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ladybookstan · 3 years ago

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Nestaq Appreciation✨

Synopsis: A post entirely dedicated to Sartaq and Nesryn, presenting the facts that show that these characters, this couple, deserve more recognition and love.

Those who "know me" know that I am the Captain of the Character Defense Squad. So far I have only made one other post like this, one in Appreciation to Viviane, if you want to see it, I'll leave it here.

And now I am focusing on Tog's most overlooked couple: Nestaq.

⚠️ Throne of Glass Series Spoiler Alert!!!

The basis of this post will be mainly Tower of Dawn, and a bit of Queen of Shadows, I haven't finished KoA yet (I'm on chapter 21) and Lord knows I won't finish that book any time soon. BUuUt, I won't try anymore. The TOG fandom literally sleeps when it comes to this couple and I'm like: 🤡HELLOOOOO🤡

This post is huge and I apologize in advance for any spelling mistakes or anything like that.

Let's start with Nesryn✨

Balruhn, where Nesryn’s own people had originally hailed, before curiosity and ambition drove her great-grandfather to drag his family over mountains and grasslands and deserts to the god-city in the arid north.

The Faliqs had long been tradesmen, and not of anything particularly fine. Just simple, good cloth and household spices. Her uncle still traded such things and, through various lucrative investments, had become a moderately wealthy man, his family now dwelling in a beautiful home within this very city. A definitive step up from a baker—the path her father had chosen upon leaving these shores. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 2)

A daughter of Adarlan (on her mother's side, Cybele) and a daughter of the Southern Continent (on her father's side, Sayed Faliq).

We meet her in Queen of Shadows, the fifth book in the series.

“I heard what happened this winter. That you went to the warehouse and killed so many of us. You slaughtered rebels - my friends.” That cool, calm mask didn’t so much as flinch. “And yet I’m now supposed to believe you were on our side all along. Forgive me if I’m not forthright with you.” — Nesryn Faliq to Aelin Galathinyus (Queen of Shadows chapter 6)

Nesryn Faliq is shown to be a quiet woman who prefers silence, intelligent and a guard in the city of Riftfort, she was one of the rebels who were working with Ren Allsbrook. We also find out that Chaol Westfall and she were once lovers and at that point retained something of a "friendship".

He’d needed it—the distraction and release—after Lithaen had left him for the charms of Roland Havilliard. Nesryn had just been bored, apparently. She’d never sought him out, never asked when she would see him again, so their encounters had always been initiated by him. A few months later, he hadn’t felt particularly bad when he’d gone to Endovier and stopped seeing her. He’d never told Dorian —or Aelin. And when he’d run into Nesryn three weeks ago at one of the rebel gatherings, she hadn’t seemed to be holding a grudge.

“You look like a man who got punched in the balls,” she said at last.

He cut a glare in her direction. And because he did indeed feel that way, because maybe he was again feeling a bit shattered and reckless, he told her what had happened. Who it had happened with. He trusted her, though. In the three weeks they’d been fighting and plotting and surviving together, he’d had no choice but to trust her. Ren had trusted her. — (Queen of Shadows chapter 7)

Regarding Nesryn and Chaol, from what I understand, the two were fine with what they had, but there came a point where Nesryn had feelings for Chaol that he didn't have for her. I'm not saying that Nesryn was crazy in love with him, but she was starting to fall in love, however, the feelings that Chaol had for her were trust, admiration, friendship and obviously, attraction. Just that. (Also, let's face it, we are talking about Nesryn Faliq, the woman is perfect). And he might even love her, but the kind of love that is more on the side of friendship.

Nesryn knew. She knew it hadn’t been mere interest that had prompted Chaol to ask her to talk to him last night, but guilt. She was fine with it, she told herself. She had been a replacement for not one, but two of the women in his life. A third one… She was fine with it... - (Tower of Dawn chapter 24)

And still in Queen of Shadows, Nesryn Faliq won my heart when she saved Lysandra's life and Dorian's life. Being the absurdly amazing Archer that she is.

The blade dipped as she (Aelin) decided, and— Impact slammed into her father ’s sword, knocking her off balance as Aedion shouted. The arrow ricocheted into the garden, hissing against the gravel as it landed. Nesryn was already approaching, another arrow drawn, pointed at Aedion.

“Strike the prince, and I’ll shoot the general.” - (Queen of Shadows chapter 19)

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Lysandra leaped. The closest guard fired a clean, spiraling shot right for her chest. She knew, with that leopard’s senses, that it would hit home. Yet Lysandra did not slow. She did not stop. For Evangeline. For her future. For her freedom. For the friends who had come for her. The bolt neared her heart. And was knocked from the air by an arrow.

Lysandra landed on the guard’s face and shredded it with her claws. There was only one sharpshooter with that sort of aim. Lysandra loosed a roar, and became a storm of death upon the guards nearest her while arrows rained on the rest. When Lysandra dared look, it was in time to see Nesryn Faliq draw another arrow atop the neighboring rooftop, flanked by her rebels, and fire it clean through the eye of the final guard between Lysandra and the castle.

“Go!” Nesryn shouted over the panicking crowd. - (Queen of Shadows chapter 75)

One thing that makes me admire Nesryn so much, besides the fact that she is a strong woman, is that even when she suffered a huge loss when she was 13, experienced prejudice throughout her childhood for her origins, suffered prejudice at work for being a woman, she didn't give up. She didn't stop fighting. Never. And if that is not an admirable story, I don't know what is.

“I wouldn’t?” A cold question. “You think that I don’t understand what’s at stake? I don’t care about your prince—not the way you do. I care about what he represents for the future of this kingdom, and for the future of people like my family. I won’t allow another immigrant purge to happen. I don’t ever want my sister ’s children coming home with broken noses again because of their foreign blood. You told me Dorian would fix the world, make it better. But if he’s gone, if we made the mistake today in keeping him alive, then I will find another way to attain that future. And another one after that, if I have to. I will keep getting back up, no matter how many times those butchers shove me down.”

He’d never heard so many words from her at once, had never… never even known she had a sister. Or that she was an aunt. Nesryn said, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Stay the course, but also plot another one. Adapt.”

His mouth had gone dry. “Were you ever hurt? For your heritage?” Nesryn glanced toward the roaring hearth, her face like ice. “I became a city guard because not a single one of them came to my aid the day the other schoolchildren surrounded me with stones in their hands. Not one, even though they could hear my screaming.” She met his stare again. “Dorian Havilliard offers a better future, but the responsibility also lies with us. With how common people choose to act.” True—so true. - (Queen of Shadows chapter 22)

.................

“Adarlan is not as … open as the khaganate when it comes to embracing the role of women in the ranks of its guards or armies,” she admitted. “While I might be skilled, men usually were promoted. So I was left to rot on patrol duty at the walls or busy streets. Handling the underworld or nobility was left for more important guards. And ones whose families hailed from Adarlan.” Her sister had raged anytime it happened, but Nesryn had known that if she’d exploded to her superiors, if she’d challenged them … They were the sort of men who would tell her to be grateful to be admitted at all, then demand she turn in her sword and uniform. So she’d figured it was better to remain, to be passed over, not for mere pay, but for the fact that there were so few other guards like her, helping those who needed it most. It was for them she stayed on, kept her head down while lesser men were appointed. “Ah.” Another beat of quiet from the prince. “I’ve heard they were not so welcoming toward people from other lands.”

“To say the least.” - (Tower of Dawn chapter 29)

The huge loss that Nesryn has suffered:

Nesryn said quietly, “My mother died when I was thirteen.” She gazed up at the near-glowing Torre. “The old king … you know what he did to those with magic. To healers gifted with it. So there was no one who could save my mother from the wasting sickness that crept up on her. The healer we managed to find admitted to us that it was likely from a growth inside my mother’s breast. That she might have been able to cure her before magic vanished. Before it was forbidden.”

She had never told anyone outside of her family this story. Wasn’t sure why she was really telling him now, but she went on, “My father wanted to get her on a boat to sail here. Was desperate to. But war had broken out up and down our lands. Ships were conscripted into Adarlan’s service, and she was too sick to risk a land journey all the way down to Eyllwe to try to cross there. My father combed through every map, every trade route. By the time he found a merchant who would sail with them—just the two of them—to Antica … My mother was so sick she could not be moved. She would not have made it here, even if they’d gotten on the boat.” Sartaq watched her, face unreadable, while she spoke.

Nesryn slid her hands into her pockets. “So she stayed. And we were all there when she … when it was over.” That old grief wrapped around her, burning her eyes. “It took me a few years to feel right again,” she said after a moment. “Two years before I started noticing things like the sun on my face, or the taste of food —started enjoying them again. My father … he held us together. My sister and I. If he mourned, he did not let us see it. He filled our house with as much joy as he could.” - (Tower of Dawn chapter 13)

...............

Yew, ash … She plucked up one of the yew bows, testing its weight, its flexibility and resistance. A solid, deadly weapon. Yet familiar. As familiar as an old friend. She had not picked up a bow until her mother’s death, and during those initial years of grief and numbness, the physical training, the concentration and strength required, had been a sanctuary, and a reprieve, and forge. She wondered if any of her old tutors had survived the attack on Rifthold. If any of their arrows had brought down wyverns. Or slowed them enough to save lives. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 30)

In Tower of Dawn we are shown what an interesting character Nesryn is, and like every SJM character, she has also experienced trauma and grief.

An excerpt that sums up Nesryn's personality for us:

Last night, talking with him (with Sartaq) at the party, even talking with him in the alley outside the Torre a few nights before that … She had not felt quiet or aloof or strange. She had not felt cold or distant. He’d done her an honor in giving her such attention, and in escorting her and Chaol back to their rooms. She did not mind company—quiet as she could be, she enjoyed being around others. But sometimes… - (Tower of Dawn chapter 24)

Something that fascinates me about Nesryn is her development in the series. In Queen of Shadows (and in the beginning of Tower of Dawn) it is as if she is in a cocoon. Closed off to the world and preventing anyone from seeing the beauty within. Because this is one of the best descriptions for Nesryn Faliq. Hard on the outside and sensitive on the inside.

Wind-seeker, her mother had once called her. Unable to keep still, always wandering where the wind calls you. Where shall it beckon you to journey one day, my rose? - (Tower of Dawn chapter 25)

The Modern Nesryn Faliq

Now, let's talk about her prince: Sartaq

We met him in Tower of Dawn, Sartaq is Khagan's second eldest son and the Commander of his father's ruk riders. The Rukhin.

The northern aerial cavalry of his people had long dwelled in the towering Tavan Mountains with their ruks: enormous birds, eagle-like in shape, large enough to carry off cattle and horses. Without the sheer bulk and destructive weight of the Ironteeth witches’ wyverns, but swift and nimble and clever as foxes. The perfect mounts for the legendary archers who flew them into battle.

Sartaq’s face was solemn, his broad shoulders thrown back. A man perhaps as ill at ease in his fine clothes as Chaol. She wondered if his ruk, Kadara, was perched on one of the palace’s thirty-six minarets, eyeing the cowering servants and guards, waiting impatiently for her master’s return. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 2)

Several excerpts about Sartaq and his personality

She yielded a blink. His brown skin was darker than the others’—perhaps from all that time in the skies and sunlight—his eyes a solid ebony. Depthless and unreadable. His black hair remained unbound save for a small braid that curved over the arch of his ear. The rest of his hair fell to just past his muscled chest, and swayed slightly as he gave what Nesryn could have sworn was a mocking incline of his head. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 2)

...................

“I’ve heard the stories.”

“Even in Adarlan?” He lifted a brow. A warrior and a charmer. A dangerous combination, though she could not recall any mention of a spouse. Indeed, no ring marked his finger.

