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vidalinav · 3 years

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All My Girls Like to Fight

Inspired by the song “All my girls like to fight” by Hope Tala

Summary: Devlon trains Nesta. Devlon’s POV

Disclaimer: I personally am on the fence about Nesta training because she’s more magically powerful (probably) than anyone else. However, I will not lie and say it does not intrigue me, because I tend to like anything involving Nesta Archeron. And, I think it would be cool to have her fight (and inevitable) and the sexual tension with Cassian would be through the roof if they ever trained together, which is just chef’s kiss* I just don’t like that Nesta learning to fight feels like she’s giving up more of her values, which doesn’t sit well with me, since she’s had to change so much already and not by choice. But the thought of Devlon being the one to train her satisfied all of the check boxes in my head because I could then work out subtly his own views about female’s fighting. That was very interesting and the fic practically wrote itself.

Anyways.... here it is!

General Masterlist, AO3, Fanfic

Devlon awoke to the sound of cutting air. It whirred and disappeared. Whooshed and was no more. He clamped his pillow to his ears, half-awake and in the middle of dreaming—some nonsensical dream that he knew he would not remember in the morning.

But the sound erupted again, this time a heavy clash, and his eyes burst open once more stinging.

He was going to murder the person who was at the training quarters this hour—never mind that it was his fault he lived so near. Every warrior, novice or no, knew that hours were reserved for early mornings until the sun completely set. Most males would be at home or a tavern somewhere. Those unlucky enough to be on watch, would be roaming above the forests scouting all that scuttled in the darkness.

But no one should be in the training fields.

Devlon slipped on his boots, not bothering to change, as he ripped the door open and met the ink and wind. He didn’t bother grabbing a weapon, sure as daylight that he’d scare the living wits out of the Illyrian with his presence alone. Probably a new trainee. Young, not knowing the rules. He was going to learn the rules today and he was going to learn them well…

But he did not find a young male, a boy. Not a trainee or a full-blown warrior.

On the dirt, where the mud still lingered from yesterday’s rain, was a girl…. A female. Her brassy hair shining in moonlight. Devlon stepped away at the sight of her.

This… female.

This witch.

Only a true witch could conjure that bright of a moon or so Devlon thought as she held up the steel. It was much too big for her, probably too heavy by the way her arms shook lifting the sword. But she swung at the leather target in front of her, wobbling on her feet.

The witch barely made a dent in the arm, and as she swung again, Devlon had to clamp his mouth shut from yelling that she was holding the sword wrong in her palms. If she kept that up, she’d surely break her wrist, if not multiple body parts from where it would either slip from her grasps and land on her toes, or from where it would fly from her hands and hit someone else.

He was the only other being on this training field, so Devlon took several steps back.

The mistake he noticed was something he didn’t bother correcting the few girls he’d trained that morning. Their first lesson in swords and shields. And, if he did not do it then, Devlon would not deign to do so now.

That girl was the problem of the general. Though, Devlon wanted to scoff at the audacity of the commander criticizing his training of the females, when his own could not hold a sword.

In fact, Devlon wanted to go get the commander himself, present her before him as another way he was inadequate—stick it to him and that high lord of theirs. This is who you entrust to win wars.

Instead, Devlon watched as she tried again, switching the blade to her other hand and waving her wrist as if it ached. He swallowed his tongue.

Oh no, he would not get involved in high court affairs.

The vexatious female had not stopped her pestering sword fight until early morning, and Devlon had punished the trainees for it. By the time the day had ended, the males were grumbling, wound tight and weary, and he could have sworn a few boys had thrown up behind the saunas.

Devlon had enjoyed their displeasure for he too was displeased. Annoyed. Irritated. Ready to pummel the commander in his next fight for bringing that blasted female to his camp.

Long past the evening was over, he was ready to forget it all, to sleep in his warm hut of a house, simple in its function. Ready for the night to overtake him and for the headache he’d had all day to stop pounding in his skull.

Devlon closed his eyes willing sleep to take him…

The sound of clashing metal started again.

His body moved without a second thought.

He stormed out of his house, his eyes adjusting to the array of purples and blues alight from trembling stars. Devlon could see her head peak out from the ring, where the practice dummies had been scattered in each corner. Like the night before, he wanted to yell, scream, rage, drag her back to that commander who thought too much of himself.

But like the night before, the image of her, her vile grandeur, made his temper cease.

As he neared, Devlon noted that she wasn’t even on the mats at all. She was sitting on the ground, tapping the sword against a rock. Clack, Clack, Clack. Over and over. Screeching metal that had him gritting his teeth.

Her legs were spread wide in what he thought was far from ladylike, her white nightgown peeking through the fur.

What odd training leathers she had.

He watched as the young witch tipped her head back, her nose held high but not in that pompous way he’d seen before. Devlon followed her gaze all the way to the stars. The midnight beast blinking back its thousand eyes.

There was a story in a Illyria about the night. When he was younger he was half-afraid it would swallow him whole. All of his friends, his family, tumbling to the back of its throat. It was the only thing he’d ever truly been afraid of. Not the wars, the creatures of the forest, the cruelty of the fae, but of this inconsequential thing that stared down as if it were waiting for them. Waiting for them both here in these training fields.

Devlon shook away the ominous thought, turning back to the female who sighed audibly. She hiked up her skirt as she kicked up her boots, and he shifted his head quickly, shying away from the indecent exposure.

She picked up her sword, swinging it round and round, turning to one of the practice dummies. It was large and heavy, three times her size, with various pegs sticking out its trunk. She merely gave it a glare and hiked up the weapon.

What the witch did not know was that it was designed to move. If it was hit, one the arms would swing forward. Hit again, and another on the opposite side would move. It was to teach one to defend rather than to swing blindly.

Swing blindly, she did.

Her wrist was still angled at odd ends, but she managed to cut the leather on the figure’s side. Not a killing blow but perhaps enough to wound an enemy if they had not already maimed her from her lack of skill.

Except the sword got lodged in the wood at the same time one of the pegs moved towards her. The little witch couldn’t maintain her footing, and so the peg smacked her side.

She yelped and Devlon clasped his hand to his nose, shaking his head. Thinking of all the ways, she would hurt herself tonight.

