Work Text:
The house of wind was empty. Its inhabitants were lost to their celebratory stupor, at the local dance hall called Rita’s . The giant castle built into the mountain overlooking the city of Velaris was hollow, and winds carried through its halls, whispering of dark fates and tales from far away. Incredibly tall vaulted ceilings, cavernous overhead, faelights twinkling dimly. Their warm glow cast upon the stone floors and walls–vacant of all fae forms that might dawdle during the day. All except Nesta.
She was not permitted to leave the house of wind. She was hardly allowed to leave her room–for when she did she’d be assaulted by Cassian’s presence, or someone worse. So Nesta was left here, alone.
She did not mind this vast palace when it was bereft of people. It wasn’t homely, like her old apartment was. It was the exact opposite. This palace was opulent, built to display the enormous wealth of the high lord, to intimidate any who came to treat with him. Nesta could not stand this place when it was full of the bustle that accompanied day time–servants travelling from here and there, members of government going about their business. It was hardly in use now, since the high lord and lady decided to build yet another palace for themselves elsewhere in the city, but any and all other inhabitants wove their way under Nesta’s skin without fail.
She was imprisoned here, and they all knew it. They stared and whispered when they saw her pass by. She was the thing that could not be contained by even the high lord and lady–until, of course, they locked her in a tower.
But at times like this, when the servants have all retreated to their homes, priestesses employed in the library below having left some time ago, and the usual inhabitants are being entertained elsewhere, the house is not just peaceful–it is conspiratory. It whispers things in her ears and tousles her hair. Leaves a soothing hand on her back to help her to sleep.
Nesta was lying prostrate, the ornate rug beneath her biting into her soft cheek, when the house started speaking to her again.
She’s angry–to be fair, when is she not? The house can feel it, can sense it. Usually it strokes her and tries to calm her, keeps her from tipping over that edge Nesta straddles so well.
The house does no such thing tonight.
It takes up her call of anger, and digs into her desperation. The house has many traitorous thoughts–and ideas that have been building up for several years, supposedly.
It doesn’t take much, Nesta’s been primed for villain hood–from the time her mother died.
Nesta made no noise when she pulled herself off the floor, and an eerie aura had formed around her that pushed her forward.
It wasn’t even flame at first, just silver sparks sprinkling from her horrible fingertips. She started with the curtains, hanging innocently, pulled away from the windows so that she might see the city. She drags her fingers through them, savouring the feel of them beneath her palms.
The sparks catch easily, silver flame spreading quickly.
She continues around the room, trailing fire so hot it could kill men who stood too near it. Her fingers dance on every wall until she reaches the door to the room, then she’s dancing, spinning and twirling through the hallways, flame catching the tapestries and painting decorating the walls, the rug beneath her feet. She dances around the palace, setting fire to anything and everything she can touch, laughs bubble out of her mouth.
When her sister was imprisoned in Spring, she eventually got revenge by turning Tamlin’s court to ruins.
Nesta likes her own revenge better. No one else is being harmed, no innocent civilian is being drawn into her own personal matters.
She eventually stumbles out the front doors, and sets about moving down the 10,000 steps that lead back down to velaris. She stops after ten steps, instead turning to look upon her masterpiece.
The whole stone structure is alight with silver flame, bursting out of windows and doors. It’s climbing high into the sky, engulfing the structure.
Nesta smiles faintly, looking upon the glimmering flames, shining brighter than the stars of the night court.
She supposes she will be in trouble, perhaps the high lord’s patience will finally snap and he’ll kill her. She knows he wants to, he sees her as someone who caused his mate pain–but by his very own logic he should pay for what he did under the mountain.
Honestly, she’d like to see him try and kill her. The power thrumming in her veins feels nothing like the distant rumbles Rhysand lets out. He is nothing compared to her, and she wants to see him afraid.
The stones of the palace are beginning to melt by the time the inner circle arrives. They all look at her accusatorily, but she just waits. Wonders if they’ll try to harm her, or if they’ll cower from the power they feel emanating off her.
She remembers what Morrigan had said to her ages ago–Morrigan’s belief that she belonged in the hewn city, a place rife with people just as evil as cruel as her.
They think her terrible. They see her as a villain within their story. A small part of the thousand year long epic that will be their lives. An anecdote.
She’ll be their villain. She’ll play their game, so long as they make it fun. She’ll be everything Morrigan said about her and more. She’ll be even worse.
She’s not a villain, she's a hero. Her story is the story of a god, in which they are just a small anecdote.
Her story begins with Nesta smiling as she burns her prison to the ground.