“Even in Adarlan,” Nesryn said, though she did not mention that the average person on the street might not know such tales. But in her house hold… Oh, yes. The Winged Prince, they called him.

.................

“I was twelve when my father brought us all to the mountain aerie. And when I snuck away and climbed onto the captain’s own ruk, soaring into the skies and requiring them to chase me down … My father told me that if I had splattered on the rocks, I would have deserved to die for my stupidity. As punishment, he ordered me to live amongst the rukhin until I could prove I wasn’t a complete fool—a lifetime, he suggested.”

.................

“Thankfully, I did not die of stupidity, and instead came to love the riding, their lifestyle. They gave me hell because I was a prince, but I proved my mettle soon enough. Kadara hatched when I was fifteen, and I raised her myself. I have had no other mount since.” Pride and affection brightened those onyx eyes. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 6)

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“Only Fae blades could remain this sharp after a thousand years,” said Sartaq, setting down the knife he’d been inspecting. “Likely forged by the Fae smiths in Asterion, to the east of Doranelle—perhaps even before the first of the demon wars.”

A prince who had studied not only his own empire’s history, but that of many others. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 33)

....................

Nesryn smiled. Charmer. Beneath that unfailingly sure exterior, Sartaq was certainly a shameless flirt. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 29)

................

Borte had insisted that if she, as Houlun’s heir, was to stay, then Sartaq, as the khagan’s potential successor, should remain as well.

To that, Sartaq had merely stalked off into the interior hallways of Altun, saying that if being his father’s successor meant sitting idly by while others fought for him, then his siblings could have the damn crown. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 41)

In order to understand Sartaq further, it is important to know what situation he was in, more precisely, how the Khaganate works. Is something complicated, because in brief, a Khagan has to kill his siblings and their descendants if they might pose any danger or resistance to the Khagan rule. Example: If a Khagan has three siblings, none of whom have had children, all of whom swear loyalty and submission to him, the Khagan may decide to keep them alive, but the three siblings and their companions will be sterilized. Thus making it impossible for anyone to stand up against Khagan.

Unlike Adarlan or Terrasen, inheritance of the empire was decided by the khagan—not by birth order or gender. Having as many children as possible to provide him or her with a wide pool to choose from made that choice only somewhat easier. And rivalry amongst the royal children… It was practically a blood sport. All designed to prove to their parent who was the strongest, the wisest, the most suited to rule.

The khagan was required by law to have a sealed document locked away in an unmarked, hidden trove—a document that listed his or her Heir, should death sweep upon them before it could be formally announced. It could be altered at any time, but it was designed to avoid the one thing the khaganate had lived in fear of since that first khagan had patched together the kingdoms and territories of this continent: collapse. Not from outside forces, but from war within. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 1)

And Sartaq's opinion about it:

Sartaq shrugged. “Kadara is my family. The rukhin, they are my family. My bloodline, though… It’s hard to love one another, when we will one day contend with each other. Love cannot exist without trust.” He smiled at his ruk. “I trust Kadara with my life. I would die for her, and she for me. Can I say the same of my siblings? My own parents?”

“It’s a shame,” Nesryn admitted. “At least I have her,” he said of the ruk. “And my riders. Pity my siblings, who have none of those blessings.”

He was a good man. The prince… he was a good man. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 24)

In fact, Borte and Houlun are more Sartaq's sister and mother than his blood family. Their relationship is quite beautiful. (Borte and Houlun are Sartaq's hearth-sister and hearth-mother).

The Modern Sartaq

Now, finally, let's talk about the couple!!!!

One of the things that makes me love Nestaq so much is that Sartaq is Nesryn's first and biggest fan. He encourages, supports, and admires his woman without reservation.

Nestaq is made up of a wonderful, independent woman, and a perfect man who is not intimidated by his woman's power and doesn't need to do anything over-the-top to make it clear that he is totally a fan of hers.

And I love the fact that from the beginning it was written in the stars, sea and earth that Nesryn and Sartaq had to be together.

Nestaq Moments:

First flight together in Kadara and, as a bonus, we can see that it was already decided: Nesryn was the perfect woman for Sartaq; she loves the Southern Continent and pay attention to how she describes this flight with the prince. (She will make an amazing Grand Empress, get this).

Nesryn had watched the sunrise from the skies. She’d found Prince Sartaq waiting in his aerie in the hour before dawn. The minaret was open to the elements at its uppermost level, and behind the leather-clad prince … Nesryn had braced a hand on the archway to the stairwell, still breathless from the climb.

Kadara was beautiful. Each of the ruk’s golden feathers shone like burnished metal, the white of her breast bright as fresh snow. And her gold eyes had sized Nesryn up immediately. Before Sartaq even turned from where he’d been buckling on the saddle across her broad back. “Captain Faliq,” the prince had said by way of greeting. “You’re up early.” Casual words for any listening ears. “The storm last night kept me from sleep. I hope I am not disturbing you.”

“On the contrary.” In the dim light, his mouth quirked in a smile. “I was about to go for a ride—to let this fat hog hunt for her breakfast for once.” Kadara puffed her feathers in indignation, clicking her enormous beak—fully capable of taking a man’s head off in one snip. No wonder Princess Hasar remained wary of the bird. Sartaq chuckled, patting her feathers. “Care to join?”

.................

“I am not particularly skilled with heights, but it would be my honor, Prince.”

..................

Sartaq had buckled and harnessed them both into the saddle, triple-checking the leather straps. Then he clicked his tongue once, and— Nesryn knew it wasn’t polite to squeeze a prince’s arms so hard the bone was likely to break. But she did so anyway as Kadara spread her shining golden wings and leaped out. Leaped down. Her stomach shot straight up her throat. Her eyes watered and blurred. Wind tore at her, trying to rip her from that saddle, and she clenched with her thighs so tightly they ached, while she gripped Sartaq’s arms, holding the reins, so hard he chuckled in her ear. But the pale buildings of Antica loomed up, near-blue in the early dawn, rushing to meet them as Kadara dove and dove, a star falling from the heavens— Then flared those wings wide and shot upward. Nesryn was glad she had forgone breakfast. For surely it would have come spewing out of her mouth at what the motion did to her stomach.

Within the span of a few beats, Kadara banked right—toward the horizon just turning pink. The sprawl of Antica spread before them, smaller and smaller as they rose into the skies. Until it was no more than a cobblestoned road beneath them, spreading into every direction. Until she could spy the olive groves and wheat fields just outside the city. The country estates and small towns speckled about. The rippling dunes of the northern desert to her left. The sparkling, snaking band of rivers turning golden in the rising sun that crested over the mountains to her right. Sartaq did not speak. Did not point out landmarks. Not even the pale line of the Sister-Road that ran toward the southern horizon. No, in the rising light, he let Kadara have her head. The ruk took them floating higher still, the air turning crisp—the awakening blue sky brightening with each mighty flap of her wings.

Open. So open. Not at all like the endless sea, the tedious waves and cramped ship. This was… this was breath. This was… She could not look fast enough, drink it all in. How small everything was, how lovely and pristine. A land claimed by a conquering nation, yet loved and nurtured. Her land. Her home. (Ana's Note: You're going to be the Grand Empress there, girl, you just don't know it yet😏)

The sun and the scrub and the undulating grasslands that beckoned in the distance. The lush jungles and rice fields to the west; the pale sand dunes of the desert to the northeast. More than she could see in a lifetime—farther than Kadara could fly in a single day. An entire world, this land. The entire world contained here. She could not understand why her father had left. Why he had stayed, when such darkness had crept into Adarlan. Why he had kept them in that festering city where she so rarely looked up at the sky, or felt a breeze that did not reek of the briny Avery or the rubbish rotting in the streets.

“You are quiet,” the prince said, and it was more question than statement. Nesryn admitted in Halha, “I don’t have words to describe it.” She felt Sartaq smile near her shoulder. “That was what I felt—that first ride. And every ride since.”

“I understand why you stayed at the camp those years ago. Why you are eager to return.” A beat of quiet. “Am I so easy to read?”

“How could you not wish to return?”

“Some consider my father’s palace to be the finest in the world.”

“It is.” - (Tower of Dawn chapter 12)

This conversation took place during their first flight and I think it was very important for the outcome of the story itself.

“And are you? Willing to hear us out?” Sartaq didn’t answer for a long moment, only the screaming wind filling the quiet. “I would listen. To you and Lord Westfall. I would hear what you know, what has happened to you both. I do not hold as much sway with my father as others, but he knows the ruk riders are loyal to me.”

“I thought—”

“That I was his favorite?” A low, bitter laugh. “I perhaps stand a chance at being named Heir, but the khagan does not select his Heir based on whom he loves best. Even so, that particular honor goes to Duva and Kashin.” Sweet-faced Duva, she could understand, but—“Kashin?”

“He is loyal to my father to a fault. He has never schemed, never backstabbed. I’ve done it—plotted and maneuvered against them all to get what I want. But Kashin... He may command the land armies and the horse-lords, he may be brutal when required, but with my father, he is guileless. There has never been a more loving or loyal son. When our father dies… I worry. What the others will do to Kashin if he does not submit, or worse: what his death will do to Kashin himself.” She dared ask, “What would you do to him?�� Destroy him, if he will not swear fealty?

“It remains to be seen what sort of threat or alliance he could pose. Only Duva and Arghun are married, and Arghun has yet to sire offspring. Though Kashin, if he has his way, would likely sweep that young healer off her feet.” - (Tower of Dawn chapter 12)

Nesryn agrees to go with Sartaq to the Tavan mountains (where the rukhin live). And anyone who has read Tower of Dawn will remember that the time Nesryn spent with them was very good. I will try to make a compilation of all the times Nesryn felt at home in Eridun.

His face remained neutral, even as he added, “I’m sure your family will have my head for offering, but … would you like to accompany me?” Yes, she wanted to breathe. But she made herself ask, “For how long?” For time was not on her side. Their side. And to hunt for answers while so many threats gathered close… “A few weeks. No more than three. I like to keep the riders in line, and if I go absent for too long, they pull at the leash. So the journey will serve two purposes, I suppose.”

“I—I would need to discuss. With Lord Westfall.” She’d promised him as much last night. That they’d consider this precise path, weighing the pitfalls and benefits. They were still a team in that regard, still served under the same banner. Sartaq nodded solemnly, as if he could read everything on her face. “Of course. Though I leave soon.” She then heard it—the grunt of servants coming up the aerie stairs. Bringing supplies.

“You leave now,” Nesryn clarified as she noted the spear leaning against the far wall near the supply racks. His sulde. The russet horsehair tied beneath the blade drifted in the wind weaving through the aerie, the dark wood shaft polished and smooth. Sartaq’s onyx eyes seemed to darken further as he strode to his sulde, weighing the spirit-banner in his hands before resting it beside him, the wood thunking on the stone floor. “I…” It was the first she’d seen him stumble for words.

“You weren’t going to say good-bye?” She had no right to make such demands, expect such things, tentative allies or no. But Sartaq leaned his sulde against the wall again and began braiding back his black hair. “After last night’s party, I had thought you would be … preoccupied.”

With Chaol. Her brows rose. “All day?” The prince gave her a roguish smile, finishing off his long braid and picking up his spear once more. “I certainly would take all day.”

..............

Sartaq was still watching, his face carefully neutral as the last of the servants bowed and vanished. His sulde had been strapped just below the saddle, within easy reach should the prince need it, its reddish horsehairs trailing in the wind. Trailing southward. Toward that distant, wild land of the Tavan Mountains. Beckoning, as all spirit-banners did, toward an unknown horizon. Beckoning to claim whatever waited there. Nesryn said quietly, “Yes.”