He’d never get sleep...

So, Devlon cut his losses and went back to his hut, willing himself to forget all he’d seen.

There were bags under her eyes. The heavy grey, dark and shadowed. It reminded him that she was still just a human girl underneath it all. Devlon half-wondered what she might have been doing if she’d not been thrown into this strange new world where war was what they ate, what they breathed, what they awoke at dawn to pursue.

It was true that he liked to call the witch spoiled behind the commander’s back—in his head; when he grumbled under his breath. That spoiled princess kept in the general’s cabin, unseen, unheard of, but trapezing through the camp as if she belonged here—as if she was one of them. That beautiful, solemn witch who lived in the woods, who ate the dreams of the elders and the smiles of the young.

But she was not a witch. Not Illyrian, certainly. Perhaps, not fae. No longer human. Could not be called lesser fae though, because there was nothing lesser about the female who had ripped Hybern’s head from his body.

She did not show the same strength she had in those few days of the war. Devlon had seen her walking with those buckets and bandages, watching his comrades fall one by one as if she commanded their deaths, plucked their souls from their bodies. How terrifying it must have been for her? This young girl, who had not lived even half of their youngest citizen.

He trained warriors for a near millennium who came back with lost limbs, lost friends, lost sanities, but what did she lose? What did she even have to lose? This little witch who had experienced nothing.

“Your wrist—” He spoke at last, his words rough to his own ears. She stared up at him, eyes widening then down at the sword in her hand. “You’ll break it if you keep bending it like that.”

He watched as she stubbornly gripped the handle tighter, turning her back to him and swinging at the practice dummy again. It swung from the momentum and the girl—female—witch—stepped back unable to keep her footing.

Dead, he thought. If she were in a battle she’d be dead.

“And your stance needs work,” He added sardonically. She huffed in reply. But Devlon was not finished. She had kept him up with her pestering noise for six days. He was tired.

“Why do you want to train?” he demanded because he truly needed to know. Why the late nights and the early mornings? Why punch when she didn’t know how? Why use a sword she could barely hold upright? He was tired of not knowing why she walked through the training fields as if it were a war zone and she was wading through the bodies.

Why fight at all?

She could be sheltered, taken care of, happily ensconced in an estate somewhere, with the general himself even if that last day in the war was any indication.

But the witch did not answer his question. Instead, she adjusted her grip, widening her stance, and holding the sword as if she was holding some sporting bat he’d seen the children play with.

“Incorrect,” he voiced allowed, circling her form.

She huffed but moved her left foot forward and her right slightly back, though he gave her no directions to do so.

“Incorrect!”

“Then why don’t you tell me what is correct?” She answered, harshly.

“Why don’t you ask?” He provoked.

But she lunged at him with the sword.

He quickly stepped out of her way and gave her a look, “Too easy.”

She tried again, and he stepped to the side. She hit the rope and it cut in half.

“You are not doing anything but tiring yourself.”

“Shut up!” She yelled, fury spitting out of her words.

Fine.

He remained silent as she ambled towards him, huffing along the way. Devlon crossed his arms, raising a brow and when she swung again, he grabbed the sword from her hands.

It was easy… because she was holding it wrong.

Devlon waited. The little witch glared, raising her head to meet him in the eyes.

Her face was red. Her hair, wild. Her eyes, gleaming. And, for a moment she reminded him of the night sky. The imminent danger of someone inconsequential…

Devlon held out the sword to her, the handle ready for her palm. She glanced at it, then back at him.

The female pursed her lips, looking as though she did not want to accept his gift, but Nesta grabbed the weapon firmly.

Why do you want to fight? He’d asked her.

“No one else can fight for me.”

~ “Join the ranks tomorrow,” Devlon commanded, crossing his arms, “At a decent hour, this time.”

“You can’t be serious,” Nesta exclaimed, dropping the sword on the ground. Devlon sniffed at that. That would be their next lesson it seemed, how to treat weapons with the respect they were due.

For now, he settled on tapping a foot. His patience dimming with the lack of sleep. A headache was already beginning to form as the little witch crossed her arms, lifting her shoulders in a way that had him thinking she must have had wings in another lifetime—in another form.

In any case, she could not be more irritated than him and Devlon rose to the challenge, “In a real battle, you will not be fighting training dummies.”

Nesta scoffed, her eyes widening as she began to make big, dramatic gestures with her hands, “They’ve trained all their lives. They’ll pummel me.”

“Perhaps, but that is the risk you take in any fight,” He breathed; the words coated in sincerity. “The males won’t take it easy on you, surely. Might even try harder to win. After all, no one wants to be beaten by a mere wisp of a female, but no enemy in war will spare you or wait for you to be ready. Either they best you and you end up with a few bruises or you learn to hit first.”

She took a deep breath, her nostril flaring in that way he knew meant she wanted to yell and so Devlon went on.

“You have kept me up for three weeks. I have taught you basic forms, stances, how to punch, how to kick, how to use your body against someone larger. I cannot teach you anymore. You must fight.”

“Is that all it takes? A few punches and a kick and someone’s ready to rage war.”

“No,” He called, scenting the fear. “But if you don’t fight, you don’t learn. There are some things only experience can teach you.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but Devlon raised a hand.

“I won’t force you to go.” She clamped her mouth shut, her shoulders relaxing. “But know that if you don’t go, I’m not training you any longer. Our lessons stop here.”

Devlon watched as she gulped down her arguments, the silence tangible in the height of the witching hour.

Nesta looked past him, up to the stars.

If she saw her answers hidden in the cosmos, he wanted her to say it aloud, get this night over with and settled. But she closed her eyes, clenching her fists.

When she opened them again, he saw the grey flash in the darkness.

A newborn star, he thought.

Bright and burning.

“Fine,” She huffed, picking up the sword.

When Nesta walked into the training quarters the morning after next, Devlon was almost surprised.

This time instead of nightgowns and fur coats or sweats she’d hastily thrown on, she wore training leathers. But even if she walked with arrogance of a queen, he could still see the apprehension in her gait. Perhaps, it had something to do with the commander and the shadowsinger who looked on, eyebrows crinkling.

