Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The Death I Never Feared

1.

“I’m a warrior. I’ve walked beside Death my entire life. I would be more afraid for her, to have that power. But not afraid of her. . . Nothing about Nesta could frighten me.”

A Court of Wings and Ruin

***

“But never have I been a blue calm sea. I have always been a storm.”

“Storms,” Fleetwood Mac

In the days after the war against Hybern, messengers were kept busy sending letters back and forth between the High Lords on finalizing plans for a new treaty. Feyre picked up a large pile of letters from the dining room table of the town house, but her eyes only glazed over the words. Much the same as before, no solid arrangements had been made yet--and wouldn’t, of course, until they could meet with representatives from the mortal realm, not to mention find out where the queens disappeared to. There was, however, one thing every High Lord agreed upon: waiting until after the Winter Solstice before coming together for another meeting.

Every solstice had its own distinct rituals and practices associated with it, but this one in particular was important enough that not one but three High Lords requested a postponement. Kallias, of course, asked for a delay as it was the most important holy day for the Winter Court, and while more time would be spent in darkness than sunlight, Feyre learned even the Day Court took this celebration seriously. As it was the longest night of the year, Rhys was more than happy to support their entreaties, citing various required Night Court rituals as an excuse. Of course, he later admitted to Feyre that he just wanted to throw a huge party in honor of their High Lady’s birthday, but there would be a few rites involved as well.

Feyre rifled through a few more letters before letting them drop back onto the table, paper flying everywhere. She wasn’t sure what Rhys had planned for her but guessed the others were all secretly glad for the holiday too--they deserved it after everything they had been through. But another meeting would have to be called and soon, if only to prevent Prythian from permanently running out of parchment.

The handwriting on the top letter caught her eye, and Feyre picked it up, examining it more closely. Flipping through the papers, she laughed and turned just as Rhys entered the room. “You realize how horrible this is, right?” she said, as Rhys wrapped his arms around her from behind. She held the letter up so he could see it.

She felt him shrug. “He started it.” As if that was all the explanation needed for the current letter war with Tarquin. Though she was glad that Tarquin no longer harbored resentment over certain past events, Feyre still had to roll her eyes. It was like the world’s worst custody battle, and they were currently at a stalemate: neither of them wanted Amren and Varian for Calanmai. “That’s months away, and it’s not even a Night Court holiday,” she said, twisting around to face him. She let her hands rest on his sides just above his hips, relishing the feel of the warm, solid muscles pressed against her.

Rhys’ violet eyes sparkled. “I knew you’d be on my side.”

Feyre pursed her lips. It’s not a Summer Court holiday either.

That is not my problem. He leaned forward and began kissing her, slowly working his way toward the spot just above her collarbone where he had recently discovered she was ticklish.

You are trying to distract me.

He grinned and licked her neck, sending a shiver down her spine. It's working, isn't it?

She smiled and let him kiss her some more until she slowly, reluctantly, pulled away.

“Come on, the others are already out there.” Rhys pouted, thrusting his lower lip out for further effect, but dutifully followed her outside to the veranda where everyone had gathered for an evening of wine and relaxation.

Azriel, half in shadow, was leaning against the side wall, and Amren, making a surprise solo visit, sat cross-legged on the floor, eyeing her wine glass with suspicion. Perhaps she would have done better starting with a red wine if only for the color, Feyre thought. Meanwhile, Cassian and Mor had both draped themselves across two of the cushioned couches. Lucien had yet to reappear from his city wanderings, having just recently returned from his visit to the Spring Court. He still hadn’t spoken much about his encounter with Tamlin, but Feyre gathered it had not gone as well as he hoped and so hadn’t pressed him too much for details.

As she settled in next to Rhys on the open bench left for them, Feyre wondered just what they could do to help Lucien fit within their Court--if indeed he wanted to stay in their Court at all. He had lost two homes already in his life. She often wondered how he was dealing with trying to find a place in this new one.

And then there was the matter of the other two absences. Elain, Feyre knew, had spent most of the day out shopping for gardening supplies. Perhaps, she thought with a small smile, Lucien would be more inclined to spend time with them if Elain asked him to. But she could think more on that later. The bigger concern, of course, was--

No Nesta. She shouldn't have been surprised. Her sister had spent the majority of her time since the war’s end up in her room, seemingly punishing herself for their father’s death and who knew what else, but Feyre had still hoped she would join them when they were all together at home. Rhys rubbed her right shoulder, sensing his mate’s disappointment, and she reached her arm across to place her hand on his. It’s all right. I just hoped. . .

She'll come around, Rhys told her. She can't spend the rest of her life in isolation, not with-- He stopped, and in unison they both looked over at Cassian. Their friend was laughing at something Mor had said, looking for all the world like he hadn't practically confessed his love to her sister in the moments before the King of Hybern’s death, before they were both prepared to die together rather than be separated.

Feyre pressed her lips together. She had told Rhys everything she experienced when attempting to control the Cauldron, but so far, they were the only ones who knew exactly what occurred in the king’s final moments--other than her sisters and Cassian, none of whom were talking. Not even Cassian had spent much time describing that final fight; Rhys supposed almost losing his wings not once but twice that year had brought even a small amount of humility and reserve to their usually dauntless General. But if he and Nesta didn't do something soon, Feyre thought, things would fall apart faster than the Wall had.

Upon noticing the two, Mor grinned widely and tucked her feet up underneath her. “Relax! Drink!” She gestured to the two empty glasses on the small glass table before them.

“Drink what?” Cassian asked. “You've gone through most of it already.”

“Says the one who's already on his second bottle,” Mor quipped. “Someone’s head is going to hurt in the morning.”

Cassian shrugged, unconcerned. “I can handle my wine.” As if to illustrate his point, he took another swig from his own glass.

“I seem to recall more than several mornings of old man grumblings at the breakfast table because someone had too much fun at Rita’s,” Rhys commented. Feyre leaned against him while Azriel came over to pour them each a glass. Feyre looked across to Cassian’s couch and saw indeed an empty bottle underneath his seat. A second bottle already?

From what I gather, it seems that he ran into your sister while out today.

That would make it their first encounter since the war ended. Feyre looked up sharply. While Rhys’ shoulders were relaxed and a smile graced his mouth, his eyes were watchful. Taking everything in.

“Old man?” Cassian cocked his head to the side, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Tell me, Rhys, do your knees still creak when you stand up?”

Rhys’ eyes flashed. “You keep drinking all the good stuff and I'm going to have to start charging you.”

Mor rolled her eyes. “After what we've been through, we could've finished off the supply the first night we were back.” Her tone was playful, but Feyre sensed an edge to her words as well too. Was Mor there too?

Rhys laughed, ignoring her question, keeping it light-hearted . “So this is you restraining yourselves?”

Mor smiled smugly, settling herself back in her seat, and even Azriel cracked a smile. “I wasn't sure if we'd have company tonight.” Mor turned to Feyre. “Will Elain be coming down, do you think?” Mor had been trying harder to engage her sister in different activities since they got back. Feyre suspected it had something to do with Azriel’s apparent interest in her sister and Mor’s secret relief that he had moved on.

“Elain has gone to bed early.”

Everyone turned to find Nesta standing in the doorway. She wore a light peach-colored dress, a simple and more modest design compared to others found in the house, with a thin ribbon tied in a small bow around the back.

Feyre jumped to her feet. “Nesta! Come join us. Please! How--how was your day?”

Nesta stood motionless, ignoring Feyre’s questions, but her eyes darted around, either looking for an escape or a place to sit, Feyre couldn't tell which. But if Nesta did want to sit, the only options were taking a chair by herself all the way over on the opposite end of the veranda by the fountain or…

Cassian seemed to realize it the same time Nesta did. He moved over, adjusting his wings, and after another tense, silent moment, Nesta sat down, her backside just barely touching the edge of the cushion as she fussed with smoothing out the hem of her dress. Feyre tried to hand her sister her untouched glass of wine. “Here, have some. It's--”

Nesta kept her hands in her lap, her face down. “I'm not thirsty.”

“Oh. All right.” Feyre stared at her sister, her hand still outstretched, before sitting back down. She bit her lip, observing her sister. On one hand, she wanted Nesta to be comfortable, to feel like she could join in the group anytime she wanted. On the other hand, if they kept handing her these opportunities, would she ever try reaching for them herself?

The awkward silence settled over them like an ill-fitting cloak. Someone needed to say something before Nesta decided to leave, before Mor and Cassian drained another bottle. Cassian himself seemed disinclined to speak, shooting instead pointed glances Nesta’s way but nothing more. She made a mental note to ask Rhys about their run-in earlier that day later once everyone had left and they were free to go on their night fly--

“Oh!” Feyre sat up so fast she could hear Rhys swear in surprise down the bond. Even Cassian looked startled, and he was not easy to sneak up on. Feyre’s cheeks flushed as she turned toward Azriel. “I know it's been awhile, but I'd like to resume our flying lessons if you’re up for it. Rhys and I have been out flying and I think I do all right, but I'd like to get back into more of a workout routine. So I can carry things while flying.”

Azriel pushed himself off the wall from where he had gone back to leaning. “That's fine with me,” he said with a nod. “We can start tomorrow if you like.”

“Carrying things?” Rhys raised an eyebrow. “Should I be jealous when you start carrying other people?”

Feyre grinned. “Only when they start preferring my gentle touch.”

Rhys laughed and placed his arm around her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Well, I guess I can't argue with that.” As long as I'm the one you're most gentle with.

Hmm, Feyre eyed her mate, trying not to smile. You are jealous. I might have to be rough with you. You know, teach you a lesson.

“It’s not who she carries you should be jealous of,” Amren spoke up from the floor, having giving up on enjoying her drink. The glass sat still mostly full of white wine a foot away from her as she adjusted her crossed legs beneath her.

“Oh?” Rhys looked over at his second in command, half-distracted from sending Feyre a dirty image of what exactly he wanted her to do to him that night. “What should I be jealous of?”

“Her wing size. They're bigger than yours.” Amren winked at Feyre before turning a smug smile on her High Lord.

Rhys blinked slowly and turned to look back at Feyre. “Are they? I hadn't noticed.” The look he gave her was casual, almost sleepy, but underneath, through the bond, Rhys was more intrigued than ever, and Feyre shivered in anticipation for their time together later.

“Well, you should have,” Azriel said from his spot against the wall. He took a step forward, and Feyre watched as the corners of his mouth twitched upwards into a small smile. “They're modeled on mine, after all.”

Mor choked on her wine as Rhys exclaimed in outrage. But any words of protest were soon cut off by another burst of anger from across the veranda.

“You've been to the healers. Why is your wing still scarred?”

Everyone turned at the sound of the piercing voice, Feyre’s smile fading immediately upon noticing her sister. Nesta sat glaring at Cassian with a look of angry bewilderment upon her face, her arms crossed hard against her chest.

“Oh, my wings are just fine, Nesta,” Cassian replied smoothly. “If you’re that entranced by them, all you had to do was ask for a closer look.” He turned to smile at the group, discreetly folding his wings back as he did so. But Nesta would not be deterred.

“I’m not entranced by eyesores,” she snapped before turning back to the others. “Did you see them? I thought your healers were better than this.” Nesta then pointed to Cassian’s wing while staring at each of them in turn. No, not pointed at his wing.

Grabbed.

Feyre’s eyes went wide, and she didn't have to move, didn't even have to enter anyone else’s minds to know they were all thinking the same thing.

Why is she touching his wing? Doesn't she know you can't just touch someone’s wings? Has she touched his wings before? Oh good goddess, she doesn't know. No one told her about the deal with wings.

Cassian, to his credit, hadn't jerked away, but his flared nostrils and the sweat beading on his brow proclaimed tenuous restraint at best.

Nesta tugged his wing to the side and ran her finger along part of the thinner membrane at the bottom. Cassian made a noise that sounded like a frog was dying in his throat. Feyre could barely drag her eyes from poor Cassian’s face but saw, to her surprise, that her sister was right. There were scars, streaks, all along the bottom of his left wing. How had she not noticed that? Perhaps she had been more than a little preoccupied with Rhys when they had returned from the south, but… She cast her mind back to when she had escaped the Spring Court with Lucien. No, his wings had been completely healed then. But afterwards?

She turned to Rhys. Hybern--?

Her mate smirked. No. Cassian’s stupidity. He wasn't able to elaborate, however, as the Illyrian in question had just then shot to his feet.

“I--I should go. It's getting late.” He stared down at Nesta, his face fighting to remain impassive, and yet Feyre read fear behind his eyes. Cassian had once told her he would never be afraid of her sister, so where was this fear coming from? At what was it directed?

Nesta watched Cassian, her face hard, her lips pressed into a thin line. Cassian opened his mouth to speak again, but didn’t get further than “If you--” before Nesta’s upper lip twitched--almost a snarl--and so he clammed up and strode quickly away from the group. His foot accidentally kicked one of the empty wine bottles along the way, causing it to spin rapidly, the glass scratching the hard ground as a huge gust of wind swept past them from takeoff. Cassian was gone. The evening had gone from friendly to uncomfortable within mere minutes.

Feyre looked up at Rhys despairingly. Her mate, however, was fighting to hold back a laugh. I hope you’re going to tell me what that was all about, she said grumpily.

You have to hand it to your sister for setting a new record, was all Rhys would answer. I think that was more awkward than when she shot down Helion.

Feyre elbowed him in the stomach.

***

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit

***

Mor stood up then, not looking at anyone in particular. “Perhaps Cassian was right. Maybe we should call it a night.”

“His wings weren't like that after,” Nesta insisted. “Your healers are doing something wrong.”

“Our healers are just fine, thank you.” Mor crossed her arms.

Amren pushed herself off the ground, calmly fixing her hair from Cassian’s wind gust, and stood between the two women. “Have you been practicing your control? Your mental shields?”

Nesta looked up at Amren as one might look at a dead fly, while Mor sidestepped the two, making a beeline for the house. “Why should I? The Cauldron’s been taken care of.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Feyre’s head whipped around to look at Amren. Did her friend know something that she hadn’t told the rest of them? Had she learned something when she had gone under the Cauldron?

When Nesta didn’t answer, Amren stared at her carefully before ultimately shrugging and striding past her. Just as she had almost passed by Feyre’s sister, Amren stopped and looked back over her shoulder at Nesta. “At any rate, I’d start practicing again if I were you. It will be. . . helpful.”

Nesta rolled her eyes as she too stood to leave. Rhys was already by the door, having surreptitiously followed Mor, and was murmuring something to her, possibly asking her to stay. That meant Feyre was the only one who caught Amren’s questioning glance at Azriel, and his small noncommittal shrug in response. No--Nesta saw it too. She folded her arms against her chest and huffed loudly.

“We all did better when they were at the House of the Wind.”

“What was that?” It seemed Nesta’s ears were just as sharp as her eyesight. Feyre cringed: if Nesta’s intention had been to make an enemy of everyone that evening, she was well on her way, glaring daggers as she was at Rhys’ cousin. Mor, for her part, glared right back--had been glaring, in fact, since Nesta grabbed Cassian’s wing.

Mor opened her mouth and then immediately closed it. After a brief pause, she said, “You know what? I've had too much wine to elaborate my answer without regretting my words in the morning.” Mor turned a slightly gentler face to Feyre. “Good night, Feyre. Maybe we can try this again another night.”

“Good night,” Feyre echoed sadly. What a mess this short night had been.

Azriel offered Feyre an apologetic smile and escorted Mor and Amren out, leaving Rhys and Feyre alone with Nesta. Rhys sighed, staring up at the night sky, before coming over to plant a gentle kiss on Feyre’s forehead. You discuss this with your sister, and I'll try to prevent Cassian from doing something stupid and completely destroying his wings. Again.

As Rhys took off, another gust of wind sweeping across the veranda, Feyre turned to her sister. Nesta stood in the middle of the deck, hands now clenched at her sides, eyes blazing, nostrils flaring. A caged animal, Feyre thought, that’s what she looks like. A caged animal ready to snap at any hand that fed her, no matter how sweet the food.

Feyre dropped her own hands to her sides. “Why?” she asked simply, her shoulders drooping.

Nesta looked up from the ground, and Feyre saw her eyes were brimming with tears. “I didn’t--,” her voice cracked. “I’m going to back upstairs,” she said instead, and quickly departed. Within a matter of seconds, Feyre found herself completely alone outside, the only noise the distant whoosh of fabric from Nesta’s dress as she hurried into the house and back up to her room.

***

Shit shit shit shit shi-- “Argh!” 

Cassian swerved suddenly to avoid an exceptionally tall tree, nearly ran headfirst into the closest building, and just managed to fling himself into an updraft of warm air above the Sidra in order to hopefully avoid any other potentially hazardous points of impact.

Shiiiiiiiiit. That was not how that Cassian had imagined any of that happening. And in front of everybody! Had they noticed? Had he acted casual enough to avoid detection? Cassian rolled his eyes, dipping slightly in the sky as his wings faltered. No, of course he hadn’t. He may as well have shouted it from the rooftops for all the stealth that he, the great General of the Night Court, had just employed. Cassian barely felt the branches scrape up his legs as he clumsily skimmed over a patch of trees.

No one noticed. That’s why no one has come after you.

The thing was, after spending so much time thinking about it and wondering what would happen if it did, now that it had happened, Cassian had no idea what to do. He wished he could go back in time and redo the evening all over again. Actually, if he were honest, there were a great many things he wished he could do over when it came to that female, but that was impossible, and now he was stuck, unable to plan the next course of action with only his traitorous thoughts to keep him company.

Everyone noticed, and she thinks you’re a coward for running away.

The problem was, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. That was what had gotten him into trouble the other day, which then got him into trouble that night, and, knowing Rhys and Azriel, would probably still get him into trouble for who knew how many days to come. It was all their fault, really. Cassian couldn’t really be called to blame for scratching up his wings during their sparring match when the other two were the ones who distracted him. Never mind that part of his training was to make sure he couldn’t be distracted during a fight, but honestly, calling out “Hello, Nesta!” just as he was about to make his “kill” was beyond the pale. Of course, had he given it a second of thought before turning around in surprise, he would’ve realized that Nesta never would have made that trek out to the forest all by herself just to watch them mock fight. But overall, it was still their fault.

Cassian dipped low over the river, letting his hand skim the surface of the water before swooping back up and around toward the House of Wind. It was probably better if he just went back there for the night. Returning to the town house--what would he even do there, anyway?--was suddenly anything but appealing. But no matter which location he finally chose, it would only be a matter of minutes before he was found by--

“Rhys! Oh, hey.” It was hard to act casual when one was hovering in midair having almost flown right into the High Lord of the Night Court, but somehow Cassian almost managed it. Almost.

Rhys was smirking. “There have been reports of a large creature swooping erratically across Velaris and terrorizing the townsfolk. Any foundation to these stories, General, or can I reassure my people that we are not, in fact, under attack again?”

Cassian grimaced. “Just say it,” he grumbled.

“Go home,” Rhys said firmly. “You're scaring everyone, and you're not doing yourself any good up here either.” He gave Cassian a long, hard look that told the Illyrian he knew, or at least suspected, exactly what had set Cassian off that evening. “Besides,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching once again into another smirk, “you'll need your strength for our next sparring session.” He didn't give Cassian a chance to reply, instead flying away into the night back toward the town house.  Cassian made a face at Rhys’ retreating figure. His friend could be serious when he needed to be, but Cassian had no doubt he'd hear all about this at training.

Cassian’s wings felt heavy as he made the decision to head for the House of Wind. Cauldron damn them all, he thought, myriad emotions battling for dominance within and none of them winning. Anxiety. Delight. Mortification. Disbelief. Longing. He didn't know what to think. Was that how it happened for everyone? He had always thought, always secretly hoped, it would be something shared just between the two of them when it did. Hadn't he even made fun of Rhys--their suave, smooth High Lord--for falling backwards because the moment had shocked him so much?

Cauldron damn every last one of them. Why did she have to grab his wing like that? And in front of the entire group, no less! There was no way she could have known what that must have felt like, and he had tried to keep his cool, but the way her finger had slid down his wing, stroking it. . . He had almost said something and given himself away right then and there. There was no way to hide that from anyone now. He couldn’t bear to think of what they would say when they saw him next, what she would say. Or worse, would she ignore it and continue to avoid him by hiding in her room whenever he came over?

That was the other big question: had she even felt it? There didn’t seem to be any way to avoid feeling it, a strike of lightning coursing down every nerve in his body until he felt on fire from the sheer force of it. Cassian had felt it closing in on him every day these past few months, could sense her even if he couldn’t see her, and the Mother only knew how he had heard her across that deafening battlefield before the Cauldron struck. She must have known it was there. It was a mallet striking a gong, a bell clanging in its tower above a city for all to hear. She had to know it was there.

