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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 2 months ago

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Begged & Borrowed Time (xxxii) (ao3)

(An update to celebrate the end of @nessianweek ❤️)

Chapter 32: Cassian flies down to Velaris for the first time since his recovery and Nesta receives not one but two visitors at the House of Wind.

(Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

Nesta felt Rhysand long before she found him.

As she rose from the chair beside Elain’s bed, skirting the sunlight that streamed in through the wide windows of the bedchamber, the High Lord’s presence was something slick and dark, snaking through the corridors of the House of Wind like a long-fingered shadow— stretching, searching.

Testing.

Her attention was pulled towards the library at the end of the corridor, and it felt familiar, that pull. That power. The way it glided across her skin, needled at her senses like it was trying to lure her out; similar in the way of distant cousins, so many generations removed.

With reluctance, Nesta followed.

Every step she took down the hallway seemed to bring her closer to something heavy, a dark touch against her skin that was as cold as the midnight sky in the middle of winter. It made the silver in her veins writhe, and when at last Nesta pushed open the door to the House of Wind’s private library, she wasn’t at all surprised to find a single chair filled by the empty hearth.

In the blink of an eye, somehow two weeks had passed since Nesta had last laid eyes on the High Lord of the Night Court.

She couldn’t really say she’d missed him.

“Where is Cassian.”

It was a question that might have been wrapped in thorns for the way it came out, barbed enough that even Nesta was surprised. Her voice seemed to echo in the emptiness of the library, the vast space silent, draped with the light of the noonday sun.

The High Lord flicked a hand towards the windows, a vague gesture towards the city down below.

Silver rings gleamed on his fingers, a burst of starlight against the impenetrable black of his shirt and pants, and as his dark eyes lifted, Rhysand kept his face blank and impassive, relaxing into his chair as Nesta paused in the doorway, letting the shadows fall across her as she lingered, hardly daring to step forward into the sunlight. Rhysand was bathed in it— a warm slant of golden light burnishing his sable hair and illuminating the sharp cut of his jaw as he tilted his head to the side, cataloguing her hesitation.

If he realised that he was the last person in the entire realm that Nesta wanted to see today, he didn’t show it. Rhysand merely rested an elbow on the arm of his chair, curling his fingers towards his palm.

“Nesta,” he said, a curious expression flitting across his face, like he was trying to summon an ember of warmth when he spoke. “I came to see how you were doing.”

A lie if ever there was one.

Rhysand might as well have had ulterior motives written right across his damned forehead.

He sat back, crossing one ankle over his knee in a stance that was only deceptively casual. Nesta wasn’t a fool; Rhysand might have appeared calm, like the mirrored surface of a still lake, but beneath… she knew his display of ease was just as false as her own. Through narrowed eyes she watched him, feeling the flames lick at her bones as they coursed through her like a whisper, a lethal undercurrent every bit as potent as Rhysand’s.

“Where is Cassian?” she asked again, folding her arms over her chest and remaining, steadfast, in the shadowed corner by the door.

“In the city,” Rhysand answered, letting his hand drop to pluck at a piece of lint at his knee. “The flight will be good for him. He needs to rebuild the strength in his wings.”

Nesta said nothing.

Rhysand’s eyes glinted. “Did he not tell you?”

There was something cruel there, something biting that said the High Lord didn’t like the way Cassian seemed to act as though Nesta had become the centre of his world. Somehow, something told her he was hoping she’d say no.

But Cassian had told her. Had knocked tentatively on her door that morning, stuck his head around the frame and asked if she wanted to join him. He’d been building up to it for days, taking small fights here and there, never far from the House roof, and even though he always asked, Nesta had never stepped out to watch him. She preferred to linger in the shadows, like it might protect her somehow. But Cassian had always come right back to her when he touched ground, like he couldn’t stay away too long, and with the sun climbing higher in the sky, she thought he might have returned by now.

Not that she was concerned.

Not really.

She just couldn’t keep her mind from straying to that night when everything had fallen apart, when she’d been lying on that cold floor, unable to do anything but watch as he lay broken and too far from her reach, his wings in tatters, his blood spilling on the stone.

What if he was hurt? What if it was too soon, his wings not strong enough to bear his weight yet—

“How are you, anyway?” Rhysand asked, hauling Nesta back to the present.

It was almost conversational, almost like he cared.

Suspicion crawled along her spine, dripping thick as oil. In the five days since Rhysand had last visited the House of Wind - for that godforsaken dinner that Nesta had heartily declined Cassian’s invitation to - he had seemed entirely content to leave her be, learning of her welfare through questions posed to either Cassian or Azriel, and yet now Rhysand sat in that chair, in the library that had become Nesta’s source of peace, asking her how she was. She didn’t fail to miss the way his eyes flicked to her folded arms, like he could sense the fire gathering there behind her ribs, pooling at her fingertips.

“Fine,” she bit out, looking right past him and out of the windows, to the sun-drenched city below. The river was a silver ribbon running through the winding streets, glimmering as the midday sun beat down upon its length, and she knew that if she only stepped forward, the light would brush her cheeks and warm her skin.

She didn’t move.

The power beneath her skin coiled, curling in on itself as if preparing to strike, and Rhysand’s face was a mask of indifference as he followed her gaze to the windows. Tapping a finger gently on his knee, he looked back once more at the hands Nesta wrapped around herself. Something flickered in his violet eyes, the stars there winking out as his attention snagged on the hands she kept concealed. The High Lord cocked his head to the side, examining her the way one might look at a beast in the woods.

His lips parted as he leaned forwards, eyebrows drawing together as he looked at her with a kind of scrutiny Nesta hadn’t felt since her mother had died.

And then—

“Cassian will kill me, but I need to know what happened that night at Hybern. Inside the Cauldron.”

Every bone, every muscle, every nerve in Nesta’s entire body locked, stiffening as Rhys’ voice quieted.

She should have known, she thought, as her heart pounded indignantly in her chest. The moment she saw him there, waiting for her, she should have known the questions were coming. Questions he’d asked before— ones she hadn’t answered then, and certainly didn’t feel like answering now.

“I told you last time,” she answered, her voice a rasp that threatened to cut her throat on its way out. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you know exactly what I mean.”

Fury bubbled in her gut, stealing her breath as she watched Feyre’s mate look at her with barely-concealed disdain, his lip curling as he dragged his eyes across her frame. In another life, another time, perhaps Nesta might have found a way to get along with Rhysand. Maybe even like him. But if she was a fire refusing to relent, then so was he. All her sharpness, all her stubbornness… it was thrown back at her, reflected in his eyes. Like calls to like, she’d heard them say, and as Rhysand looked at her with a glare that she knew was identical to her own, she wondered if in this case, like didn’t call to like, but repelled it.

“Is that all you’re here for?” she hissed. “To see what you can gain by what happened to Elain and I in that throne room?”

Somehow, his face darkened even further. A shadow crossed his eyes, his hands clenched into fists as tight as Nesta’s own, and whatever patience he’d had before, it was fraying now, perilously close to snapping. His power rumbled, like a distant thunderhead about to break. He closed his eyes, as if letting it wash over him, and when he opened them again, there was a grim determination shining in the violet.

“You feel it,” he said, his voice a low whisper. “Don’t lie to me, Nesta. I know.” He held up a hand, spread his fingers and exposed his palm to her. She felt that rumble of darkness again, like it was skirting the edges of the House library, lurking. “I can feel whatever it is the Cauldron gave you. And I might have let it lie, but then Cassian mentioned the House magic had changed—”

“I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Nesta growled, and this time it was true. She really didn’t have any idea what he meant about the House changing, and Cassian hadn’t said a word to her about it—

Rhys barrelled on, as if she hadn’t spoken at all.

“Your power needs to be controlled,” he said, and if she wasn’t convinced of his arrogance, she’d have sworn that concern shaded his words. “You may not believe me, but you’re my sister-in-law now. I came to check that you and Elain were both well, for Feyre’s sake if nothing else.” He ran his hand over his hair, took a breath. “I want to see if Elain—”

“Stay away from her,” Nesta hissed.

“She may need a healer—”

“What she needs is to be kept as far away from all of you as possible.”

“‘All of you’?” he echoed darkly. “And does that include Cassian? Shall I tell him to stay away, too?”

Nesta folded her arms, refused to answer. The ice that had burrowed deep into her bones reared, and a chill skirted down her spine as pressure began to build in her fingertips, pushing against her skin, begging for release. It felt like… destruction, pure and simple. Nesta clenched her fists, taking a deep breath in an effort to force the burning cold back down again, right into the deepest recesses of herself, and when she looked up and met Rhysand’s eye, she saw his lips thin, and felt his own power rumbling in answer as her own battled to stay present.

