a second cup and drained the contents, feeling the wound in her stomach slowly knit itself together before she passed out.

The woman remembered that morning. When sun rose over the horizon and all could see what happened, she noticed the blonde woman’s face contorted into a sneer, showing a small glistening fang. Then…she raised an eyebrow and smiled.

With fear and truman laced in their eyes, the few straggling survivors disappeared into the wilderness. The woman stayed behind, resting in the little house and waiting for the inevitable. She could not leave even if she wanted to. The Murder God had been cheated out of a death, and that just wouldn’t do at all, now would it? That was alright by the woman. She had seen Her power, the way she played with life and death as if it was a child’s toy, bending reality to her whims and desires. It was not so unlike the small magics she already possessed. She would prove to Her that she would be more useful alive than a permanent member of Her games.

The Captain seemed to think the same.

“This is a nice little place you’ve got set up. Cute, cozy, warm…” a familiar voice said as the back door was pushed open. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as a man with large wings stepped out of the pantry, “...just like it’s owner.”

“Eons of not seeing each other and that’s the first thing you say to me?” the woman stammered, her cheeks flushing a bright red. She quickly turned her gaze back to her potions, setting the mixture aside and picking up a knife to chop some fresh ginger. “Screw you.”

“Is that a challenge?”

The screech that followed deafened the neighbors she didn’t have.

“You’re so easy to mess with, you know,” the man said with a chuckle, giving her a small pat on the head. “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

“No, I’m absolutely shocked. It’s not like everyone and their mother heard that scream or anything,” the woman said with a shrug, dumping the cut ginger into a small bubbling cauldron. Picking up the mortar and pestle, she scooped out three large spoonfuls of the mixture. There was a flash and the murky liquid was smoother than glass and just as clear. “So, how did you find me?”

“Well, there’s not very many witches left in the world these days. The others are a bit more difficult, but then again, that’s your job,” he said with a slight smile. He crossed the kitchen in a single stride, raising an eyebrow towards the cauldron. “Remind me what else you need?”

“The knife,” she said, holding out her hand. With a small flourish, he pulled the ethereal dagger out of his pocket and placed it in her open palm. Taking her ring finger, she pricked it on the dagger and slowly drew out a thin stream of blood, letting it curl and wrap around the blade in a spiral. With a quick jerk of her hand, she sliced the stream free and let it fall. The blood snaked down the blade and hit the strange mixture, pooling into little red droplets along the surface. There was nothing. Then…the image of a forest they both knew all too well.

“Perfect,” he said with a smile, going to the door and holding it open. She obliged, stepping out into the cloudy night and looking back on the little shop. And then they were gone, store and all, leaving only the same strange metallic smell to float along the winds.

#fanfiction #internet remix #discord murder party #the followers

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crazy4tank · 3 years

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The Best Multi Purpose Pan: The Always Pan from Our Place

New Post has been published on https://fashiondesigne.com/the-best-multi-purpose-pan-the-always-pan-from-our-place/

The Best Multi Purpose Pan: The Always Pan from Our Place

If you’re seeking to upgrade to ceramic kitchenware, then The Always Pan from your Place is it! Best part, it is multi purpose designed to substitute 8 traditional cookware parts.

I mentioned it before and Ill say it again: want to know the best part of staying in has been cooking food at home. We’ve recently completed renovating our kitchen and today it’s one of our favorite areas to hang out. As part of this particular kitchen upgrade, we wound up replacing pretty much everything from kitchenware and cooking tools, in order to countertop accents and all of the particular electrics.

Certainly one of our favorite recent finds continues to be the Always Pan from your Place . Appears aside, we love that will it’s a multitasker (you actually can use it to pan, sear, steam, strain, sauté, fry & boil), has a steamer basket for simple vegetable steaming and a spatula with a built-in spoon sleep so you don’t mess up your own countertops. Finally, it’s ceramic, which means that it’s naturally non-stick so it doesn’t have to be given additional chemicals! Love that will!

Another current obsession? A really cool Scandinavian brand I discovered rather lately called Skagerak . I truly love their understated, lasting wood pieces that match flawlessly with our minimal esthetic, when you’re looking for traditional items with modern flare, We highly recommend checking them out there.

Finally, the obsession with Smeg electrics reached an absolutely unprecedented degree. It all started with a herbal tea cattle my husband and I bought a year ago, then our friends obtained us a baby blue best toaster oven for Christmas, and all of a sudden we couldn’t stop obtaining more and more baby blue cuteness from the brand… Last night my hubby showed me a baby azure Smeg fridge and now I’m concerned because we’re actually thinking of it… Do we need the fridge, absolutely not, but it is so darn cute…

Smeg Blender , 2 Cut Toaster , plus Drip Coffee Maker | Skagerak Norr Paper Towel Owner plus Soft Board | SIN Ceramic Twist Trivet | World Marketplace Wood Paddle Cutting Plank , White-colored Marble Mortar And Pestle , and Food preparation Utensils 4 Pack | MagicLinen Tea Towel Set | Our own Place Always Pan

#Lifestyle

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gomezabigaelle1997 · 4 years

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First Symptom Of Bacterial Vaginosis Eye-Opening Unique Ideas

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Bacterial Vaginosis Cause Infertility

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Bacterial Vaginosis Uk Treatment

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#First Symptom Of Bacterial Vaginosis Eye-Opening Unique Ideas #Bacterial Vaginosis In Spanish

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maiddegree71-blog · 5 years

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Our Favorite Videos of 2018

We put out a lot of videos this year, but the ones we've chosen to highlight below were are our personal favorites, the ones we cooked from and watched the most. These videos made us hungry, made us laugh, and helped us become better cooks. We learned how to roll out flaky and crisp paratha, cook dosa batter, emulsify a perfect pasta alla gricia, and more.

[Video: Serious Eats Team]

This is a great video. Maybe it's because Stella uses the term "Flufftown, USA;" maybe it's because of the really sexy chocolate-dipping shot to kind of Batman-ish soundtrack; or maybe it's because "Boop Boop Boop" has made it into Serious Eats vernacular. Aside from that, I truly appreciate the effort Stella made to develop the recipe. These Klondike bars are absolutely perfect, and the video made me feel like perhaps I could be successful at making them myself. —Ariel Kanter, director of commerce strategy and editorial

What Wouldn’t You Do for a Homemade Klondike Bar? »

[Video: Serious Eats Video.]