Cassian landed on the open veranda that overlooked all of Velaris with heavy feet and heart. If she felt it and didn’t respond. . . or if she responded differently. . .  He shook his head but failed to clear away any of the negative thoughts that assailed him. How could he even ask her about it when she practically bit his head off when he attempted to talk to her? There had almost been a scene in one of the shops in town all because he offered to escort her home when she was finished with her purchases. She had looked fine, though a bit lost, wandering the busy streets alone that day, but something was off. She wasn’t crying, there was no blood, no one was even speaking to her at the time, but a gut feeling told him she was in some kind of pain or danger. That feeling had come upon him before when she had sensed the Wall coming down, the only difference this time that she was not willing to disclose the problem.

“I know something's wrong, Nes,” he said to her after following her to her next stop. She tried to sidestep him but he used his wings to block her path. “We need to talk about this.” He didn't want to discuss any of that in public, but the feeling of foreboding crept over his entire body, his blood roaring, every instinct screaming at him to protect her. But from what?

“I was fine until you showed up.” Nesta’s eyes blazed at him like burning coals, every word clipped and punctuated with every drop of venomous anger in her body. “Just. Stay. Away.”

The owner of the shop they stood in front of came out, seeing the two of them hesitating on the front steps. “Is everything all--oh! Um…” The older female, a lesser fae by the looks of the green tinge to her skin, recognized him, blinking rapidly, clearly torn between assisting Nesta and offending the High Lord’s General Commander.

“It's all right,” he said softly, taking a step back and folding in his wings, trying not to let them drop completely. It was the first time he'd approached her on his own after the war, the first time he'd tried to speak with her since they returned. If she wasn't cloistered alone in her room, it seemed to him that she made sure at least one other person was in the room with her at all times. Cassian tried to tell himself it was from the trauma of war--he dealt with that enough in the camps to recognize it--but it was hard not to take it personally after a vicious retort such as the one she uttered just then.

“It's all right,” he repeated. “I'll go.”

And he had, resolving to give her the space she wanted until she indicated otherwise. Which made that evening’s concerned outburst and following thunderous expression all the more confusing. And when she had touched him. . .

Mates.

The word resounded in his head. It was the last thing he expected to find at Rhys’ town house. Of course, Rhys had had it easy. After getting over the initial shock, he and Feyre had spent several days confined to their cabin in the mountains. If Nesta knew. . . the longer it took that fiery female to say something, the less Cassian was sure he wanted to hear the answer. Unless she honestly didn’t know. . . Although, given Feyre’s initial reaction to Rhys, perhaps it was better if she didn't find out at all. But then he would still be suffering regardless.

Ugh, females. And he had fallen for one of the most difficult ones out there. Cassian’s feet dragged along the floor to his room, and he collapsed face first into his bed and stared blankly at the wall. His thoughts circled over and around each other until a fitful sleep finally claimed him.

***

Feyre, having opted to stay outside and wait up for Rhys, looked up when Mor’s shadow fell across her lap. “Sorry. Forgot my shawl.”

She sat up straight in her chair as her friend crossed the veranda to the couch she’d been relaxing on and scooped up the long piece of red fabric that had fallen underneath. Mor shook the shawl playfully, but the smile on her mouth did not reach her eyes. “Well, good night.”

Feyre hesitated, wondering if she should say something, possibly apologize for her sister’s behavior, or just ignore it and say nothing. She stood up. Perhaps it was none of her business, but she couldn’t let Mor go home angry.

“My sister means well, you know.” She winced, her voice sounding childish and pathetic in the still night air. “She was just concerned about his wings. He’s hurt them so many times lately, you know.”

Mor gazed at her evenly. “I know,” was all she said, but she didn’t turn to leave either, so Feyre pressed forward.

“I saw you with Elain in the garden the other day.” A chill breeze blew across the patio, and Feyre rubbed her arms, wishing for a shawl like Mor’s. “Perhaps you and I and Nesta could do something together soon.”

Mor sighed. “Look, Feyre, I don’t know. I've tried--”

“You've tried with Elain,” Feyre interrupted. “Why not with Nesta?”

Mor chewed on her lower lip like she was chewing on her words, trying to hold the back, until she gestured at the empty air. “Because petals are softer than thorns."

Feyre blinked. “And some flowers need thorns for protection,” she snapped. “My sister needs time--time to process what has happened to her and to all of us. She can’t just turn around and be fine because we tell her to be.” She sighed, remembering just how hard it had been when she had come back from Under the Mountain, how she and even Rhys still occasionally had nightmares. “I thought that after everything I went through, what you have been through, you’d be the first to understand that.”

Mor looked away, twisting the loose fringe of her shawl between her fingers.

“Besides, if it takes you over five hundred years to speak to someone, you can’t truly believe my sister will be able to face everything after a few weeks. 

Mor whirled back to face her, her expression hardened. “That's not fair.”

Feyre closed her eyes for a moment and tried to breathe evenly. That had not come out the way she meant it. “I'm not saying you need to deal with your situation right now; when and how you do that is up to you. What I am asking is for you to put this into perspective. As you can relate, some people need time, and sometimes a few weeks isn’t enough.”

Mor was silent, chewing again on her bottom lip. She turned to leave and made it to the door before she stopped. "She treats him horribly,” she said softly.

Feyre's mind instantly went to that moment when the Cauldron had shown her Nesta and Cassian before the King of Hybern, when Cassian had kissed her so gently, when Nesta had vowed to give her life for his. But she couldn’t--wouldn't--tell Mor that. Not even Nesta knew she had seen that. "I promise you it's not what it looks like. You’ll just. . .” Feyre groped for the right words, wondering if she herself was placing too much emphasis on something that might not mean anything anymore to the two parties involved. “You’ll just have to trust me on that, all right? Look, maybe I took to all of this, to becoming Fae somewhat easier because--because I had to. To survive, to heal. To fight in the war.”

Feyre took a step towards her friend, who had begun to play with her shawl again. “But after everything that’s happened, I’m still healing. Mor, I still occasionally have nightmares. But my sisters. . . They didn’t ask for any of this. They were fine where they were in the mortal realm before they were dragged here and forced into that Cauldron.” Feyre’s voice broke as she ran a hand through her hair. Fine as long as she was away from them. Fine as long as she was gone. But if she hadn’t killed Andras, if she hadn’t gone to Prythian or even Under the Mountain, would she still be living with her family? If she hadn’t chosen their home as the queens’ meeting place, would the King of Hybern have even gone after them?

Feyre took a deep breath. If was always such a dangerous road to follow. “So when Nesta lashes out in anger or continues to hide away in her room because of what happened, as frustrating as it is, I will give her that time to heal. Because I was given time to heal, and because we all deserve it.” She shrugged, hating that she was on the verge of tears, hating that after all this time she still needed to hear those words too. “Even if it takes five hundred years.”

“You were given time to heal, but you weren't left alone like you're allowing your sister to be. Rhys knew when to goad you into action, Feyre.” Mor wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and held her hands up in a conciliatory manner. “With my--my father due in town soon, I don't have the patience to do that with her. I'm sorry, but if you truly want to help her, you'll push her too. Or else you're no better than Ta--”

Feyre’s mouth gaped open as Mor stopped before she could finish her comparison, though she knew without a doubt who Mor had meant. “I can't believe you would compare me to him,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tamlin. The one who left her alone, isolated, locked up. Broken.

“I would never do that to my sisters,” she said, baring her teeth. “How dare you suggest that after what I went through.”

Mor, to her credit, did look remorseful at having suggested that, and was now, to Feyre’s surprise, on the verge of tears herself. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean that you are him. I don’t. I just meant I don’t want her to deal with what she went through by herself like he made you. Maybe I don’t get along with Nesta, but I remember what it was like finding you in the Spring Court. As your friend, I don’t want you to have to find her like that.” She picked a piece of fuzz off her shawl, avoiding Feyre’s gaze. “Especially since we still don’t know what the Cauldron really did to her.”

Feyre stared at her friend. She hadn’t thought of it that way at all. Nesta could be withdrawn, full of pride, and completely stubborn at the best of times--no one could get in her way once she set her mind toward something--but she was also loyal to a fault and self-sacrificing in ways Feyre hadn’t even imagined until recently. But she was never one for seeking out help for herself. Maybe, Feyre realized, that was because she just didn’t know how to ask for it. And if they didn’t figure out what the Cauldron did to her. . . Feyre didn’t want to contemplate what her sister’s inevitable breakdown would do.

“Listen,” Feyre said, her voice cracking, “why don't we just turn in for the night and see how we feel in the morning. Perhaps,” she added, “I can talk some sense into Nesta too.”

Mor cocked her head to the side and stared at Feyre with a curious expression.

“What?” Feyre asked, and ran her hand through her hair self-consciously.

“You’re just. . . remarkably forgiving towards people who have done you wrong.” Mor seemed like she had more to say but stopped, digging the toe of her high heel into the floor.

Feyre couldn't think of anything to do but shrug. “She’s my sister.”

Mor wiped her cheek and took a deep breath. “Yes, well. . . I wish it were that easy for me.” She looked down and suddenly seemed surprised to find herself holding her shawl. She wrapped it around her shoulders again and took a deep, shaky breath. “Good night, Feyre.” Mor winnowed away before she could respond.

Feyre let out a huge sigh and collapsed into the closest iron chair, grateful that she could feel through the bond that Rhys was on his way home. This was most certainly not how she had wanted to spend the evening.

***

A few days of avoiding the town house and mentally fighting the urge to confront Nesta again had worked Cassian up enough that he was more than ready to join his two best friends for another sparring session, teasing or not.

They met on the outskirts of Velaris in a shady wooded area in the shadow of the mountains by a large turquoise lake. Azriel had chosen the location as a good place to practice in, yet it sat far enough away so as not to bother any residents of the town. Cassian was pretty sure he had picked the spot because the shadows created by the setting sun made it easier for him to blend into. It was cheating, if anyone had asked him, but that was the point of these exercises: to think ahead and consider all options from where the opponent might strike. Real terrain fighting, not just exercising on a sparring pad.

That was how they had gotten him last time, Cassian reflected as he spiraled over the area before landing by a large, grey boulder. He had been sparring with Azriel, trying his best to regain the upper hand in the fight after a lengthy back-and-forth across the rugged forest floor. In terms of hand-to-hand combat, Cassian had the edge over both his friends, but as soon as Azriel started using his shadows to surround him, warping his vision while Azriel winnowed from place to place, Cassian knew he had his work cut out for him. And he had been doing fine, holding his own, until that blasted taunt from Rhys on the sidelines about Nesta had caught him off-guard.

A small crack of a twig, barely discernible amongst the normal sounds of the forest, alerted him to his friends’ arrival. He turned around to find Rhys stretching his arms above his head while Azriel landed softly behind him.

“Ready to fight?” Rhys asked with a grin. “Wouldn’t want any potential visitors to see you lose.”

“Ready to kick your ass,” Cassian retorted with a sharp smile. He tightened the gloves on his hands and shined the siphon on his left wrist. A light breeze, its evergreen scent intermingling with a bit of the salty air off the nearby ocean, was cool and refreshing as it wafted past his face. Oh, he was definitely ready for some fighting today.

Azriel strode forward and smoothly stepped between them. Despite his calm demeanor, his own siphons were blazing a bright blue, and Cassian grinned even wider. This promised to be a good session.

Rhys reached into his pants pocket and pulled out three sticks--two short, one long. He closed hand over them and held them out to Cassian. Cassian studied them for a moment before picking one, revealing a short stick. Good. He needed this to vent his frustrations. He removed a piece of twine from his pocket and tied back his hair.

Rhys held out his hand to Azriel next, who stepped back with a small bow when he drew the long stick. Rhys opened his hand with a grin, revealing the other short piece. “Looks like it’s you and me today, General,” he said.

“Ready when you are, my lord.” Cassian grinned back, showing his sharp canines.

They both bowed to each other, a formality Rhys considered silly in this setting, but one Cassian insisted on. The terrain may be different, the winner and the outcome might change, but they were training, and they would show respect to each other as fellow fighters. As soon as Rhys has dipped his head, though, he disappeared, winnowing to the far side of the clearing. Cassian shook his head, having just settled back into his own fighting stance. This was a classic Rhys move. Since Cassian couldn’t winnow, he would have to either use up some of his strength chasing after Rhys or wait until Rhys came to him. And Rhys knew he did not have the patience for the latter strategy.

“You’re getting predictable,” he called out to his friend. “A boring fighter makes a boring fight!”

“Then perhaps it’s up to you to make it interesting,” Azriel called out from his perch. Whoever drew the long stick sat up in the trees to watch and mediate if necessary. They were far enough away so as not to get drawn into the fight and they also served as their fly-line barrier in the branches. Due to their wings, they had set a rule stating no flying above the tree line. Cassian and Azriel had fought to put that rule in place after one particularly long bout when Rhys had flown so far away that they didn’t find him until later that evening when they discovered him back at the town house having dinner with Feyre.

“Well, if it's interesting you want,” Rhys taunted. Suddenly the clearing went dark, purple and black roiling clouds of smoke circling Cassian, obscuring his vision until he could no longer see his hand in front of his face. He stopped moving, controlled his breathing so even that was nearly silent. Rhys’ darkness had a way of warping one’s senses; not only did it cut off vision but it warped sound until all direction, all sense of up and down, went flying out the window.

A tiny noise, this time not a twig but mere trifling, a snikt, sounded just beyond his left shoulder. Possibly Rhys revealing and extending his wings, also possibly. . .

“Tsk tsk, Rhys! We agreed no weapons,” Cassian called. “I want the pleasure of beating you with my own two hands.” He moved his head from side to side, keeping his ears open, hoping to force his friend to reveal his location. It worked--sort of.

“I'm not carrying anything!” Rhys protested. Standing awash in darkness, Rhys had covered his response with echoes, sounding, for all the world, like he had spoken from five different spots around the clearing.

“Yeah, only your sense of self-importance,” Cassian grumbled. Suddenly, a low chuckle sounded right behind him. Before his friend could winnow away again, Cassian instinctively whirled around and punched through the darkness, grinning as his fist collided in a satisfying crunch of hard bone.

Immediately the blackness disappeared to reveal Rhys bending over before him, holding his nose between his hands. His voice was somewhat muffled as he shouted, “I think you broke my nose!”

“I’ll apologize to Feyre later.” He danced away before Rhys could heal himself, kicking up a small dust cloud of dirt and leaves.

“What are you so worked up about?” Rhys taunted him, wiping a bit of blood of his face with his sleeve. “Did our High Lady kick your ass again in your sparring session?” He thrust his right fist out, aiming a punch at Cassian’s head, which the Illyrian easily ducked.

“Oh, I end up on my back quite a bit with her--Oof!” That remark earned him a quick elbow jab just above his left kidney as Rhys spun around toward his back side like a cloud of dark, whirling smoke. Anything that forced Rhys into an attack and caused him to tire more quickly was good strategy--even if Cassian would more than likely get an earful about his comments from Feyre later.

From up above in his treetop perch, Azriel called out, “Less banter, more fighting. If I had wanted to watch children playing, I’d go find a playground.”

Cassian jumped around to defend himself. “Hey, now, we’re just getting warmed up!” And then promptly cursed himself for leaving his entire back open as he heard Rhys launch himself on top of him. The two males tumbled end over each other in a messy entanglement of limbs and wings, each one landing a few good blows to the other’s face, rib cage, and sides in the process.

“Hey, watch the eyes!” Rhys grunted as Cassian landed a punch squarely on his left cheek.

“Oh, don't worry,” Cassian responded, grunting in kind, “I'm sure you'll still be loved for your sparkling personality.” He followed that remark up with a painful yell as Rhys wrapped his legs around Cassian’s knees and twisted sharply to the side. Cassian grabbed Rhys’ arms and held them down long enough to use his friend’s body as a springboard to propel himself outward and away into a forward roll. The sudden lunge loosened the grip on his legs and, after a double somersault through a particularly spiky pile of twigs, Cassian was free.

He jumped up and forced himself into starting position again, assessing once more both his and his opponent’s positions, their new terrain, and the angle of the sun. They had somehow managed to role past the circle of trees that marked the start of their session, with Azriel’s perch now behind them. All of these calculations came naturally to him. As General of the Night Court, it was his job to immediately appraise any given situation or enemy in order to quickly come up with a way to defeat them. The longer an enemy lived and fought, the more they learned of you and your weaknesses and in turn learned to use them against you.

Cassian could feel the cold calculation, the amusement rolling off of Rhys in thick waves, his taunts carefully circling, coming ever closer to hitting the real reason behind Cassian’s distractedness lately. The enemy was mining for weakness, preparing to use it against him. Cassian had been careful to not even think her name that day, as even the mere thought of her made his blood rise. But what had happened was not something so easily forgotten or brushed aside, and so, Cassian was annoyed and ashamed to admit, his weakness had been discovered.

Now just out of arm's reach, Rhys was up and bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet with his arms up in defense, reminding Cassian of a water-wraith, bobbing and weaving, waiting for the right moment to strike its prey. His friend was covered in leaves and twigs from their brief tussle, and Cassian was sure he was too.

“What are you so worked up about?” Cassian mocked his friend. He rolled his neck and flexed the muscles at the base of his wings, letting them relax and stretch after having rolled over them several times on the ground.

The corner of Rhys’ mouth curled up into a half-grin. “Oh, I’m fine. I’m just very concerned,” and Rhys placed his hand over heart, looking the very picture of innocence, “that my friend is suffering, and when my friend is suffering, I feel it behooves me to offer assistance.”

Cassian laughed. “Shove it up your ass, it behooves me,” he muttered.

Rhys gasped loudly. “Your High Lord is humbling himself by extending his love and protection.”

“My apologies,” Cassian stated, bowing to Rhys. “Shove it up your ass, my lord.”

Rhys grinned, his violet eyes promising mischief as he paced a circle around his friend. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, wagging his head from side to side in an exaggerated fashion. “I try to save that kind of talk for the bedroom--” even Azriel, up in his perch, groaned at that--“but I suppose we can get a second opinion on said ass-shoving. Why don’t we ask our friend?” Rhys stopped in his tracks and directed his gaze to just over Cassian’s shoulder. “What do you think, Nesta?”

Cassian felt his heart stop as all the blood drained from his face. “What?” He immediately twisted around to search for Nesta among the tall trees when--

With a cry that rivaled that of his beast form, Rhys once again tackled Cassian, diving for his waist and bringing him down hard against the leaf-strewn ground. The two struggled for a minute, Cassian cursing Rhys up a storm until Rhys managed to twist Cassian onto his back. Holding his hand against his friend’s neck as if he held a knife, Rhys grinned down at his friend in the waning light. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Az, but I think I just won this round.”

Cassian looked up to see Azriel standing above him. “Looks that way,” the Shadowsinger replied as Rhys jumped to his feet.

"Bastard," Cassian muttered, but accepted his friend's hand all the same and let Azriel help him to his feet.

“I can’t believe you fell for that!” Rhys crowed loudly. He clapped his hands loudly, the sound echoing across the clearing and lake behind them.

“I can’t believe it’s worked twice,” Azriel said to him, trying to hide his own smile.

Cassian tried to play off his embarrassment. This was not a good moment for the Night Court’s General Commander. “I would’ve been surprised at anyone standing there. Aside from us, who else knows about this location, hmm?”

“Feyre,” Rhys responded immediately.

“Amren,” Azriel added.

Cassian held up a finger and opened his mouth, and then closed it again, too many thoughts swirling through his mind at once. Finally, he said, “All right, you know what--”

Rhys burst out laughing and threw his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “We’re just giving you a hard time, Cassian. Mayyyybe I go a bit overboard at times,” he said, stretching out his words, “but I like to think I’m occasionally allowed to as your High Lord.”

“Playing the High Lord card,” grumbled Cassian, ducking out of his friend’s embrace in order to brush the leaves and dirt off the front of his tunic. “Such a cheap tactic.”

Rhys put his hands on his hips and grinned broadly. “Cheap yet effective. At any rate, I think I’m allowed a little leeway here. You guys gave me a hard enough time about my mating bond. I'm the High Lord and I say now it's my turn.”

Even Azriel was smiling. “In our defense, Rhys, It took you several months to tell Feyre about it, and the Suriel still had to do it for you. I'm fairly certain Nesta already knows.”

Cassian froze, his hands stuck to his chest. “What?”

***

“Well, it’s a good thing you like to read.”

Feyre and Nesta looked up from their corner of the library to find Mor dumping a pile of books between them. Feyre hadn’t been to the library in Velaris since she had last spoken to Bryaxis and, since Rhys was spending the day sparring with Cassian and Azriel, felt a day of quiet reading might be just the thing she needed to help her relax. Nesta, surprisingly, had asked to come along, which Feyre was more than happy to agree to, and Clotho had welcomed them both with a shy smile before showing them to two of the most comfortable plush chairs off in a sequestered corner away from the stacks complete with toasty fireplace.

Feyre picked up one of Mor’s books at random. Protocol and Policy in Prythian’s Palaces. “Poetic,” she smiled. “What are these?”

