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duskandstarlight · 3 years

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Embers & Light (Chapter 23)

Notes: The latest E&L update - enjoy!

Cassian POV

He hadn’t wanted to leave Nesta.

Cassian had known it as soon as he had woken that morning; dread lining his stomach, the sensation as heavy as lead.

That knowledge had grown as they trained in the sparring ring, Nesta deathly silent as she fought with an intensity that almost left him reeling.

He knew it as they walked home: as she disappeared into the bathroom; as he loitered around the house stalling his departure…

Something in his bones had told him to stay, even as she had told him to go. He had followed her to the bottom of the mountain, forcing himself to stay quiet lest he ruin the progress they had made.

Until he had broken, of course…

Words he would once have never dared say to her poured forth. And then he’d touched her again. He needed to stop doing it, he knew that, but he couldn’t help himself. His blood had leapt in his veins at the touch, as if it were trying to burst through his skin… to go where he did not know.

Afterwards, as he tracked through the endless grey snow clouds, all Cassian truly saw was the way Nesta’s lips had parted in surprise. A few mere months ago her entire body would have recoiled from him, as if his touch disgusted her. But like the previous time, after the attack from the kerits, Nesta had only stilled. Not spat. Not batted him away. Only stared at him, as if his touch had made everything go quiet.

It wasn’t just the potential meeting with Feyre that Cassian was concerned about, but everything that came with it. If Nesta decided to meet her sister, Cassian had no doubt that there would be repercussions, the biggest being Nesta retreating into herself. With that came more consequences: a lack of eating, battle trauma, panic attacks and loss of control, to name a few. Cassian’s worry had been so palpable that he'd given up on trying to stifle it and he knew that Nesta had sensed it. It was what had resulted in her snapping at him to leave the house, even after he had promised her dosas — her favourite Illyrian dish.

So with all of that in mind, it was miraculous that Cassian made it an hour into his flight to Swallow’s Ridge before he realised the true gravity of his mistake. Because whilst Nesta may have pushed everyone away after the war, what she had really wanted was for someone to stay and fight for her. And now… he was leaving. Again.

With a long stream of curses, Cassian banked sharply to the left.

Once he’d taken a complete U-turn, he followed the wind that moaned her name, all the way back to Windhaven.

The mountain pass had just come into sight when it hit him: emotion beyond his wildest reckoning. Panic and fear assaulted him with such ferocity that Cassian dropped, a dead weight in the skies, his hands flying to his ribcage as if he could hold in the pain that wanted to burst forth. It took him a few seconds of free falling before he managed to shudder for breath, and an even longer moment for his brain to kick into gear. He threw his wings out wide, his muscles screaming against the force of the wind as he readied his body in the sky.

Siphons flaring, Cassian tried to swallow down his panic just as the scent of her filled his lungs — jasmine and vanilla — rising above the smell of blood and shit and death.

And Cassian knew even though it should not be possible, as surely as he knew the sun would rise tomorrow, exactly where Nesta was as he sped through the sky with impossible speed to the widows camp.

Screams and the flash of steel filled the air as he landed with a thud amongst the tents that made up the Eastern side of the camp. Siphons flaring, Cassian started running just as a sword appeared in his hands, the steel encrusted with a ruby light that gleamed with the promise of bloodshed. Warriors were already on the terrain, steel arcing through the air as they gutted and slashed the remaining kerits. Around him, Cassian could hear sobbing females and the sight of hollow, stricken faces splattered with blood. Some warriors were using their magic to patch up the severely injured, jewelled light flaring amongst the grey terrain. Yet Cassian did not stop. Instead, he allowed his legs to lead him to where he needed to be, giving in to the force that always tugged at him towards Nesta, as if their power were magnets undeniably and inexplicably drawn to the other.

His heart all but stopped when he spied a crowd of females, orphans and warriors at the Eastern-most point.

Crowds were never good he had learnt, it meant there was something worth witnessing.

Nesta’s name left his lips without realising he had done it, the word pouring forth again and again and again until his throat was raw; “Nesta. Nesta. Nesta.”

The low depth of his voice had bodies jumping to the side, until finally he heard his name. “Cassian.”

It was not the voice he had wanted to hear, but relief flooded him all the same as Feyre’s terrified face swam into view. Her slim fingers closed around his arms as he gave her a quick once over to check she was in one piece. She was covered in black blood as thick as tar but otherwise appeared unharmed.

She was in the middle of the crowd and when his eyes slid past her to the figure on the floor and the familiar, leather clad female beside her, Feyre’s grasp tightened on him, as if she might be the one that needed to hold him up.

“I can’t get her to stop,” Feyre said. Her voice was muffled — distant — as Cassian pushed his High Lady aside. Feyre did not seem bothered, she only followed him with a wild sort of panic he had only witnessed from her when Rhys had died in front of their eyes. “Nesta brought the widow back to life. She healed her injuries with her magic but now she won’t stop. She’s not responding to anything and her nose is bleeding…”

Cassian wasn’t sure if Feyre trailed off or if he just stopped hearing. Everything froze inside of him as his eyes took in Mas on the ground. Her wings were splayed wide beneath her twisted body but her chest… it was moving, even though she was lying in a pool of blood; the colour bright and glistening against the grey stone.

And knelt beside her, her slim, shaking hands suspended over Mas’s body, was Nesta.

White, radiant light poured from her palms — healing power that sung with overwhelming brilliance — but through the fog clouding his brain, Cassian knew something was deathly wrong. His siphons knew it too — they blinked, ready to rally his power, as if they too sensed the healing magic that shone from Nesta’s palms straight down onto Mas’s bloody body.

“She won’t stop.” Feyre’s voice tuned back into his ears with a high-pitched ringing sound. “It’s killing her.”

Feyre moved as if she were about to shake her sister, but Cassian’s hand moved of its own accord. “No,” he ordered, knowing somehow that it wouldn’t work — that it would be dangerous to summon Nesta out of the trance she had fallen into.

He forced himself to remain calm as he studied his equal. Her skin was deathly pale, a trickle of fresh blood dropping from her nose and onto the red-soaked stone… as if she were mustering the last of her strength into that pure, magnificent light that sung of devotion rather than the promise of death.

Cassian could feel Nesta exhaustion as surely as he could sense his own, the sensation threatening to pull them both down as his siphons winked in warning. He felt as if he had been wrung out to dry, his magic on its last legs as he said, “Nesta.”

Blood seeped through his layers as he dropped to his knees beside her. He did not feel the way his kneecaps collided with rock, even though he would find twin bruises on his kneecaps later that evening.

“Nesta.”

Her name left his lips again as if it were sacred. Inside of him, something flickered. Slowly, he held a palm up to cup her face, even as the terror that had clamped down inside of him wanted to shake her until she woke up. More blood trickled from her nose, down her lips and chin before it started to make its way down his wrist. Nesta’s body shuddered in response, as if it knew she couldn’t give anything more — that her magic was dying out, and with it, her.

In the background, Cassian heard a youngling start to cry — Roksana. The sound twisted as sharp as a knife.

“Sweetheart, you did it. Mas is breathing. You can stop now,” he said hoarsely. Desperately. “You don’t need to give any more of yourself. It’s ok. You can stop.”

Light sputtered at Nesta’s palms, as if her focus had been pulled away for a fraction of a moment. A part of Cassian chastised his habit for assuming that he could bring her back, even though he wasn’t so sure he was wrong.

Pouncing at the respite in her power, Cassian dared to take a glowing hand in his. Her fingers were ice cold as he placed it to his chest. His heart was thumping hard and his breath heaved from his lungs as if it were his last. He knew somehow that Nesta could feel it — that it would ground her — just as it had the other day.

Nesta’s eyes opened with a terrifying snap. They connected with his for the briefest of moments — mercury on hazel — before they rolled back into her head.

And as if someone had cut a cord loose in her spine, Nesta collapsed like a puppet on a string.

Cassian caught her, rearranging her body into his arms with an urgency that he did not usually let himself show. But he was undone. He did not have time to arrange himself or decide how to behave. He was no longer the general of the Night Court, he was just a male watching his life disappear.

Nesta’s long hair had come free of her braid and the red of Mas’s blood seeped into the golden strands. The image burned behind his retinas as he begged, “Sweetheart.”

Cassian dragged a thumb across the arch of Nesta’s cheekbone — just as he done earlier when she was healthy and well. Now, Nesta’s skin was ice to the touch rather than warm. “Nesta,” he implored.

Wildly, he tried to scan Nesta’s body with his magic, just as Feyre fell to her knees beside him.

He imagined the grey-blue eyes that were wide with panic were a mirror of his own.

“I can’t patch her up,” Cassian told Feyre with a look that was wholly unhinged. His voice was rising with panic but he didn’t give a shit who heard it. He scanned Nesta’s body again with dim red light but came up empty. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“It must be internal bleeding,” Feyre said shakily. Her words blended together with a rushed sort of panic that Cassian knew was coming out of him as well. “The widow’s body stitched itself back together but Nesta didn’t stop. It was as if she was in a trance and then her nose started to bleed…”

Each word stabbed through his stomach as if a blade were being repeatedly thrust through Cassian’s flesh. More blood leaked from Nesta’s nose and inside of him, those twisted strands of rope started to fray and unravel.

