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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 11 months

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Semper Eadem (ii, ao3)

Chapter two: Trying incredibly hard not to be won over by his charm, Nesta concocts a plan to make Cassian jealous. (chapter one)

It feels fitting to post this chapter on the anniversary of Anne Boleyn’s execution, and, as usual, there’s a lengthy author’s note on ao3 with all kinds of historical caveats.

(Paging @c-e-d-dreamer ! If anyone else would like to be tagged, let me know!)

Nesta was sliding the jewels from her hair when the knock at the door sounded.

It echoed, splitting the silence and resounding on the cold stone, and her hands hovered over her braids as she hesitated. She ought to have ignored it, since she ought to have already been in bed— but she’d only just returned to her rooms, having spent the evening with Cassian showing her the gardens, just as he’d promised.

As the revelry inside the hall that evening had died, she had stepped outside with him, letting him lead her down gravel pathways, meandering and curving through the dark, listening to his pretty tales. He’d pointed out a tree he’d once shot arrows at, and led her around a small ornamental pond he’d once pushed Rhysand in as boys. Beneath the clear sky threaded with stars, they had walked through Kenilworth’s grounds and spoken the way they had all those months ago, before he’d left.

Like he’d never been away at all.

And now, as Nesta paused, her fingers alighting on her pearls, she knew she really ought to have ignored that knocking at the door. The hour was late, the deepest part of the night already passed, and yet something drew her to the door nonetheless, had her sliding back the iron bolt like she’d taken leave of every one of her senses.

She blamed Cassian. He always had been a bad influence.

Turning the curved door handle, Nesta slowly opened her chamber door— just enough to peer into the hallway beyond. There she found a boy waiting, dressed in Tudor livery and bearing a small package in even smaller hands.

“Mistress Archeron,” he said in a whisper, glancing anxiously down the hall as if afeared of waking the Queen, sleeping only two doors down. “I have a parcel from Master Cassian.”

Nesta raised an eyebrow. “It couldn’t have waited until the morning?”

The boy shook his head. “He said it was urgent.”

Nesta eyed the parcel in his hands— a thick bundle of letters tied with string. She rolled her eyes. “Of course he did.”

Cassian had said he would find a pageboy and have his letters delivered to her tonight, but she hadn’t believed him. Not really. After all, what cause had she now to believe anything he told her? Still, she held out her hand and took the parcel, tracing a finger over the string tying the stack of letters together. It was coarse beneath her fingertip, as rough around the edges as the man who had tied the bow at the top, and almost as charming, too.

Bastard.

She let out a gentle huff as she felt the weight of his letters in her palm. “Find the Queen’s treasurer in the morning,” she said after a moment, looking at the boy in his small black doublet and little cap. “Tell him to give you a coin for delivering my letters.”

The boy nodded, darting down the darkened hallway on quick feet as soon as he was given leave. Nesta watched him go, and only when the hall was empty did she turn and close the door with a soft thud. The letters were thick in her hands, and her chest grew tight as she glanced down at her name written in his hand.

Nesta.

The N had been given an elaborate, sweeping tail; the A a winding curve that stretched towards the folded edge. Excessive and extravagant, it was like he had relished penning her name— like it was something reverential. Nesta was reminded, suddenly, of all those manuscripts the Queen owned, with decorated initials and gold detailing. Cassian had written her name like it was precious— like it meant the world to him.

And as she sank down onto the edge of her mattress, jewels still in her hair, she forced herself to remember how it felt to wait for him. Forced herself to remember her fury, even as she tugged on the end of the string, loosing the bow tying the stack together. She was still mad at him, despite the way they had danced and walked through the gardens, but her mind was waging relentless war on her heart— or perhaps the other way around.

Either way, she traced the edges of his first letter with her fingertip, knowing that she ought to be casting them aside instead. She ought to read them some other time, some other night, when she didn’t need to be up early to dress the Queen. She ought to make him wait, just as he’d made her. And yet she held that little piece of parchment that smelled of ink and leather and salt and him, and lingered over the marks he had made with his quill.

He wrote her name like it was something to be revered.