Mor straightened out the pile, avoiding both of their gazes. “Now that we have the time, I thought you might be interested in reading about our side of Prythian, the history and--and culture of it, I guess you could say.” She laughed nervously. “The rest of us have grown up like this. I suppose it’s easy to forget others didn’t have that luxury.”

Nesta picked up one of the books, and Feyre placed her hand on Mor’s, giving it a reassuring squeeze. It made her happy to see Mor giving Nesta another chance after their talk the other day. She hadn't had a chance to personally speak with Mor again about what had been said, but it seemed with this gesture that she was truly sorry and trying to make amends. Perhaps a friendship between Mor and Nesta wasn’t a lost cause.

“I don’t see how these will help with my research.” Nesta dropped the book back onto the pile, not even glancing at the others. Feyre briefly closed her eyes. Or perhaps it was a lost cause after all.

Mor placed her hand on her hip and stared at Nesta, her jaw jutting to the side. Feyre, sensing the start of another argument, jumped in. “Well, they might not help with your, uh, research, but they still look interesting to read, right? I know I’m interested in Prythian’s history.”

Nesta dragged her gaze back to Mor’s books. “Amren already taught me some of this.”

“Well,” Mor dropped her hands to her sides, throwing Feyre a look that said I tried. “I will leave you both to it then.”

“Thank you, Mor. We appreciate it. Truly.” But Feyre wasn’t sure Mor had heard her; it was hard to call after someone in a quiet space such as the library, and Mor had left quickly. Feyre sighed and turned back to her sister. “Not everyone is out to get you, Nesta. Believe it or not, some people want to be your friend.”

Feyre tried to go back to reading as Nesta sat there quietly, seemingly mulling over her words, but it was too hard to concentrate. So much had happened in just the past year alone, it was sometimes difficult for Feyre to remember their time back home in the village--not just how hard it was for her but how it must have been for the others, no matter how they tried to pretend otherwise. Even after Tamlin arranged for their father to get his money back, Nesta still had not been comfortable. If her human life had been bitter and wearisome, what then was her life as a Fae in this strange new world?

“How do you tell the difference?”

Feyre’s head shot up, and she blinked in concern. Having expected sarcasm, she was confused upon reading genuine misery in her older sister’s face.

She closed her book and sat back in her chair. “Well. . .”

How did one tell the difference between someone who meant well and one who didn’t? Ideally, by their actions, was the obvious answer, but it wasn't as if everyone was as clear cut evil as Amarantha and the king had been. Perhaps things with Tomas Mandray had ended worse than Nesta had let on. And then there was Graysen, who had loved and then turned on Elain. And Tamlin, who had loved her--perhaps too much--and had helped her family, but to say that their relationship had ended badly was an understatement. But there was also their father, who had disappointed them time and again, and yet somehow came through for them at the end when they truly needed it. And her friends in the Night Court, all them so generous and caring, yet judged harshly as if they too were members of the Court of Nightmares. How did one tell the difference?

“Well,” Feyre started again, “you just have to give it time.” Nesta rolled her eyes and started to stand, but Feyre’s arm shot out and grabbed her by the wrist. “I know that’s not what you want to hear, and it sounds trite, but it's true. And not just time. You need to give trust, some trust on your part that others will do and act how they say they will and that they mean it when they reach out to you. It . . .” Feyre trailed off, thinking again of how hard it had been to unwind her thoughts about Tamlin and how much harder to learn how to trust Rhys. “It just takes time and trust. I’m sorry,” she said. “I wish I had a better answer.”

Nesta was silent but eventually sat back down, her shoulders tense, her mouth puckered.

Poor Nesta, who showed so little but felt so much. Feyre looked over at the books her sister had been combing through, for the first time examining the titles in earnest since they sat down. “You mentioned research before. What are you--” She stopped. Several of the volumes were familiar to her--very familiar. “These are about the Cauldron.” Feyre recalled the strange comments Amren had made to Nesta about her powers. “Nesta, what’s going? Are you all right?” She tried to look at the open pages her sister had been reading but Nesta immediately snapped her book shut and yanked one of Mor’s books on top to cover it.

“I’m fine,” she growled, though she didn’t look fine. Nesta’s skin looked pale and clammy reflected in the light from the fireplace, and while Feyre had yet to glimpse again the dangerous fire of the Cauldron’s powers in Nesta’s eyes, the threat of retaliation if Feyre didn’t back off was still all too real and present on her face in that moment.

But this was about the Cauldron, and this time Feyre wouldn’t back down. “The Cauldron was sent away, Nesta. Rhys--Rhys and I repaired it.” They had repaired it at the cost of his life, a moment that still brought tears to Feyre’s eyes as she remembered when exactly she could no longer feel his heartbeat, as she remembered begging anyone who would listen to save his life. “It’s been sent away. No one can use it to hurt us now.”

Nesta stared at some spot in the carpet between their feet before huffing loudly, blowing a few strands of hair out of her eyes. She had worn her hair up again that day, braided into a crown wound around her head, but more than a few curls had already escaped. Nesta had always been very precise in her looks even when they had almost no money to spend on that luxury, but it hadn’t escaped Feyre’s notice that neither her sister’s hair nor her dress had been given their usual amount of attention lately, not since they had returned from the war. Feyre was torn between wondering if her sister just didn’t care as much about her looks and refused Nuala and Cerridwen’s assistance, or, more likely, if this were a sign of some deeper trouble.

Nesta then rubbed at her eyes as if suddenly tired. “It’s not the Cauldron I’m worried about,” she said, her tone even despite her word’s implications.

“Nesta, what’s wrong?” Feyre asked again. She hadn’t witnessed anything else unusual in her sister--if one counted her surly demeanor as “usual.” And she certainly hadn’t received word that someone was using the Cauldron. “Are you all right? Can you sense something?” She couldn’t believe after everything that had happened that Miryam and Drakon would be so careless as to let the Cauldron slip into the wrong hands. And with their magic, there was no way anyone else could have penetrated the barriers around their islands. The memory of her visit to the Bone Carver sprang to mind. He had spoken to--taunted really--Cassian about Nesta and what the Cauldron had done to her sister. She remembered Cassian had gone as pale as Nesta was now, his face drained of all color.

How they trembled when she emerged. She took something--something precious. She ripped it out with her teeth. . . What did she do, drowning in the ageless dark? What did she take?

Nesta has told them all herself that she made the Cauldron give something back. What had the Cauldron lost to her sister? “Nesta, what did you take?” she whispered.

Her sister blinked at her, as if clearing her vision, and then, to Feyre’s dismay, frowned. She could almost see Nesta’s emotions switch off. The minute anything became too personal, she closed up tighter than the Bone Carver’s cell. “Nothing. Never mind. It’s just a headache from the dim light.” She stood up then so fast that she bumped the small table between them, spilling several of the books onto the floor. “I’m going to go rest my eyes.”

Feyre made a face at her sister’s retreating back side and bent over to pick up the fallen tomes. She had tried to push Nesta into speaking, just as Mor advised, and still Nesta ran away.

The top of Mor’s books lay open from a forgotten bookmark inside. “Chapter Seven: Bonding over Bonds,” she read aloud. Where did Mor find these things? And who marked that particular page, some forgotten reader or Mor herself as a message for Nesta?

Winning the war was supposed to solve their problems, but all Feyre had to do was turn her head and twenty new obstacles sprang up in place. Feyre shook her head and gathered the books, both hers and Nesta’s, into one large pile. If something was going on--either with Nesta, the Cauldron, or both--she didn’t want to leave anything to chance. She made a mental note to ask Rhys about it later, and summoned Clotho for help in sending the stack of books back to the town house.

***

Cassian’s stomach growled.

He had been standing outside the town house for several minutes now, debating with himself over whether or not he should enter. His last encounter with a particular resident left him fleeing in embarrassment, and the touch of her fingers gliding over his wings still burned in his memory. Cassian could feel her inside the house now as well, and while he could only read a sense of calm within, he had yet to determine if his arrival would be welcome or another disruption to her peace and quiet. On the other hand, if he flew up to the House of Wind, he’d have to make his own dinner.

He also wasn't sure if he wanted to risk another argument, given how sure Azriel seemed to be of Nesta’s knowledge of the mating bond. In the five hundred or so years he had known his friend, Cassian still wasn't sure he understood the entirety of the Shadowsinger’s powers, but if Azriel was certain she knew, she definitely knew. Which then begged the question: why hadn’t she said anything about it? Another reason why Cassian hesitated on the path leading to the front door: he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

In the end, after another moment of dithering, Cassian squared his shoulders and flapped his wings, letting them settle naturally against his back. After the most recent sparring session, he had finally gone to ask Madja if she would heal the various cuts and scrapes he’d accrued on his wings. He could have asked any one of his friends to heal them, given that most of them were superficial, but he didn't feel like subjecting himself to both their probing fingers and questions. Which made his indecisiveness on the front walk-up even more embarrassing. Since when had the General Commander of the Night Court paused in the face of a foreboding mission? That fact that this “foreboding mission” happened to be a beautiful female who made his blood boil in all the right and wrong ways was beside the point.

With his jaw set and his head held high, Cassian entered the town house.

Inside, the house was quiet, almost eerily so. He had agreed to meet Rhys and Azriel later but it seemed they, and the others, were already out finishing up their various morning errands and, well, whatever it was Amren did when she wasn’t with them.

“Hello?” he called up the oak staircase. “I plan on raiding all the closets and eating all the food! Say absolutely nothing if you’re okay with that!”

After a second of complete silence, there came a cough from the room to his left. Curled up in a worn armchair next to the black marble fireplace sat Nesta, an open book on her blanket-covered lap.

“You can go through their closets all you like, just don’t touch mine,” she said without looking up. “Not that you’ll fit in anything once you’ve devoured the pantry.”

Cassian laughed as he stepped into the room. Nesta was indeed alone, and reading, a bowl of half-eaten fruit on the small side table beside her. “That’s all right,” he said. “I like something a bit more slinky anyway. You know, to show off my well-defined thigh muscles.” He waggled his right leg out in front of her, though the loose trousers he had chosen to wear that day did little to illustrate his point.

Nesta finally dragged her gaze upwards, merely raising a single eyebrow at him, but her attention quickly went back to her book. Not in the mood for talking then, but not angry either. Cassian tapped his fingers against his side, searching for inspiration. Should he get straight to the point or approach the subject gently in case it scared her away? To question or insinuate? Provoke her or preserve the equanimity?

After watching Nesta definitely not pay attention to him, Cassian stretched his arms towards the ceiling and yawned. Loudly. All it did was result in an eye roll from Nesta, but he couldn’t help but notice that her eyes stopped right as it reached his waistline. He looked down and saw that his exaggerated movements had untucked the front of his shirt, revealing a thin strip of bronzed skin just above his already low-hanging trousers.

Keeping his arms above his head, Cassian licked his lips and grinned. “Like what you see?”

Nesta blinked a few times before shaking her head and returning to the book in her lap. Fine. Straight to the point it would have to be. Cassian thumped over to the chair across from Nesta and collapsed back into it with a loud whump!

"Lots of books to choose from in here,” he said. He should have known Nesta would curl up in the one room lined with bookshelves. There was even, he noted, another small pile of even more books at her feet. “You've got quite the cozy set up.” He gestured grandly to the empty room, the roaring fire in the fireplace.

“Yes,” she said, not looking up. “It would be a shame if someone ruined it.”

He smirked. “Where is everyone anyway?” He fidgeted in his seat for a few seconds, adjusting his wings over the low back of the plush chair. It wasn't the most ideal location for an Illyrian to sit in, pushed up against the window as it was, but it was the closest spot to Nesta’s without actually sitting next to her.  “Are they all--ooh!--out?" They both winced as one of his wing claws scraped the window glass.

Nesta was clearly not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting she was by herself. "I'm sure Nuala and Cerridwen are around here somewhere," she replied evenly.

He grinned, noticing the tightness of her jaw as she grit her teeth, but her non-responses were not helping his confidence. “So we are alone.” Food could wait then. He cleared his throat and leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, his chin in his hand. “Uh, listen, Nes, there’s something we should talk about. . . uh. . .”

Cassian stopped speaking, having suddenly no idea what he was about to say.

Nesta had locked eyes with him as she looked up to reach for the bowl of fruit. Keeping her eyes on his, she selected a cherry, gripping the stem delicately between her fingers. Cassian watched transfixed, frozen in place as if bound by something far stronger than his usual indomitable will, while Nesta slowly brought the cherry up, her usual pink lips, he now noticed, stained a slightly darker shade from previous bites. The room was completely silent, the only noise now the thrumming of his heartbeat within his chest, as she licked her bottom lip before placing the cherry against her mouth and slowly biting down on the juicy crimson flesh of the fruit. A few drops of the red juice escaped her lips, trickling down her chin, and Cassian wanted nothing more in that instant to lean forward and brush the wine-stained nectar from her mouth, preferably with his own. And if it seemed that Nesta sat up a bit straighter in her chair, that she might be leaning forward just a bit more than she had a few seconds prior, then Cassian was only too happy to oblige her by closing the ever-diminishing space between them.

The rest of the cherry fell forgotten to the ground as Cassian too tumbled to the carpet before her. Her gaze never left his, the scent of sandalwood--the unmistakable scent of her--and crackling fire filling his mind, firing up every nerve in his body, and he wondered again what it would feel like if she were to stroke his wings again, stroke other body parts in the same soft manner while he busied himself with burying his face in her hair, caressing her, fondling her--

*

“Hellooo!” A bright, cheery voice suddenly called out from the front door.

Cassian and Nesta sprang apart as Mor’s voice echoed in the foyer, Cassian shaking his head as if not quite understanding why he was suddenly kneeling on the carpet of the living room or why his hand had been on her knee. Nesta straightened her skirt and hastily wiped her face, unsure of which was a darker shade of red--her cheeks or the fruit dribbling down her chin.

“Anyone home? Oh, good, you’re here!” Mor hopped into the room, a bright smile on her face as she beheld Nesta in her chair, a smile which dropped immediately upon registering Cassian’s presence as well. Mor raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t interrupting anything, was I?” She looked back and forth between the two of them, her gaze a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

“No,” Nesta said quickly. “You weren’t.” She sat up straight in her chair and pushed away the fruit bowl on the table next to her, hating herself and the way she couldn’t seem to control her behavior when she was around Cassian. Ever since he had walked into that room, she had barely been able to look at her book let alone read it. His presence, his very scent, threatened to overwhelm her every time he got near. Nesta had convinced herself she had mastered her feelings enough to be alone with him and thus hadn’t left immediately when Cassian arrived, but then he had to go and sit across from her, and then look what happened. What had she been trying to prove with that cherry anyway? The way he looked at her, the ferocity of his gaze which made promises she knew without a doubt his body could keep--it all muddled her mind too much to think straight.

She closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing, hoping that Mor wouldn’t notice, or at least wouldn’t comment, on that or her flushed face. She just couldn’t seem to shake the burning way he made her feel. Ironic then, she thought with a grimace, how he kept trying to kiss her by fireplaces.

Mor, instead, looked to Cassian for confirmation of Nesta’s words, and Cassian, to his credit, nodded. “Of course not,” he said smoothly. “I was just leaving.” He reached for something on the carpet and, standing up, held out his hand to Nesta. It was her half-eaten cherry. “You really ought to be more careful eating in here, you know,” he said to her, as if they hadn’t been about to kiss--or more--mere moments ago. “Rhys’ll throw a fit if you attract mice.”

Nesta made a face as he winked at her, and, grabbing the offensive piece of fruit, threw it into the fireplace where it gave a small pop! before melting amongst the logs.

“Mice, ugh.” Mor stuck out her tongue as Cassian swiped a pear from Nesta’s bowl and then side-stepped her to exit the room. “And where are you off to in such a hurry?”

Cassian stuck his head back around the doorjamb. “Well, unlike some ladies of leisure I could name, some of us have important jobs to do. We can’t all sit around, twiddling our painted nails all hours of the day.”

Mor crossed her arms and smirked. “You let me paint your nails before. We could do it again, you know. Make an afternoon of it.”

“That was two hundred years ago,” Cassian scoffed. “I don’t need that anymore. I’m much prettier now.” Mor threw him a vulgar gesture at which the Illyrian, flipping his hair and laughing, finally departed.

Nesta kept her mouth shut, looking away as the front door closed behind him. Completely serious one minute, laughing and joking the next. Is that what she was to him? Something to enjoy in secret but goodness help him if he had to acknowledge it in public. Of course, that fell under the assumption that she wanted him to acknowledge her, and in that moment, as in all moments, Nesta didn’t know what she wanted. Mor, on the other hand, looked like she knew exactly what she wanted, and that was to get straight to the point of whatever uncomfortable topic she was about to subject Nesta to.

“So.” Mor plopped herself down on the plush chair recently vacated by Cassian, letting one leg hang freely over the arm. “Your sister thinks we should be friends.” She wore her signature red that day in the form of tight-fitting capris and matching high heels with a loose white blouse on top. She gave Nesta a pointed look while loosening the long braid she wore down her back and retying it, her fingers deftly weaving through the blonde curls.

And there it was. Nesta slowly closed the book she'd been leafing through. She didn't need to ask which sister. “Yes, well,” she said, directing her own level gaze back at Mor, “she's the High Lady. It's her job to make sure everyone’s happy.”

“And are you?” Mor asked casually, tying off the end of her braid.

That was the question of the century, wasn’t it?

“I don’t see why that matters to you.” A non-answer, but a safe one.

The corner of Mor’s mouth quirked upwards. “Well, friends generally want their friends to be happy, don’t they?” When Nesta didn’t reply, Mor stared at her for a moment, her brown eyes intensely scrutinizing her until Nesta felt her soul lay bare before her. Mor’s power was Truth, she remembered being told. What truth did Mor see when she looked at her? What darkness did she uncover, what shadows did she bring to light? Nesta wasn’t sure she was brave enough to ask.

But whatever Mor saw, she only said, “Despite all your sharp words and glances, Feyre tells me you mean well, and Elain won’t go anywhere or do anything without seeking your opinion. You may want the world to think you have a hard outer shell, but your sisters are convinced you have some sort of ooey gooey center. So.” She splayed her fingers, her nails painted a matching red, across her lap. “You’re very angry. I get that. I was angry too. I’m still angry.”

Another fishing expedition about the Cauldron. Nesta wanted nothing more than an end to this conversation, knowing that whatever way it would end, it would not end well. But despite herself, she couldn’t resist asking, “Angry about what?”

Mor took a deep breath and glanced out the window behind her. The branches of the bushes in the front yard waved in the breeze, lightly tip-tapping every so often on the glass panes, and the clear blue sky was light and free of clouds. “When I came into my power,” she said in a quieter voice, “my family decided to sell me off to the highest bidder. I didn’t like that so I made sure. . .” She tapped her red fingernails against the top of her thigh, “I made sure instead that I went to my future husband as used goods because I knew they wouldn’t like that. Turns out my family didn’t like that either, and they’ve spent the last five hundred years barely tolerating my existence and letting me know they still blame me for ruining everything.”

The pit in Nesta’s stomach grew and grew as Mor told her exactly what had happened, the way she had been tossed like a rag doll back and forth between the Court of Nightmares and the Autumn Court. It wasn’t just the nature of the crime that appalled Nesta but that Mor had been treated as an object, that her family’s actions still influenced her thoughts if she could refer to herself as “used goods” without batting an eyelash. It reminded her of when she had tried to starve herself to prove a point to her father, a point he didn’t seem or care to get, so focused was he on himself rather than the welfare of his family. It reminded her, in a way that made her want to vomit, of the last time she had seen Tomas Mandray.

The blind terror in those moments he’d tried, before she’d screamed and clawed her way free. And never told anyone.

Something must have shown on her face because Mor stopped mid-sentence and said evenly, “So you know.”

"This isn't something you tell everyone." There was no question about that. It definitely wasn't a story one brought out at parties, that was for certain. "Why?" Why me?

"The only ones who know about me, about my past, are those I care about--" Mor met Nesta's gaze head on, "--and those who need to hear it. 

Nesta chewed on her lip for awhile. The silence lasted so long that Mor began playing with the end of her braid in the light from the window. Not bored, not annoyed, but waiting. Giving Nesta time.

She knew that Mor, in her roundabout way, was trying to get her to open up, to speak about what angered her most. But it wasn’t just anger she felt when it came to remembering her time in the Cauldron. Yes, she was angry, so angry that sometimes she felt like she’d burn up from raging over the unfairness of it all. She and Elain hadn’t asked to be dragged into that mess. Feyre, Mor, and the rest of them had shown up at her doorstep, and right behind came the king and his Cauldron. Yes, Nesta was angry, but there was an undercurrent of fear there that threatened the quiet wrath that both steadily fueled and consumed her. She wouldn’t--couldn’t--confront that fear just yet. And if she could barely bring herself to think about it, she certainly wasn’t going to speak about it. Not to her sisters and definitely not to Mor. But Mor’s speech had brought up another memory, and while it too brought certain emotions to the forefront, she knew she could control those, or, at best, rein them in. She was still angry at--but not afraid of--him .  