Cassian squeezed his eyes shut, his expression wringing at the pain. His siphons pulsed as he looked into himself; to the braided rope that had been strung between them long, long ago but left alone. He willed his magic to strengthen them; red twisting around light wrapped around light. And at the end — her end — no ice.

In the distance, Cassian felt Feyre’s hands on him. They didn’t feel real. “Cassian, what is it? What’s going on?”

His siphons sputtered as Nesta’s light started to turn dark.

Urgently, he snapped his eyelids open.

Feyre was already standing, as if she knew what he was going to say.

“Get Madja.”

Feyre did not respond, she only folded her blood-streaked body into the air at the command until she vanished into nothing.

Feyre arrived at the bungalow with Madja just as Cassian placed Nesta on top of his bed.

He had shot into the skies with Nesta in his arms as soon as Feyre had vanished. Behind him, warriors carried Mas and a blood-soaked Roksana.

In the few seconds before he had taken flight, the housekeeper had woken with an alertness that told Cassian that whatever Nesta had done had worked. Whilst her clothes were tattered and stained red, Mas’s skin was unmarred and her eyes… they were bright, if not a little round.

Cassian was keen to have her checked over by a Velaris healer, but… she was alive and breathing, thanks to Nesta.

Cassian did not think he could have dealt with the loss of Mas.

To put an Illyrian female in his bed went against every cultural tradition engrained into his cold and miserable upbringing, so Cassian had barked at the warriors to put Mas in Nesta’s room and had taken Nesta straight to his. The sight of Nesta amongst his sheets and wrapped in his scent had the territorial part of him clawing at his self-control; he barely saw the other healers arrive on a star-kissed wind, or noticed the speed at which Feyre entered the room. All he saw was Nesta looking pale and small against the blankets, her chest barely moving as blood continued to leak from her nose.

Panic had taken on a new definition. He was consumed with it. Burning as fiercely as Nesta’s flames, and he wanted to snarl and snap, to do something to make everything move faster. To wind time forward to a moment when Nesta was going to be well and he didn’t feel like his whole world was being cleaved in two.

At the doorway, Cassian felt his brother step out of shadow. Cassian only had to share a look with Azriel for the shadowsinger to fold back into darkness, as if he had never been there at all.

With Azriel’s disappearance came Rhys and Madja. The healer hobbled into the room, the aura of calm in a hurricane of panic, but Rhys remained at the threshold, as if he knew that to step in would have Cassian snarling.

The leather of Madja’s medical bag let out a gentle, creaking thump as she placed it onto the bedside table.

“Step away from the patient, please,” Madja ordered with that ancient voice of hers, her hands immediately hovering over Nesta’s head to start a body scan. “And anybody who does not need to be here, it is time for you to leave.”

Shrewd eyes landed on Rhys. Violet met hazel in warning as his brother quickly strode to his mate and placed a kiss to Feyre’s blood-streaked forehead. Feyre did not turn, she only clasped Nesta’s hand in her own with a blankness to her expression that Cassian knew would have Rhys beside himself with worry. Feyre squeezed her sister’s hand tightly, as if her hold would convey the words she would not say out loud, before she reluctantly let it drop.

Rhys clicked his fingers and the blood and grime disappeared from all of their bodies. Without it, Nesta looked as if she were in a deep, pained sleep. The arrows at the base of her nose had taken up permanent residence, and Cassian was so busy scanning Nesta’s body for any obvious signs of injury, that he only just registered the way Rhys paused to clasp Cassian on the shoulder on his way out. The gesture was brotherly but Cassian could not bring himself to acknowledge it. Rhys seemed to understand, disappearing from the bungalow altogether, taking Madja’s healers with him to tend to the injured and set the females up towards the back of the mountain pass where it would be safer.

Madja listened to Feyre and Cassian with an unruffled sense of ease that Cassian suspected only came with years upon years of healing the wounded. The sweet thrum of her magic hummed to life as she slowly ran her hands over Nesta’s thin body.

“She healed a widow,” Feyre told Madja. Her voice shook. Cassian would have reached out to comfort his friend if it weren’t for the hole he was wearing into the carpet as he paced back and forth. He could not stop, even for a moment, the unease in his stomach too intense as he clung to that rope inside of him, not letting himself retreat for a moment in fear that it would snap. “I watched the wounds knit themselves back together and her wings regrow.”

Cassian’s eyes snapped to Feyre just as Madja’s dark hands snagged on Nesta’s abdomen, her magic flaring as if it were setting itself to work. “What do you mean Nesta regrew her wings?” he demanded.

“They were in tatters,” Feyre told him. “There was barely anything left of them—”

Cassian just had time to see Feyre’s mouth fall open in disbelief as he turned sharply on his heel and left the room.

Because Cassian had suspected that day on the battlefield, when he had left with bones that had somehow half knitted themselves back together — fractured rather than broken in the places he had heard them snap, that Nesta might have power beyond death.

Cassian had been too consumed with panic and worry for Nesta that he hadn’t looked at Mas’s own wings… At what Nesta might have done…

“Masak.”

The housekeeper was propped up in Nesta’s bed surrounded by two healers with Roksana tucked into her side. She shot him a shaky smile as he strode into the room. It was a look halfway between trauma and disbelief; of someone who had survived unimaginable pain but was now completely well.

“Show me your wings.”

The order was there and Mas obeyed, holding up a wing in turn, like one might lift an elbow. The look in her eyes was knowing as he gently grasped at her shoulder and squeezed, urging her to lean forward… to showcase the white line that no longer marred the back of them, nor the riddled scar tissue and the missing claw.

Cassian’s hand tightened on Mas’s shoulder. “Your wings —” he started, his voice breaking at the understanding of what Nesta had done — of the freedom she had granted Mas at her own cost.

Mas’s eyes shone. “I do not deserve this.”

“It is everything you deserve,” Cassian told her hoarsely, levelling his gaze with hers to show his words were genuine. “I’m sorry, I will be back. I...”

He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. To explain that he did not know what was wrong with Nesta, let alone whether she would be ok.

“Sinta.”

Mas’s soft voice had Cassian halting at the doorway. He leant heavily against the doorframe, his body using the reprieve to sag. He was so tired. He felt utterly drained, as if every movement had him wading through mud. “Yes?”

He did not turn around to look at the female who was the closest thing he had to a mother. She would know how close he was to breaking if he looked at her, and right now, Cassian needed to be strong.

“Lady Nesta... she is going to be ok?”

His voice cracked despite his best efforts. “I don’t know.” Reaching inside of himself he grazed that twisted piece of rope — the tether that he had not let go of since he had felt Nesta starting to slip. “I am glad that you are all right. I’ll be back later,” he promised, and unable to look at her for fear of breaking, he returned to his bedroom.

Feyre and Madja were where he had left them: Feyre white-faced and perched on the armchair beside his bed; Madja hovering over Nesta with her eyes shut in concentration.

Yellow healing light poured from the hands that hovered over Nesta’s lower abdomen with an intensity that told Cassian that Madja’s healing magic had been set to work.

It seemed to be helping; when Cassian looked to Nesta’s face, he was relieved to see the colour back in her cheeks and that blood had stopped trickling from her nose. A path of dried blood remained there instead, the copper flaky.

He wanted to wipe it away — to rid Nesta of all traces that said she was suffering.

Feyre shot him a concerned look as he stepped fully into the room, but he paid her no heed. “Mas’s wings were damaged long before today,” he announced. “They were torn, cut and riddled with scar tissue. Nesta didn’t just regrow her wings, she healed them completely.”

Understanding dawned on Madja’s face. When she opened her ancient eye, something akin to awe flitted across her features.

After a moment, Madja’s hands dropped. She beckoned to them with a thin, bony hand to leave the room.

They followed the healer as she hobbled into the living area, where she rested a hand on the couch, as if to steady herself.

She stared first at Feyre and then to Cassian where she held his gaze — as if she could feel the territorial panic that threatened to consume him. “A healer usually uses a combination of magic and their own energy to restore health to the sick or injured,” Madja started to explain. “If we run out of magic, we simply cannot heal, but Nesta’s magic is unlike I’ve ever felt before, and as such, it does not work like mine.”

“Even healers as old and as experienced as I cannot mend long-term injuries in one go,” Madja continued quietly. “We have to dig deep into the trauma to correct what has been pushed down with time. Regrowing long-healed wounds takes an enormous amount of healing magic. Today Nesta went beyond the urgent life-threatening wounds and started to heal past injuries.”

“Is that why Nesta started to bleed out?” Feyre asked, as she tried to connect the dots. “Because her magic was too depleted?”

Madja nodded seriously. “Yes. By not only bringing Mas back from the brink of death but healing her completely, I would guess that Nesta gave too much of herself. Magic is balance. For healers, it’s about giving our own energy. For Nesta, it appears the consequences are far more dire if she is not careful, and her body will give up on her.”