Those starless eyes were utterly flat as he curled his hands around the carved wooden arm rests of his chair.

And then she felt something brush against her— against her mind.

It felt like claws, sharp enough to tear through the fabric of her thoughts, like he might crack her open to see what was hidden inside.

The sound that left her was one of horror as she stumbled backwards, her spine flush with the wall as she pinned the High Lord with a ferocious glare. Her palms were flat against the wood-panelled wall, the fire in her burning, and even though Rhysand’s eyes remained steady - like he was trying hard not to startle her - there was a tendril of shadow, no more substantive than mist, still pressing at the boundaries of her mind— boundaries she’d never noticed as a human.

Never needed to notice.

The hair on her arms rose, her skin pebbled as she fought to control her breathing. She knew Rhysand could enter minds, but he hadn’t ever tried to enter hers before. That brush of power felt unnervingly like a hand, tapping softly at the mental barrier she had unwittingly constructed around her mind, and it was enough to make her blood run cold— colder than the ice inside her ever could.

A snarl ripped free of her.

“Nesta, you need to learn control—“ he began.

“Leave,” she hissed.

“This is my house,” Rhysand tossed back.

Nesta glanced once to the windows— the sunlight outside, the city that she didn’t want to see any closer. Something inside her recoiled, and yet still, she scowled as she pushed away from the wall.

“Then I’ll leave,” she spat. “I’ll leave this whole damned place, and when Feyre returns, you can be the one to tell her why her sister is lost somewhere in Prythian.”

Rhysand gritted his teeth, his starless eyes cold and ruthless as he pushed to his feet. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he gave her one long, lingering look that scorched. With an elegant hand, he straightened his black shirt, a deep frown heavy on his brow as disapproval radiated from him in waves. Whatever fraction of warmth he’d managed to conjure before, it was gone now.

“Good day, then,” he said sharply.

Nesta didn’t answer, only watched him march past her to leave before she slammed the door closed behind him.

***

Velaris was a beauty in the sunlight.

The river gleamed like the shattered surface of a diamond, shifting with the current, and as Cassian looked out over its banks from ground level, he realised how much he had missed it. Missed this, losing himself in the same city he’d spent fifty years fighting to leave. He hadn’t thought at all how much he might miss this place during those long years Rhys was under the mountain, but now, as he tilted his head back and filled his lungs, he swore he’d never forget again.

From somewhere in the distance, he could hear the sound of the market, a thousand voices on the wind like chimes, and the air itself was perfumed with lemon verbena and sea salt. Cassian took another deep breath of it, leaning his forearms on the railing overlooking the river, and thanking the Mother that he was able to stand there on that bridge at all.

Grateful— so grateful that the city had survived Hybern’s attack, and he had survived Hybern’s throne room.

His wings twitched at the memory. The flight down had been a strain on the freshly-healed membrane, but the burning he’d felt had been one of muscles remembering what it was to work, not pain. He’d felt the wind on his face and the elation fizzing in his blood, and for an hour he’d wandered the city before heading to the Palace of Thread and Jewels to place an order for a handful of dresses that didn’t seem too dissimilar to what Nesta had worn below the wall. He’d ordered some for Elain too, and charged the lot to Rhys’ account. And now, he was content to merely stand by and watch, to let the city roll by as the sun warmed his face, resting his wings as he relished the ache.

It was there, looking out over the Rainbow, that a familiar scent was carried to him on the wind.

“I don’t need a nursemaid, you know,” Cassian said dryly, keeping his eyes fixed on the city before him.

He could practically hear Mor roll her eyes as she joined him at the edge, looping an arm through his and pulling him away from the railing. Beneath the sun, she was practically gilded, her blonde hair shining almost the exact same shade as the golden necklace around her neck. She nudged him in the ribs with an elbow as she nodded to his wings and scowled.

“I heard you’d flown down here and had to check for myself.” She huffed. “Az is going to win the bet, isn’t he?”

Cassian laughed softly. “Sorry?” he offered, stretching his wings with a grin. There was only a little tug of pain now, and he was certain that he’d be back to flying miles a day within a few short weeks, well within the timeframe Az had set when he’d bet Mor those ten gold coins.

“I don’t know whether or not to be insulted,” Cassian continued, letting Mor lead him across the bridge and into the winding city streets. “Az had more confidence in me than you did.”

“It’s nothing to do with confidence,” Mor protested, her painted lips parting as her jaw dropped. “I just didn’t want you to push yourself too hard.”

It was Cassian’s turn to nudge her in the ribs. He’d almost forgotten how easy it was between them— the banter of friends who had known one another so long. And yet, he’d always thought that when Mor smiled and laughed, there were no secrets to be had between them. Nothing they failed to share. He turned his head to the side as they walked and studied her, wondering what else she’d kept close to her chest all this time.

“Drink?” she suggested, pausing at the threshold of a riverfront cafe, tilting her head towards the round wooden tables shaded by pale yellow umbrellas. Lemon trees were dotted between tables, citrus-scented candles already lit in the centre of each.

Cassian nodded, letting himself be herded towards a table at the back, and within ten minutes - like the staff had dropped everything in their rush to serve members of their Lord’s circle - Mor was seated with her back to the river, cold drink in hand as, idly, she stirred the crushed ice with a straw. Cassian didn’t know whether he wanted to grimace or not; the recognition he received on the street had buoyed him once, made him feel like the world lay at his feet.

It felt sour, now.

He shook his head, fingers curling around a tall glass of water. Gratefully he drank, but still, he couldn’t stop the curiosity from taking hold whenever he looked over at the blonde he’d come to view as a sister.

Really— what else had Mor neglected to tell him over the centuries?

“So,” he said, leaning back in his seat after letting the silence stretch for a beat too long. “Are you ever going to tell me about the human you mentioned back in Illyria?”

Mor’s face fell. Her fingers slackened around the edge of her glass. “Cass…”

He shook his head. “Come on. Don’t you think it’s been secret long enough?”

She hesitated, the bracelets at her wrists sliding down towards her elbow with a musical clink as she tucked an errant piece of hair behind her ear. He’d known her long enough to know well that it was one of her tells— an easy way of avoiding eye contact. For a moment he was sure that she was going to leave him sitting in silence, her eyes never straying from the ice beginning to melt in her drink, but then, so quietly he barely heard her, Mor said:

“We met during the war.”

Cassian felt his entire body still. Mor’s eyes were dark, like the memory alone veiled them with grief, and each word seemed to tear its way up her throat, like she had to force her tongue to shape the words.

“I was in love— so deeply I thought the world might stop turning if we were parted. I was so sure that once the war was over, we’d be together. We’d be happy, for whatever amount of time fate granted us. And I was prepared to give up everything. To leave here. To leave you, and Rhys, and Az, and never look back. I was ready to leave it all.” A pause. Heavy, loaded with hurt so many centuries old. “And then the wall went up.”

Her voice caught; stuttered.

“It took me years to find a way through, and when I did… it was too late.”

Cassian swore he could feel her loss radiating from her even now, and his heart twisted with sympathy as he said, gently, “Tell me about him.”

Still, Mor didn’t look up. Slowly she reached out, dragged a finger around the rim of her glass as if searching for something to do with her hands.

“She was a queen.”

She.

Cassian blinked.

The words stalled on his tongue, his mouth opening and closing as he searched for the right thing to say. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had his fair share of lovers of both sexes over the years, but Mor had kept this secret so close to her chest that he’d had no idea. Not even the faintest suspicion. And a queen…

He supposed it made sense now, why Mor had sneered so decidedly at the human queens they’d met in the Archeron manor.

With a frown carving a deep line between his brows, slowly Cassian leaned forward and placed his hand on Mor’s wrist, watching as her fingers stilled on the edge of her glass.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “And I’m sorry that you felt you couldn’t tell me.”

“It was just… easier to keep things the way they were,” she shrugged. Her eyes remained fixed on her drink, on the table beneath it. “It hurt, Cass. To know that she lived her life and then just… died. Without me.” Pain limned her face, tightened her jaw and made her voice a whisper. “Their lives are so brief— so fleeting. Everything I said before… I was just trying to protect you.” Another shrug punctuated her words, and at last - at last - Mor looked up. Her eyes were wide. “Maybe I didn’t go about it in the best way…”

Cassian couldn’t stop the snort that escaped him.

Mor’s eyes rolled, her huff soft as she folded her arms and rested them on the table. “Nesta and I won’t suddenly be the best of friends, but I can admit that I was wrong. I just… didn’t want to see you hurt.”

