Guys GUYS GUYS THIS VIDEO OF THIS PERSON WHO IS RECORDING THE ACOSF AUDIOBOOK .... NESTA AND ERIS TF

guys GUYS GUYS THIS VIDEO OF THIS PERSON WHO IS RECORDING THE ACOSF AUDIOBOOK .... NESTA AND ERIS TF

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The Deal - Chapter One - Summer

ao3 - master post

as promised, chapter one today, even though the cost was my writing 6k words in an afternoon RIP me i thought this was going to be a lot shorter lol. enjoy!

---

When Nesta awakes, she knows she had a peaceful dream, she is in the House, and Cassian is by her side. She nearly smiles, more content than she's felt in living memory--when slowly, but not scarily, she remembers.

The scrying yesterday...it had left her mind bare and vulnerable and the Cauldron had taken advantage. She doesn't feel the pain now, but remembers that she felt it. Cassian, still asleep in the chair, had come in because of her screams. And...Rhysand?

Cassian rouses soon after, asks her how she's feeling. What is she supposed to say?

"Rhys is going to join us for breakfast," he tells her.

Nesta tries not to make a habit of swearing. But fuck.

He had, it must be said, comforted her last night. Left her in peace. Even though she was too tired to look, she knew the place was beautiful. She felt warm and safe and her pain had been entirely forgotten. Generous, she supposes. He had not needed to do that. But it's not as though they're friends now. Nesta knows what's coming. A lecture--at best. A reprimand for letting her magic run amok, for endangering Cassian and Azriel and maybe even the priestesses, for being so out of control she needed someone else, him, to come and pull her out of her own mind. It'll probably just be to scare her. They won't actually chuck her into the Prison. But that's where the threats will go, she's certain.

The peace of her dream fades completely by the time she trudges into the dining room. Cassian is there. And Rhys. They both stand when she enters.

"Good morning, Nesta," Rhys says. "How are you feeling?"

Nesta narrows her eyes. Cordial...even pleasant. "Fine."

"Glad to hear it." He smiles at her. Real, not mocking.

Nesta keeps her hands at her sides when she sits. Cassian chooses a spot next to her.

"Coffee or tea?"

"Nes is picky. I'll get it." Cassian flashes her a grin, which she doesn't return.

Buttering her up for something, that's clearly what this is about. But what?

Cassian and Rhys make idle conversation, accepting her short, one-word answers and not making a fuss over them. Cassian does nudge her until she's eaten to his satisfaction, though, but the smothering ends there. It's not how she'd like to spend her morning, but it's not too bad, until--

"Cass, could you give me a moment with Nesta?"

Cassian squeezes her thigh under the table and nods encouragingly at her. Her heart skips--for him or Rhys, she does not know.

---

Nesta's eyes are precisely the same shade as Feyre's, and yet always appear different. More gray. Lifeless, or afraid. Rhys has never seen her smile.

"I want to offer you something," he says.

Nesta's face tightens. "You want to offer me something?"

"Something I offer everyone. And I...had not thought to offer it to you. I apologize."

Nesta's brow quirks. He grimaces inwardly.

"I know that you've...experienced a lot of pain," he starts, in a careful voice. She freezes anyway. He continues, undeterred, "I can take the pain away. If you want."

Nesta's head tilts to the door, where Cassian is waiting outside. She shifts her gaze back to Rhys--not lifeless, not scared, but intelligent. "You can take it away?"

He nods slowly. "I can...make you forget."

It's something he offers them. All of them. All the females, when they come here. But he had never really considered Nesta a female who had come here, even though it was his idea to bring her. She was always something else entirely. His mistake. But he can right it now.

"You can make me forget?" she repeats, as she's been doing this whole morning. She frowns a little, different than her usual scowl, more curiosity than ire. Then she sucks in her lip, eyes widening. "Yes," she says. "Yes. All of it. Do it now."

"All right," he says, calm. Most females turn him down, too frightened, but Rhys doesn't judge either way. He isn't sure what he expected of Nesta, honestly. "It won't hurt. I just need you to lower your shields--"

"No," she says, standing. "I mean...all of it." Her eyes, the most beautiful eyes in the world, stripped of any joy, stare at him with such urgency. Her hands clasp themselves tightly in front of her lips--pleading. "All of it, Rhysand."

His lips tug down. "Yes, I can make you forget it all--"

"All of it," she insists again. "I mean everything."

Rhys nods. Sometimes, even for the females who want to have their memories erased, the idea of anyone seeing them is too painful to process and renders them inconsolable--but then he realizes what she means.

"Nesta," he says, slowly, carefully. "I don't think--"

"You don't understand," she says, hands slamming down on the table. "You--if you saw--look," she says, shields dropping entirely. "Look."

Rhys raises his head, and he does.

He braces himself for the pain he felt last night, but this is entirely different. It's so much worse.

Were he not already sitting down, Rhys thinks the wave of self-hatred that falls over him would knock him over.

It all hits him--over and over again, worse than last night. Some of it is there, yes, but clearer. The woman is her grandmother, beating her. The man is--ugh--Rhys physically recoils as he sees Nesta's fanciful ideas of love with this man, so young, so hopeful--and how he had ruined that, how he had stripped it away from along with her dress and her dignity--

And how all of it is tied to love. Such deep, unending love...for Feyre, for Elain. It's all intertwined, it can't be severed from her being.

He sees the rest, but he does not look. He knows enough.

"Nesta," he says, gently, pulling out of her head.

"You're not going to do it," she says, eyes lined with silver. "I don't believe you. You're actually not going to--then leave! Just leave!"

"Nesta, wait," he says, raising his hands. "I didn't say I'm not going to help you."

"But that's it, isn't it?"

"You don't want to lose yourself like this. You love your sisters too much. Trust me, it's worth it."

"You...why did you even offer?" she asks, voice shaking. "You weren't going to help me. And know I'm just...if I were anyone else, you would do it. It's only for Feyre that you don't."

Rhys hesitates. She's right. If it were anyone else, he would let her start her life afresh, quietly, peacefully. But she is Nesta Archeron, his mate's sister, and there's something to fight for here. "All right," he says. "I'll make you a deal."

"I don't want to hear it," Nesta says immediately, but Rhys pushes.

"Give me two months."

Nesta crosses her arms over her chest. Her eyes still shine with unshed tears. "For what?"

"To prove to you that you don't need to do this."

Nesta shakes her head vigorously. "I'm not living like this for another second--"

"One month."

"No--"

"Two weeks."

"Don't you understand what you're asking me? Don't you see how I live?"

"One week," Rhys says firmly. "One week. If at the end of the week, you still want this...I'll do it."

Nesta pauses. She wipes her eyes, then narrows them at him. "You'll do it all?"

"You have my word."

She sucks in her lip again. "What will you tell them?"

"Leave it to me," he says. "They won't have any say. I'll do it...if you give me this week."

Nesta stares at him, face once again devoid of emotion, as she considers without letting him in on her thoughts. But he knows what she'll say. That's why he started with two months, bargaining down.

"All right," she says, finally. "One week. I'll do it. And then...you have to wipe my memory clean."

"If you want," he adds.

"Yes."

The magic seals the bond between them; Rhys feels it make its mark upon his skin. He lifts his left palm: three stars, at differing heights, like the Night Court insignia. Nesta purses her lips, and Rhys stifles a grin. Hopefully she won't mind it so much by the time the week is over.

"The week starts now. Spend two days here," he tells her. "I'll come get you on Tuesday morning."

Nesta looks up from her palm. "And take me where?"

"Don't worry about that. See you in two days, Nesta."

He strolls out of the House, keeping himself leisurely while in Nesta's line of sight. Clapping his hand on Cassian's shoulder, he shows him his other palm.

Cassian swears. "What did you do?"

"I've got work," he says, ignoring him. "Stay here with Nesta. Don't leave her for two days. Don't irritate her too much."

"Oh, that's rich. She actually likes me, you know."

"I know," Rhys agrees. And without another word, he takes off into the morning.

---

The next two days pass without any word from Rhysand. Nesta doesn't see anyone else besides Cassian. They train together on the roof, but more of the stuff she enjoys than what he says is important. He's teasing, but doesn't rise to her testing bait. In on Rhys' plan, she supposes, though he doesn't mention it at all.

He spends the first night in her room, in the chair he had slept in the night before. They don't mention it; they both pretend it's normal. He asks her if she'll read him any smut. She chucks a mystery novel at him. They go to sleep.

The next day is much of the same. Not unpleasant, but not worth living life.

"You're going somewhere," Cassian says to her on the morning of the third day.

"How do you know?"

He points to the trunk packed at the foot of her bed in answer. "Shame you won't have any good-looking roommates coming along with you." He grins at her.

Nesta turns away from him, bending down to look at the trunk, to hide her face. He had stayed in the chair, ready to protect her from herself, but he had not joined her in her bed.

"Do you know where I'm going?" she asks, the contents of the trunk too diverse to pinpoint any one climate.

"No. I've been here with you. But you'll find out soon enough. I like the dress you're supposed to wear today, though," he says, pointing to wear it hangs on the wardrobe.

When Nesta is washed and changed into the lilac chiffon daygown, and breakfasts with Cassian in the dining room, Rhysand walks in.

"Ready to go?" he asks.

She glances at Cassian. "Yes."

With a wave of his hand, the trunk, brought in by Cassian, disappears. Rhysand waves them out onto the veranda. Nesta's stomach clenches--they'll have to fly. She had forgotten.

But neither of the males seem to notice anything amiss. Cassian bends down to kiss her cheek--in front of Rhysand--and says, "Bye, sweetheart," as though they are lovers, leaving for the day. There is the promise of seeing each other again that night, but Nesta knows...she will never see him again.

"Goodbye," she says, voice catching.

Again, neither of them seem to notice. Comfortably, Rhysand lifts her into his arms--she will never see the House again, she will never again take pleasure in its friendship, she will never see Gwyn again--and flies a few dozen feet in the air--

They winnow onto solid ground.

Foreign ground.

A small cavalry of dark-skinned Fae, darker than Cassian, dressed in bright colors and light fabric greet them.

Nesta vaguely recognizes one of them. Eyes like the sea and hair like its foam. A handsome forehead, with soft cheeks and a rigid jawline. Even if she did not recognize him, Nesta would know the power in the air immediately. One of the High Lords.

"High Lord, Lady Nesta," he says with a slight bow, "welcome to the Summer Court."

Rhysand returns a small one, so Nesta dips into a curtsy as he says, "Thank you for having us."