I don't think Stella will mind me telling you that she really, really doesn't like being on camera. I, however, love watching Stella on camera. Not because I'm sadistic and like seeing someone in discomfort; it's because she so successfully takes that "I don't want to be here" feeling and converts it into a perfectly snarky, yet still very likable, persona. This video is just one good example of Stella doing the thing she hates doing so well. —Daniel Gritzer, managing culinary director

Texas Sheet Cake Forever »

[Video: Natalie Holt]

Every time I eat dim sum (read: every single weekend), I marvel at the enormous towers of bamboo steamers coming from the kitchen. Providing a behind-the-scenes look at how these restaurants function is a fascinating idea, but doing so from the vantage point of a dim sum cart is both hilarious and revealing. Plus, the video illustrates just how talented—not to mention hard-working—the chefs and waiters at our favorite dim sum establishments are. —Elazar Sontag, editorial assistant

A Day in the Life of a Dim Sum Cart »

[Video: Serious Eats Team]

I really love this short and fun video. It’s a great combination of Sohla’s delightful energy and fun camera angles, and Vicky and Daniel’s hilarious cameo certainly help. Not to mention how fantastic the elote risotto pancake looks! —Grace Chen, office manager

Elotes Meet Risotto al Salto in an All-Star Mashup »

[Video: Serious Eats Team]

This starts out as an elegant but straightforward recipe video for a pressure cooker corn risotto, playing out to what looks like an orderly conclusion, only to carry on into an anarchic “next day” epilogue. It's a celebration of the impulsive spirit of making new dishes from leftovers. —John Mattia, video producer

Pressure Cooker Corn Risotto Cooks in Four Minutes, Tastes Like Summer »

[Video: Serious Eats Video]

Before I start, I need to give y'all a preface: I'm allergic to shellfish, and therefore did not eat this crab. But I did get to participate in the filming of it, where we hauled a big vat of crabs out into the courtyard of our office complex and had ourselves a little afternoon respite. I have happy memories of sitting and drinking beer in the sunshine, watching my coworkers savagely tear open crabs with their bare hands while following Daniel's instructions. The final product was one of our most-viewed videos of the year, which incited a lively debate in the comments on the semantics of "crab feast" versus "crab boil," which I moderated with great joy. — Kristina Bornholtz, social media editor

Zen and the Art of the Maryland Crab Feast »

[Video: Vicky Wasik]

I never jumped on the slime video bandwagon, and I think this is as close as I'm ever going to get. Equal parts strangely satisfying, suspenseful, and trypophobia-triggering, it’s got all the components of those videos you watch on the internet but you’re not really sure why. Plus, I learned how to griddle a dosa. —Maggie Lee, designer

Dosa (Indian Rice-and-Lentil Crepes) Recipe »

[Video: Natalie Holt]

In my personal life, I strive to maintain a nonjudgmental attitude, but my professional self knows that strong, sometimes unpopular, and well-founded convictions make good food writing, and, as it turns out, good food videos. (The "well-founded" aspect is an element I find to be missing from a lot of clickbait-y food opinion pieces out there.) Plus, food waste is a pet peeve of mine, so I had to love Wing Hysteric Daniel Gritzer's office exposé/mini tirade against those half-hearted eaters who lose interest in their chicken wings once they catch even a glimpse of bone. C'mon, people! Even your dog knows better than that! I especially like the theatrically sneaky jog into the kitchen around 1:05. —Miranda Kaplan, senior editor

The Right Way to Eat Chicken Wings Is All the Way »

[Video: Serious Eats Video]

I'll be honest: I really thought this video had a chance of going viral. Then I showed it to my sister-in-law, who looked confused and asked me what an Instant Pot is. Having to explain a joke isn't an encouraging sign about its quality; it also isn't really the kind of thing you want to do for a second time when you show it to your mom. And a third when you show it to your best friend. But, BUT! I'll do it for you anyway, because really, I promise, once you get it, you'll think it's just about the most hilarious thing you've ever seen. Premise: Instant Pots are all the rage! And they're great. They're also just...electric pressure cookers. When we decided to do this video, we thought we'd poke some inside-jokey-fun at the fact that Pinterest/Instagram/Facebook/The Whole Internet had become obsessed with a specific brand of a product that's been around for a long time. So...how about now? Is it funny now? DO YOU GET IT? I hope so. It's pretty great. —Niki Achitoff-Gray, executive managing editor

How to Get the Most Out of Your Instant Pot »

[Video: Serious Eats Team]

Toum really is the garlicky eggless mayo that goes with everything—watch the video—and it really is easy to make, and you really should make some yourself. But I picked this video as a reminder and warning for my past and future colleagues and friends: If you visit the Serious Eats office, you, too, might get tricked into singing Toumbop (to the tune of Mmmbop) on camera. —Paul Cline, VP of product

Traditional Toum (Lebanese Garlic Sauce) Recipe »

[Video: Serious Eats Team]

There's a lot to love about this video: parathas are one of my favorite foods; the double-coil technique; the weird, kind of creepy jazz. But the main reason I love this video is because of the "ooh" Sohla lets out when she puts her back into flattening the dough. — Sho Spaeth, features editor

Paratha (Flaky South Asian Flatbread) Recipe »

[Video: Serious Eats Team]

I could watch pasta videos for hours. Let's be honest, I have definitely done that. —Sasha Marx, culinary editor

Gricia Is the Silky, Porky Roman Pasta Everyone Should Know »

[Video: Natalie Holt]

As much as I love copycat recipes AND Lao Gan Ma brand chili crisp, it never occurred to me this was something I could make from scratch. But Sohla's excitement for breaking down the complexities of the recipe and straightforward technique won me over, and I wound up making a life-changing batch for myself. The video made it look like a lot of fun to try at home, and it was! —Stella Parks, pastry wizard

Chili Crisp: Spicy, Salty, Crunchy, Tingly, and Good on Everything »

[Video: Serious Eats Team]

I love this video because it took Stella and Sohla out of their comfort zones, and let their natural instincts shine through. This was one of the more chaotic/labor intensive/challenging shoots to date, but getting them out into the world at the farmer's market and then back in the kitchen was worth it for all the fun moments. I also think it gave the audience a closer look into how the Serious Eats test kitchens work. —Vicky Wasik, visual director

Mystery Box Cooking Challenge: Sohla Versus Stella »

[Video: Natalie Holt]