And so, even as frustration lingered, Nesta turned his first letter over and cracked open the seal.

***

My dearest Nesta,

It is only the first night on this voyage and yet I miss you already. The journey from London to Plymouth was long and tedious, and bad weather plagued us the entire time. I trust the sun is shining where you are at least, keeping you warm whilst I cannot. I know you would scold me for flirting so, but you would blush too, I think, and forgive me my boldness. After all, you could hardly condemn me for missing you…

Nesta,

My first letter to you remains unsent, stuck here on this ship the same as I. A storm has blown us off course— quite dramatically, I fear. We are closer to the Spanish coast than intended, and it will take days - if not weeks - for us to return to English waters. I know you will be furious with me when my letters do not arrive, but I can only pray that you will forgive me. I pray, too, that you are still writing to me - as I still do to you - because I hold the promise of your letters deep in my heart. With every sunrise I pray for the weather to break, so that I may finally send this on its way to you…

My most dear heart,

The sun has already begun to set, and I still do not know when next we’ll see land. The storms have continued for days now, the waves so rough it is as though God himself is determined to thwart us. My quill shakes— even now the ship rocks. The Captain is confident the weather will break soon, but still I write to you not knowing when - or if - you will see these words…

Dear heart,

I trust that you are well, and are not missing me too terribly. I spend every waking moment hoping that I will see you soon, but the sea is a cruel mistress, sweetheart, and cannot be predicted. I find myself cursing every wave that carries me further from England— from you. We intercepted some Spanish ships yesterday, and there was a skirmish. A blade sliced right over my knuckles, and I must admit that I found myself wishing for you to be here, bringing me comfort in my agony— because it was dreadfully painful, sweetheart, and I trust that you might kiss my knuckles when I next see you, to make it better and ease my pain…

Nesta let the letter slip between her fingers.

It fell to her bed, lying atop the others in a scattered pile of pale parchment. Her candle had burned almost to nothing, the jewels were still woven through her hair, and yet she cared not— her chest grew too tight, something spearing her clean through when she read of his wounds, like a knife to the heart. She thought of him here, hale and hearty and well, and knew it was nothing serious, and yet still she wanted to check those knuckles over— to make sure there was no lasting damage, to see if there was a scar. Her heart tripped, stumbled, and before she could think better of it she was picking the letter up again, scenting leather and sea salt on the page. It was rich and smoky, reminding her of dark nights spent around an open fire, of warmth and laughter and teasing glances—

It ended with a postscript, one that made her roll her eyes.

Please do me the great favour of riling Rhysand whilst I am away, Cassian had written. My most adored brother is getting far too self-important, don’t you think?

Bastard, Nesta thought for the hundredth time that evening.

She tossed it back onto the pile with the rest of his letters— every single one of them opened and read. She had rifled through every bloody page, had dropped everything when she heard that knock on the door. She was still in her heavy brocade dress, hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep, and dawn was fast approaching. She had sworn she would never loose sleep over him again and yet… here she was.

Losing sleep.

She cursed softly as she pulled the diamonds and pearls from her hair, swiftly undoing her braids and letting her hair fall loose around her shoulders. She tugged the laces of her bodice free, unpinned her skirts and her sleeves and her underskirt, and let it all fall to the floor in an expensive, lavish pile of discarded fabric. The gold thread shot through her bodice winked in the candlelight, and as Nesta pulled back the coverlets and donned her night rail at last, she cast one lingering glance to the letters at the foot of her bed.

Did they change anything?

Sweeping them into a pile, she placed them neatly on her nightstand, beside her dwindling candle. She extinguished the candle with a single breath, but as the scent of smoke filled the room, she couldn’t help but ask herself…

Did they change anything?

Did those letters alter the fact that she’d spent eight months with no word?

So he’d not made port in Plymouth when he should have. That explained why he’d not received her letters until he docked a few days ago. But in all those months, she was expected to believe he hadn’t stepped foot on land once? When they made port to replenish their supplies, he couldn’t have found a courier to deliver his letters then?

In the darkness, Nesta scowled.

No.

They didn’t change much at all.