When Nesta finally spoke, her voice was remarkably even given the turmoil inside that threatened to overwhelm her, to overturn the remains of the most recent meal in her stomach. “I didn’t want to get married either. He didn’t like that as an answer.”

“It’s not your fault.” Mor leaned forward now, watching her, staring at her intently.

“He didn’t--it didn’t happen. Not like that.” Nesta chewed on her bottom lip, wishing her chair could just swallow her up completely so she didn’t have to finish this conversation. “After Feyre left, I started sleeping with a knife. Carried it with me. Even in the new house.” She remembered arguing with Elain, the look of sheer terror on her sister’s face when she realized what Nesta was keeping in her boot. “In case--in case he came back. The other one.” Not that she was completely convinced Tamlin would come crashing back into their home again, not after ensuring they were provided for, but the fact that Elain and their father couldn’t remember a single thing about that first night had terrified her. And so into her boot went the dagger.

In the years to come, the rich and flavorful foods of the faerie world would eventually erase the memory of bland mortal fare from Nesta’s mind; the vibrant and mellifluous concerts drown out any string quartet her village neighbors had ever hired; eventually, she’d even forget the feel of the rough straw beneath the mattress she had shared with Feyre and Elain. But Nesta would never forget the way the afternoon light slanted through the lace curtains of the front parlor that afternoon or the way it disappeared when Tomas’ shadow crept up behind her.

“There was a small pebble in the ground,” Mor said quietly, “that kept poking against my shoulder blade. It’s odd, the things you remember. . . after.”

Elain had gone to town, and their father was away again on business. Their housekeeper, Mrs. Laurent, hadn’t known to refuse his call. When Nesta closed her eyes, she could still feel his fingers gripping her as if in a vise as he pushed her towards the couch, could still envision the purple bruises that bloomed along her upper arms that kept her in long sleeves for several weeks.

“I hope he bled for it,” Mor uttered darkly.

The problem with keeping the small dagger in her boot was that she wasn’t able to make grab for it, not while Tomas had her arms pinned to her sides. It wasn’t until he shoved her onto the couch, until he tumbled on top of her, that she was able to get anywhere near her boot, though the weight of him against her nearly knocked her breath from her body. It was a heavy, desperate scramble of his rough hands against her dress and thighs, her own hands frantically fumbling both to keep him back and to grab her only protection.

“A little,” she admitted.

Later, after Tomas had left, clutching the long, bloody scar across his left cheek, and Elain returned, they had had tea brought to the parlor as usual. And she’d never ever said a word.

“I’m sorry,” Mor said quietly.

Nesta gave a half-shrug. “Could’ve been worse.” She’d been able to walk away with just a few bruises. Not all women--including Mor--could say that.

Once again, Mor seemed to read her as an open book. “What they did to me doesn’t make what was done to you any better or somehow less than.” She sighed and moved her leg off the arm of her chair, facing Nesta straight on. “But I know how hard it is to clear your mind of the thought that you deserve it regardless. That’s why,” and she cleared her throat and crossed her legs, “it’s important to surround yourself with loved ones, with people you can talk to. Believe me, from personal experience, the more you let it fester, the more you’ll waste away.”

Nesta kept her unblinking gaze on the black marble fireplace for so long that her eyes began to water. “I wasn’t aware that friendship involved teaching lessons with morals in them.”

Mor groaned. “What I’m saying, if you bothered to listen,” she snapped back, “is that you are allowed to be angry about what happened to you, no matter what it was, but you shouldn’t forget that you’re not alone. There are some here who would go to great lengths for their loved ones, who have gone to great lengths. I know. But if you’re intent on isolating yourself as High Lady of the Rage Court, I wonder if that is too far for even some to travel.” A pause, and then quieter: “And I fear what will happen to them when they still try.”

Nesta’s eyes watered again but this time not from staring, and Mor’s gaze seemed to soften. “I don’t know what it is about this place, but it seems to collect those in need of help. And no one here has deserved any of the bad stuff that’s happened to them, no matter what they think.” She offered Nesta a gentle smile. “Except, of course, the king, who you took care of. Don’t know if we ever thanked you for that one.”

The idea of being thanked for decapitating the King of Hybern was so absurd to Nesta that it was enough to quirk even the corners of her mouth into the ghost of a smile. “Well, you can be sure I won’t be repeating an act like that any time soon.” The feel of the knife in her hand, the resistance of his flesh against her steel. . . It was an afternoon made of ghosts, it seemed, and Nesta shivered despite her nearness to the fire. Sometimes, in her nightmares, the great black pool that taunted her from inside the Cauldron shrunk in size and then doubled, tripled, until it became the staring, dead eyes and gaping mouth of the king as she held his head up by his stringy dark hair.

For quite some time after that, the only sound to be heard was the crackling of the fire, the settling of the logs in the fireplace as they burnt and splintered off into smaller charred pieces.

“Cassian told me what you did,” Mor murmured, toeing the dark carpet with the tip of her shoe. Nesta looked up sharply, but Mor continued. “How Elain stabbed him first and then you finished the job.”

Nesta exhaled. She thought--no. She shook her head. Never mind what she thought. Mor was still speaking. “I think--I think he feels like he failed you, because he couldn’t do it himself.” When she looked up, Mor was shaking her own head. “Hell of a thing, trying to protect those you love.”

They were once again verging on dangerous territory. “These things I’ve said today--” She stopped and then began to start again when Mor interrupted her. “I don’t know what conversation you’re referring to,” she said lightly. “You’re remarkably taciturn when it comes to things like heart to hearts. Although,” and to Nesta’s surprise, she winked at her, “perhaps I am slightly more inclined to believe you have an ooey gooey center after all. Somewhere in there.”

Nesta regarded her for a moment with narrowed eyes. “And that’s the truth, is it.” She certainly wasn’t going to go around telling everyone her life story, or even what had passed between her and Cassian on the battlefield, but she wasn’t sure she liked this We share a secret-coziness of Mor’s either. Suddenly, Nesta was curious. “And what is your truth? Who are you deep down in your--” Nesta’s lip curled at the phrase--”ooey gooey center?”

That seemed to catch Mor by surprise. She stared up at the bookshelves behind Nesta as if her answer could be found amongst the titles of the old leather-bound tomes. “Well, perhaps that’s the advantage of being High Fae,” she finally said with a shrug that came across as more flustered than flippant. “Longer lives, more time to figure that out.” She frowned and tapped her fingers on her leg again. “Though I suppose if I need this long, I can’t really fault anyone else then, can I? At any rate,” she said, taking a deep breath, “I told your sister this once, and I'll tell you: There are good days and hard days for me--even now. Don’t let the hard days win, and soon enough you may find there’s less of them.”

Mor stood to leave but something made her pause at the edge of Nesta’s chair. Leaning over, she flicked over the cover of Nesta’s book from underneath her blanket and read the title out loud. “Protocol and Policy in Prythian’s Palaces. Hmm, a bit of a dry read, I've heard, but who knows. You might get something out of it.”

She flashed Nesta a smile that made her grit her teeth so hard, she thought she might crack a tooth. Only when the front door had closed and Nesta was sure Mor had left did she reopen the book and start reading again.

***

Nesta sighed, once again aware of the relentless aches in her head and chest. It was so tiring to continually live on the edge of her seat as she did, constantly alert and aware of every little thing going on. It was mentally exhausting, and she knew no other way to be. Taking a deep breath, Nesta climbed the stairs that led up to the rooftop garden which she knew Elain had made a beeline for upon arriving home just a short time ago.

Her sister was off to the side with her back to the stairs, digging holes in some brand new pots for her recently acquired bulbs, and didn’t turn at her approach. To her surprise, Feyre and Rhys were also there, having landed on the roof, she assumed, directly after their errands of the day. Rhys sat in one of the white iron chairs, his wings spread out behind him, soaking up the late autumn sun, while Feyre sat reclining sideways in the chair beside him, her feet dangling over his lap.

Feeling unexpectedly heavy and confused after her encounter with Mor, Nesta headed straight for her sister’s chair, sitting down on the cool tile just to the side of her, and pulled her legs up to her chest. Feyre looked down at her in surprise while Rhys, unmoving in his chair, let his violet eyes swing back and forth between the two of them. Despite the giant wings, he often reminded her of a cat, lazily reclining but with a hidden alertness, an immediate readiness to pounce should any danger lurking nearby make a sudden appearance.

“Nesta,” Rhys acknowledged with a nod. “How are we today?”

She shrugged. She didn't particularly feel like talking--she’d had too much of that already that morning--but her only other choice was sitting in her room alone with her thoughts. Her thoughts weren't much company these days, and so she forced herself to seek out company, despite the low tolerance she held for it.

“I'm fine.” What did that word mean anyway? She said she was fine so often lately the idea of being fine had lost all meaning. It was a wonder that everyone else even pretended to believe her. She forced herself to raise her chin off her knees and saw that her sister had a pile of papers--lists, by the look of them--in her lap. “What's going on?” she asked with a slight frown.

“The Winter Solstice is coming up, which means Feyre darling’s birthday.” Rhys answered, giving her sister a lazy smile, to which Feyre only rolled her eyes. “She doesn’t want us to make a big deal about it, but since it is her first birthday and Winter Solstice as High Lady, it is my opinion that we should celebrate.” He let his eyes rest of Nesta. “What do you think?”

Nesta secretly agreed with Feyre; as time went by, she desired less and less the idea a party whose sole purpose was to put her at the center of everyone’s attention. She had let Elain throw her a ball at their house once they had money again, but only because her sister had asked so nicely. Elain’s eyes shone with happiness, so much more than they ever had in their old shack, that Nesta had said yes before she fully realized what she had agreed to. In the end, Nesta had spent the entire party avoiding the other guests. She didn’t know who most of them were, and refused to speak to the ones she did. She had only ever pouted and demanded birthday celebrations when they were poor because pretending they could enjoy normal activities was better than the alternative--another day of trying to endure the raw, gnawing pain of hunger in their bellies.

“I think,” she finally said slowly, aware of even Elain’s eyes drawn toward her, “that if you truly mean to throw a party, Feyre should at least help plan it. Nothing’s worse than being stuck as the center of attention in a place you don’t want to be.”

Feyre cocked her head to the side and blinked in surprise, and then turned to Rhys with a grin. Rhys, on the other hand, continued to watch Nesta with a sort of calm wariness.

“That is exactly what I was trying to say,” Feyre said to her mate. She looked back at her sister. “This one,” she said, poking Rhys in the side, “knows I don't like to be kept from secrets.” She poked him again, this time squarely in the chest--sharp jabs, Nesta judged, by the way he had winced. “Important Winter Solstice duties should not be a surprise.”

“I didn't say your Winter Solstice duties would be a surprise,” he protested. “Just the birthday party,” he laughed.

Feyre pursed her lips and tapped her fingers along the arm of her chair. “Just as long as it’s a small gathering,” she said. “Just our group.”

“Of course. We’re spending the Solstice together. All of us,” Rhys said. He stood up just then, stretching his arms up toward the sky, his wings out behind him. “Well, I should get going then. What do you think would be the best way to let an entire city know they’ve just been uninvited to a party?”

Feyre swiped at Rhys’ side with a exclamation of disgust, but he winnowed ten feet above them and, giving them all a small, cheeky wave, flew off towards the city center. “Prick!” she called after him. But there was no malice in her voice, and Nesta could even sense a bit of embarrassed pleasure in her sister’s demeanor.

Nesta stood up and took the newly empty chair next to Feyre. “Where is he off to?” she asked after a moment. Though the sun was still out, lights began to sprinkle on across the city, glinting off the deep blue Sidra that wove its way like a ribbon across the land.

Her sister shrugged. “Knowing him, probably actually telling everyone they can’t come to my party.” Feyre gave a small laugh and turned to face Nesta in her seat. “Well, I’m completely stressed with these Solstice duties. How are you doing?” Feyre shuffled some papers on her lap uneasily, and Nesta saw that they were indeed full of lists--food, places, even ritual movements and prayers, it seemed.

“Is it really that difficult?” Nesta indicated the papers Feyre held, ignoring her question.

Feyre shrugged again. “I’ve been assured it’ll be no different than other holiday rituals I’ve participated in, but this will be the first one I’ve attended as High Lady.” She smiled, but Nesta caught the tiniest hint of a quiver in her sister’s lower lip. “I just want to get it right,” she said.

“You will,” Nesta said, glancing across at Elain. Their other sister was still busy with her plants, whether off in her own world or giving the two of them space, she couldn't tell. “You’ve always been able to do whatever you set out to accomplish.”

“Yes, well. . .” Feyre trailed off awkwardly, and then gave a sharp laugh. “Don't think too highly of me just yet. I was speaking with Nuala the other day and I realized I forgot that a big part of this Solstice tradition is giving gifts. I want to get everyone something that--that means something. But then I realized how big a task that was and now. . .” She indicated the rest of the lists in her lap, which were covered in scribbles, most of them drawn over and crossed out.

“Gifts,” Nesta said dully. The inky squiggles swam before her vision as she tried to recall the last Solstice she and her family had exchanged gifts. After they had lost everything, after their father could no longer walk without a cane or a grimace, even after all of that, he had still carved little wooden animals for them every winter. For their first Winter Solstice. . . after, he had given a wolf to Feyre and a dove to Elain. Smooth, sleek, and gentle, even the wolf, posed as it was sitting back on its haunches with a calm, neutral expression.

For Nesta, though. . . For Nesta, he had carved a dragon. It was an impressive carving, larger than either of the other two, and looked ready to pounce as it reared up on its back legs, its claws sharp and mouth open as if just about to breathe fire at its victims.

“Dragons aren't even real,” she remembered complaining. As impressive as the carving was, the emotion, the anger, found within that small thing scared her, and she couldn't look at it without instinctively recoiling.

“Faeries exist,” Feyre had spoken up upon seeing the hurt expression on their father’s face. “Dragons could be real too.”

Elain had shuddered. “Faeries are bad enough,” she’d said. “I’ll stick with my dove.”

The girls had never bought gifts for each other in the past, and they certainly hadn't for the Solstices after either. The only other so-called gifts she and Elain received were ones they bought themselves after wheedling what little money they could from whatever Feyre earned at hunting. It was Feyre who had gone out to hunt, Feyre who had killed and skinned and cooked. It was Feyre who sold the pelts for coin, and it was Nesta and Elain who had begged and whined and pleaded for money to buy frivolous, fancy things they claimed they needed at the time.

At Nesta’s long silence, Feyre reached over and placed her hand over her sister’s.  “Look,” she said after a pause, “I’m sorry I keep pushing you and asking how you are. But what you went through--what we all went through--was not easy. I. . .” She looked down at the papers in her lap again and took a deep breath. “I don’t want you to feel like we’re not listening to you if and when you do need help. I know what that feels like, to feel like you’re drowning while everyone’s just standing on the shore, watching.” She gave Nesta’s hand a squeeze before pulling away. “And you don't need to buy me a gift either. I'm doing this as High Lady. I just don't want you--or anyone--to feel obligated to get me something in return, all right?”

And after everything Feyre had done for them--for her and Elain, for their father, for all of Prythian--she still asked for nothing in return. How could she still offer up so much of herself when so many had done nothing but tear her down?

Perhaps it was those thoughts and the regret felt over past Solstices which spurred Nesta to offer up a small gift, a small part of herself there and then as a gift to her youngest sister.

“I'm sorry,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. She blinked back tears, cursing them for never wanting to come when it was convenient--that is to say, when she was alone. “I'm sorry I've been so horrible to you when all you've ever done was take care of us.”

“Nesta, I--” Feyre reached for her, but Nesta pulled back. No reassuring touches now, not for this. "I hated you, you know." She said it so calmly that Feyre jerked back in surprise, and out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw even Elain hesitate for a brief moment.

“I hated you because you were the only one who stood up and did something when we had no money. I couldn’t--I wasn’t used to doing anything for myself, and I was just so mad at Father for failing, for failing us. And then he just sat there! Like he didn’t care at all that our money was running out and that we didn’t know how we were going to get food after that. So I didn’t do anything either. Stupid, really,” she said, rubbing the fabric of her dress between her fingers. “I was trying to punish him, but after awhile I couldn’t stop, and I just ended up punishing myself.” Nesta took a deep breath, continuing to look down. If she looked up now, if she locked eyes with Feyre, she knew her fear would betray her again, and she’d run. She didn’t want to; she was so tired of running.

“And then you came home one night with a brace of rabbits like it was no big deal. Here was Feyre, the hunter, our savior.” She laughed bitterly. “And then it didn’t matter what I did or didn’t do because all Father could do when you were out was talk about how good you were, what a great hunter you were. He never even noticed when I starved myself as long as you came home.”

“Nesta, I. . .” Feyre frowned, looking somewhat confused. “I only learned to hunt because someone needed to. No one else ever offered to.”

“And how was I supposed to learn to hunt when all I learned growing up was how to wear a dress properly!” Nesta closed her eyes and breathed. This wasn’t meant to be an argument. “That’s why I never let Elain help. We were both too much like Mother, you know. Willfully helpless. But Elain. . .” Nesta gave up all thought over whether their other sister could hear them or not and plowed ahead. “She’s always been able to see the lighter side of things, to see the grain of hope in an otherwise dire situation. There were some days where I was so hungry, I didn’t know what to do. But Elain’s smile somehow always got me through to the next day, and after awhile, Elain was the only one who even bothered to smile anymore. And I thought, if I could protect her, if I could keep her happy, then we'd be okay. If I could prevent Elain from hunting or--or going out and selling what little we had left in order to put some food on the table, just to keep that hope alive, then I would do it.

“Because if Elain. . .” She took another deep breath. “Because I knew once Elain couldn’t find anything to smile about anymore, then we were lost for good. So I vowed to do everything I could to protect her, even if it meant closing you out. You knew what our lives were, you knew our situation.” Nesta laced her fingers together. “But as long as Elain had hope, I could pretend we did too.”

Feyre reached over and placed her hand over Nesta’s, and this time Nesta didn’t move away. “I wish you had told me this sooner,” Feyre said softly.

“I’ve learned sometimes that innocence and ignorance can go hand in hand.” Perhaps that was why it had been so easy to glamour Elain and their father, and why she had seen right through it. Despite her inaction, Nesta had from the beginning never suffered any delusions about their situation. “And deliberate ignorance can be even more harmful.” Nesta sighed. “I am sorry. That I didn’t do anything to make it easier on you.” She paused and then gave a brief chuckle. “Do you know, the first time you made me chop wood for the house, I was so mad that you were telling me what to do that I almost threw the axe back at the house and walked right off into the forest. But then I went and did it, and my hands were so bloody and raw and covered in blisters, and then I was glad--glad that they hurt so much because it meant I could feel something other than anger.”

Nesta leaned back and rested her neck against the edge of the chairback, letting the light breeze waft over her. A few birds flew overhead, but it was an otherwise clear day. “It’s odd to think that life was a lot easier when all we had to worry about was where our food was coming from.”

Feyre eyed her sister searchingly. “Is it really that much harder now?”

Nesta gave her sister a trembling attempt at a smile. “I wish Father was here. So I could tell him this.” She chewed her lip, her heart pounding in her chest. It was indeed a day for ghosts. “It’s my fault he died,” she said quietly. “If I had moved faster or--

“Nesta, no!” She couldn’t look at the pained expression on Feyre’s face. “Don’t think like that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Nesta said, shaking her head, lowering her voice. “It’s my fault. I would have let him carve it out of me right then and there if it meant. . .” The king had asked for what she held within her, for what she took from the Cauldron so he could use that power too. Even if I have to carve it out of you? He teased her with that nasty glint in his eye. “I should’ve spoken up sooner.”

“You didn't kill him. I did.”

Feyre and Nesta both swiveled to where Elain knelt amongst her flower pots. She had been facing away from them for Nesta’s entire speech, and she now carefully lay her gardening tools down off to the side. She then slowly and methodically removed her gloves and wiped away any trace of dirt that might have lingered on her hands before standing and facing the two of them.

“Elain--” Feyre started, but Nesta gripped her knee, as if to say, Let her speak.

“I don't know what I See most of the time,” Elain said carefully. She took a deep breath and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Most of the time, they're just images. Like when you're dreaming except that I'm awake. I know I'm awake but I can't do anything about it.”

When Elain paused long enough that it seemed she had stopped talking, Feyre spoke up again. “Have you had any visions lately?”

Elain’s gaze dropped to the ground, avoiding both their stares. “I had one that day. I didn’t tell you at the time because it was so similar to one I’d already had and I didn’t want to worry you. There was just so much going on, there wasn’t really any time left to stop and figure out what it meant. Sometimes it’s just a glimpse at something, sometimes it’s so many images at once, I want to scream.” She clutched the sides of her head and blinked rapidly. “But that time, when I saw Cassian’s wings break again, when I saw him die--”

Nesta’s hand again tightened on Feyre’s leg, her nails digging into her skin.