I'm a sucker for a Sohla video, and this one doesn't disappoint. Not only is it doubly informative, teaching you how to make a pan sauce and fix a broken one, but there's also a bit of comic relief towards the end. Two dogs, a Brad, and Sohla's crack-up laugh really round out a cooking video. —Tim Aikens, front-end developer

How to Make a Pan Sauce, and How to Fix a Broken One »

[Video: Serious Eats Video]

This video has changed my life. Okay, maybe a bit extreme, but it's true—I'll never pronounce "pestle" wrong again. The main reason I love this video so much is that it shows the level of research and obsession Daniel and the rest of the Serious Eats crew have for food, and all the ways you can prepare and cook it. Seeing Daniel test out and speak his mind about what applications each M&P succeeds and struggles with, I finished the video feeling like an expert. —Joel Russo, video producer

How to Pick the Best Mortar and Pestle »

[Video: Serious Eats Team]

How can you not love Stella's videos when she says stuff like, "Scraping a bowl is a way of showing a dough you care." It doesn't matter to me that this video is all about holiday gingerbread cookies, which I don't even like. I love this video for the same reason I love all of Stella's videos for Serious Eats. I think the way she interacts with the camera ends up putting the viewer at ease, and makes her incredibly delicious work seem all the more approachable. —Ed Levine, founder

Quick Gingerbread Cookies for Busy Holiday Bakers »

This post may contain links to Amazon or other partners; your purchases via these links can benefit Serious Eats. Read more about our affiliate linking policy.

Source: https://www.seriouseats.com/roundups/our-favorite-videos-2018

#read more #see more #check it out #interesting #learn more

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middletuna7-blog · 5 years

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How to Pick the Best Mortar and Pestle

[Photographs: Vicky Wasik. Video: Serious Eats Video]

In the United States, the mortar and pestle has developed something of a reputation as obsolete and inefficient—a kitchen accessory that offers plenty of nostalgia but little utility. But it shouldn't be underestimated. For thousands of years, the mortar and pestle was one of the very few implements our ancestors relied upon to cook. Our predecessors had fire, sharpened rocks for cutting, vessels to contain their food, and, crucially, they had stones and wood to pound and grind it all.

Today, the mortar and pestle remains a crucial tool in culinary traditions around the world, and it deserves to be treated as an essential in every kitchen. Not just because it served our ancestors so well, but because it continues to do what no other item in the kitchen does: smashing fibers and cells apart to fundamentally transform their texture and release their full aroma and flavor. That's something a blade can't ever do as well.

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Mapped across human history, the importance of the mortar and pestle (and similar implements used to crush and pulverize foods) is staggering.* Hominids came onto the scene somewhere between five and 10 million years ago. Between two and three million years ago, they figured out how to make stone tools to cut and chop foods.

* It also goes way beyond food: The steady beating of a pestle in a mortar was one of the early activities that birthed work songs—music timed to the rhythmic activities of preindustrial life. We'll never know what our music today would be without the thousands of years of thuds that led to it.

Somewhere in the ballpark of 500,000 to one million years ago, they mastered fire. We modern Homo sapiens made our appearance around 100,000 to 200,000 years ago, and archaeological evidence shows us using mortars and pestles about 50,000 to 100,000 years after that.** Agriculture wouldn't arise until much later, roughly 10,000 years ago. That's right: The mortar and pestle well predates agriculture itself.

** I'm rounding off here; cut me some slack.

Let's just stop and think about this for a moment. We had fire, and we had tools for cutting, and then we had mortars and pestles. And that's pretty much all we had to prepare our food for a really long time. These fundamental instruments of cooking didn't change all that much until the last century or so, when the eras of industry and electricity ushered in new, easy, and speedy appliances, like the blender and the food processor, pushing the mortar and pestle aside.

But for all their convenience, these newfangled jars and bowls outfitted with whirling blades don't do quite the same thing that a mortar and pestle can do. They mince and chop effortlessly, but the mortar and pestle crushes.

Yes, it takes some elbow grease to use a mortar and pestle, but that effort is worth it. And honestly, most of us in this country are so desk-bound these days, a little additional physical activity is hardly something we're in oversupply of.

Even if we decide to put in a little extra sweat in the kitchen, success with a mortar and pestle still depends on having the right kind for the job. There's nothing more frustrating than toiling away at a pesto or curry paste, only to have all that work not pay off.

Part of the problem is that not every mortar and pestle design is good for every mortar and pestle task—there are a heck of a lot of jobs that a mortar and pestle can do, and just as many varieties of mortars and pestles to match them all. Making it worse, more and more completely useless mortars and pestles have junked up the market as our use of them has waned; they may look nice, but they don't work at all. With our loss in familiarity has come a decrease in knowledge of which ones are good for what. It's time to rectify the situation.

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Generally speaking, and with some exceptions I'll discuss further down, these are the qualities in both large and small mortars and pestles that are useful for most common kitchen tasks:

A large pestle: Just as you wouldn't choose a dinky little toy hammer to drive large nails into wood, you don't want a narrow, skinny, or short pestle when working in a large mortar. If the pestle is too short for the mortar, it's impossible to use it without banging your hand against the mortar's edge. Similarly, if the head isn't broad enough, it will simply push ingredients around instead of pulverizing them.

A stone mortar: Though there are exceptions, in most cases you're better off with a solid stone mortar. Stone such as marble or granite is strong, dense, and unyielding, giving you a powerful surface against which to crush things; it's also not nearly as brittle as ceramic, meaning you can really drive some force into it without worrying that the material will crack or chip. Wood, meanwhile, can be a great pestle material in some instances, but is less effective as a mortar. The fact that it has a density and hardness similar to those of many foods we grind makes it less effective—much as diamonds are used to cut glass, we want to use a harder material to crush or grind substances like spices.

An unpolished interior: Avoid mortars with glossy, smooth bowls, which lack the abrasive qualities crucial to properly shearing and grinding foods.

A round bowl shape: An evenly round bowl shape makes it much easier to swirl the pestle and grind everything in its path. Cylindrical mortars with sharp corners at the bottom are harder to get into with the pestle, making it more difficult to grind and smash the contents down.

Other considerations, such as what material the pestle is made from, depend on the situation. I'll explain further below.

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Mortars and pestles come in a variety of materials, shapes, and sizes. Finding a good large one, though, can take some work.

A large mortar and pestle should have a roughly eight-inch diameter and at least a four-cup volume. Be sure to check these specs, since many companies sell "large" mortars that have a maximum volume closer to two cups. Though smaller ones can certainly be useful, they also happen to be just the right size to function as displayable knickknacks; the absence of good larger options is confirmation that few people intend to get much use out of these things.

