#it is eden and a deathtrap all at the same time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

flowerflamestars · 5 years ago

Text

Fate and Fervor

PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE PART FOUR PART FIVE PART SIX PART SEVEN PART EIGHT

For the first time in five centuries, Cassian watched the sun rise over mortal lands. Raw as a new recruit he let the blizzards frigid wind breathe its secret’s around him, nearly so cold as his mountain home. Pink and blue, the world was superficially still in this hour before people began to move, but still here Cassian was, looking for something. Nothing he could name or place, but Cassian trusted his instincts above all else. There was something here- Not the something that resolved itself from the shadow of an open door to twist into the body of his brother, but the look on Azriel’s face gave agreement to Cassian’s wordless tension. Az ruffled his own hair, crossing the room in two strides and making a face that managed to silently convey he disagreed strongly with Cassian’s need to have every single window- four, imported glass every one, this room alone worth more money than he wanted to think about- to lean on the other side of the threshold where Cassian sat, between propped open balcony doors. “Amren raided the hall of records- twelve Archeron generations.”

Cassian huffed a laugh. Six in the morning and Azriel already sounded exhausted by the surprises and sisterly infighting. “Can you believe she didn’t know? Fey would think having royal blood didn’t matter.” His brother’s lips twitched. “It does explain a few things.” The wind twisted around them, silent to ears not Illyrian, keened, keened keened- somewhere, some thing, fire without flame. Cassian let his head thunk back against the door. Nothing here was as expected. Not just Feyre’s beloved and difficult sisters, or Lucien Vanserra in the heart of things, but this estate. Lavish, but- “You catch the double wardings?” Cassian asked. Azriel sighed. “Everywhere. This whole damned place is a blood magic deathtrap.” Respect was heavy in his tone, and Cassian could understand it. Lucien had to have brought himself to near death to put the wards in place. A Courts heir, high fae, bleeding for two mortal girls. Illyrians also had a long history of protecting what they loved at any brutal cost. And here was a far more dangerous world than Feyre had described; not desperation and cold waiting for them, but magic and secrets in their place. “How’s the border?” Cassian sometimes forgot how remote Az could be in company. A messy youth of laughing when the other option was despair had grown into a silent expressiveness that still made Cassian grin. As he did now, watching Azriel’s whole face twist in a near-comical horror. “Blown to shit,” He ran a hand through his hair again, pulling on the curls. “No, Cas, it’s gone.” “Tamlin hasn’t?..” With perfect silence, Az stepped around the sprawl of Cassian’s body in the doorway, pointedly clipping one wing with his hip. He followed, snow immediately drifting in his hair, landing featherlight on Cassian’s bare shoulders. The view was uninterrupted by anything so spartan as walls or coverage, the house a defensive nightmare. Just long sloping lawns and gardens broken up by magic rich, absurdly dense patches of forest. He’d hide Illyrians in those trees, have to rely on surprises and traps. “Straight shot less than a league from here to Spring,” Az tilted his chin toward the dark and snowy forest, “Archeron land goes right to the Wall.” What had possessed humans to build, to live, so close to the cursed thing? “The borders down, Feyre’s sisters have been here this whole time,” Cassian didn’t like the odds, half wanted to go over each of their sprawling magical traps himself. It wasn’t, couldn’t be safe here. “Is Tamlin that afraid of Vanserra?” Az shook his head. “He was dying, when he came here.” Cassian didn’t have to ask for explanation; secrets and history were the ken of Azriel in their every shape. “The magic at the border wasn’t a fight, he shattered it. Walked on foot through the woods, burning so hot it went to the bedrock, stopped half dead there.” He pointed with one scarred hand to a snow-buried rose garden. “They saved him?” “Something happened,” Az replied, “Something made him live.” Cassian recognized the tone, gave into the urge to drum fingertips on the iced over railing. “Something like being the son of a high lord, or something like Rhys keeping Feyre alive?” “I can’t tell,” Azriel admitted, with a grimace. The wind sang around them with that phantom scent of fire, something, something just beyond reach. Cassian didn’t ask if Az could hear it too. —- The breakfast room was a masterwork. After an hour of talking that turned to plans to slowly letting themselves be utterly savage at the very idea, much less the reality of syrupy, utterly untrustworthy charming