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Inheriting a Court from her nephew is the least straightforward challenge Nesta has ever had to face. Her mind swims with the knowledge of a hundred lifetimes at least, including one where she never makes it past Nyx’s fifteenth birthday and one where sugar is treated like the world’s gravest crime, neither of which prepare her to run a Court in real time. She had knowledge, but she needs time. All of this is still new to her. It’s one thing to know, another to experience and the very human part of her yearns to face success and mistakes firsthand. This must be what Elain feels like when she sees the future. To live is a choice, and she harbors no fear of failure.
Nyx offered to Make her—to give her time, energy and power to accomplish more things more quickly. Nesta asked for a chance to think about it. He made it sound so easy, like simply changing a state of being like water into vapors—non-magic into magic. It was her powers, after all, that helped him become what is now and Nesta doesn’t dare think of the implications. His life was hard. She knows that with great intimacy.
In most of her lives, she doesn’t get to be human for very long, so she savours it.
Well, she was but her feet hurt from ill-fitting slippers, there are dark circles blooming under her eyes, fae-coffee does nothing good to her stomach and make her see new colours that hadn’t existed before, and her clothes are uncomfortable. The Night Court has been her home many times, but she doesn’t feel like it. She has nothing to her name, possessions scrambled together temporarily (read: borrowed or gifted from kind courtesans and handmaidens) while her things are shipped from the shabby home in the Human Lands. Nesta is tired and she misses home. It wasn’t the perfect home, but it was familiar to this body and this soul. Feyre offered both Nesta and Elain the chance to go back, but Nesta could see that she was in over her head this time. Archerons, for all intents, purposes and previous experience, are terrible at asking for help.
Nesta pads up the stairs towards her quarters, eager to sink into the bath-pool and steep. But there is no time. She has finished directing the staff in what will be needed for tonight’s reception. The Noble Houses of the Nightmare Court are to be received, most of which are families headed by high-ranked Darkbringers—warriors that will now be under her command. The eldest Archeron pauses mid-step, leaning on the wall to take a breath. You’ve done this before, she reminds herself. In another life. That was a different version of her who lived through worse hardships. It’s hard to reconcile what she knows and who she is.
With a sigh, she keeps climbing.
A shadow lingers outside her door and rage flares. Nesta is not so comfortable as to walk around anywhere in Hewn City without protection, not even inside her sister’s Moonstone Castle. She pulls out the dagger from the sheath wrapped around her thigh.
“You,” she snarls. “I told you to stay out of my room.”
“I am!” Koschei holds his hands out innocently, motioning at the line of her door frame. “Not a single step inside my beloved’s quarters, as you requested.”
Nesta doesn’t believe him for a second. Koschei is the king of trickery; he finds sideways to avoid bargains and get what benefits him and him alone. She has seen it in action, nearly every single day as the deathless sorcerer whispers into Feyre’s ear. They stand on opposite sides of the High Lady—Nesta grounds Feyre in reason and strategy, but Koschei fortifies her in rule and ambition. He provides knowledge that neither of them have and hones the power that they have yet to master. He plays innocent with Nesta, but he is far, far from it. The sound of Lucien’s eyes, torn from his skull, still haunts her.
“What are doing?”
“Me? Nothing.” He shrugs, but Nesta levels him with a look. “Helping! I only want the best for my darling.”
“ Stop calling me that,” she points the tip of the silver knife at him. Johan had gifted it to her and encouraged her to use it liberally. “Tamlin brought Nyx back, not you. Nyx gave Lucien’s eyes, not you. Remind me, Koschei, why should I give you anything you want?”
The handsome Death God has the gall to look aghast, pressing his ringed finger against his chest. “I have been nothing but helpful to this royal family. I am a wonderful choice of a husband.”
“Not even if you were the last living creature on earth.”
“Oh, I can make that happen. I’m sure you’d reconsider.”
“Believe me, darling,” Nesta tosses the endearment back at him with none of the affection. “Your chances get slimmer and slimmer, each time you assume you know what I want.”