If you want to make a true pesto sauce or Thai curry paste, or any of a wide range of other aromatic sauces and pastes from around the world, a large mortar and pestle is a necessity. Smaller ones simply can't contain or contend with the volume and variety of ingredients these recipes require.

For several years, I used a large ceramic mortar and pestle that I'd bought at a well-known national cookware store. I was thrilled when I first spotted it on the shelf—the only one with a mortar big enough to make real-deal pesto a possibility. But over time, I began to suspect that it wasn't really up to the task.

My pesto came out okay, but it wasn't as emulsified and creamy as it should have been, and it was more than a small chore to make it. I'd tap relentlessly while making very little progress, and the high-pitched clanging of the pestle against the mortar would quickly drive me crazy.

Only later, when I invested in other mortars and pestles, did the shortcomings of that ceramic one become fully clear. First, the pestle on my particular ceramic set was narrow relative to the size of the mortar's bowl. This made it much less effective, requiring more strikes and movements to crush the food properly, and leaving way too much space for all of that food to escape to. Its narrow shape also made it act more like a pool cue than an implement for crushing things: With each strike, the food would shoot out to the sides, often still whole.

Ceramic is also a challenging material for many mortar and pestle tasks in the kitchen. It's very hard, like stone, but also more brittle. Where it should excel at crushing tough ingredients, it doesn't, because the force required could crack the ceramic.

For this article, I compared three large mortars and pestles: the ceramic one that has failed me for so long, a Thai granite mortar and pestle, and a Mediterranean marble mortar with an olivewood pestle. Here are my favorites of the three.

Best for Most Tasks: Thai Granite Mortar and Pestle

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With both parts made of rock-solid granite, the Thai mortar and pestle is (literally) a heavy hitter, and arguably the most versatile type of large mortar and pestle you can own.

The Thai granite mortar and pestle (left) more quickly and efficiently broke down the tough, fibrous ingredients in a Thai red curry paste than the Mediterranean marble mortar with a wooden pestle did.

Its heft and weight, especially when combined with the stone-on-stone action that the all-granite build provides, make it ideal for one of its intended uses: making a Thai curry paste. The large stone pestle can break down leathery dried-chili skin and tough seeds, and bust apart the fibers in some of the tougher aromatic vegetables, like galangal and makrut lime leaves.

The heft and decent size of the Thai granite pestle made it possible to break down tough Thai red curry paste ingredients. It was a fair amount of work, but this was the only mortar and pestle to properly get the job done.

Because the inside of the mortar bowl and the pestle head aren't polished, they have slightly abrasive surfaces that also make them good for grinding. This advantage is particularly apparent when you're grinding dry spices, which the Thai mortar and pestle did better than the other varieties that I tested.

The unpolished granite surface made a finer spice grind more quickly than the other mortars and pestles tested.

In a pinch, you can also use this type of mortar and pestle for pesto and related sauces, though it doesn't do quite as good a job as the Mediterranean mortar and pestle recommended below. The granite pestle head is fairly large, but not quite large enough to break down tender basil's more delicate fibers as quickly and effectively as the Mediterranean wooden pestle. In my tests, the Thai mortar and pestle yielded a slightly stringier pesto than its Mediterranean counterpart, though the results were still good, and much better than what emerges from most food processors.

It's also worth noting that the Thai granite mortar and pestle doesn't generate the shearing forces necessary for forming a really good emulsion; this, again, is related to the pestle's slightly smaller size. This means your pesto may not come out quite as creamy (or you'll work harder and longer to get it there), and you'll have a much harder time forming a mayonnaise or aioli in it.

One more downside: The Thai granite pestle is heavy, which means your arm will feel more fatigued more quickly. Maybe that's a good thing if you're looking for creative ways to sneak some extra exercise into your life, but it's a challenge you should know about before committing to this design.

Best for Pesto and Other Emulsified Sauces: Mediterranean Marble Mortar With Wooden Pestle

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In the south of France, Italy, and other Mediterranean regions, marble mortars with wooden pestles (often made of olivewood) are quite common. It's next to impossible to find this variety in US stores, unless you get lucky and find one at an antiques shop or estate sale. They can, however, be ordered online. I bought mine through an Italian vendor on Etsy, and it's an object of pure beauty.

More importantly, it excels at making pesto and similar sauces, as well as emulsified sauces like mayonnaise and aioli. (Before electric mixers and blenders, a mortar and pestle was often used to make these sauces.)

It may be surprising to learn that you can make an emulsified sauce in a mortar just by pounding it with the blunt head of the pestle, but indeed it is possible: Where a whisk's head of wires breaks up oil into tiny droplets, dispersing it in the water medium for a proper emulsion, a mortar and pestle utilizes shearing forces to achieve similar results.

The Italian mortar and pestle made the smoothest, creamiest pesto, and it wasn't even that much work to do it.

Even pesto sauce, when made well, is emulsified, for a creamy, not oily, texture. What makes this particular mortar and pestle well suited to that job is largely the pestle design itself—the wooden pestle here is big and round, offering lots of surface area under which to shear the oil.

The marble mortar's large wooden pestle makes much quicker work of the garlic than the ceramic mortar's narrow pestle.

That large pestle size is also what makes this tool so good at smashing more tender ingredients, like garlic, pine nuts, and basil leaves. With just a few quick strikes, the garlic is smashed to bits, the pine nuts are crumbled, and the basil leaves are bruised and shredded. A smaller pestle head would require many more strikes to achieve the same result.

What's nice, too, is that the wooden pestle is softer than stone (though olivewood is still plenty hard), which means you don't have to suffer through a series of loud, high-pitched stone-on-stone cracks when you're smacking at thin basil leaves. The whole experience is just a lot more pleasant.

For these kinds of sauces, this mortar and pestle outclasses the Thai granite one on all fronts. It's quicker, more effective, and less tiring to use.

For pesto and similar sauces, the Mediterranean marble mortar and olivewood pestle can't be beat; it rapidly makes a smooth and creamy sauce.

Where this mortar and pestle fails, though, is at breaking down tougher ingredients, such as the ones that go into a Thai curry paste. The large wooden pestle just doesn't have the same intense striking force that the Thai granite one does, which means it struggles to grind dense, hard spices as finely, let alone produce a curry paste that's properly paste-like.