Rhysand, the eldest Archeron sister’s had come downstairs. The empty house benefitted them. No maids to watch and try to help as they hauled in new furniture, no footmen insisting they could carry the vast rug the sisters dragged in between them. No eyes to see where they stored the family secrets. Nesta rolled out the thick carpet with one hard kick of a dainty foot, and huffed. “If he lies to our faces I’m going to stab him.” Elain, comparing fine porcelain patterns with each hand, snickered. “Even if he does, Feyre will want to know why.” “I think,” Nesta said, utterly even, “She’d believe his word over ours.” Elain didn’t throw down the plate, but she was later grateful this particular pattern, covered in silver stars and ever-blooming poison flowers like an alchemists eden, was charmed against breakage as it slid to the ground. Nesta was a perfectly straight pillar, staring down at the plush green and purple pattern beneath her feet. Trying to hide the full scope of her hurt, even from Elain. High walls and grace and rage- but underneath it the largest heart of them all. It had gone unspoken between them, that they’d silently imagined Feyre in their number again someday. The things they’d done- building her spaces in the house, signing her name for the Councils seal: a Lord Archeron might technically always be in legal charge, but it’s beneficiaries were his three, precious daughters. Nesta had made sure of that. Their father would never pass them the title- but everything else was theirs: Feyre, Elain, Nesta, the last of their storied bloodline. A home, a place, a fortune. All Feyre’s whenever she should want it. Their land was dangerous too, growing more worrisome every day- but they’d missed their sister. They’d broken laws too numerous to count to stay safe and powerful, to maintain a corner of the world she might one day live in with them. Elain crossed the room to take her elder sister’s hand. The triplicate strand of pearls that lived on Elain’s wrist now that their home was full of fae had to have been cold, but Nesta didn’t flinch. “Feyre loves us,” Elain said, softly, “I don’t know what she wants now, but it had to have been her idea to bring the High Lord here.” “A reckless, stupid idea,” Nesta grumbled. Elain laughed, “So stupid it’ll probably get us killed. But she’s home.” The laugh was what made Nesta look up, her shining eyes so completely like their mother’s Elain savored the sight. She’d been taller, her blue grey gaze more metallic and the fine boned cheeks she’d blessed them all with more inclined to smile; but Nesta was utterly the child of their most beloved parent. “If we die, we’ll die together,” Nesta sighed. “Do you think that if you kill a High Lord you can really steal the power?” There was just enough dry humor in her voice for Elain to laugh again. “We could test it on Beron.” Nesta ran her hands down her skirt, flaring the fine faery velvet to shake off ash and dust. They’d dressed for conquest together, every inch rich merchants daughters. “We’ll be beat to it, I’d imagine.” They would be, Elain was sure. Sorcha, who deserved her revenge the very most, would have it. Already had in some way- stolen essential, ancient power, given Lucien back a part of his birthright Elain couldn’t fully comprehend. Nesta had spoken wryly, but the furrow between her eyes returned. They were thinking the same thing; wouldn’t say the Lady of Autumns name aloud in these spaces now shared with a Shadowsinger. Couldn’t speak to each other of what was to come even alone, in their newly invaded house. Like Elain, Nesta believed in an absolute form of justice. Beron was going to die. Unbidden, lean brown lines returned to the forefront of her thoughts. Lucien’s clever hands- that Elain should not be letting herself long for- riven with burns at the touch of that crown. Autumn-born, but cast out. Power. A chance, revenge, the war to come- they had plans for it. Plans upon plans: for if they could hold the estate, for evacuation and weaponry. The three of them together took care of separate spheres, but Nesta held the most in her head. Elain didn’t wonder how far they’d have to go; there was no too far, not to keep their family safe. Even if they had to be kept safe from the very people their sister had made a family of. - Cassian counted windows and clear views, walking on silent feet behind Feyre through her families home. Even motion was a struggle, the third shift of his wings loud enough Azriel was looking at him. It wasn’t the luxury- not the quiet or beauty of this place putting him on edge. Not even the conflict- coming here was a bad idea, and he knew it. Cassian didn’t even know what he was looking for. Until Feyre swung open yet another beautiful door, and Cassian stopped breathing. Bathed in bright morning light of a wall-sized window, Feyre’s sisters had beat them to breakfast. Arrayed in finery, at the head of the table sat Nesta, steaming porcelain cup in her hand so fine Cassian could see through it. How he made it from the doorway to the seat at her right hand was a dangerous proposition- Cassian didn’t know how. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, but the deep steadying breath was a mistake. The pearls in her hair alone were worth a fortune. He wanted to dismiss her beauty, the vanity as it juxtaposed with things Feyre had said. The sister whose heart was an ocean, vast but unconquerable. The same sister who hadn’t protected her. But Cassian was too much himself, too long a dearest friend to Mor to dismiss any woman based on appearance. Not braided in to show off the shining darkness of her hair, but affixed loose to the ends of pins like water drops. The pearls moved when she did, a chime through the still, tense air Cassian wasn’t sure anyone else could hear. It wasn’t a question he’d ask. Cassian wanted- he wanted to stop staring at her. Wanted her to look back at him so badly he’d bitten a hole in his cheek, the copper tang of blood not enough to forget the smell. He wanted an excuse to get up from this lavish power play of a breakfast table, to have a reason to walk past her again and catch Nesta Archeron’s scent. Velvet and pearls and ink- past that, herself: fire, mixed with the cold tang of high mountain air. It was intoxicating. The ink she’d scrubbed from her hands didn’t show, but it complimented completely that raging smell, like a tundra forest fire. Cassian could tell too that she was armed- knives under that velvet dress, a stinging scent that could only mean ash wood somewhere on her person. The danger only increased his racing heart. And then Nesta Archeron turned her pale, perfect face on him. Impossible cheekbones, full lips, sharp jaw, keen eyes. “What,” She snarled, “Do you think you’re looking at?” Her voice rang like a bell through his skull. Cassian was not High Fae. Not even low fae, really- Illyrian’s were so different as to be considered outsiders to even the rest. Savages. He’d never needed anyone to explain to him what bullshit it was; but, Cassian was Illyrian to his bones, blooded and born of open skies. He was different, and so was capable of realizing he was looking at a fellow threat. The ash was in her hair- pins? It had to be, had it been anywhere near her skin Cassian wouldn't scent it the way he was now. The fire and iron of her rage and arms, growing stronger with the uptick of Nesta’s heart. It hit him all at once, the commonality of this entire spread. He couldn’t make himself look away, but there was something familiar even about the silk in Elain’s hair. Nesta was looking at him like she wanted to rip out his throat. Beautiful- the bones of her proud face were as flawless as the pearls, paler than their sheen. Cassian, still hearing her voice in the air, only to his ears, wanted to see how close he could push her to doing it. Her pale gaze bobbed down to his lips for a scant second, and then out. Look at me, Cassian thought, before realizing her furious eyes were following the line his wings made around his body. Black in this light, the scars hidden. Was she measuring? The out of body insanity he’d been feeling since he walked past her shouldn’t leave room for pride, but there is was, leaving Cassian light headed. If Nesta wanted to go for his throat, she’d have to touch him. Human- her teeth were like his, bruising, not faery pointed. Her mouth- Like a door slammed shut in Cassian’s face, every bit of Nesta dismissed him, every bit of her attention forward once more. She smelled like fire and every fine thing in the world- Cassian was burning. Distantly, he listened to Feyre snap something toward her oldest sister in offense, Elain’s sweet voice chiming in. In the distraction of the conversation he heard the rustle of Az’s wings, but Cassian ignored his brother’s subtle turn in question. Without permission or a conscious plan, Cassian leaned right over the table corner into Nesta’s space, like they were the only people in the room. “You know about Sangravah.” Nesta stopped speaking mid-sentence. She’d moved toward him, not away. This close, he could see the pulse beating in her throat, and fought not to stare like a madman. Savage, Cassian thought again, with very different bitterness. “Do I know the Night Court was invaded, a city leveled, and within a day it’s High Lord showed up on my doorstep?” She hissed, meeting his gaze. “Yes.” Nesta had known, and she’d laid a trap. A brilliant jab, after Rhys’ speech about strength and the war to come. Everything in this room came from the North- imported china, but painted in the Rainbow. Night Court silver. Wall hangings, the kaleidoscopic silk of Elain’s clothes, the very rug beneath their feet: Sangravah. Cassian had seen with his own eyes the smoking ruin Hybern had left of half the city. “I had no idea the merchant network