“When I saw him die, I knew Nesta would too.” Elain took a deep breath. “So I stepped in and changed it.” She looked at Feyre, still avoiding Nesta’s stare, her own eyes pools of dark sorrow. “I didn’t know if that would even work, but I think someone was meant to die that day and when you and Cassian didn’t. . . it took someone else.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “So it took Father.”

“No, no.” Nesta shook her head. “That’s not possible. You--”

“Once I had Azriel’s knife,” Elain interrupted her, “I Saw everything. It. . . it was like a clear path was ahead of me. I could stay where I was, and the vision would come to pass and there would be death. But when I--” She paused, as if searching for the right words. “When I turned my head, just a little bit, it was like there was another path, just off to the side. Darker, more obscured in shadow and fog, but I could go that way too, if I chose. And when I took that step into the shadows, just to see, the vision changed. You weren’t on the ground anymore,” she said, finally looking at Nesta. “And there was death, but not--it wasn’t the same. I could feel it but I couldn’t see it.”

One small hesitant step after another, and Elain was standing immediately before her sisters. “You saved me in Hybern’s camp and so many times before that even if you didn’t think you were. I couldn’t live with myself if I had seen you die and not done something.” A tear fell down her cheek matching the ones streaming down Nesta’s face. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get there fast enough to save Father too.”

Nesta closed her eyes, letting the tears fall down her face as she reached for Elain, who still stood before her, and hugged her sister around her waist. She felt Feyre’s arm around her shoulder, and after another deep, shuddering breath, she sat back and pulled Elain onto the chair with her, squeezing her between the two of them.

Elain lay her head on Nesta’s shoulder and Feyre kept her arm around the both of them. “The only one at fault for Father’s death is the King of Hybern, but I know Father would be glad to know that we’re still together,” Feyre said, and then sighed. “I missed this.”

After another pause, Nesta stretched her arm out around Feyre’s. The three sisters sat squished together on the two iron chairs, staring at nothing in particular, just enjoying the quiet solitude of each other’s presence as the sun slowly set behind the mountains to the west. With the sun’s descent, the air cooled almost immediately, sending a giant flock of birds soaring across the sky towards their nests for the night. Nesta was glad for the silence between them. Lately, everyone seemed intent on getting her to talk through her feelings, but sometimes, as in times like this, she enjoyed quiet company. Sometimes, it was nice to simply be.

One small bird, gray with brown and black markings, stole away from the flock, alighting on the edge of one of Elain’s new flower pots. Out of the corner of her eye, Nesta saw her sister smile.

Elain nodded at the flower pots, the bags of bulbs left leaning against them. “If you're looking for something to do,” she offered, “I could use some help.”

Nesta briefly considered it but shook her head. She wanted nothing more than to spend time with her sister, making sure she was all right, enjoying whatever semblance of peace they had cobbled together after the war. But gardening. . . no, that was not for her. “I’d only end up planting half the seeds upside down, and probably killing the other half when I forgot to water them.” She gave her sister a tentative smile when an idea occurred to her. It was something Feyre had offered in what seemed like another lifetime ago now, and while she hadn’t gotten very far in the learning, it was a far cry from the responsibility of accidentally killing plant life.

“Feyre, would--” She started to speak but stopped herself. Would Feyre even want to spend this time with her? She was now the High Lady of the Night Court. Did she even have that much free time anymore? Down below, Nesta could vaguely make out the gurgling of the fountain in the veranda garden. It was so peaceful there--at the town house, in Velaris. She wondered if she would ever be able to find a place for herself within that peace, wondered if she’d ever find peace within herself.

Feyre had leaned forward, looking around Elain at her with a raised eyebrow, waiting, so she plowed ahead. “Do you think you could teach me to paint again? Like before?”

Whatever troubles Nesta had shaken loose that day, there was still a solid mountain of walls and emotions built up within her. But for the first time in a very long time, she felt her heart relax just a little as a grin of surprise and delight lit up her sister’s face.

***

A few days later found Nesta rubbing at her eyes with her free hand while clutching the banister in the other, trying to steady herself as she descended the staircase after her nap. One or two lights shone in each room of the first floor but Nesta was surprised to find the town house otherwise empty. Empty, that is, until she spied Rhys sitting in the corner of the living room by the window with a book open on his lap. She recognized the glazed look on his face as that of someone who had read the same page four or five times in a row but was convinced they'd finally understand what they were reading on the next try.

As soon as she stepped into the room, Rhys closed his book and looked up, glazed look all but gone. “Oh, hello, Nesta. I thought you had gone shopping with the others.”

Nesta gave him a look. She had absolutely no doubt in her mind that he had known she was in the house the entire time. “I was resting,” she said shortly. It was, however, the first she’d heard about anyone going out that day. “Shopping?”

“Feyre went out with Elain and Mor. Probably dragged Amren with them too,” he said with a chuckle. “I believe they were headed to the Rainbow. I could take you there if you’d like to join them. It would be no problem to catch up.” The twinkle in his eye told her that he might get her there quickly, but she’d most likely be sick from the result.

Nesta opened her mouth, intending to let fly a sarcastic retort, but stopped when she felt another twinge in her temple. She leaned against the back of the closest couch to steady herself and rubbed at sides of her head. She and Feyre had met for their first painting lesson that morning after Feyre’s flying lesson with Azriel, but they had stopped early when she felt the beginnings of a headache. She had hoped her nap would’ve dispelled the pain but it seemed to be growing worse instead.

“Do you get those a lot?” Rhys asked her suddenly, his head cocked to the side.

She gave him another hard stare but there was no mischief behind this question. “Occasionally.”

When she didn’t elaborate, Rhys set his book down on the small oak side table beside him and leaned his head against the back of his chair. “It’s like something’s pressing on your eyes, isn't it,” he said, closing his own. “Pressing behind the eyes. A good portion of the time, it’s more annoying than anything else, but then. . . it’s like there’s a darkness there, a deep, black well of darkness. . . pushing you--”

“Under,” Nesta said quietly. Her nails dug into the cloth of the chair backing.

Rhys’ eyes fluttered open. “Exactly.”

Nesta looked up sharply but Rhys was not looking at her, staring instead at something on the ceiling. Her headaches often felt different lately, different and yet familiar. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She knew what Rhys was doing--he had died repairing the Cauldron, after all, died and come back--but she did not want to talk about the Cauldron. She did not like thinking about it, and what had happened, either before, during, or after. Especially during.

“It’s easy to want to give in to the darkness,” Rhys was saying. “It’s not a weakness to admit that.”

He was trying to get her to open up. Mor had the done the same, and despite herself, she had unlocked a secret she hoped would never be released. And whether, like Mor, it was for Feyre or perhaps just for himself, he was trying. And Nesta. . . just could not bring herself to speak of such things. Oh, how she wanted to sometimes. But whenever she thought too much or tried to speak, she just. . . couldn’t. Like whatever had happened to her, whatever she had taken down there in the darkness wrapped its claws around her once more and said No. Not them. There’s only us. It was different than with her other conversation. With Mor, she just hadn’t wanted to speak of such things. When it came to the Cauldron, she couldn’t.

“Does Feyre know. . . what happened. . .” Nesta winced, immediately regretting her question. Not just because of how weak and vulnerable it made her sound, but because of course he would have shared with Feyre. Her sister and Rhys were closer than any couple she had ever met. Mates. They were mates, was why. That was another topic she tried to avoid. Nesta rubbed her eyes again, the concept and conversation confusing her even more.

Rhys took a deep breath. “Most,” he admitted.

“But not all.” Nesta wondered what Rhys had seen while he was dead. Was it the same as when she had gone under? It had certainly felt like she was dying at the time. Or was it different because he went willingly when she and Elain had been fed to the darkness like lambs at the slaughter? Was it different because he had had six High Lords and Feyre to magically bring him back whereas she was forced to claw her way out, inch by inch, just barely making it back by the skin of her teeth? How different did the Cauldron treat a sacrifice based on its eagerness to comply?

“No, not all.” Nesta jumped as she realized Rhys was now standing right next to her. She hadn’t even seen him stand let alone walk towards her.

“Maybe someday I’ll be able to tell her all of what I saw, what I did.” Sounds of laughter came from the front of the house and the door opened only seconds later. Rhys turned toward the noise, having stood, Nesta realized, because he had felt Feyre nearby. “It. . . it is not something I wish to share lightly, but having someone I can talk to. . . it makes it better. Not easier, but better.” He placed his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

Mor's story--what had happened to her was horrible, but it was not the same as what Nesta experienced in the Cauldron. She had offered up the story of Tomas because she could relate, but it was not the story Mor wanted, not the answer to the questions most often begged of her. "What happened in the Cauldron, Nesta? What did you take?"  Fellow fae had acted against Mor, but the Cauldron. . . that was different. That unseen force was primitive, ancient, and more malevolent than anything she knew of in the physical world. That was magic. And while there was always the possibility of defending oneself against an attacker, Nesta had not been prepared to defend herself against magic, and that loss of control, that loss of self, was worse than anything Tomas might have done to her.

Nesta frowned, biting her lip. How can I share what happened with others when I can barely think about it myself?

But Rhys had already begun marching toward the front door, arms spread wide, a big smile upon his face.  

“Feyre, darling,” he called out happily. “What surprises did you bring for me this time?”

Though her view was blocked by the wall, Nesta could hear Feyre snort even from the living room. “I should think my presence gift enough,” she said laughing, and Nesta knew without joining them that Feyre had indeed bought him something.

How much of Rhys was just an act, Nesta wondered, as any and all trace of his Cauldron-haunted mind had already disappeared from his face before he had even reached the entrance way. And how much training, how much power, would it take for her to seem that way too? How long would it take before she felt comfortable even trying to share what had happened with any of them? Could she even bring herself to open up, fully and completely, to any of them at all?

No. Not them. There’s only us.

***

With thoughts of cherries and wing strokes filling his mind, Cassian strode once more unto the breach, bound and determined to get some sort of reaction out of Nesta this time. She had caught him off-guard twice now; it would not happen again. And the house was occupied this time, various noises issuing from both upstairs and the kitchen. But, once again, the only one visible was Nesta, who was this time sitting at the dining room table, another book open before her.

Cassian sighed and wondered just how much of what Nesta was doing was actual reading and how much was her using those books as a shield against any kind of personal interaction. He supposed anything was better than shutting herself away in her room as she had the days immediately following the war. Baby steps were good, but she clung to her books tighter than any weapon on the field. He was struck just then by the sudden image of Nesta riding into battle. Instead of a hard metal shield like the other warriors, she carried flattened books bound together with twine and glue. Instead of a spear, a giant feathered plume, dripping with the ink of dead characters. Unable to help himself, he snorted at the image.

Nesta glanced up quickly, shooting him a dark look before disappearing back into her story. Cassian’s lips formed a thin line and he considered his next option. With her back against the far wall by the door to the kitchen, she had the best view in watching all who came or left the house--and easy access for escape should she decide not to speak with any of them should they approach her. Cassian was starting to tire of her attempts at avoiding him. It annoyed him but was most of all defeating, and either proved she never planned on accepting him or, strangely enough, that Azriel was wrong. It was the same internal argument every time, and he was tired of that too.

He casually slid into one of the other chairs at the long table, sitting close but not close enough to replicate what had happened the last time he sat near her. As tempted as he had been to grab her and kiss her, doing so in a house currently full of people where any one of them could interrupt was probably not the best course of action.

“House seems busier today,” he commented lightly, trying to gauge her mood for the day.

“Certainly louder,” she replied, flipping angrily to the next page in her book.

A clang echoed in the room next to them--someone had dropped something large in the kitchen--followed inexplicably by laughter. “Big dinner?” he asked.

Nesta sighed and placed her bookmark on the page she was reading before closing the cover. “No, Nuala’s teaching Elain how to make the cake for Feyre’s party. Feyre and Rhys are about to go meet Amren for another governors’ meeting, and--”

"Wait, Amren's going?"

Nesta blinked. "I believe she's helping them set up extra wards around the town just in case."

It wasn't often that Amren worked directly with the governors. Cassian would've paid good money to see that, but he hadn't been invited to this particular meeting. That was fine with him, however. As the designated muscle, there wouldn't be much to do until just before Keir arrived with whatever lackeys he deemed offensive enough for their town.

“Is that all?” Cassian leaned back in his chair and began to tap his fingers along the gold tablecloth. “What about Mor?”

“Mor has her own plans for the evening, thank you very much.” Mor stepped down from the stairwell just then into the foyer, pausing at the bottom of the steps to adjust a strap on her shoe.

“You look nice. Big plans for the evening?” Cassian asked smoothly, tried to keep his voice calm--he had just gotten Nesta talking too. But Mor did look nice--gorgeous, even--in a long black skirt and low-cut top accented by a thick red belt at her waist.  It was a simple outfit for her, but it made her look all the more elegant for it, and she’d kept her hair down in loose curly tendrils.

Mor’s glance flickered to Nesta. “Yes, actually. I'm going out to eat with Azriel.”

Cassian’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? Just the two of you?” Something about that seemed off to Cassian. He meant to sound casual, but Mor’s sudden lack of desire to make eye contact with him had warning bells ringing in his head and the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Want me to come with?”

Mor smiled. “No, that’s all right. Azriel’s only accompanying me because I plan on getting thoroughly sloshed while Rhys prepares for Keir’s upcoming visit, and I need someone to make sure I get home all right.” She opened her clutch, closed it, and then opened it again and began to rifle through her things once more.

Cassian closed his eyes. Of course the impending Court of Nightmares visit was bothering her. No wonder she seemed so on edge lately. “And you think Azriel will be able to handle that by himself?”

Mor chuckled. “I'm giving him advance warning, aren't I?” She tucked a curl of blonde hair behind her ear. “At any rate, it'll be nice to spend some time with him. The two of us haven't really been, well, just the two of us in a long time.”

“Just the two of you.” A pit settled into his stomach. He suddenly had a feeling he knew exactly what Mor wanted to talk to their friend about. He didn't like it, didn't like what it meant for his best friend, what it meant for the dynamics of their group, didn't like the change of it all. He could feel himself treading on dangerous ground here, but some stupid, reckless part of his brain--the part that often needed things spelled out for him despite the subtleties and warnings--pressed on. It had often gotten him into embarrassing and awkward situations before and didn't seem to want to stop now. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come? I mean, if you give it an hour, their meeting will end, and we can invite the others. We could make it a big group dinner.”

Mor laughed nervously. “That's not quite what I had in mind. Az and I. . . there are some things we need to talk about. But it's all right,” she said quickly to his furrowed eyes and frown. “We've been meaning to do this for awhile now.”

“So you’ll be drinking through this--what?--heart to heart?” Cassian stood and crossed his arms as Mor looked at him, astonished.

“I don’t know why that’s any of your business.” She advanced on him with narrowed eyes. “We’re all adults around here, last I checked. If Azriel wants to sit there while I drink and pretend my father won’t be invading the last place I had to myself, then we’ll do that. And if I think it’s time to have a conversation with him that I should have had a long time ago, then we’ll do that too. I don’t need your permission to live my life, Cassian.”

He held his hands up in front of him, finding himself suddenly backed against the wall. “Listen, I didn’t mean--”

“No, no, that’s fine. We can--we can talk about this later if you like. After my evening with Azriel.” Mor directed her gaze at Nesta once more, who, to her credit, was doing a very good job at pretending not to hear them. “The war is over. I think it's time we were allowed to finally relax, to be who we could have been if we hadn't had everything else to deal with. I think we all deserve that, don’t you think, Nesta?”

They both turned to Nesta, who looked up from her book with slightly widened eyes. Leave it to Mor, Cassian thought, to drag anyone nearby into their argument just for the sake of winning. Too bad for Mor that it was the oldest of the Archerons. He waited her for snappy retort with baited breath.

But the snappy retort never came. “I think,” she started slowly, “that there is a lot of truth in that statement.” She seemed to eye Mor for a moment before the blonde smiled back at her.

Cassian instinctively took a step backward. The world was not ready for the day Nesta and Mor agreed to work together.

“See?” Mor tapped her clutch on Cassian’s shoulder. “Time for me to be me and to go meet Az.”

She made a move for the front door, but Cassian placed his hand on her wrist. “If you need anything--anything--just let me know. I can--I can still come with you, if you like. Or meet you. . . afterwards.”

Mor’s eyes looked sad as she tried to smile. “I think it's time for you let me go, Cassian.”

“Wh-what?” His heart, previously jumping all over his chest, went still.

Mor gently extracted her arm from his grip, and he flushed, realizing he'd been holding her just a little too tightly. “I'm running late. It's time for me to go.” She straightened, smoothing out her skirt, her hair, before turning to leave. “Goodbye, Cassian.” A pause. “Goodnight, Nesta.”

Such a simple word--goodbye--and yet it felt so final. He gave a half-hearted wave, and Nesta, for her part, looked up as Mor exited the front door of the house before wordlessly turning back to her book.

After a moment in which he contemplated following her--no, she’d notice his shadow on the ground if he flew--and another moment to ponder spying--no, Azriel would catch him before he even stepped foot in the place--Cassian dropped back into his chair. The legs gave off a discordant moan of wood against wood as the chair slid under him, and as soon as he was down, he wanted to stand back up again. He wanted to leave, fully intended on leaving now that his attempted conversation with Nesta was ruined. After that scene with Mor, there was no way he could concentrate anymore. He made a face and cracked his knuckles. He wanted to punch something.

Instead, he pulled his chair back into the table and put his head in his hands. Why in the Mother’s name had Mor chosen now to do this? Why did she insist on changing things after five hundred years? Of course, another small voice said, why had she waited five hundred years in the first place? Maybe she was right. The war was over, and they had survived. Maybe now was the time to live.

Cassian shook his head. For five hundred years, she had been his. . . his what? Not lover--that had only happened once. And he had been her. . . what exactly? Definitely not mate, not husband, not even her boyfriend. Protector? The word sat on him uncomfortably, but it would have to do, although it wasn’t like Mor needed anyone to protect her. But now she didn't even want him for that anymore! And Azriel. A brother to him. How would he react?

Five hundred years. For five hundred years, they had been best friends. He shoved his chair back for the second time, once again ruining the silence with the whine of the chair legs on wood

“You're going to scratch the flooring.” Nesta hadn't even looked up from her book as her sharp words bit into the air to chide him.

Not caring that he looked as petulant as he felt, Cassian made a face at her and slowly dragged his chair back to the table, making as much noise as possible. She still didn't look up.

He dropped his head into his hands once more, but again found his gaze drifting upward to the female across from him. He remembered Mor’s glances, her goodbye to Nesta. What was it she had told him before that?

I think it's time to finally relax, to be who we could have been if we hadn't had everything else to deal with.

To be who we could have been. Was that why Mor was speaking to Azriel now? They were best friends, not mates. Something would have snapped in place a long time ago if any of them had been mates with each other, he knew that for certain. Perhaps Mor finally wanted the freedom to do just that, to find her mate and still remain best friends with the men who loved her.

And Nesta. . . something had snapped in place there. She was his mate, might be his mate if he ever got the nerve to approach her about it. And if Mor knew. . . then maybe she was giving him the all clear to be happy as well.

Huh. Cassian tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. Did he really need permission to be happy, to go after the one who had become his mate? To find one’s mate was rare, creating a sacred bond between two individuals no matter who they were or what their circumstances. Anything involving one’s mate was almost a step beyond all of their natural laws. Cassian didn’t need anyone’s permission to approach Nesta, but. . . it made him uncomfortable to think about how much he actually needed that, especially from his best friends.

Nesta’s full attention remained on the book in front of her. His mind was a mess, and he had almost convinced himself that this now was not the right time to speak with her. But then again, when was the right time? What if the longer he ignored the bond, the more she thought he just didn't want it? And staring at her from across the table, Cassian knew he wanted it, wanted her. No matter what, he just couldn't stay away.

Cassian placed his hands down on the table and cleared his throat, cleared his mind. He wasn't even sure this would work, given that she hadn't fully accepted the bond yet, but he vaguely remembered Rhys mentioning he could speak with Feyre through the bond before she was even aware of it as well. No harm in trying, right?

Nesta.

Nothing. Given her determination to not pay attention to anything other than her book, he didn't think she'd respond immediately anyway. He tried again.

Nesta.

Cassian’s heart jumped as Nesta moved, and then sighed a huge sigh of relief when it turned out she was just adjusting her seat. He realized then he wasn't sure what he'd do if she did answer him.

A deep breath. Again. Nesta.

"WHAT." She sat up so fast, she lost a few strands of hair from her braid. And in her anger, she had slammed her book shut, forgetting to mark her spot, which only served to increase her rage. "You sound like a little child calling for his mother. What is so important that you need my attention that badly?"

Cassian stared at her, his mouth gaping open. He blinked. Shut his mouth. Nesta.

Nesta's lower lip dropped open. He hadn't been calling her name out loud, not at all.