But even she couldn’t pretend that her anger hadn’t melted a little, that her bitterness hadn’t softened. My dearest Nesta, he had written, and God save her, she couldn’t pretend that her traitorous heart hadn’t skipped a little in her chest as she read those words. She had traced the curve of the ink on the parchment, followed the curving sweeps of his pen, each little scrap of paper evidence that he really had been thinking of her, out there on the waves.

She stared at the dark ceiling, at the shadows beyond her bed frame. Unprompted, she thought of how Cassian had looked at her as they had danced, like she was his entire world. That rakish smile had been enough to soften the sharpest edges of her anger but—

She was nothing if not stubborn.

She had spent months pining for him, feeling the sting heighten with every day that went by with no word from him. If he thought that a bundle of letters and a handful of pretty words sent eight months too late would be enough to win her over, then he didn’t know her at all. Deep down, she knew she would forgive him in the end, but…

She didn’t need to make it easy.

And so, as she settled against her pillows and closed her eyes, Nesta felt her thoughts shift. Within her mind a plot began to form, one that made her smirk a little as she turned her face into her bedsheets. In the pressing silence she thought of another letter— from her father, proposing a betrothal between her and the Duke of Northumberland. She had brushed it off entirely, resolved to dig her heels in as far as they would go to prevent the match, but the Duke was here for the Queen’s pageant, with his auburn hair and pale skin and dark eyes.

And suddenly Nesta was thinking of the way Cassian had looked at the Earl of Oxford earlier, like he’d rather drown than watch her dance with him. What would he do, she wondered, if he knew of her father’s intentions? If he thought he might lose her to a duke?

He wouldn’t, of course.

But if Cassian wanted her forgiveness… well, he was just going to try extra hard.

***

Nesta Archeron wasn’t often glad of church services.

The incense made her head ache, and the monotonous droning of the priest was almost always enough to make her yearn for her bed— but as Sunday morning dawned, furious with August heat, she stepped inside the cool stone walls of the chapel and found she had never felt more pious.

It was so blessedly cool, she almost went to her knees and thanked God then and there.

Even on the short walk across the castle grounds, her skin had prickled beneath the sun’s rays and she’d felt herself growing faint in her heavy dress, the heat almost too much to bear even despite the early hour. She shuddered to imagine the heights it would climb to by noon, and only wished to stay in that little darkened chapel until nightfall, until the stained glass no longer cast beautiful colour across the flagged stone floor.

It smelled of candle wax and polished wood and Nesta breathed it in, feeling the cool air on the back of her neck, a welcome reprieve from the heat. She took her seat on the front row, the pew reserved for the queen and her ladies, and closed her eyes, hoping it was taken for a display of true fervour, true devotion to the holy church.

Blasphemy, she was sure, but— she hadn’t exactly had the most restful night.

She fought to keep her eyes closed, head bowed. Clasping her hands before her in a mockery of prayer, Nesta willed herself not to give in— not to turn around, not to let her attention wander.

She’d spotted him, of course, as soon as they had entered, had watched him bow as the Queen passed.

The court had been assembled in the chapel already, waiting for the Queen before the priest began, and Nesta’s attention had snapped to Cassian immediately. He was sitting beside Rhysand in the second row on the other side of the aisle, dressed in a shade of emerald green that brought out the hazel of his eyes. His hair had been tied back roughly with a strip of leather, but the stubble that had graced his jaw last night was gone. Tidier— he looked tidier. Not tidy, not quite. Not with the way his hair still curled down to his shoulders, not with the scar cutting through his eyebrow.

But his hazel eyes had lifted, finding her as assuredly as if she were a point on his compass, and her breath had caught in her throat.

Bastard.

She opened her eyes now, focusing on the priest and his sermon as he began, suddenly feeling the need to pay her prayers more determined attention. She clasped her hands tighter, tighter, until her knuckles turned white, forcing herself to think only of the Mass before Cassian could damn her soul along with the rest of her.