On top of that, the marble is more prone to staining, as you can see in the below photo. The Thai red chilies left their mark (though these stains eventually faded with subsequent use).

Red chili stains on a marble mortar.

For this reason, the Thai granite mortar and pestle is my overall top pick: It works better as an alternative for making pesto than the Mediterranean one does as an alternative for making curry pastes.

But, and this is a big but, if you know you won't make curry pastes with your mortar and pestle, the Mediterranean one is my top pick for you. You can always use a smaller marble or granite mortar and pestle to grind spices, and this one does the absolute best job with pestos, mayos, and the like. It's by far the most pleasurable to use.

You can buy one from this seller on Etsy. They come in a variety of sizes, though I got the 24cm model. It's not cheap, and neither is the shipping, but it'll last you a lifetime and make an amazing family heirloom for future generations.

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Small mortars and pestles, of about one cup in volume, have many fewer uses in the kitchen, but that doesn't mean they're not an essential tool. They're less versatile, but no less important.

Above all else, they're good for grinding whole spices into a powder. This may sound hard to believe, but I often prefer a small mortar and pestle for grinding spices over a dedicated electric spice grinder.

In the time it takes to get a spice grinder out of my cabinet, unwind its cord, plug it in, load it up, grind my spices, completely empty it, and then clean it (always a drag!), I could already be long done with the mortar and pestle. I use a spice grinder these days only if I'm making a very large batch of ground spices that would take more time to do by hand.

Small mortars and pestles are also good for making small batches of puréed garlic, ginger, and other ingredients. Just toss in a few cloves or pieces, smash them up, and you're done. People also use them to crush pills and do other nonculinary tasks, but that's beyond the scope of this article.

Success depends on having the right small mortar and pestle. I tried three types—an all-marble build, a brass one, and a wooden one—to figure out which kind worked best.

Best for Most Tasks: A Stone Set

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Throughout my tests on smaller mortars and pestles, the marble one I used consistently came out on top. A small granite one would work just as well.

The brass mortar and pestle, while very handsome, had such a smooth interior that most ingredients just slid around, avoiding being crushed. The wooden one, meanwhile, had no heft; it made me imagine what chewing hard foods without teeth would be like.

A pestle that's too short for its mortar is a major design flaw.

As you can see in the photos below, the marble mortar and pestle did a much better job of grinding black peppercorns than the other two did. A big part of its advantage was the abrasive quality of the unpolished stone surfaces.

The marble mortar and pestle set was the most effective at grinding black peppercorns.

The marble set also made a garlic purée much more quickly and thoroughly than the other two. Once again, that abrasive stone surface had a lot to do with its success.

Of course, this doesn't mean that brass and wooden mortars and pestles are to be avoided at all costs, or that they're not good for anything. There may be some tasks at which they excel, though I'd argue those tasks are less common than the primary ones of puréeing ingredients and grinding spices.

I'm linking to several different sets here because there's a lot of variety at this size of mortar and pestle, and all the ones shown will work similarly well. Choose whichever design appeals the most.

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The world is a big place, and pretty much everywhere in it has at least one type of mortar and pestle, if not multiple. Most have evolved to work with the specific culinary traditions from which they originate, and so there's hardly a way to be comprehensive about all the mortars and pestles one could own and use.

That's part of what makes an interest in mortars and pestles fun. When you travel to a country or region that has a cuisine you're interested in cooking back home, you can try to learn more about the mortar and pestle options there, and maybe bring one back with you. I'll say from personal experience that, while it's hard to compete with cooking an Italian meal in Italy itself, using a gorgeous Italian mortar and pestle gives me some feeling of being transported there.

So, though I can't cover every mortar and pestle out there beyond the basic types I discussed above, there are a couple I want to call out. The first is from Japan; the second is from Mexico.

Meet the Japanese Suribachi

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In Japan, the mortar is called suribachi and the pestle surikogi. The suribachi is usually made from pottery, while the surikogi is almost always some type of hardwood. The most distinctive feature of this mortar and pestle is the series of ridges scored into the pottery on the unglazed interior of the bowl. These ridges are called kushi-no-me in Japanese, and they add more abrasiveness than what you'll find in the smoother interiors of many other mortars.

Grinding sesame seeds in a suribachi.

The most common use for a suribachi is grinding sesame seeds, which pop and crumble against those ridges as the pestle swirls around, producing a paste that's fresher and more aromatic than premade sesame pastes. Other uses include mashing tofu, grinding spices, and even grinding meat, like chicken to make tsukune (chicken meatballs).

Many people also use their suribachi for non-Japanese cuisine. I haven't tested it yet, but I've read that it can do a good job with pesto, for instance. Certainly, though, if you plan to cook much Japanese food at home, the suribachi will eventually make itself quite useful.

Suribachi come in a variety of sizes, but I've found that a medium or large size is easiest for grinding sesame seeds. I'm a big fan of the products sold by Toiro Kitchen, including its suribachi. Also, make sure to order a bamboo scraper, which is very helpful for cleaning out the ridges after grinding.

Make Salsas and Guacamole in a Mexican Molcajete

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In Mexico, the molcajete is the mortar, while the tejolote (or temolote) is the pestle. They're made from porous volcanic rock, which ends up making it difficult to find a good one. Many companies sell "molcajetes" made from granite or some other rock—I've even heard of less scrupulous vendors making them from concrete—which you should avoid. The porous rock is key here, once again adding an abrasive element to help grind down pepper skins and seeds and other stubborn ingredients.

A trip to Mexico is arguably the easiest way to track down a good, real molcajete, but you can find them in the States, too. This one is available on Amazon and appears to get good reviews (and the reviewers seem to think it's legitimate volcanic rock). I also recently bought one from MexGrocer.com, but haven't had a chance to test it out yet.

Be careful not to confuse the molcajete with the metate, another Mexican grinder that is larger and flatter, used to grind corn into masa for tortillas and tamales.

Molcajetes are most frequently used to make salsas and guacamole from scratch, and if you watch videos of guacamole being made in Mexico, it quickly becomes clear just how incorrectly most of us are making ours (but, of course, we have a good recipe for you here on Serious Eats). The aromatics are often charred first, then crushed, not chopped, using the power of the molcajete.

One tip: Unless you buy one that's pre-seasoned, you will have to season your molcajete first, a process that involves grinding dry rice and then large crystals of salt into the stone to smooth the surface and remove loose volcanic dust. This video walks you through the process, and though it's in Spanish, those who don't understand the narration should still be able to follow the steps as shown.