Spindrift hair as light as cotton wool moved as though soft breeze was running through the house. Madja’s dark eyes came to rest on Cassian. “Nesta will recover just fine. I have stopped the internal bleeding, but she will be sore for a few days. Her body will do the rest. She has completely drained herself of magic and will need to sleep a great deal, but there is no need to hold on any longer. She will be perfectly well.”

Madja’s gaze on Cassian deepened until it became pointed. “It would be worth having a healer train Nesta in her magic so she can learn when to stop. Healing magic is not unlike a trance, it lures you in with its beautiful song, but one must learn the arch of the melody to ensure it does not sacrifice your own health. After all, how can one heal if they are not healed themselves?”

Feyre’s hand darted across the mattress to grasp Nesta’s hand. “When will she be able to leave her bed?”

“A few days,” Madja said, but she patted Cassian’s arm rather than Feyre’s. “She will be in a great deal of pain until the morning.”

Madja bent stiffly to pick up her leather bag from the carpet. “I’m surprised I’m not treating you on your death bed, General.”

For once in his life, Cassian did not banter. “Will you check over the widow before you go? Just for a second opinion?”

Cassian waited for Madja to explain with ancient wisdom that her healers were competent enough, but she only bowed her head.

“Of course.” Madja heaved her bag of supplies into one hand, and Cassian resisted plucking it into his own arms to save the elderly Fae from carrying it herself. He suspected that she would not appreciate the gesture. “She’s a miracle that I would very much like to witness.”

Turning to Feyre, Madja handed two glass vials stoppered with cork. “A sedative to help her sleep and a tincture to manage the pain. Administer the tincture every hour for the next six. Dip a bit onto a rag and wet it on her mouth until she wakes. A teaspoon of the sedative will do — it’s very strong.” Then the healer added, “She’ll need both, so see that they are not forgotten.”

Administering the tincture was easier said than done. Cassian had watched Feyre try to coax Nesta’s lips open for minutes before he had left the house entirely, unable to stand the pain that ran through him in waves whenever Nesta came close enough to resurface. There was also the fact that he did not trust himself to betray how intensely he felt for her in the bungalow that had become theirs, even if that was something he admitted only in his mind.

It was not because he was embarrassed. No, he was certain that all of his family knew the gravity of his feelings, even if it was something he did not wish to voice out loud. They all knew what had happened in the war, after all. Rather it was the knowledge that Nesta would not want his emotions to sit so clearly on the surface for everyone to see. She was a private person and showcasing his obvious feelings for her in front of others without her knowledge could be seen as mockery on her part: her family and his friends knowing what he believed her to either be oblivious to or unwilling to recognise.

And being a territorial bastard on top of all of that… Well, Cassian imagined that if Nesta was awake she would have burnt him to cinders by now.

Fighting the exhaustion that made his limbs as heavy as lead, Cassian made his way to the back of the mountain pass, close to where he and Nesta trained in the mornings. The Illyrian’s had made quick work moving the widows and orphans to safety and setting up camp. To the far left of the pass, nestled under the safety of some pine trees, were a series of large makeshift tents. Their flaps were open despite the elements, and Madja’s healers worked inside, their warm, golden light hard at work as they treated the injured.

In the middle of it all was Rhys. Devlon was by his side, the war lord’s expression set even harder than usual. An outsider would assume that Illyrians, who cared little for the widows and female orphans, would see today’s events only as an inconvenience, but that was not the truth. The truth was that the Illyrian’s viewed it as a wound on their pride — of a fault in their patrols. They also saw it as being kicked whilst they were down — another reason why their High Lord was failing them after they had suffered such losses in the war. And thanks to Kallon’s propaganda after the attacks on the other camps, the sentiment amongst many of the Illyrian’s was that they had been abandoned to rot and die at the teeth of beasts now the Night Court no longer needed them on the battlefield.

It was an attitude felt most keenly by those who had suffered, but here at Windhaven, with Nesta and Feyre on the scene so quickly, the casualties had been far less than they should have been. Without them… it would have been a bloodbath. Cassian had no doubt that they’d have lost far, far more and Rhys’s presence now… it was best that he was here even if the Illyrian’s did survey him with dark, depthless eyes.

They needed to see their High Lord and High Lady. Needed to understand that their Court cared and fought for them. That they had not been abandoned.

Drawing up beside his brother, Cassian did not bother with formalities. “How many?” he demanded to the war lord.

“Thirteen deaths and thirty plus casualties,” Devlon replied, his expression tight at the order. “All contained to the mountain. The guards killed any kerits that ventured further down the mountain path to the main camp.”

Cassian didn’t want to ask at the same time that he had. “And how many were younglings?”

“None. The widows distracted the kerits until the High Lady and her sister arrived on the scene to fight them off.”

Cassian could not think of the destruction those kerits would have wreaked if it were not for Feyre and Nesta. He could tell from the way that Devlon had not spit the word witch that it was a sentiment begrudgingly shared.

Devlon hadn’t given Nesta hell that morning at the sparring ring either. Cassian had all but stalked over to them only to find Devlon telling Nesta to watch where she blasted her fire without a trace of a sneer. Then, later, when he put Nesta through her paces with the blade, Devlon had still been there, watching with those dark, beady eyes of his. It was a look Cassian recognised. It was the same assessing gaze he and Azriel had received all of those years ago, when they had proved themselves to be stronger than every other opponent in the ring.The same look that had allowed them to perform in the Rite and earn their siphons. The same look that allowed Cassian to be standing in front of the war lord not as a meagre foot soldier, but as General of the Night Court’s Armies.

But that did not erase the fact that females had died today because of a gap in Devlon’s patrols.

So he said coldly, “By distracted, you mean that those females gave their lives to protect the youngling’s.” Cassian stared out at the new tents that Rhys had magicked for the widows. Cassian was going to insist to Rhys that buildings were erected immediately. Tents were not protection enough against the kerits and the Illyrian’s were no longer in a place to turn down financial help.

“The females will remain here permanently,” Cassian told Devlon with an air of finality that dissuaded argument. “It is not safe for them to relocate back up to the mountain. This is the third attack in little more than a month on three separate camps.”

“Which leads me to my next question,” Cassian continued, his voice falling into a growl, anger finally creeping into the shock that had taken a hold of him. “Where were the aerial warriors that should have been patrolling the perimeter? It is routine to fly over the widows camp. They should have spotted those beasts from a mile off.”

Cassian had no doubt that it was Nesta’s silver fire and the screams of agony carrying on the wind that had alerted the warriors. What if Nesta and Feyre had not been there to defend the females? Cassian didn’t want to think of the torn limbs and the trailing guts, of the small, lifeless bodies and the staring eyes. He had already seen them at Forktail and Swallow’s Ridge. Had watched the pyres burn and the hatred for their High Lord simmering beneath the Illyrian’s skin.

Perhaps here Nesta and Feyre had done enough to douse the fires fuelling the dissent. Perhaps Windhaven would be the only camp not to fall into the rebellion’s open claws.

Devlon’s dark, beady eyes settled coldly on Rhys. “He pulled extra warriors to guard the bottom of the mountain,” he sneered, jerking his chin to Cassian. “We were short on numbers.”

“They are foot soldiers not aerial,” Rhys interrupted smoothly, before Cassian could snarl a response. “Which,” he added lightly, “you are more than aware of. Where were the aerial soldiers patrolling the Eastern skies of the camp? You have known about the attacks on the other camps and were ordered to tighten the patrols and increase security. So I will ask again: where were the soldiers patrolling the Eastern skies of the camp?”

Rhys’s voice had dropped into a fury which crackled with power, the promise of deathly night hanging in the atmosphere around them. Devlon’s hard eyes flicked to Rhys’s hands, where just one click had the ability to shatter his mind.

He shifted onto another foot, betraying his unease but did not reply.

“Let’s go into the war tent,” Rhys ordered with a calm fervour that Devlon did not dare to contradict.

They stalked to the tent with such intent that warrior’s jumped out of their path with fierce attention.

Rhys waited until they were inside and then he cast a soundproof bubble around them with a flick of his fingers.

He turned to Devlon with a deadly calm that Cassian knew was dangerous. Devlon knew it too. Had witnessed it before.

“My mate saw three figures flying above the mountain pass minutes before the attack,” Rhys said conversationally, his violet eyes piercing.

“Flying across the camps is permitted,” Devlon drawled, with more nerve than Cassian had expected. Illyrian’s did not like to be called incompetent, and although Devlon was the fairest of the war lord’s, sometimes it pained Cassian that he could be no different.

Rhys inspected the invisible dirt beneath his fingernails. “They were not flying the perimeter. They cut straight across the belly of the camp. Now, I can use my own means to suss out who they are by calling in my shadowsinger, or you can do your job as war lord and identify who they were, why they were there and where they are now. They certainly weren’t reporting an attack. Your warriors landed well after my mate and her sister arrived on the scene.”