worked so quickly,” Rhysand drawled mildly, sipping tea like they were having a casual discussion. Cassian had the quicksilver thought of smashing his fist into his beloved brother, trusted High Lords face. The Archeron sisters were not going to be handled. But Nesta was still looking right at him. Cassian knew that expression on Illyrian faces- a predator that had smelled blood. She was good, too good. After all, he’d fought with Rhys for a full day about this particular direction: bringing danger to Feyre’s human family, taking the war over the Wall prematurely if things went sideways. They were her sisters, it was ultimately her call. That didn’t mean he had to agree with it. How did Nesta know? “The families,” Nesta said, matter of fact and deadly, “Lost good sailors to the fires. When the stone burned, the water did too.” Feyre had opened her mouth in horror, but Nesta plowed on. “If we can’t keep people safe in your land, what makes you think we could provide for you safe haven to hide from your war?” Cassian wanted to reach out and touch her. “No one,” Rhysand said, “Is hiding.” Feyre leaned around his wings, mouth twisting. If she took note of the electric bubble of space Cassian had accidentally created and Nesta had taken over with sheer rage, it didn’t show. “We’re sure father couldn’t have been on any of the ships? He wasn’t there when it happened, right?” They were so close a pearl hit Cassian’s nose as Nesta’s attention snapped left, the back of her braid stabbed through with a pin long enough to double as a dagger. A faery killing dagger, gleaming ash wood- Cassian couldn’t have backed away if the room were on fire. “Feyre,” It was Elain who sighed her name. Resplendent in pink and pearls of her own, she showing a whole different face than the woman who’d stabbed Azriel yesterday. “Father is not working the trade routes.” Feyre shook her head, already glancing back at Rhys, “Can we find out for sure? Send someone in case”- “He’s in the City of Gods,” Nesta said, flatly. “Or he was a year ago, getting arrested for gambling debts. I doubt he got much further.” Feyre’s face crumbled. A scream would have drawn Rhy’s attention less quickly, and Cassian himself hated to see her hurt, but he was busy struggling to breathe. If he’d been less close the sorrow that emanated from Nesta would have been hidden. Anger was one thing, an unholy terror in her rage, but- But the urge to rip apart whatever had hurt Nesta was overwhelming. It rattled in his veins, terrifying to even himself. What was wrong with him? “I’ll find your father, wherever he is,” Rhys promised Feyre is a low voice. She leaned into the touch of his hand, blue eyes over-bright. Late, too late, Cassian caught Elain watching him. He knew she was armed too, under all that silken beauty. She was softer than her sisters, a gentle ghost in Feyre’s stories. Giant eyes and winsome dimples seemed to only reinforce that vision- but she’d stabbed Azriel. Loved and absolutely trusted from her every gesture one of the most dangerous unaligned faeries in Prythian. Twisted her face in an expression of total wickedness that belonged on Feyre’s face to raise brows at Cassian- at the lack of space between him and Nesta. Cassian sat back in his chair, clenched hands hidden by the table. Not fast enough to miss the impossibly quiet rattled sound of a breath leaving Nesta when he moved. Not a bit of it showed on her face- for all that Cassian could smell sadness, a cool unmovable rage, beautiful to see, was all that reached the world. A queen, riven of ice and pearl. The next youngest might have been flounced like a princess, but Cassian couldn’t imagine she wasn’t just as controlled. Courtier and queen then- quick poison and vengeful crusade, hand in hand. Feyre had failed, on a cataclysmic level, to describe her elder sisters. They should have seen it coming- an impossibly young human woman who’d freed them from Amarantha. She’d come from somewhere, for all that most days she seemed more like a sister, a friend. Instinctive deep breath burned his lungs with Nesta’s scent all over again. If he pulled on that murderous dagger, would the whole thing unwind? He wanted with a stark insanity to know how long her dark hair was. Could he fill both hands with its softness, breathe in her scent? Cassian hadn’t missed it when he’d scooped her out of the fight the day before. But her fear had clouded everything- a fear of him so complete and overwhelming he’d felt sick- left no room for the wildness that pounded his skin- and then of course, all he’d smelled was his own blood. “Fey,” Began Elain, her deceptively soft voice carrying, “Father has made it clear he doesn’t want to be involved. We can send sailors to check on him, but it would be easier to plan if you told us why you’re here.” He wondered how old they were. From Feyre’s stories, Cassian had been sure Elain was the youngest. But old enough to wed- old enough to be entangled with Lucien bloody Vanserra- and Nesta was clearly an adult in her prime. The Cauldron-gifted savior of Prythian was the baby of the family. And making a guiless younger sibling face that made the long-scarred wounds where Asteria had lived ache. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.” “Bullshit,” Nesta snapped. Cassian bit his cheek again to stay silent, mouth twisting without his permission. She was a nightmare- a beautiful nightmare that wasn’t going to let this already messy plan come together without a fight. A small noise had escaped Elain- not even censure, tiredness? Before the two older- he was sure of it- Acheron’s were meeting eyes in a silent understanding that scrunched Feyre’s face into a scowl. “You both think that?” That they exchanged glances once more before Elain tried again was enough to audibly set Feyre’s teeth. “You can always come home,” Elain told her, staring down the table with it’s gleaming crystal and china, utterly sincere. “You have a place here with us, no matter what, Feyre. But”- Nesta interrupted, hurt buried from her voice but not Cassian’s senses, throat burning at her pain. “You let us think you were dead. If not for Lucien, we would have no idea what happened to you.” “And,” Elain went on, like Feyre didn’t look like she’d been slapped, like Rhysand wasn’t staring at Nesta with a thunderous, barely contained danger, “We understand these are very dangerous times.” It was all wrong- Cassian had fought against this plan on the basis that mortals over the Wall killed faeries, killed those who associated with them. It was still the greatest danger here, but how thoroughly had they misunderstood what they were walking into? These women were already involved in their own way, all the more in peril because of it; they weren’t going to be able to contain this situation, they were only going to make it worse. Cassian was going to make it worse if he didn’t get a hold of himself, if Rhys kept looking at Nesta like that. It was an effort to be still, to stay silent. Every instinct in Cassian’s body was telling him to move: to reach out and find some way to soothe that raging pain in Nesta Archeron, who he’d known all of a day, to put himself bodily between the bright flame of her mortal beauty and the anger of a High Lord. His brother- who would never- Despite the overwhelming tension in the air, Feyre scoffed. “How did Lucien know I was alright?” Trapped at the corner of table Cassian got the full view of Elain’s eye twitching before her whole face smoothed. Nesta had no such compunctions. “I believe he was somewhat aware of whatever has put that crown on your head.” Moonstone today- like a distant echo to Nesta’s shower of pearls. Cassian knew damn well what Rhysand was doing, giving his emissary a crown, but Feyre didn’t. Equal parts marveled and self-self-conscious at the splendor, she’d refused- not ready or too stubborn, he didn’t know- to look at Rhys’s affection for what it might be. With a long, slow breath, Rhys finally set down his tea cup. “We’re not here for refuge. The tragedy at Sangravah was not the first attack, nor will it be the last. We need to call on old alliances if anyone is going to survive.” Silken- not gentle, there was the voice of the woman who could love the lost heir of Autumn- Elain breathed, “Human alliances?” Feyre nodded, and Cassian wished there were some way to stop her before she went on, painfully earnest. “I’m the emissary of the Night Court, I need to speak to the Council of Queens. If they’ll listen, help, we all might have a chance. Hybern won’t stop”- No one had to explain further, as Cassian imagined few people ever did speaking to Nesta. The look on her face had been icy, now she might as well have breathed frost. “And you’re High Fae, so you cannot set foot in the sacred palace. You want to bring the Council of Queens here?” Breaking his silence with clear regret already on his face, it was Azriel that answered. “We have been unable to infiltrate the council. It’s a deathtrap, to our kind. It might only be safe to engage here, on mortal land.” “It’s a deathtrap for a reason”- “Hybern,” Rhys cut in smoothly, “Has been preparing for this war for millennia. The king aims to take this entire continent, and there will be nothing to stop his march into mortal countries. If we cannot band together now, we’ll fall, one by one.” “No,” Nesta growled, a nearly-faery noise. “No. Hybern has declared war on the Night Court, I will not let you bring that violence south.” “It’s the only safe way,” Feyre said, voice cutting. “I just need your house, just for a few days. The message is sent. But we should plan together. We’ll keep you out it, keep you safe, Rhys can”- Not Nesta, who’d stood from the table to yell all the better, but Elain, her pale cheeks drained of color who didn’t let her younger sister finish. “What