"Ottilie and Cordelia will take your things," the High Lord says, waving over two females to the trunks which have appeared behind them. "I trust you're ready to begin?"

Rhysand inclines his head and offers his arm to Nesta. She grimaces inwardly as she takes it.

"This way."

The group of faeries part for the three of them to pass through. Only when she walks by him does Nesta notice Varian--right. This is his home court. He's some sort of prince here.

Doesn't matter. He doesn't seem to be going where Tarquin--that's his name, she remembers--is taking them. As long as she won't have to remind him of any of the Night Court's pleasantries, she doesn't care. Although perhaps he'd need it more than anyone, being with Amren, Nesta thinks bitterly. One person she will not miss seeing again. In fact, the only thing that makes her queasy is the idea of Amren meeting the new Nesta and once again tricking her into believing they are friends.

"Welcome to Adriata, Lady Nesta," Tarquin says, turning around and holding out his arm in the direction of a large window. Nesta's eyes widen as she takes in the view.

It's leagues more beautiful than Velaris, that much is certain. A sparkling teal sea hugging a white-sand coastline, and brightly colored buildings only one or two stories high, not breaking the incredible skyline. There's a pier stretching out farther than Nesta would've thought possible, and a staircase cutting right into the water.

"Our Sea Steps," Tarquin says, following her line of sight. "May I escort you there?"

When Rhys doesn't answer, she realizes she's supposed to. "You may," she replies, too distracted to think about whether she should add please or thank you.

Tarquin and Rhysand are both polite the whole way down to the pier. Nesta finds she falls back into the role of a dignified lady easily--this is just like being shown someone's estate, just like a proper dinner. It's only the characters that don't fit, but if Rhysand can act, she can too. How this is supposed to make her change her mind...perhaps he's struck some sort of deal with Tarquin? She'll live here instead?

"Do you spend much time at the Night Court's beaches, Lady Nesta?" Tarquin asks her, when they reach the shore.

"I...haven't yet had the opportunity to go."

"Excellent," he says. "The first Prythian beach you see should be ours."

Rhysand laughs. "She's walked along the Sidra river plenty."

Nesta stops herself from flinching--she hates the thought of being watched.

People--children, she realizes, lots of children--run along the beach, playing games or exercising, but the dock they walk along is empty. Tarquin, again noticing her observations, says, "The Sea Steps are normally open to the public, but we had them closed for everyone but personnel today. For your pleasure."

"Personnel?"

"We have a facility down here."

The staircase at the docks looks like any other, except for the fact that it descends into the water. When Tarquin takes the first step, his feet under the sea, Nesta's throat tightens. The water--she can't--

But when his hand touches the waves, the sea breaks, forming a sort of hallway around the steps. Rhysand doesn't stop his stride, and Nesta keeps pace with them, as they follow Tarquin down.

She would have assumed it would be dark. It's not.

The sunlight shines through the walls and ceiling of the staircase, and when they reach the bottom, the floor opens up to...the ocean.

Tarquin turns to see her face. "Well?" he says, his polite pesona dropping into something a little more smug.

"It's," Nesta says, struggling to find the right words. "It's like...a reverse aquarium."

Tarquin laughs. "That's the idea."

The room is ridiculously large, and offsets a few corridors. The floor beneath Nesta's feet feels dry and stable, the air cool but not uncomfortably so. And all around her...

Fish. Eels. Creatures she's never even imagined. All swimming through the sea, gliding, like flying.

Nesta approaches one of the walls, letting go of Rhysand's arm. She lifts her palm to it, but doesn't touch. It feels cool.

"It's water," Tarquin says. "You can stick your hand in."

Gingerly, Nesta presses in a finger. It goes through, easily--it's water. The walls are water. The walls are the sea.

Nesta raises her eyes. A school of fish--gracious, but she doesn't know any of their names! Not beyond the generic--fish, eels, jellyfish...crab and coral and a dolphin! Nesta's never seen a dolphin before!

"Bottlenose, Lady," a faerie says to her, appearing out of nowhere. As Nesta looks to see him, she realizes she's wrong--there are plenty of other faeries, all dressed in teal--the personnel--milling about. She only had not noticed, entirely taken by the sight.

"The dolphin," the faerie adds. "They're not unique to the faerie world. You get them in mortal seas, too."

Nesta turns back to the sea-wall. "And this?" she says, pointing to a bright orange fish.

"Those are faerie, Lady. We call them Orange Biters."

"Biters?"

Wordlessly, the faerie reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, dried anchovy. He reaches his hand into the water, tossing the anchovy in the direction of the fish--which opens its jaws wide, revealing a set of terrifying fangs, and chomps down on it.

"They don't bother with the shore," the faerie assures her. "It's perfectly safe to swim there."

"Oh," Nesta says. Not as though she was worried about that, as there's no chance of her swimming anytime soon, but...it's incredible; she can't think of what to say.

"Shall we begin the tour, Lady Nesta?" Tarquin asks her.

She looks to Rhysand, who, again, is waiting for her answer. "Yes, please."

Tarquin leads them into different pathways through the sea, introducing her to the faeries working there and letting them explain what they specialize in, what they're doing. Some of them are monitoring breeding patterns, some tracking coral growth, but most are simply watching the fish, noting everything they do.

"Does it ever get tedious?" Nesta asks a female.

"Never," she says, raising her arms. "Could you ever get tired of this view?"

Nesta supposes not. But the tour ends, and Tarquin leads them back up the stairs and onto land.

"Did you enjoy the Sea Steps?"

"It was the most incredible thing I have ever seen," Nesta answers honestly.

Tarquin grins broadly at her. "You're more than welcome back, any time you'd like."

Before Nesta can thank him, Rhysand says, "Perhaps you might allow her to bring Cassian next time." To Nesta he says, "Tarquin's predecessor had banned Cassian from ever entering the city."

"Rightfully so, I believe," Tarquin says lightly. "Would you not agree, Lady Nesta, that someone who destroys a building loses privileges to reenter the city limits?"

"But he'd like the Sea Stairs too, don't you think, Nesta?"

Nesta shoots Rhysand a look. "I'm sure anyone would."

"Maybe you could make him fight a shark for it," Rhys suggests.

Tarquin laughs. "That would be something. Do you agree, Lady Nesta?"

"I suppose so," she says after a beat. It is only after she says it does the vision hit her: Cassian, wings flung out behind him the water, fighting a shark in front of the Summer Court to win the chance to return to this city. Her lips quirk upwards of their own accord.

---

Lunch is an affair as well. Tarquin shows them to a seaside restaurant, cleared of its patrons. The chef comes out and bows to them, low, thanking her for honoring them with her first meal in the Summer Court.

She had forgotten what it was like to be treated this way. The High Lady's sister. Here with Rhysand, it seems impossible to deny her place in the Night Court. But she goes along with it anyway, thanking them for having her, eating the meal they serve and sending her compliments to the kitchen.

Afterwards, they walk along the streets for an hour or two. It isn't a parade, but Night Court flags have been hung up, and people at booths call out their cheery hellos and ask if Lady Nesta would like to try their seasalt scrub, if the High Lord would like a pearl set to bring home to the High Lady.

"See anything you like?" Rhys says to her.

"It's all lovely," she replies, diplomatic.

"Oh, come on," he says, nudging her, and she clamps down on her jaw to keep it from dropping. "Anything for yourself? Gwyn, or Emerie?"

Her heart pangs at that. Gwyn and Emerie.

"Are these all ocean pearls?" she asks a faerie at a jewelry booth. "Anything from a river?"

With a flourish, the faerie shows her a tray of river pearls, strung in various fashions. Running her fingers over the gems, she selects a teal-stone string, the same color as Gwyn's eyes.

"For you, Lady Nesta?"

"For a friend," she says, voice turning hollow.

The faerie beams at her, wrapping it up in pretty paper. "Your friend will love it very much, Lady."

"Thank you," she says, as Rhysand pays.

They walk a little further, Nesta mostly ignoring the salespeople except to offer slight nods of acknowledgement, until she finds a spice spread. She picks out the most fragrant, and every kind of seasalt they have, into a small chest. For Emerie.

She wouldn't want to spend her last week out of the House, with Rhsyand of all people, but perhaps it's for the best. Even thinking about her friends is painful enough. They don't know who she is, what she has done. If they had...it would only be a matter of time before they left her, rejecting her, like everyone else has done. If Elain, sweet, heartfelt, patient Elain could not love her enough; if strong, resilient, defiant Feyre gave up on her...only Rhysand stands at her side, and not for love. At least, not love for her.

He'll be proven wrong, she knows. Her sisters won't even lose her. They'll remake her however they want, in whatever image they please. Maybe it'll even be one Cassian will favor.

The streets quiet somewhat, in the afternoon, and Tarquin tells them his people take naps around this hour every day. The heat, he explains, can be taxing. So he shows they back to the palace, tells them to rest or wander as they like, and would they please join him from a celebratory dinner at seven.

Celebrating what, Nesta isn't sure, but Rhysand accepts, and then she does too.

"Our rooms connect," he tells her when they get there. "I'll be in there if you need me."

"What..." would I need you for, she wants to say, but instead switches to, "should I do?"

He shrugs. "Wander, like Tarquin said. Or nap. Whatever you'd prefer."

He leaves her at her door, pushing into his. Nesta rolls her eyes to no one and enters her room.

Her trunk sits at the foot of the bed. The patterns are all complimentary of the sea, and the scent of it floats in through the open window with a warm breeze.

The heat is taxing. Nesta slips out of her daygown and into a robe, lying down on the silken sheets. What will she feel like, she wonders. When she is made anew. Will she wonder about who she was? Will they tell her? No, they won't; what would they say? They will make something up. Feyre will tell her she's their emissary, happy to serve. Elain will tell her they meet for breakfast every day. Perhaps they won't ever mention being human, and Nesta will never wonder about what she has lost.

Surely, she'll accept it. She'll be as easy as they all want. She has to be. Because Nesta doesn't know what she'll do if...when even after the pain is wiped away, when none of her remains, if she is the same. If it is not the hurt that makes her so, it is simply who she is.

It is perhaps her biggest fear, albeit a new one, and not easy to fall asleep to, but she does, and awakes sometime later to windchimes and a knock on her door.

"Lady Nesta? May I come in?"

"Uh, yes," Nesta says, bringing a hand to her forehead. "Enter."

The door opens slightly. One of the females from earlier. Ottilie. "May I help you prepare for this evening?"

"Yes," Nesta says dimly, massaging her temples, too distracted by her headache to realize what she's agreed to. She's become very used to not having any staff around at the House, and yet, still not having to do much of the work herself, beyond what she pleases. She likes it, never having liked being fussed over. Staff have always been frightened of her, anyway, even when she was human.