Devlon bristled. Rose up taller, nostrils flaring. Rhys stared him down, utterly unfazed. The dominant alpha male, always, High Lord or no.

“I’d also like to see the males responsible for the gap in patrol as a matter of urgency,” Rhys continued. “I trust that you and your close circle of most faithful warriors will perform this task as a matter or urgency.”

Together, Rhys and Cassian watched Devlon stalk off, his shoulders set in fury and determination.

Already, dread lined Cassian’s stomach as Rhys violet eyes rested on him, “Do you think this was manufactured?”

Straight to the point. It was a question Cassian had been asking himself again and again as he stared at Nesta’s pale face and the blood trickling from her nose.

“One camp attack can be seen as a tragedy, even two can be passed off as a bad coincidence. But three attacks on three separate camps? It’s pre-meditated, I’m sure of it,” Cassian admitted grimly. “It could be Kallon. It would be smart, to orchestrate attacks on the vulnerable but disposable. It would cement his cause in the minds of the rest of the community. It would make them more open to listening to his ideology and wish for a united Illyria under his rule.”

“It’s a possibility,” Rhys admitted soberly, his features mirroring Cassian’s. “We would need concrete evidence to reveal that there was intent behind the attacks. Illyrian’s are already patrolling the area, but I don’t trust them. The resistance could have infiltrated any of the soldiers without us knowing. Without proof there is nothing we can do. I’ll have Azriel scour the mountain range when he returns.”

Cassian rubbed his palms over his tired face. He needed to sleep more than anything. He was utterly drained, his siphons near exhausted, his emotions rubbed raw. He wanted to curl up beside Nesta to make sure that she was safe. There was an insistent tugging in his ribcage, a persistent force urging him to go back to the bungalow and protect, even when he knew Nesta was safer in the bungalow than anywhere else in the entirety of Prythian.

“There’s something else you should see,” Rhys said. He was eyeing his brother in that all-seeing way of his, as if only now he was witnessing the true gravity of what today had done to Cassian. Of what it all meant.

The tightness to his voice had dread lining Cassian’s stomach. He couldn’t take anymore bad news. He couldn’t.

“What?” he asked begrudgingly, but Rhys just wordlessly held out his hand for Cassian to grasp.

As soon as their hand’s touched, they disappeared.

He and Rhys were at the top of the mountain when Cassian sensed claws clipping on the stone around the fire that shielded his mind.

Feyre had never been inside Cassian’s head before, but Cassian knew it was his High Lady. Knew in the way that the glimmer of worry and concern carried on a breeze of pear and lilac, making his flames dance.

Unlike Rhys, who had built centuries of trust between his inner circle in order to request access to their minds, Feyre had never shown any intention of doing the same. Cassian was not sure whether that was a lack of habit or because she saw it as an invasion of privacy. Yet, Cassian did not hesitate in parting his flames, just barely, enough that Feyre’s voice floated into his head: Nesta’s waking up. You should come.

“I have to go.”

Rhys did not ask why, he only nodded, his blue-black hair moving elegantly in the wind rather than tangling like his own. “I’ve got it here.”

Violet eyes flicked over Cassian’s face, no doubt taking in the deep-set worry and fatigue. “Nesta will be ok, brother.”

Cassian looked away — out at the peaked mountains and the white-dusted pine trees. It had started to snow, and the vast scenery before them was cascaded in a flurry of cotton. His jaw feathered.

Then a hand was on his shoulder. Cassian turned his head in surprise. “Nesta saved Feyre’s life,” Rhys said. “Would you like to see?”

A gift. A concession. An offer to show Cassian Nesta strong and indestructible.

A raked claw down his fire. Parted flames. Nesta alive and breathing, wielding a sword of silver flame, moving as if she had not been taught the dance, but had choreographed it herself.

Feyre’s terror was like hot, fresh blood in his mouth as a kerit leapt at her out of nowhere, but then Nesta’s sword was sizzling through muscle and sinew. Cassian tasted Feyre’s heartbeat, the frantic pulse of it, the relief that followed as the beast collapsed to the ground.

Blinking, the present Windhaven came back into sight. Already the trauma and bloodstains of the day’s events were being erased by snow; wiped off the scenery, but not from history.

“I’ve only ever seen you fight like that,” Rhys said quietly. “The way Nesta cut through those kerits with only months of training… She reminds me of you.”

“I trained her,” Cassian reminded his brother tightly.

But Rhys shook his head, as if that was not what he meant at all.

There was a beat. A pause. It stretched out for what felt like eternity as words were formed and reformed in his brother’s mind. But in the end, all Rhys said was, “Go. Feyre says Nesta’s distressed.”

When Cassian arrived at the house Nesta was in the throes of a flashback. Halfway between sleeping and waking, nonsensical ragged moans rose from her throat, and the sheets lay tangled around her leg, as if she had kicked them off in her panic. Although her fingers sparked silver, the magic died at the tips, not replenished enough to do any damage. Cassian suspected it was the pain that had started to make her lucid, the sensation enough to drag her from the deep realms which confused nightmare and reality.

Was Nesta reliving old battle trauma or was she still stuck in the events from earlier that day, caked in blood as she fought snarling beasts?

“Nesta, it’s all right,” Feyre said frantically, her voice trying to soothe but only rising in panic as Nesta continued to thrash. She threw a wild, accusing look over her shoulder as Cassian entered the room before she refocussed her attention back on her sister, as if to say, what took you so long? “You’re at the bungalow. You passed out but Madja says you’re going to be just fine.”

She reached out a hand to push Nesta back down into the mattress, to stop her from causing herself more pain but Cassian caught her hands before they made contact.

“Don’t touch her,” he warned. “She will lash out at you,” he elaborated in an attempt to ease the surprise from Feyre’s face.

Crouching beside the bed, Cassian made sure to strike a careful balance between proximity and space. He forced his words to be casual rather than full of worry — made sure to erase the word sweetheart from the tip of his tongue. The affection crept in anyway. It always did when he said her name. “Nesta. You’re safe. The kerits are gone. The widows and younglings are out of danger. You’re ok.”

For a moment, Nesta stilled but then she moaned again, the sound expelled on a long, pained breath. Her hands crept to her abdomen, the action meditated enough that Cassian could tell she was awake.

Everything hurt as her expression crumpled in agony.

“You suffered some internal bleeding which is probably why you feel like shit,” Cassian told Nesta with forced lightness, hoping that the depth of his voice would keep her above the surface.

He had fisted his hands at his sides to stop himself from reaching for her, but then her hand started to search across the mattress, blindly following his voice. It took him a few seconds to form the scrambled realisation that she was trying to find him. He unfurled a palm and lay it on the coverlets, letting her discover it for herself rather than startle her.

Her fingers were ice cold as they met with his. He hadn’t dared light the fire, not even whilst she was firmly under. Feyre had looked at him with confusion when he had ordered her not to light it in his absence, but she had only taken the extra blankets he had pulled from the cupboard without a word.

Cassian twitched a finger at the contact, letting Nesta know he was there, but otherwise remaining still. He only realised he had been holding his breath when her cold fingers wrapped clumsily around his palm — ice on fire.

“Are you in a lot of pain?” he asked, because he was too scared to say what he really felt, especially with Feyre there.

You nearly died.

I’m so proud of you.

You’re a healer.

We haven’t had time — not yet.

The last was a stupidly loaded comment that would only remain inside the cages surrounding his heart. He had lost his chance with Nesta long ago and Cassian was not foolish enough to think that them living together was fate presenting them with another chance. Besides, Nesta’s recovery was more important than his selfish wants and needs. And although the magnitude of his yearning for Nesta made his previous desire for anyone else completely inconsequential, he would let it lie.

Nesta’s finger twitching against his palm brought him back to himself. The movement was only once, the action deliberately purposeful. The communication he had strung between them all those months ago when words were too hard.

Yes.

“I’m not surprised you’re hurting,” Cassian chided as he turned to Feyre, gesturing silently for the morphine. Feyre leapt up, passing Cassian the glass vial and the cloth she had been trying to get Nesta to take since Madja had left.

“Mouth open, sweetheart. I’m going to give you something to take the edge off.”

He dipped the rag in the medicine before he pressed it to her lips.

“Tastes like shit,” Cassian told Nesta conversationally as he rung the cloth gently so the liquid passed between her lips, “but it will dull the pain.” His smile was crooked as those steel-blue eyes slowly flickered open. They were bleary and streaked with red, but her gaze locked onto his with a strength that should not have surprised him. He watched her struggle to swallow and the wince that came with the bitter medicine. “Maybe I’ll ask Madja if I can mix it into some chai,” he tried in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Make it more palatable.”

Nesta’s expression did not change, but he could have sworn he heard a huff of breath.

He watched the column of her pale, beautiful neck move as she swallowed again. And then her cracked lips parted.

Her tentative whisper was hoarse. “Mas…”

“Healed thanks to you,” Cassian told her quickly as he moved over to the dresser to stopper the medicine. It put Feyre into Nesta’s line of vision, but Nesta was only looking at him when he turned back around. “More than healed, actually. She’s in your bed resting. Not that she hasn’t tried to get out already. That female is as stubborn as a—”

“Don’t move!”