do you mean, the message has been sent?” Feyre, Cassian thought, you didn’t. One hand on Rhysand’s forearm, Feyre raised her chin. “I invited the Queens here. We don’t have time to argue, they’ll have the message by nightfall.” — Elain had told herself not to be surprised by her younger sister’s actions anymore. One High Lord, two High Lords- the Lord of nightmares and shadows- breaking a curse older than all of them, fighting monsters, becoming fae. Nothing had truly disappointed her before this moment. Feyre, who wanted so badly to do the right thing, who was trying to protect her new family: but who would protect them? Their vassals, their land, the fragile, infinitely valuable legacy of their blood that Elain and Nesta had lied and committed treason to hold onto? She’d been right- Nesta had been right. There were a hundred moving pieces before them: the household staff, who’d return in a day, if that when the blizzard ended. Their vassals relying on them- the extra gold and food they provided in winter, the orphanage full of children who had no idea how dangerous or precarious their world was. The Crown of Autumn in a hatbox, the slight of hand involved to keep their ships sailing and their goods sold. Her engagement ball, the invitations sent. Lucien’s safety, Sorcha’s plan. That the war starting might be here- that those battles wouldn’t have a chance to kill them if the Queens decided to take their lives themselves, as was their legal due. Elain needed to breathe. To think. All she could do was look at her sister- not Feyre, not now- at Nesta, and understand the sorrow, the anger that spooled between them. Trapped, once again. Elain didn’t realize she’d risen until her skirt snagged on the chair, stopping her progress to Nesta’s side for a split second before the dark-eyed shadowsinger to her left freed it with an inclined head. Later, she would think about how this court- family, so clearly a family- didn’t seem to agree either. But first she rounded the corner to take Nesta’s hand. Shoulder to shoulder, they wouldn’t flinch. She wanted Lucien. Colder than the ice gathered at the windows, Nesta’s voice was clipped. “You invited the entire Council of Queens to meet the High Lord of the Night Court, under our roof?” Before Feyre could answer the hulking Illyrian who had been staring at Nesta like she were both miracle and doom interrupted with that whiskey warm voice of his, “Feyre, you didn’t ask?” Nesta didn’t look at him, didn’t move her focus from the High Lord whose unnatural gaze was on them both, but Elain felt her hand, hidden by their skirts, spasm. Humans had told stories of his kind for generations. The true of heart, warriors whose honor was life, whose promises were magic, who protected the innocent at all costs. Myths, surely, but this was the Commander of the Legions. Honor was perhaps something they could lean on. “We don’t have time to fight,” Feyre insisted, a transparent lack of understanding on her face, “Hyberns next attack could come at any time. I can do this, we can do this.” Smoothly, the Lord who they feared even across the sea nodded, spread his hands in a very human gesture of compliancy, wrong to behold. “I know that you don’t trust me, don’t know me. But please believe I won’t allow any harm to come to Feyre’s family.” Feyre’s family- their fate’s bound together inescapably. Elain had had more than enough assurance for one morning. She didn’t need to look to know Nesta felt the same, to guess from her thrown back shoulders and rigid body that Nesta wanted nothing more than to be out of this room. Time to think, to plan, to be alone- but she wouldn’t, couldn’t back down from the fight. And Rhysand wasn’t done. “We’ll shore up your defenses, guard your home for as long as needed. Feyre’s letter is the first real message we’ve gotten to the Queens, but our interests align. We”- Elain shook out the heavy woven silk of her skirts, rainbow shimmer settling under her steady hands. Ignoring the whole lot of them- winged warriors, Feyre’s confusion, Rhysand’s false straightforwardness, she turned to Nesta. “Tea?” Nesta cocked her head, in step, the graces that served them again and again. “Of course, I’ll see you this evening.” Time then, she needed time as well. And long enough for them to wait for Lucien. Elain addressed the room at large, like Rhysand hadn’t spoken. “Please do enjoy the comforts of our home. The kitchens are stocked, if not staffed, and the library is down the hall. You’ll find extra clothing in the scullery and more firewood in the closets of all the greatrooms. Avail yourselves to whatever you need, we’ll see you tomorrow.” “Elain”- Nesta made it to the door first, holding it open for them both before the satisfactory slam rocked the entire wall. In low tones, Nesta asked as they reached the stairs, “Do you know where Lucien is?” Elain shook her head, “He was talking about checking