He supposed he picked a wrong day for her to join legion training, because well… both of them were here. Usually, Devlon had advanced warning of these visits but it seemed that the commander hadn’t bothered telling him that the shadowsinger would be making his rounds, spying on their progress.

At their gazes, at all of their gazes including the males who started to whisper under their breaths, the witch lifted her chin. Tall and impressively indifferent.

Learn to examine them, he’d told her. The foot they favor. The side they use the most. The weapons they’re most skilled at. That is what you learn by being in the ring, by facing them head on.

Learn to use what you know—what you are.

Nesta had no problem at finding weaknesses, he found, as she surveyed them all, but they had no problem leering, sneering, and jeering at her. The males closest to the general began to step aside, and the ones far enough away moved closer to see his reaction.

But Nesta didn’t bother looking at Cassian, instead she stepped towards him. Her arms crossing in that petulant way of hers.

“I’m here,” She huffed.

“I can see that,” he said, giving her a dry look.

His lack of directions seemed to annoy her, because she looked away, not succeeding to hide the roll of her eyes. Devlon could feel the headache already forming.

“We’ll start with drills,” He began, “Laps around the field, running through stances, and then hand-to-hand combat.”

The witch nodded her head, moving to join the males who straightened as she walked towards them.

She looked… small in comparison.

But small in the way that he imagined a venomous snake hid on the forest floor or a bushel of nightshade might disguise itself in grand bouquets. She was dangerous, he knew. They all knew, though they didn’t know exactly what chaos hid beneath her skin or how it might destroy them all had she been displeased with them.

The general sidled up to him, the shadowsinger ever close and present, and Devlon inwardly sighed. Both of them watching Nesta begin to run laps.

“When did she start this?” He asked, his tone outrageous and cynical.

“I don’t know what else to tell you, besides the fact that she lives in your house. If you don’t know when she started this, I’ll have to point out your lack of perception.”

“When did she start this?” The commander snarled. Devlon did not care for the tone.

“You. Tell. Me.” He offered slowly, tilting his head, waiting for the male to answer. “If you don’t know where she’s been, then how would I know? She was left to you wasn’t she?”

“Nesta can go wherever wants.”

“Then it seems we’re at a standstill, because you allowed her to roam freely but apparently were not clever enough to spy. Or is that why the shadowsinger is here?”

The hotheaded commander sneered as Azriel, the surprising voice of reason, laid a hand on his shoulder. “Just ask her, Cass?”

Cassian shrugged him off. “Why is she here, then?”

He thought that was obvious. “Because she made the choice to train.”

“She doesn’t know how to fight.”

Devlon grinned.

“Then maybe you should have trained her.”

The general’s face turned a special shade of red as his wings spread wide, but Devlon merely turned away. Watching as the little witch ran circles around the ring.

“I have to fight him?” She asked, pointing her index lightly to the male who grunted as he lifted a set of heavy weights.

“You don’t have to fight him,” Cassian interjected. “There’s no logical reason for this.”

Devlon tapped his foot. Even the shadowsinger looked as if he’d rather be somewhere else. “Experience is the best teacher.”

Nesta made a face, unconvinced.

“It will teach you your weaknesses.”

Her voice rose incredulously. “What weaknesses?” She asked.

Devlon raised a hand to his nose, the endless questions wearing down his patience. But he began with the truth anyways. “You favor your right side, but you’re left-handed, so you get off balance easily. You get tired too fast and end up winded before you hit anything vital. You clearly favor a sword, but all of the ones we have are too heavy for you to lift…”

The witch crossed her arms, a frown appearing on her face.

“But those things can be trained out of you… What cannot is the way you think too much before you swing. You second guess yourself before you punch. You’re too trapped in that head of yours and either you understand that you have to hit, or you understand that someone will beat you before you get the chance because you’re too busy thinking about the success of each outcome.”

Devlon watched as Nesta straightened her stance.

“I cannot teach you how to fight for yourself.”

He looked her dead in the eyes, knew and understood what she’d said that day, knew she remembered by the clench of her jaw. But, Nesta lifted a casual shoulder, noting Cassian and Azriel who watched the discourse with rapt attention.

“You’ve been watching me.”

“We should all know our enemies.” He pointed to the male, Aedon, a novice set to complete the Rite this year, who was used to being bullheaded and arrogant. “That male, right now, is your enemy.”

The little witch nodded in concession, and the commander scoffed, looking all too defeated for someone who’d barely argued for his cause. Perhaps, he knew he didn’t have one or at least one that Nesta would listen to.

She sidled up to the platform as the male, noticing her stare made his way. A swaggering prick who Devlon knew wanted to intimidate her. They would all do that at one point or another, he warranted, he grasped as the rest of the males seemed to forget they were supposed to be training themselves. They crowded around the mats; the boundaries separated by ropes.

Cassian and Azriel too, made their way to watch the fight unfold.

It seemed that many of the trainees were making bets, though they hushed quietly as he neared.

Nesta ignored the rest, only looking to the male who wrapped his hands in white gauze.

“You’re a small thing,” he noted, unhelpfully.

The little witch lifted a brow. “I’d say you’re a large thing, but I think it’s only your head.”

Aedon huffed a laugh, and though his eyes lit up with amusement, something else settled in. Something darker and foreboding.

It was a look Devlon had seen before. A look he’d seen on many of his warriors.

“I’ll make sure not to hit your face,” the male mocked.

Nesta looked at him confused, but Aedon took that as an opportunity to lung, kicking his foot out until Nesta was lying on the ground. He heard the crack as her shoulders slammed into the platform and he hoped, in some deep part of him, past the part that said he didn’t care at all, that it was the wood that splintered and not her spine.

She gasped loudly as she placed a hand on her chest, but no one came to help her move. It would’ve been shameful to do so. This female who wanted to fight with the warriors.

She did this to herself he imagined them thinking. Because it was that thought that immediately entered his mind. She chose this.

Get up, Devlon wanted to shout. Get. Up!

The shadowsinger held the commander back, though what he could have done Devlon didn’t know. Pummel the male who hit her when she willingly entered the match?

After learning everything he knew about this witch, he doubted she’d appreciate the gesture.

“You want to play with the big boys?” Aedon spit, “You get hit.”

He tutted lowly. “Do you need a minute, princess, or are you used to being on your back?”