She slips into her room and closes the door on his face before he can get another word in, not that it has ever stopped him from standing—or sitting—outside her door. They don’t talk about the long nights he kept her company, his voice a comfort when she felt the ache of homesickness. She misses her father, her mother and the life she had when it was just her and her sisters. She misses the stupid cat that Elain would feed, no matter how much Nesta warned her of fleas and ticks. She misses how cozy her shared room felt compared to the vast size of this room. A small village could thrive here and yet, it was hers and hers alone.
Nesta presses her back against the door and sighs, still tired.
She closes her eyes, centering herself. She just has to get through this day, and she can worry about the next one tomorrow. Easy, Nes. One thing at a time. You’re not doing this alone. Once the weight in her heart has lightened, she sets her sights on the bed and—
“What the hell is this?” She yowls, yanking the door open and motioning at the delicately displayed clothes on the bed. Each piece is laid out both in the order of which she would have to put them on, but it also gives her an idea of what the final look should be like.
“Your outfit… for tonight.” Koschei grins, his eyes glinting with clever mischief. He knows that if he simply offered her to help, it would be far too easy to reject him, but now that the vision has been carefully dangled before her, well, she can’t deny that his proposal is a good one. For the clothes, at least. “You’ll be meeting males with the biggest egos of Prythian. I’m surprised they can walk with their heads so far up their own asses, or Keir’s, for that matter.” He doesn’t let a single hair cross the threshold, as promised.
Nesta glances back at the clothes, the frown on her face still ever-present. The clothes are dark blue with intricate gold embroidery. The military jacket has a cinched waist, shoulder cut-outs and a long cloak-like tail to frame her legs with a blood red lining. It’s clear what kind of statement Koschei is trying to make—one of power, order and femininity. The Darkriders belong to a woman, now. Whether they yield to Feyre or Nesta, it will be one of them lest they be cast out and replaced. Nesta has no qualms in replacing a belligerent soldier. She stares a little too long at the thigh-high laced boots. There. A flaw that she can use to push this frustratingly persistent god away. She hasn’t even begun to mention the lingerie he has selected for her, as if that’s any of his business.
“I don’t have time to waste with those,” she nods at the boots, folding her arms in quiet victory.
“Who said you have to deal with them? I’d be more than happy to assist, Lady Death.”
“Stop calling me that,” she snaps. “I am not Lady Death here.”
“Not yet. There are many ways to earn the title. Death and the Deathless, have I told you—”
“Yes,” Nesta sighs, pinching her brow. “What a couple we would make. You have not let that thread go since we met.”
“Because it’s a good thread to pull on.”
“Find something else to floss your teeth with.” She tips her head towards the undergarments. “And what was your big idea with those? Something for you to get off on? Knowing what my knickers look like because you chose them?”
“Do you ever tire of looking a gift horse in the mouth and finding nothing there, Nesta?”
“And risk the off chance of having life as I know it torn from me? Have my life reshaped into something that I do not want? Forcibly be tied to males who only know how to take?”
“Oh, I assure you, I can be quite the giver, my lady.”
Something about his words strike her to her core; Nesta straightens her back and curls her lip at him. Her arms remain firmly crossed against her chest, almost a protective gesture when it comes to him, this new place, these clothes that are not hers and every other change. For a moment, she had let something vulnerable show. For a moment, she thought there could be good banter, just like the way they had played chess once upon a time. The memory at the lake is held dear to her, a brief reprieve from everything she has had to be for the sake of others. It had been so long since she could simply play. Now, Koschei’s carelessness feels like nothing more than a tease. Nothing matters to him; she’s had to return to her reality of taking care of everyone around her and their lives are just a game to him.
She loathes him for it.
Her betrayal (?) must have shown in her face because Koschei’s expression shifts into something soft.
“Nesta, I didn’t mean—”
“You’re a male, Koschei. What are you apologizing for? I expect nothing less from you.”
“I do not want you because of sex.”
“Oh, I’ve heard that line, too.”
“Nes—”
She shuts the door on his face, and this time, she eagerly puts distance between them. Nesta ignores the sigh from behind the door, and finds the makeshift tub placed into her room. It’s already full of steaming water, just the way she likes it. The open-air pool is beautiful, but Nesta has yet to find it in her to bare herself to the world, especially in a Court where more than half of its denizens can fly. Granted, they’re not allowed here, but that will likely change once Nesta gets Emerie onto the Council.