The prince blinked. “I will go with you,” she clarified. A small smile tugged on his mouth. “Good.”

.............

She found Sartaq atop Kadara, waiting for her. The prince extended a callused hand to help her up into the saddle. She didn’t hesitate as she took his hand, his strong fingers wrapping around hers, and let him pull her into the saddle before him. He strapped and buckled them in, checked all of it thrice. But he reined in Kadara when she would have soared out of the minaret. Sartaq whispered in Nesryn’s ear, “I was praying to the Eternal Sky and all thirty-six gods that you’d say yes.” She smiled, even if he couldn’t see it.

“So was I,” Nesryn breathed, and they leaped into the skies. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 24)

OK, I HAVE NO DESCRIPTION FOR THAT MOMENT. “So don’t be surprised if there’s now a story or two about you already finding its way across the world.”

“And what are the tales they tell about you, Nesryn Faliq?” She chewed on the salted pork. “No one has any stories about me.” It didn’t bother her. Fame, notoriety … She valued other things more, she supposed.

“Not even the story about the arrow that saved a shape-shifter’s life? The impossible shot fired from a rooftop?” She snapped her head toward him. Sartaq only swigged from his water with a look that said, I told you my spies were good.

.............

“Neith’s Arrow,” Sartaq said after uncounted minutes, leaning back against the rock. Nesryn dragged her gaze from the stars to find his face limned in moonlight, silver dancing along the pure onyx of his braid. He rested his forearms on his knees. “That’s what my spies called you, what I called you until you arrived. Neith’s Arrow.” The Goddess of Archery—and the Hunt, originally hailing from an ancient sand-swept kingdom to the west, now enfolded into the khaganate’s vast pantheon. A corner of his mouth tugged upward. “So don’t be surprised if there’s now a story or two about you already finding its way across the world.”

Nesryn observed him for a long moment, the howling mountain wind blending with Kadara’s snoring. She’d always excelled at archery, took pride in her unmatched aim, but she had not learned because she coveted renown. She’d done it because she enjoyed it, because it gave her a direction to aim that wind-seeking inclination. And yet …

Sartaq cleared away the last of the food and did a quick check that the campsite was secure before heading off between the boulders himself. With only those foreign stars to witness, Nesryn smiled. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 25)

That conversation...... Without words. Nestaq is the serious couple that knows how to be hilarious.

“Were you ever—”

“It’s not worth talking about.” Not when she could sometimes still feel that rock as it collided with her head, hear the taunts of those children. She swallowed and added, “Your Highness.” A low laugh. “So my title makes an appearance again.” But he didn’t press further. He only said, “I’m going to beg you not to call me Prince or Your Highness around the other riders.”

“You’re going to beg me, or you are?” His arms tightened around her in mock warning. “It took me years to get them to stop asking if I needed my silk slippers or servants to brush my hair.” Nesryn chuckled. “Amongst them, I am simply Sartaq.” He added, “Or Captain.”

“Captain?”

“Another thing you and I have in common, it seems.” Shameless flirt indeed. “But you rule all six ruk clans. They answer to you.”

“They do, and when we all gather, I am Prince. But amongst my family’s own clan, the Eridun, I captain their forces. And obey the word of my hearth-mother.” He squeezed her again for emphasis. “Which I’d advise you doing as well, if you don’t want to be stripped and tied to a cliff face in the middle of a storm.”

“Holy gods.”

“Indeed.”

“Did she—”

“Yes. And as you said, it’s not worth talking about.” But Nesryn chuckled again, surprised to find her face aching from smiling so often these past few minutes. “I appreciate the warning, Captain.” - (Tower of Dawn chapter 29)

"Emissary or bride?" “Sartaq never brings such pretty ladies home—from Adarlan or Antica. Be careful walking around the cliff edges, Captain Faliq, or some of the girls here might give you a shove.” Borte, you are of my clan, girl.

A faint gleam of approval entered Borte’s dark eyes just before the girl jerked her chin toward Nesryn. “A Balruhni woman in the leathers of a rukhin. Now, there’s a sight.” Sartaq didn’t answer. He only glanced in Nesryn’s direction. An invitation. And challenge. So Nesryn slipped her hands into the pockets of her close-fitting pants and sauntered to the prince’s side. “Will it be improved if I tell you I caught Sartaq filing his nails this morning?”

Borte stared at Nesryn, blinking once. Then she tipped back her head and howled. Sartaq threw an approving yet beleaguered glance in Nesryn’s direction before saying, “Meet my hearth-sister, Borte. Granddaughter and heir of my hearth-mother, Houlun.” He reached between them to tug one of Borte’s braids. She batted his hand away. “Borte, meet Captain Nesryn Faliq.” He paused for a breath, then added, “Of the Royal Guard of Adarlan.” Silence. Borte’s arched dark brows rose. An aging man in rukhin leathers pressed forward. “But what is more unusual: that a Balruhni woman is their captain, or that a captain of Adarlan has ventured so far?” Borte waved the man off. “Always the idle chatter and questions with you,” she scolded him. And to Nesryn’s shock, the man winced and shut his mouth. “The real question is...” A sly grin at Sartaq. “Does she come as emissary or bride?” Any attempt at a steady, cool, calm appearance vanished as Nesryn gaped at the girl. Right as Sartaq snapped, “Borte.”

Borte gave a downright wicked grin. “Sartaq never brings such pretty ladies home—from Adarlan or Antica. Be careful walking around the cliff edges, Captain Faliq, or some of the girls here might give you a shove.” - (Tower of Dawn chapter 29)

I didn't know whether to smile or scream.

Sartaq’s smile grew. “Perhaps we could also do a bit of archery practice.” He looked her over with a frankness that made her shift in her seat. “I’m certainly keen to match myself against Neith’s Arrow, and I’m sure the young warriors are, too.” Nesryn pushed back her own plate, brows lifting. “They’ve heard of me?” Sartaq grinned. “I might have told a story or two the last time I came here. Why do you think there were so many people gathered when we arrived? They certainly don’t usually bother to drag themselves here to see me.” “But Borte seemed like she’d never—”

“Does Borte seem like a person who gives anyone an easy time?” Something deeper in her warmed. “No. But how could they have known I was coming?” His answering grin was the portrait of princely arrogance. “Because I sent word a day before that you were likely to join me.” Nesryn gaped at him, unable to maintain that mask of calm. Rising, Sartaq scooped up their plates. “I told you that I was praying you’d join me, Nesryn Faliq. If I’d shown up empty-handed, Borte would have never let me hear the end of it.” - (Tower of Dawn chapter 29)

"They didn’t mention that you’re beautiful." huh huh!!

“Pick a mark,” Nesryn told Borte. The woman smirked. “Neck, heart, head.” She pointed to each of the three dummies, a different mark for each one. Wind rattled them, the aim and strength needed to hit each utterly different. Borte knew it—all the warriors here did. Nesryn lifted an arm behind her head, dragging her fingers along the fletching, the feathers rippling against her skin as she scanned the three targets. Listened to the murmur of the winds racing past Rokhal, that wild summons she heard echoed in her own heart. Wind-seeker, her mother had called her. One after another, Nesryn withdrew an arrow and fired.

Again, and again, and again.

And when she finished, only the howling wind answered—the wind of Torke, the Roarer. Every training ring had stopped. Staring at what she’d done. Instead of three arrows distributed amongst the three dummies, she’d fired nine. Three rows of perfectly aligned shots on each: heart, neck, and head. Not an inch of difference. Even with the singing winds. Sartaq was grinning when she turned to him, his long braid drifting behind him, as if it were a sulde itself. But Borte elbowed past him, and breathed to Nesryn, “Show me.”

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But then Sartaq said, “You’re a good teacher.”

“Thank you.” It was all she could think to say. He’d kept close to her side while she walked the others through her various positions and techniques, but had said little. A leader who did not need to constantly be filling the air with talking and boasting. He blew out a breath, shoulders loosening. “And I’m relieved to see that the reality lives up to the legend.” Nesryn chuckled, grateful to be back on safer ground. “You had doubts?” They reached the landing that would take them to the great hall. Sartaq let her fall into step beside him. “The reports left out some key information. It made me doubt their accuracy.” It was the sly gleam in his eye that made Nesryn angle her head. “What, exactly, did they fail to mention?” They reached the great hall, empty save for a cloaked figure just barely visible on the other side of the fire pit—and someone sitting beside her.

But Sartaq turned to her, examining her from head to toe and back again. There was little that he missed. “They didn’t mention that you’re beautiful.” - (Tower of Dawn chapter 30)

Nesryn saving Sartaq's life.

“Don’t.” He gave her an incredulous look over his shoulder. Nesryn kept her own face like stone. “Your ej said these towers were laid with traps. Just because we have yet to see one does not mean they are not still here.” She pointed with her arrow toward the open archway to the levels belowground. “We keep quiet, tread carefully. I go first.” To hell with being the rearguard, if he was prone to plunging into danger. The prince’s eyes flared, but she didn’t let him object. “I faced some of the horrors of Morath this spring and summer. I know how to mark them—and where to strike.” Sartaq looked her over again. “You really should have been promoted.” Nesryn smiled, releasing his muscled bicep. Wincing as she realized the liberties she’d taken by grabbing him, touching a prince without permission—

“Two captains, remember?” he said, noting the cringe she failed to hide. Indeed. Nesryn inclined her head and stepped in front of him—and into the archway of the stairs leading below. Her arm strained as she pulled the bowstring taut, scanning the darkness immediately beyond the stairwell entrance. When nothing leaped out, she slackened the bow, placed her arrow back in the quiver, and plucked up a handful of rocks from the ground, shards and chips from the felled blocks of stone around them. A step behind, Sartaq did the same, filling his pockets with them. Listening carefully, Nesryn rolled one of the rocks down the spiral stairs, letting it bounce and crack and— A faint click, and Nesryn hurled herself back, slamming into Sartaq and sending them both sprawling to the ground. A thud sounded within the stairwell below, then another. In the quiet that followed, her heavy breathing the only sound, she listened again. “Hidden bolts,” she observed, wincing as she found Sartaq’s face mere inches away. His eyes were upon the stairwell, even as he kept a hand on her back, the other angling his long knife toward the archway.

“Seems I owe you my life, Captain,” Sartaq said, and Nesryn quickly peeled back, offering a hand to help him rise. He clasped it, his hand warm around hers as she hauled him to his feet. “Don’t worry,” Nesryn said drily. “I won’t tell Borte.” She plucked up another handful of rocks and sent them rolling and scattering down the gloom of the stairs. A few more clicks and thumps—then silence. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 33)

Sartaq saving Nesryn's life.

Click. Nesryn was so focused on the wall ahead that she didn’t consider where the click had come from. Not in front, but below. One heartbeat, she was crouched on a step. The next, it had slid away beneath her feet, a black pit yawning open beneath— Strong hands wrapped around her shoulder, her collar, a blade clattering on stone— Nesryn scrabbled for the lip of the nearest stair as Sartaq held her, grunting at her weight, his long knife tumbling into the blackness beneath. Metal hit metal. Bounced off it again and again, the clanking filling the stairwell. Spikes. Likely a field of metal spikes—

Sartaq hauled her up, and her nails cracked on stone as she grappled for purchase on the smooth step. But then she was up, half sprawled on the stairs between Sartaq’s legs, both of them panting as they peered to the gap beyond. “I think we’re even,” Nesryn said, fighting and failing to master her shaking. The prince clasped her shoulder, while his other hand brushed down the back of her head. A comforting, casual touch. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 33)

We know who's in command in the relationship

Nesryn caught him before he could eat dirt, and snapped at Sartaq, “If you don’t get him bandages and supplies right now, I’ll give you a wound to match.” The prince blinked at her, mouth falling open. Then he whistled through his teeth, sharp and swift, while he strode for Kadara, his steps clipped. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 35)

This is more how Nesryn felt among the rukhin than a Nestaq moment. I'm going to kind of open a giant parenthesis to leave this here.