And when the service ended, and the Queen rose from her seat in the front pew, Nesta stood too. In a rustle of heavily embroidered skirts, Elizabeth swept into the aisle, her ladies trailing behind her. The courtiers bowed as their sovereign passed, and Nesta’s eyes went, unbidden, to the line of courtiers on the other side of the chapel. Rhysand bowed, and Nesta blinked passively, but Cassian…

His eyes weren’t on the Queen.

They were on her.

Practically smouldering as he glanced across her face, those eyes lingered on her lips for a moment too long before his attention slid down her neck to her collarbone, to the neckline of her dress. He bowed as the Queen passed, but when he looked up at her from beneath thick eyelashes, he half looked like the only one he was bowing for was her.

It was enough to earn him a trip to the Tower, really, but Nesta ignored the way her heart tripped. After all, hadn’t she resolved to make him work for her forgiveness? And now here he was, in a church, with that damnable smile and those charming eyes, looking at her like he’d gladly sell his soul to save hers. It made her weak, made her feel hot and cold all at once, but before she could let her eyes flick to his... she forced herself to look right past him, her face nonchalant, resolve hardening in her chest.

Oh, she’d forgive him in the end— but not until she’d paid him back a little first.

She glanced at the row behind him— found the Duke of Northumberland there, dressed in autumn tones that matched his auburn hair. Eris Vanserra looked at her, dark eyes assessing, and as he bowed his head to his queen, he looked up at Nesta too. When he raised his head, the duke offered her a small, knowing, smile. Nesta returned it.

Elain’s brother-in-law— he was Elain’s brother-in-law, and if their father got his way, she would be meeting him at the altar of a chapel just like this, swearing vows of matrimony. His brother, Lucien, was the queen’s ambassador to Spain, and Elain had found a somewhat sickening degree of happiness with her Vanserra groom. He had left for the Spanish court and taken Elain with him, to a country drenched in sun and warmth, and now all of Elain’s letters were overflowing with descriptions of the architecture in Madrid, the food and the wine and the flowers. As a post-script on her latest, Elain had added that she’d had a letter from father too and heard of his plans to marry Nesta to Eris. Even she had noted that the Duke was quite the catch.

Her eyes lingered on the richness of Eris’ doublet, the smooth shine of his hair. A catch, indeed.

Her gaze flicked back to Cassian, his head bent in whispers with Rhysand. As if he could sense her, he lifted his head and canted it to the side, whispers ceasing as his attention shifted. Despite the cool air of the chapel, Nesta felt her skin heat beneath his focus, like the fires of all seven hells had suddenly begun to blaze within her veins. And that simply wouldn’t do— so she raised her chin and looked right past him, eyes sliding back to Eris. She smiled once more, a coy curve to her lips, and Cassian stilled. His eyes widened briefly before he blinked in surprise, turning his head to look behind him and searching for whoever it was she was smiling at if not himself.

The hubris of men, Nesta thought wryly, watching as Cassian followed her gaze.

When he realised it was Eris, she saw his face darken.

Nesta merely hummed pleasantly, entirely satisfied.

***

Cassian sat on the wooden bench in the great hall, staring darkly down into his wine.

The day had passed in a wash of heat and irritability, the morning that had begun with so much promise turning sour the moment he’d followed Nesta’s gaze in that chapel, the second he’d found her smiling at the Duke of fucking Northumberland the way she used to smile at him.

And from there, it had only gotten worse.

The Queen had declared that it was too hot to be outside today, and had retreated to her rooms with nothing but the ladies of the court for company. The men had lingered, damn near rudderless without their sovereign, and Cassian had found himself wandering the Kenilworth gardens again, retracing the paths of his youth— only this time, it was Rhys by his side. He had spent all day counting down the minutes until dinner, where he hoped for a chance to ask Nesta for another dance, but when the banquet had been laid out and the Queen had entered with her ladies…

Nesta hadn’t even looked at him.

She had taken her seat beside the Queen and had stayed there, out of reach.

You have nineteen days to win me round, she had said last night— and Cassian snorted, draining his goblet and plucking up a fresh one from the table. How was he supposed to earn her forgiveness if she refused to even look at him?

He had always liked a challenge but…

Christ, she was going to be the death of him.