“I know,” Cassian said, shrugging as he rested an elbow on the arm of the wooden chair, curling his hand into a fist beneath his cheek. “But she’s my mate, Mor.”

It was the first time he’d said the words out loud to her, and although a shade crossed her brown eyes, she didn’t seem shocked. Her sigh was so quiet it was masked by the breeze.

“I know,” she echoed. When Cassian opened his mouth to ask how, blithely she waved a hand. “Truth, remember?” She smiled wryly. “I knew the moment she was tipped out of that Cauldron.”

He shook his head. “I felt it long before that.”

Mor hummed, welcoming the way the conversation shifted, tilted away from the parts of her left most vulnerable. “It wasn’t as strong then. Her mortality… it dimmed it, masked it just like the wall dampens our powers when we cross the border.”

And yet, Cassian thought, it didn’t really matter, did it? The how or why or when. He felt it now, stronger than ever, and as though he was pulled by an invisible string, his head turned, looking out across the river to the mountains on the other side of the city— to the House built right into the rock.

The windows gleamed, reflected the sun. And he wondered… which one did she sit behind? And how far was the distance between them now? Could he measure it in heartbeats?

“I miss her,” he said when he tore his eyes away. “I saw her this morning, and yet I miss her. What the fuck is that?”

Mor reached out to grasp his hand, and when he looked, he swore he saw tears linger behind her eyes, silver lining her lashes.

“You’re lucky” she said. “So lucky, Cass.”

He didn’t feel especially lucky, and yet, as he looked back to the House…

Cassian pushed away from the table.

“Yeah,” he said softly, nodding slowly. And as he stretched his wings and shot Mor a wry smile, he looked back across the city to the House and felt it pulling him back, a line in his chest as tight as a bow string. With one last look, and one last smile, Cassian looked to the woman he’d known for so many centuries and turned his back.

Decidedly he said,

“I’m going home.”

***

It was with aching wings that Cassian landed smoothly on the roof of the House, yet he couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face as he tilted his head back and took a last look at the sky, the sun beating down on his skin. The wind ran fingers through his hair, brushed his cheeks, and Cassian savoured it: the elation that came with flying, that feeling that tasted so much like freedom.

It had been harder, flying up from the city rather than down. The muscles that had only slightly pulled with exertion before were protesting now, as if to remind him that he still had a little way to go before being back to full strength, but—

It didn’t matter.

The sun was shining, the day was warm and beautiful, and he’d just taken his first proper flight in weeks. As he entered the House in search of Nesta - because wasn’t he always in search of her these days? - he didn’t think there was anything the Mother could throw at him that could ruin his good mood.

And then he found her.

Nesta was curled on the sofa in the library, her legs tucked beneath her, like she wanted to make herself as small as possible. Though a book lay open in her lap, pages splayed, every line of her was stiff and weighted with tension, like she’d waded into a lake with rocks in her pocket. Her eyes didn’t move across the page— didn’t move at all in fact, not even to glance his way when he entered the room. Nesta kept her attention on the page before her, staring down like she wanted the entire room to swallow her.

Suddenly, Cassian felt like his heart was in his throat.

The grin that had been plastered to his face dropped, his steps slowing, as if he suddenly felt he had to move slowly.

“Good book?” he asked with a breeziness he didn’t feel, throwing his weight down onto the sofa beside her. Anything to provoke a reaction.

He wanted her to scowl, wanted her to glare at him, to ask him what he did with all that battlefield grace when he wasn’t using it. Come on, his eyes seemed to say when they looked her way.

Nesta said nothing.

“I went to a dressmaker today,” he said lightly, casting an arm wide and letting it rest on the back of the sofa. His fingers were an inch from brushing her shoulder, and gods, he longed to close that distance and let his skin brush hers, even if it was just for a moment.

Nesta blinked.

“Maybe you could come with me next time. Let her take your measurements properly.”

“No,” Nesta answered quickly, stiffly, her eyes still fixed on the pages of her book, like she might find solace there if only she searched hard enough.

“You liked the city before,” Cassian said gently, cutting a glance to the bracelet still tied around her wrist.

The one he’d put there.

The one that, even now, she never took off.

“No.”

Hopelessness was a bitter taste, cresting in his chest like a brutal wave as Nesta turned the page in her book. He was certain she hadn’t read a word since he’d entered, and yet she sniffed and focused her attention entirely on the pages before her, like he wasn’t there at all.

He frowned.

The silence stretched, uncomfortable, and sensing that Nesta wanted nothing but solitude, Cassian sighed before rising from the sofa. He stretched his wings, watching her, waiting for her to ask him to stay— waiting for her to just look at him.

She didn’t.

He didn’t know what had set her off today, but somehow, he didn’t think he’d get an answer even if he asked.

“I’ll… leave you to it, then,” he said uneasily.

Nesta sniffed a little, but still, said nothing.

He wasn’t fool enough to think she’d ask him to stay, and yet still, he hoped. Like a fucking idiot, he hoped that she might turn to him and let him in. Cassian felt his heart crack, her pain like a razor that sliced into him with her every dejected blink, and his fingers twitched as he fought the urge to fold her in his arms and hold her until everything stopped hurting.

He couldn’t stop himself from leaning over, though, and dropping a kiss to the crown of her head as he rose to his feet. He didn’t miss the way her eyes closed, like part of her wanted to savour it. His hand cradled the back of her head as his lips touched her hair, like he might be able to hold her to his mouth, kiss away the pain. He curled his fingers in her hair before pulling back, giving her a gentle smile as he eased away.

“I’ll be upstairs,” he said.

Briefly, Nesta looked up. She met his eye, her face filled with regret, and it was all Cassian could do to brush a thumb across her cheek before he left— smiling gently, even as his heart broke.

***

“Well, don’t you look terrible.”

Azriel’s voice was a cutting drawl, brutally acerbic as Cassian entered the small sitting room that bridged the gap between his room and the Shadowsinger’s. His brother sat alone, occupying one of the four chairs that had sat before that hearth for centuries now, with Truth-teller balanced in one scarred palm as he inspected the blade. The flat edge, freshly oiled and polished, shone like a mirror.

Cassian sank heavily into the chair that was always reserved for him in this room, allowing the cushions to swallow him as he rubbed his temples between his thumb and forefinger. “Rough day,” he said with a barely-there shrug.

Az lifted a brow. “It’s barely past noon.”

When Cassian didn’t answer, Azriel laid Truth-teller across his knee, and leaned forward as his shadows darted out to wind around the legs of Cassian’s chair.

Nosy fuckers.

“Rough flight?” Az asked.

“Not really.” Cassian shrugged again, more definitive this time. His eyes flicked up. “Don’t worry. You’ll still win your bet.”

Az smiled, wicked, before returning his attention to the weapon in his lap. “Mor will be furious.”

Cassian rolled his eyes. With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair and groaned, dragging a palm down his face. “It’s Nesta,” he said from behind his fingers. “Something’s bothered her today.”

After a moment, Az glanced up from his blade. “Rhys was here earlier.”

Another groan rumbled from somewhere deep in Cassian’s chest, a sound so weary he was astounded he didn’t fold. “How many times do I need to say it,” he muttered. “Pushing her isn’t going to help anybody.”

“You know Rhys,” Az shrugged. “He’s curious. And you know as well as I do that he can’t just sit around and do nothing.”

Cassian tipped his head back. “Sometimes I wish he would. That inability to do nothing got him stuck Under the Mountain fifty fucking years ago, and it’s exactly what’s going to turn around and bite us in the ass now.”

Azriel said nothing. Shrewd, he looked Cassian over, taking in every ounce of tension that lay thick across his frame. A small furrow carved a path between his brows.

“How is she?” he asked.

Cassian shook his head as he straightened in his chair, leaning an elbow on the curved wooden armrest and resting his chin atop his curled fist. “She’s in the library,” he answered. “Never seems to leave it. Like the books are the only thing that can comfort her.”

It’s the only escape I have, she’d told him once. A lifetime ago, in that stable below the wall.

Shadows whispered at Azriel’s ankles as the Spymaster took a final look at Truth-teller before sliding the blade back into the rune-embossed sheath. His eyes carried the echo of concern— not as potent as Cassian’s, but still there was something there, lurking just beneath the hazel, that said Azriel cared in that quiet, unassuming way of his for the woman sitting in silence downstairs.

“This is all new to her,” Az said softly. “She needs time to adjust.”

“She’s drowning, Az.”