Devlon didn’t dare show his own rage, but he grasped the rope, his fists clenching around the thick string until he felt he might rip it off himself. The feeling surprised even him.

But Nesta twisted herself upright, turning to the male with bright, furious eyes.

Nesta lunged and when he punched, she ducked, grabbing his arm. She used her weight until he was sprawled on the floor, but he reached out to grab her leg and she fell to her knees. She tried to kick him off, but he was larger, heavier, and it didn’t take much to pull her backwards until she was on the floor with him on top of her. He punched once, his fists landing on her cheekbone.

Aedon walked off, grabbing a towel he’d hung on the rope. Nesta cradled her cheek, kissing the mat with her body. While he waited, Aedon began tapping his foot. Tap. Tap. Tap. Over and over until Devlon, himself, could hear the noise ringing in his ears.

Nesta turned to face him and no one else.

She sauntered up to him slowly, serpentine and vile. Her eyes getting darker, her mouth set in a thin line. And Aedon laughed. Lowly at first, but the sound began to rise in pitch until it sounded maniacal and deranged.

This time, Aedon sprung forward, but Nesta was quick on her feet, and she moved just enough to grab his arm and twist it behind him. In this position, the male bowed before them and Nesta kicked out her foot.

He fell to the ground, twisting quickly to face her, but Nesta didn’t let him move. She ambled on top of him, her legs on either side of his torso and she hit. And hit. And hit. Until his face was bleeding, and her fists were drenched in the male’s blood.

Still she hit and the awaiting Illyrians did nothing but watch the young warrior play with the big boys.

Cassian shrugged off the shadowsinger, bending through the ropes around the ring. Devlon watched as he hoisted Nesta off the male by the waist. Her face was red and ferocious, and she began to fight the commander as well. But he didn’t let her go. Not until she had stopped fighting, stopped kicking, stopped punching, and she took deep, gasping breaths.

She stared at the male on the ground, wiping her forehead with her arm, the blood smearing on her face like war paint and she must have finally noticed all of the males looking at her. Some in doubt of what they just witnessed, others in outrage that she had the guts. Devlon didn’t know what his expression looked like, though he tried to school it into plain indifference.

The little warrior looked to the commander once more, who braced himself, his wings expanding wide. Ready to take her punches or fly her off, Devlon wasn’t sure, but he wanted to see. A mere curiosity at what the general would do.

But Nesta slipped past him, past them all with her shoulders pushed back and her head raised high. She looked to him then, her gaze harsh.

“Are we done?”

Devlon turned his gaze back to the warrior who’d bragged about his skill and was defeated so easily. “For now.”

She left without a second glance and Devlon could only nod to the male dripping blood on his mats, “wipe your face.”

Devlon found the young female in the infirmary. A tent the size of a small room that many warriors chose not to even step in, in fear that they would look weak to their comrades. The general and the shadowsinger were already there.

Azriel turned to the corner, blending with the shadows as Devlon so often noticed. Distantly, he could see him crushing some herbs, though the action did not make him look inconspicuous. Rather, it seemed he was trying to give the other two privacy at the same time he was eavesdropping. Cassian ran amuck, grabbing bandages and band aids and tea, though Nesta looked perfectly fine to him, besides a wound on her face.

Devlon wanted to sigh at the two of them. Pups still, even if they were over five hundred and had ended more lives than the years they’d lived.

Cassian laid an icepack under Nesta’s eye, where her cheek was red and blistering. She’d have a bruise in the morning probably...

Even some wounds couldn’t heal fast enough for the fae.

But, Nesta angled away from him as she hissed, grabbing the pack from his hands. The commander frowned but let her take control, though he remained hunched, his wings drooping to the floor.

His gaze laid solely on hers and Devlon felt... uncomfortable—conscious that the moment was between the two of them and perhaps not for two Illyrian busybodies who’d stumbled on this place for the same reason. To see exactly what would befall the two when disaster seemed to always follow.

“I wanted to teach you how to fight,” He admitted, unsure of his words.

Nesta didn’t bother looking at him.

“It wasn’t your decision.”

“And Devlon is...”

“He’s an asshole,” she said. Devlon gave her a bland look, though she made no move to take notice of him standing in the middle of the tent like an outright buffoon. “But he’s honest... and he doesn’t treat me any different from anyone else.”

Cassian shook his head, his expression pained. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that you couldn’t... tell me that you were...wanted to train. I--” His eyebrows cinched in that way Devlon remembered he’d do when he was young. All too afraid of being exactly what they called him.

“It wasn’t about you,” the little warrior answered harshly. The commander straightened at her stare, poignant but not malicious.

Honest.

Brutally so.

And perhaps that was what the general needed to hear, after all. What they all needed to hear for they all knew what the little witch meant. That the ability to choose was perhaps more powerful than the opportunity itself. That she had chosen, invariably, to wander in the middle of the night, to pick up a sword, to keep swinging and hitting and punching, to fight whether she knew how or not.

Nesta had chosen this. No one else could have convinced her.

Nesta turned to him then and lifted the icepack from her cheek.

“He said he wouldn’t hit my face,” She grumbled.

Devlon blinked, surprised at her words. “Did that appease you somehow?”

The female angled her head, thinking it over.

“No...” She declared somberly, “Bruises that you can’t see are still bruises.”

At the tone, Devlon began to shuffle uncomfortably once more, though he stayed as the witch grimaced. Cassian moved to switch her icepack to one wrapped in cloth, the liquid dripping on to the leather.

But Devlon couldn’t help stepping forward. Didn’t know why he did.

“You fought like an Illyrian today.”

Cassian and Azriel raised their heads. Devlon tried not to care too much, though he wanted to yell at them to run more drills as if they were still in his warband five hundred years before, fresh and almost too squeaky clean.

“Like a male,” he continued.

Nesta made a disgruntled face, displeased with his choice of words. “You just haven’t seen enough females fight.”

Devlon shrugged a shoulder. “I haven’t seen enough females want to fight. You are a rare exception.”

She lifted a brow and then grimaced at the gesture. She’d done that twice already, as if she kept forgetting that she was in pain. Devlon smiled in spite of himself.