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Source: https://www.seriouseats.com/2018/08/best-mortars-and-pestles.html

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carmalemurian · 5 years

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Follow your passion, a new direction. When you are inspired and you know that you just have to follow it. You put aside all ifs and buts, all your thoughts break their bonds: Your mind transcends limitations, your consciousness expands in every direction, and you find yourself in a new, great, and wonderful world, where you put your dream to actual manifestation. Dormant forces, faculties and talents become alive, and your discover yourself to be a greater person by far than you ever dreamed yourself to be. This is a New direction a New beginning...... Love n Light. * * * Affirmation. 154. I am a happy person, happier than what I was an year ago, looking at positives and counting my blessings. Thank you! * * * * * A corner of the kitchen space, not oft visited. Reused wine bottles as pothos planters. Metal embossed kitchen based fruit and veggies theme, a collection of Mortar and pestle. Brass one comes from Mom. Ever and Omni present Ganesha here creates on a rock. Blessed Be! * * * #beautifulhomes #mybohemianabode #eclectichomes #sodomino #elledecor #mydomaine #apartmenttherapy #bohoismyjam #jungalowstyle #indianinteriors #indianhome #indianhomes #vintage #plantsofinstagram #kitchen #chezcarma #myindianbrasslove #antiques #homestyling #homeinteriors #interiordecor #howyouhome #instadaily #instagram #hyggehome # finditstyleit #miradorlife #interieur #livingroomdevor #lawofattraction (at Chez moi, à La Maison Des Couleurs) https://www.instagram.com/p/ByhFk4NFgQO/?igshid=1nhfy9v7cmhul

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pingo1387 · 7 years

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Stand by Me

One Piece fanfic Rating: T Genres: Tragedy, Hurt/Comfort Warning: Character death Summary: After a heavy loss strikes the Sunny, Luffy checks up on everyone.

Read it on FFN

Luffy sat on the figurehead of the Thousand Sunny, staring not out to sea, but towards the ship. It was a calm, beautiful day.

He hopped down to the deck and strolled around. The first one he saw was Robin, sitting precariously on the edge of the railing, legs dangling over the side, back facing Luffy. Once or twice she clutched the railing as if about to lift herself and hop over the edge—but each time she hesitated, lowering again.

Luffy smacked her shoulder sharply, not thinking of the possible consequences, so it was a lucky thing Robin didn't topple over the edge when she whipped around, eyes wide. Luffy stood off to the side while she glanced around and, with a glance to the sea, turned herself around and lowered herself to the deck, changing her position so she stood on the floorboards and watched the ocean from there.

Luffy gave her a hug, head resting against her back, before let her be and went on his way, leaving her looking around curiously. The next one he saw was Brook—rather, he heard him first, playing Binks's Sake in a mournful way. He grinned and ran to the bow, where he found Brook with his violin, using muscle memory to play (though he had no muscles).

Franky sat nearby, too, fiddling with pieces of metal over and over, not doing anything productive with them. Luffy squat by him, staring intently at them, and seized one suddenly, throwing it across the deck, where it smacked the railing and fell.

Brook stopped playing and glanced over curiously.

"Ah, sorry," Franky said, voice hoarse from disuse. He coughed. "Guess it slipped."

He stood and crossed the deck, grabbing the piece again. Brook remained silent and returned to his violin after a moment.

Luffy seized Brook's feather boa and slung it around himself, but it slipped to the ground, and Brook looked around, spotting it and picking it up again. Luffy frowned at the lack of response and wandered away again.

He spotted the door to the women's quarters and ran up to it, flinging open the door and slamming it shut behind him. Nami, uncombed hair spilling everywhere, looked up from her bed with a scowl before burying her face in the pillow again. The room was dark except for a small lamp on the desk, lighting up a half-finished crumpled map—the final piece of her precious world map.

Luffy knelt by the bed, peering at her, but she didn't acknowledge him at all. He glanced back at the desk, noticed the pen dripping ink, and grinned. With a flourish he seized it and pressed it to the crumpled paper, but it fell from his hand. He had to try several times, even making a pained face and grabbing his own hand while keeping the pen in a firm fist rather than a proper grip, but his task was eventually accomplished.

The pen fell to the desk again and Luffy sighed in relief. He glanced at Nami again, ran to her, and hugged her head before leaving again.

Nami rubbed her head, looking up as the door opened and shut again. The pen rolled off the desk from poor placement, and she finally looked over at it. Reluctantly she stood to place it back, and then she noticed the paper.

Luffy hopped off the railing to the men's quarters, where he found Usopp in a similar state, lying in bed listlessly and staring at the upper bunk's bottom. Luffy rested his head on his stomach, and Usopp lifted his own head, staring quizzically. Luffy patted his shoulder after a moment and ran off, leaving Usopp confused but with a sense of comfort.

He ran around the deck, spotted the swing hanging from the tree, and jumped on it, swinging higher and higher. Robin, still standing at the railing, glanced behind her and watched, sticking a finger first in her mouth and then in the air to check the wind.

Luffy flew from the swing smack into the wall and laughed, running into the kitchen. Sanji was nowhere to be seen, so he passed through and went into Chopper's office.

Chopper stood at his desk, grinding powders with the mortar and pestle. His face was calm and neutral, but as Luffy watched, his eyes watered, and he had to set down the tool as he burst into tears.

Luffy seized him in a hug and set him down again, running out and leaving Chopper with great confusion and a tear-stained face.

There was only one place left to go, and Luffy went there, climbing the rigging like a monkey and popping up into the crow's nest to find Zoro working out as usual, and, surprisingly, Sanji sitting on the bench. Luffy watched Zoro do rep after rep, sweat dripping from a concentrating face, and sat next to Sanji, glancing at him. Sanji's brow was furrowed beneath untidy hair in frustration, watching Zoro, and Luffy poked him, trying to get his attention. Sanji glanced around and decided to ignore it, instead saying, "Hey."

"What?" Zoro grunted.

"It wasn't your fault, jackass."

"Then whose was it?"

"Mine, if anything," Sanji said, standing and glowering. "I was closer to him. I should've grabbed him sooner—"

"If I had only taken out my opponent sooner," Zoro said, never looking at him. "If I had been stronger—"

"It's always about strength with you. We're all plenty strong already. When was the last time you ate anything I brought up here? I've been bringing down half-finished plates for days now—"

"That's none of your business."