Her eyebrows furrowed and unfurrowed in turn, as if she couldn’t decide between expressing terror or anger and had somehow confusingly settled on both instead. Her mouth opened and closed several times in quick succession, and Cassian, holding his breath, could feel the swirling miasma of emotions surrounding her, and wondered in terror at which one she would finally settle on.

All of them, it turned out. Nesta stood up so fast, her chair flew back against the wall, rocking from the sheer force of the push on its back legs. Without even a glance at her book--with a terrified glance at him--she was out of the room and up the stairs before all four of her chair’s legs had settled back down on the floor

Cassian pursed his lips and exhaled loudly through his nose. Yep, he thought, tapping his fingers on the table, that went about as well as expected.

***

The next afternoon, Cassian landed back at the House of Wind just as Azriel was stepping outside onto the veranda. After last night’s incident with Nesta, Cassian had spent all night wondering how his friend’s dinner with Mor was going and whether or not he should stay up when he came home. Unfortunately, Azriel was so naturally stealthy that Cassian hadn't heard him come home, and so he'd been a fidgety mess all day.

“So how was your night out with Mor?” He called to his friend as his feet touched down. “I’m assuming her plan to get corked as a kappa went off without a hitch.” Or maybe it went too well, he thought, noticing his friend’s squint upon stepping into the sunlight.

Wincing, with his hands up to block the glare, Azriel immediately ducked back inside, and so Cassian followed him. “Oh, we talked about a great many things last night,” Azriel answered once inside the darker dining room, “most of which included various ways she’d like to torture her father. You, by the way,” he said with a wry smile, “get the honor of tweezing off his fingernails.”

“And here I haven’t done any of my Solstice shopping yet.” But as appealing as the idea of torturing Keir was, Cassian was more interested in the rest of the conversation. “I noticed she’d been conspicuously absent today. I hope you left her with something for that hangover. And for yourself, for that matter,” he added.

“I haven’t spoken to her yet. I thought it reasonable to give her some time to herself after. . . everything we discussed.” A sharp glance at Cassian. “But I suspect you already know what that’s about.”

Cassian stopped in his tracks and cocked his head to the side. He was right. “Did you know--” he started, but stopped when Azriel just continued to stare at him. Cassian swore. Loudly. “Of course you knew. Cauldron, Azriel, why didn't you say anything?”

Azriel’s face remained impassive, his gaze steady, as he answered. “Because it was not my secret to tell.”

Cassian clutched his chest, feeling so suddenly like he'd been shot with an arrow that he was genuinely surprised when he looked down to find his hand empty. “I knew,” he said, staring down at his hand. “I didn't know everything, but I--I knew she didn't have those feelings for you. So I held back. I held back for you, Az, because I thought. . .” He looked back up. “Five hundred years, Azriel.” Cassian’s voice cracked, and he blushed, feeling stupidly embarrassed.

Azriel turned away and closed his eyes. “It's a long time not to say anything,” he said softly, but Cassian couldn't tell if that was an apology, a reproach for his own admission, or just a comment on Mor’s confession. Whatever. Cassian shook his head. It didn't matter.

He pushed himself off the wall and began pacing back and forth. “Five hundred years,” he muttered to himself. “Five oomph--" Azriel turned so abruptly that Cassian walked right into him.

“What Mor did last night was very brave.” Azriel was so close that one of his shadows floated towards him, drifting past his nose. “I don't understand why you're so angry. She hoped it would be freeing.”

Cassian rubbed at his face and stumbled back a few steps. Freeing? Freeing for whom? “I just--” He stopped. He didn't know what to say, and he didn't know why he was so angry all of a sudden. He made to push past Azriel but the Illyrian grabbed his shoulder and wouldn't let him move.

"If we spent less time lying to ourselves and more time focusing on what’s important, like each other’s happiness, then we might all be the better for it, don’t you think?” Azriel’s eyes were dark, his stare intense. "And now we have time for it. Tell me what scares you more, brother: the freedom to pursue what you really want, or the knowledge that you might not obtain it?”

Cassian laughed, a deep, shuddering exhale of breath. Leave it to his friend to cut right to the chase. "Both," he said, his voice cracking again. He collapsed into the nearest chair and placed his head in his hands. I can’t stay away, he had once told Feyre, and it was true. No matter how many times she ran or avoided him, that tether between them yanked him right back. Time. What was time when it was spent like this?

“She won’t talk to me. I keep trying, but. . .” He shook his head in frustration and looked up at his friend. “She knows, Az.” He had spoken to her through the bond and it had failed spectacularly. “Something happens and either she runs away or I do. I just--I don’t know what to do anymore. It would’ve been easier if she’d just run away in anger for a few days like Feyre did,” he grumbled. “At least she and Rhys got the cabin afterwards.” He tried to smile again but nothing about this was funny.

“She’s scared. Nesta is very strong, but she’s been through a lot. Honestly, I’d be more concerned if she wasn’t scared.” Azriel patted him on the back and sat down beside him.

“I--” Cassian stopped. “Do you think--do you think she does it because she wants to. . .” He trailed off. He couldn’t even bring himself to say the R-word out loud.

As rare as mates were, a fae rejecting the bond was even rarer. If she rejected their bond, could he even stay in Velaris knowing she was somewhere out there the whole time? He supposed being the Commander of the Night Court’s Illyrian troops had its advantages; he'd never lack for a camp in which to stay. But that alternative seemed almost worse.

“I wouldn't go that far,” Azriel answered him. The Shadowsinger traced the scars along his one hand and then the other. “Fear is. . .  a powerful jailer,” he said quietly. “You've already shown her the door is open. Now it's just up to her to decide what to do with that information.”

“When’d you get so knowledgeable about mating bonds? Is there something you're not telling us?” Cassian tried to smile again.

A faint blush colored Azriel’s cheeks. “No, I know a lot about many things--sometimes too much--but no. There is no one. Not yet anyways. Maybe never.” He shrugged. “I suppose that's up to the Mother.”

Cassian placed a hand on Azriel’s, if only to bring his focus off the scars. Despite Azriel’s apparent nonchalance at Mor’s confession, Cassian wondered if his fears were indeed well-placed, last night’s conversation having unwillingly stirred up old memories after all. “Either way,” he said to Azriel in a low voice, “it won’t be because there’s anything wrong with you. Your happiness matters just as much to all of us too. You know that, right?”

The shadows that had been settling darkly around Azriel’s head and shoulders cleared long enough for him to offer his friend a grim smile. “It’s all right. I know you guys just value me for my looks.”

Cassian gave a bark of laughter before slumping back in his chair. “Cauldron, how ridiculous do we sound right now? When did everything become about mates and stuff?”

Azriel inclined his head. “I think it’s called growing up.”

“Blech.” Cassian stuck out his tongue. “Too sappy and definitely too serious. Is there a way to make it stop? We’re starting to sound like Rhys.”

Azriel’s eyes twinkled as he chuckled at his friend. “I’m going to tell Rhys you said that.”

Cassian threw himself forward and swiped at Azriel, but the Shadowsinger was too fast and jumped out of his reach, hopping on his feet until he ended up by the glass doors that led back outside. “You do that,” Cassian called to him. “Tell him I’ll be waiting for him to get up off those creaky knees of his.”

Azriel glanced out the window and had to shade his eyes again. “Maybe later,” he said with a grimace.

“Talk about old age. What a lightweight you’ve become!” Cassian took his friend by the shoulders and directed him back to the table. “Sit. I’ll get you some water and then fix you up with my famous hangover cure. Now tell me, how many lemon slices do you want in your pickle juice?”

Azriel’s eyes bulged as his face took on a slightly greener pallor. “Just the water for now. Please.”

***

Nesta stared at her plate as her fork dangled in her hand, half-forgotten. Her conversation with Rhys earlier that week had continued to haunt her thoughts, not to mention what had more recently occurred with Cassian at that very table, all of which made it difficult for her to think about anything else. That only served to increase her grumpiness until everyone but Feyre and Elain had decided to go out for dinner that night--to avoid her, she suspected. She wished her sisters had gone out too. Sitting under their gazes of pity was much worse than eating alone, and she gripped the cloth napkin in her lap in irritation until her knuckles burned white.

“Nesta?. . . Nesta?”

Nesta blinked and looked up. Feyre and Elain were looking at her expectantly.

“I said, ‘Isn’t that nice, Nesta?’” Feyre was giving her a large, almost too large grin, and Nesta recognized it vaguely as her Please answer nicely so we can all pretend we’re normal and happy smile. She wasn’t sure if Feyre was even aware she did that and so did her sisters a favor by not rolling her eyes.

“I wasn't paying attention.” Her voice came out flat, duller and meaner than she intended, especially upon seeing the wince it elicited from Elain.

“We were talking about Elain’s work with her flowers. Lucien found a nursery in town that's looking for some help. Apparently it's fallen into some disrepair and they've agreed to let Elain come on to help.”

“Well, it’s not so much a nursery where one can buy plants so much as a. . . public greenhouse? I suppose?” Elain smiled, twisting her hands together, embarrassed and flustered and happy all at the same time. It brought a flush of pink to her cheeks, her brown eyes shining, and Nesta thought her sister had never looked more beautiful and more herself than she did at that moment.

Nesta allowed herself a small smile. “So you're going to work then?” she asked in encouragement. “What kind of flowers do they have?”

Elain loudly exhaled and laughed. “What kind of flowers and plants don't they have is the better question. I've never seen or heard of most of them there. Azriel said he’d take me to this lake nearby to show me some wildflowers I could bring with me, but I don't know how much use I'll really be there--”

“You'll be fine,” Feyre cut in.

“She's right, you know.” Both sisters turned to look at Nesta. She cleared her throat and continued. “You have a real talent for gardening. Always have.”

Elain smiled, threading her own cloth napkin between her fingers. “I'm just surprised Lucien found the place. I didn't think he had any interest in this kind of thing, but he offered to show me around, said he recognized a few of their plants, that they were similar to ones he knows from the--the Spring Court.”

Nesta stopped listening, her smile dropping from her face. Lucien. She didn't like that he was still hanging around. Something about him just rubbed her the wrong way, and she didn’t like knowing that the two of them were spending so much time together away from the house. The problem was that she didn’t like not knowing period. After spending so much time taking care of Elain herself, relinquishing control, realizing that Elain was an adult and should be able to handle herself, was easier said than done. But despite her misgivings--and her constant awareness of his presence--Lucien's actions were more of a persistent yet respectful suitor than anything else. Nesta forgot--or rather, made herself forget--that their connection ran much deeper.

“It’s not the plants he’s interested in,” Nesta said under her breath, knowing full well the other two could hear her anyway.

Feyre’s eyes flashed from her spot at the head of the table. Careful.

“Oh, I know it’s because I’m his--his mate.” Elain stumbled over the words as if this were the first time she’d ever spoken them. “But don’t you think,” she lowered her voice, “don't you think it would just be easier?”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed, and even Feyre frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I--I don’t know. I had a choice in Graysen.” It was the first time she had spoken his name aloud in a long time. Before, especially when they had first arrived in Velaris, it was always as him or he.

He’ll be looking for me. We were supposed to be married next week.

“And, well, we all know how that turned out.” Her chest heaved as if it were suddenly difficult to breathe. She picked up her spoon and began drawing circles on the tablecloth. “And the bond. . . perhaps it’s better that the choice is made for you. Perhaps it’s to make things easier, don’t you think? I mean, we didn’t have exactly a choice in this either, did we?” Elain tucked a strand of hair behind her pointed ear.

Nesta suddenly felt like she had been kicked in the stomach. “That was not our fault,” she said, barely managing a hoarse whisper as she struggled to maintain her emotions. This is what the war had done to Elain. If Nesta had emerged in the aftermath with more rage than she knew what to do with, then Elain had come out beaten, tired. Done.

Feyre, looking much the same with eyes full of sorrow, reached across the table and took Elain’s other hand in hers. “I don’t know that I’ll ever understand why things happen the way they do, and I know that no one even really understands the bond, but I will be the first to say that I ended up incredibly lucky with my mate. But what you’re talking about. . . that’s not a choice, and the acceptance of the bond will always be your choice.” She threw a pleading look over at Nesta, as if asking her to step in.

Nesta cleared her throat. “I wouldn’t know--what a bond feels like--” Feyre quirked an eyebrow at her--“but giving in just because it’s the easier option will not make you happier in the long run. Giving in--giving in would have meant Tomas.” A lump formed in her throat, and she swallowed, tried to master her own breathing. “I know your visions can’t be easy, but you should never settle just because that would make at least one aspect of your life less difficult to deal with. You should choose or not choose Lucien because of how you feel, not because some silly invisible thread told you to.”

And that was the closest she’d ever get in accepting Lucien’s place in their family.

Feyre and Elain both seemed to recognize that, and they offered her small grateful smiles, Elain’s more hesitant of the two. After a brief pause where everyone collectively took a deep breath, Feyre was the first to speak.

“I heard you asking Cerridwen for more paintbrushes earlier,” she said, pushing her dessert around on her plate. “How is your painting going?”

Nesta twisted her lips in thought. Gratified as she was that Feyre had changed the subject, she wished her sister had picked something else. Her most recent work had been an attempt at the view of Velaris from her bedroom window, something simple with large swathes of dark colors, little specks of yellow in between representing the lights. At least, that was how she saw it in her head. But she couldn't quite translate the image from her mind to the canvas like Feyre could. In her stubborn perfectionist way, it had taken all day just to get the blue ribbon that was the Sidra flowing the way she wanted it to. And even then, she hadn't been completely satisfied, wondering how she might fix it just a little bit more.

But she couldn't do that now, not after what had happened to her paintbrush.

Gripping her brush in frustration, Nesta had stood in her room a few days ago, staring at her half-finished canvas. How did Feyre do it? All her sister had to do was practically think of an image and there it was, perfect and complete. But she. . . Nesta snarled as she found herself accidentally dripping paint on her carpet. She couldn't garden, couldn't paint. What was she good for? What was the point in being High Fae if she couldn't harness any special powers to her advantage? The only things she excelled in lately were her abilities to respond to anything put to her in kindness with nothing but vitriol and to push others further and further away.

She hated it. She hated herself for being that way. She hated her new body. She hated how everyone kept trying to be nice to her, as if she were some kind of project. She hated how hard it was to be nice to others and how easy, how so damn easy it was to be angry all the time. What had the Cauldron gifted her but a magnification of her worst qualities? She would never be nurturing and peaceful like Elain. She would never be creative like Feyre. What could she do?

Well, there was one thing she could do, and that was throw her paintbrush at her canvas and storm off to simmer somewhere else. Suddenly the idea of destroying something--pelting her brush at the canvas, splattering paint everywhere, possibly busting a hole right through the thing--was very much appealing to her.

Except that when she raised her arm to throw the brush. . . it was gone. Her hand was empty.

Nesta had stared at the ground in horror, stared wide-eyed at the small mound of ash that had recently been her brush. A few thin strands of smoke rose curling in the air where parts of the ash still sizzled in tiny flames. Nesta held her shaking hands up to her face. They didn't even feel warm. Had she really done that, burnt her paintbrush, bristles and all, to pure dust in her anger?

Her power blasted the trees behind him to cinders. Blasted across the battlefield in a low arc, then landed right in the Hybern ranks. Taking out hundreds before they knew what happened.

It was just like when she had used her powers in her first attempt to kill the King of Hybern. The power of the Cauldron buzzed through her fingertips until, arms extended, she had exploded with raw magic, nearly decimating an entire swathe of troops in the process.

White, burning power shot out of her palm and slammed into his chest. . . Her power sent him flying back, trees snapping under him. One after another after another.

But that had been when she was still linked to the Cauldron, the one they forced her into, before it had been destroyed and remade with the help of her sister. And that’s when it occurred to Nesta that perhaps this was not because she was tied in any way to the Cauldron, reforged or not. After all, Rhys had come back without any extra powers. Maybe it had nothing to do with a link to the magic, but everything to do with the magic itself.

She had taken too much.

Nesta had packed her things away in panic then, resolving to try again the next day when she had calmed down, when the stabbing pain that was forming behind her eyes again had gone away.

Feyre had asked her how her painting was coming along. Nesta swallowed, a large lump in her throat. “Fine,” she said hoarsely. “It's going fine.”

After no more elaboration, she watched as Feyre and Elain threw glances across the table at each other, glances whose meanings she could not decipher nor felt bothered enough to try. Then it seemed that even they had given up on trying for the night, a fact which relieved Nesta, and they finished the rest of their meal in silence. She had already lied twice that evening; she had no desire or strength left to do it again.

***

Later that night, long past when everyone else had gone to bed, Nesta found herself creeping down the stairs. She wasn’t particularly hungry nor did she feel like reading for once; she just knew her bed felt too crowded with the millions of thoughts swirling around inside her.

She found herself in the living room, and once again, was not alone.

“Can’t sleep?” Rhys asked from his chair.

Nesta gasped and clutched her chest. “Stop doing that!” she hissed. “Do you sit here in the dark on purpose, waiting to scare whoever walks in next?”

Rhys grinned. “Well, I can’t try it on Feyre. She knows I’m there before she sees me.”

Nesta glared until Rhys held his hands up in mock surrender. “All right, all right, I’m sorry.”

Nesta sniffed and walked around to the front of the couch where she sat down opposite Rhys’ chair. “No, I couldn’t sleep,” she answered with a huff. She watched and tried not to fidget as he narrowed his eyes, examining her.

“Another headache? You've been having a lot of those lately.”

“No, no headache.” Though he was right; she had been experiencing more headaches than usual, but that was not what was keeping her awake that night. She had been thinking again about the books she borrowed from the library, but no matter how many times she reread those passages about the Cauldron, they did not contain the answers she sought. None of them did, because they had already been checked before when Hybern still held the Cauldron. But still Nesta continued to read them, endlessly scrutinizing every last book on the subject until she could figure out what--the headaches, the intrusive thoughts, the anger--had been done to her.

“You said once. . .” She trailed off, wondering how to ask her question, wondering if Rhys would answer, wondering if indeed there was an answer to be found. “You said once you hoped to share with Feyre what you did. . . while under,” she took a deep breath, images of her own time in the Cauldron flashing before her eyes, “while gone. Do--do you think it did anything to you?”

Rhys cocked his head to the side, pondering her words, and then nodded. “I've certainly wondered about the effects of interacting with the Cauldron. I don't believe it has physically altered me in any way.” He stopped and narrowed his eyes at her once more. “Nesta, did something happen to you--”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, nothing of that kind. I just--I just wondered if perhaps the Cauldron reacted to everyone the same or if it affected someone based on who they are and their thoughts and experiences.”

Rhys seemed to accept her answer as she flexed her fingers over her thighs. She could feel it inside her, the pressure behind her eyes, in her skull. But whether that was a side effect of going under or a power yet to manifest, she wasn't ready to disclose that information until she could learn more about the Cauldron’s powers. Elain had certainly returned affected, but in a different way, and seemed just as unwilling to discuss it.

“That's a thought-provoking idea,” Rhys was saying. “Obviously the Cauldron can be influenced by whoever wields it as we have seen with you and your sister. But Amren’s and my interactions with it were something of a different nature. Of course,” he said with a laugh, “you are more than welcome to question Amren about that yourself.”

Nesta allowed herself a small smile, but knew she would have to talk to Amren eventually. Nesta had been avoiding her ever since she mentioned needing to work on her mental shields again. Could she even do it now that her headaches were getting worse? Nesta bit her lip. If she agreed to resuming lessons, perhaps she could get Amren talking somehow.

Nesta shook her head--something to mull over later--and discovered Rhys offering her a lopsided grin. “What?”

He shrugged. “Nothing, really. Did Feyre ever tell you I had a sister?”

She blinked at the sudden change of subject. “Uh, no. It never came up.” Nesta suddenly felt guilty; there were a lot of things that had yet to come up between them.

Rhys looked down at his hands, his fingers interlaced in his lap. “We used to sit up at night talking sometimes. Not often, just when I could get time off from war-camp. This,” he said, waving at the space between them, “it reminds of her. Of course, we didn’t always get along. She liked to try and tag along when I’d go flying with our mother. Oh, the lungs on that girl when she didn’t get her way.” He leaned his head against the back of the chair and gave a small chuckle that ended in a low sigh. “Look, I won’t pretend that I understand all you’ve been through. And as High Lord, perhaps I shouldn’t be biased, but I am unapologetically on Feyre’s side in most, if not all, things. But situations change, and we’re still getting used to each other, and I’d very much like to start over with you and Elain.”

Nesta stared down at her own hands, silent. Her curiosity demanded to know what had happened to his sister, but her face burned red at the idea of Rhys--or anyone, for that matter--purposely wanting to spend time with her. To her, it was only natural that others should want to know Elain, and had many times in the past acted as a sort of bodyguard, fending off unwanted suitors and fortune hunters. It was not often that someone approached her for her.