on the outlying farms.” Nesta sighed, on the step above as they’d been braced to head in opposite directions. “Later,” she said again, reaching out quicksilver fast to squeeze Elain’s hand again. “We’ll figure it out.” She managed to smile in return before stumbling down the stairs, fast enough to trip. It was longer way outside, down twisting marble and across the grander spaces of the house, but Elain still managed to pull on her fur cloak and step out into the crisp, bright world before she had company. She strode into the snow regardless, ducking around the house on slick stone paths, cold clear air her greatest companion. “Elain,” It was Feyre, of course. For a half moment, Elain contemplated just ignoring her. When they were children, truly young, the only thing that made Feyre angry was to lack for attention. It wasn’t normally a problem; even at their most desperate, their father had affection to spare for his youngest, precious daughter. It would be almost fair, she’d ignored their qualms, the very circumstances of their lives. But no, Elain was better than that. No matter what, she’d missed her sister and there were things that had to be said. “Elain,” Called Feyre again, sliding into step beside her on those longer faery legs that Elain couldn’t get used to. Always gangly, little Fey now moved with perfect, silent grace. “You can’t refuse to plan with Rhys because of the letter. We need the Queens to”- Gently, gentle as she could manage, Elain interrupted. “The problem isn’t Rhysand,” She said, trying and hoping Feyre would actually listen. If Nesta had this talk with her, it was going to end with screaming. “You wrote that letter, Feyre.” Familiar and still utterly different blue faery eyes blinked widely a her. “I was,” She stumbled over the words, “I was a human and now I’m fae, and the emissary of the Night Court. The best choice to write to the Queens.” Five steps from the haven of her solarium, Elain stopped walking. “Feyre,” She said again, and this time she couldn’t hold back the anger in her voice. “You wrote the letter. You signed it with your own name too, didn’t you?” Feyre stopped too, set her feet wide and stubborn. Through the glass, Elain could see her orchids blooming. If she made it to those doors, there’d be no Night Court. Just soil and moss only she’d ever touched. Potted lemons blooming, the air warm and moist, some actual damned quiet- but she had to have this talk. Elain sighed. “Rhysand, none of them know any humans. Not in recent history, anyway,” Feyre opened her mouth as if in protest, but Elain held up a hand, “You grew up here. You know the punishment for associating with faeries in this land is death, Feyre.” No one cared the original Acheron fortune had been built on the back of wrangling a deal with a faery smith. That even now, Nesta, under the auspice of their father’s authority, kept faery bargains on the continent. What mattered was this: the wild land along the Wall had no ruler. It belonged personally to the Council of Queens, but with true governance more than an ocean away, human lords- whose estates might as well have been tiny kingdoms, for their absolute power- had to keep the peace. Faeries came over the Wall- not faeries of the continent, whose gated kingdoms and vast reaches had always interacted with humans in some way- but faeries of Prythian who played by different rules. Killing. Stealing maidens in the night. Hunting humans like prey. So the highest echelon of Lords, Flatha and Tiarna, petitioned the Queens they traced their own bloodlines back to and it was written into law: death, usually at the hands of your very own liege, at the word of your neighbors. Human slow, Feyre touched Elain’s arm. “The meeting will stay secret,” She told her, wide eyes sincere, “There will be Illyrian’s to guard if anything goes wrong, and Rhys will keep you and Nesta safe.” Lucien, markedly, was not included in the count to be protected. All at once, Elain was exhausted. She didn’t want to be angry. Not at her naive and beautiful sister, all of nineteen years old, who’d fought and died and been transformed. Little Feyre, a true hero, who’d always had a good heart. Tired too, that for all that goodness, Feyre really thought Elain was afraid for herself. “You signed it Archeron,” Elain snapped before she could stop herself. “Just because father bankrupted all of us doesn’t mean he ever stopped being a lord. Ua Flaithbertaig, Feyre. These people lived without a leigelord for a generation, we’ve only begun to fix things. They will be punished, we will be punished.” “When the Queens meet with us, they won’t punish you for being present.” Feyre said lowly. “If they meet with you, Feyre!” Elain found herself shouting and stopped, breathing out her nose. She’d been wrong; maybe Nesta should have had this conversation- maybe she’d have been sharp enough for Feyre to take her seriously. “Nesta