But she pursed her lips anyway, looking to the tent that surrounded them, the purple fabric mimicking purple skies. He wondered if she could see straight through, feel the weight of the atmosphere like a bandage on a wound. Like that icepack on her face.

“Your world is too small if you believe that,” She spoke.

Devlon opened his mouth to refute, but Nesta held up her hand, silencing his argument.

“Are we training tomorrow?” She asked, though she must have known the answer.

“At the crack of dawn.”

Nesta began gesturing dramatically.

“That’s so early,” She whined. Devlon scoffed in outrage.

But at the look, Nesta merely smiled. Small and perhaps just a tilt of her lips, but unafraid. A wild look in her eyes as if she enjoyed the teasing... the prospect of training... of being someone they didn’t expect.

Inconsequential to the naïve. Imminently powerful to the rest.

Perhaps this time, Devlon wouldn’t mind training the girls... Might even look forward to it.

Tags: @ekaterinakostrova, @soitsgorgeous, @duskandstarlight, @pizzaneverdisappoints, @imwritingthesewords, @arin1030, @adelainejdevyn, @thebluemartini, @nahthanks, @laylaameer01

I wanted Nesta to make the choice to fight, and I definitely didn’t want it to be a decision on behalf of anyone else, because Nesta has had enough people take away her autonomy. But I also wanted the choice to fight to directly relate to her making a choice to fight for herself. And so at the end there, she may not be as skilled as everyone else realistically, she may not even know what fighting will cost her, but she’s angry and she’s tired and she’s going to fight and she’s going to fight to win.

Also, Devlon is a really cool character to me, but in this fic I wanted to make his lack of allowing women to fight be more complicated than just traditional sexism. So, I thought to make half of his treatment towards women because of his traditionalistic views that haven’t been challenged, and the other half, the contention, be because of having been told by Rhys, Azriel, and Cassian that he must train the females and the females must train or else. Rhys and Azriel and Cassian chose to do the blood right, these girls are being told they have to learn to fight. So I thought, here lies the great hypocrisy of being like we need to make this camp more equal, but the way we’re going to do that is by taking another decision away from the women. I just thought maybe Devlon would willingly help Nesta because she made the choice to want to train—might even admire and respect that about her and in turn this would be the spark to change. Nesta indirectly influencing the others.

One day I will stop writing essay length analyses of my own writing lol but today is not the day. I’m going to work on my Eris fic now and get that posted soon!

Comment, Reblog, Like or all three if you liked and want to see more fics posted! If you don’t like... don’t tell me lol

But also, Happy Reading and almost release day!!! It’s getting closer at least. Keep holding out! I know we’re all going a bit stir crazy...

#nessian #nesta archeron #devlon #cassian #acosf #nessian fanfiction #acotar #vidalinav #nesta x cassian #cassian x nesta #acowar #acomaf #acofas #acomaf fanfiction #feyre archeron #fanfiction #nesta #my writing

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kingandfireheart · 3 years

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Starfall

A/N: this one had been sitting in drafts for a while, but it a part of my whole "Sarah robbed of us two months of HAPPY Nessian" thing, so enjoy, I guess!

'Summary: This one is basically all the scenes that could have happened instead of in addition to the Amren apology on Starfall. It's fluffy. It's a lot of the Inner Circle. There's a Mor apology. There's a sweet Az moment. And of course happy established Nessian. Clearly all of these things wouldn't happen in one night. But its fanfiction, so you know. Mostly canon-compliant.

Words: 2274

A few minutes after Amren left her side, Nesta felt two people approach. She didn’t need to turn her head to know exactly who it was.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it” Elain spoke, her voice full of awe.

“It’s beautiful” Nesta rasped, as her sisters came to either side of her.

“Did I ever tell you two about my first Starfall?” Feyre asked.

Nesta shook her head. “It was before I had accepted the bond. Rhys and Mor didn’t tell me what to expect at all, so when some of this,” she gestured to her silver streaked cheek, “landed on my face, I thought I was going to lose an eye.”

“Rhys wouldn’t stop laughing at me and I nearly chucked him over the balcony. But... this view and his laughter made me realize that I wanted to paint again. That after everything that happened under the mountain and with Tamlin, I was ready to accept this life... to live.”

“I think that’s why Starfall is so special, right?” Elain said, “it reminds of the beauty of this life, even if it wasn’t what we originally planned”

“The Priestesses said there are spirits passing through or something, but I like your explanation much better” Nesta said, chuckling softly.

“I know things have been tough between the three of us, and I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. And I’m glad that you’re both doing better and that we're together." Feyre said, laying a hand over her stomach. "All I want for him is to be surrounded by family, and to give him the childhood we never had.”

“He will be very loved,” Elain said, happily.

“By both of his aunts” Nesta added. “We can teach him to read, and dance, and garden.”

“And how to deal with his annoying uncles” Feyre added, looking over Nesta’s shoulder, at where Cassian and Mor were dancing.

Nesta laughed. The idea of Cassian playing with a child was... exciting, adorable... and something she would have to think about later.

“Enjoy yourself” Feyre said, pulling Nesta, and Elain, into a hug.

"I missed this” Elain said quietly. "Come find me if you need anything."

Then both sisters smiled, disappeared into the crowd.

------

Nesta turned back to the view before her, taking it in, appreciating her sisters and Amren, and how far she'd come.

“Five hundred years, and I’ll never get used to the sight” Mor said from behind her, startling her back to reality. "I thought you could use some refreshments" she said.

Nesta laughed, turning to her, and accepting the cup of water he extended to her.

"Thank you." she said,

"I suppose I could have dressed up for the occasion" she shrugged.

“I would have loved to dress you up again, but it’s not like we won’t have more occasions for that” Mor said. "Plus, it doesn't feel right if someone isn't in leathers." She added.

Nesta smiled softly, unsure what to say.

“I wanted to apologize” Mor said suddenly. “For what I said, how I treated you. I thought I was being protective and you deserved better than that. I’m really sorry”.

Nesta shook her head in disbelief, “I judged you before getting to know you, and I’m sorry for that.” She said sincerely.

“I heard you cut the ribbon and completed the blood rite qualifier. That's impressive." She said. "I would have loved to see the look on Devlon's face."