Azriel sighed. “It’s not good for her, staying closeted away up here. She needs some fresh air. Needs to see people that aren’t us.”

Cassian stilled.

People that aren’t us.

Something clicked.

“Of course,” he murmured. “She won’t go into the city, but maybe… Maybe I can bring someone to her instead.”

Az looked confused, but Cassian leaned forward in his chair.

“I need you to do me a favour.”

***

The early afternoon light slanted across the library, warm where it fell across the patterned carpets. The room was washed with ochre, bright and rich, and yet—

Nesta hadn’t moved since Rhysand had left, frozen like one the statues that used to grace her father’s gardens.

Motionless and cold as stone, she sat with the same book in her lap that she had been pretending to read when Cassian had returned from the city earlier, the pages unturned, unread, as cracks formed in her chest that felt like valleys. She had watched the sun trace a path across the sky, pretending to read in the hopes it might help her forget all else, but it was useless. Just like the statues in her father’s garden, she was stiff, immovable— her eyes flat and hollow, feeling more like an imitation of life than anything else.

Bitterly, she sighed.

And just when she was about to close the book and give up altogether, the library door opened with a whisper against the carpeted floor. Cassian entered first, shouldering his way through the doorframe, holding the door open for Azriel and, behind him, a woman that Nesta did not recognise. A woman with wings— an Illyrian.

“Hey, Nes,” Cassian said, his voice quiet, like she was a deer he didn’t want to startle.

She blinked— said nothing. Both Azriel and the woman smelled of cold, like snow and wind, and though she wanted to ask so many questions, she couldn’t find the energy to speak.

The stranger stood in the centre of the library, the light gliding smoothly over her burnished skin as warm brown eyes took in the scene before her. With something like wonder on her face she looked at the windows offering a vista of the city below, and only with effort did she tear her attention away, noting the towering shelves that lined the walls before letting her gaze land, finally, on Nesta, sitting curled upon her sofa.

She took one look at her - just one - before turning sharply on her heel and looking up at Cassian and Azriel both. The move exposed her back, and the wings she kept tucked tight against her spine. As Nesta looked, she fought the urge to gasp, smothering the horror as it built. With the sunlight shining at an angle, each raised welt on the stranger’s wings was cast into brutal relief; deep valleys made by old and deliberate wounds appeared all the more vicious in the direct light, and the membrane of her wings was littered with so much scar tissue Nesta thought it was a wonder she could lift them at all.

But the stranger did not seem to care that the sunlight exposed her scars. She merely tilted her head, the movement causing her ruined wings to shift.

“You can go now,” she said simply.

Azriel nodded, slipping back through the door without another word, but Cassian… he hesitated. The stranger put her hands on her hips, a gesture that suggested she would brook no argument as she jerked her head towards the windows, braided ebony hair falling over her shoulder.

“Go down to the city. Go to Windhaven. Go anywhere. Surely you have better things to be doing than supervising a conversation between friends, General.”

Nesta frowned. Friends— she didn’t think she’d ever had many of those, and yet the dark-haired stranger stood there with her damaged wings, her cheeks still flushed from the cold of wherever she’d been before, and declared herself Nesta Archeron’s friend. She blinked against the strangeness of it, and as she watched, Cassian looked up and met her eye, a glimmer of hope dancing across his face that made some small part of her want to reach out and grasp it, if only to keep that spark in his eyes for a little while longer.

At length, he nodded.

“I’ll be training on the roof if you need me,” he said.

The woman grinned.

“We won’t,” she said, so saccharine it almost pulled a laugh from Nesta’s throat. Even Cassian smiled softly at that, his eyes flicking back to Nesta as if he, too, had sensed the laugh she’d almost loosed. Holding his hands up in surrender, he backed away, slipping through the door without another word. In his wake, the woman turned and offered Nesta a smile that was gentle and soft— kind in a way so few had ever been towards her.

“Nesta?” she said, walking slowly across the library floor. “It’s me. Emerie.” She gave her a small wave. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”

There was hesitation in the way Nesta unfolded on that sofa, letting her feet drop to the floor as she sat up straighter. Every move was slow, like she was still waiting for a trick to be revealed. Her eyes darted to the door, but Emerie shook her head.

“They’re gone,” she said with a shrug. “Nosy busy-bodies the pair of them, but I figured it would be good for us to catch up, just the two of us.” She nodded to the sofa, to the empty space that yawned beside Nesta. “May I?”

Nesta didn’t know what to say.

Suddenly, she felt the absurd urge to cry. The encounter with Rhysand that morning had plagued her all day, the words he’d said thrown back at her in the empty silence of the library. If not for Cassian - and Azriel, she supposed - Nesta didn’t think she’d see a single friendly face, what with Elain rarely able to leave her bed, and it was beginning to build now— a kind of loneliness she’d never really felt before, starting to wear her thin.

She looked to the door again, nodding as Emerie sat down, adjusting her wings with stiff movements over the low back of the library sofa.

“Cassian has been kind to me,” Nesta began, “but I’m glad to see another friendly face.”

Emerie’s brow furrowed. “Are they in short supply around here?”

Nesta shrugged. “You could say that.”

Her eyes travelled to Emerie’s wings, to the scars right down the centre of each. The injuries were a mirror of one another, the jagged edges and raised tissue in the exact same place, like somebody had taken a careless hand to each wing with purpose. Emerie’s face turned a shade paler as she watched Nesta take in those deliberate wounds.

“My father is a cruel man,” she said in explanation, as if it were the only thing that needed to be said.

Behind her ribs, Nesta felt her heart constrict.

“So was my mother,” she whispered in answer. Her eyes went to the scar on her thumb, the brutal reminder of all she’d endured. “And my grandmother, too.”

Emerie pressed a hand to that scar on Nesta’s thumb, as if she might be able to mask it somehow. “I trust they’re gone now?” Nesta nodded, and Emerie patted her hand lightly, like the news pleased her. “Good. Maybe soon, my father will be too.”

Her voice was blithe and dry, and yet there was still a spark in her deep brown eyes, one that Nesta suspected Emerie had fought hard to rekindle. She studied the woman before her— Emerie’s scars so much more obvious and devastating than Nesta’s own, and yet… Emerie had written her letters, had found joy in her books. Was still living, despite it all.

“How do you…” Nesta started. Failed.

How do you carry on?

How do you open your eyes each morning and still drag yourself from bed, despite everything you’ve endured?

Emerie seemed to understand anyway.

“He gave me life,” she answered, “but that doesn’t mean he can bend me to his will. He might have broken me once, but that doesn’t mean I am without value.” She shuddered, cleared her throat. “And besides, broken things can always be mended. And they are always stronger afterwards.” She met Nesta’s eyes without fear, and if she noticed the silver there, she said nothing. After a moment, her dark eyes sparked. “But I didn’t come here to cry, Nesta Archeron from Below the Wall.”

She said it like it was a title, and Nesta couldn’t help the wry huff of a laugh that escaped her.

“Then why are you here?” she asked with a raised brow.

Emerie grinned in answer, lifting up the canvas bag she’d brought and pulling out a book. “I’m here because I’m sick of talking books with you over letters. They’re so incredibly drawn out and slow. I’d rather do it in person.”

She handed it over, the cover emblazoned with the name Sellyn Drake. Nesta felt the smile pull at her mouth, a feeling so foreign these days that she almost wanted to hide it.

“The smuttiest I could find,” Emerie said before Nesta could bury that smile beneath a glare. When Nesta looked up, the Illyrian’s eyes were practically dancing with glee, and Nesta couldn’t help it. She laughed— laughed, for the first time since Hybern.

She’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

She felt her face drop, felt heat build behind her eyes. Not the burn of the silver fire, but the warmth of tears threatening to spill, and Emerie leaned over, patted her on the hand once again, as if to tell her it was okay— to cry if she needed to.

Nesta shook her head, forced away her tears. Emerie smiled softly, and as if already knowing what they needed, a silver tea service appeared on the low table before the sofa, steam rising in curls from a decorated silver teapot. Courtesy of the House, Nesta assumed, and for a moment her mind went back to what Rhysand had said earlier, about the House’s magic changing.

She hadn’t asked for the tea.

And yet there it was, two porcelain cups sitting beside a bowl piled high with sugar cubes, a pair of small silver tongs lying perfectly straight alongside. Nesta tilted her head, frowned as the tea fragranced the air, but said nothing as Emerie clapped with delight and reached over to lift the teapot, filling both porcelain cups before reaching for the sugar.

“You know, I was surprised,” Emerie began after a moment, dropping a cube of sugar into her tea, “when the almighty General of the Night Court came into my father’s shop and asked for book recommendations.”