"I'm the goddamn cook and if it's not my business I'll make it my business!" Sanji strode over to Zoro and knocked the weights away with a kick, spinning Zoro around and seizing his shoulder. "You're always doing this, you're always pushing yourself and saying 'If only I had been stronger—' You're not the only one on this ship, dumbass!"

"I have a duty as much as anyone!" Zoro snapped, grabbing Sanji likewise by the collar while Luffy watched, expressionless, from the bench.

"That doesn't mean you get to shoulder everything!" Sanji yelled, shaking him. "If you want to support everyone so much, get the fuck out of here and be with us! Don't fucking close yourself away while we're mourning, too! I haven't been able to speak to Nami-san or Robin-chan properly ever since then—"

"Is now really the time?!"

"I don't mean like that! I mean they're hurting, too, and Usopp and Franky and Brook, and Chopper, don't you know how he must feel?!"

"I'm not a damn therapist!"

"You should at least fucking know that shutting yourself up here isn't good for anyone! You son of a—"

Luffy leapt from the bench, ran to them, and shoved them apart with one arm each. They stumbled back, eyes wide, and stopped arguing at last while Luffy straightened up, hands balled into fists as he stared at the floor.

"I'm going to make lunch," Sanji said at last, turning away. "You better fucking be there."

He went to the door and disappeared. Zoro grit his teeth, whirled around, and went to sit on the bench, seizing a towel and rubbing his sweating skin so hard he might draw blood soon. Luffy sat next to him, staying silent, and Zoro spared a glance his direction before returning to his task.

Luffy sniffed the air and stood. Zoro slowly did the same, going for the entrance, but paused halfway there, hesitating. Luffy cracked his knuckles and charged, slamming himself into Zoro's back, and Zoro barely stopped himself from falling over as he stumbled towards the entrance, straightened up again, and turned around. A moment later he slowly descended the rigging, and Luffy nodded, pleased, before following.

Lunch was a simple meal of grilled cheese and tomato soup. Sanji hadn't been able to bring himself to cook anything much fancier for some time, and the red meat had gone untouched all the while.

Sanji, at the counter with his head in his hands, looked up as Zoro and Luffy entered. Zoro sat at the table in his usual spot; he hadn't bothered to put on a shirt, something which normally would have brought out complaints from Sanji, but the room was deafeningly quiet as Zoro folded his arms, staring at the food on the counter while Luffy, too, sat in his usual place. Both Zoro and Sanji glanced over as the chair moved with him, and tore their eyes away after only a moment, not even looking at each other.

"Where's everyone?" Zoro asked at last, voice cutting through the air.

"Sometimes . . . a few of them don't show up," Sanji said dully. "Just about every meal since then, actually. Not counting you."

Luffy frowned, jumped up from the table, and went to the door to the office, flinging it open. Chopper jumped, looking up with a tear-stained face from his desk, while Zoro and Sanji looked over at him.

Luffy stepped inside, took Chopper's arm, and dragged him into the kitchen, letting go and giving a gentle shove towards the table once they were inside. Chopper looked between Zoro and Sanji before turning around, shutting the door to his office again, and coming to the table, hopping up to his seat next to Zoro.

All three looked over when the main door now opened and shut as Luffy ran outside. He went to Robin and grabbed her arm, pulling; she looked over quizzically and rubbed her arm, feeling a familiar touch. Luffy insistently pulled her towards the stairs again before her arm slipped out of his grasp. She clutched her arms, looking around, and slowly went to the kitchen.

Luffy now ran for the bow, where Brook and Franky still were; they had set their things aside and were sitting silently together. Luffy grabbed Brook and stood him upright, ignoring the shriek of surprise, and yanked on Franky's arms and kicked him until he stood as well. Startled, the two looked at each other before Luffy pulled Brook towards the kitchen, and Brook and Franky went there as well.

Nami, still studying the crumpled paper from earlier, jumped when the door flew open again. Luffy grabbed her around the waist, lifting her from the bed and ignoring her sputters of confused protest; he managed to carry her to the door when his grip failed him and he quickly set her down again, tugging her and pointing insistently to the kitchen. Nami stared out at the deck and sniffed the air before letting out a sigh and trudging down the stairs, paper still clenched in her hand.

Nami looked behind her but decided to ignore it when the men's room's door flew open, too, and Luffy ran inside and shoved Usopp off the bed. Usopp lay there, blinking at the ceiling, before pushing himself up and standing, holding the bed. Luffy grabbed his nose and tugged him towards the door before it slipped from his grasp, and Usopp rubbed his nose, wincing, before his stomach growled and he reluctantly went to the kitchen, too.

Satisfied, Luffy followed him inside, where everyone was already seated. They sat in their usual places, and Luffy too, tapping his feet on the floor.

"Well, this is rare," Franky said, the first to break that trembling silence.

"All of us being here?" Robin said. "Or Zoro being here?"

"Both."

Sanji served up the food; out of habit, he had made enough for eight (as the leftovers would be for himself), and after a moment set the eighth plate in front of Luffy, who grinned.

"Hardly his favorite," Sanji said, still not quite looking at anyone, "but he'd eat anything, right?"

Chopper buried his head in his arms.

"Hey," Usopp said, picking at his sandwich, "today was . . . mysterious, huh?"

"I'll say," Nami said. "If one of you did this, I want a confession now."

She smoothed the crumpled paper from her hand and laid it in the center of the table, where everyone leaned in to see it, Chopper doing so after a moment.

Written in eerily familiar childlike handwriting were the words, Do I still have to pay back my debt? 😋

"But . . ." Robin said. "That looks like . . ."

"It wasn't you?" Nami said, glancing at her.

"I've been preoccupied."

"You didn't see anyone writing that?" Zoro said as Luffy leaned down to his soup, lapping it up. No one noticed.

"The door flew open and shut all of a sudden," Nami said slowly. "The second time it happened, the pen fell off the desk . . . someone had moved it when they wrote this."

"Come to think of it . . . our morning's been weird, too, right?" Franky said to Brook.

"Indeed," Brook agreed solemnly. "One has to wonder if . . ."

He fell silent, but his meaning spoke far louder than his words ever could.

"Brook," Zoro said. "This might be insensitive. Since you died, and you have that fruit . . . can you see otherworldly things?"

"As far as I know, I see what you all do," Brook said, not having the energy to crack a joke.

"It felt like someone . . . was pulling me here earlier," Chopper whispered.