She’d never seen anything so great and unforgiving, so vast and beautiful. And even though she was as insignificant as a mayfly compared with the size of the mountains around them, some piece of her felt keenly a part of it, born from it. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 30)

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It was the warm welcome that still surprised her. The smiles of the rukhin who asked, some shyly, some boldly, for demonstrations with her bow and arrow. But for all she showed them, she, too, learned. Went soaring with Sartaq through the mountain passes, the prince calling out targets and Nesryn striking them, learning how to fire into the wind, as the wind. He even let her ride Kadara alone—just once, and enough for her to again wonder how they let four-year-olds do it, but … she’d never felt so unleashed. So unburdened and unbridled and yet settled in herself.

So they went, clan to clan, hearth to hearth. Sartaq checking up on the riders and their training, stopping to visit new babes and ailing old folk. Nesryn remained his shadow—or tried to. Anytime she lingered a step back, Sartaq nudged her forward. Anytime there was a task to be done with the others, he asked her to do it. The washing-up after a meal, the returning of arrows from target practice, the cleaning-out of the ruk droppings from halls and nests. The last task, at least, the prince joined her in. No matter his rank, no matter his status as captain, he did every chore without a word of complaint. No one was above work, he told her when she’d asked one night. And whether she was scraping crusted droppings from the ground or teaching young warriors how to string a bow, something restless in her had settled.

She could no longer picture it—the quiet meetings at the palace in Rifthold where she had given solemn guards their orders and then parted ways amongst marble floors and finery. Could not remember the city barracks, where she’d lurked in the back of a crowded room, gotten her orders, and then stood on a street corner for hours, watching people buy and eat and argue and walk about. Another lifetime, another world. Here in the deep mountains, breathing in the crisp air, seated around the fire pit to hear Houlun narrate tales of rukhin and the horse-lords, tales of the first khagan and his beloved wife, whom Borte had been named after… She could not remember that life before. And did not want to go back to it. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 37)

“Another tale to spread of Neith’s Arrow.” I didn't cry here. And beautiful, smart, excellent archer, and sings well. Nesryn Faliq, the complete package.

“But I can sing for you.” Silence. Houlun set down her whetstone. “A song would be appreciated.” A scowl at Borte and Sartaq. “Since neither of my children can carry a tune to save their lives.” Borte rolled her eyes at her hearth-mother, but Sartaq bowed his head in apology, a crooked grin now on his mouth. Nesryn smiled, even as her heart pounded at her bold offer. She’d never really performed for anyone, but this … It was not performing, as much as it was sharing. She listened to the wind whispering outside the cave mouth for a long moment, the others falling quiet.

“This is a song of Adarlan,” she said at last. “From the foothills north of Rifthold, where my mother was born.” An old, familiar ache filled her chest. “She used to sing this to me—before she died.” A glimmer of sympathy in Houlun’s steely gaze. But Nesryn glanced to Borte as she spoke, finding the young woman’s face unusually soft—staring at Nesryn as if she had not seen her before. Nesryn gave her a small, subtle nod. It is a weight we both bear. Borte offered a small, quiet smile in return. Nesryn listened to the wind again. Let herself drift back to her pretty little bedroom in Rifthold, let herself feel her mother’s silken hands stroking her face, her hair. She had been so taken with her father’s stories of his far-off homeland, of the ruks and horse-lords, that she had rarely asked for anything about Adarlan itself, despite being a child of both lands.

And this song of her mother’s … One of the few stories she had, in the form she loved best. Of her homeland in better days. And she wanted to share it with them—that glimpse into what her land might again become. Nesryn cleared her throat. Took a bracing breath. And then she opened her mouth and sang. The crackle of the fire her only drum, Nesryn’s voice filled the Mountain-Hall of Altun, wending through the ancient pillars, bouncing off the carved rock. She had the sense of Sartaq going very still, had the sense that there was nothing hard or laughing on his face. But she focused on the song, on those long-ago words, that story of distant winters and speckles of blood on snow; that story of mothers and their daughters, how they loved and fought and tended to each other.

Her voice soared and fell, bold and graceful as a ruk, and Nesryn could have sworn that even the howling winds paused to listen. And when she finished, a gilded, high note of the spring sun breaking across cold lands, when silence and the crackling fire filled the world once more… Borte was crying. Silent tears streaming down her pretty face. Houlun’s hand was tightly wrapped around her granddaughter’s, the whetstone set aside. A wound still healing—for both of them.

And perhaps Sartaq, too—for grief limned his face. Grief, and awe, and perhaps something infinitely more tender as he said, “Another tale to spread of Neith’s Arrow.”

She ducked her head again, accepting the praise of the others with a smile. Falkan clapped as best he could manage and called for another song. Nesryn, to her surprise, obliged them. A merry, bright mountain song her father had taught her, of rushing streams amid blooming fields of wildflowers. But even as the night moved on, as Nesryn sang in that beautiful mountain-hall, she felt Sartaq’s stare. Different from any he’d given before. And though she told herself she should, Nesryn did not look away. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 37)

I can't be the only person who is passionate about the conversations Nestaq has in the sky.

Nesryn chewed her lip. “Why—why is it that you haven’t married?” She’d never had the nerve to ask. Though she’d certainly found herself wondering it during these weeks. Sartaq’s hands flexed on the reins before he answered. “I’ve been too busy. And the women who have been presented as potential brides… They were not for me.”She had no right to pry, but she asked, “Why?” (Ana's Note: because them were not you, duh.)

“Because whenever I showed them Kadara, they either cowered, or pretended to be interested in her, or asked just how much time I’d be spending away.”

“Hoping for frequent absences, or because they’d miss you?” Sartaq chuckled. “I couldn’t tell. The question itself felt like enough of a leash that I knew they were not for me.”

“So your father allows you to wed where you will?” Dangerous, strange territory. She waited for him to tease her about it, but Sartaq fell quiet. “Yes. Even Duva’s arranged marriage … She was all for it. Said she didn’t want to have to sort through a court of snakes to find one good man and still pray he hadn’t deceived her. I wonder if there’s something to be said for it. She lucked out, anyway—quiet as he is, her husband adores her. I saw his face the moment they met. Saw hers, too. Relief, and … something more.” And what would become of them—of their child—if another Heir were chosen for the throne? Nesryn asked carefully, “Why not end this tradition of competing with each other?” Sartaq was silent for a long minute. “Perhaps one day, whoever takes the throne will end it. Love their siblings more than they honor the tradition. I like to believe we have moved past who we were centuries ago—when the empire was still fledgling. But perhaps now, these years of relative peace, perhaps this is the dangerous time.” He shrugged, his body shifting against hers. “Perhaps war will sort the matter of succession for us.” And maybe it was because they were so high above the world, because that dim land swept ever closer, but Nesryn asked, “There is nothing that would keep you from war if it called, then?”

“You sound as if you are reconsidering this goal of yours to drag us into the north.” She stiffened. “I will admit that these weeks here … It was easier before to ask for your aid. When the rukhin were a nameless, faceless legion. When I did not know their names, their families. When I did not know Houlun, or Borte. Or that Borte is betrothed.” A low laugh at that. Borte had refused—outright refused—to answer Nesryn’s questions about Yeran. She said it wasn’t even worth talking about. “I’m sure Borte would be glad to go to war, if only to compete with Yeran for glory on the battlefield.”

“A true love match, then.” Sartaq smiled at her ear. “You have no idea.” - (Tower of Dawn chapter 41)

It was all too intense here, damn spiders, Kadara hurt, Nesryn and Sartaq almost dying, the confession... And no, I didn't cry. Again. You realize how important Kadara is to the Sartaq.

Sartaq pivoted them, his body a solid wall around hers as Nesryn realized where the sky was, where the pass floor was— He roared as they struck the shale, as he kept her atop him, taking the full brunt of the impact.

.................

“Not broken,” he rasped. “Not broken.” It was more to himself than her. But Nesryn managed to keep her fingers steady as she freed the buckles. The thick riding leathers had saved his life, saved his skin from being flayed off his bones. He’d taken the impact for her, moved her so that he’d hit it first— She clawed at the shale covering his shoulders and his upper arms, sharp rock cutting into her fingers. The leather strap at the end of her braid had come free in the impact, and her hair now fell about her face, half blocking her view of the forest behind and rock around them. “Get up,” she panted. “Get up.” He took a breath, blinking furiously. “Get up,” she begged him. Shale shifted ahead, and a low, pained cry echoed off the rock. Sartaq snapped upright. “Kadara—”

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The mighty ruk tried and failed to rise. “FLY,” Sartaq bellowed. Slowly, so slowly the ruk lumbered to her legs, her scraped beak dragging through the loose rock. She wasn’t going to make it. Wasn’t going to get airborne in time. For just beyond the web-shrouded tree line… Shadows writhed. Scuttled closer. Nesryn sheathed her sword and drew her bow, arrow shaking as she aimed it toward the rock the hatchling had been hauled behind, then the trees a hundred yards off.

“Go, Kadara,” Sartaq begged. “Get up!” The bird was barely in shape to fly, let alone carry riders— Rock clacked and skittered behind her. From the labyrinth of rock within the pass. Trapped. They were trapped— Falkan shifted in her pocket, trying to wriggle free. Nesryn covered him with her forearm, pressing hard. “Not yet,” she breathed. “Not yet.” His powers were not Lysandra’s. He had tried and failed to shift into a ruk this week. But the large wolf was as big as he could manage. Anything larger was beyond his magic.

“Kadara—” The first of the spiders broke from the tree line. As black and sleek as her fallen sister. Nesryn let her arrow fly. The spider fell back, screaming—an unholy sound that shook the rocks as that arrow sank into an eye. Nesryn instantly had another arrow drawn, backing toward Kadara, who was just now beginning to flap her wings— The ruk stumbled. Sartaq screamed, “FLY!”

Wind stirred Nesryn’s hair, sending shards of shale skittering. The ground rumbled behind, but Nesryn did not dare take her eyes off the second spider that emerged from the trees. She fired again, the song of her arrow drowned out by the flap of Kadara’s wings. A heavy, pained beat, but it held steady— Nesryn glanced behind for a breath. Just one, just to see Kadara bobbing and waving, fighting for every wing beat upward through the narrow pass, blood and shale dripping from her. Right as a kharankui emerged from one of the shadows of the rocks high up the peak, legs bending as if it would leap upon the ruk’s back— Nesryn fired, a second arrow on its tail. Sartaq’s. Both found their marks. One through an eye, the other through the open mouth of the spider. It shrieked, tumbling down from its perch. Kadara swung wide to dodge it, narrowly avoiding the jagged face of the peak. The spider’s splat thudded through the maze of rock ahead. But then Kadara was up, into the gray sky, flapping like hell. Sartaq whirled toward Nesryn just as she looked back at the pine forest. To where half a dozen kharankui now emerged, hissing. Blood coated the prince, his every breath ragged, but he managed to grab Nesryn’s arm and breathe, “Run.” - (Tower of Dawn chapter 42)

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Nesryn just pushed onward, the pass becoming a fraction wider, counting her breaths. They were likely some of her last— Thinking that way helped no one and nothing. She’d stared down death this summer, when that wave of glass had come crashing toward her. Had stared it down, and been saved. Perhaps she would be lucky again, too. Sartaq stumbled out behind her, breathing hard. Water. They desperately needed water—and bandages for his wounds. If the spiders did not find them, then the lack of water in the arid pass might very well kill them first. Long before any help arrived from the Eridun rukhin. Nesryn forced one step in front of another, the path narrowing again, the rock as tight as a vise. She twisted sideways, edging through, her swords scraping. Sartaq grunted, then let out a pained curse. “I’m stuck.”