He felt the bench he was seated at dip as Rhys joined him, folding one long leg up beneath him and resting an elbow on the table as he lounged against it. He too was cradling a bronze cup filled with malmsey, the silver rings on his fingers singing as he tapped his fingertips against the metal. He looked up to the high table he had only just vacated, and rolled his eyes as he followed Cassian’s gaze.

“Oh, stop being so melancholy,” Rhys said, lifting his cup and knocking it against Cassian’s own before his deep blue eyes flicked once more to the dais, landing on the woman who had Cassian so completely at her mercy. “It’s not like you were wed to her.”

Cassian hissed.

No, it wasn’t. But he’d had his eyes on Nesta Archeron for years, ever since his first day at court, when he’d seen her standing next to the Queen in a dress of grey that turned to pale blue in the sunlight. She had enchanted him then and there, and he supposed he’d always expected to win her in the end, always thought he would be the one to take her down the aisle.

But now she was looking at another the way she’d looked at him eight months ago, before he’d left, and he’d never been jealous of Eris fucking Vanserra before, but now… After the way she’d smiled at Eris in the chapel, envy was roiling in his gut, eating him alive.

He cast another glance up to the high table, his eyes sliding easily across the sea of jewels and fine fabric to anchor on her. His Nesta— with her head held high and diamonds glittering at her neck. Her hair was braided back and up, woven once more with pearls, and her dress was trimmed in white lace, so beautifully elegant that Cassian could scarce believe it. She was a wonder, the rarest of treasures, and there wasn’t enough gold in the world to tempt him from her, to make him forsake her.

To put it simply, he wanted her— more than anything.

But did she want him?

He’d been so sure of it, eight months ago. So certain in her affections. Impatient, he tapped his foot against the stone floor now, anxious as the need for him to do something started to make him feel unsteady. The banquet was cleared away, and already he was readying to leap up and beg the Queen for a dance with her favourite lady, willing to do whatever it took to get Nesta in his arms once more. After all, the dancing had softened Nesta’s ire last night. He prayed it could do so again, so he could fix all of this before he lost her entirely.

But before the monarch could decide for there to be dancing, the large double doors at the end of the hall opened, revealing an all-too familiar figure standing in the hallway outside. From his leather boots to his sable hair, he was as familiar to Cassian as Rhys was, and even though Cassian’s mind was still occupied with the girl in the brocade dress sitting beside the Queen, he managed to smile.

“Well, fuck me,” Rhys muttered with a grin. “I’d started to think he wouldn’t come at all.”

Cassian snorted as he took a deep draw from his wine. “He likes to make an entrance.”

Rhys scoffed. “And you don’t?”

He waved a hand, watching as Azriel made his way through the trestle tables, striding purposefully towards that high table set on the dais. As he passed, he met his brothers’ eyes and gave them a brisk nod in greeting.

“My shadow,” Elizabeth said grandly as Azriel approached, taking in his dark travelling cloak and dark boots. The nickname had never seemed so fitting.

“Forgive me, your grace.” Azriel’s cape billowed as he sank to one knee, looking up at his queen and speaking in a voice that was deep and sure, and yet, Cassian could tell, tired too. “There was business in the city that stalled my departure.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “Nothing too serious, I trust.”

Azriel shook his head. “No, your majesty.”

She nodded, appeased. Azriel rose to his feet in one lithe, elegant movement, so smooth it was testament to exactly why he had risen so high in the Queen’s intelligence network. He was one of her most trusted spies, with an uncanny ability to move unseen, unheard, and undetected— a shadow.

“I fear you have arrived too late for the festivities tonight,” she continued, rising to her feet. Her chair scraped along the wooden floor of the dais, echoing in the cavernous room. With her, the rest of the court stood too, a cacophony of chairs and tables shifting, filling the hall as Elizabeth raised her chin and waved a hand. “The heat today has been so taxing that my bedchamber calls— my ladies and I were just about to retire.”

Cassian’s gaze snapped to Nesta, but she was standing so perfectly still that not even the diamonds hanging from her ears trembled.

Fuck.