"Me, too," Usopp exclaimed. The others gave murmurs of assent while Luffy shoved his face farther into his bowl.

"It can't be," Zoro said. "He can't be here . . ."

Luffy finished his soup and sat back with a sigh as the others looked to his place.

"It couldn't've been him hugging me earlier," Chopper whispered. "After what I did . . ."

"It wasn't your fault," Usopp exclaimed, tears filling his eyes. "It was too late by the time he was brought in, wasn't it? You said so yourself."

"If I was a better doctor, I could've—!" Chopper began to cry again. "I couldn't do it! I couldn't be better for him!"

"If anyone's to blame, it's me," Zoro said through gritted teeth. "If I—"

"We already talked about this," Sanji hissed. "Besides, I was closer to him!"

"I should have been keeping an eye on him," Robin murmured. "He went past his limits."

Tears streamed down Franky's face. "We couldn't save him," he said, voice choked. "What the hell kind of crew are we?"

"The end is unavoidable for even the best," Brook said, hands clutching the edge of the table tightly nonetheless. "And yet—"

"He needs more soup."

Everyone looked at Sanji, who came to the table, staring at Luffy's place.

"What?" Usopp said, hand still resting on Chopper's shoulder. "Who?"

"He always wanted seconds," Sanji said, reaching out, and the others finally saw Luffy's empty bowl. They were silent, barely even breathing as Sanji took it the the counter, ladled more into it, and set it back on the table.

"Don't tell me that's some kind of offering?" Nami said. "It's not even outside."

"Well, unless one of you drank it . . ." Sanji said, running a hand through his hair. He had run out of cigarettes faster than usual. "Is this a sign?"

"Of what, exactly?" Robin said, still staring at Luffy's place.

"I don't know. The soup was gone but the sandwiches were there. Is that supposed to indicate some kind of sentiment?"

Luffy held up his hand, studying it and holding it up to the light, trying to remember the word Robin had taught him once—opa-something.

"A sentiment of . . . but does it mean he doesn't forgive us?" Chopper whispered. "Or does it mean he does?"

Luffy slammed his hands on the table and stood, and everyone jumped, trying to figure out where it had come from.

With a deep breath, he yelled, "THAT'S ENOUGH!"

Sharp breaths and eyes watering went around the table as everyone focused their attention on Luffy at last.

"I'm not the only one seeing this, right?" Franky exclaimed.

"Luffy?" Nami cried, covering her mouth. "Luffy, is it—is it you?"

Luffy folded his arms, looking around. "You guys finally see me?" he said in surprise. "Wow, if all I had to do was yell, I should've done that way earlier."

Chopper burst into tears while Usopp pointed and exclaimed, "But—but you're—"

"Dead, I know," Luffy said bluntly. "I don't really know how I came back here, but I thought I could check up on you guys while I could. Why are you all blaming yourselves?"

Tear-filled excuses and pleas for forgiveness filled the air, and Luffy held up a hand.

"I don't forgive any one of you," he said, "because there's nothing to forgive! We won that fight! I lost my life after that, sure, but we won!"

"Don't you know how lonely it is without you?" Sanji said, voice shaking.

"I know," Luffy said, staring at the table. "I'm sorry. But I'm okay. I'm gonna meet Ace soon. By the way, if you guys see Sabo, tell him I love him."

"You really . . ." Zoro stood. "You really don't blame any of us?"

"Nothing to blame you for."

Chopper got down from his chair and ran to Luffy, jumping on him; Luffy hugged him with a grin before he slipped out of his grasp.

"So it was you who wrote this," Nami said, gesturing to the paper.

"Yeah," Luffy said, shrugging. "I wanted to let you know I was there, somehow, but it's hard to hold things."

"Oh, that's why you didn't eat the sandwiches," Usopp said. His lip trembled. "I can't believe you're here—"

He got up and copied Chopper, nearly knocking Luffy to the floor with a hug. Franky sobbed into a handkerchief while Brook could only stare.

"You guys should know I don't have a lot of time left," Luffy added, holding up his half-transparent hands. "And, um, I know you're sad, but it's okay! Just don't do anything stupid, alright?" He looked at Robin and Nami. "Robin, you're so close to the true history, right? And Nami, your map looks amazing!"

They turned away shyly while Luffy looked at Franky and Brook. "Brook, you're gonna see old man Crocus and Laboon again and again, and Franky, you gotta maintain Sunny!"

"Right!" Franky howled, burying his face into his handkerchief.

"Of course, Luffy-san," Brook exclaimed, and he would have smiled.

"Chopper, you're already the greatest doctor in the world," Luffy declared, turning to him now. "But I was pretty much gone when I got to you. Even the greatest doctor couldn't bring back the dead."

"Th—That doesn't make me happy at all!" Chopper cried. "Geez!"

"Usopp, I bet you're gonna have lots of grandkids," Luffy said. Usopp stared at him while he continued, "And they're gonna grow up hearing stories about the bravest warrior on the Grand Line!"

Usopp sniffled loudly, wiping at his nose. "Y—Yeah! They are!"

“Sanji, it’s like I said before,” Luffy continued, looking to him. “What’s everyone gonna do without a cook?”

Sanji brought up a hand to wipe at his face, smiling.

"And Zoro—well, if the greatest swordsman in the world dies, someone not as good is gonna take his place," Luffy said, looking at Zoro, and Zoro finally smiled.

They could see right through Luffy now as he stretched, yawning. "I think I'm gonna be gone pretty soon," he remarked. He grinned at Sanji. "Thanks for the soup!"

"A—Anytime!" Sanji said, tears filling his eyes.

"So . . ." Luffy was fading faster and faster before their eyes. "I love you guys, you know? Even if you go separate ways someday, we'll never stop being friends, right?"

"Don't go!" Nami exclaimed, standing and running to him, hugging him. "Not again—"

"I'll be fine," Luffy insisted. He stared over her shoulder and smiled at a familiar freckled face. "I won't be lonely, and you guys have each other!"

"But we don't have you!" Franky cried.

"I promise I'll meet you one day," Luffy said, and even his voice was fading now. "I'll be there to meet every one of you. Just don't make it too soon!"

Nami released him.

"Thank you for being our captain all these years," Robin said, smiling at last.

"Thank you!" the others exclaimed.

Luffy grinned, his own eyes filling with tears which stained the floor even as he faded away.

The last thing he heard was Zoro's voice, saying, "We'll see you again one day . . . Pirate King!"

#opfanfic #one piece #writing adventures

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