Feyre’s warning burst out of her before Cassian had turned back around. When he did, Feyre was lurching forwards as Nesta stuttered a gasp — as if the breath had been sucked out of her lungs. Her body arching as her hands flew to her abdomen.

A deep, agonising sort of pain rippled through him. And if it hurt him rather than discomforted him, the pain must be indescribably bad for Nesta.

“You suffered internal bleeding,” Feyre explained as Cassian tried to catch his breath. “Madja thinks your body started to give out as you ran out of healing magic.”

Steel grey bore into Feyre for a moment and then that crease worried between her eyebrows. As usual, it just made Nesta look more beautiful, even when her expression was still pained.

Somehow Cassian knew what she needed, even though he was still reeling from the pain. So he adopted a drawl that usually had her hissing at him. “Difficult even when you’re bedridden,” he scolded. “If I bring Mas to you will you stop trying to get out of bed?”

Mercury eyes slid to his as she allowed Feyre to ease her back against the pillows. “I promise,” he assured her. “Stay here, I’ll go get her.”

To Cassian’s absolute disbelief, he found Mas in the bathroom bathing Roksana.

He considered barking at her to get back in bed and rest but even he couldn’t deny that Mas looked healthy and well. Really well, if he thought about it properly. There was a light in her eyes that Cassian had never seen; a spark of hope and determination despite the atrocities she and her fellow females had endured that morning. It was sad, Cassian thought, that Mas was not more traumatised. That she was used to such unimaginable suffering that for her, the kerits was just another mark on an already bleak life.

“You need to come,” he told Mas, as she hauled Roksana from the bath and wrapped the little girl’s wet body wrapped in a fluffy grey towel. “And I thought you were told not to do any lifting.”

Mas snorted, her beautiful, unmarred wings rustling behind her. The housekeeper must be desperate to launch into the skies, yet here she was looking after Roksana. “And I suppose someone else is going to bathe this dirty youngling?”

“Please stop,” Cassian pleaded, resting a hand on her arm as she started to towel Roksana. “You need to rest. I’ll organise someone to look after Roksana. Stay in Nesta’s room whilst you recover.”

“I am recovered,” Mas told Cassian sternly, as she pulled a sleeveless shirt of Nesta’s over Roksana’s head. It fell to Roksana’s feet like a makeshift nightdress. “As the healer’s told both you and I. You should count yourself lucky that I have not yet gone to help the other females. And this little one stays with me. The last thing she needs is to be separated right now.”

Cassian’s snort was soft, but all he said was, “Nesta is awake. She wishes to see you. Both of you.” He nodded to Roksana who had been nestled back onto Mas’s hip. The youngling was silent in the haunted sort of way that Nesta had been when she first arrived at Windhaven, clinging to Mas as if she were terrified the housekeeper would disappear.

The healer had been very clear that Mas was not to do anything strenuous, and Cassian bet that counted hauling around a youngling.

So he smiled gently at Roksana, crouching down to her level and making his voice soft as he could muster, as he asked in Illyrian, “Vultis venire ad me?”

Dark eyes studied him warily, but then she held her short arms out. The gesture was half-hearted but Cassian took her from the housekeeper anyway. Roksana was small for her age and weighed barely anything in his arms. She did not hold on tightly to him as she had done for Mas. Instead, she sat away from his body, as if she were not comfortable enough to cling on to him.

When he looked back to Mas, there was a ghost of a sad smile on her lips before she headed to his room.

Feyre had managed to prop Nesta up onto some pillows when they arrived. There was a look of intense irritation lining the exhaustion on Nesta’s face, telling Cassian her emotions were rubbed raw.

He had no idea how her meeting with Feyre had gone, but he thought it a good sign that Nesta had not banished Feyre from the room from the get-go. Despite being bedridden, Cassian had no qualms that Nesta had the strength to do it. Although her eyes did look a little glassy, as if the tincture had kicked in, so that could have something to do with it too.

When Mas walked into the room, Nesta’s face twisted and crumpled, a ghost of a memory sliding across her expression; as if she were replaying the sight of Mas’s torn body as she bled out. Cassian watched Nesta’s eyes dart to Mas’s abdomen before they assessed every inch of the housekeeper’s body, as if she did not believe that she was standing before her, alive and breathing and wholly well.

When blue-grey slid to the wings on Mas’s back, the emotion that rushed over him was akin to a tidal wave crashing onto hot sand.

“Mas.”

The word came out broken, Nesta’s hand immediately reaching out for the housekeeper — to the proud and beautiful wings that spanned from her back. Her fingers curled despite the distance; a deliberate move to show she did not intend to touch them. Cassian did not know if someone had told Nesta that it was not acceptable to touch an Illyrian’s wings or whether she was sharp enough to have figured it out on her own. He suspected the latter. Nesta was the goddamns smartest person he had ever met. If she were an Illyrian in his army, Cassian would not think twice before placing her on his war council. With the right experience, she could be invaluable.

Stopping a foot away from the bed, Mas spread out her wings. They were the colour of umber in the gentle faelight and the membrane was completely unmarred; free of the scar tissue her wings had been riddled with. Hesitantly, Mas flexed the two claws that stood at the apex of her wings, as if she were working a long unused muscle.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” the housekeeper asked conversationally, but her eyes were suddenly swimming with tears, as if the flood gates had opened and she could not control the inevitable.

Closing the distance between she and Nesta, Mas leant down, her weathered hands framing Nesta’s face. When she spoke next, her voice cracked, “Diyosa. You are our miracle. You are my miracle. You gave me back my freedom. I can never thank you enough—”

A sob broke from Nesta. Cassian watched that beautiful face crumple as the sound splintered around the room, her hands instinctively flying up to cover her mouth as if she wished to suppress it.

Mas caught Nesta’s fingers before they could stifle it. Gently, she brushed away the stream of rolling tears that ran down Nesta’s face. When the housekeeper smiled, Cassian could have sworn that light radiated around the room despite the dull grey weather outside.

The action just made Nesta cry harder and Mas hushed her as if she were admonishing a child, carefully cradling Nesta’s golden-brown head to her chest.

“Come now,” Mas soothed, running a hand over Nesta’s tangled hair — a mother comforting her offspring. “I am perfectly fine, thanks to you. There’s no need to shed any tears for me.”

Pulling away so she could look Nesta in the eye, Mas smiled toothily through her own tears. “We must find you some wings so you can come flying with me, sinta. What do you think, huh?”

A huff caught between a sob. It was a sound of disbelief and was akin to what Cassian felt; that Mas could endure such hardship but still joke and smile. That despite everything, she could find joy and happiness and broadcast such love.

Mas’s eyes sparked at the sound and she cast a quick look towards Cassian. Roksana seemed to have forgotten that she was wary of Cassian and had automatically grasped his hand as he set her down on the carpet. Her grip was tight and fearful and had not changed, even when he had gently squeezed them in reassurance.

“Shall I have General Cassian train me so I can learn to carry you with me? He’ll be pleased to finally have me in the sparring ring. Do you know how long he has tried to get me in there? A few hundred years at least.”

Another sound from Nesta. This time a broken laugh, even if it was laced with a sob. It was the most beautiful sound Cassian had ever heard. It radiated from within him, flaring with the force of a star twinkling in the darkest sky. Even through the tears, the transformation on Nesta’s face was something he’d never forget. It was as if the clouds had parted and made way for the sun.

His heart twisted as Mas grinned. She peered into Nesta’s face for a long while in the way she often did to him. The action was loving and motherly and all-seeing. Eventually, she softly patted Nesta’s cheek. “You are tired, diyosa. You must rest now. Ok?”

At the words, Nesta slumped slightly. Not from disappointment but as if she were just realising how exhausted she was.

Mas nodded to indicate that she understood — that it was all going to be ok. “Let your sister get you comfortable. General Cassian will get you that drink to boost your energy. You wasted a lot of magic on me.”

A fierceness found its way into Nesta’s voice… her expression. “I would do it again.”

Mas stared at Nesta for a moment, but then she nodded to indicate she understood. “I know you would. If I had your magic, I would do the same for you. Always. Do not doubt that.”

Cassian touched Feyre’s arm, indicating that she should follow him out of the room as Mas eased Nesta onto her back.

Only once the door was shut did he glance at Feyre. She was staring at him, her expression undone. Huge tears ran down her face and dripped off her chin, as she said in disbelief, “I’ve never seen Nesta cry like that before. She’s my sister and I have never seen it. Not once.”

Cassian wrapped an arm around Feyre, pulling her close as best he could, his other hand still clasping Roksana’s.

Feyre leant into his embrace, burying her head against his chest. He watched her wipe away her tears. Watched her sniff as she tried to contain her sobs. Ran his palm up and down her arm in a bid to comfort her.

When her breathing had regulated, she peered up at him with those eyes that were so similar to her sister’s, but not quite right. “What does diyosa mean?” she asked quietly.

Cassian’s smile was crooked. “It means goddess,” he said.