“Like I said,” Nesta shrugged, leaving her own tea to cool. “He’s been kind.”

Emerie raised a brow. “More than kind, I’d wager.”

Nesta felt the heat of a blush on her cheeks, but flipped open the cover of the Sellyn Drake novel instead of looking up and meeting her friend’s eye. Still, Emerie pressed.

“Come on, Nesta. You’ve got to be sleeping with him.”

Nesta’s mouth dropped open— in disbelief, in protest, in laughter; she wasn’t sure. At length she took her head, dipping her gaze again.

“No,” she answered at last.

Emerie almost choked on her tea. “What? Why?” she asked, her voice rising in pitch as disbelief wrote itself across her face. “Nesta, he’s enamoured with you. And you obviously feel the same.”

Nesta waved a hand, refusing to focus on how obvious she apparently was. “Before, maybe. But it’s different now.”

“It’s easier now,” Emerie countered. “Surely.”

Nesta shook her head once more. “No, it’s not. I’m not…” she trailed off. Didn’t know how to say it. “I’m not who I was before.”

Emerie shrugged as she set down her tea. “I think he’d love you anyway.”

It was Nesta’s turn to choke.

That word— love.

She’d stopped him from saying it. Hadn’t been able to bear it; didn’t think she could stand to hear the words fall from his lips, to hear him tell her he loved her, when the woman he had fallen for was gone.

“I’m not me anymore,” Nesta whispered.

“The Nesta Archeron that wrote me letters to thank me for lending her books…” Emerie reached out, taking Nesta’s hands in her own. Her palms were warm, and Nesta wanted to pull away, afraid that the flames might make an appearance, but Emerie held tight. “I’m certain that I’m talking to her right now.”

She pushed before Nesta could protest.

“I know what it is to be… irrevocably changed by someone else’s hand. After my father cut my wings…” She shook her head. “I don’t know what happened to you in Hybern. Azriel wouldn’t tell me anything beyond the basics when I asked before he brought me here, but I think I know a little of how you’re feeling. I felt like my father had robbed me of everything that made me who I was.”

“They couldn’t heal them? Your wings?” Nesta thought of Cassian’s wings; entirely rebuilt. The way he’d looked so mournfully to the windows over the past few days, like the inability to fly had been a wound in itself. She didn’t know how Emerie had coped, if flight was as integral to the Illyrians as Cassian had made out.

Emerie shrugged. “Not in Illyria. And certainly not while my father lives. Maybe someday.”

Silence fell, but not uncomfortable. Emerie offered her a small smile.

“My point is that I remembered who I was, eventually.” Her eyes glinted. “And besides, I don’t think the General is a fickle man. I mean it, Nesta. I saw his face when I arrived. He’s exactly the same as when he walked into my shop and asked what kind of books a mortal woman might enjoy.”

Emerie’s face was soft, and Nesta glanced to the door as if expecting him to walk through it, and a small, tiny voice at the back of her mind, whispered that maybe… maybe he would still love her, regardless of what had changed.

And as she looked at Emerie, suddenly…

Suddenly, the darkness didn’t feel quite so impenetrable. Like there might be a crack somewhere that would let the light in.

“Now,” Emerie said, sinking back against the cushions and letting her wings stretch the little her scars would allow. “Are we going to keep being maudlin? Or are we going to discuss this?”

She held up the Sellyn Drake novel with one hand, its pages gilded by the afternoon sun. Nesta managed a smile, reaching for her tea and lifting the porcelain to her lips as she jerked her chin at the book Emerie held aloft.

“Go on then,” she said. “Show me just how smutty it gets.”

***

After a handful of hours, when the sun had gone down and darkness gathered on the horizon, Cassian ventured back downstairs.

It had been agony, forcing himself to remain on that roof, throwing the same punches and tossing the same daggers in a cycle, and over the course of the entire afternoon he’d tried hard to keep his mind away from the library beneath his feet. Away from the woman inside it.

Nesta hadn’t left the library yet, and Emerie hadn’t ventured upstairs to ask whether Azriel could winnow her back home.

Cassian wondered whether something had gone wrong.

After retrieving the dagger he’d just thrown from the chest of a training dummy, he abandoned the pretence and headed inside, his boots heavy on the stone floor. With each step the library grew nearer, and the silence in the House was so complete even his breaths seemed to echo.

The door was still firmly closed when he reached the hallway, the sconces lining the walls glowing gently as he approached.

And as Cassian reached for the door handle…

Nesta laughed.

The sound drifted through the thick wood of the library door, the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. It was enough to make him weak, and fuck, he’d die for that laugh.

He gripped the handle to steady himself, fingers curling around the metal, but he didn’t turn it. Even though he wanted so desperately to open that door and see her smiling…

Softly he drew away from the door, smiling to himself as Emerie’s laugh joined Nesta’s. Another peal of it rang through the hall, following him as he turned his back and walked away, chasing his steps as he headed right back the way he came. And as the sun fell fully behind the mountains and left the House of Wind in shadow, Cassian looked over his shoulder and heard that laugh again, quieter now but no less precious, and felt hope bloom in his chest.

Beautiful, fragile, perfect.

Taglist: @asnowfern @podemechamardek @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @starryblueskies7 @melphss @sv0430 @that-little-red-head @misswonderflower @fwiggle @tanishab @xstarlightsupremex @burningsnowleopard @hiimheresworld @wannawriteyouabook @hereforthenessian @valkyriesupremacy @kale-theteaqueen @moodymelanist @talkfantasytome @pyxxie

#nessian #nessian fic #begged & borrowed time

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 25 days ago

Text

Begged & Borrowed Time (xxxiii, ao3)

(Chapter thirty-three: In which Nesta Archeron *finally* snaps) (Side note: this fic turns two years old today!! 🎉 there's no birthday cake so here, have some angst instead)

(Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

It was strange, feeling the sun on her skin.

Warmer than she remembered, too, when she extended a hand and dragged her fingers through the light, feeling that soft heat slowly wrap itself around her bones. Only a handful of weeks might have passed since Hybern, and yet when Nesta looked up at the sky and felt the sunlight on her face, somehow it felt like much longer. Like it had been an age since she had last breathed fresh air, a lifetime since she had stepped outside.

It might as well have been, she supposed.

This new body had shied away from every shaft of light at first, like it was was afraid it might burn her somehow, and in the aftermath of Hybern Nesta had convinced herself that she belonged in the darkness; that it was safer there.

Then Emerie had visited.

I think he’d love you anyway.

For hours they had shared stories over the pots of tea that the House had seemed to content to refill forever, and in the gentle ease that was Emerie’s company, Nesta found the part of herself she had locked away since Hybern reaching out a hand, breaking through the surface of the grave she had buried the old Nesta Archeron in. When Emerie had gone, Nesta had retreated to her bedroom and laid in her bed, staring at the ceiling, repeating that same sentence in her mind over and over and over until the sun rose.

I think he’d love you anyway.

She clung to it still, a day later, as she stood in the corner of the House rooftop, feeling fresh air on her face for the first time in weeks. From a distance she watched as Cassian trained, waiting for him to notice her, and although the fire inside her remained banked, some small voice at the back of her mind asked if she deserved it— to feel warmth when her blood ran so cold. With effort, Nesta ignored it. Forced herself to remain standing there, watching the sun line the warrior before her in gold.

When, exactly, Cassian had become aware of her, lingering at the edge of the roof with her back against the wall, she couldn’t say. But as he pummelled a punching bag strung up from a wooden frame with enough strength to rattle even her bones, something shifted.

Something that said he knew exactly where she was, and had done for some time now.

It was in the way he tilted his face just an inch to the side. Not turning, not yet, but angled just enough that even from over his shoulder, she caught a glimpse of the small smile playing on his lips. It was in the way he spread his wings until they were almost at full extension, stretching languorous as he flexed his fists.

Peacocking.

For a while, Nesta watched him. Studied the carved muscles of his stomach, the cords of his arms as he moved so smoothly through each combination of moves. Her eyes slid along the edge of his shoulders, glanced off his wings, travelled down. He moved with such simple precision, every powerful line of him taut, and her mouth suddenly felt dry as she took in that length of bronzed skin and realised that this was the man she had hanging on her every word— the one who looked at her like he’d lay the world at her feet if only she asked.

And yet when he stretched - raising his arms above his head and exposing the sheer breadth of his chest - Nesta couldn’t help but snort at the lack of subtlety.

Cassian turned to face her at last, a grin splitting his face. “I wondered how long you were going to stand there.”