"He didn't seem pleased" Nesta said. Mor was one of the best warriors out there, Nesta assumed this was a part of her training too, "I've seen you in battle...Have you never....?"

"Only as a training exercise, but I never beat it on my own. You need a unit to win something like that. I hear you have a pretty impressive one."

"They're wonderful. I think you'd like them."

"Maybe we can get to know each other better during training?” Mor offered. Nesta saw it for what it was. A peace offering. They would put the past beside them for Cassian and Feyre.

“I’d like that, Mor.” Nesta said, and she would.

Mor squeezed her shoulder, and said, “The dress I got for you should be in your rooms, if you want to wear it later” she said, and then sauntered off. "

---

“Here,” Azriel said, extending the plate to her. “The party will last until sunrise, so you should eat ”

Nesta nodded in thanks as she accepted the plate. Was Azriel... fussing?

"You seem to be enjoying yourself." Azriel said, elbowing her softly, as he moved toward the railing."I prefer this version of you. Real. No masks or disguises."

Nesta added dryly, “And covered in sweat" Azriel laughed at that. "I don't know how Feyre wears the crown, I hated it."

Azriel laughed, mischief in his eyes, "They do say heavy is the head that wears the crown."

"I prefer you without masks too, Az". Nesta said before she could stop herself.

Azriel smiled softly, and gestured to her food. She picked up a few berries and cheese.

When she was finished, he asked, "Would you care to dance?" extending his hand to her, his siphon gleaming in the light.

Nesta took his hand, and let him lead her to the crowd, where the others were dancing.

Even as exhausted as she was from training and the stairs, she enjoyed every moment of dancing with Azriel, as she had done on Solstice. Azriel led her, easily.

"Is it always like this? the party? she asked after a few moments.

"Mostly. We didn't use to have guests from other courts, but since the world knows about Velaris, I think Feyre and Rhys saw it as an opportunity to share."

"I like it. I think you were right about holidays" Nesta said, into Azriel's shoulder.

"I'm glad." Azriel said.

He was right. Feyre was right. This was life, this was living. The music. The view. The friendships. Her family.

She didn't say anything else, comfortable to enjoy the music and Azriel's company as they danced.

---

At some point, Helion had stepped in for Azriel.

"Lady Nesta." Helion greeted her.

"High Lord" Nesta responded.

"Interesting attire for a party" he said.

"Training ran late" Nesta said, shrugging slightly.

"Is that what Cassian is calling it nowadays?" Helion joked. Nesta blushed. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. The General Commander and Lady Death." he mused.

Nesta said nothing in response, just returned his gaze, as if to say your point?

"I didn't quite believe the stories about your dancing, Lady" Helion started.

"What kinds of stories?" Nesta asked.

"I heard you brought Eris to his knees at Solstice." Helion said.

"I may have danced with him." She responded smugly.

"Is that a part of your training? Bringing commanders and high lord to their knees by way of dance? When you aren't too busy wielding Made objects?"

Before she could respond, she felt claws, scrape against her shields. While Rhys's were usually like midnight, Feyre's were different. She lowered her shields enough to hear her sister.

If you would like someone to save you from Helion, say the word. He's rather persistent tonight.

I'll let you know.

Nesta snapped closed her shields before responding, proudly. "I'm actually training with a small group of female warriors."

"Ah yes, your sister mentioned to Vivianne that you're resurrecting the Valkyries" he said as he spun her.

"We're combining Illyrian techniques with Valkyrie ones." she said.

"Impressive" he said. "The Valkyries were formidable. Once you're organized, perhaps you'd enjoy seeing the Day court's female forces. Lady Vivianne has been helpful since the war." He said, looking where Kallias and Vivianne were dancing.

"I'll think about it." She said. Maybe she wasn't ready to face the real world yet, but maybe... in a few months, or years even, she could be ready, and Gwyn and Emerie could be too.

"And if you ever tire of the Cassian"

FEYRE, she practically yelled in her head, throwing open her shields. She knew exactly where this was going.

"or want someone else to join you..."

FEYRE. HELP.

"and your m-"

"I think I'd like to dance with my sister-in-law" Rhysand said smoothly. Before she knew it, Rhysand was sweeping Nesta into the dance, barely a beat missed.

"Think about both my offers" Helion said from behind her.

---

Rhysand laughed, and in this light, with the silver on his face, Nesta could see what her sister described. A light that had been less present the past few months.

"See. Persistent" Rhysand said. "He made a similar offer to Feyre, Azriel, and Mor within an hour of arriving."

"Why doesn't that shock me?" Nesta said. "I'm surprised you cut in."

"Feyre promises. I deliver." he said. "I'm surprised you came tonight" Rhysand responded.

"I live here. I just climbed the stairs" she said dryly, before deciding to make an effort. "Thank you, for rescuing me" she said quietly. Rhysand seemed a bit shocked to hear her.

"Helion is unrelenting." He explained. "I didn't think Cassian would appreciate another male asking me for you hand... And I thought I owed you...After Eris...And threatening you."

"You did, but thank you nonetheless." Rhysand nodded.

They continued dancing for the rest of the song. Nesta didn’t speak, and neither did Rhys, but his eyes had lit up with amusement, as the song came to an end.

"Mor, you owe me 50 gold marks." Rhys said, as he spun Nesta away.

---

Before she understood his meaning, she landed in Cassian’s arms, but not in a position for dancing. Cassian’s arms were around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder, as her back pressed to his chest.

"Hi." he said.

“Enjoying the party?” Nesta asked coyly, as she turned to face him.

“I am now.” Cassian said, placing a kiss to her temple. When he pulled away, his lips were covered in the starfall dust. He guided her away from the dance floor, where Mor had taken her place in dancing with Rhysand.

Nesta smiled and stood up on her tiptoes to kiss him, only pulling away when her legs screamed in pain. She supposed completing the Blood Rite qualifier, climbing down and up 10,000 steps, and dancing would have that effect on her calves.

Cassian wasted no time in picking her up fully, cradling her to his chest. Nesta gasped in surprise, and then looked sheepishly out to the rest of the party.

“They’ve seen us do much worse, Nes” She laughed and Cassian joined her, brushing his lips to hers once more, as if he wanted to taste that smile. She may always be a little embarrassed by what had happened when she scried. But things were different then- they were together now, and the way Cassian was looking at her now... it was, well it was better than any wine she'd consumed in the past year.

