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sirendeepity · 1 year ago

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[ Nessian Week, day 5: Home ]

A/N: Another day, another "I don't really know if it fits the criteria, but here it is anyway". Pretty sure it was supposed to be a lot more heavier on the "emotional side" and very less literal, buuut it's been sitting in my drafts for ages, and I needed a valid enough excuse to publish it even tho I don't even have a second part ready (or any idea how it will end, because it could be a very easy, mostly Nessian thing, or it could drastically and dramatically change the course of everything and be as not Nessian centric as they come. So it's either peace of mind or complete annihilation. No in between. I personally love the drama, so there might be a big one coming for you.)

@nessianweek

W/C: 1.7k

T/W: the House is in danger, natural cataclysm, mention of possible injuries? (I don't know how to write trigger warnings without spoiling everything, just know that it's bad, or it's going to be)

“Please, spare my life, oh cruel, blood-thirsty warrior!”

Cassian huffed once more as Mor and Feyre’s mocking laughs followed him through the glass doors of the shop. A shop he’d just got out of with an extra-large sized teddy bear holding a “Hug Me!” sign between its chubby paws.

He tucked the furry thing under an arm as he kept the door open for the two ladies.

Ever the gentleman, Cassian, he thought to himself, wondering what would be Nesta’s reaction to the gift.

She’d laugh too.

Which was a very possible, almost certain scenario.

“Never, in a million years, I would have pegged my sister to be the helpless romantic,” Feyre said, catching up to him. Mor was still giggling a few steps behind.

“She’s not,” was Cassian’s reply. “Not in the way you think, anyway.”

That 4’9 feet tall plushie was not exactly a cheesy gift. It was a necessity. Well, it was a healthy mix of both.

Things were not great in Illyria, so Cassian often needed to fly there early in the morning only to come back home Gods knew when - if he managed to come back at all.

A few times now Cassian had come home from the camps in the middle of the night, tired to his very bones; all he wanted was to take a bath and snuggle in his bed, hug his wife close to his chest, and never, ever let her go again. That had been the plan, at least, until he’d opened the bedroom door and found his beautiful mate curled around a pillow. His pillow.

Cassian knew better than to ask Nesta straight-forward and expect her to answer with her heart bleeding and bare for him: she’d made huge steps, but it was a hard wall to knock down at once. Nesta Archeron was not built for vulnerability. But she was trying - doing her best, really - and that was all he cared about. All that mattered, really.

So he had waited for Nesta to open up about what was really going on - about her missing him, about her being so used to having him by her side every night that she’d felt the need to fill the empty space on the bed in a different way.

The first time he’d been welcomed by that view, Cassian was almost sure his heart had shrunk a size and slipped through his ribs, ending up somewhere around his ankles. He had felt the urge to wrap his arms and wings and every molecule of his being around Nesta and tell her not to worry anymore because he was finally home, home, home.

Yet, he had found himself unable to move, not trusting his knees to keep him standing if he even dared to take a step in her direction. So he’d stood by the door and took her in. How Nesta’s nose was buried so deep into the cushion he had wondered how the fuck does she breathe?; how her long hair, free of any braid and band, waved down in every possible direction, covering the silk bed sheets like a second blanket; how her hands were clawing the pillowcase in a white-knuckled grip, as if she was afraid it would go away, too.

As soon as blood came rushing back through his body and Cassian remembered how to function—basic coordination and all of that—, he’d walked toward their bed and woke her up. Nesta had opened her eyes, brows already furrowed as her sleepy gaze cleared and her focus snapped into place. As she realized it was not her mind playing with the darkness.

Cassian had kissed his mate ever so gently. He’d kissed her again and then kissed her once more, as he’d gotten rid of the dirty clothes he was wearing. What had come after was not as gentle—it had started as such, only to turn quickly into something else, something a little more—and neither of them had found sleep until sunrise.

That was the real reason behind the disgustingly big teddy bear.

Pity his High Lady and her Third were currently acting way too childish to learn the truth about it.

“Can we go back and buy another one for Amren? I bet it’s taller than her.”

Cassian turned to Mor, opening his mouth to suggest her next Solstice gift for their pocket-sized demon of a friend, but before a single word left his mouth, the ground underneath their feet shook violently. The plush bear was the first thing to fall as Cassian reached for the two females and shielded them both, his wings spread wide open above their heads. It was not long before silence fell again, the only noise being Feyre’s order to “tuck in that bat wings of yours”.

“It had been decades since we’d had an earthquake in Velaris. Are you all okay?” Mor’s voice was full of worry as she eyed her companions, checking for any kind of injury, hands ready to heal. Cassian knew she would find none on him: all his wounds were inside.