Her mind keeps ticking off tasks on her mental list, unable to stop thinking. She discards her clothes one by one, folding them with care, even if they are to be taken and washed as the castle staff is wont to do. Time spent in poverty has taught her to appreciate material things; time spent worrying about her family has taught her to appreciate kindness, too.
The water is hot, but it soothes her muscles. Nesta sinks into it and lets her body melt into the bath. It smells of lavender, jasmine and citrus—a perfume that seems to follow Night Court denizens wherever they go. Even the food carries citrus notes, whether its sweet orange or tangy lemon and lime. One of the cooks had told her it was to account for the lack of sunlight, the fruit helps fortify nutrition. She tries to keep track of time, but the longer she steeps, the calmer she feels.
Rest sounds like a wonderful idea.
Again, she rests her eyes, just for a moment. Not too long. She can’t be away from work for too long. Someone has to lead the charge, and it has to be… It has to be her.
The gentle sound of tapping wakes her, little feetsies against ceramic. Tap, tap tap. Pause, a flutter of wings. Tap, tap, tap. Another pause. It’s enough to draw her out of her sleep to meet a familiar little raven dropping flowers into her lukewarm bath.
“Am I late?” Nesta grumbles.
“No, miss,” the creature mimics the voice of one of her handmaidens. “You’re right on time.” It bounces on the lip of the tub, full of eager energy.
Nesta knows better to grow fond of anything sent by the sorcerer outside her door, but the raven is sweet. It’s even more stubborn than Koschei, willfully ignoring its master to follow Nesta’s whims—adventures in Elain’s moonlit garden and finding new haunts within the city. She knows it might very well be a spy, but she does not fault the creature for it at all. There’s warm bread on her bathside table, and she breaks off a little piece to give to the raven.
“It’ll be our secret.”
The raven squawks happily, and nibbles at the piece.
While the bird enjoys its snack, Nesta finishes washing herself, scrubbing the day away and making way for what the evening might hold. With every stroke of the washcloth, she strips away a worry. Her gaze keeps wandering to the clothes set up on the bed. They’re perfect, if she’s being honest (with herself, at least). She likes them, but it’s hard for her to admit it. It’s even harder for her to accept help. A nagging feeling at the back of her mind keeps telling her that there is a price for every kindness, one that she must pay back in equal measure.
I don’t want to marry him.
Her terms had been so clear. All the power goes to her, but their lifelines will be tied together. Nesta pulls her knees to her chest. She thinks about it for a long time, until the water has gone cold, before finally addressing the raven. “Is he still outside?”
It tips its head left, then right, thinking and listening. “Dinner! Dinner time!”
“Could you fetch him?”
The dark-winged bird flaps its wings, darting out the window to fulfill Nesta’s request. In the meantime, she dries herself and pads over to the clothes. The undergarments selected are a black sweetheart corset and matching knickers. The corset ties from the front, making it easy for her to put on without assistance. The knickers are minimal, covering her ass and her front without encroaching on her legs. The fabric is thing and seamless. Nesta tries to temper her curiosity, but she cannot help running her hands over them, how there is barely a divide between skin and garment. Surely, they wouldn’t be seen at all beneath the tight-fitting pants Koschei has selected.
A knock at the door has her snatching her towel, wrapping it around herself protectively.
“You called for me, General?” Koschei’s voice has lost its playfulness and errs on the side of… formal.
Her heart sinks, wondering if she was too harsh with him. Koschei is one of her only friends here, discounting her family. She doesn’t have Gwyn or Emerie, and Elain doesn’t need her the way she did in other times. Nesta presses her palm against the great wooden door.
“What do you get out of this?”
“Out of what?”
“Helping me. What do you want in return?”
“Nothing.”
“There is no such thing as wanting nothing.”
“You are right, but I want nothing from you. I want to see Keir and his Darkriders squirm in the face of a woman, but I know few of our Council who don’t want that. I want to make you feel powerful because you are. If it works, then being present is reward enough for me.”
“I don’t know how to trust you.”