“I suppose they have,” she said, hiding her face in his chest. She let herself enjoy the moment, savor how it felt to be held by him.

Cassian laughed, "It should be winding down now, but there is a better view, if you would like to get out of here."

Nesta nodded.

Cassian flew up to the higher balcony that overlooked the Verdana. "Rhys and Feyre usually hide up here, but they are too busy playing hosts tonight" he said, before setting her down on a blanket, only to pull her into his lap moments later.

She reached up to brush some of his hair out of his face. "You look nice," she said, running her other hand over his cheek, where the starfall dust collected.

"And you're beautiful" he replied, smiling. It was not too long ago that Cassian had struggled to compliment Feyre, and now he hardly hesitated before saying such things. Nesta felt her cheeks redden.

"You’ve had an eventful night” Cassian said. “I thought I'd barely get a chance to dance with you”

Nesta snorted. “I prefer this” she said, leaning into him further.

“I’m in awe of you” Cassian whispered, as his fingers pulled her hair from its messy braid. “You’ve come so far. Conquered so much”

“Thank you.” Nesta said. “For doing it all with me.” Nesta turned in his lap to face him fully, her hair now falling over her shoulders.

“Always” Cassian said, before bringing his lips to her first kiss. “I’m yours. And you’re mine. No matter how many pretty males you dance with.”

“You could have stepped in at any point in time.” she said.

"The others placed bets on how long it would take for me to step in... and I wanted you to enjoy tonight, for this to be a good memory for you.”

“It is. I'm happy” she said softly.

“You’re happy?” He whispered, a half question. She kissed him in response.

"I'm happy too." Cassian said.

"And you're prettier than them." she whispered. Running her thumbs over the silver that coated his lips, and likely coated hers as well.

"Really?" Cassian asked, almost incredulously.

"It was always you, Cass" she said, as it wasn't even a question, because it wasn't. Since they met they were two forces on a collision course, nothing she could have done would have stopped it.

"And I always knew it would be you, Nes" he said, before kissing her again.

She didn’t know how long they stayed there, but after the stars had stopped falling, and the sun began to rise, Cassian carried them back to her rooms.

Nesta fell asleep absolutely exhausted by the day she had. Her body ached, but her heart, her soul, was happy. It was one of the best days since she’s become fae, likely before that even.

#nessian #nezriel brotp #nessian fluff #acotar series #kp writes #archeron sisters #rhysand #morrigan #helion spell cleaver #mtp

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simpingover2dcharacter · 3 years

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What I wish to see in ACOSF

1. Is Nesta a witch ?

(Remember the first meeting between Devlon and Nesta, he said that she was a witch, and in the world of acotar, a witch is someone who has more power than she can own...and obviously Nesta stole almost all the power of the cauldron.)

2. Has Nesta more power than Rhys ?

(I hope so. Feysand thinks themselves too much above everyone else. I wish Nesta was more powerful than Rhys)

3. Nesta and Emery friendship.

4. A sister Archeron moment where they spill everything.

(I’ll prepare the best tea for that)

5. A discussion between Nesta and Cassian. What they really feel about each other.

6. The identity of Cassian’s father.

(Is it Devlon ? LMAO that would be awesome !)

7. I don’t want that Nesta change.

(She’s perfect)

8. WHAT WAS IN THE F*CKING BOX ???

(Did I really put this in the eighth position ? Well, actually it’s the FIRST question that I really want to know)

9. What happened with Tomas ? What did he do to my Nesta ?

10. Nesta’s past with her mother and her POV when Feyre was hunting.

11. A scene where Nesta talks about the difference of age with Cassian.

(That would be ICONIC...Cause I feel like they don’t really care about the age. Remember Mor sleeping with Helion...Does she really don’t care about his age ?)

12. Nesta who questions how the world works.

13. Nesta independent !

14. Nesta who let her hair down.

(And Cassian’s reaction !!)

15. I don’t want that Feyre get pregnant.

(It’s difficult for a fae to get pregnant, so Feysand have at least between 5 and 10 years to try...if we are logical)

16. What Nesta wanted to tell Cassian when he was injured.

17. Nesta’s answer when Feyre asked her for explanations.

(Why does she prefer Elain to her ?)

18. A confrontation between Cassian and Nesta (yes again) about Mor and the IC.

19. I want Nesta to be happy.

(She deserves it !)

20. Again...WHAT WAS IN THE BOX ???

(A wooden figurine ? We all know now that it isn’t a siphon.)

21. I want to know more about Azriel.

(I liked him more thanks to TikTok or fanfiction than in the book LMAO)

22. Emeriel and Elucien endgame ?

(I’m pretty sure about Elucien (I’m so sad for Elriel) but why not Azriel x Emery ?)

23. Next volume: Azriel ? Lucien ? Or Elain ?

#nesta archeron #acosf #acotar spoilers #acotar series #feyre #riceman #inner circle #emeriel #elucien #a court of silver flames #sarah j maas #nesta stan #nessian #cassian

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silent-scythe · 3 years

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True Winter

Hi y’all! Technically, I should be doing world history homework, but I��m not. No, I wrote angsty Cassian fanfiction.

This is crossposted onto AO3. I also started writing this during class and it’s not really edited, so my apologies for all the tense changes and any grammatical or spelling errors.

Anyways, I really hope y’all like it. This takes place when Cassian is little and dumped at Windhaven- he was like 5 for something? Idk, but I just wanted to write a short little something about it lmao.

Warnings: very mild cursing

༺༻

When people think of snow, they often think of wonderland. They imagine the tall, powerful pine trees with snow piled on top, little flecks of dark green representing the branches that peeked through. They imagine the icicles that dangle from the roofs of bungalows and townhouses. They imagine powdery snowflakes and snowball fights. They imagine a world turned to bliss, playful by day and serene at night. They imagine the coziness of winter, snuggled in their warm homes with warm drinks and warm clothes and warm hearts.

But what happens when they don’t get that privilege? When they instead, have to live outside, cold, shuddering at the freezing temperatures, fingers frozen, stomachs twisting in hunger?

There is a little boy.