But Ottilie doesn't seem to show any fear. "Headache, Lady Nesta? From the heat?"

"I think so."

"This will help," she says, bringing out a small blue pill from her pocket and pouring her a glass of water from the pitcher by her bed. Nesta takes it, and Ottilie says, "But it's best to remember to drink when you visit us, Lady Nesta."

"Thanks," Nesta says, swallowing. "Tonight is..."

"Dinner, lady. And dancing. And a performance."

Dinner and dancing. She can do that. It's all she used to do, actually. Elain had it enjoyed it more, obviously, but...Nesta knows how to play the part. She isn't sure why Rhysand thinks this will show her life is worth living with all her pain, but...just a few more days. She can do this.

Ottilie is pleasant, chatting as she lays out Nesta's dress from her wardrobe and steaming it straight. She doesn't mind Nesta's short answers and keeps most of the conversation going herself, but not annoyingly so. She talks of the history of the Summer Court, explaining about the type of performance they'll see tonight. Vaguely interesting, but nothing too mind-occupying.

Nesta hates the feel of others touching her hair, and Ottilie doesn't protest when Nesta takes the brush to do it herself. She styles a coronet with a bit more twists and braids than usual, in honor of the celebration tonight, and picks out pins studded with sparkling blue stones, matching her dress.

Nesta doesn't know if the House packed for her or if Rhysand did, but the dress is magnificent. Modest in the way no one else in Prythian seems to care about--except maybe the priestesses--covering her breasts, back, and arms, like it should. But the fabric switches sheer from her elbows to her wrist, and there are matching panels from her waist to the ground, her legs cleverly hidden with a deep turquoise slip. It gives the illusion that she's showing more skin than she is, Nesta thinks as she eyes herself in the mirror, which she decides is all right. As long as she's not actually bare...that's fine.

Rhysand is waiting for her right outside her door when Ottilie opens it and lets her step out.

"You look lovely," he says, and grins when she only narrows her eyes at him in response. Nonetheless, she takes his arm and lets him lead her to a large courtyard overlooking the water.

The sun sets later in Summer, and even though it's seven, twilight has only just begun to touch the sky, and they catch the last of the sun's rays as it dips below the sea. With it, faelights flicker on, leaving the evening nearly as bright as the day. A glance upwards tells her what everyone has told her about the Night Court is true: the stars shine brighter there than anywhere else.

"Good evening," Tarquin says, too loud to be addressing just them. Indeed, the courtyard silences, all the Fae splendor-dressed Fae turning to face him. "And welcome to our honored guests, the High Lord of Night...and his sister, Lady Nesta, Kingslayer."

Nesta starts--at being referred to as Rhysand's sister and Kingslayer both. The crowd does not care, smattering an applause.

"Let the night begin," Tarquin continues, raising a glance.

The faeries cheer in answer, raising glasses of their own.

Tarquin approaches, a waiter trailing him. "Something to drink?" he offers them.

Nesta flushes.

But Rhysand only says, "Thank you. Nesta?"

She looks at him, trying to decipher if this is some sort of test. But he doesn't appear to be hiding anything, only casually asking her as polite society demands he does. So she takes it, gingerly, carefully.

What would Elain say? Feyre? Cassian?

But they aren't here right now. She can do what she likes.

"To a lovely night," Tarquin says, holding out his glass.

"Indeed," Rhysand coos, and Nesta stifles an eye roll as she clinks her goblet to theirs.

With the very first sip, Nesta knows. She isn't going to get drunk tonight. It hadn't been that that she'd craved, ever, it was only the dulling of pain. But being so far away from everything that has caused her hurt is good enough for tonight. The Summer Court is its own distraction from her own head. Plus, she'd always hated feeling out of control of herself. That was part of why she'd drunk. Her punishment for being...herself.

But it's not like Nesta's a masochist. Only realistic. So there's no reason for any of that tonight. She can just enjoy this sweet, sparkling wine, and manage with everyone's company.

She supposes with its fishing industry, it's only natural for so much of the food to be seabased, but she finds she tires of it quickly. The table Tarquin shows them is laden with tiny portions of other things, too, though, enough for a bite of each, then staff whisk the empty plates away and serve something else. Most of the conversation revolves around the food, with Tarquin explaining what each dish is, and Nesta commenting on what she likes about, or else making something up if she doesn't. After about an hour of this, a hush falls over the courtyard as the faelights dim.

"The main entertainment," Tarquin says, gesturing towards the water. Nesta's eyes follow his hands, and she waits, unsure of what she's supposed to be seeing. A performance, Ottilie had said.

It is entirely silent but for the waves when the violin starts. First one, then another, and few more join. For a wild moment, Nesta thinks they might be coming from the water--but no, they are merely on the other side of the courtyard. The violins all strike the same chord and then fall quiet together, for a moment, two, and then--

Something rises from the sea, sparkling too bright to properly make out at first. Nesta soon deciphers what the shape is: two faeries raising a third, each of them clutching a leg. But how are the lower two standing straight up in the water? Is there a hidden platform, like the Sea Stairs?

The top faerie flips backwards into the water, the violins starting up again with the splash. The two lower faeries rise, higher than the top one had--each of them held up by two faeries as well. They flip backwards into the water, their sparkling uniforms glinting like diamonds in the starlight, and the pattern repeats, larger and more fanciful, until a wild applause and a change in the music signifies the start of a new act.

The music is more exciting, Nesta wants to watch the performers. But she can't draw her eyes away from the water as the water-acrobats, flipping in and out of the sea, move in some way akin to play staging. There's a war, that much is certain, by the way the faeries launch themselves at each other. Wild, brutal, and unfathomably beautiful. There's a break in it, as two entwine together, and the music turns sad, slow, and Nesta thinks the war is over, lost, before one the faeries launches themselves at someone sneaking up on them from behind, knocking them both into the water. Then it is over. A final act of flips again, and Nesta is first on her feet to clap when they finish, standing on--aha--a raised podium to take their bows.

"We're supposed to follow that?" Nesta asks Tarquin.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he says pleasantly. "I'm sure you can keep up. May I?" He holds his hand out to her.

Nesta hasn't been asked to dance in...she can't even remember.

"You may," she says, not looking at Rhysand to check if she can.

The violinists play, and other couples join them. Rhysand is dancing with some female who greeted them this morning. One of Tarquin's cousins, she supposes.

"Any shows like that in the Night Court?" Tarquin asks her.

"Have you never been?" she asks, because she doesn't know the answer.

"I have not. You might remind your sister she should invite me. The least she could do, after she so rudely ruined her welcome here by robbing my family."

Nesta raises her eyebrows, but Tarquin doesn't smile. "Are you here as an emissary, too, Lady Nesta?"

"No." Oh, that's right. Feyre had had that stupid title once.

"Well, that's what Rhys told me she was. But she was just here to steal for him."

"Why did you invite him back?"

"He made amends when he saved my people," Tarquin admits, grudgingly. "And I wanted to meet you."

They pause their conversation as they spin: she twirls out, in, out, then he pulls her back.

"Why did you agree to come?" he asks. "I hear you are not so interested in policy."

Nesta shudders slightly. He hears from spies, he means. For she is the High Lady's sister, so all the other Courts have spies watching her. "Is this policy making?"

"No," he says. "This is pleasure."

"Then I suppose you could say that's what I'm here for."

He grins at her. A real smile, not the polite, detached ones of today. "Any specific kind you are looking for, Lady Nesta?"

Is he...flirting?

"No," she says. "Just learning what other Courts have to offer."

"Well, I'm flattered you chose to start with ours."

Is that it, then? Is Rhysand taking her around the other Courts? He has four days left, but five other Courts...Spring, she supposes, will not be on their itinerary.

"You dance very well," he says.

"Thank you. You make a fair partner."

He laughs. "Fair?"

"Fair's better than most."

He laughs again. "Did you have lessons?"

"I did, actually...ballet. For years." But it's been quite a while since Nesta's thought of that, hasn't it?

"Then perhaps you could be one of the Night Court's performers."

Nesta huffs. "I don't think I could be one of the Night Court's anything."

"Good," Tarquin says. "You're wasted at night. You're too beautiful to be kept in the dark."

Definitely flirting.

"Tell me of mortal dances. Are they anything like ours?"

Nesta looks over at the crowd, the violinists, the sea beyond. "On paper," she says, "but this is...well, I have never seen a show like yours before, as I said."

"Well, you won't find that anywhere else. But the same, otherwise? Food, dancing, music?"

"The same," she confirms.

"Hm. I suppose we might be having this very evening anywhere, then."

"I suppose we might," she says.

"But I'll always remain partial to my own Court."

"I can certainly understand that," Nesta answers honestly.

He likes her answer. He asks her more about the mortal world, gentle things that don't trigger painful memories. She talks without saying much, and he finds ways to compliment her genuinely anyway. She had watched Elain had conversations like this once. It had looked nice. It is.

Rhysand cuts in, after a while. For propriety's sake, presumably, as he doesn't say much beyond asking her if she's enjoying the evening.

"Tarquin wants to dance with you again," he says when their number is up.

"So do I," she replies, somewhat surprised at herself, and he hands her to him with an incline of his head.

This time, she asks him things. If he can swim as well as those performers. He laughs. "Not as well as they, no. But perhaps stronger than most."

"And what of the fish?" she asks. "Do you know about the fish as well as the personnel at the Sea Stairs do?"

"Not as well as they do, either. I...I'm the youngest High Lord--well, after your sister. I'm just past eighty years old."

"Oh, young," Nesta says, and they both laugh, surprising herself again. "I only mean that's about as old as human beings get."

"I know," he says. "But young for us, at any rate." Us. "So there's much I haven't yet...I was far down the line for this throne, you know."

"Oh?" Nesta asks. She knows it doesn't pass how she'd expect, from High Lord to eldest, that power has something to do with it, but she isn't quite sure of it all.

"My uncle was High Lord. He...and most all our family, all his children...slaughtered. By Amarantha."

"Oh," Nesta says, faltering. "I-I'm sorry--"

"We're all so grateful to you and your sisters," he says, unperturbed, "for ending her reign, for ending Hybern." He grins, shifting the mood back. "Even if she did rob my coffers."

"What did she take?" Nesta says.

"A book."

Oh. That book.

Doesn't make any sense to Nesta. This High Lord seems...well, regardless of how he seems, he fought alongside them in the war. He has a personal grudge against Hybern. Surely he would've wanted to aid them...but Nesta doesn't ever claim to understand how the Night Court operates.