Azriel and Frawley appeared in the living room a half hour later, bleeding out of shadow until their dark outlines took on finer details and colour.

Nesta had fallen back into sleep again, her body drained and exhausted to the point that she had passed out mid-conversation, her hand clasping Mas’s so tightly her knuckles had turned white, as if she were afraid that to let go would mean the housekeeper would disappear.

Rhys had arrived back at the house with a look that told Cassian the news was not good, but he had only followed the bond to find his mate in the kitchen. When Cassian had stepped between the alcoves a few moments later to rid himself of Nesta’s empty mug, he had found Feyre wrapped tightly in Rhys’s arms, her face stained already with fresh tears.

Cassian levelled his brother with a gaze. “Took you long enough,” he remarked tersely.

“My wards are too effective, it seems,” Frawley clipped before the shadowsinger could open his mouth. The witch cast her eyes around the room, ice blue moving independently of her other brown eye. “It appears that I’m holding quite the company today.”

Frawley nodded to Rhysand who had taken up residence by the fireplace. Feyre seated herself on the left-branch of the couch. “Rhysand. It has been a while.”

“Frawley,” Rhys drawled in greeting. Frawley gave another short nod but then an eye snagged on the fire and she frowned in irritation.

With a quick flick of a hand the crackling fire turned quiet. “Why have the fires not been silenced?” she said shortly. “Battle trauma is at its worst when magic has been depleted. Tell me you have not lit it in your room?”

Two eyes snapped to Cassian and he bristled. Usually he would not rise to the accusation, but the day had been long and turbulent and he wanted nothing more than to be left alone with Nesta so she could heal in peace. “Of course not,” he replied tightly, refraining from saying more; reeling in the restraint that was hanging on by a thread.

No apology came forth but Frawley was not one to do so. “And did you give her one of the tonics I made?”

“We managed to get her to drink one before she passed out,” Cassian replied smoothly, ignoring Feyre’s frown and the understanding dawning on Rhys’s face. “She’s exhausted,” he added.

“And so are you by the looks of it,” Frawley observed, running a discerning eye over him. “Magic depleted again, but I suppose you have not been thinking about yourself to drink a tonic of your own?”

Cassian’s jaw tensed. “I thought it more important that Nesta have them.”

He expected to be scolded, but nothing came. Frawley only flicked her wrist again. In his hand appeared a mug full of liquid. The porcelain was warm rather than scolding — perfect drinking temperature. He should not have expected less from the master of her craft.

“Sit,” Frawley ordered. Unthinkingly, Cassian did as he was told. The couch cushions were soft against his body and he resisted leaning into them for fear that he might not stand up again. “Drink,” Frawley commanded. “I can’t have you passing out on me before you tell me everything that happened.”

Her eyes rested on Feyre then. “I’d ask which sister you are but I can scent your mating bond. You are Feyre.”

Not High Lady of the Night Court, but Cassian expected no less. Frawley had been alive longer than all of them… longer than Rhys’s mother and father and their parents before them. Rumour had it that Frawley had been present at the first Illyrian battle with Oya and Enalius, although Cassian had never been brave enough to press her for details. If Frawley had seen Enalius’s sword before, Cassian suspected she had been alive during Enalius’s lifetime. And whilst she respected Rhys, Frawley was not one to bother with titles…

“Yes,” Feyre confirmed. “I am.”

“This is Frawley,” Rhys explained to Feyre to save his mate from confusion. “Witch of the Eastern Steppes and a long-term friend.”

“A healing witch,” Cassian added. He had downed the drink and already he felt stronger, the whisper of his power travelling through his veins. His siphons thrummed. “Feyre can tell you what happened, she was with Nesta the entire time.”

In a swish of skirts that moved like smoke, Frawley seated herself on the right-most edge of the couch and looked expectantly at Feyre across the low-set coffee table.

It was command enough and Cassian listened to Feyre began to retell the day’s events.

When Feyre finished speaking, Frawley remained quiet, keeping her chin rested on her steepled fingers. After a few moments she sat up. Even Azriel, who was the master at playing aloof and disinterested, straightened, but Frawley looked only at Cassian.

“From what I could tell on our first meeting, Nesta’s magic has two strands: the ability to defend and the ability to heal,” Frawley began. “Someone who is gifted with healing magic uses their own energy to restore health to the sick or injured. If we run out of magic, we simply cannot heal, but I have only seen magic like Nesta’s once in my life and she is entirely her own being — ancient yet new. As a witch, I can amass more power than my natural reserve from my partnership with the elements, but there is always a price. Magic is give and take, a fine balance that must be respected. Nesta is no witch, but I believe her power works in similar ways. The problem is, the more magic you have, the more dire the consequences if you use too much at once.”

A blue eye swivelled to Rhys at the fireplace. “As,” Frawley remarked pointedly, “some of us are all too aware.”

A nod to Hybern, when Rhys had exchanged his life to knit the Cauldron back together.

Rhys’s expression hardened. At the nod to the fact that he and Nesta shared a common burden. At the fact that they both saw themselves as disposable, especially when it meant saving those they loved.

Feyre looked haunted. Cassian remembered the way she had scrabbled at Rhys’s layers as she tried to bring him back. The way she had begged on her hands and knees.

“It sounds to me,” Frawley continued, “as if Nesta’s magic did not recognise when she had healed the fatal injuries. Instead, Nesta continued to heal, moving on to old injuries that demanded far more from the healer and upset the balance between healing and magic. Either willingly or unwillingly, Nesta started to give her life and take on the death that nearly took hold of the patient.”

Frawley looked to Feyre. “You said the widow had injuries to the gut? From the sounds of it, Nesta has the ability to take on the injury of the patient should her magic start to run dry — an extra reserve of life. Nesta suffered internal bleeding to the intestine so that Mas would not only be healed of her immediate injury, but all of her previous physical trauma.”

Silence fell for a moment as they all digested Frawley’s words. Feyre looked pained, as if she were wondering what Cassian already knew to be true: that Nesta, who loved her chosen few fiercely, would willingly offer up her life to ensure that they lived.

“You could sense the two strands of magic when we last met,” Cassian said to Frawley as he connected the dots; remembering when Frawley had asked Nesta what happened when she felt something other than rage.

“Yes,” Frawley agreed with a firm nod. “I could sense the hum of healing magic deep within her, and of course, we saw her silver fire that day and the weeks before it. I put two and two together.”

What happens when you feel joy? I wouldn’t know.

“And you,” Frawley said after a heartbeat, her ice blue eye swivelling to focus on him, “are not surprised.”

“No,” Cassian admitted begrudgingly. He felt violet and steel-grey boring into him, pressing him for an explanation. Even Azriel’s shadows stilled. “My wings were snapped in multiple places at Hybern, but by the time Fae arrived on the scene some of them had been regrown.”

Frawley’s hazel eye — the exact colour of Lorrian’s — came to rest on him. “And why,” she said softly, “is that?”

Cassian did not react to her pointed question, only stared her down. In his mind’s eye, all he could see was Nesta leaning over his body, sacrificing her life with his when she could have run.

I can’t.

Cassian was thankful when Azriel interjected. “Nesta has just woken again. Perhaps it is time for someone to explain the finer details of why she is in bed. I do not think I would like everyone knowing my business before I knew it myself.”

A calm yet direct way of highlighting Nesta’s penchant for privacy.

“I will check Nesta over to make sure the healer didn’t miss anything and get her to take a stronger tonic to replenish her energy levels. It will cut her time in bed by half,” Frawley told them as she stood. “If Nesta wishes to harness her healing skills, I will teach her what I know. To hold so much power in your hands is a terrifying thing.” Again, that blue eye rested on Rhys, and in that gaze… challenge and understanding. “I know of someone else who struggled with the enormity of it, and he turned out to be an admirable leader.”

For a moment, Frawley and Rhys stared at one another. In the air, Cassian could taste the hum of magic; of starlight eternal and the scent of damp, cold earth after rain… of cold air streaked with fire smoke.

No-one moved. No-one breathed. Everything felt taut and expectant and then, as suddenly as it all came, the atmosphere dropped.

“Caerleon is flying to meet me,” Frawley told no-one in particular as she headed to Cassian’s room. “Do let him in, otherwise he might start terrorising some males and I might not find it in myself to stop him.”

And then with a swish of her skirts, Frawley was gone.

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inmyownlittlecorner5 · 4 years

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libera nos a malo chapter 7: rien ne m’est plus, plus ne m’est rien

A fanfic Novel by la-topolina

Rated for Mature Audiences

Warnings: Language, Violence, Sexual Content

Chapter 7/20

Trigger warning for discussion of miscarriage in this chapter

libera nos a malo masterpost+

unstoppable force/immovable object masterpost+

<< chapter 6

chapter 8 >>

In the beginning, Lucius had been defiant. His audience may have been small, limited as it was to two-knut Hit Wizards and self-important prison controllers. He’d seen the director once upon his admittance to Azkaban (a skeletal man who’d smelled of onions) but not since. Lucius had sneered at all these little men (mudblood upstarts, half-breed drones, and blood traitors, every last one) and given them to understand in no uncertain terms that he was a Malfoy.