Nesta stepped forward, letting the sun bathe her entirely as she blinked flatly, feigning nonchalance as she linked her fingers and held her clasped hands before her in a perfect picture of composure, detached and distant.

“Far be it from me to interrupt what was clearly an important part of your training regimen,” she countered smoothly. “Who knew showing off was so integral to fighting battles?”

Cassian’s smile turned wolfish. “Can you blame me?” he drawled, rolling his shoulders and shooting her a wink that made her forget, for a moment, what words were. “I had such a captivated audience.”

The way he smirked told her he knew exactly how she’d been watching him, and though a blush rose to her cheeks, Nesta snorted.

“I’m so glad your ego made it out of Hybern intact,” she said dryly. He quirked a brow, his eyes meeting hers with a clash, and for a moment Nesta worried she had gone too far— hit something too sensitive too soon with the tongue her mother had always warned her no man would be able to stand. But then those hazel eyes sparked, like her words had been kindling, and as he straightened, his perfectly healed wings rustled as they settled around his spine.

“Glad your sharp tongue did too, sweetheart.” He grinned again, the curve of his lips edged with something like mischief as his eyes raked across her, cataloguing each line of her face. “Where would I be without it?”

“Someone has to keep you in check, I suppose.”

He held a hand over his heart, dipping his head like a knight in a fairytale before looking up at her from beneath his eyelashes. “And how lucky I am that you decided to take up the mantle.”

Nesta rolled her eyes, and for a moment there was silence. Only the wind broke it as it stretched, and yet it wasn’t uncomfortable. Nesta lingered there, feeling Cassian’s attention on her as warm as the sunlight that kissed her face, and though his eyes were assessing when they travelled over her, the air between them was lighter than it had been in days.

It was almost easy— this, being with him in a space not crowded by grief and anguish. Almost like she could forget everything that had led them here in the first place.

Almost.

At length she cleared her throat.

“I came up here to see if you’d heard anything from Feyre yet.” Her voice faltered. “If Rhysand knew anything.”

Cassian’s smile fell as he shook his head. “No,” he sighed. “They can’t… speak to one another often. Feyre’s whole ruse rests on Tamlin thinking Rhys somehow forged the bond, so…” He trailed off, lifting his eyes to the sky for a beat before bringing them back down again. “She’s fine, though. The last time he spoke to her, she said she was fine.” Another shake of his head; another sigh that seemed weary beyond belief. “Not that it stops Rhys from going out of his mind, of course.”

“Because of the bond?” Nesta asked.

Cassian’s face was blank, unreadable, as he shrugged. “Because he loves her.”

Another silence followed— tighter this time, more jagged. Cassian turned his face away, like there was something he was skirting, and Nesta frowned as she watched him, wondering what troublesome water it was that he wanted to avoid.

“I’m not worried,” he continued, a change of subject about as subtle as a brick to the face. “I trained her, after all.” His eyes met hers for a minute, unblinking as he nodded to the training ring delineated in white paint on the stone floor. “I could train you too, you know.”

Nesta raised a dubious brow. “I don’t think so.”

“Why?” Cassian cocked his head to the side. “Because it’s not ladylike?”

With a scowl Nesta folded her arms across her chest, looking right past him and out over the horizon, refusing to let him know that yes— that was exactly why she would always refuse to step into that ring with him. It was bad enough that she’d already gone against everything that she had been raised to believe, to be. She didn’t need to add to it by bloodying her knuckles.

Cassian took a step closer.

“I could teach you to fight,” he continued, his eyes so searing she felt the heat right down in her soul. She tried to keep her eyes on his face, not letting her attention wander down to the broad span of his bare chest.

The air between them tightened, like a lute string ready - begging - to be plucked.

“I’m not my sister,” she countered. “You won’t be able to fix me by teaching me how to hit something.”

“You don’t need fixing,” he tossed back immediately, and then his voice turned rough, like gravel. “But I could teach you to defend yourself. To make sure nobody could ever take you away again. Not a king, not your husband.” His mouth curled into a sneer. “Not anybody.”

That made her take notice. But— no.

No.

She had spent far too long pushing down her anger in the name of civility to give up now.

She shoved down the allure, masked it with a scoff.

“Well, at least that’s something.” She straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and called on every ounce of hauteur she had ever used as a crutch. “I won’t have to go back to him now.”

It was a blithe comment, one designed to mask an entire torrent of pain and anger, and yet as Cassian’s face darkened, Nesta realised she hadn’t masked anything. His brows lowered, like the mention of Tomas had something stirring in him that he’d kept leashed this entire time, and when he saw the way she avoided his gaze, the way all of that vaulting pride failed to hide much at all, a low growl ran through him that made Nesta think of sharp teeth and sharper claws; of blood about to be spilled.

“Never,” he said firmly. He tilted his head, a predator on the hunt. “Do you want me to kill him?”

Once more, she raised a brow. “What would be the point now?”

Cassian shrugged, a gesture of casual, quiet violence. A grim promise. His voice was cold and serious when he said,

“He deserves it. That would be the point.”

He took another step forward, the siphons on his hands gleaming. There was something in the way he moved - careful, deliberate, slow - that reminded Nesta of the immaculate control and restraint this man possessed. And yet his eyes—

His eyes were like twin flames, burning like a pyre.

“Do you know how many times I’ve thought about slaughtering him, princess?”

His voice was a whisper, but it pounded through her like a storm. There was no restraint in those eyes; nothing careful or controlled. There was anger there, a fury that burned when, slowly, he reached out a hand and traced her jaw, pressing his thumb to the soft skin beneath her chin.

“Right here,” he murmured. “I’ve thought about sliding my dagger right here, through his neck, more times than I care to count.” He pressed against her skin with a light pressure, enough to make her still. “I’d let him bleed out slowly. Painfully.”

Nesta didn’t react, didn’t move. Her heart was hammering for all the wrong reasons, and with every beat she felt his anger ricocheting through her chest— felt every echo of it, because after all, it was her own, too. Hadn’t she felt the same fury, burning riotous within her? Hadn’t she thought about spilling Tomas’ blood too? The only difference was that Cassian had an outlet for his anger, found some way to let it out; Nesta had kept hers smothered for so long it had become a part of her. Burrowed its way inside, woven itself through every nerve until she wasn’t sure who she was without it.

Cassian searched her face, as if he was waiting for fear to flicker in her eyes.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” he asked slowly. “Knowing how often I’ve thought about your husband’s death? How thoroughly?”

Nesta shook her head, and his hand flattened against her neck, his fingers curling around her nape as his thumb stroked the edge of her jaw.

“I’ll cut out his tongue for every word he’s ever said to you. Every demand he’s ever made. I’ll break his fingers for having the nerve to touch you. Shatter the bones in his hands.”

Still, Nesta said nothing.

The fire in her chest seemed to surge at the thought, like his words were kindling and his touch was the match, the heat sinking into her bones and twining with the fire that pricked beneath the skin of her palms. With every breath he drew her out— drew out everything she had kept buried or locked away at the back of her mind. He didn’t give up; the warrior before her just kept trying, determined to find a way around the wall she had constructed between them.

She glanced down, her attention snagging on the space where her wedding ring had once sat so unhappily on her finger.

“Look at me,” Cassian urged, his voice softer than before. “Nes. Look at me.”

But Nesta shook her head. “No.”

Slowly, he tilted her face up, his touch lingering beneath her jaw as he forced her to meet his eyes. The sunlight glimmered, reflected in the hazel until those eyes were two pools of molten gold, and even when she tried to blink, to turn her face away, Cassian held fast.

“What do you want?” he asked, something raw cutting the softness of his voice as he chased her eyes with his own.

Again, Nesta shook her head.

Her eyes closed, the sun burning behind her lids, and in her chest a different heat gathered, licking at her bones as she kept her arms pinned to her sides, her fists clenched as tight as her jaw. She felt his touch still, felt the way his hand cradled her cheek, and yet still Nesta couldn’t find the words to shape what it was that she wanted.

She wanted—

“Nes,” Cassian pressed. “Tell me what you want.”

—to wake up and find that all the years since her mother’s death had been a dream. Wanted to close her eyes and find peace and security waiting for her when she opened them again. Her nails dug into the palm of her hand as her fists tightened and her mind spun and her heart started to hammer with the steady kick of a drum, and still Nesta couldn’t find the words to say it out loud.

There was pain in her chest. Old pain; familiar grief she hadn’t been able to shake, yoked to her like a ball and chain.

And still Cassian stood there, an inch away, asking her with every swipe of his thumb over her cheekbone to let it go— to let it all go.