She found him indeed wedged behind her, the bulk of his broad chest and shoulders pinned. He shoved himself forward, blood leaking from his wounds as he pushed and pulled. “Stop,” she ordered. “Stop—wriggle back out if you can.” There was no other way through and nothing to climb over, but if they removed his weapons— His dark eyes met hers. She saw the words forming. You keep going.

“Sartaq,” she breathed. They heard it then. Claws clicking on stone. Skittering along. Many of them. Too many. Coming from behind, closing in. Nesryn grabbed the prince’s hand, tugging. “Push,” she panted. “Push.” He grunted in pain, the veins in his neck bulging as he tried to squeeze through, his boots scraping on the loose rock— Nesryn dug her own feet in, gritting her teeth as she hauled him forward. Click, click, click—

“Harder,” she gasped. Sartaq angled his head, shoving against the rock that held him.

“What a fine morsel, our guest,” hissed a soft female voice. “So large he cannot even fit through the passage. How we shall feast.” Nesryn heaved and heaved, her grip treacherously slippery with sweat and blood from both of them, but she clamped onto his wrist hard enough that she felt bones shift beneath—

“Go,” he whispered, straining to push through. “You run.” Falkan was shifting in her pocket, trying to emerge. But with the rock pressing on her chest, the passage was too tight for even him to poke out his head—

“A pretty pair,” that female continued. “How her hair shines like a moonless night. We shall take you both back to our home, our honored guests.” A sob clawed its way up Nesryn’s throat. “Please,” she begged, scanning the rock high above them, the lip into the upper reaches of the narrow pass, the curving horns of the peaks, tugging and tugging on Sartaq’s arm. “Please,” she begged them, begged anyone.

But Sartaq’s face went calm. So calm. He stopped pushing, stopped trying to haul himself forward. Nesryn shook her head, pulling on his arm. He did not move. Not an inch. His dark eyes met hers. There was no fear in them. Sartaq said to her, clear and steady, “I heard the spies’ stories of you. The fearless Balruhni woman in Adarlan’s empire. Neith’s Arrow. And I knew…” Nesryn sobbed, tugging and tugging. (Ana's Note: here I was almost creating a new ocean with so many tears)

Sartaq smiled at her—gently. Sweetly. In a way she had not yet seen. “I loved you before I ever set eyes on you,” he said. “Please,” Nesryn wept. Sartaq’s hand tightened on hers. “I wish we’d had time.” A hiss behind him, a rising bulk of shining black— Then the prince was gone. Ripped from her hands.

As if he had never been. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 47)

Coming out of hell at last.

Another cry split the night, one she’d learned as well as her own voice. And there was Kadara, sailing hard for them, two other ruks in her wake. Sartaq let out what might have been a sob as one of the other ruks broke away, diving to where Borte swept and lunged and shattered through the kharankui ranks.

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Borte was not done. A light sparked atop her ruk. A flaming arrow. Borte fired it high into the sky. A signal, Nesryn realized as countless wings filled the air around them. And as Borte’s arrow landed atop a web, flame erupting, hundreds of lights kindled in the sky. Ruk riders. Each bearing a flaming arrow. Each now pointing downward. Like a rain of shooting stars, the arrows fell upon the darkness of Dagul. Landed on web and tree. And caught fire. One after another after another.

Until the night was lit up, until smoke streamed, mingling with the rising screams from the peaks and wood. The ruks veered northward, Nesryn shaking as she clung to the talons holding her. Across the way, Sartaq met her gaze, his now-shoulder-length hair rippling in the wind. With the flames below, it made the wounds to his face, his hands, his neck all the more gruesome. His skin was wan, his lips pale, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and relief. And yet…

Sartaq smiled, barely a curve of his mouth. The words the prince had confessed drifted on the wind between them. She could not take her eyes from him. Could not look away. So Nesryn smiled back.

And below and behind them, long into the night, the Dagul Fells burned. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 51)

She loves him, yes. No one can tell me otherwise. Look at this relationship. Look how they interact. Only one thing: perfection.

When Nesryn faced Sartaq, it was in time to see him sway. She lunged, her aching body protesting as she caught the prince around the middle. Someone shouted for a healer, but Sartaq got his legs beneath him, even as he kept his arms about her. Nesryn found herself disinclined to remove her own arms from his waist. Sartaq stared down at her, that soft, sweet smile on his mouth again. “You saved me.”

“It seemed a sorry end for the tales of the Winged Prince,” she replied, frowning at the gash in his leg. “You should be sitting—” Across the hall, light flashed, people cried out… and then the spider was gone. Replaced by a man, covered in slashing cuts and blood. When Nesryn looked back, Sartaq’s gaze was on her face. Her throat closed up, her mouth pressing into a trembling line as she realized that they were here. They were here, and alive, and she had never known such true terror and despair as she had in those moments when he had been hauled away.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured, leaning down to brush his mouth over the tears that escaped. He said against her skin, “Whatever would they say about Neith’s Arrow then?” Nesryn laughed despite herself, despite what had happened, and wrapped her arms around him as tightly as she dared, resting her head against his chest. Sartaq just wordlessly stroked her hair and held her right back.

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Nesryn had slept the entirety of the day before. Not in her room, but curled in bed beside the prince now standing with her before the assembled group. They had both been patched up and bathed, and though Sartaq had not so much as kissed her… Nesryn had not objected when he led her by the hand and limped into his bedroom. So they had slept. And when they had awoken, when their wounds had been rebandaged, they’d emerged to find the hall full of riders. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 57)

In this scene, I really see them as the future Khagan and future Grand Empress. And together, leading, the two do not complete each other, they overflow each other.

All eyes shifted between them, some warm and welcoming, some worried, some hard. Sartaq said to the group gathered, “The kharankui have stirred again.” Murmurs and shifting rustled through the hall. “And though the threat was dealt with bravely and fiercely by the Berlad clan, the spiders will likely return again. They have heard a dark call through the world. And they are poised to answer it.” Nesryn stepped forward. Lifted her chin. And though the words filled her with dread, speaking them here felt as natural as breathing. “We learned many things in the Pass of Dagul,” Nesryn said, voice ringing out across the pillars and stones of the hall. “Things that will change the war in the north. And change this world.” Every eye was on her now. Houlun nodded from her spot near Borte, who smiled in encouragement. Yeran sat nearby, half watching his betrothed. Sartaq’s fingers brushed hers. Once—in urging. And promise.

“We do not face an army of men in the northern continent,” Nesryn went on. “But of demons. And if we do not rise to meet this threat, if we do not rise to meet it as one people, of all lands… Then we will find our doom instead.” So she told them. The full history. Of Erawan. And Maeve. She did not mention the quest for the keys, but by the time she was done, the hall was astir as clans whispered to one another.

“I leave this choice to you,” Sartaq said, voice unfaltering. “The horrors in the Dagul Fells are only the start. I will pass no judgment, should you choose to remain. But all who fly with me, we soar under the khagan’s banner. We shall leave you to debate amongst yourselves.” And with that, taking Nesryn by the hand, Sartaq led her from the hall, Falkan falling into step behind them. Borte and Houlun remained, as heads of the Eridun clan. Nesryn knew how they would side, that they would fly north, but the others… - (Tower of Dawn chapter 57)

Back to Antica. Finally, Nesryn and Chaol are resolved. The Rukhin ready to go to war. Sartaq ready to marry.

“I know,” Sartaq said quietly. The prince turned to Nesryn, and as she held his stare … Chaol saw it. The glimmer between them. A bond, new and trembling. But there it was, right along with the cuts and wounds they both bore. “I know,” Sartaq said again, his fingers brushing Nesryn’s.

Nesryn met Chaol’s eyes then. She smiled softly at him, glancing to where Yrene now asked Hafiza about whether she could stand. He’d never seen Nesryn appear so … settled. So quietly happy. Chaol swallowed. I’m sorry, he said silently. Nesryn shook her head as Sartaq scooped his sister into his arms with a grunt, the prince balancing his weight on his good leg. I think I did just fine.

Chaol smiled. Then I am happy for you.

................

Nesryn wiped away her tears as Chaol closed the distance between them and embraced her tightly. “Thank you,” he said in Nesryn’s ear. She squeezed him back. “Thank you—for bringing me here. To all of this.” To the prince who now looked at Nesryn with a quiet, burning sort of emotion. She added, “We have many things to tell you.” Chaol nodded. “And we you.”

They pulled apart, and Yrene approached—throwing her arms around Nesryn as well. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 64)

And honestly, I love the fact that Nesryn and Yrene get along. There are people who wanted the two to hate each other and I'm like: people, why?

This is not a Nestaq moment either, it is a point about Nesryn and Salkhi, which in a way, Sartaq was the one who gave it a little push to happen.

“That one over there,” the prince said at last, pointing to a reddish-brown ruk sitting by the opposite wall. She’d seen the ruk often—mostly noting that he was alone, never visited by a rider, unlike some of the others. “His rider died a few months back. Clutched at his chest in a meal and died. The rider was old, but the ruk …” Sartaq smiled sadly at the bird. “He’s young—not yet four.”

“What happens to the ones whose riders die?”

“We offer them freedom. Some fly off to the wilds. Some remain.” Sartaq crossed his arms. “He remained.”

“Do they ever get new riders?”

“Some do. If they accept them. It is the ruk’s choice.” Nesryn heard the invitation in his voice. Read it in the prince’s eyes. Her throat tightened. “Our three weeks are up.”

“Indeed they are.” She faced the prince fully, tilting her head back to see his face. “We need more time.”

“So what did you say?”A simple question. But she’d taken hours to figure out how to word her letter to Chaol, then given it to Sartaq’s fastest messenger. “I asked for another three weeks.” He angled his head, watching her with that unrelenting intensity. “A great deal can happen in three weeks.” Nesryn made herself keep her shoulders squared, chin high. “Even so, at the end of it, I must return to Antica.” Sartaq nodded, though something like disappointment guttered his eyes. “Then I suppose the ruk in the aerie will have to wait for another rider to come along.” - (Tower of Dawn chapter 37)

......................

Nesryn murmured to the bird, guiding him toward the Runni Quarter while they flew on a salt-kissed breeze as fast as his wings could carry them. She had claimed him upon leaving the Eridun aerie.

Had gone right to the nests, where he had still waited for a rider who would never return, and looked deep into his golden eyes. Had told him that her name was Nesryn Faliq, and she was daughter of Sayed and Cybele Faliq, and that she would be his rider, if he would have her. She wondered if the ruk, whose late rider had called him Salkhi, had known the burning in her eyes had not been from the roaring wind as he’d bowed his head to her. Then she’d flown him, Salkhi keeping pace with Kadara at the head of the host as the rukhin sailed northward. Raced to Antica. - (Tower of Dawn chapter 66)

I SIMPLY HAVE NO WORDS. I am completely in love with the Sartaq (with all due respect, Nesryn). And guys, here's a big Appreciation to Nesryn's family too. I love them. Her father, her sister, her nephews and nieces, her uncle and aunt, her cousins....... What a people..... They are one of the funniest families I have ever seen in my life.