“Oh, I’d advise against that, General. You and I both know better.”
Nesta can hear the smile in his voice, and she smiles, too. “You’ll only help with the boots. Give me a moment to finish dressing.”
“As you wish.”
She pulls on the form-fitting pants, a matching dark blue to the ornate coat. It has beautiful gold embroidery down the sides, framing the seams. Nesta runs her fingers across them, enamored with the details and the hard work that would have gone into making this. Her initial assumption is that someone had to make this by hand, but Koschei is armed with more magic than she can imagine, and she realizes she truly doesn’t know. Does it matter if he had this commissioned for her and her alone? Or if he poured time and effort into weaving something as precious as this with her in mind? Her heart squeezes, and she tries to temper it.
The corset is not too revealing; Nesta feels comfortable simply wearing that and the pants, leaving the coat as the last step of her dressing. She opens the door to let Koschei in.
He doesn’t. Not right away. He just stares.
“Beautiful,” he finally says with a sigh before Nesta starts to get uncomfortable.
There’s a warmth in Koschei’s eyes that makes her belly flutter; an… an adoration she’s never seen directed at her. Nesta was always the sharp sister; it was Elain who earned easy love through her delicateness. Her breath catches, and she palms her chest, trying to smooth the feelings away. Did he always look at me like this?
“Right,” she says quickly, turning on her heel and heading for the boots. “You said you’d be the one to bother with these. Get on with it.”
“Right,” Koschei repeats, but his eyes never leave her. Wherever she is, he’s always watching, as if she’s a world wonder he wouldn’t dare to miss. His gaze never lingers on her ass or her breasts, but on her, as a whole, as a person. He follows her, wanting to be in her orbit. “Have a seat.”
Nesta sits on the bed, beside the two remaining items of clothing left. Koschei kneels at her feet.
“May I touch you, Nesta?”
She hesitates for a moment, hearing the earnestness in his voice. “Yes.”
“Freely?”
What does that mean? Her first instinct is to assume there is a trap—a trick in his words—but if there is something amiss here, she can’t sense it. All she sees is a man wanting a woman he has a fondness for to trust him.
“Yes,” she says more softly.
Koschei gets to work. He reaches for her, skirting a touch long the sides of her pants as if searching for a flaw in its quality. Not a single strand is out of place, nor a pattern mismatched from the rest of the embroidery. His touch is feather-light, and it sends delicate gooseflesh across Nesta’s skin. She glances away, overwhelmed by the tenderness.
He moves to the inside of her leg, using the back of his finger to trace the seam as if looking for defaults there too. Nesta’s fists tighten around her soft duvet.
“Shouldn’t you have checked before gifting these to me?”
“There are some things you can’t see unless it’s worn by a real, living beauty,” Koschei says, not looking at her and immediately fetching the first boot. He pulls at the air, and the laces free themselves of the golden holes. The boot's structure falls apart, but it makes it much easier for Nesta to slip her foot in.
Koschei runs his hand along the back of her calf, and stops her mid-motion. He lifts her foot and kisses her ankle. “I mean it, Nesta. You are beautiful.”
She clutches at the sheets harder, glancing away in hopes that Koschei won’t see the pink rising on her cheeks. The little peck is so… intimate, and it makes her want to squirm. “Focus,” she whispers.
Nesta watches as Koschei gets to work, lacing the boots by hand with the patience of a creature that has all the time in the world. He could easily use magic to do away with this task, but he chooses to be here, on his knees before her, serving her. The vice around her heart makes itself known, competing with the flutter in her belly. Koschei makes no show of it—no smarmy grins or teasing commentary demanding that she recognize his benevolence. He simply focuses on the task at hand, using his fingers to measure the pressure of the laces around her foot, then ankle, and so forth.
Here, she sees him for more than what he is. Not a sorcerer. Not the product of a god. Just a man looking for connection. A man willing to nurture whatever it is between them beyond the banter and forced proximity of their Council roles.
“You’re staring,” he says, slipping the lace through one of the holes mid-way up her shin. He keeps his eyes downcast. Nesta expects him to add something ridiculous like a mischievous ‘ like what you see ’ but it never comes. Instead, he gives her reprieve from being too… seen. “Is it too tight?”