He’s not a little boy now. No, he is a courageous, compassionate and loving male with a family and friends. But before that, he was just a bastard-born boy with hopes shattered like ice in the frigid grasp of death.

And he tells the story of true winter.

༺༻

Winter comes again, but it’s different.

It is harsh, the snow.

Cassian doesn’t like it. Hates it, even. Past winters had been spent with his mother, in front of a crackling fire pit, not alone in a camp full of people who hate him. He flinches at that thought, remembering all too clearly the last insult hurled at his face.

He hasn’t experienced an Illyrian winter yet, at least not one by himself, alone, tossed outside like a rag, left to become dust in the wind.

He trudges through the snow that has already reached his calves, his worn leather boots near tattered. He can feel the cold seep through the fabric, settling deep into his bones.

I need a new pair of shoes, he realizes. And food, water, maybe a blanket or warmer clothes.

He is but a boy right now, short and somewhat clumsy, although still more lithe than the average Illyrian, having spent his entire life fighting to live. His hazel eyes are round, with the type of innocence that seems both naive and old beyond his years. His hair is wild, tangled, and already down to his shoulders- he can’t remember the last time he got a haircut.

He doesn’t want to. Haircuts remind him of a different time. A time with warmth and cozy beds and delicious food and love. A time with his mother.

Cassian banishes the thought away, instead focusing on his task. Food, shoes, and something warm.

He shakes his wings, the light snow that dusted them falling off with the action. He clenches his small hands into fists, trying to keep warm, since he doesn’t have any gloves, either.

Cassian walks into the main parts of Windhaven, and the bloodied, crimson and gold sun rises.

A new day starts.

༺༻

Night is falling by the time he reaches his tent, which is on the outskirts of the camp, close to the forest. Cassian had heard tales before, tales of the creatures who prowled and hunted at night. He shudders at the thought.

He calls his home a tent, but it really isn’t. It is made with fabric- the material that the tents were made from- that he took from someone after beating them in a fight. He had found a tall pine tree to mark his home. Then, he had dragged bricks, mud, and rocks from around camp to his makeshift house, building a single wall besides the tree, then he had draped the tent-fabric diagonally from it, securing it to the ground with nails that he found. It is lopsided, falling apart, and beyond dirty, but it will have to make do, at least for now.

It is small and Cassian doesn’t mind, for he doesn’t have much with him. He is a bastard after all, thrown here into the mud with nothing, the tears on his face not yet dried. He has a small storage of food in one corner that he saves for the worst blizzards, the one he hears about from the adult Illyrians, the ones he knows are coming soon, and a change of clothes in the other corner. A bed is in the center, although it really isn’t a bed- just furs that lined the cold, hard ground, giving him something to help keep him warm during the dead of night.

Cassian sighs and wonders if he will ever be able to sleep in a real bed one day. “It’s unfair,” he yells into his shabby home. “It’s unfair that I’m just a little boy, yet I have to go through all of this shit!”

He is answered only by the howling winds.

Shit is a new word he learned a few days ago. Cassian doesn’t know if he used it correctly, but he doesn’t care.

In his left hand is a big piece of fur. He thinks it's fur from the deer that reside nearby, although he doesn’t know. He is lucky to get his hands on it- a female Illyrian had given it to him, her face softened in sorrow. In Cassian’s right hand is a makeshift bag, which is really a square cloth that he uses to hold the food he manages to get everyday. Today, he has a decently-sized piece of jerky and something that probably used to be bread.

“It’s food,” he says firmly, to himself. “I don’t care what it looks like, it’s food.”

He adds the fur to his bed and sits atop it. He puts the bread to one side and breaks the jerky, taking a smaller piece and putting the rest in his little pile of stocked-up food, saving it for later. Just in case.

There is a bowl next to him, with water inside that he collects every morning from dew-ridden moss and any clean puddles he can find, and if he has time, he goes to the pond to collect fresh water there. He takes a gulp of it and starts eating.

Cassian finishes the food far faster than he wants to. His stomach is still making knots, still unfilled, but he pretends not to notice.

Instead, he shuffles to the side, towards the short wall he made a year ago, the wall of bricks and stone that would probably fall if you kicked it too hard. He finds the little nook in between two rocks, and he pulls out a small black box.

In the box is a golden necklace with a ruby attached to it. It is probably the only clean thing he has in his possession. He dares not touch the jewel, for fear he might dirty it.

Cassian holds it close to his chest.

“Hi mom,” he whispers.

“I miss you. The other boys will laugh at me if they knew I talked to a necklace, but you’re the only friend I have. It’s cold here, and I’m starving,” he complains.

“I wish you would find me already. I know they held you back and they took me here, and I know it’s already been a year, but I believe in you. I know you’ll find me, and you’ll give me a warm hug and a kiss.

“Please find me, please. I miss you so much, mama. I hope you miss me too. They don’t like me here. The boys spit on me and bully me, but I have to endure it, since I need to survive. Endure is a new word I learned today. Devlon told me to endure. Well actually, he told me to endure or else I would get killed.”

Cassian’s eyes are teary.

“I miss you, mama. I love you.”

Then Cassian closes the box and he goes to sleep.

༺༻

Two weeks pass, and the brutality of true winter sets in. It’s worse than what Cassian imagined.

There are less and less boys he can fight with and take food from. His stockpile of food is down to nearly nothing, and the latest blizzard made it near impossible for him to get out of his tent, which has surprisingly managed to stay up despite the heavy snow.

Cassian is shivering, and he hasn’t eaten in days, not willing to waste his food.

He doesn’t know if he can make it through winter, especially considering it has only just started. He tries to remember a face. He tries so hard to conjure a face with fiery hazel eyes, long, wavy black hair, and soft lips, but his mother’s face becomes blurrier every day.

The boy is losing hope.

༺༻

More days pass, and the boy grows thinner, eyes duller.

The boy lost any semblance of hope.

He no longer talks to the box.

༺༻

Thanks for reading! I’d love to hear your comments and opinions, they make my day. Also, if you want to be tagged when I write more fanfiction (about Nesta, Cassian, or Nessian), comment in the notes :0

- Scythe

#cassian #cassian acotar #illyrian #devlon #acotar #story #short story #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acosf

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