How Sartaq found her two hours later, Nesryn didn’t know. Though she supposed a ruk sitting in the street of a fancy quarter of Antica was sure to cause a stir. And be easy to spot. She had wept and laughed and held her family for untold minutes, right in the middle of the street, Salkhi looking on. And when her uncle and aunt had called them in to at least cry over a good cup of tea, her family had told her of their adventures. The wild seas they had sailed, the enemies their ship had dodged on their voyage here. But they had made it—and here they would stay while the war raged, her father said, to the nods of her uncle and aunt. When she emerged from the house gates at last, her father claiming the honor of escorting Nesryn to Salkhi—after he’d shooed off her sister to go manage that circus of children—Nesryn had halted so quickly her father had nearly slammed into her.

Because standing beside Salkhi was Sartaq, a half smile on his face. And on the other side of Salkhi… Kadara patiently waited, the two ruks a proud pair indeed. Her father’s eyes widened, as if recognizing the ruk before the prince. But then her father bowed. Deeply. Nesryn had told her family—in moderate detail—what had befallen her amongst the rukhin. Her sister and aunt had glared at her when the various children began to declare that they, too, would be ruk riders. And then took off through the house, shrieking and flapping their arms, leaping off furniture with wild abandon.

She expected Sartaq to wait to be approached, but the prince spotted her father and strode forward. Then reached out and clasped his hand. “I heard Captain Faliq’s family had at last arrived safely,” Sartaq said by way of greeting. “I thought I’d come to welcome you myself.” (Ana's Note: meeting his father-in-law 😏😌)

Something swelled in her chest to the point of pain as Sartaq inclined his head to her father. Sayed Faliq looked like he might very well keel over dead, either from the gesture of respect or Kadara’s mere presence behind them. Indeed, several small heads now popped behind his legs, scanning the prince, then the ruks, and then—

“KADARA!”

Her aunt and uncle’s youngest child—no more than four—screamed the ruk’s name loud enough that anyone in the city who didn’t know the bird was on this street was now well aware. Sartaq laughed as the children shoved past Nesryn’s father, racing for the golden bird. Her sister was on their heels, warning springing from her lips— Until Kadara lowered herself to the ground, Salkhi following suit. The children halted, reverence stealing over them as they reached out tentative hands toward the two ruks and stroked them gently. Nesryn’s sister sighed with relief. Then realized who stood before Nesryn and their father. Delara went red. She patted her dress, as if it would somehow cover the fresh food stains courtesy of her youngest. Then she slowly backed into the house, bowing as she went.

Sartaq laughed as she vanished—but not before Delara gave Nesryn a sharp look that said, Oh, you are so smitten it’s not even a laughing matter.

Nesryn gave her sister a vulgar gesture behind her back that their father chose not to see. Her father was saying to Sartaq, “I apologize if my grandchildren, nieces, and nephews take some liberties with your ruk, Prince.” But Sartaq smiled broadly—a brighter grin than any she’d seen him give before. “Kadara pretends to be a noble mount, but she’s more of a mother hen than anything.” Kadara puffed her feathers, earning squeals of delight from the children. Nesryn’s father squeezed her shoulder before he said to the prince, “I think I’ll go keep them from trying to fly off on her.”

And then they were alone. In the street. Outside her uncle’s house. All of Antica now gawking at them. Sartaq did not seem to notice. Certainly not as he said, “Walk with me?” - (Tower of Dawn chapter 66)

The end is only the beginning. One of my favorite scenes, I literally screamed with happiness.

They headed toward the quiet, clean alley behind her uncle’s house, walking in silence for a few steps. Until Sartaq said, “I spoke to my father.” And she wondered, then, if this meeting was not to be a good one. If the army they had brought was to be ordered back to its aeries. Or if the prince, the life she saw for herself in those beautiful mountains… if perhaps the reality of that, too, had found them. For he was a prince. And for all that she loved her family, for all that they made her so proud, there was not one noble drop of blood in their lineage. Her father shaking Sartaq’s hand was the closest any Faliq had ever come to royalty. Nesryn managed to say, “Oh?”

“We… discussed things.” Her chest sank at the careful words. “I see.”

Sartaq stopped, the sandy alley humming with the buzzing bees in the jasmine that climbed the walls of the bordering courtyards. The one behind them: the back, private courtyard belonging to her family. She wished she could slither over the wall and hide within. Rather than hear this. But Nesryn made herself meet the prince’s eyes. Saw him scanning her face.

“I told him,” Sartaq said at last, “that I planned to lead the rukhin against Erawan, with or without his consent.” Worse. This was getting worse and worse. She wished his face weren’t so damn unreadable. Sartaq took a breath. “He asked me why.”

“I hope you told him that the fate of the world might depend upon it.”

Sartaq chuckled. “I did. But I also told him that the woman I love now plans to head into war. And I intend to follow her.” (Ana's Note: SARTAQ, YOU DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH YOU TOUCH MY HEART, WHAT A MAN)

She didn’t let the words sink in. Didn’t let herself believe any of it, until he’d finished. “He told me that you are common-born. That a would-be Heir of the khagan needs to wed a princess, or a lady, or someone with lands and alliances to offer.” Her throat closed up. She tried to shut out the sound, the words. Didn’t want to hear the rest.

But Sartaq took her hand. “I told him if that was what it took to be chosen as Heir, I didn’t want it. And I walked out.” (Ana's Note: oh my Holy God)

Nesryn sucked in a breath. “Are you insane?” (Ana's Note: Yes, friend, for you)

Sartaq smiled faintly. “I certainly hope not, for the sake of this empire.” He tugged her closer, until their bodies were nearly touching. “Because my father appointed me Heir before I could walk out of the room.” (Ana's Note: I collapsed.)

Nesryn left her body. Could only manage to breathe. And when she tried to bow, Sartaq gripped her shoulders tightly. Stopped her before her head could even lower. “Never from you,” he said quietly. Heir—he’d been made Heir. To all this. This land she loved, this land she still wished to explore so much it ached. Sartaq lifted a hand to cup her cheek, his calluses scraping against her skin. “We fly to war. Much is uncertain ahead. Save for this.” He brushed his mouth against hers. “Save for what I feel for you. No demon army, no dark queen or king, will change that.” Nesryn shook, letting the words sink in. “I—Sartaq, you are Heir—” He pulled back to study her again. “We will go to war, Nesryn Faliq. And when we shatter Erawan and his armies, when the darkness is at last banished from this world … Then you and I will fly back here. Together.” He kissed her again—a bare caress of his mouth. “And so we shall remain for the rest of our days.”

She heard the offer, the promise. The world he laid at her feet. She trembled at it. What he so freely gave. Not the empire and crown, but … the life. His heart.

Nesryn wondered if he knew her heart had been his from that very first ride atop Kadara.

Sartaq smiled as if to say yes, he had. So she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. It was tentative, and soft, and full of wonder, that kiss. He tasted like the wind, like a mountain spring. He tasted like home. Nesryn clasped his face in her hands as she pulled back. “To war, Sartaq,” she breathed, memorizing every line of his face. “And then we’ll see what comes after.”

Sartaq gave her a knowing, cocky grin. As if he’d fully decided what would come after and nothing she could say would ever convince him otherwise. And from the courtyard just a wall away, her sister shouted, loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear, “I told you, Father! (😂😂😂😂😂)

This is another giant parenthesis to let you know that Sartaq deserves appreciation, yes.

“My sulde still blows northward. Who knows what I may find on the road ahead? Especially now that Sartaq has the burden of being Heir, and I’m free to do as I please.” The city had been in an uproar about it. Celebrating, debating—it still raged on. What the other royal siblings thought, Yrene did not know, but… there was peace in Kashin’s eyes. And in the eyes of the others, when Yrene had seen them. And part of her indeed wondered if Sartaq had struck some unspoken agreement that went beyond Never Duva. To perhaps even Never Us.

Bonus: An excerpt of Nestaq in Kingdom of Ash.

A soft spot—her ruk had developed a soft spot and an undimming admiration for Sartaq’s mount. Though Nesryn supposed the same could be said about her and the ruk’s rider. Nesryn tore her eyes from the swirling gray clouds and glanced to the rider at her left. His shorn hair had grown out—barely. Just enough to be braided back against the wind. Sensing her attention, the Heir to the khaganate signaled, All is well? Nesryn blushed despite the cold, but signaled back, her numbed fingers clumsy over the symbols. All clear.

A blushing schoolgirl. That’s what she became around the prince, no matter the fact that they’d been sharing a bed these weeks, or what he’d promised for their future.

To rule beside him. As the future empress of the khaganate.

It was absurd, of course. The idea of her dressed like his mother, in those sweeping, beautiful robes and grand headdresses… No, she was better suited to the rukhin leathers, to the weight of steel, not jewels. She’d said as much to Sartaq. Many times. He’d laughed her off. Had said she might walk around the palace naked if she wished. What she wore or didn’t wear wouldn’t bother him in the least. But it was still a ridiculous notion. One the prince seemed to think was the only course for their future. He’d staked his crown on it, had told his father that if being prince meant not being with her, then he’d walk away from the throne. The khagan had offered him the title of Heir instead. - (Kingdom of Ash chapter 6)

And this shouts out Nesryn as Grand Empress!!!!!!!!

Sorry, Nesryn, but I've lived to see you in a dress like this.

It was great to make this post about that amazing couple, it was great to reread some of their scenes, and most of all, it's amazing to be able to bring this Appreciation to Nesryn and Sartaq. These two strong, interesting, brave characters, who have known pain and loss, but have not become victimized or angry at the world. Sartaq and Nesryn made a difference in Throne of Glass, yes. And Tower of Dawn is one of the best books I have ever read in my entire life.

Seeing Nesryn smiling more, even feeling her face hurt from laughing so hard.... That was priceless.

Nestaq is the couple that has respect, admiration, trust and equality as the basis for their relationship. At all times Sartaq treated Nesryn as an equal, always showed the admiration he felt for her, never underestimated her or put her aside, on the contrary, Sartaq took Nesryn ahead of all the clans of the rukhin, and made it clear to his father that she was worth more to him than the crown of one of the largest empires in the world.

Nestaq will always have a special place in my heart.

✧*。Wind-Seeker and her Winged Prince✧*。

✧*。The Commander of the rukhin, the future Khagan and his Neith's Arrow✧*。

Thank you for reading this far, you are welcome to add more, just don't forget to be respectful!!!

#and nesryn is such an interesting and complex character. i love her your grace.#nesryn x sartaq #nesryn faliq #nesryn x salkhi #sartaq rukhin #sartaq #throne of glass series #tower of dawn #queen of shadows #kingdom of ash #nestaq #nestaq appreciation #ladybookstan post #sarah j. maas #chaol westfall #yrene towers #aelin galythinius #borte rukhin

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rufousnmacska · 4 years ago

Note

Um hi, hello, I’m just wondering if you cold maybe write a manorian au dance or a ren faire would be fab. Thanks

I lost track of how long this request has been in my drafts, so I’m really sorry it’s taken so long to write. I have a bad habit of starting a fic only to get bogged down about how detailed the plot should be, leaving me not wanting to finish it. I’m not good at just banging out a short story and posting it. But for this one, I tried doing that. I hope you like it anon, if you’re still around!

Full disclosure - I’ve never been to a renaissance faire, though I have friends who sell their pottery at an annual, medieval re-enactment type festival. So, I took what I’ve heard from them and added in a little Medieval Times and Disney World. What I’m saying is, please excuse any egregious mistakes about how these things work :)

Fanfic master list

*****

A Bard’s Tale

The Morath Renaissance Faire was part historical re-enactment, part craft market, part food extravaganza, and all spectacle. It drew visitors from around the continent each summer for the three months it was open. People even came for days at a time, staying at nearby inns so they could enjoy all the faire had to offer.

