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Cassian stands in the sun.
In Nesta’s mind, that’s where he belongs: in the light, at the heart of his army, surrounded by his soldiers. The young ones, at any rate, do not treat him with the same disdain that their elders do. They remember him in the war with Hybern. They remember how he moved like a god, how he cut down their enemies. They look upon him with admiration, with awe.
Cassian takes it all in stride. It surprises her, given how arrogant he is with everything else. But he loves his people deeply, no matter how much he begrudges their leaders. He would give his own life for them, if it came to it. Not for who they are now, but for what they could be. He believes in a better future, in a kinder world. He is a dreamer, like the rest of his Court.
Nesta doesn’t dream anymore.
Sleep offers her little comfort. In her waking hours, she drifts through the camps like a ghost. Each time she walks past, the Illyrians hide their children and make signs against evil. They remember her from the war too. But when they look upon her, it is with fear.
Nesta doesn’t mind the fear. She likes it better than disappointment, than disgust.
She dwells on this as she observes the General-Commander from her perch above the training grounds. Tiered arenas hewn from the mountains themselves surround pits of sand where novice warriors train. Nesta sits in the shade, apart from everyone else.
She’s been told that she makes others uncomfortable.
Cassian finds her afterward.
“Brooding again?” he says, taking a seat next to her. “You and Azriel should start a competition.”
“Not brooding,” she says, and pays attention to anything else that is not him. “Thinking.”
“About?”
She does not say the word “you” because she doesn’t want to lie. But if Cassian is as perceptive as she thinks he is, then she does not need to say it.
“They’re getting better,” she says instead. “Your novices.”
He keeps his expression neutral, though it’s obvious he beams with pride. “Thank you.”
His appreciation raises her spirits. Cassian is all fierceness and fire. Just like the heroes in the books she read as a child. But that was a long time ago and Nesta no longer believes in heroes. Even Cassian, for all his courage, could not save her humanity in the end.
I will stand on that battlefield again, Nesta Archeron, to protect this house—your people. I can think of no better way to end my existence than to defend those who need it most.
She knows it haunts him still; his broken vow lies between them like so many shards of glass.
Perhaps that is why he is so adamant that she stay here, with him. He wants to make amends for his failure, even though she has told him again and again that he owes her nothing. Still, he has brought her to Illyria, where her heart feels much freer than it ever did in that sparkling city where her sister rules.
He jabs her shoulder with his.
“You think too much.”
Nesta smirks. “You sound like my mother.”
Her poor mother. How she bemoaned the way her eldest daughter would outsmart all those would-be suitors who came knocking at their door. They never stayed too long, these foolish and wealthy men, once they realized how razor-sharp Nesta was. Cutting them down had been a favorite game of hers.
How can your father and I arrange a suitable marriage if you don’t learn how to temper yourself?
So Nesta learned how to temper herself; built a wall that would put the world’s greatest architects to shame. Years of constraint and bitterness are the brick and mortar that seal off the untamed wilderness of her heart…there is no place in the world for it.
There is no place in the world for Nesta Archeron.
“That’s not true.”
Now it’s her turn to keep her expression neutral. Had the pain of her thoughts been so acute that he could hear them? It frightens her still. How he could sense her. How she could sense him. In her blood, in her bones. Though neither of them gave a name to it. The both of them are too cowardly to put into words what they really are to one another.
“Nesta…”
He holds her hand in his and she allows it. His grip steady and true; a tether. She can feel the power coursing through the veins, then reaches out to trace the scar.
She tended to this hand herself. She’s glad to see how well it healed.
“Your heart grows heavier each time we cross paths,” she says. “Being here has made some things better. But in others….I don’t wish to be a chain—”
“You’re not.”
“Don’t defend me,” she cuts in. “Many people have and it never turned out well.”
He swallows, then sighs.
Someone calls his name. It is Mor, armored in gold. She raises a hand to him in greeting, and spares a questioning glance in Nesta’s direction.
When he gets back, keep your forked tongue between your teeth.
Seeing her stings Nesta in ways she cannot explain. She is everything that Nesta is not: easy with her affections, generous with her goodwill, and stronger despite all the trials that had befallen her. More importantly, she is at the center of Cassian’s heart. She has lain with him. She laughs with him. She is family, a friend, and perhaps even more, at times. Though Nesta doesn’t quite understand it.
Regardless, it makes her feel ugly and brittle. This petty jealousy is beneath her, she knows. But still, she cannot rise above it. It is a weakness that pierces her like a spear and robs her breathless. You will never be like the Morrigan , whispers her iron heart. You will never stand in the light like she does. Like he does.
Cassian leaves her side at once and Nesta grows cold without his presence. He flies to Mor like a hawk toward the sun. They smile, they banter. And it is this that Nesta covets the most: how well they understand one another, how their bond is forged from years of faith and loyalty, rather than magic or ill-humored fate.
Neither of them look at her when she rises to leave the arena.
The evening grows dark and Nesta stands alone.