"Would you like to see some of our collection?" he asks her. "If you promise not to steal." His tone is light, but Nesta knows he is serious.

"I won't," she assures him. She could tell him she has little use for anything, doesn't own anything herself and doesn't particularly care too. But she doesn't, content with the night as it is, and lets him lead her back inside, to a quiet area of his castle.

Two guards stand in front of a massive door, but they only bow when they see them approach and move out of the way. Tarquin opens it with a wave of his hand, his magic shifting something in the air.

"Oh," Nesta breathes when she steps in. She can't help it. Once a merchant's daughter, always a merchant's daughter.

Any number of jewels, tiaras, goblets...Tarquin's family is a wealthy one indeed. She supposes they all are, all the High Lord's families.

"It's too much," he says. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"I..."

"I'm in the business of selling, now actually," Tarquin continues. "I never thought I'd be High Lord, but now that I am...well, it's not as though I don't have ambitions. I want to do right by my people."

"That's admirable," Nesta says distractedly, bending down to try and guess if a chest of fat rubies is real.

"I abhor the differences our society places on High Fae and lesser faeries. We're all faeries...do you agree with me?"

"I do indeed," Nesta says, but she doesn't agree the way he assumes. Nesta's never given much thought to the status levels of different types of Fae in Prythian. Her base instinct is to view them all as monsters anyway. But, realizing it's true, she says, "I don't like very many High Fae anyway. The only ones I do like are part-nymph and Illyrian."

He laughs. "I suppose you don't consider yourself High Fae."

"No, I don't," she says. "I'm not."

"You're not," he agrees. Then he says, a bit awkwardly, "And I suppose the Illyrian you're fond of...Cassian?"

"Oh, no," she says, not thinking. "I was speaking of my friend Emerie."

He perks up at this. "Oh."

"She's the one I bought the spices for."

"Oh! Well...you're very welcome to bring her along on your next visit."

"Thank you," she says politely.

"And...your friend, the nymph...I suppose the river pearls are for her?"

"Yes."

"Well, it seems as though you don't have anything to remember my Court for yourself, then." He sounds as though he's teasing her.

"I have the memories," Nesta says, remaining polite, even though soon she won't.

"Well, then, please," he says, waving a hand. "Choose a momento."

Nesta laughs, unable to stop herself, but he doesn't. "I insist."

"I--no. That's very generous, but--"

"No, please. What kind of host would I be if I didn't give you something to remember your trip by?"

"This is very kind of you, but--"

"Please, Nesta," he says, dropping the made-up title. "If not a gift for tonight, consider it incentive to come back."

She blushes, flustered. He's...it's wrong, isn't it? He's a good man--male. It's wrong of her to deceive him like this. She's obviously not...he thought he was talking to one female, but he's not, he's talking to someone entirely different.

"Very well," he says. "I shall have to choose for you."

He turns, ignoring her protestations, and reaches his hand high up, calling a wooden box to his hands. "Good thing, too," he says, "because you never would have found this on your own. And it suits you perfectly."

Nesta is about to argue again, but then he opens the box.

A fine-gold chain links together dozens of tiny blue stones. At first Nesta thinks the chain wraps around twice, like a long necklace, but then she realizes one is a necklace, and the other is a matching circlet, for her head.

"You didn't wear any jewelry today or tonight," he says. "But this is delicate enough that it should suit you nicely. And the color brings out your eyes, I think. Do you like it?"

"I...do," she says, hands itching to touch it. Merchant's daughter, whether she likes it or not.

"Then please accept," he says, holding out the box to her.

Nesta looks up at him, studying him carefully. "Feyre didn't have to steal from you," she says. "You would have given her anything."

Tarquin meets her gaze, not backing down as most males tend to. "No, I wouldn't have."

---

Nesta walks towards Rhys with a slight smile on her face, faint blush in her cheeks. Her hands are holding a small box.

"Did you have a nice time?" he asks her.

Her smile fades. She looks at him, frowning slightly. "I'm a person. Of course I had a nice time. But life isn't vacation, Rhysand. I still go to bed at the end of every day. I'm still alone with my thoughts, in my head...you know what that's like." Her voice turns accusatory.

"I know," he says evenly. "But you did have a nice time, otherwise?"

"I already said so," she says, impatient.

"Good," he says, turning to his door. "Get some sleep. We leave for Winter tomorrow."

---

She had half-hoped that she would be wrong, that the pleasure of the day would bleed into her dreams, that she'd be spared the horrors of herself for the night.

But she isn't.

86 notes View Post

alinajrml

4 years ago

Before the Dust Settles

Word Count: 4856

Writing Masterlist

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TW: miscarriage, death, depression, self-blame, eating disorder, victim blaming, disassociation, mentioned sexual assault

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A/N: Huge shoutout and thank you to @thewayshedreamed for beta-reading this fic and for being so supportive! I couldn’t have done without you Dani ♥️ Also, tysm @perseusannabeth for listening to my early rambles abt this fic, and @bookstantrash for helping my indecisive self finish up editing this. Love you guys :)

Green. The color of grass and Springtime, when seeds sprout and eggs hatch.

Blue. The color of the sky. The color of her mother’s eyes. Would she have seen those eyes beneath their sleepy, blinking lids?

Red. Her legs were coated in an ominous crimson as she raced to the hospital. As her baby, who had never had the chance to become a baby, never had the chance to take a breath of air, never had the chance to see or hear or smell or taste or touch, to have eyes and legs and fingers, disintegrated.

Maybe she should have screamed. Nesta had always been one to go down fighting, kicking and screaming and biting, even if it seemed hopeless. Maybe she should have yelled at the healers to do something, to save her baby’s life, instead of just telling her that her child was gone.

The world looked grey now. It was a blurry and muffled, as if she were underwater. Perhaps this was all just a Cauldron-induced nightmare. Was she still drowning in its depths? Had everything that had happened after that point merely been a taunting vision?

But the cramps she felt were too real. Besides, she couldn’t bring herself to care about what reality was anyway. Even if everything was just a vision, her child was dead. Cassian’s child was dead. That was her reality.

So she sat on her bed in her two-day-old pajamas, staring at the grey wall, wishing she hadn’t taken for granted all the times when it had looked green.

__________

A knock sounded on the door of her bedroom.

“Nesta, come on, we’re going to be late!” Cassian’s voice called through her door.

Was she supposed to go somewhere, wondered a small voice at the back of her mind. But mostly she was too tired to think, let alone to talk, or — gods forbid!— move. No way was she going anywhere, not even the kitchen.

“Nesta!” At her lack of response, Cassian opened the door and entered. He looked startled as he took in her attire. “We’re supposed to be at Rhys’ place in ten minutes! Come on, get dressed!”

Oh, yes, Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court, host of dinner parties, husband of Feyre, and father of Nyx. Nyx would have been her baby’s cousin. Would they have had the same jet-black, silky hair? The same sunkissed, almond skin tone? Would they have played together?

Perhaps they would have sat next to each other on the swings, and Feyre and Nesta would have stood behind them, pushing them gently and chatting softly.

“Nesta!”

You have to answer, Nesta told herself. She couldn’t let Cassian suspect that something was wrong with her. If he did, he’d offer her kindness that would make her break down and confess everything. She couldn’t let herself hurt him that way. After all, she hadn’t even gotten the chance to tell him she was pregnant.

Taking a silent deep breath through her nose, Nesta steeled herself and forced herself to say, “I’m not going.” Cassian would never know that those were the first words she’d said since the healers had told her the news.

“What? Please, last week you promised you were coming!” Cassian huffed, frustrated. “Are you trying to punish me for staying out late last night having drinks with Rhys?”

She couldn’t make herself answer. It took all her energy to sit upright and blink every once in a while, when all she wanted was to melt into a puddle or to fall asleep and never have to wake up again.

“Seriously, Nesta? Look, I’m sorry, alright? Would you please just get dressed?”

I’m sorry, Cassian. I’m sorry that I’m being difficult. I’m sorry that you always have to put up with me. I’m sorry that no matter how hard I try, I can’t be a perfect wife the way Feyre is to Rhysand. I’m sorry that I’m irritable and difficult. I’m sorry that our baby is dead.

The words didn’t seem to escape her lips, since Cassian’s didn’t respond; he just continued to stare at her expectantly, with slight frustration in his gaze.

She shook her head in response to his question. The action made her nauseous, probably because she hadn’t eaten in over 24 hours.

Cassian opened his mouth to attempt to convince her to go, but shut it without uttering a word. He had probably realized that nothing he said would convince her.

“Is everything okay? Do you need me to stay home with you?”

No. Nothing was okay and never would be, because nothing, not even the gods-damn Cauldron, could bring their baby back. Nesta could never ever fix it. She wanted to wrap herself in his arms and yell at the world but none of that would bring them back. No, the only thing Nesta could do was to spare Cassian the pain. She needed to rein in her selfish desire for comfort and instead make sure Cassian never, ever found out. Cassian, who had never had a father and had lost his mother too early in life, who had been dealt a hand with far too much loss and violence, didn’t deserve to be hurt this way. This was Nesta’s burden to be shouldered.

So Nesta merely shook her head again. As she watched Cassian’s figure retreat out of the room and leap into the sky, she realized that suffering alone would make her feel a little less useless. If she could cry for both of them and hurt for both of them, then her pain would serve to keep the smile on Cassian’s face and the light in Cassian’s eyes.

And for that, for him, she’d willingly endure any torture. She’d willingly condemn herself to eternal silent suffering, if only to spare the male she loved — the male who was, and had always been, far too good for her. For Cassian, she would survive this.

Nesta sat there alone as the light outside faded and the room grew darker. She had no idea how much time passed. She just sat there, trying to push all her thoughts out of her head.

Pitiful, that’s what it was. She was supposed to be a Valkyrie — strong both physically and mentally. Why was it that now, she failed to do even what she’d learned in the first days of mind-stilling exercises with Gwyn?

She needed to get her emotions under control. So far, she’d managed to keep Cassian unaware. The day of her miscarriage, Cassian had been dealing with trouble in Illyria and had come home late. He had kept his emotional shields up as he usually did when with his troops, so he hadn’t felt her pain through the bond — pain she hadn’t managed to contain despite her best attempts as she felt her joy bleed out of her. If Cassian had smelt any of the blood that had refused to leave her clothes, then he likely assumed it was just wounds from training and hadn’t said a thing. He had spent the next day discussing strategy with Azriel and Rhysand and had gone drinking with them afterwards. Honestly, it was a miracle that she had been able to keep up this facade for so long, with her obvious despair permeating the room.