Owned by Maeve and Erawan Perrington, the faire was known for its summer-long war, pitting bands of warriors against each other in mock campaigns until only one survived, as well as its jousting tournament, where knights did true battle for the honor of being named the Queen’s Knight Commander. The enormous market square sold everything from hand woven clothing, jewelry and adornments, to metalwork, and pottery. The food court had stalls serving street foods of all varieties, and a hall that seated hundreds, where visitors could treat themselves to an authentic seven course medieval dinner. Jesters roamed the streets entertaining children, actors staged scenes of roving bandits stealing from nobility, artists demonstrated their craft, and bards sang songs for spare coins.

While most employees were from the region, some, including most of the artists, came from other towns and countries. To house them, the faire had a sprawling campground filled with brightly colored tents. At night, after the faire grounds were closed, the camp came alive with employees sharing modest dinners and abundant wine, while music played and many danced.

Manon Blackbeak had been selling here for four years. Her shop, The Clay Witch, was situated near the entrance to the market, ensuring she had a good crowd and a view of the jousting arena. With her cousins’ help, Manon did a brisk business. She made pottery the rest of the year, selling most of it here, and her cousins were responsible for the rest: healing teas, fragrant candles, love potions, amulets, and other trinkets of a witchy nature. She wasn’t a people person, so she had a sales assistant named Elide who handled that side of the business. Together with her cousins, they took part in the war, calling their band the Blackbeak Coven. In years past, they’d made it into the final week or two of the campaign, but they’d never won.

Despite her competitiveness, Manon had always been fine with that outcome. While Maeve oversaw the jousting as Queen, Erawan was the King who lead the war. He had a habit of looking at her a little too long, his gaze roaming over her body in a way that made her want to shower it off with scalding hot water. She made sure never to be alone with him, usually finding someplace else she needed to be in order to avoid him.

The whole situation pissed her off. Her pottery studio was in a town a few hours away and this faire had been a great opportunity to build her business. They made good money here, enjoyed themselves in the battles, and had made lifelong friends in the campground. But, she was seriously considering not coming back next year. All because some creepy asshole wouldn’t leave her alone.

As she watched Elide wait on some customers, she grew angrier. Other people depended on her. She knew they’d understand and support her, but not coming back felt as though she’d be letting them down.

Outside, she heard people speaking in loud, reverent tones and knew what time it was, not needing to look at her watch. She contemplated hiding in the back just to see what would happen. But when she caught the first sounds of his voice, she found herself grinning.

At ten o’clock in the morning, every day, Dorian Havilliard made his way to her shop to serenade her, always with a group of adoring fans trailing behind.

It hadn’t taken long for Manon to recognize some of the faces of the people who came back again and again just to watch Dorian perform. He played his part well, flirting and making up spontaneous songs to please his audience. If ever their adoration crossed the line into inappropriateness, he’d break out the charm and shy away, making his discomfort clear. All while still obtaining a sizable tip.

Manon crossed her arms and leaned against the entrance to her booth, watching him approach. He had a preternatural gift for coming up with lyrics and melodies on the spot. She’d never admit it to him, but she’d come to enjoy his morning visits.

As for his nightly visits to her tent, it was impossible for her to hide her appreciation then, much to her annoyance.

This was his first and only summer working at the faire. He’d been dragged along by a friend who was dating a knight. Rowan Whitethorn was Maeve’s nephew and had been crowned her Knight Commander in the jousting arena for three years running. The rumor mill went crazy at the start of this season when he arrived with a girlfriend who was from Terrasen. Aelin brought an entourage with her, a bunch of friends from college who were looking for one last fun summer to tide them over before heading off into the real world in the fall. Chaol worked as a royal guard and his girlfriend, a pre-med major, worked in the first aid clinic that served visitors and employees alike. Aelin’s cousin Aedion had fallen quickly into a warrior group and rose to become their general, while his girlfriend Lysandra worked as a fortune teller. Manon and her cousins, who had known Rowan for years, had met them on the first day and they’d become fast friends.

And then there was Dorian. Who, within the first week of opening, had become the most popular bard at the faire. The center of attention wherever he roamed.

Manon smirked as he stopped a few feet from her. Today, as usual, he wore a well fitting tunic with Intricate embroidery that took the shape of wyverns. Curls that had not been there at the start of the season hung around his ears.

With a deep bow and flourish of his hand, he said, “Good morning Lady. I pray you had a pleasant evening.”

She managed to keep her expression unchanged, even though the memories of last night threatened to turn her face a brilliant red. Gripping the sword that hung at her hip, she said, “Lady? I see no lady here.”

“Ah, but you are a lady. Lady artisan,” he said gesturing to her pottery. “Lady warrior,” a glance to her sword. “And a lady of pure moonlight,” he said, nodding at the long white braid that fell across her shoulder.

Her hair was a constant source of interest for him. She didn’t think it crossed into the realm of being a fetish, but he very much enjoyed pulling it whenever he had the chance. She did too. And she enjoyed seeing his gem like eyes flash when she lifted the braid and wiggled the end at him.

Elide and a couple of customers audibly sighed at his words. Manon whirled and gave her a deadly look, but the young woman just ignored her, watching Dorian begin to play as she placed a hand on her heart. She’d been pushing Manon all summer to go out with Dorian. Wanting to preserve Elide’s innocence, Manon never revealed what happened in her tent most nights. And finally, with that thought, the blood rushed to her cheeks.

He sang a quick tune that compared her beauty to that of the moon, bowed again, and with a wink, he was off. His followers who returned day after day just to see him never seemed to think anything of his daily routine of singing to her. Either they were simply too enchanted by his voice and handsome looks, or they just didn’t care, thinking it was all part of the act, confident he would acknowledge them when he was out of character.

As he made his way towards the market square, Manon caught sight of someone who did notice, and clearly cared.

Maeve watched from across the wide street. Her black eyes held none of the smile that spread across her face, and Manon felt a chill crawl up her spine. She did not like Dorian’s daily ritual of showering Manon with attention. After a moment filled with tension, Maeve turned away and disappeared into the crowd.

Just as her husband gave Manon unwanted attention, Maeve had been doing the same thing to Dorian. He’d mentioned it once or twice, trying to brush it off. But Manon had heard the discomfort in his voice, could see the way he held himself in Maeve’s presence, trying to escape her notice and almost turning to stone when she inevitably did. The other night at one of the bonfires in the camp, someone had teased him about it. Dorian laughed and said after this weekend, he’d never see her again. The comment had hit Manon hard, as she’d realized the same could be said of her. In a matter of days, this season would end and they’d return to their homes on opposite sides of the country. With no reason to ever see each other again.

*****

Managing to escape his fans, Dorian ducked into an alley that led to the back offices. He’d seen Maeve following him this morning, and for the first time all summer, he’d considered not going to Manon’s shop. This was a summer job for him, a one time thing before he started working for his father. But she was an artist whose livelihood depended on events like this. He didn’t want to risk getting her in trouble because the owner had some kind of sick crush on him. The season was winding down and this weekend would be the last. He only needed to avoid Maeve’s interest for a few more days.

“Ouch! Watch it!”

“You watch it! Big oaf. No one told you to do tricks on your horse while you were jousting.”

Stopping at the door to the first aid clinic, Dorian found Yrene examining Lorcan, one of the knights who competed in the arena. Like the other jousters, the guy was huge, and Dorian couldn’t help but admire Yrene for not taking any shit from him. Lorcan spotted him watching from the entrance and rolled his eyes.

With his elaborate costumes, zealous following, and natural charm, Dorian was not the most popular of people among the warriors at the faire. He got along well with Rowan and Fenrys, but some of the others looked down at him for his portrayal of the flirty bard. He suspected it had more to do with the tips he made, money that he didn’t need due to his family’s wealth. Chaol and Yrene were the only ones who knew he’d be donating all of it to charity at the end of the season.

Yrene lifted Lorcan’s arm, moving his shoulder around in the socket despite his grimace and stifled groans of pain. “You’ve definitely torn something,” she said, pushing into his joint with her small fingers. “You’ll need to get an X-ray.”

“You can’t just put it in a sling? So I can joust on Sunday?” he asked, relieved when she let go of him, only to wince again when his arm landed in his lap.

With a scathing look that made Lorcan recoil slightly, she said, “If you want to damage it further, sure. I could do that. And then you’ll definitely need surgery. As it is, you might get away with some physical therapy. Which will not be fun. But if you continue jousting, you’re looking at hospital time.”

“Shit,” he said, dropping his head into his good hand. “It’s the finals this weekend. Maeve is going to kill me. After she fires me.”

Not wanting to hang around and interrupt her work, Dorian quickly asked, “Any idea where Chaol is right now?”

Yrene shrugged as she pulled a sling out of a supply cabinet. “Maybe near the battlefield? He mentioned they needed extra help setting some things up for this weekend.”

“Thanks,” he said. Then to Lorcan, “Good luck, man.”

“Yeah,” Lorcan replied, sounding utterly defeated and giving Dorian an odd look. “Thanks.” It was the tone, the actual gratitude in the word, that made Dorian realize the look was one of kindness. At least, Lorcan’s version.

Sneaking along the paths he used to stay away from the crowds, Dorian emerged near the stands overlooking the battlefield. This Saturday the two armies that had survived the summer would face each other for one final battle.

Maeve had been smart to set things up this way, making the war and jousting into a months long competition, ensuring a build up of fans and repeat visitors. She had a good mind for business, he just wished she’d stop leering at him.

Even if he wasn’t focused entirely on Manon, there was no way he’d involve himself with Maeve. There was a darkness surrounding her that reminded him of a spider, weaving an intricate web to control everyone around her, and disposing of those who resisted her manipulations.

Though he had never spoken to the man, Dorian had heard her husband was just as creepy. One night at the camp, his name had been mentioned, causing Manon to visibly shudder. She clearly didn’t like the guy, and that was enough for Dorian to dislike him too.

As he sat and watched Chaol and some warriors setting up the dais that would hold the royal thrones for the final battle, Dorian wondered if he was making the right decision for this fall. His father had demanded he come work for the family company. That Dorian had refused to get a business degree meant little to the man. He would see his son replace him as CEO whether Dorian liked it or not.

As it always did when he thought about his future, his mind eventually traveled back to Manon. This summer had been amazing, due in large part to her. She’d captured his heart from the first day. It took a full week of songs before she showed up at his tent one night. After that, he’d waited. Waited for that look she’d give him at the end of the night, when the bonfire was burning down and the camp was growing quiet. The look that said the song he’d written for her that morning had left her wanting him. The look that invited him back to her tent where they’d stay up too late, making love and playing question and answer games, the easiest way to get her to talk about herself.

Gods, how was he supposed to say goodbye to her in just a few days?

They had not spoken of it, neither one wanting to bring up what they both knew was coming. It wasn’t like they’d never be able to see each other again. But there was a weird sense of finality to the end of the faire season. The end of this crazy, fun summer. The end of their late night dalliances. The end of their late night talks, which he would honestly miss the most.

His bench sagged as Chaol sat down heavily beside him, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Ready for lunch?” Dorian asked, trying to sound more cheerful than he felt.

Chaol sighed, tired from helping to build the dais with a half day’s work still to come. “Yeah. Was Yrene busy?”

They stood and began to walk towards the food stalls. “Lorcan got injured. She might be done, but I doubt it.”

“Shit,” Chaol said, stopping in the middle of the street. “Will he be able to joust on Sunday?”

“Doesn’t look like it. At least, Yrene said no. Why? What’s the big deal?”

"He’s supposed to go up against Rowan in the final. Lorcan is the only real competition Rowan has. I overheard Erawan talking about the possibility of this final weeks ago. They’ve been hyping it up to the fans.”

Dorian shrugged. He didn’t pay attention to the jousts or the war standings. Especially once the Blackbeak Coven was defeated last week. Manon had been disappointed, but also oddly relieved.

