Chapter Text
As a young girl, Nesta never imagined she would ever become accustomed to the taste of blood in her mouth.
As a woman, blood is all she can taste, smell, and see as the battle rages on around her.
She had long since lost track of how long they had been fighting. She had mounted the Valkyrie force alongside the Illyrians and the Darkbringers only an hour or so after the sun was in the sky. The position of the sun was lost to her now, lost in the haze of blood and battle.
The Valkyries, which Nesta had captained for decades now, with Gwyn and Emerie as her seconds, had come out strong, pushing their enemy back along the field. But over time, their adversaries had regained ground, bringing the two armies to a standstill, neither one gaining the upper hand for what felt like hours now.
Nesta hadn’t seen any of her family since the battle began. Occasionally, she could sense a thrum of power that could be identified as Cassian or Feyre or Rhys or Azriel or Mor. She had seen glimpses of Gwyn and Emerie, stained with rival blood and teeth bared, but not for a long while now.
She cut down the soldier in front of her before whirling to the side and stabbing another in the side. This was how it went - attack, block, attack, kill. The rhythm of death had become her friend and its beat was all she felt as she felled one enemy before moving to the next.
And the next.
And the next.
And the next.
Until something interrupted her rhythm.
Another pulse of magic like the others - something dangerously soft, and flecked with razor-sharp starlight.
All the soldiers around Nesta, friend and foe, stopped short, as if paralyzed by the dominating power that swept closer and closer to their area.
A shadow passed over Nesta’s head before a pair of gleaming silver armored boots landed hard enough to rattle the earth around them.
It was Feyre, tall and proud in her Illyrian leathers, two swords at her hips, outfitted in the battle armour of a queen, the silver helmet adorned with wings that swept up her face splattered with blood, mirrored by the great black wings that sprouted from her back.
She looked like a warrior queen of old.
Nesta watched as her baby sister’s eyes glowed with the searing light of heaven, before a pulse of that light emanated from her, blinding the army facing the Valkyries. Even Nesta had to shield her eyes from the beam.
When Nesta looked back at Feyre, the High Lady was reaching her delicate painter’s hands to the muddy ground, her fingers straining with the magic she was calling, the power of all the courts of Prythian.
Nesta simply stood and watched for a moment as seemingly nothing happened. The opposing forces stood before them, staring open-mouthed at the female before them, afraid to strike the first blow, or else incur her wrath.
Only when the ground beneath Nesta’s feet hardened did she understand what Feyre was doing.
Through that power of Summer, Feyre was pulling the water and moisture out of the ground, leaving the wet muck dusty and brittle. She was guiding the water up the bodies of the enemy soldiers, who were too distracted by the powerful vision in front of them, some still too stunned by the searing light.
Feyre clenched her fists tight and in an instant, the water hardened, freezing the soldiers in place, leaving their throats and hearts exposed, and their weapons stuck by their sides.
A field of statue soldiers, ripe for the picking.
“Attack!”
Feyre shot forward, borne aloft by her powerful wings, striking out to behead the enemy closest to her. The Valkyries took up the call, letting out throaty battle cries of their own, charging forward with renewed vigor, eviscerating the easy prey before them.
Nesta charged with them, stabbing and beheading, the ice melting slowly as Feyre’s magic held fast. It was soon a massacre, the dry earth quickly stained red.
But Feyre’s magic couldn’t hold forever, Nesta knew, especially as she tired herself out in the fight. The battle had lasted long enough that Nesta was surprised her sister even had sufficient magic for this assault.
The enemy soldiers started to break free of their icy prisons, the sounds of shattering frost mingling with their cries of fury.
Nesta fought harder, but found herself surrounded by four opponents, each one dripping wet and breathing hard.
She cut down the first two easily, their throats slashed with twin blades Cassian had gifted her a decade ago.
The third, however, grabbed her by her hair from behind, her helmet having been lost long ago, and pulled her flush against him. Nesta struggled, aiming her gauntleted feet backwards into his knees, trying to keep his dagger away from her throat.
The fourth approached, sword out, a feral grin on his face. Nesta bucked and kicked, a scream of frustration grating her throat, her blades lost in the scuffle.
And then the fourth soldiers’ head was at her feet and all Nesta could see was her own blue eyes staring back at her.
No, not her eyes.
Feyre’s eyes.
Her little sister even gave her a stupid little smile before extending her empty hand out to the soldier behind her, that dark magic of Night reaching out, and wrapping around his throat.
It gave Nesta the edge she needed to break free, turn, pluck a dagger from her bandolier and drive it deep, deep into his chest. The soldier choked on blood and death, before falling to the ground.
Nesta turned back to Feyre, breathing harshly, her hands shaking as she took in Feyre’s equally battered frame. But Feyre smiled at her again, and let loose a rough laugh. Nesta scowled at her, retrieving the rest of her blades from the ground.
“What the fuck are you laughing at?” she gasped out, watching Feyre’s shoulders shake with tired chuckles.
“Nothing, you just-”
But her explanation was cut short, her mouth hanging open, half-formed around a word. Nesta scanned her face, alert for what had stopped her.
Her gaze traveled down Feyre’s, past her throat and chest, just in time to watch a silver blade protrude from Feyre’s stomach and drag itself up her ribs before wrenching itself back out, spraying blood.
A moment of choked silence hung between the sisters. Feyre's throat stuck with blood, Nesta’s with horror.
Feyre’s wings disappeared, any remaining traces of ice and wind gone, her magic depleted and her body exhausted
Suddenly, Feyre looked so small to Nesta, like the frostbitten, half-starved thing that would drag her body into the cabin, with meat or money or pelts, while Nesta sat, haughty, at the hearth. She looked like the lovesick, despairing, headstrong girl who had appeared on the manor doorstep, dripping in fae finery. Like the girl who had bled out on her birthing bed before she could hold her son.
Her baby sister, who she thought hadn’t needed her, not like Elain did, who thought the same about Nesta. How wrong they had both been.
The warrior was so distracted with the glee of striking down the High Lady of the Night Court that he did not see Nesta’s blade before it tore through his eye and into his brain.
Nesta looked back at her sister, her High Lady, whose breathing was coming in gasps, whose whole form was shivering, her hand pressed to her wound.
The two females’ gaze locked, two pairs of blue eyes: one filled with fear and horror and rage, the other quickly dimming and fluttering with agony.
“Nes…” Feyre managed, raising her tattooed hand, stained with her own blood, before her.
Feyre fell, not with the grace and agility Nesta was used to her possessing, but with the sickly thump of dead weight.