She had to pull herself together.

Just… maybe not just yet. Right now, it was a struggle just to take another breath. Her stomach grumbled, urging her to feed herself. However, her legs, which were number than her heart and steadier than her mental shields, refused to budge. She closed her eyes for a moment and wondered why she was surprised that her body was failing her yet again. As much as she had grown to love her body while training to become a Valkyrie and fighting in the Blood Rite, she should not have forgotten that it wasn’t really hers. No, this High Fae body was given to her by the Cauldron. Although, it was debatable whether she had ever really owned her body. Had her human body not been a tool cultivated by her mother to manipulate powerful men? But still, despite being malnourished, it had been hers — enough for her to fight tooth and nail to preserve its purity against aggressive ex-fiancés.

This body… Nesta wanted to think that she owned it. It had grown and changed with her, becoming stronger and fuller and more flexible. Perhaps this was just a reminder that nothing really belonged to anyone. Her body, her soul — it was all part of the universe and in truth, she was powerless to control its fate. Her baby, too. They had never really been hers.

Nesta had been so excited to share the news with Cassian when she had found out a month ago. Anxious too of course, but mainly excited. She had read up about every detail, since she was not as informed as she wanted to be about the differences between human and Fae pregnancy. She researched everything from the best foods to eat during pregnancy to how long to breastfeed to whether flying was safe during the later months. She had even found information on how to make a safe, enclosed space with a soft floor where an infant illyrian could start to fly.

At first, she wanted to tell Cassian, but she had read about it and decided to surprise him with it as a Solstice present. She had imported a special candle from the Day Court which masked the scent of her pregnancy and had made sure to hide her nausea from Cassian to avoid his suspicion and worry.

Now, she was glad she’d decided not to tell him.

She opened her eyes, sighing softly, and found a tray of food lying next to her. As she picked up the spoon and took a bite, she realized it was all her comfort food: a plate with fried potatoes topped with fried egg, along with seafood paella and a bowl of chicken noodle soup.

“Thank you,” she whispered to the House — her first real friend. Eating made her feel slightly better, even if it was just because doing something occupied her mind. Still not all her thoughts were silenced: as she took a bite of the eggs, she couldn’t help but remember reading about how eggs had high nutritional value and were a food source of nutrients for pregnant females.

When she finished eating — which, to her surprise, was when almost everything on the tray was gone — a few books appeared, replacing the tray. Instead of the usual romance, these were fantasy. The House had clearly sensed that Nesta needed to escape reality for a while and that reading about happy couples would only make her feel worse.

Nesta breathed in the scent of the book — the ink, the pages, the book-binding glue — and felt a sense of calm wash over her as her problems faded away.

Later, when exhaustion finally closed her eyelids, she fell asleep still clutching an open book to her chest, her mind soaring over glittering seas riding an iridescent thousand-year old dragon.

__________

“Nesta?”

She awoke to the sound of a female voice calling her name through the door. She blinked and looked around, still groggy. She wondered briefly why Cassian was not sleeping next to her before recalling the events of the past few days.

“Nesta, you better be fully dressed because we’re coming in!” called a different voice.

Emerie. Gwyn. What were they doing here? Had she forgotten to tell them she wasn’t going to training? No, she had definitely let them know that she wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t attend. There was no reason for them to suspect otherwise, not after they’d seen Nesta dry heaving after training last week due to her morning sickness.

Nesta opened her mouth, trying to formulate some response that would make them leave but she found that she couldn’t use her voice. The thought of pretending to be alright exhausted her despite the fact that she had quite literally just woken up.

The door opened and the two females entered. As they gazed at her, Nesta knew she should try to put on her regular expression but it was futile.

Emerie’s eyes softened and Nesta resisted the urge to flinch. She didn’t want their pity. She didn’t want their comfort. She didn’t-

“We were wondering if you were willing to invite us,” Gwyn said tentatively. “We missed the Pegasus.”

“And the food,” Emerie added.

“And you, of course.” Gwyn’s eyes pierced her and Nesta knew her friend could see the sadness that was drowning her, burying her alive.

“But mainly the books and the food,” Emerie said, smirking. The light, joking air they put on was for her sake. Because they knew that, no matter how far she’d come, Nesta tended to retreat into her shell when things got bad. That her old habit returned and she needed to be gently coaxed into talking about her feelings. She needed to be reminded that people loved her and that she deserved to be loved.

It was because of Gwyn and Emerie that Nesta found the strength to get out of bed and walk with them to the living room.

She didn’t miss the long glances Emerie and Gwyn shared as they seemed to be debating what to do, but she didn’t react to them.

“So, Nesta,” Emerie said, “I actually read this book recently, I think it was called Amethyst Mischief? It was incredible.”

“Oh, who was it by?” Gwyn inquired.

“Asterion Winika. She also wrote Tinted Skies of Raleigh. Have you heard of it?”

“No,” Gwyn replied. Nesta shook her head as well.

“Well, it’s about this young female who was born in a world where there is a form of alchemic magic that they call ‘technology’ which is based on lighting-generated impulses. They power thousands of different things with this lighting energy, which they call electricity. Anyway, so this female was travelling…”

As Emerie recounted her story, with Gwyn chiming in occasionally, Nesta felt as though she were slowly thawing. It was as though she’d been encased in a cloud of heavy despair and now, the dark clouds were slowly moving to let a tiny stream of sunlight through. Her sadness still clung to her, but it had loosened its grip slightly, giving her room to breathe.

Although she could not attempt to feel joy, she felt like she was able to get through her day — to make it through without feeling as though she was being crushed by a mountain (now, it only felt like a boulder).

At the end of the afternoon, as she walked her friends to the door to say goodbye, she felt like she would be able to survive this. She just had to take it one step at a time.

__________

Cassian groaned, his arms raised above his head as he stretched in his chair.

“Long day?” Nesta asked. The dinner table, with their now empty plates, stood between them.

“Full day of training and drills with the Illyrians,” he replied, closing his eyes in exhaustion. “Sorry I didn’t come home last night. I needed to head to Illyria and-”

“It’s fine. Gwyn and Emerie came over today,” she said quickly, before steering the conversation away from her again. “How did the training go?”

Cassian let out a tired half-laugh, his eyes still shut. “About how you’d expect. Over-enthusiastic and energetic new recruits who need to learn some discipline, conniving warlords, disrespectful and power hungry males all around. But the drills went well.”

Pride cut through the haze of his exhaustion as he uttered that last phrase.

He opened his eyes. “It’s something beautiful, watching them all come together to fight. Of course I hope we won’t ever have another war but when we do these drills and they get into formations and fight the siphon-made simulation, they stop being individuals who are desperate for power and recognition and instead become the legendary Illyrian army. Watching those recruits who’d usually beat each other up for an extra portion of meat work together, helping each other up and guarding each other’s blind spots…”

His hazel eyes shone like liquid gold as awe colored his voice.

“It’s like Enalius is there. It’s glorious and it’s, well, I guess it’s why I love doing my job,” he smiled.

As she watched him, joy sparked in her chest which she felt keenly given its absence in the past three days. People often forgot that Cassian’s passion matched her own. They believed him to be easy going due to his mask of innuendoes, jokes, and smiles, and didn’t bother to notice his fire. Nesta loved watching him get passionate about subjects he loved. His face, his voice, and his soul lit up and Nesta couldn’t help but smile as he bloomed in front of her — fireworks breaking through the darkness of her despair.

Once in bed, Cassian promptly passed out. Laying curled against him, with his arm and wing tossed over her, Nesta felt his heat seep into her bones. In his cocoon, she felt safe, protected from the harsh tragedies she wanted to forget. Her last thought as she succumbed to Morpheus’ lull was that as long as she had Cassian, she would be alright.

__________

Nesta woke alone.

She got out of bed, threw on a robe over her nightgown, and headed towards the kitchen where Cassian probably was. Her fae ears picked up the sound of faint voices, growing louder as she approached.

Nesta entered the kitchen. For a brief moment, she absorbed the sunlight that streamed in through the window and felt at peace. Then, she took in her surroundings — or more precisely, the people who surrounded her. Cassian was in the kitchen, of course, but alongside him stood not only Azriel but also Mor, Rhys and Feyre. They seemed to be having breakfast together, as Cassian and Az cooked something on the stove while Mor and Feyre chatted as the blonde made tea. Why they had all decided to gather in her house this morning, she had no idea. Perhaps Cassian had invited them and hadn’t bothered to inform her. Or perhaps they thought that since this house had once belonged to Rhysand, they were still allowed to come and go unannounced as they pleased. Either way, she was in no state to deal with so many people, especially so early in the day.

Hoping to get some caffeine into her system, she took a step towards the cupboard to grab a mug when she noticed something moving at Feyre’s feet. A flutter of wings, chubby outstretched fingers, and rounded violet-blue eyes froze her in her tracks. Nyx. The sight stabbed her sharply and pain flooded her senses as a sludge of ugly emotions bled from the wound.

Why was it that Nyx was able to be standing there, in perfect health, with his perfect arms and legs and hair and wings, while her baby had never even gotten a chance to grow any of their own? Why was it that Nyx could hold onto his mother’s leg, babbling happily, while Nesta would never be able to hold her baby, let alone hear their voice or see their smile? Why was it that Nyx could be alive, could be born and grow up, getting a little bigger and stronger everyday, while Nesta’s baby had never even tasted a second of life?

Rage and despair churned into a violent tornado. Nyx let out a soft cry, as her baby never would. Feyre placed a kiss on his brow, as Nesta would never be able to do. Nyx exhaled air that her baby would never breathe.

Too much. The tornado had shredded her insides — her passionate heart, the temporary joy the afternoon with her friends and the night with Cassian had placed in her, the strength cultivated by her mother and her society and later by herself — all torn to pieces.

The tornado threatened to escape her, to cut others to ribbons with sharp words and destructive acts, but Nesta used the remaining shards of herself to hold it in.

Nyx laughed a toddler’s laugh: bubbly and consuming and innocent. Because that’s what he was: an innocent toddler.

How could she have, even for a moment, wished ill upon such a being? Not just any child, but Nyx. Nyx, for whom she had sacrificed her powers. Nyx, whom she had rocked to sleep and fed apple-sauce to and babysat countless times. Nyx, who always smiled so widely when she played peek-a-boo with him and whose eyes sparkled as he wrapped his tiny fingers around hers. Nyx, who crawled and then walked towards her just because he loved her hair and her hugs. What kind of monster was she to question his right to exist, just because her own child had been taken unjustly?