“It's been awhile since I've been a brother, so I expect there’s a learning curve for me as well.” Nesta flinched. Rhys had once again, in that unsettling way of his, materialized by her side without the slightest sound. “But if you want one, or would just like a friend, I'm here. It's a strange feeling, having sisters around again. I've missed it.” He offered her his arm. “But I do insist, as my first act as brother-friend, that you try to get some sleep.”

Nesta gazed in wonder at Rhys’ arm before reaching out and letting him pull her to her feet. “All right,” she said, her voice suddenly hoarse. She let Rhys escort her up the stairs and back to her room.

“I'm sure I'll run into you again another night,” he said, once they reached her doorway. “Just don't tell your sister about these midnight assignations. She might get jealous.” He winked at her.

Nesta laughed, exhaling loudly. Feyre already knew, she was certain of it. At any other time, she might have been angry, betrayed at the idea of her sister or anyone knowing anything about her dark thoughts. But somehow Rhys was able to set her at ease, as if these late night talks were just between the two of them. Or, a startling thought sprang to mind, maybe they were just between the two of them. Rhys displayed an amazing amount of trust in her with these confidences, possibly presuming automatically that she wouldn't tell anyone unless he gave her permission to do so. It brought to mind Feyre’s earlier words.

You need to give trust, some trust on your part that others will do and act how they say they will and that they mean it when they reach out to you.

Rhys had already taken a few steps when she managed to rasp out, “Thank you, Rhys. Sleep well.”

The High Lord’s’ violet eyes were like tiny beacons in the dark hallway, his gaze bright and piercing as he appraised her words. “I hope you do too, Nesta,” he said, and headed off to his room.

A brother. The tension behind her eyes and in her chest had lightened considerably as she slipped inside her room. What would it feel like to have a brother, a friend? To be with a man who didn’t ask for anything other than her time? She knew she must tread lightly. She couldn't mess this up, not now with Rhys, not with any of them when she yearned deep down for closeness despite the terror of it all that surrounded her. Her thoughts once again led her back to the other day when she had run away from the dining room table. If she couldn't handle a simple friendship, then she would never get the chance again for something more, something deeper.

It was a slow start, but a start nonetheless. And if she could start to allow others in as she had slowly begun to with Rhys and her sisters, then maybe, just maybe, she could let others--a certain other--in as well.

***

Nesta sat squished between Elain and Lucien at the corner booth of Rita’s, completely miserable. Everyone was either drinking or dancing--in some cases, both at the same time--and it was much too loud to be enjoyable. The bass of the music thrummed deep in her chest until she could no longer remember what normal breathing felt like. Green, gold, blue, and magenta fae lights lit up the dark paneled walls, pulsing in time to the music, while a large crowd of fae jumped and writhed together on the dance floor.

Going to a club with the entire group was not what she had in mind when it came to opening up and letting people in, and yet there she was, stuck in a booth with no hope of escape. Mor, to the surprise of everyone, had been the one who begged her to come after she had first turned down Feyre. “It would really mean a lot to me,” Mor had said in a sing-song voice. Her eyes, however, remained focused and serious, and suddenly Feyre was telling Nesta how much she would enjoy herself without ever remembering actually agreeing to it.

Nesta bit her lip in annoyance. She still wasn’t entirely convinced Mor hadn’t used some kind of magic on her to get her there, and was seriously contemplating just sliding under the table in order to escape. She had no plans to dance and still hadn’t finished the drink someone had thrust in front of her even though the others were well on their way past two or three drinks.

Elain, at least, seemed to be enjoying herself, bobbing her head along to the music even though she too hadn’t danced yet. Lucien, on the other hand, looked just as miserable as she felt, his russet eye staring down at his own drink while the golden one whirred and buzzed in its socket, looking at anything and everything in the club. And while sitting next to him was not improving her evening, she had made the split second decision to slide into the booth after him when she noticed the glances he kept shooting at her sister and the dance floor. Based on the stiffness in which he sat, she guessed this was probably his first time there too. Misery loves company, I guess, she thought with an eye roll.

At one point, the music’s tempo changed, prompting Mor to scream, “This is my favorite song! Everyone, come dance with me!” Nesta wasn’t sure how anyone could differentiate between one loud song and the next, but she suddenly found herself being dragged by the arms out of the booth. “I did not invite you here to take up space,” Mor told her with a pointed look.

“You know I don’t dance.” Nesta yanked her arm out of Mor’s grasp and hung back near their table. In addition to coercing Nesta into going to Rita’s, Mor had also insisted on helping her dress for the evening. Mor looked beautiful as usual in a red crop top with gauzy red sleeves that ended in golden cuffs at the wrists. She wore matching tight pants with a gauzy half-skirt that flowed behind her as if held aloft by a magical breeze. Nesta refused to wear pants and balked at a top that showed too much skin so Mor had settled on a soft cobalt dress that, she promised Nesta, would bring out the blue in her blue-grey eyes.

Eyeing the crowd, Nesta saw now that her choice in outfit was slightly more conservative compared to the rest of the dancers. A bead of sweat trickled down the small of her back; the long sleeves on her dress and its thicker fabric--in addition to the heat brought on by the numerous bodies crushed together--was starting to overwhelm her.

Mor started to speak again, but Nesta ducked out of her way. “I need some air,” she said, already striding away before Mor could grab her again. She headed for the door just off the side of the dance floor which opened to a hallway where the restrooms were. Staged behind the bar, separated by a thick wall, Nesta found the music here was at least somewhat muted though the bass continued to thump on, reverberating deep within her bones.

Nesta stopped and, placing her hand against the wall, leaned on the wood paneling, needing a moment to compose herself. This wasn’t at all the type of evening she had envisioned, and if opening herself up to others and new experiences meant forcing herself into uncomfortable situations, she wasn’t sure she could keep this up. It wasn’t just the heat, though that definitely contributed to her discomfort, but the noise that overstimulated her mind. She just couldn’t think as well in there as anywhere else, and without the ability to form proper and considerate thoughts, she felt more prone to awkwardness and sullenness, the very state of being she was trying to avoid. She just couldn’t understand how this came so naturally to the others.

“Are you all right?”

Nesta shot up, spine ramrod straight, and whirled around, finding herself face to face with Cassian. So consumed by her own thoughts and distracted by the sounds and smells of the club, she had completely failed to recognize his presence sneaking up on her. She narrowed her eyes as he stood there waiting for a response, noting--and almost hating herself for it--the way his sweaty hair and shirt clung to his body. He wore a white shirt with his sleeves rolled up, and his collar was undone one button too many to have been anything other than on purpose. And she knew without a doubt that those tight dark pants had not been chosen for dance comfort.

By the time her eyes met his, the corner of his mouth was twitching, threatening to erupt into a full-blown smirk. “I’m perfectly fine,” she emphasized, feeling her face flush with heat. “Shouldn't you be watching over your friend?”

Nesta had overheard Feyre speaking with Rhys before they had left that evening about her concerns over just how hard Mor had been trying to forget her father’s upcoming visit. Rhys, for his part, was well aware and had promised that he had eyes and ears all over. Given his nature, Nesta supposed that Azriel was taking care of most of that job, and she was not surprised in noting how much attention he was giving her that night, both up close and from afar. But Cassian had been dancing with her as well, and more than just a few times.

He took a step towards her. “I think she can take care of herself for a few dances.” He cocked his head to the side. “What about you?” he asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Nesta pursed her lips. It wasn't that his dancing with Mor bothered her. It wasn't that his dancing with any female bothered her. It was--and the admittance of the truth hurt more than the fact itself--that he and all the others were so easily able to let go, to give in, to feel. The only emotion lately that came easily to Nesta was anger, lacking the ability to compartmentalize as the others could. It had been like that, she reflected sourly, even before the Cauldron. What would it be like, then, to forget the world for a moment? To forget the outrage, the betrayal, the loss? What would it be like to forget everything else and experience a moment for what it was? What would it be like to just feel?

Nesta eyed Cassian warily. The closer he advanced, the easier it became to sense his thoughts and emotions. At that moment, waves of concern and apprehension radiated from him. “I’m fine,” she told him, instinctively taking a step back. She didn’t need anyone’s pity.

He smiled, and, damn him, her fists began to unclench and shoulders untense on their own accord. And yet her insides were twisting themselves in complicated knots. It was a war between her mind and body. The only question was: what side would her heart take?

“I meant, would you like to dance?” He held his distance from her but extended his hand in invitation.

Nesta flinched. Dance in front of everyone? She couldn't. She stared at Cassian’s hand. Calloused and scarred, but open and steady, waiting. Before she knew what she was doing, she took a step towards him. Cassian lifted his eyebrows, in surprise, anticipation, but she caught herself before her body betrayed her further. “Sorry, I don't dance.” She shook her head, clutching her hands to her chest, her heart pounding, and stepped backwards. If she could tear her eyes away from him, if she could escape the pull she felt whenever she was near him--

She took another step back and found herself up against the opposite wall. His hazel eyes were soft as he gazed at her in earnest. “Nesta, please.”

Please? “What's this? I didn’t think the General Commander of the Night Court begged," she scoffed, crossing her arms.

Suddenly, Cassian’s face transformed. A slow grin spread across his face as his eyes glinted in the club’s eerie fae light. “I could make you beg instead, if you like,” he purred. A few strands of hair escaped from behind his ear, casting his face in strange shadows.

His voice sent a shiver up her spine, not unlike the deep thrumming of the music’s bass, which continued to blast on the dance floor. But standing so close to him, hearing his deep voice, letting it run through her and in her and all over until somehow the noise almost disappeared. . . Nesta stood transfixed as Cassian stepped closer, ever closer--

linked, they were linked, their coming together preordained by some unseen force in the world that Nesta still wasn’t sure she understood except that she knew it was there, she felt it, felt the ebb and flow, the tug and pull as they moved around each other, ever circling, always moving, a mesmerizing dance that kept them from changing partners because they were partners forever through the bond, they were mates

--until he stood before her with his hand outstretched once again. "Please,” he asked again.

Nesta gulped and found herself reaching back.

One more step and they were face to face. He leaned forward until his nose brushed her cheek. “Dance with me,” he breathed. Nesta could hardly breathe herself while Cassian brought her arms up to his neck and then rested his hands around her hips.

He began to sway and Nesta moved with him, his wings opening, stretching, sheltering them in their own little corner of the hallway, and suddenly Nesta could no longer distinguish between the music of the club and the beating of her heart. There was only her and Cassian and the connection between them.

“Do you feel it?” he whispered.

She nodded, a lump in her throat. “I don’t understand. I’m not--I still don’t understand these things your kind does.”

“You are one of us now, remember,” he told her gently. “And you are beautiful.” His lips lightly brushed her forehead. “And so is this--” He angled her face and softly kissed the tip of one pointed ear first “--and this--” and then the other. Nesta felt tears prick her eyes. No, she wanted to say. No, this is not beautiful. I am not beautiful. But somehow, when Cassian said it, it was almost believable. Her eyes fluttered as Cassian began to pepper her ear, her cheek, her neck with kisses as they continued to sway to the music only they could hear.

Nesta remembered the first time Cassian had kissed her, back in her home in the mortal realm. The strange attraction she felt to this unknown fae that pulled her towards him, the fire she felt in her blood, the madness that burned beneath her skin. She knew now what it was, had known for some time. That invisible thread that pulled her towards him and him to her, that nudging, that compulsive need be near each other. They had been linked from that first moment he walked through her front door, bound as tight as the promise he’d made to protect her and the other mortals in her land.

As they held each other moving together in the quiet of that back hallway, Nesta wondered why she spent so long running away when it felt so right to be there with Cassian, when it was one of the few places she felt as relaxed as she wished she could always be. The pressure she felt, that squeezed her chest and the space behind her eyes, it was overwhelming and constant, but the pressure that drove her towards Cassian. . . She wondered, as her eyes roamed over the stubble on his cheek, the hard jawline, the powerful muscles working beneath that bronzed skin. . . She wondered what it would be like, to give in to the pressure, to let herself break open and truly feel like the others could just this one time.

There was a tiny spot, just there on his jaw, that looked particularly inviting.

But the terror she felt at relinquishing control, even the slightest bit, brought her back to the present. Her heart pounded in her chest, in time to the bass of the club, that familiar rhythmic pounding inside that brought fast breaths to her heaving chest.

She was tired, just so tired of burning with rage all the time. What would it be like--to let herself burn with something else? What would Cassian do, if she kissed him right there on his jaw? Would he feel it? Would he know?

Nesta arched her chin upward just a bit, an invitation Cassian took to bring his kisses lower, to her neck, her shoulder. Her breath hitched as his tongue lightly licked her collarbone, and she took another deep breath to steady herself, to override that tiny part of her mind that urged her to run as she had last time, as she had every time. Suddenly she felt dizzier than ever as his scent was all around her and over her, the mingled scents of sweat and leather, of smoke from a burning forge, of the wind in the air from a chill morning mist.

She brought her arms down from his neck, pressing herself against his chest, her hands drifting around to clutch at the powerful muscles of his back. The spot she'd locked her eyes on, however, was just out of reach. Before she had time to convince herself otherwise, Nesta rose up on her tiptoes, letting herself slowly slide up Cassian's body as she did so. Cassian, having brought his attentions to her own backside, paused oh so briefly as his hands gripped her dress in his fists, causing the fabric to hitch up towards her thighs. A small groan issued from his lips before his body pressed her fully against the wall, his lips and tongue roaming over every available inch of her skin again in earnest. Nesta gasped as she felt the pulse of that ancient magic rise up, threatening--promising--to engulf her.

Nesta closed her eyes and dared herself to feel.

Her lips had barely grazed his skin when Cassian sprang back, though his hands never once left her sides. His eyes were wide and wild with shock and surprise and. . . delight? He blinked several times rapidly before the shadow of smile graced his lips. He opened his mouth as if to speak--

“I’m sure what you’re doing is important, but your wings are blocking the hall.”

But those words had not come from Cassian. Nesta’s blood froze as, through a small gap between Cassian’s wings, she discovered Amren staring at them. Her arms were crossed and she was tapping a foot against the ground. She did not look happy. A low growl issued from Cassian’s throat at the interruption; his wings had enveloped them into a bubble of sorts, which had given them privacy, but were also blocking passage through the thin corridor. And there, just a few feet away, stood their friend, looking more than a little unpleased at their presence. She gestured to Cassian’s wings. “Some of us would like to use the bathroom. Do you mind?”

Cassian bowed his head, and Nesta could feel his warm breath on her collarbone as he tried to master control of his emotions. “You're tiny.” His voice rumbled deep within his chest. “Walk around.”

Nesta caught Amren’s eye, and the spell was broken. She firmly pushed Cassian off her and quickly cleared a few feet of distance between them. Suddenly the air was cooler and the music louder as the reality of where they were came crashing back down around her. “I should go,” she mumbled, and hastily made a retreat for the exit.

“No, Nesta, wait!” Cassian called behind her. Her body flushed from the heat of their encounter and every base instinct within told her to go back, but nothing Cassian could do would get her to turn around, the embarrassment in having been caught just too great.

She rushed through the club, straight past the dance floor, the thumping music drowning out any argument Cassian and Amrem might be having behind her. Once outside, the air stripped any remaining breath from her body, but it was too late to go back in and get her coat. For a fraction of a second, she considered re-entering if only to tell Feyre she was headed home, but the thought of having to face him again, of having even to answer to Amren, was just too much. Let the others wonder where she had disappeared to. Let Cassian tell them she had gone.

“I can escort you if you’re heading home.” Nesta whirled around to discover Azriel stepping out of the shadows of the building, hands in his pockets. The black smoke that constantly surrounded him curled lazily around his chest and shoulders. The noise from the dance floor carried outside, a mere whisper of what it was inside the club, and with the buzzing in her ears, Nesta hadn’t even heard him follow her out the door. For all she knew, he had stepped out of the building’s shadows.

She scowled as she wrapped her arms around her middle for warmth. It seemed that Mor wasn’t the only one they were keeping tabs on. But, while Nesta didn’t want company, she found herself shrugging. “If you have nothing better to do.” She pivoted on her heels and began the trek back to the town house without even waiting to see if Azriel would follow. And she wasn’t actually sure Azriel had followed her until he startled her some blocks later by finally speaking.

“Was the evening really that terrible?”

No. “Yes,” she snapped, not bothering to look at him. Her footsteps echoed off the cobblestone lane, but she could hear nothing of the Shadowsinger behind her. The city had gone to sleep hours ago and the streets were otherwise deserted. Nesta’s ears still hummed from din of the club, the rest of her nerves still alive and alert from her encounter with Cassian. Did Azriel know about that? Had his shadows been spying on them? Her face flushed again in greater embarrassment, and she picked up her step, hurrying onward.

“You seem distracted,” he continued, his voice gaining in volume as he caught up to her.

She grit her teeth and rubbed her arms again in the cold. “I’m fine.”

“I only comment,” Azriel said in the same calm tone, “because the town house is west of Rita’s.”

Nesta could see her breath as she exhaled loudly through her nose. “So?” She wished he'd just say what is he wanted to say and then vanish back into the shadows.

“Well, we’ve been heading north for about two blocks now.”

Nesta halted in her tracks, closed her eyes, and counted to ten before turning around. “Then why didn’t you say something?” she said peevishly, her words bouncing off the buildings around them. Azriel just raised an eyebrow, and she pursed her lips, biting back another retort. She knew what that look meant, and though she wouldn’t admit it out loud, he was right. Would she have listened to him if he had?

Nesta narrowed her eyes, but he did not flinch from her gaze. She could read, or liked to think she could read, everyone. But she couldn't read him. Nesta clenched her jaw. “Just take me home,” she grumbled.

Azriel swept his arm to the side and gestured to a side street before setting off in the correct direction. She followed him down those remaining streets home, staring at his back in seething silence. She watched his wings as they approached the neighborhood in which the town house sat, unable to keep herself from comparing his wings to another set she was so very familiar with.

She had run away. Again. She had come so close to giving in this time, to offering up her entire self. If Amren hadn’t interrupted them. . . She frowned. What would have happened if Amren hadn’t interrupted them? It had been so easy to want to give in, to reach up and kiss him, but what then? How to bridge the gap and speak the words that gripped her throat and choked her any time she tried to open her mouth? Perhaps she was better off by herself, if only because it meant no longer hurting those around her. Mor had snapped at her for isolating herself, calling her the High Lady of the Rage Court, and perhaps she was right after all. The farther she ran, the harder that made it for others to want to follow.

Moments later, they reached the town house, and Azriel led her up the front walk. She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly through her nose, regretting the way she had lashed out at him. But so much time on the walk elapsed that she now felt awkward apologizing. “Thank you for walking me home,” she said instead, her words stilted. “Would you. . . would you tell everyone that I’m. . .” That she was--what?

Azriel smiled, a soft and genuine smile, as he held the door open for her. “I can tell them you weren’t feeling well if you like.”

She frowned. It would be easy to let him say that. Not quite a lie but not quite the truth either. And while she had no doubt that he somehow knew exactly why she had fled Rita’s that evening, his offer to cover for her tore at her heart. She couldn’t let him do that for her. She was so tired of making excuses.

“No,” she said finally with a sigh. “Just--just tell them I’m here.”

He nodded. “I understand. It’s been a long day.” He cocked his head to the side and she stepped up into the house. “You know, apropos of nothing, most of us will be out of the house tomorrow helping Elain set up the greenhouse, but. . . I believe Nuala and Cerridwen might need assistance in the kitchen if you’d prefer to stay home.”

Nesta blinked. Apropos of nothing. As a male of few words, nothing Azriel ever said was irrelevant, but it took Nesta a moment to process and sift through all that he had just told her. Everyone was helping Elain in her greenhouse tomorrow. Had Elain mentioned that to her? Had she been so preoccupied with herself that she had forgotten? Or, Nesta thought with deep sadness and shame, perhaps Elain hadn’t mentioned it because she thought Nesta wouldn’t want to come.

As Nesta stared ahead of her, down that long empty first floor hallway, her limbs suddenly felt very heavy, and not from the long walk home. But something about the last part of what Azriel had said. . . “They need help in the kitchen?” For as short a time as Nesta had been in the town house, Nuala and Cerridwen had never needed help with anything.

The ghost of a smile flitted across his face. “Rhys, it seems, has ordered quite the spread for Feyre’s birthday. Fish, meats, cakes, ice creams of all flavors. . .” Nesta barely registered the pause before he said, “Blueberry-lemon muffins.”

Nesta whirled around, eyes narrow as she searched Azriel’s face for any hint of malicious mischief. Of course, that was hardly his style, and he merely blinked innocently down at her. “Muffins,” she said dully.

“I’m sure they’d appreciate the help.” He shrugged. “Unless you’d rather help at the greenhouse. There will be a lot of us there, but I’m sure Elain could find something for you to do.”

Nesta’s heartbeat quickened in her chest. She was torn; she wanted to help her sister and and prove that she was trying to do better and work at becoming part of the group. And Elain would find something for her to do if she asked. But she also knew what Azriel was hinting at--damn that nosy bat--and she wasn’t sure if she was ready to take that step yet.