“No, it’s… just right.”
Gods, what am I doing?
Her pride insists that she can do this herself, and her past demands that she never trust again. This is such a small thing to trust Koschei with, but her heart yearns to alleviate herself of at least one burden. She needs this, a single moment of being cared for. She didn’t expect—
Koschei pauses at her knee, kissing the inside of it. His eyes flutter shut, and he rests his cheek on her thigh.
“Nesta—”
Her hands find home in the soft, tousled curls of his dark hair. She caresses him, answering not with words, but with touch. Nesta doesn’t want him to speak; she doesn’t think she could bear him putting a name to what they are doing, or what she is feeling. Just let it be, she pleads in the privacy of her mind and feels Koschei relax against her. He rests there for a moment as she cards her fingers through his hair, returning the comfort that was given.
When he’s good and ready, Koschei sits up and finishes tying up her left boot. Then, he moves to the next. He kisses her ankle again, but finds courage and lets his lips follow the line of her shin, along the bone. It’s terribly intimate, and Nesta notices the way faint pink colours his sculpted cheekbones. He’s terribly handsome, but even moreso now, when he puts himself on display despite being fully clothed.
Nesta slips her foot into the boot. Koschei works efficiently, and this time, when he reaches the arc of her knee, Nesta slips her slender fingers beneath his bearded chin. She tips his face to look up at her, and the way he looks at her steals her fears away. Nesta is—was?—afraid of the greed of males. The way he looks at her speaks nothing but the truth he spilled earlier. He wants nothing from her, except the right to be here.
“Why? Why are you so willing to give everything up for me?”
“Because I am a collector of precious things and you are the most… You are unlike anything I have ever encountered.”
“You wouldn’t own me. I asked you to give up everything for me.”
“And still, I would find it a worthy bargain. To be owned by you.”
“Stupid,” Nesta breathes and guides him higher onto his knees by the finger beneath his chin.
She presses a kiss to his lips, tentative just as he was when he first touched her. Koschei stills, quietly letting Nesta lead. He leans in, awkward in his desire to return the kiss.
“Can I?” He whispers against her lips.
“Yes.”
Nesta curls her fingers at the nape of his neck, pulling him close as she deepens the kiss. Koschei’s hands remain safely at her sides. He doesn’t ask for more than this, mirroring how much she’s willing to give him and returns it two-fold in adoration. His kiss warms her from the inside out, thawing her heart from its thick layer of protection. Under his touch, she is on fire. They kiss until they are breathless, foreheads pressed together. Koschei opens his mouth to speak, but Nesta kisses him again. Don’t name this. Don’t say anything.
She doesn’t want this to be anything other than a moment, a feeling, a connection. Once it has a name, it’ll give others a reason to speak it, tarnish it and put pressure upon it until it bends and breaks. Nesta wants this—Koschei?—to be hers and hers alone for as long as possible. No bargains, no marriages—just… comfort.
Afraid that he’ll try to make this something more than it is, she speaks first.
“We should go.”
“Very well,” Koschei agrees, pulling back and leaving Nesta feeling… cold. He kisses her fingers, as if to protect her from frosts’ bite, and finishes the task of lacing up her boots.
He finishes and helps her to her feet. Koschei holds up her coat, closing up the front with ease. When she’s done, he steps back, admiring his work with a grin. “Breathtaking. The Darkriders will be begging you to step on them in those boots,” he smirks. “Me first, though?”
“Stupid,” she insists, but lets Koschei take her hand and twirl her.
He guides her to the full length mirror in her room, standing over her shoulder as she admires herself. Nesta is—Nesta has never seen herself this way. She has always carried herself prim and properly. Her mother taught her to present herself with grace and elegance, but Nesta would always hide behind the expected etiquette. This? She feels powerful. She stands taller and broader naturally. Like second nature.
“Do you see what I see?” Koschei asks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Precious.” He smiles, kissing her neck and pulling away. This moment is not his, but hers and he wants her to enjoy every second of it.
Nesta watches him leave and she realizes her mind has not been this quiet in a long time. If she is precious to him, then he is her peace.