It had happened just a heartbeat later, stealing the air from his lungs and knocking him to the ground, every muscle tensed and ready for an enemy that wasn’t there. The panic and the fear build up to undiluted terror—to pain. And then nothing else.

Feyre was shaking him—or maybe it was Mor. Hard to tell, given that all he heard were distant murmurs, remnants of what should have been words. He couldn’t bring himself to get back on his feet, to take a deep, full breath, to remember where the fuck he was and what had just happened.

“Cassian, Gods damn it, look at me. Tell me what’s wr-”

It’s not me, he said. Not me, not me, not me.

No, he just thought it. Because the females in front of him were looking somewhere else.

The bubble popped as Cassian came to his senses—awareness rushing back along with a cacophony of sounds from all over Velaris.

Cassian gulped air down his lungs and jumped to his feet, turning his head in the same direction as everyone else’s standing in the streets.

It had not been an earthquake.

It had been the House. His House. Collapsed onto itself - dragging the Library, the whole fucking mountain, with it.

“Mother help us.”

[ * * * ]

For a long moment, everything was quiet. Until it wasn’t anymore.

Her ears were ringing. A whistle, constantly playing the same plain note, high-pitched enough to cut through her brain. She couldn’t even think above the sharp, throbbing pain, like a hammer against her skull.

She opened her eyes—or tried to: everything was still dark, so dark Nesta wasn’t sure she did it in the first place.

The Library. I’m in the Library.

Right. Azriel had brought Emerie over and they had both joined Gwyn and the priestesses.

Emerie. Gwyn. The priestesses.

Nesta could have called out their name, could have just whispered them, could have said nothing at all.

She tried to move her arms, found them free of any injury or impediment, and proceeded on with the rest of her body. Just as Gwyn had once told her. Frankly, she’d just half-listened to her friend’s babbling, catching words here and there and nodding along in encouragement. There was a different sort of spark in her big teal eyes whenever that side of Gwyn took control, as if the spirit of a long-deceased scholar had just possessed her body and that was the only relief the poor soul could find after centuries of torments. That was a fun way to put it, anyway.

Neck, nothing.

Ribs, nothing.

Spine…

She wiggled her toes, only to realize she could not. A bookshelf had fallen on her.

Not a bookshelf, Nesta thought, just its books.

Something must have blocked it before it hit the ground.To prove her point, dozens of tomes of every size and texture were on her. Burying her alive. Life had a wicked sense of humor. Nesta moved them away ever so slowly, lest something was not quite right yet.

Once the way was clear, she tried again, just higher: bending her knees, she hold on to what felt like a crumbled piece of wall and pushed herself free from under the now empty bookshelf. The idea of running out of luck and being crushed underneath it did funny things to her stomach. To her self-control in general, given that she was already running low on it.

Spine, legs, feet: nothing.

Sitting up, Nesta started to cough at the cloud of dirt and dust and debris floating through the air. It was hard to breathe and there were one too many reasons why.

Nausea and dizziness hit her all at once, in a rush so strong she barely managed to turn her head to the side before throwing up, emptying her guts.

Nesta could almost hear Gwyn say in that tone as condescending as ever, “That’s called having a concussion.”

“Here I was, believing your skull was the hardest thing to crack open.” That would’ve been Emerie, of course. Never missing a beat.

She needed to find them, but first, she needed to make sure she wasn’t going to die in the process. A moment later, her hands were on her head, in her hair, feeling her scalp and looking for open wounds. She didn’t find any, and yet her fingers were warm, wet.

Mh, strange.

She retreated her hand, squinting as she tried to make out the slickness coating her fingers, to no avail. It was too dark.

Something brushed her thigh, making her startle. It was cold, the whisper of a touch.

And it was warning her. Nesta felt it before it happened, before another rumble shook the ground. It was an aftershock—the first of many.

Her head started floating above her shoulder and her limbs felt so inexplicably light. But Nesta’s existence as a feather was short-lived: she’d flown too high, she’d touched the sun. She was free-falling.

Her knees hit the ground first, the rest of her body soon followed, her marble bones too heavy for her to move, to breathe. Cold sweat pin pricked her skin, and Nesta prayed for luck to kiss her once more. She wasn’t known for her faith, though.

And then the ringing began.

I’m sorry, the phantom wind whispered against the shell of her ear. She could hear it clearly over the screaming and the shouting of that noise inside her head. It was a faint embrace, but Nesta reveled in its familiarity for as long as she could.

I tried.

#dee writes #house of memories #nessianweek2023 #day 5: home #nessian #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #nesta archeron #cassian #cassian x nesta #nesta x cassian #nesta and cassian

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