“You don’t get it,” Chaol continued. “Maeve and Erawan are going to be pissed.”

That made Dorian smile. “Good. Maybe she’ll leave me alone then.”

*****

Sunday came with beautiful weather and a crowd that was electric with anticipation. Yesterday’s final battle, won in an impressive fashion by Aedion’s troops, had drawn record numbers of spectators. Maeve and Erawan had sat on their thrones, overseeing everything with bored faces and an air thick with arrogance. Most of the employees knew how little they were acting, but the viewers ate it up.

Today was the final of the jousting tournament. Being easier to follow from the stands, it was more popular than the war re-enactment. This year’s finalists promised to put on a good show. Until Lorcan injured his shoulder in his semifinal against Fenrys. He’d still managed to win, knocking Fenrys off his horse out of sheer spite, sending him to the final against Rowan.

When it was announced he couldn’t compete, Maeve had gone ballistic. Apparently, she’d destroyed her office, leaving a mess of papers, a cracked laptop screen, and a broken chair. Erawan had kept his cool, though a few twitches of his black eyes spoke volumes about his inner state of mind. Everyone assumed Fenrys would be given Lorcan’s place. But the notice board outside the arena had remained blank after Rowan’s name - The White Hawk vs.___

Last night, the talk around camp was all about who she would name to joust against Rowan, with some joking that she’d make Erawan do it. Rowan had seemed to welcome the chance to knock the bastard onto his back. Maeve was his aunt, but there’d never been any friendship between them. He worked here because he loved it. And now that he loved Aelin, it grew more and more likely that this might end up being his last year.

As people milled about in her shop, Manon felt a strange anxiety wash over her. Muscles tense, goose flesh rising up her arms, she looked out into the street expecting to see Erawan there. But it was just regular visitors making their way through the market, noisy and excited.

Slowly, she realized what felt off. The voices of the crowd had never been louder than Dorian’s voice. She looked at her watch and felt her stomach flip. 10:24.

He was never late. Never.

Just then, she heard commotion from the jousting arena. Over the heads of the crowd, she could just make out Asterin’s blond hair as her cousin waved for her to come over.

Pushing through the people, she found not only Asterin but Chaol and Aelin too, all three standing in front of the notice board, staring up at it in shock.

Just as she never had to check her watch for Dorian’s arrival, Manon didn’t have to read the board to know who Rowan’s opponent was. Instead of flipping, her stomach turned to stone and sank.

The White Hawk vs. The Black Bard

“That fucking bitch,” Aelin whispered.

Manon grit her teeth, her hands shook and she was too angry to even speak.

“Where is he?” Asterin asked.

Chaol shrugged, also unable to speak, too horrified with concern for his best friend.

Fenrys ran up suddenly, almost knocking them all over. “It was Erawan,” he said, breathless. “Some sick game between him and Maeve.”

Manon forced herself to swallow, to breath, to not go scratch that bastard’s hellish eyes from their sockets. “Why didn’t Dorian just tell him no?”

“I don’t know,” Fenrys said. “They must have forced him somehow.”

Asterin turned to Manon and they shared a look. The only way to make Dorian agree to this was if Manon had been threatened in some way.

“Rowan won’t hurt him,” Aelin said confidently.

Finally, Chaol spoke. “Maybe not on purpose! Dorian’s never ridden a horse. Rowan can deliberately miss him and he could still fall off and get trampled.”

“Shit.” Asterin and Fenrys said at the same time.

The sound of trumpets wailed and people began rushing to get into the stadium. As the others debated what to do, Manon took off, ducking beneath the stands to get to the fence that surrounded the jousting yard. It felt like time slowed down, and when she finally reached an opening with a view to the field, the announcer was already calling out the competitors names.

There, at the far end, sitting precariously on the back of a black stallion, was Dorian. Clad in black armor, the counterpoint to Rowan’s bright silver, he struggled to hold the lance steady. Dorian was muscled and strong, but this was a skill he had no experience with. Holding a lance properly took practice.

Rowan, atop his white horse, was within shouting distance. Manon called to him, but he didn’t hear her over the crowd’s cheers and the helmet he wore. She kept calling for him, only stopping when she glanced at the royal box. There, Maeve sat, stone faced and angry, glaring straight ahead. Next to her, wearing the tacky fake crown he sported everywhere on the grounds, was Erawan.

Manon wasn’t surprised to feel his eyes on her, his slimy stare making her feel as if she might vomit.

Just as she tried to get Rowan’s attention one last time, the trumpets blared and the horse reared and took off, thundering down the field towards Dorian.

*****

Dorian kicked at his horse, hoping that would get it to move. If it had been up to him, he would have simply sat here, letting Rowan charge and knock him off with his first pass. Hell, if it had been up to him, he’d be in the fucking stands.

But no. Erawan had stopped him early that morning, offering him the chance to joust. When Dorian had laughed in his face, Erawan had made it clear that it really wasn’t an offer.

He’d seen the way his wife looked at Dorian, knew that there was something going on between them, knew that Dorian’s protestations were lies. Erawan had insisted that If Dorian refused, the bard’s paramour would be punished.

Dorian had stopped laughing then. They both knew he had never been with Maeve. And somehow, Erawan had found out about him and Manon.

“I own this town,” Erawan had said. “There is nothing you can do. If you run, I will find her.” He’d clapped Dorian on the back as if they were friends. “What do you say young bard?”

Dorian had nodded numbly, agreeing to put on a show, make it look real, and not throw the match.

So now, here he was. However many tons - did horses weigh tons? - of animal rushing towards him, Rowan’s white tipped lance leading the way.

Fuck it, he thought, giving the horse’s side another kick. The beast reared slightly then hit the ground running.

Dorian just barely managed to hang on to the reins as he wobbled in the saddle. His lance almost slid from his grip, almost landed tip down in the earth, threatening to propel him into the air like an acrobat. At the last second before catastrophe, he got it under control, just as Rowan’s lance grazed his side, going wide of a strike. The crowd cheered, and though his helmet muffled the sound, he knew it was deafening for the people in the arena.

Their horses continued running until they were on opposite ends. Some lackey of Erawan’s came running out, pretending to offer him advice or assistance. Dorian ignored him, trying to focus on holding the lance up to the proper height. By the time he got it wedged under his arm, the horn sounded and his horse took off, unprompted.

He was able to hold the lance up the whole way, but he almost fell off the horse. For the second time, Rowan’s attempt missed. Dorian knew it was on purpose, and he was grateful. But the way the crowd had begun laughing was honestly starting to piss him off. He knew he couldn’t win. He just wanted to survive. But his pride was beginning to surge enough to overtake his fear.

The third run had the same result as the first two. Rowan missed, Dorian clung to the saddle and the lance and didn’t die. The horse guy came out again, seeming to adjust some of the straps. Dorian watched to make sure he didn’t actually loosen anything, and the guy gave him a nod.

Thinking someone was calling his name, Dorian twisted around to find Manon leaning over the fence, wild-eyed and desperate to get his attention. He lifted his visor and winked at her. The gesture appeared to make her angry and she shouted again but the words were lost to the crowd.

Hoisting the lance up and securing it under his arm, the reins tight in his hand, Dorian was ready for the horn this time. The horse pounded down the yard and time seemed to slow to a trickle. He felt every hoof beat, heard every puff of air from the horse’s mouth, saw the silver armor getting closer and closer. At the last second, before squeezing his eyes shut, he angled the lance towards that flash of silver.

The force of the impact threw him back in the saddle. His feet remained in the stirrups though, leaving him arched awkwardly on top of the horse. Pain radiated up his arm like a wave until the entire thing went numb and he had no idea if he was still holding the lance. With a grunt, he forced himself upright into a sitting position. The horse came to a stop and pawed at the ground, as if in celebration.

The applause and cheers hit him almost as hard as the blow he’d administered to Rowan. Looking down to where he still somehow held the lance, then turning in the saddle to see Rowan pushing himself up from the dirty ground, Dorian slowly realized that he had won.

*****

Manon was running the second she saw someone made contact. The dust was thick and she couldn’t see what had happened. At the sight of a riderless white horse trotting towards her, she sped up, almost tripping over Rowan, who laid sprawled on the ground. His helmet had come off and he had a big grin on his face.

When she reached Dorian, he was sliding off the horse, the weight of his armor pulling him down faster than he could handle. She caught him just before he could land on his ass. Propping him against the stallion, she tore the helmet from his head and yelled, “What the fuck were you thinking? You could have been killed!”

Dorian, a little dazed, a little breathless, said nothing. He pulled her close and kissed her.

The crowd erupted, roaring their approval and chanting his name. “Black Bard! Black Bard! Black Bard!”

Yrene came over with a small medical bag, but Dorian waved her off, then went back to kissing Manon. When he let go, she stumbled backwards, still clutching his armor. His horse was strutting around them, loving the attention, while flowers rained down around them from the stands.

It was tradition for the victorious knight to gather the flowers and present them to Maeve; the Knight Commander honoring his queen. But Dorian had not been aware of the tradition. And she knew he wouldn’t have done it anyway.

Manon watched as he bent down, slowly so as not to fall over, and picked up a handful of poppies and daisies and whatever other blooms had been tossed onto the field. Dropping heavily to a knee, he smiled brightly and offered her the prize of wildflowers.

She shook her head, unable to keep the grin from her own face. Taking the flowers, she bent to kiss him, but he pulled her down onto her knees.

“I don’t think I can stand up,” he confessed against her lips.

Manon laughed and went right on kissing him. The cheers turned to a loud buzz in their ears that they ignored along with everything else.

Eventually, Rowan appeared, offering his hand to Dorian, both in acknowledgement of a well fought match, and to help him up. Manon moved to leave but Dorian refused to let go of her hand. She was glad for it, and gripped it tightly when she remembered Maeve and Erawan in their viewing box.

The two “royals” looked anything but. Maeve clapped in a meager attempt to save face at Dorian’s insult with the flowers. And Erawan glared at them both, his hate for them rising off his skin like heat in a desert.

Dorian squeezed her hand and Manon remembered why they were out here, why Dorian had risked his life.

“I know why you did this,” she said. “I wish you would have found me first.”

“What would you have done?”

She smirked. “I would have sliced him up with my sword.”

"My lady warrior,” he said, his face dropping with exhaustion as the adrenaline wore off.

“My bard in shining armor.” She caressed his cheek and he turned to kiss her palm. “Do you really have to go back to Rifthold?”

It was the first either one had spoken of what would happen tomorrow. She knew this wasn’t the time or the place, but something inside her needed it to be. She needed to know that she’d see him again. She needed-

“I’m going wherever you are,” he said simply, as if there had never been any question.

Manon smiled softly in answer, wrapping her arm around his waist to support him off the field.

*****

The next summer, without its star in the jousting arena, the Morath Renassaince Faire saw a marked drop in attendance.

Rowan had joined his new wife in Terrasen, telling his aunt to shove it. He’d taken several of the other jousters with him, leaving them one main attraction. Cairn didn’t last long however, as no horses would allow him in their saddle.

Other parts of the faire suffered too. Without the Clay Witch selling her wares, and no all-female warrior band fighting in the war, interest waned. Artists began to close their shops. Re-enactors and food vendors found other venues.

It was as if Rowan’s departure doomed the faire. And within another year, it did just that. Maeve and Erawan closed the faire and moved away, leaving the structures empty.

The town lost business, but like others who had dealt with the Perringtons in one way or another, they were glad to see the couple gone.

But the locals still spoke of that final good year. The year when a hapless, yet handsome, bard bested the reigning Knight Commander in the jousting tournament. How he knocked the White Hawk from his horse, winning in one pass. And how he spurned the evil queen and won the heart of a witch instead.

*****

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