And after twenty-four years of carefully stifling every instinct and thought she’d ever had, burying every unladylike impulse, Nesta took a breath that raked its way down her throat, and with a silent scream that had been building and building since the day her mother had first taught her her worth…

Nesta Archeron snapped.

“I want it to hurt,” she hissed, eyes snapping open as the wave of her anger crested. She wondered if they were more silver now than blue, her eyes; wondered if there was anything mortal left in her at all. But Cassian’s face betrayed nothing as the flames in her bones writhed, begging to be set free. “I want everything - everyone - to hurt the way I have for so long.”

Even now it felt like the admission had been torn from her.

Even now she tried to claw it back, to bury it.

Because she could make it hurt— she knew it, when that flame coiled and curled in her veins. She felt the power of it yawning, stretching; destructive and terrible and potent enough that she might reduce the world to ashes.

It terrified her.

She waited for Cassian to pull away— for the fear or the anger or the disgust to show on his face. For his eyes to darken with just a grain of the same vast apprehension that Rhysand regarded her with.

But Cassian only smiled darkly, his hand falling away from her face only to rise before her as he held up his palm like an offering. Not afraid of her anger, but entirely willing to stoke it until it burned itself out. Like he’d known all along that this was exactly what she needed.

I think you need a good fight, sweetheart.

That’s what he had said to her, wasn’t it? The first time they’d walked together along that forest road into the village.

There’s an anger you can barely conceal. A ruthless streak.

Like he had always known that this was coming— understood that there was only so far she could go before she broke. And as he looked up at her from beneath his eyelashes, that hand still extended, Nesta knew with sudden clarity that Cassian had been waiting for this all along.

He raised a brow, cocked his head to the side. “Let it out, princess.”

Nesta scowled. Through gritted teeth she kept her hands firmly at her sides as she bit out a sharp, “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“Do I look like a princess to you?”

Cassian shrugged. “I don’t really care what you look like.” He nodded to his hand. “Hit me.”

“What?”

“I said hit me.”

The siphons on the backs of his hands were burning so brightly they were almost blinding. Were they reacting solely to their master, she wondered, or could they sense her, too? Did the power that lurked beneath that burnished skin of his react to hers, like a call and an answer? Nesta hesitated as she cast her eyes over those crimson stones, her fists loosening as, unconsciously, she flexed her fingers before curling them back towards her palms.

An infuriating smile pulled at the edge of Cassian’s lips.

“Curl your fist. Thumb over your knuckles.”

Nesta didn’t move.

Her muscles seemed to burn, the fire inside her urging her forward. It would be so easy - so easy - to do as he said. To channel every ounce of fury she possessed into something as simple as throwing a punch at the open target he’d made of his hand.

“Unless you’re afraid, of course.”

Bastard.

He knew— knew exactly how to coax a reaction from her. Exactly what to say to get her throwing everything aside. And before the challenge could fade from his eyes, before that smirk could shift into something else, Nesta tightened her fist, keeping her thumb above her knuckles, just as he’d said. His eyes sparked as she pulled her arm back, his smile so deadly she was certain it would one day be the death of her, and when he opened his mouth to taunt her once again—

Nesta punched him hard in the centre of his palm, cutting him off before he could speak.

Cassian grinned.

Her knuckles burned, but there was no pain. Not yet.

“That’s it,” Cassian said, not letting his palm drop. His voice was low and almost soothing; a brutal purr of encouragement that had her drawing her fist back again. He nodded his approval.

Again— Nesta hit him again, feeling the strain in every damned line of her body, like she had been a bow wound too tight for so long, it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped earlier.

A miracle she had lasted this long.

Cassian hummed as her fist connected with his hand again, the sound a rumble in his throat.

“I know what it is, Nes,” he said, his voice low as her next punch went off course, hitting the heel of his hand instead. He tsked and tapped the centre of his palm. “I know what it is to feel that anger. I slaughtered an entire village for what they did to my mother.”

Even as he confessed to murder, Nesta didn’t slow her punches.

“And I’d do it again,” he continued, softer this time even as her hits grew harder. “I’d do it for you. I’ll kill him, without question.”

There wasn’t even a beat before he stepped forward, lessening the distance between his palm and her fist, forcing her to keep her attention on him and only him, on the way he kept his hand extended.

“Or you can do it,” he said in a whisper that was as ruthless as it was vicious. “I’ll take you. Coach you through it.” Something dark glimmered in his eyes when she looked up— an intensity that was almost enough to make her stumble. “I’ll tell you exactly where to cut for a slow death. Exactly where to make it hurt. You want him to hurt as much as you? Then I’ll either do it for you, or I’ll teach you how to hold the blade that slices his throat.”

It didn’t scare her, the cold-blooded violence in his words.

Instead the power inside her stirred as her temper flared, stoked to an inferno. Cassian had told her once, so long ago, that they were the same. Nesta saw it now. Recognised every line of her anger playing out on his face; every kernel of bitterness she’d ever harboured one that he knew intimately too. She gritted her teeth, her heart racing as all of it threatened to engulf her as she met his eyes— eyes that had never once failed to find her even in the most crowded of rooms.

And to think…

She had almost been robbed of this.

Of him.

Anger surged anew, her chest tightening until it felt like there was something wound tight around her ribs, some thin piece of thread constricting and tightening as she thought of the life she might have lived had Feyre not killed that damned wolf and crossed the wall. Had she married some foreign prince like her mother had planned, and been far, far from these shores when the Night Court descended on her father’s manor. It hurt, to know that her happiness was so damned fragile, and though she heard Cassian call her name, it felt like she was submerged in water, thrashing like she was back inside that damned Cauldron.

“Nes,” Cassian said slowly, his tone one laden with warning, pricked with concern.

She heard the sharp intake of his breath, the low curse he muttered, but his voice was distant, drowned out by the roaring inside her head.

“Nesta.”

For too long, she’d been told what to do. Who to be. How to live. Every choice she had ever made— everything she had ever done, all to please somebody else. And where had it gotten her? What had it given her?

Nothing.

“Slow down.”

She ignored it. Gave in to the anger that coursed through her, that had been eating her alive since the moment her mother had first scolded her for scraping her knees; since the day that Tomas had slipped a wedding ring onto her finger.

Too long— for too long she had been living her life by someone else’s rules.

She hit again, harder this time.

But as she threw all of her weight behind her fist, her foot slipped— she stumbled, her wrist barking with pain as it bent too far, her knuckles connecting with Cassian’s palm too hard at the wrong angle, and all of a sudden she was lurching forwards, falling, falling—

And then wrapped in his arms, cradled against his chest as he caught her. Cassian’s hand rose to the back of her head, holding her against him as the other arm banded around her waist, keeping her steady as she broke completely, dashed against the rocks of her own anguish. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her entire frame trembling, and for once in her life, Nesta couldn’t find the strength to hold it together anymore.

She hadn’t realised she’d been crying, but her cheeks were wet and cold, and when she reached up to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand, her fingers were shaking. Tears she had smothered for years started to come thick and fast now, leaving her in a rush that had her curling her trembling fingers into Cassian’s skin, clinging to his shoulders like he was the rope she needed to get back onto familiar ground.

It hurt— everything hurt.

And yet…

Through each gasping breath and each stuttering cry, Nesta realised that perhaps this was exactly what she had needed; the fire to cleanse the ground— the purge before the new beginning.

“It’s alright,” Cassian whispered against her ear, stroking back the hair that had escaped her braid as she buried her face in his chest. His other hand held her so close she could feel his heart beating beneath her, and after a moment she felt his cheek rest against the crown of her head. A shudder ran through her, but Cassian only held her tighter, as if in silent promise that he’d never let her go again.

After what felt like an age, Nesta felt her breathing start to slow. The sobs that had racked her chest began to ease; the tension slipping from her shoulders as, little by little, she started to come back into herself. Through it all there was a steady stream of words whispered to her that she barely heard, and the steady beat of another heart that seemed to lend her strength when all of hers was spent. She counted the beats of that heart - his heart - until at last she felt stable enough to take a deep breath, lifting her head and unfurling her fingers from Cassian’s shoulders as she braced a palm flat against his chest.

Slowly he pulled back, his eyes roving her face as he scanned every inch.

His hand skated over her shoulder, the broad span of his palm sliding down her arm until he reached her wrist. When his fingers brushed it, there was a jolt of pain that had her remembering how hard she’d hit his palm. She flinched.

“We should wrap this,” he said softly. “You’ve probably sprained it.”

“It’s fine,” she insisted.

Cassian rolled his eyes. “No, it’s not. You don’t have to lie to me, Nes.”