The mere idea of sharing everything with someone petrified her. It wasn't just physically being alone with someone, though the memory of Cassian's lips trailing kisses on her skin both terrified and thrilled her. It was the sharing of her thoughts that scared her the most: opening up so completely so that all thoughts, both good and bad, kind and terrible, were laid bare before them.

She'd have to share the Cauldron. Even contemplating doing so was enough to stop all progress she'd made. She tried to block out the ordeal, mental shields flying up automatically, but deep down, Nesta knew her shields weren't that good. It was as if the Cauldron itself had its own set of walls, its own claws buried deep within her mind, refusing access even to her at times. How could she tell him about any of it when it seemed even the Cauldron didn't want her to?

Azriel was still watching her, and she wasn’t sure if he expected an answer or not, so she told him, “I’ll think about it.”

That was the best she could offer at that moment, and, sensing her reluctance, Azriel nodded. “I’ve often found,” he said slowly, “that sometimes it helps to talk it out with someone when facing a hard decision. And even then, there’s no shame in changing one’s mind.”

Nesta pinched the bridge of her nose and turned her back on Azriel. She was so tired of everyone sticking their noses in her business. The only one who could help her with her problems was herself. Except that Cassian was one of her problems, which meant involving him too.

Well, perhaps it was time to stop running. It wasn’t like he was avoiding her, after all. And, as no decisions had been made, minds could be changed at any time.

“Muffins, huh?” By the time Nesta turned around again, Azriel had disappeared. She narrowed her eyes at the spot where he so recently stood and scrunched up her nose. She hated admitting the others were right.  

Muffins.

***

Nesta stood behind the kitchen door, gripping the bowl in her hands until her fingertips turned white. If she wasn’t careful, she might just shatter the thing. But if she did. . . a traitorous thought floated through her mind. If she did break the bowl, then she wouldn’t have to go through with her plan. She could just sweep up her mess, leave the kitchen, and pretend like nothing had ever happened. It had taken her all week to work up the courage to make it to this point, but now, here in the light of day, Nesta paled at the thought of actually going through with it. She found herself already turning around in desperation when she saw Nuala and Cerridwen standing against the far counter, staring at her with twin expressions of impatience, their arms both crossed.

Nesta breathed slowly--inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale--until: “Fine!” she snarled, her upper lip curling. “Fine, I’ll do it.” As if they had forced her into the kitchen instead of her demanding their help.

Nuala smiled while Cerridwen silently waved her forward. They had practiced this many times over the past few days, but this time there was someone on the other side of the door. She didn’t need to hear his voice or laughter to know he was there; she could feel him. Facing the door once more, she was certain that he could feel her as well, hear her heart pounding in her chest, sense what she was about to do. “But what if--” She turned around again but found her two helpers had already disappeared. “Traitors,” she snorted under her breath. It was one thing to dare a kiss, but this?

Before she could change her mind again, Nesta took a deep breath and kicked open the door of the kitchen. The edge banged loudly against the wall behind it, and Nesta strode forward, practically slamming the bowl down on the dining room table.

“That’s how it works, right?” She said to Cassian, who was sitting in the chair closest to her. His eyes were wide as they moved back and forth between her and the bowl, a bowl piled high with muffins. “I’m supposed to make you food, and you eat it. That’s how this whole thing works.” When Cassian didn’t respond, Nesta’s face began to grow warm. “I mean, that’s what the books said, what I was told. . .” She trailed off in deep embarrassment and leaned forward to remove the bowl from the table.

It was this movement that seemed to break Cassian from his spell of silence. “Are you--I mean, is this what--” He shook his head, loose hair flying in his face. “Y-yes, that is how it works.” He reached his arm across the table, towards the bowl or her hand, she couldn’t tell.

Nesta.

She flinched as his voice entered her mind. She still wasn’t used to that. It almost felt like an invasion of privacy. If he could speak to her, could he read her mind too? She was still unsure about what these strange new Fae practices, but she had gone ahead and made him the muffins. She supposed this was just another thing to get used to.

Cassian locked eyes with her. Nesta, are you sure? Do you want to talk about this first?

Across the table from Cassian, Rhys leaned against Azriel. “They know we’re still here, right?” he said in a loud, fake whisper.

The Shadowsinger closed his eyes and shook his head silently, and the two of them in unison pushed their chairs out, stood up, and quickly left the room.

Nesta froze, every muscle in her body tense. She hadn’t noticed them, hadn’t seen them at all. She felt close to breaking, and it took all the effort she had not to let her face crumple in despair. She prided herself on her scrupulousness. When she entered a room, she knew who everyone was, where they all stood, and where the closest exits were. It was simply a matter of caution, of protection. Her ability to closely guard herself comforted her. And here she stood, so intent on Cassian that she had utterly failed to notice the two other figures in the room.

Leaving the food on the table, Nesta turned and fled back into the kitchen. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t take the responsibility, the vulnerability. She leaned against the small wooden island in the center of the kitchen, laying her hands flat on the surface as she tried to calm her erratic breathing.

She stiffened as the door behind her gave a small squeak of protest.

“Nesta?” Cassian’s voice was quiet and steady as he entered the kitchen, coming no further than just inside the room to give her space. “What’s wrong?”

She could feel the concern in his voice and thoughts, feel the unease and apprehension that set him on guard and tensed his own muscles in their turn. But underneath those emotions were other ones, stronger and steadier. Respect. Appreciation. Love. And they would always be there. Whether she accepted this mating bond or not, there would always be a bond of some sort between them. This was not a question of accepting all or nothing, but rather all or something. Could she decline the bond, knowing that she would always in some way be able to sense him out there? Could she live her life in that half-state? Would that something be enough? Or did she have the courage to go all-in?

She snorted. “Nothing. Everything.”

She thought she heard him take a step toward her, but she couldn’t bring herself to look up. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said softly. “You. . . It’s all right. I can leave.”

I can leave.

A shudder coursed through her body. He would too. He had promised it before, and he would leave if she asked him to, because for all his talk and swagger, this was her decision and he respected that. Hadn’t he felt outrage when she’d hinted at what occurred between her and Tomas? Hadn’t he given her the space she needed after the war? She had only to say the word and she would have all the space in the world.

Her face burned hot as the tears ran unbidden down her face. “I can’t do this,” she whispered.

Cassian came up behind her and she heard the clink as he placed the muffins on the counter. “All right.” He spoke so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. “It’s fine. I’ll go.”

“No!” Nesta whirled around so fast she found herself face to face with him and instinctively took a step back. “I don’t mean that. I mean--”

Cassian’s own heart was pounding in his chest, his ears. A war of emotions fought themselves across Nesta’s face as she stared at him in anguish. All he wanted to do was grab her and hold her tight, but he was afraid that any sudden movement might scare her off. He had hunted enough animals in the past to recognize that frightened wide-eyed look, and so he remained still and waited for her.

She screwed her eyes shut for a moment before speaking again. “I can’t do this,” she said, waving at the space between them, “not because. . . not because I don’t want to but because I don’t know how.” Cassian suddenly thought back to that time when they had been alone together in her room all those months ago, and how stiff she had been, how rigid she always carried herself even now. A blade given form, that's what he had once called her, the sharpest knife kept honed and ready for battle, but all the more unyielding for that.

As if she could his thoughts, she continued. “I have spent most of my life feeling so angry and bitter. At my father, at Feyre, at myself. And it was easy to be mad at them for everything that happened because then that meant it wasn't my fault. It was--it is just so easy to be angry.” Nesta clenched her fists at her sides and looked at him. “And I'm tired. I am so tired of being angry all the time, but I can't remember how to be anything else. I thought it would be easier.” Her shoulders dropped, and she grabbed the bowl of muffins, clutching it against her middle. “But who do I talk to when I’m angry at myself?”

Cassian couldn’t help himself. He rushed to her side and threw his arms around her in a tight hug, the porcelain bowl crushed between them. Nesta fought him at first, her entire body seeming to clench in resistance, until suddenly, she just slumped against him. “What did you say?” he asked softly, for she was mumbling something against his chest.

He tilted her chin up, and she sighed, her eyes closed. “Feyre never mentioned how exhausting the bond was.”

Cassian’s whole body seemed to flinch, and she took that moment to pull herself away from his arms. “When did you feel it?” He couldn't help asking, but he needed to know. Had she felt it the same moment he had?

Nesta frowned, deep in thought, and she was silent for so long that he thought she might not answer at all. “I was saying something to you.” She spoke slowly then, as if recovering the memory from somewhere deep within and far away. “I was going to yell at you for not finding me and letting me know you were back. After the battle in the Summer Court.”

Cassian’s jaw dropped. He remembered that moment, remembered it so clearly for the look she had given him when she’d finally deigned to speak to him in front of everyone. There had been something, a spark felt the moment he’d taken her hand in his, and he’d searched her face so intently for some sign that she’d felt it too. But nothing so jolting as to raise any suspicions on his part.

Nesta was still speaking. “And all of a sudden, I just--stopped. And suddenly there was no one else in the room, just you and me, and I felt this--this tug in my chest, and I thought, Oh. Oh. That's what they were talking about.” She shook her head. “But we had other things to think about then, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell you, so I made myself forget it ever happened. Until later.”

He knew exactly what moment she was thinking of, as if she had sent the image straight to his mind. “When you screamed my name on the battlefield. . . You were so far away. I never questioned how I heard you, but. . . you saved my life.”

Tears brimmed again in Nesta's eyes, and when she replied, she spoke quietly, as if afraid of her own words. "I don't know if it was my ties to the Cauldron or if--if I can do what Elain does, but I saw where the Cauldron was aimed and I--I felt it." A sob wrenched from Nesta, and she clutched a hand to her chest, as if to hold it back. "I saw what the Cauldron would do," she whispered, "and I felt it. Everything. The Cauldron's power as it shredded everyone in its path. As it got to you. As that--that tug went slack." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I felt so utterly empty that it terrified me. To know that something could have that much power over me, that I would feel that way without it. And I panicked.

“Because I am a coward,” she finished with a whisper, slowly sliding down the side of the counter, falling to her knees. She let go of the bowl she’d still been gripping tightly and held her arms tight around her middle, as if she could somehow contain all the anguish and terror she felt inside.

Cassian rushed to her side on the floor. “You are not a coward,” he said fiercely. He wiped away the tears streaming down her face, the face of the woman he loved whose eyes blazed with the fire hotter than any forge, whose tongue was sharper than the finest blade he owned. “You have made me think many things, Nesta Archeron, but never once have I thought that of you.”

Nesta closed her eyes, and he watched as the tears beaded on her lashes. “I have never felt that--that empty before, and I thought, we’re done. After all that we’ve done, after all that we’ve been through, we’re done. There's no way we can beat this. So I. . .” Nesta gestured vaguely around and nothing in particular, careful to avoid Cassian’s piercing gaze. “You were so sincere. No one’s ever. . . I felt what you meant, I felt it.  And I thought, all right. If this isn't to be, then I would go with you. And hope that there was. . . hope in that next life.”

He placed his hands on her arms and gently pried them for her sides. “There’s no shame in wanting a good end, Nesta. Every warrior in the camps, they all know they could go down at any minute. We all dream it, at least once, of making a final stand and going out on our own terms.” The muffins on the floor could wait. Cassian wanted nothing more in that moment to hold Nesta in his arms for the rest of the night and comfort her. “You stared down the King of Hybern in the middle of the battlefield. That is not something a coward would have done.”

Her mouth closed, Nesta was breathing heavily through her nose. At Cassian’s words, she pulled back even further away from him and angrily rubbed at her eyes. “That monster deserved so much more than what I did to him,” she said hoarsely.

Cassian laughed gently. “He did, and I wish I had seen it.” He watched her for a moment, his smile suddenly disappearing. “You saved my life. Several times over, and I’m sorry I never truly thanked you.”

Nesta’s eyes were dull as she kept them downward.

“I will not allow you to think of yourself as only a coward,” he told her. “You are so much more than that. And besides, we’re all allowed to be scared at times.” Cassian looked down at his hands, his brow furrowed. “You know, Mor--no.” He stopped himself. “That's beside the point. What matters is I used one of my best friends as a shield to hide behind. Because I was afraid, afraid of changing what I thought at the time was a good thing and because I knew change would hurt too many people’s feelings. Because I knew change would leave me open, and to a fighter, that’s the most vulnerable and dangerous position one can be in.” He closed his eyes and let his head rest back against the wooden paneling. “Turns out doing nothing can hurt a lot more.”

“I’ve tried,” she whispered. “I just--I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

Cassan laughed again. “Are you kidding? When have I ever known what I’m doing?” And something tugged on his heart as he was rewarded by the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“Listen, I regret--” Cassian stopped, and they both felt the words of the past hanging heavily between them.

I have no regrets in my life but this. That we did not have time.

“I don't want to go another five hundred years of not saying or doing anything, and just living with the not knowing.” He extended his arm and placed his hand on the floor near hers, palm up. Close enough for her to touch him but far enough that she would still have to reach. Would she reach for him? “I want--I want this to be something we go into together.” He made himself look at her, made himself ignore the pounding of his heart, as she stared dazedly at the bowl of muffins before her. “Whatever you want, and I. . . and I will go along with it.”

Nesta’s hand clenched, and Cassian felt his heart skip a beat--and then stop completely as she removed her hand--

A whisper, almost a sigh. “I don’t want to go into this alone.”

--and replaced it with a muffin.

Cassian had worried their conversation would never make it to this point, had wondered if it would ever get there at all. And when it had, all he could do was stare at the piece of food with his mouth open, gaping like a fish.

Nesta finally looked up at him, biting her lip. “Are you going to eat it?”

Cassian held the muffin up to the light, marveling at its light form yet heavy connotation. "When did you make these?" He had been in and out of the house all week, but she’d never been near the kitchen when they’d hastily crossed paths.

"I made this batch this morning. Nuala and Cerridwen helped me. I'm. . . not used to baking much."

Every instinct in his body screamed at him to stop but he couldn't help it. He smirked and said, "Well, if they helped make these, you know that means they're required to join us in--oh!"

A muffin beaned him right in the forehead. Cassian roared with laughter and picked up the fallen object. "Just for that," he said to Nesta's challenging smirk, "I'm going to eat this one too." And he took a giant bite out of it as if to illustrate his point.

The sweetness of blueberry and the tartness of lemon converged on his tongue in an explosion of flavor, and he could not stop himself from closing his eyes and giving a soft little moan as he enjoyed his favorite kind of muffin.

Nesta watch him chew for a moment before asking, "Do you have to eat all of them?"

"No," he told her, "but the others can go to hell if they think I'm sharing." However Nuala and Cerridwen had helped her, these were good muffins.

Nesta tucked a strand of falling hair behind her ear. "And do you have to give me anything in return? I couldn't--" She looked down at the ground, waves of shame and mortification rolling off her in droves. "I couldn't find anything in the books about that."

Cassian stopped chewing, his mouth suddenly bone dry as he forced the granules of muffin down his throat. "Not traditionally," he croaked, "no." Gods, the men weren't required to give anything to accept the bond, were they? "Do--do you want anything?"

She blinked, as if she hadn't expected him to ask. "I don't know," she answered truthfully. He felt his own shame then, and knew, as he watched her watching him, that whatever she eventually asked of him, he would do it.

Cassian finished off the second muffin then and a weighty silence settled between them. In the following stillness, Nesta climbed to her knees and reached for the bowl, hugging it against her until Cassian offered her his arm. They stood together, and Cassian slowly but gently removed the bowl from Nesta’s grip and placed it on the counter. Then it was just them, standing face to face. Cassian still held her hands in his, and he slowly rubbed his thumbs in circles over the back of her hands.

“Nes,” he whispered. She gulped and looked up at him, her blue-grey eyes wide with fear--fear of the unknown, of taking the wrong step. “We don’t have to do anything but talk.” He brought a hand up to her face and stroked her cheek, wanting nothing more than to unwind her braid and run his fingers through her hair. “But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to continue where we left off at Rita’s.” He grinned as she blushed, biting her lip again to keep her own mouth from smiling. “Maybe we could go somewhere else, though. No interruptions this time.”

Her gaze swept past him, considering the options. “We could go upstairs. To my room.” She cleared her throat. “Just to talk.”

The smirk should have told her everything. “Just to talk,” Cassian repeated, before grabbing her by the waist and throwing her over his shoulders.

Nesta let out a squawk of protest. “What are you doing?! Put me down!”

Cassian laughed as he carried her out the kitchen, kicking open the door much like she had not too long ago. “I’m not letting you run away this time,” he told her. “Besides, the others left, remember? No one’ll see you.”

“That’s not--ooh!” She let out a low growl and kicked her legs back and forth in an effort to twist out of his grasp, but to no avail. Keeping one arm wrapped firmly around her hips, Cassian cut through the dining room and grabbed the cap on the stair banister’s bottom post. Nesta clung to his backside as he swung them around with another laugh and began to climb the stairs.

Nesta fumed. She did not take lightly to being treated like a sack of potatoes, no matter what he wanted to do to her once they reached her room. Though she could not deny her nervousness, staring down Cassian’s back, trying to avoid getting slapped by his wings, had reminded her of something. Two could play this game.

Nesta was rewarded almost immediately when Cassian nearly missed the next step on the stairs. Until they were forced right into her face, she had forgotten how sensitive Illyrian wings were. She'd spent half the night after discovering the scratches on his wings burning up with embarrassment when she recalled the expressions on his face and realized that the tension in his muscles from running her finger along his wing was not due to any injuries he had sustained. 

But, aside from the hitch in his step, Cassian did nothing to indicate he'd felt anything. She decided to try again on a thinner part of the membrane, taking her first two fingers and slowly stroking up towards the claw. This time, a very definite shudder ran through his frame, and he stopped midway on the stairs to roll his neck. “If you keep doing that,” he managed through gritted teeth, “I’m not going to be much use in talking.”

Nesta grinned smugly and swiped one last finger down his wing before folding her arms across his shoulder. “Fine,” she simply said, though it took Cassian another moment longer before he could continue up the stairs.

Nesta’s room was just off the stairs, and Cassian set her down just by the door. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked with a smirk.

Nesta smoothed out her dress and merely raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

The smirk faltered then as he advanced towards Nesta until they once again stood face to face, and he leaned forward until their foreheads were nearly touching. He brought his hands down to her sides and lightly caressed her hips with his fingers. Despite her playful bravado, her pulse beat rapidly beneath her pale skin, and he was reminded yet again of the first time they had stood thus, back in the mortal realm. The Nesta that stood before him now was a far cry from the hostile human he had first encountered in her home, and he wondered then just how much of her now had truly healed and how much of her had been broken by the war. Her confession earlier about giving up, her father’s death, the Cauldron. . .

“We don’t--we don’t need to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about,” he said softly. He would hold her for as long as she wanted, for as long as he could to prove to her that she was safe now. He let one hand drift up and brush against her pointed ear. “I promised to protect you. I’m sorry.”

Nesta shook her head against him, but he continued. “I made a promise in front of everyone that I would protect you and I failed, and you were hurt. But I would renew that promise now if you’ll let me.”

For a brief moment, he worried that Nesta would snap at him, tell him that she didn’t need his protection now that it had already failed once before. He had tried so hard, gods he had tried, to shred the king to unrecognizable bits that day in Hybern and again on the field. Instead, the great Commander of the Night Court’s armies had his own wings shredded, he who had conquered generals and captains of enemies past. He had failed her, and her tears earlier were proof of that. But instead, Nesta merely sighed against him and reached behind her for the doorknob, pulling him into her room.

Nesta had not said a word in sometime, simply watching him with her blue-grey eyes, so full of emotions he could not describe in mere words. Nor had she yet spoken down the bond, but it was enough that he could feel her thoughts, her confusion, the gentle but very much present plea to be gentle.

“Don't worry,” Cassian murmured, nuzzling her neck. “We can take this as slow as you want.”  He brought his hand up to her chin and delicately tilted her head upward, leaning forward to place a soft kiss on her lips. A sigh, a whisper of contentment and ease, seemed to issue forth from Nesta as he pulled away and that was when he heard it.

Cassian.

Just a word, a single word, his name sent echoing down from her mind to his. It was the first time she had ever spoken through the bond and she had said his name.

Cassian shuddered, a primal need running through him, pushing him until he wanted nothing more than to push her up against the wall and run his hands, his tongue all over her, breathe her in until they could no longer distinguish one scent from the other.

But not yet. He took a deep breath; it took everything in him to master control, shoving down that desire, that need. They had plenty of time for that later. Instead, he slowly extended his wings until they wrapped fully around the two of them as in a cocoon, a physical manifestation of his promise of protection, one he would spend the rest of his time on that earth trying to keep.

I promised you time, he said, cupping her face in his hands, letting his forehead rest against hers. This is our next life. And we have all the time in the world.

**********