And before he could so much as blink, the Queen was descending the steps of the dais, bypassing Azriel and giving him only a benevolent smile and a request that he call on her properly in the morning. She allowed him to kiss the ring on her finger, but then she was striding towards the doors her spy had only just entered through, her skirts whispering along the floor as she led the way, her ladies following in her wake.

Nesta kept her gaze forward as she passed by, the planes of her face illumined by the candlelight, turning the diamonds she wore at her throat to firestones, burning. And Cassian longed for her to turn— to catch that silver-blue gaze and hold it. He prayed for it, fervent desire burning within as he implored God to take mercy on his poor splintered heart, on his aching soul that longed for her with every breath.

But God had, it seemed, forsaken him completely.

Nesta turned at last— but instead of seeking Cassian in the crowd, her eyes went to the Duke of Northumberland.

The breath left his lungs as forcefully as if he’d just received a punch to the gut. He watched as Eris met Nesta’s gaze, tilting his head and sending a sheet of sleek auburn hair sliding over his shoulder. His hand tightened around his cup, so tightly his knuckles hurt, and he didn’t think he’d ever hated a man more. He frowned again, blinking as if hoping this was some dreadful kind of dream, and then the Queen was gone— Nesta with her.

The double doors swung shut behind them with a resoundingly final thud, loud and ominous and about as thunderous as Cassian’s temper.

Eris sank back into his seat at one long table, tipping his head back in raucous laughter as one of the Queen’s courtiers by his side cracked some sort of joke, and Cassian damn near cracked his cup. By his side, Rhys rolled his eyes.

“Come,” he said, clapping Cassian on the shoulder. “I have some bottles of frightfully expensive Gascon wine in my chambers. Get Azriel and let’s go— before you start a fight.”

***

Chambers.

Rhys had chambers.

“I’ve only got a single room,” Cassian grumbled as he looked around the large receiving room that adjoined the bedroom his brother had been given. Rugs lay scattered on the stone floor, and four plush chairs were set out before the large stone fireplace. There was a desk and a small table too, and a window seat that looked out over the grounds.

“Rhys always was Leicester’s favourite,” Az muttered as he poured himself a liberal glass of Rhys’ wine. He poured another and handed it to Cassian. “Even when we were boys.”

“Hardly,” Rhys countered, waving a hand. “He was just as hard on me as he was on you two.” Then, he grinned, his lips pulling back over his teeth in a wicked smirk. “But I am the Queen’s councillor now, so it’s only fair I get the better rooms.”

“So humble too,” Cassian remarked dryly.

“Humility never was my strong suit,” Rhys said, taking the third cup of wine Azriel poured. He sank into one of the chairs by the fire and ran a finger around the bronze rim. “You know that.”

Azriel snorted, lowering himself into the chair between them and drinking deeply from his wine as he cast off his travelling cloak. Cassian sipped at his own wine, the richness of it blooming on his tongue as he settled against the cushions, catching Azriel’s eye.

“So,” the Queen’s spy asked. “How was your voyage?”

“Fine,” Cassian shrugged. “We had bad weather but nothing too perilous.” Another shrug. “There was fighting and drinking and taking Spanish gold as our own.” He raised his cup in mock cheers. “So— God save the fucking Queen.”

“She’ll have your head if she hears you speak like that,” Rhys pointed out dryly.

Cassian waved a hand. “She’d have my head for many things,” he muttered, thinking of Nesta, how he had danced with her last night, how he’d written her all those letters. How he’d flirted with her and dared to hope he might one day get to call her his. Oh, the Queen could have his head for any one of those things, but he shook his head now, clearing his throat before changing the subject.

“Enough of me,” he said brightly. “What did I miss whilst I was at sea? Catch me up.”

Azriel was silent, but Rhys considered it a moment, tapping his fingers against his cup. His rings clinked against it, resounding in the silence of the chamber.

“Well,” he began airily. “My father has an eye on a bride for me. An Archeron bride, no less.”

Cassian turned his head, instantly more alert as a frown creased his brow. “You didn’t tell me that.”