His fingers were lithe and deft as they turned her injured wrist in hand, but Nesta felt the familiar prick of fire at her fingertips and didn’t care about her wrist or the damage she’d done. She remembered how she had barrelled her fists into his palms— how she had harboured that fire in her the whole time.

“Your hand,” she whispered, suddenly terrified that she might have burned him. “Let me see your hand.”

“Worry about your own, sweetheart,” Cassian countered dryly, but Nesta didn’t wait before grabbing his hand, uncurling his fingers and studying his palm, searching for a burn. For a mark. For anything that said she’d loosed the destructive power that lurked inside her on the only person who had never shied away from it.

There was nothing.

“You didn’t hurt me,” Cassian said gently, laying a hand atop her own.

“I could have,” she muttered.

He shook his head. “No. I don’t think you could.” His face turned contemplative as he hummed a little, and Nesta knew he wasn’t talking about her punches. “Not unless you really wanted to, anyway.”

She sniffed, turning her face away and letting the sun warm her skin as she took another deep breath. His skin was smooth and unharmed, like even though the flames inside her had revelled in her anger, she had kept it contained even when it felt like she couldn’t. She looked down at her own hands as Cassian resumed his inspection of her wrist, his touch softening as her fingers trembled.

“Rhysand said something yesterday,” she started slowly. “About the House.”

Cassian’s eyes slid up to meet hers. He said nothing.

“He said the magic is changing.”

She could have sworn he looked sheepish as he cleared his throat.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “It isn’t… usual. The way the House anticipates what you need. What you want.” Ruefully, he shook his head. “It’s never done that before.”

“And it… shouldn’t?”

“I don’t know,” he repeated. His eyes burned when they met hers, like they were searching for something.

Nesta swallowed, looking away and breaking eye contact first. “He keeps asking me about the magic.”

“I’ve told him to leave it alone,” Cassian answered quickly, a grim undertone to his voice that echoed the growl rumbling through his chest. His brows lowered, eyes darkened.

And though Nesta had denied it every time the High Lord had asked…

Quietly, she admitted now,

“I made it give something back.”

Her voice was a whisper, and she didn’t look up as she spoke the truth aloud at last. She felt the fire in her veins— recalled the way her nails had scraped over ice-cold iron; the way she had felt the world cleave beneath her fingertips, something vital coming apart in her hands.

Cassian didn’t flinch. He only met her eyes once more. Nodded.

“I know,” he whispered.

And she felt the power gathering in her blood, but it wasn’t burning, not like before. It felt… warm, like a heat that was slowly, incrementally, sinking into her. Becoming a part of her she couldn’t resist or contradict; as much a part of her as her bones or her fingers. It didn’t feel as destructive as it did before, either. No— it bloomed in the centre of her palms, swirling as she truly acknowledged it for the first time. Like it was curious.

Somehow that made it worse.

“Do you want to train your powers?” Cassian asked quietly, his attention dropping back to her wrist as his fingers pressed at it, trying to ascertain exactly how much damage she’d done. It took her a long time to answer, but eventually Nesta found the strength to shake her head. Cassian didn’t miss a beat before he nodded, his eyes darting up to hers before pressing once again at her wrist. “It scares you,” he said gently. “I get it.”

She tried to pull away, but Cassian’s fingers closed around her hand before it could leave his grasp. Not firm enough to hurt, but strong enough to let her know that she didn’t need to pull away so readily.

“It doesn’t have to be something to fear, you know.” His voice was easy, as though they were discussing the weather and not whatever unnatural power it was that she’d torn free from the Cauldron’s innards. As if it didn’t bother him at all, the knowledge that she had something unnatural brewing in her veins even now. “If you change your mind…” He trailed off, offered her a smile as bright as the sun itself. “I’ll be here. Magic or no magic.”

“And what if I don’t?” Nesta asked flatly. “What if I never want to?”

He shrugged easily. “Then you never want to.” He paused, then shrugged again. “But for what it’s worth,” he added slowly, “I think you have more control over it than you think you do.”

He glanced pointedly down at his own hand before looking back up at her, one brow slightly raised. Her wrist was still balanced between his fingers, and his touch was warm when he stroked his thumb lightly over where her pulse had started to pound beneath her skin.

The atmosphere between them seemed to shift, and with every pass of his thumb over her, she swore the air started to thin. She watched him swallow, tracked the movement of his throat as it bobbed, and she didn’t pull back when he leaned forward, closing the distance between them inch by agonising inch. Slowly, he leaned into her, pressing a kiss to her forehead that was so gentle, it was as though he thought she might shatter if he moved too quickly.

Nesta felt her breath hitch in her chest, and something like desperation rose within her— like his touch was the first thaw after a long winter, and she craved more of it. When his eyes travelled down to meet hers, she wondered if he could see the tears that had gathered behind her own, if he noticed the way that they burned.

Cassian’s hand left her wrist at last, only to rise to her face. With both hands he cradled her, his attention sliding to her mouth and lingering there, like he couldn’t pull himself away, and gods, Nesta didn’t want him to pull away. She had wanted distance before - needed it - but when his hands were on her and his chest was but an inch away from hers, she scorned the distance and everything it had brought with it.

The moment seemed to stretch. Time itself seemed to still. And after a minute - a long pause where Cassian waited for her to pull back - he let out a breath, his thumb skating across her cheekbone in a single languid touch that made her weak.

“Nesta,” he breathed, “would you run away if I kissed you?”

She let out a gentle huff, a soft echo of a laugh as she shook her head, made mute by the way he looked at her.

Her lips parted, and Cassian lowered his face to hers, swallowing the distance until his mouth was but a breath from hers. His fingers were light, grazing her cheeks as he leaned into her, his brow resting against hers as he breathed her in, like he had all the time in the world. Softly, he captured her lips with his own, swallowing Nesta’s sigh as her eyes closed and his hands fell to her waist. His moved his thumb in a long swipe across her ribs, his fingers climbing up her spine, and every part of Nesta suddenly felt more alive than ever before, like all those new senses she’d acquired in the Cauldron were being tested in a hundred different ways. He was sweet and warm, and Nesta couldn’t help but fall right back into it, like they’d never really stopped kissing at all. Like all the days since the Cauldron had been nothing but a dream, a nightmare she was pulled from as soon as he claimed her mouth as his own.

But there was no heat. Not really. His kiss was soft and wistful, slow as he reacquainted himself with the taste and feel of her, and tentatively Nesta lifted her hands to his hair, weaving strands of it through her fingers and holding him against her as he deepened the kiss, stealing her breath and making her heart pound so hard she wondered if he could hear it hammering.

A rumble went through his chest— travelled through hers. He smiled against her, his hands squeezing her waist. And oh— she had missed this. Missed his hands circling her, missed the way he chased her lips and missed the way he kissed like he saw every part of her and still wanted it to devour him.

His fingers twisted in the fabric of her dress, splayed across her spine. She melted into him, his hands the only thing keeping her steady, keeping her upright, and she swore the world could have ended in that moment and she’d be none the wiser. There was nothing else but him— the way he tilted her face back to grant him better access to her mouth, the way he pulled back to let her breathe, only to drag his lips along her jaw.

He might have whispered her name; she might have murmured his. She wasn’t sure. All she knew with any certainty was that she never wanted his kiss to end.

Only when it seemed like there was no air left in the entire world did Cassian lift his head, forcing distance between them that made Nesta’s head spin. She could hear his heart beating as furiously as her own, and Cassian closed his eyes as he rested his brow against hers, breathing her in like she was all he needed to keep himself alive. At her waist, his hands remained firm and steady.

“Can we just…” he began, faltering as his chest rose in an uneven rhythm. He shook his head, a wry smile on his lips that Nesta wanted to treasure. “Can we just start all over again?”

She lifted onto her toes, pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“I think I’d like that,” she whispered.

Cassian nudged her cheek with his nose, that smile lighting up his face to the point where Nesta’s heart ached to look at him. It was like staring at the sun for too long— she was blinded by him, by the sheer depth of what it was that she felt for him. His smile was one of pure devotion, and as his head fell into the crook of her neck, peppering soft kisses along her skin, she felt him whisper her name against her like it had somehow become a prayer to him.

“Cassian,” Nesta said after a moment, dragging her fingers through his hair. He hummed, the sound skittering across her collarbone and sending a jolt down her spine that made her shiver. With one hand she curled her fingers beneath his chin and lifted his face to her own. “Kiss me again.”

His grin was that of a man starved as he looked at her.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he winked, “I thought you’d never ask.”

#begged & borrowed time #nessian #nessian fic

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