Cold. Cruel. Contemptible. Her guilt grew claws that dug into her.

A monster. That’s what she was. No wonder the Mother had decided not to give her a child. She didn’t deserve one. What she deserved was this: unending, unrelenting pain.

Yet Nesta was a coward, so she backed out of the kitchen, eager to get away from the adorable toddler who brought her such agony.

She slid down the hall. Her footsteps grew louder, echoing the double beat of her heart: Mon-ster. Mon-ster. Mon-ster. She shut her eyes, then covered her ears, as though any of that would stop her from hearing the beat.

How could it, when the words came from everywhere? From the Cauldron which had stolen her child away, from the world which had castigated her from a young age, and even from herself: Mon-ster. Mon-ster. Mon-ster. She thought that she’d grown and changed but perhaps she’d only gotten better at deluding herself. After all, beasts can never really turn into people, no matter how hard they try and beguile themselves with fairytales.

How could she escape the truth? How could she escape herself?

Your fault, whispered the walls. Your baby is gone forever, hissed the floor. You deserve it, yelled the ceiling. And then they were all closing in on her, tighter and tighter and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fit in this tiny cage, this prison of her own design and-

“Nesta!”

She gasped, inhaling deeper as her chest finally loosened. It was Cassian’s voice behind her.

“Hey, Nesta.” His voice was so soothing and it grounded her like nothing else. She blinked a few times. She hadn’t even noticed that her vision had gone blurry but now it began to clear.

“I’m so sorry that I didn’t tell you everyone was here,” he said. “I completely forgot that I had invited them a while back. I tried to tell them that we hadn’t prepared brunch but they just said that they’d assemble things and then I kind of gave in and… I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. I’m sorry.”

She had left the room because she couldn’t deal with all those people. She needed space to process the unexpected torment of facing Nyx. But Cassian wasn’t people: he was her mate, her husband, her partner, and her lover in every sense of the term.

She wanted to hug him. To bury herself in his strong, caring arms and chest and never leave his embrace. To leave behind the hurt and the pain that clawed at her continuously, and shield herself with his love.

Nesta turned around slowly, and met his amber eyes. Part of her wanted to be trapped within them forever, frozen in time in the eye of her hurricane.

“Nesta?” Her eyes fell to his lips as they curved slightly. “I brought you a surprise to cheer you up.” His dark lashes cast a shadow along his left cheek as he winked.

He raised his arms, and held out a wide-eyed, smiling child. Nyx.

Nesta could only blink in shock as her internal storm started up once more, the winds stronger than ever.

“He wanted to see his favorite aunt,” Cassian grinned, so joyously it singed a hole through her already battered heart. She couldn’t tell him that looking at this child, who Cassian adored with his whole being and brought him so much happiness, made her want to retch, smash every item in the house, and then sob for the rest of eternity. “And I know how much you love this little ball of mischief.”

Cassian raised Nyx higher and pressed a light kiss to his hair, causing the toddler to giggle happily.

He would have been such a great father.

You took that from him, whispered her heart. You didn’t deserve a child and the Mother knew that, so she had to destroy his baby. It’s your fault. You killed his child.

Something in her expression must have betrayed her, because a crease appeared in Cassian’s brow and his smile faded slightly. He cocked his head and gently held out the laughing child towards her. “Do you want to hold him?”

She didn’t want to be here, in such close proximity to this reminder of everything she could have had — everything she had lost. She didn’t want to look at Nyx, who stared up at her with earnest round eyes and rosy cheeks.

She instinctively took a step back from Nyx, her waking nightmare, and shook her head. She tried desperately to think of a way to cover up her actions with the excuse Cassian had concocted — that she was merely overwhelmed by the Inner Circle’s unexpected presence this morning — but she couldn’t think as the desperate emotions churned and churned inside her. Her body wanted to succumb to their thrall, to sway and collapse and drown in the storm but she couldn’t — not here, in front of Cassian. That would only lead to questions, which would lead to pain for him, she reminded herself sternly. So she would need to cover up her tracks quickly.

But it was too late. Cassian’s eyes were already filled with alarm and his voice was coated with confused concern as he asked, “What’s going on? Are you alright?”

No, she wanted to yell. No, no, no. The child in Cassian’s arms, who most including her usual self would classify as a bundle of joy, was currently torturing her with his presence alone. She wasn’t strong enough to contain the throbbing anger and agony for much longer.

Nesta’s eyes finally obeyed her, tearing away from Nyx to gaze up at her mate. Nesta’s stare must have revealed that she wasn’t overjoyed to see Nyx as he had expected; he had realized that for some inconceivable reason, she was vexed by this toddler’s presence.

She watched as his emotions danced in his eyes. He looked as though he couldn’t recognize or understand her. Worse yet, a flicker of unease and of fear shone on his face. He had never looked at her like that before, and it broke something within her that she hadn’t even realized she’d been clinging to this whole time. The certainty of her bond with Cassian and the love they shared had been the one thing grounding her and now it was gone. He had glimpsed the truth of her: that she was a monster. She could feel herself spiralling as her brain noted that Cassian’s strong arms were supposed to be their child’s spot, not Nyx’s, and that those loving, protective kisses should have been their child’s.

She needed to leave before she hurt anyone else, before Cassian asked her the questions that lingered in his eyes.

So Nesta spun on her heel, and raced to their room. Mercifully, Cassian stood still in shock for a few seconds before chasing after her. Though he was faster than her due to centuries of training, the head start had been all she needed to enter the room before him. The House, her friend who understood that Nesta couldn’t bear the pain looking at Nyx or Cassian would cause her, quickly shut and locked the door behind her.

Within the privacy of her room, Nesta finally allowed herself to fall apart. Tears streamed down her face as silent sobs wracked her body. She let herself succumb to the suffering and the ache. Any remaining strength dissolved into nothingness and her head drooped onto her knees.

Outside, Cassian knocked and desperately called for her to let him in, to tell him what was wrong. His pleas were muffled by the House’s magic, but he still begged, until his throat was raw and his voice was hoarse. Even then, he stayed, resting his head against the cool wood of the locked door between him and his mate. He reached out a hand to her through their bond and felt the drops of sadness that seeped through the cracks of the usually immovable fortress walls of her mind.

Cassian shut his eyes, drowning in worry and pain, not knowing that across the door, his mate did the same.

__________

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alinajrml

1 year ago

I am looking for a fanfic set during acowar where cassian and nesta are sort of together and they share a bed in his tent, I don't remember much more, but please tell me if you find anything like this.

Chapter 1: The End of All that Was

Pity is for those who have lost. He cannot lose Nesta. There is not a universe he can fathom where he does not belong to her.

Cassian handles their breakup like a champ.

AO3

Warning: Cassian is a creep here-manipulation, stalking, the gamut

It takes weeks before Cassian begins to understand why she left. And if that isn't symbolic of their relationship he doesn't know what is.

Nesta knowing better, being better, as he trots behind. Coated in the arrogance of ignorance, always righteous until he's not, always catching the rhythm a beat too late.

***

He is a goner from their first meeting, leaning against the bedecked wall, grin growing as he watches her rip apart Rhysand's familiar monologue bemoaning the generous Christmas holidays he offers his workers (mostly under pressure from himself and Azriel).

She takes apart his brother's feeble justifications with the precision of a surgeon, irate expression contrasting beautifully with the festive and absolutely horrendous confection of lights and yarn she is wearing.

She is bewitching.

He waits, nursing his drink, quiet for once just watching, eager for a chance to introduce himself.

He is enthralled.

***

It takes three encounters to get her number and an embarrassingly sincere drunk confession to obtain a date.

Then in pieces, in the compounding fragments of the trust he earns, they become a pair.

Their relationship, his life's great love affair had always been loud. Screaming, fighting, laughing, fucking. Always wild, careless in their abandon, in their feckless behaviour as they jumped off the cliff, intertwined.

So why was Nesta's departure so quiet?

The muted rolling of a suitcase on carpet barely disturbing him from sleep, the ring left to catch morning light on the side table until he'd cops it on his way to work and rolls his eyes. Nesta is in a huff and he is indignant, ready to whinge to Azriel.

It's six months later, on their anniversary, that he sees Nesta's ending wasn't quiet.

He just wasn't listening.

***

It takes three days for him to realise she isn't coming back.

Convinced she'll return with the bang of a door, with sharp words he'll take and worse ones he'll offer in return, that after some makeup sex the ring will be home on her finger and he'll be thumbing through a wedding magazine before bed.

This misplaced confidence keeps him from calling. To let her cool off. Leads him to saunter to the apartment door Saturday morning only donning grey joggers. Wanting the upper hand, wanting to see Nesta flush so prettily and clench her jaw tightly, seeing right through his feeble tactics.

Gwyn and Emerie, stony faces and empty cardboard boxes in hand, become a live audience to the destruction of his world.

He stands stunned, head reeling as Nesta is removed from their apartment. He finds himself carrying out boxes of her books. All he wants is to take it all back, slam the door in their faces like a child because she can't just do this. But more importantly he needs to find Nesta. So a willing pack horse he becomes, trying to wheedle information from Gwyn.

His voice shaking, tears gathering, bile rising in his throat.

"Do you know where she is?"

A nod.

"Will you tell me please Gwyn?"

Her red curls shake, a strong refusal.

"I didn't realise she was being serious, I swear."

Gwyn stops in her tracks, head turning sharply to bestow a look that calls him an idiot in five languages.

***

When his house is emptied of anything that is her, anything he could not save, he returns to the ring still on the sidetable despite him begging Gwyn and Emerie to return it to Nesta.

It is the only time they look upon him with an ounce of pity which only makes it worse. Pity is for those who have lost. He cannot lose Nesta. There is not a universe he can fathom where he does not belong to her.

The ring he cradles in battered hands amidst shattered glass and splintered oak.

His blood an artful, awful, Pollackesque smattering over the mess.

Flimsy furnishings seeming a small casualty when his heart is now a necrotic organ burning in his chest.

The ring he picked,

with a white dress,

a honeymoon in Paris,

the rest of their life, in mind.

A silent killing blow.

***

One last blazing row the night before.

Cuts landing too deep this time.

The final fragment of a trust he'd once treasured sacredly, spent so terribly,

"Who the fuck could stand you Nesta when I can't?"

It makes his stomach turn with sickening guilt. He would stitch those words into his skin with wire rather than say them to her now.

He'd like to think he's a different man, maybe a better one, but that's up to her.

She's the only deity he wants to weigh his soul.

He'll come up wanting.

But maybe...

Maybe she'd look at him.

Face him.