It sounded more like an accusation than anything else, but Cassian couldn’t help it. He’d spent all day with his brother, and yet there had been no talk at all of impending nuptials, none at all, and as ice crawled down his spine, Cassian looked Rhys over with an intensity that others might have shied from.

An Archeron.

There were three, but only two remained unmarried. The youngest - Feyre, he recalled - lived with their father in Kent, came seldom to court, and was already attached to some earl called Tamlin from the south west. That left only Nesta, and Cassian felt himself growing swiftly numb as he realised which sister would be the better match for Rhys, the Queen’s fucking councillor.

He opened his mouth, a thousand protests clawing up his throat, and was barely a breath away from pushing to his feet and demanding that his brother refuse. But before he could say a word, Rhys waved a hand, the silver of his rings winking in the dim light.

“Oh, don’t fret Cass,” he said lightly. “It’s the youngest he wants for me.”

Cassian blinked— took a breath.

“I heard she was already engaged.”

Rhys shook his head. “No. They were a poor match, it transpires. So my father wants me to wed her instead. You have nothing to fear. Not from me, anyway.”

Cassian settled back into his chair, crossing an ankle over his knee. Mollified slightly, he drank from his cup as Azriel leaned forwards, elbows resting on the arms of his chair.

“Ah yes,” he said slyly, eyes sliding to Cassian. “I heard something interesting from one of my associates in Plymouth. Something about some letters being delivered to the shipyard with your name on— letters from the eldest Archeron.”

Cassian swore. “I know you’re the queen’s spy Az, but do you have to spy on me too?”

Azriel shrugged, and didn’t deign to answer.

“Besides,” Rhys interjected, “though I am certain my father would have preferred to match me with the eldest, Nesta and I would have been a match so disastrous it would bring the realm to it’s knees. There could never be a more poorly matched couple, and anyway…” He shrugged, but his tone turned careful, cautious as he looked away. Suddenly, he was unable to meet Cassian’s eye. “I’ve heard talk recently of a match with a northern duke for her.”

Cassian stilled.

“Oh?” he said, working to keep his voice steady even as it threatened to tremble. Nesta hadn’t mentioned a damned thing about any duke during their walk in the gardens, or during their dance in the hall, and it was a revelation about as welcome as the fucking plague. It had him clenching his jaw, forcing his words out between tightly pressed lips.

Azriel nodded. “The Duke of Northumberland, I heard.”

Cassian felt the floor drop from beneath him, his stomach plummeting as he whipped his head to Azriel, finding the truth of it in his face. Suddenly, the way Nesta had smiled at Eris in the chapel that morning was a blade with a keen edge, one that was but a moment from being driven into his gut. Darkly, he thought of how he’d like to run Eris through with a sword for daring to return her smile— for daring to think he might be the one to make Nesta a duchess.

A fucking duchess.

“She won’t marry him,” Cassian said with a scoff, but it died in his throat before he could even convince himself, never mind his brothers. Somewhat warily, he swallowed. “Right?”

Rhys shrugged. “No, probably not.”

“Probably not?”

“Well, her sister is already married to his younger brother. If their father wanted to strengthen the alliance—”

Cassian snarled. “You’re not helping.” He thought of their walk in the garden the night before— the way her hand had sat so easily in the crook of his elbow, how she had looked up at him with the moonlight gliding across her face, listening to the tales he told of his life at sea. He’d thought, foolishly, that they had slipped right back into the way things were before he’d left, picked up where they left off. Bitterly, mournfully, he shook his head. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

“It’s still very new,” Azriel said casually, a shade too gently. “My spies didn’t even hear of it until three days ago, and nothing is set in stone. Her father was merely making…enquiries.”

Cassian scowled. “Enquiries.”

“I doubt he’ll go through with it,” Rhys interrupted with a hum. “What’s the point in having two daughters in the north? Nesta is far more valuable by the queen’s side. He’d be better off seeking a match for her in London. The Earl of Oxford, perhaps.”

Cassian remembered the way Oxford had watched Nesta across the dance floor and snarled once more.

“Or, alternatively, fuck all of that,” he said darkly.