They had been…unimpressed.

His righteous anger had gotten him two weeks on bread and water alone, delivered twice a day through a slot in the wall of his cell by a disembodied and grimy hand. Ten paces by ten paces and lit by one guttering light in the center of the ceiling, the cell was designed to break the strongest of spirits, even without the Dementors soul-devouring help. Lucius didn’t stand a chance. When the first two weeks were up, and he’d been brought a bowl of luke-warm gruel, and he’d been horrified at how good it had tasted.

The great Lucius Malfoy—salivating over gruel.

By the end of the first month, he’d learned to dance to the controllers’ piping. If he was well-behaved, he was allowed a bucket to relieve himself in, and the cell block’s Hit Wizard (a puss-faced buffoon who couldn’t have passed the test to do actual field work if his life depended on it) would vanish the mess twice a day when he brought the food. If he was disobedient or rude in any way, he was denied bucket, sanitation, and gruel. At first he’d been able perform the vanishing and cleaning spells himself, even without his wand. But as the millstone of time had pressed down on him, he’d lost both the ability—and then the will—to do so.

The question of how he’d managed to spectacularly snatch defeat from the jaws of victory tormented him during most of his waking moments. That is, when he wasn’t being tormented by the question of what had happened to his wife and son. For all he knew, they were dead. Perhaps even now they lay in the Malfoy tomb, decaying slowly into dust and slime. Or perhaps they’d been hastily buried in a pauper’s grave, that the name of Malfoy might be blotted out forever.

No, Lucius Malfoy did not require a Dementor guard to drive himself to despair—he dug that trench all on his own.

One day the skeletal director came in to see him (he knew because the man still smelled of onions and it turned his stomach).

“Malfoy, Lucius,” the director said. They were always addressed in this fashion, and Lucius had learned to snap to attention when his name was barked, or he’d be on the receiving end of some sort of lightening charm that was surely the Crucio’s sadistic elder brother.

“Sir.” Stand up. Avoid pain. Keep your gruel.

“Your wife is here to see you.” How strange to hear such momentous news announced with the indifference of a weather report.

“My…wife?”

“Yes. Your wife.” The director’s lips were thin and cruel, and the smile they twisted into made Lucius shiver. “And so appropriate too, it being Valentine’s Day. You may have ten minutes with her once she’s been searched.”

“Searched?” His mind was struggling to process the new stimuli. It had been toiling too long in the well worn paths of misery.

“Yes, searched. We can’t have her trying to slip you a wand, now can we? But chin up, ten minutes might even be long enough for a shag. Not that she’d want to do so on that nasty lump of a bed. Have you been using it for a chamber pot?”

“No sir.”

“I’m sure she’ll be delighted to see you in spite of the smell.”

The thought of Narcissa seeing him as he was now—for he was every bit as vile as the director’s mocking smile implied—was unendurable.

“Sir, please tell her to go home,” he said, his eyes on the floor.

“What did you say?”

“I…don’t want her to see me this way.”

The director was silent for so long that Lucius was sure the man was torturing him on purpose; dragging out the moment before he forced the broken atheling to accept the humiliation of receiving his wife. But when the prisoner dared to glance up at his captor, he saw an understanding in the director’s eyes that made the fiend seem almost human.

“Good man,” the director said; and he left the cell before Lucius had the chance to change his mind.

Afterwards Lucius beat his fists against the wall until they bled freely. When he was too exhausted to continue thus, he fell onto the bed and buried his face in the putrid sheets to weep. When his fury at last was completely spent, he stared up at the ceiling, willing himself to die. But it seemed to him the more he tried to stop his heart, the harder the mutinous organ would beat.

What on earth it would take to convince the stupid thing that nothing had any meaning anymore?

*****

The birds were singing merrily as they leapt from branch to branch. Although the trees were barren yet, the sun was shining with enough vigor to remind the world that spring would soon be coming to uproot winter and return life to the earth. Snowdrops peeked their shy faces through the puddles of melting snow, and here and there an early crocus exploded through the slush, proudly decked in royal purple. People were out and about everywhere with their hats clutched in their hands and their faces turned up to the sky, wishfully believing that it was warmer than the mercury claimed.

All in all, it was a terrible day for a funeral.

Isahak Lal dug his hands deep into the pocket of his robes as he stared at the ground on their way home from the cemetery. It seemed to him that everyone in the world was wandering through Diagon Alley today, and he stubbornly ignored the friendly greetings that the fine day drew from the lips of the unknowing shoppers. He also ignored the condolences that the shopkeepers stepped out of their doors to offer, even when Ammama tried to make him say thank you. Ammama started to scold him, but Appachan gave her a warning look, and maneuvered the boy to walk between them, that he might be spared from the stares of curious eyes.

Dosas was cold and silent today, and there were no sweet smells of onions and spices to greet them as they trudged up to their flat over the restaurant. Isahak dug his hands deeper into his pockets when Father Peter offered him a candle for the purification blessings. He’d already done his duty that day by covering his father’s face with the cloth before burial, and he refused to do anything else. Father Peter didn’t press him.

He did take the jeera when it was offered to him (he knew that Ammama could only be pushed so far) and the seed was as hard and bitter as his heart. He rolled it around on his tongue until the taste was gone, listening to Father Peter stumble over the words to the prayers. Father Skariah was not here to say them the right way, but then, everything was wrong today.

When the prayers were over, they passed a cup of fresh coconut water between them. It was musky and Isahak did not want to drink it—but it was a day for doing things he did not want to do. Appachan sat stiffly in his chair by the fire, his brown eyes as cold and empty as the restaurant downstairs. Isahak wondered if Appachan’s eyes would ever shine again.

At Ammama’s insistence, Father Peter took the other chair and Isahak had to bite his tongue to keep from shouting. That was Achan’s chair, and even if he was never going to sit in it again, what right did this priest have to take it? Ammama tried to pull him down on the sofa with her, but he jerked his arm away and sat far away from her on the very edge. He did not want to be touched or cuddled now.

“Florian will be bringing us a little supper soon, Father,” said Ammama, her voice high and false. “You must stay and have some supper with us.”

“I will, thank you,” Father Peter replied.

Isahak glared at the priest, hating him and his owlish face. Who was he that he should be here on such a day?

“Yes, we’ll have a nice dinner,” Ammama said, brushing her gray hair out of her face. “Florian is a decent cook. He took care of us after Meera died, and he’ll take good care of us now.”

“Florian Fortescue is a fine man,” Father Peter agreed.

“Anita and Dexter must be happy to have a vacation today,” Ammama continued. “No tables to wait or floors to sweep.”

“Nobody is happy today, Ammama,” Isahak muttered.

“What?” Ammama’s lip trembled dangerously, until she gave a laugh as false as her cheerful tone. “Hush, child. You will feel better once you have eaten. And then Appachan will read to you from the little book that you and Achan were reading, and everything will be as good as it can be.”

Isahak could stand it no longer. He sprang from the couch, snatched the little book from the pile on the coffee table, and threw it across the room.

“I am not going to eat, and I am not going to read, and nothing will ever be good again!” he shouted.

“Isahak!” Ammama scolded, but he fled from the room.

“Let him be, Sara,” said Appachan.

Isahak ran to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. He knew that Ammama would leave him alone now, and he threw himself on the bed, punching the pillow and crying angry tears. He did not understand why Achan had died, and he was not sure that anyone else understood it either. It was something that the grown-ups talked about in whispers whenever he went out of the room. Amma had been ill for all of her life, and now he could not remember much more than her smile, and the way she’d smelled of cardamom and cinnamon. But Achan had been strong. It made no sense that he should be fine one day and dead the next.

Eventually he grew tired of punching the pillow, and he got up to close the curtains and block out the afternoon sun. It was the sort of day that Achan would have taken him to Mr Fortescue’s to watch the ice cream being made. It was the sort of day that Achan would have said was made for discovering all the wonders of the world.

But Achan was gone now, and without him, Isahak could not see any use for the world at all.

*****

“Severus, I wasn’t expecting you,” Miranda said cheerfully as she opened the cabin door to the winter night.

“My apologies for the disappointment,” he replied, careful to keep his voice as neutral as possible. It wouldn’t do to startle her yet.

“You’re not disappointing me at all. I’m happy to have an excuse to stop working on the tebo tunic. You wouldn’t believe how much of a pain it is to stitch together.”

She kept up a steady stream of chatter about something called “spring training” as she returned her project to a dress form in the corner by the potions closet. He doubted he would understand what she was yammering on about, even if he’d had the capacity to listen. A woman’s voice keened from the turntable, pleading with someone called Jolene, and he switched it off with an angry flick of one long finger. There was a roaring in his ears that made any extra noise unbearable, and he swatted away the music like a fly.

As she swept her needles and thread from coffee table to sewing box, she glanced up at him curiously.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“Define alright,” he replied.

She tilted her head to one side. “Is this going to be a tea conversation, or a whiskey conversation?”