Let him burn alive in the grey fire of her glare.

He would delight in his damnation to have her look at him once more.

***

Saturday is a haze. Rhys and Az try to coax him out to no avail. His pain is raw. Anger, frustration, desperation a tumour growing unchecked in his chest. The broken sidetable now had a broken vase, two pictures frames and three tumblers to match it.

She isn't answering his calls, vision blurry from tears and drink, the blue light of his phone is the only thing he can focus on in a world that is swimming. Her contact, Nes 🖤, a beacon a wavering light keeping him from going under.

She isn't answering his calls and so the voicemails begin.

"I have your ring. Sweetheart I'm not taking that back. It's yours. I'm yours... Nesta please just talk to me. I'm sorry about Wednesday night. Come back and we can talk."

Beep.

"What is this about Nes? We fight rough, always have baby. I'll do anything, say anything, get you anything you want just please Nes don't do this. We can get a fucking dog. I swear. We'll move to a different apartment. We can open a fucking dog hotel if that is what you want just.."

Beep.

"Tell me you're safe. Please. I'm going out of my mind here. I love you. More than anything."

Beep.

"Mor was right, you know you're such a fucking bitch sometimes. I'm trying to apologise when you left without a word. Fuck you sweetheart."

Beep.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. That came out wrong, I didn't mean it, just I..I'm beginning to think you're not coming back to me. This isn't goodbye Nes right? Right?"

Beep.

"Just punish me in person, I'll grovel for you Nes, you know that..........It's just a break. It's just a break. That's okay sweetheart you can have it all. Anything you want. Just talk to me first. Talk to me."

Beep.

"I love you. More than anyone else ever has, will or can. Just. If you're going to shred my heart. Do it in person. Do it in person and I'll walk away. Otherwise I'm going to fight you tooth and fucking nail love."

Beep.

The last voicemail a gauntlet thrown by a drunk fool. A sealing of their fate.

***

She arrives on Sunday. Suitable for it to be a holy day if this is his last visit from his god.

He is relieved to see her. Drunken promises of walking away temporarily forgotten. She had texted him an hour before to let him know she was on her way. Giving him time to put the house back in order, air out the smell of alcohol, sweat and despair. He's in his nicest jeans, hair tied in a low bun just how she likes. In the bedroom he has candles and rose petals, ready to worship her.

He wants to remind her she loves him, or she at least she did once.

Purple is painted in the hollows under her eyes, a slight tremor in her hand, greasy hair falling limply around her drawn face. She looks terrible and still the most stunning person he knows.

He's done this.

He'd rather Az pummel him in the ring than see her like this.The aching in his chest makes it hard to breathe. He's made a mistake forcing her hand.

She looks around, avoiding his gaze, eyebrows raising slightly at the very absent sidetable.

She'd been so happy when they found that at old flea market off Washington St. when they first moved in together. He should have thought of that before he left it in splinters.

"There was an accident. I fell, you know how clumsy I get Nes. The table never stood a chance."

Her eyes land on him, and now it's him that can't bear to look, hand rubbing on his neck nervously, focusing on his white socks.

The silence is choking him.

"It's okay. It's okay. We'll get one just like it. I'll check Ebay. I'll ask Amren, she prowls around all the good antique shops. I'll make a replica if I have to. Lucien knows an excellent carpenter. I can fix it Nes. I promise."

He can fix it. He can fix this.

He meets her gaze and wants to vomit.

She looking at him with care, tears running down her face, voice barely audible.

"Cassian. We can't be fixed."

He can't think, he can't breathe, the world is on its axis and she's going to leave. The distance between them has vanished, he's on his knees, soft carpet beneath them a luxury he does not deserve, burying his face in the cotton of her tshirt hands wrapped around her waist.

"No. Nes, no. You can't do that. You can't leave. I'm going to convince you to stay. That's why you're here. You want to stay. I love you. I love you. I love you. I can't be without you."

Pulling his hands from her waist she kneels beside him, caressing his face.

"I'm here to end it in person like you asked."

Her voice and his heart break simultaneously.

'I love you too Cassian. But love is not enough. I can't live like this anymore. On a pedastal at home while you ignore how I'm treated by your friends."

The words friends is spat out.

'You either worship me or we're fighting. So much fighting. Aren't you tired? I'm so tired Cassian. I need more. I need to be by myself for a while. I need someone who doesn't live at work. I need someone you're not Cas."

This is what hell feels like. He's being excommunicated for his sins. She's even doing it in person. His god, so cruel and alluring.

"I'm leaving now Cas. I'm moving away for a while. A clean break will be good for us. You'll thank me for doing this one day."

She let's out something that an alien might count as a laugh. Nervous and watery, choked and uncertain.

"I'll never thank you for this Nes."

She leaves.

He's still kneeling hours later her words a painful, unending echo in his mind.

***

He doesn't go out much now and drinking himself numb in this empty apartment is not who he is anymore.

He doesn't drink often but on their anniversary he let's himself drown in rum, in albums, in the box of her stuff he managed to keep after Gwyn and Emerie cleared house.

He cries into that stupid fucking Christmas jumper.

He sprays her bottle of perfume, letting the vanilla, blackberry, sage sink into the air, a ghostly embrace. Sitting amidst his shrine to her he allows himself to reflect.

Regret every overlooked sneer and snide comment. He doesn't see any of his friends, his brothers anymore. Nesta doesn't like them.

Rue every time he came home late, missed a date, was too tired to talk. He has a new job now, remote with flexible hours. It pays less but he still has his stocks and the nest egg he built breaking his back working for over a decade.

Rhys was frantic to keep him on. Bullshit talk about how he was spiralling, how she wasn't worth it. Punching that remark from his mouth, in front of the board, forced his termination quite effectively.

He has enough for Nesta to retire in the morning. He has enough to buy that fancy brie she likes, and handpainted books, and enough jewellery to fill a small store. He has enough to stay beside her so she won't have to miss him.

He's even bigger now, all his free time spent in the gym, ignoring how eating so much protein makes him feel. She always liked feeling safe in his arms.

He's read all her books. Found her goodreads and follows it like his gospel. Has watched every show, every podcast she consumed on their accounts. He'll share all her likes. He'll never fight her on anything.

Once he earns her forgiveness they can be happy again.

***

She's coming back to town next month. A flying visit apparently. He's going to change that.

His chance is coming to show her how much better is.

The type of man she needs. The type she'll never leave.

33 notes View Post

alinajrml

2 years ago

The Full "I Will Love You." Letter. The Beatrice Letters, Lemony Snicket

Always. Continuously. With increasing apprehension, and decreasing hope.

I will love you with no regard to the actions of our enemies or the jealousies of actors. I will love you with no regard to the outrage of certain parents or the boredom of certain friends. I will love you no matter what is served in the world’s cafeterias or what game is played at each and every recess. I will love you no matter how many fire drills we are all forced to endure, and no matter what is drawn upon the blackboard in a blurring, boring chalk. I will love you no matter how many mistakes I make when trying to reduce fractions, and no matter how difficult it is to memorize the periodic table. I will love you no matter what your locker combination was, or how you decided to spend your time during study hall. I will love you no matter how your soccer team performed in the tournament or how many stains I received on my cheerleading uniform. I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday. I will love you if you cut your hair and I will love you if you cut the hair of others. I will love you if you abandon your baticeering, and I will love you if you retire from the theater to take up some other, less dangerous occupation. I will love you if you drop your raincoat on the floor instead of hanging it up and I will love you if you betray your father. I will love you even if you announce that the poetry of Edgar Guest is the best in the world and even if you announce that the work of Zilpha Keatley Snyder is unbearably tedious. I will love you if you abandon the theremin and take up the harmonica and I will love you if you donate your marmosets to the zoo and your tree frogs to M. I will love you as the starfish loves a coral reef and as kudzu loves trees, even if the oceans turn to sawdust and the trees fall in the forest without anyone around to hear them. I will love you as the pesto loves the fetuccini and as the horseradish loves the miyagi, as the tempura loves the ikura and the pepperoni loves the pizza. I will love you as the manatee loves the head of lettuce and as the dark spot loves the leopard, as the leech loves the ankle of a wader and as a corpse loves the beak of the vulture. I will love you as the doctor loves his sickest patient and a lake loves its thirstiest swimmer. I will love you as the beard loves the chin, and the crumbs love the beard, and the damp napkin loves the crumbs, and the precious document loves the dampness in the napkin, and the squinting eye of the reader loves the smudged print of the document, and the tears of sadness love the squinting eye as it misreads what is written. I will love you as the iceberg loves the ship, and the passengers love the lifeboat, and the lifeboat loves the teeth of the sperm whale, and the sperm whale loves the flavor of naval uniforms. I will love you as a child loves to overhear the conversations of its parents, and the parents love the sound of their own arguing voices, and as the pen loves to write down the words these voices utter in a notebook for safekeeping. I will love you as a shingle loves falling off a house on a windy day and striking a grumpy person across the chin, and as an oven loves malfunctioning in the middle of roasting a turkey. I will love you as an airplane loves to fall from a clear blue sky and as an escalator loves to entangle expensive scarves in its mechanisms. I will love you as a wet paper towel loves to be crumpled into a ball and thrown at a bathroom ceiling and an eraser loves to leave dust in the hairdos of the people who talk too much. I will love you as a cufflink loves to drop from its shirt and explore the party for itself and as a pair of white gloves loves to slip delicately into the punchbowl. I will love you as a taxi loves the muddy splash of a puddle and as a library loves the patient tick of a clock. I will love you as a thief loves a gallery and as a crow loves a murder, as a cloud loves bats and as a range loves braes. I will love you as misfortune loves orphans, as fire loves innocence and as justice loves to sit and watch while everything goes wrong. I will love you as a battlefield loves young men and as peppermints love your allergies, and I will love you as the banana peel loves the shoe of a man who was just struck by a shingle falling off a house. I will love you as a volunteer fire department loves rushing into burning buildings and as burning buildings love to chase them back out, and as a parachute loves to leave a blimp and as a blimp operator loves to chase after it. I will love you as a dagger loves a certain person’s back, and as a certain person loves to wear daggerproof tunics, and as a daggerproof tunic loves to go to a certain dry cleaning facility, and how a certain employee of a dry cleaning facility loves to stay up late with a pair of binoculars, watching a dagger factory for hours in the hopes of catching a burglar, and as a burglar loves sneaking up behind people with binoculars, suddenly realizing that she has left her dagger at home. I will love you as a drawer loves a secret compartment, and as a secret compartment loves a secret, and as a secret loves to make a person gasp, and as a gasping person loves a glass of brandy to calm their nerves, and as a glass of brandy loves to shatter on the floor, and as the noise of glass shattering loves to make someone else gasp, and as someone else gasping loves a nearby desk to lean against, even if leaning against it presses a lever that loves to open a drawer and reveal a secret compartment. I will love you until all such compartments are discovered and opened, and until all the secrets have gone gasping into the world. I will love you until all the codes and hearts have been broken and until every anagram and egg has been unscrambled. I will love you until every fire is extinguished and until every home is rebuilt form the handsomest and most susceptible of woods, and until every criminal is handcuffed by the laziest of policemen. I will love you until M. hates snakes and J. hates grammar, and I will love you until C. realizes S. is not worthy of his love and N. realizes he is not worthy of the V. I will love you until the bird hates a nest and the worm hates an apple, and until the apple hates a tree and the tree hates a nest, and until a bird hates a tree and an apple hates a nest, although honestly I cannot imagine that last occurrence no matter how hard I try. I will love you as we grow older, which has just happened, and has happened again, and happened several days ago, continuously, and then several years before that, and will continue to happen as the spinning hands of every clock and the flipping pages of every calendar mark the passage of time, except for the clocks that people have forgotten to wind and the calendars that people have forgotten to place in a highly visible area. I will love you as we find ourselves farther and farther from one another, where once we were so close that we could slip the curved straw, and the long, slender spoon, between our lips and fingers respectively. I will love you until the chances of us running into one another slip from skim to zero, and until your face is fogged by distant memory, and your memory faced by distant fog, and your fog memorized by a distant face, and your distance distanced by the memorized memory of a foggy fog. I will love you no matter where you go and who you see, no matter where you avoid and who you don’t see, and no matter who sees you avoiding where you go. I will love you no matter what happens to you, and no matter how I discover what happens to you, and no matter what happens to me as I discover this, and no matter how I am discovered after what happens to me happens to me as I am discovering this. I will love you if you don’t marry me. I will love you if you marry someone else – your co-star, perhaps, or Y., or even O., or anyone Z. through A., even R. although sadly I believe it will be quite some time before two women can be allowed to marry – and I will love you if you have a child, and I will love you if you have two children, or three children, or even more, although I personally think three is plenty, and I will love you if you never marry at all, and never have children, and spend your years wishing you had married me after all, and I must say that on late, cold nights I prefer this scenario out of all the scenarios I have mentioned. That, Beatrice, is how I will love you even as the world goes on its wicked way.