“Of course,” Azriel cut in lightly, “Rhys could put a word in with the Queen. Shut down the match before it gets anywhere.”

Rhys shook his head. “I’m not straying anywhere near the queen with any talk of marriage. I don’t want another slipper thrown at me,” he muttered darkly. Azriel laughed, and the image of his brother having a shoe thrown at his face was enough to make even Cassian smirk. After his ‘probably not’ comment, the bastard deserved it. Rhys scowled. “Oh, just let her marry Eris,” he said with another wave of his hand. “She’s a bloody termagant, always barring me from the queen’s chambers.”

“Wounded, Rhys?” Az asked with a smirk. The councillor bristled.

“No,” he answered flatly. “But when there is important business the Queen needs to deal with, I’d appreciate it if her ladies didn’t think themselves important enough to think they can shut me out. All this business with the Queen of Scots for example—”

Azriel waved a hand. “No more work, Rhys.” He sighed. “I’ve left all that behind at Whitehall.”

Cassian leaned forward, ignoring his brother’s bickering. Something had occurred to him— with all this talk of the Queen and her ladies, something had sparked.

“Northumberland is practically in Scotland,” he mused, and he wasn’t entirely sure if he was talking to himself or to his brothers. Still, he tapped his fingers on the arms of his chair, idly optimistic. “The Queen would never let her favourite be taken so far away from her.”

“Hopeful, are we?” Azriel teased.

And suddenly Cassian thought of how she’d smiled at Eris, at how she’d been so determined that he’d have to work for her forgiveness. He swore again, optimism dashed like a ship against the rocks, caught in a storm.

“Honestly? I think she might marry him just to spite me.”

“What’s her grievance?” Azriel asked.

Cassian huffed. “I didn’t write to her whilst I was away.” He paused, his voice dropping into an embittered grumble as he sighed heavily. “Except I did. I just couldn’t send the bloody letters.”

Rhys smirked. “So she didn’t have to read anything written by you? She should be thanking you for saving her the ordeal.”

“Ass,” Cassian muttered, hitting his brother in the shoulder. Rhys hissed, but Cassian only uncurled his hand and stretched his fingers, feeling the tension thick in every inch of his frame.

“There’s the joust tomorrow,” Azriel suggested evenly, cutting in before Rhys could land a blow in retaliation. “Maybe you should ask her for her favour.”

Rhys snorted into his wine. “I’d sooner ask a live dragon,” he muttered under his breath.

Cassian leaned forward, setting his wine aside. “One more word and I’ll be going up against you at the tiltyard, brother.” His eyes gleamed, but the threat wasn’t empty at all. “And we both know how that will end. I’d hate to bruise that handsome face.”

Rhys grimaced.

They had learned to fight and joust together, and though Rhys was good… Cassian had always won. He’d always felt at home in plate armour, comfortable with a sword or a lance in his hand. Once, he’d broken Rhys’ arm.

He let a cruel smile spread on his face as he thought of Eris, of the joust tomorrow, and the myriad ways a tournament could go wrong— of the accidents that could happen. Suddenly, Azriel’s suggestion didn’t seem so bad after all.

Plucking up his wine once more, Cassian tipped it all back, draining it dry. Then, he stood.

“What are you doing?” Rhys asked as Cassian made his way purposefully to his brother’s desk, littered with papers.

“This all began with some letters,” Cassain said as he found a blank piece of parchment. He gave a a soft a-ha, before plucking up a quill. Pulling a small knife from his belt, he sharpened the tip and dipped it into Rhys’ ink well. “Perhaps one more might help fix it.”

“And what, exactly, are you going to write to her of?” Rhys asked dryly, tipping his head back wearily against his chair.

Cassian lifted his gaze before making the first strokes with his quill. He looked at each of his brothers in turn, nodding to Azriel before looking to the window, to the night beyond that was clear.

“I’m going to ask her to save me her favour for the joust tomorrow.”

#nessian #nessian fic #semper eadem #Nesta is choosing metaphorical violence in this chapter #and Cassian will be choosing actual violence in the next chapter.....#i cant wait

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