“Why not both?”

“That’s fine,” she agreed slowly. “We can do both.”

She skirted past him to the stove to start the tea, moving as though he were an animal she was trying not to startle. He was unsurprised. Her instincts were superior to those of most of the idiots he had the misfortune of knowing, and despite his efforts at controlling himself, even he could hear the raw edge to his voice. He paced over to the dress form while she gathered the things for whiskey and tea, glaring at the tebo hide draped over it. As soon as Healer A’isha gave Miranda leave, the foolish witch would be out among the werewolves, blithely risking her neck without a care in the world. He ran a hand over the rough hide, and his finger caught on a pin. First blood to Miranda.

“Are you going to join me?” she asked when the drinks were on the table.

They sat down together, and he stared wordlessly at the perfectly brewed mixture of tea and clotted cream in his cup. Earlier in their relationship, she would have peppered him with questions, but now she waited patiently for him to talk. He despised her for making him comfortable, and he despised himself for both desiring and refusing her efforts.

“I’ve had a meeting with Albus,” he said at last. His voice sounded oddly disembodied, even to his own ears.

“A bad one?” she asked sympathetically.

“To put it mildly.”

“May I ask what happened?”

The chaotic fury whirling in his chest twisted its ugly head towards a single target, and he lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Miranda, what are your thoughts on the subject of trust?”

Her left shoulder tensed, and he knew her guard was up.

“Trust?” she repeated, pulling her cigarette case out of her pocket and fidgeting with it until he plucked it out of her hand. Her eyebrows went up in question, and he smoothly retrieved a pair of cigarettes and lit them with two sharp snaps of his fingers.

“Trust,” he prompted.

“In what context?” Parry.

“An academic one.” Thrust.

“Academically, trust is earned initially by reputation and ultimately by experience.”

“Brava. And, would you say that it is possible to regain trust once it has been lost? Academically speaking, of course.”

One of her stocking-clad feet was tapping on the floor beneath the table, and he poured out a measure of whiskey for them both, leaving the tea to go cold and spoiled. She took a deep drink of the amber liquor, her eyes never leaving his for an instant.

“I think so,” she replied at last.

“Interesting.”

“You disagree?”

“I must admit I have yet to decide. But I find it interesting that you hold such a belief, when you so clearly do not trust me.”

“I’m sorry? I’ve told you many times that I trust you.” Her brow furrowed as she studied him, and then her eyes widened with understanding. “But Albus doesn’t.”

“No. Amusing, is it not? He blathers on to anyone who will listen about my trustworthiness. That I am a changed man and not to be judged by my…youthful indiscretions. No one believes him, not even the Dark Lord. I should have known that this was because he did not believe it himself.”

“What did he do?”

Severus paused to drink deeply from his glass, savoring the way the alcohol burned down to his bilious stomach.

“He’s been closeted with Potter since term began, preparing the boy for some plan that he will not disclose to me. I, one of his greatest assets.I, who have risked my life on his orders time and time again. Instead he confides in a child with no Occlumency skills, and whose powers are mediocre at best.”

“That must be infuriating.”

“In fact it is. Particularly since among my many duties is the task of keeping the boy alive.” His voice began to shake and he fought to control it. “A task that Albus undermines at every turn.”

“I don’t blame you for being upset. I’d be angry too.”

She refilled their glasses, and her left shoulder relaxed. Excellent.

“Yes,” he said ironically, “it is always disappointing when one’s life becomes a lie. A shock no matter how many times it happens.”

“What do you mean?”

How marvelous. Her concern for him disarmed her completely—she was defenseless now.

“You must understand,” he said conspiratorially, “that what I am going to tell you must be kept under the strictest confidence. I would even go so far as to Obliviate you myself if I thought for an instant I could not trust you to keep quiet.”

“I understand.”

Her mind was so open now that, were it not for the wall guarding her, he might have dipped into it without any incantation at all. He could feel her sympathy vibrating out to him. Pity he had no use for it now.

“When the Dark Lord attempted to murder the Potter boy, the child was protected because Lily…” Severus’s voice broke, and it was a moment before he could continue. “Because his mother gave her life to save him. The spell rebounded off the living child to the caster, and it shouldhave killed him. But by some foul trick, the Dark Lord’s soul split—and a piece of it found a new home inside Potter.”

“Oh my God,” she breathed.

“I think it had very little to do with him.”

“But that’s why the Dark Lord was able to come back.”

“Precisely.”

“And that would mean…in order for him to be killed…”

“That the boy must die as well.”

Part of him softened at the sight of her horror, wanting nothing more than to take her in his arms and accept the comfort she would surely give to him, if only he were able to ask for it. But his rage was unstoppable now—a viper poised and ready to strike.

“Severus, I’m so sorry. He shouldn’t have kept that from you.”

She put her hand over his, and this tender touch wounded him more than the Cruciatus ever had. He closed his hand around hers, and sprung the trap he’d laid.

“Are you?” he asked. “I had rather thought your sympathies would lie with Albus.”

“Why would you think that? You know I hate the way that Albus plays with people.”

“How perfectly hypocritical of you. My compliments.”

She tried to pull her hand away, but he refused to let go.

“You’re obviously driving at something specific,” she said angrily. “Why don’t you just spit it out?”

“You do lack an appreciation for subtly. Let me make my meaning plain, then. I do not believe for an instant that you trust me. If you did, youwould have told me about your son Isaac, instead of allowing me to learn of his existence from Catalina Dragnea.”

She wrenched her hand out of his grasp and sprang up from the table.

“Get out,” she ordered.

“No, I don’t believe I shall. When were you planning to tell me about him?” A dark thrill of power joined the fury in his chest. He had her now.

“I wasn’t going to tell you about him ever.”

“As I suspected. You do see how laughable this makes your protestations of trust?”

“I said get out.”

He rose and stalked around the table towards her, a cruel smile playing on his lips. She’d apparently lost the capability of strategizing—retreating until her back was against the door—and he placed a palm on either side of her head, trapping her completely.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded softly.

“It’s not just you,” she said harshly. “I don’t talk about him with anybody. I only told Catalina because she brought up the subject, and even then I only told her enough to get her to shut up about it.”

“You don’t talk about your own son with anybody? What kind of a mother are you?”

A flash of white light exploded between them, throwing him across the room. He stumbled into a bookshelf, sending glassware to the floor where it shattered. Miranda’s magic whipped around her, sparking through her unbound hair as she stormed towards him. She grabbed the front of his frock coat, and pulled him down until they were nose to nose.

“My son is dead you sick fuck,” she spat.

Dear Merlin, what had he done?

“Why did you lie to Dragnea about him?” he demanded, scrambling for purchase as the ground crumbled beneath his feet.

“All I told her was his name, and when he was born.” She made a rasping sound, but no tears came to soften the blow. “And I’d beg your pardon for not wanting to talk—to anyone—about the part where my boy died without ever getting to live at all. Except you haven’t got a heart to give it with.”

“Miranda, I…”

“Shut up! And get out.”

She let go of his coat with a violence that tore free one of the buttons. It clattered to the floor where it lay amid the shards of glass, a testament to an evening’s work well done. For the second time in his life, Severus stood facing the woman he loved, knowing she was wounded, and that he’d been the one to do the wounding. Now, as then, he’d have sold his soul to have unsaid his venomous words. Unfortunately now, as then, the devil was not in a bargaining mood.

He did as he was bid, leaving her without another word, and he wandered for a time along the chalk cliffs by her cabin. The ocean crashed endlessly on the shore, mindless, dark, and vast. At some point during the small hours of the night he returned to his rooms, where the silence was so loud as to ring in his ears. A book of verse lay open on his desk, mocking him with remnants of the morning’s good intentions. He’d been debating copying out a poem for Miranda and tucking it into one of her books for her to discover and perhaps to be pleased by. Then Albus had begged his company on a walk, and by the end of the night, any meaning in his life had burned to ash before his eyes.

Je suis desja d’amour tanné, Ma tres doulce Valentinée,

He closed the book and put it away on the highest shelf, out of sight.

*****

The chapter title (nothing has meaning anymore) is the motto adopted by Valentine of Milan upon the death of her husband, Louis d’Orléans.

Ammama: Grandmother Appachan: Grandfather Achan: Father Amma: Mother jeera: cumin seed

Isahak Lal is the son of Meera and Yakov Lal. You can read their story in all i was doing was breathing.

The spring training Miranda is talking about is, of course, referring to baseball.

The poem on Severus’s desk is A Farewell to Love by Charles, duc D’Orléans, the son of Louis and Valentine. Here is the full poem in English:

I am already sick of love, My very gentle Valentine Since for me you were born too late, And I for you was born too soon. God forgives him who has estranged Me from you for the whole year.

I am already sick of love, My very gentle Valentine. Well might I have suspected That such a destiny, Thus would have happened this day, How much that Love would have commanded.

I am already sick of love, My very gentle Valentine.

*****

libera nos a malo masterpost+

unstoppable force/immovable object masterpost+

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