8K notes View Post

alinajrml

4 years ago

Let Me Go | Nessian Fic

Rating: M (tw: suicide mentions, blood/injury gore descriptions)

Summary: After a heated argument and cruel words, Nesta Archeron left the Illyrian Mountains for a mission. Upon her arrival home, Cassian smells blood and the pain of dancing with death. (Nessian angst and hurt fic. Not a death fic.)

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165 notes View Post

alinajrml

1 year ago

Warning: Toxic Relationship

I

It takes weeks before Cassian begins to understand why she left. And if that isn't symbolic of their relationship he doesn't know what is.

Nesta knowing better, being better, as he trots behind. Coated in the arrogance of ignorance, always righteous until he's not, always catching the rhythm a beat too late.

She is bewitching.

He waits, nursing his drink, quiet for once, eager for a chance to introduce himself.

He is enthralled.

It takes three encounters to get her number and an embarrassingly sincere drunk confession to obtain a date.

Then in pieces, in the compounding fragments of the trust he earns, they become a pair.

So why was Nesta's departure so quiet?

The muted rolling of a suitcase on carpet barely disturbing him from sleep. The ring left to catch morning light on the side table until he'd copped it on his way to work and rolled his eyes. Nesta is in a huff and he is indignant, ready to whinge to Azriel.

It's six months later, on their anniversary, that he sees Nesta's ending wasn't quiet.

He just wasn't listening.

It takes three days for him to realise she isn't coming back.

Convinced she'll return with the bang of a door, with sharp words he'll take and worse ones he'll offer in return. That after some makeup sex the ring will be home on her finger and he'll be thumbing through a wedding magazine before bed.

Gwyn and Emerie, stony faces and empty cardboard boxes in hand, become a live audience to the destruction of his world.

He stands stunned, head reeling as Nesta is removed from their apartment. He finds himself carrying out boxes of her books. All he wants is to take it all back - slam the door in their faces like a child - because she can't just do this. But more importantly he needs to find Nesta. So a willing pack horse he becomes, trying to wheedle information from Gwyn.

His voice shaking, tears gathering, bile rising in his throat.

"Do you know where she is?"

A nod.

"Will you tell me please Gwyn?"

Her red curls shake, a strong refusal.

"I didn't realise she was being serious, I swear."

Gwyn stops in her tracks, head turning sharply to bestow a look that calls him an idiot in five languages.

When his house is emptied of anything that is her, anything he could not save, he returns to the ring still on the sidetable despite him begging Gwyn and Emerie to return it to Nesta.

The ring he cradles in battered hands amidst shattered glass and splintered oak.

His blood an artful, awful, Pollackesque smattering over the mess.

Flimsy furnishings seeming a small casualty when his heart is now a necrotic organ burning in his chest.

The ring he picked,

with a white dress,

a honeymoon in Paris,

the rest of their life, in mind.

A silent killing blow.

One last blazing row the night before.

Cuts landing too deep this time.

The final fragment of a trust he'd once treasured sacredly, spent so terribly,

"Who the fuck could stand you Nesta when I can't?"

It makes his stomach turn with sickening guilt. He would stitch those words into his skin with wire rather than say them to her now.

He'd like to think he's a different man, maybe a better one, but that's up to her.

She's the only deity he wants to weigh his soul.

He'll come up wanting.

But maybe...

Maybe she'd look at him.

Face him.

Let him burn alive in the grey fire of her glare.

He would delight in his damnation to have her look at him once more.

Saturday is a haze. Rhys and Az try to coax him out to no avail. His pain is raw. Anger, frustration, desperation a tumour growing unchecked in his chest. The broken sidetable now possessing a broken vase, two pictures frames and three tumblers to match it.

She isn't answering his calls and so the voicemails begin.

"I have your ring. Sweetheart I'm not taking that back. It's yours. I'm yours... Nesta please just talk to me. I'm sorry about Wednesday night. Come back and we can talk."

Beep.

"Tell me you're safe. Please. I'm going out of my mind here. I love you. More than anything."

Beep.

"Mor was right, you know you're such a fucking bitch sometimes. I'm trying to apologise when you left without a word. Fuck you sweetheart."

Beep.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. That came out wrong, I didn't mean it, just I..I'm beginning to think you're not coming back to me. This isn't goodbye Nes right? Right?"

Beep.

The last voicemail a gauntlet thrown by a drunk fool. A sealing of their fate.

She arrives on Sunday. Suitable for it to be a holy day if this is one last visit from his god.

He is relieved to see her.

Drunken promises of walking away temporarily forgotten. She had texted him an hour before to let him know she was on her way. Giving him time to put the house back in order, air out the smell of alcohol, sweat and despair. He's in his nicest jeans, hair tied in a low bun just how she likes. In the bedroom he has candles and rose petals, ready to worship her.

He wants to remind her she loves him, or she at least she did once.

Purple is painted in the hollows under her eyes, a slight tremor in her hand, greasy hair falling limply around her drawn face.

She looks terrible. Still the most stunning person he knows.

This is his doing.

He'd rather Az pummel him in the ring than see her like this. The aching in his chest makes it hard to breathe. He's made a mistake forcing her hand.

She looks around, avoiding his gaze, eyebrows raising slightly at the very absent sidetable. She'd been so happy when they found that at old flea market off Washington St. when they first moved in together.

He should have thought of that before he left it in splinters.

"There was an accident. I fell, you know how clumsy I get Nes. The table never stood a chance."

Her eyes land on him, and now it's him that can't bear to look, hand rubbing on his neck nervously, focusing on his white socks.

The silence is choking him.

He can fix it. He can fix this.

He meets her gaze and wants to vomit.

She looking at him with care, tears running down her face, voice barely audible.

"Cassian. We can't be fixed."

"No. Nes, no. You can't do that. You can't leave. I'm going to convince you to stay. That's why you're here. You want to stay. I love you. I love you. I love you. I can't be without you."

Pulling his hands from her waist she kneels beside him, caressing his face.

"I'm here to end it in person like you asked."

Her voice and his heart break simultaneously.

'I love you too Cassian... I...I can't live like this anymore. I cannot be both your Madonna and your whore. And we know exactly which one your friends think I am."

The words friends is spat out.

'It's either worship or war. So much fighting...a ren't you tired? '

A breath that holds a future.

'I'm so tired Cassian. I need more. I need to be by myself for a while. I need someone you're not Cas."

And on the exhale he sees all his plans dissipate amidst the dust motes that hang in the air.

This is what hell feels like. He's being excommunicated for his sins. She's even doing it in person.

His god, so cruel and alluring.

"I'm leaving now Cas. I'm moving away for a while. A clean break will be good for us. You'll thank me for doing this one day."

She let's out something that an alien might count as a laugh. Nervous and watery, choked and uncertain.

"I'll never thank you for this Nes."

His voice is dark and maybe he knows sin better than he once thought because her flinch in response feels better than he'd like it to.

They are one. No matter what she says. They should hurt as one too.

She leaves.

He's still kneeling hours later her words a painful, unending echo in his mind.

He doesn't go out much now and drinking himself numb in this empty apartment is not who he is anymore.

But on their anniversary he let's himself drown in rum, in albums, in the box of her stuff he managed to keep after Gwyn and Emerie cleared house.

He cries into that stupid fucking Christmas jumper.

He sprays her bottle of perfume, letting the vanilla, blackberry, sage sink into the air, a ghostly embrace. Sitting amidst his shrine to her he allows himself to reflect.

Regret every overlooked sneer and snide comment. He doesn't see any of his friends, his brothers anymore. Nesta doesn't like them.

He's even bigger now, all his free time spent in the gym, ignoring how eating so much protein makes him feel. She always liked feeling safe in his arms.

He's read all her books. Found her Goodreads and follows it like his gospel. Has watched every show, every podcast she consumed on their accounts.

He'll share all her likes. He'll never fight her on anything.

Once he earns her forgiveness they can be happy again.

She's coming back to town next month. A flying visit apparently. He's going to change that.

His chance is coming to show her how much better is.

The type of man she needs. The type she'll never leave.

24 notes View Post

alinajrml

3 years ago

Mor is season two Cassie.

No, I will not elaborate.