is not Banfhlaith, Fey,” Elain tried very hard to say evenly. “She can’t petition for clemency. Lucien is living under a false identity- there’s no one to protect us, no one who can intervene.” “But Rhys,”- Not for the first time, something prickled in Elain’s palms at the sound of Feyre’s familiarity with the High Lord of the Night Court. There was more there than a bargain, whatever that binding tattoo meant. Feyre loved him. Elain knew she didn’t mean harm, wanted to trust her sisters new friends- but that was just it. They were new- foreign and horrifically powerful. Good intentions wouldn’t protect human lives in a violent game that had spanned centuries. “Rhysand,” Elain managed to say normally, calmly even, “Is not going to stop a war with an enemy that held him captive for a half a century to protect three hundred human vassals who have nothing to do with the conflict.” The stubborn set of Feyre’s stance had become kinetic with anger. “Nothing?” She shouted back, flawless immortal hands flung into the air, “War is coming. People are going to die, Elain. During the last war”- She sounded just like Nesta, when she was angry. But then again, Nesta never talked down to Elain. “The last war was almost six hundred years ago,” Elain snarled back. “The Queens hate the High Lords, Feyre. Our country is allied with the faeries of the continent, humans live in the Glass Mountains, go to university in the Weeping City- the world has changed.” “The world changes, but you don’t, right?” Feyre said, brittle with anger. “You have Tamlin’s riches, so you get to play lady again.” Elain had a hundred reasons Feyre was wrong- that without a leigelord, an Archeron in power, their people had nothing. Bound to their ancestral land without protection. No divorces, no founding of new institutions, they couldn’t even pick new crops to grow on estate land without their lords word. With their father out of power, they were trapped- and forced to pay the crown tax individually, more than twice what the estate under Elain and Nesta took. The fiefdoms of their slip of human land weren’t fair- but the sisters were lucky enough the Queens had never awarded the ancestral Archeron lands to anyone else. Their father might not have given a damn, but the least they could do was try to make things better. But none of that came out of her mouth as her sister kept speaking. “What’s the plan? Say the war never comes. What, you’re really going to marry Lucien? Lie to everyone. Let him pretend to be your human husband for a hundred years until you die?” When Nesta was younger, she used to panic. It would crash over her, hold her fast in it’s grip- she told Elain it was like a vise in her chest, all the time, but sometimes it squeezed so tight she couldn’t breathe. The world went white. Elain had promised her to help hide it- for Feyre to never see- but she’d vowed to herself to find a way to hold Nesta’s hand when the world tried to crush her. The world was white now. “Get out.” Elain said, colorless. Surprise visibly interrupted Feyre’s anger. “What?” Elain didn’t pause to say it again. She started walking, those last five steps strangely light, as though the ground were further away. But two of her steps was one of her sisters now. “Elain,”- “No,” Elain said, refusing to look up, lest Feyre see her burning eyes. She wasn’t going to cry. “What’s done is done. Whatever danger is coming, I’m not going to face it having slapped my own baby sister.” The brightness of the icy day dazzling her eyes, Elain lurched away and into those safe glass walls. Humid heat and the smell of smoke hiding behind green growing things wrapped around her like an embrace. Lucien had laid some magic over this place, kept her plants safer even than the expensive glass provided. I’ll have to thank him, Elain thought, the orchids lush before her. But she passed their shelves, went all the way to that back until she was screened from the outside world by potted palms, and sank to the stone floor. Twenty five. Elain was twenty five years old- how long would it be before she looked older than Lucien? Three years, six years, ten years? How could she know how things would progress? He’d never mentioned leaving. Seemed, not just as his human guise, but in those quiet moments that were Lucien and nothing else, to perhaps love the land the same way she did. He might change his glamour with time- human faces change- but Elain knew the real ageless beauty. He belonged here with them. She didn’t know how she would change. They had to survive- it wasn’t all a lie, hadn’t ever been, and maybe, maybe, if they lived, Elain would make sure Lucien knew it. — Despite the moonless night, Cassian found Nesta Archeron outside. He’d resisted all of ten hours. He shouldn’t have gone looking for her. That he knew- there was no way she'd come out into a dark and frozen night for company. In fact, Cassian wasn’t sure Nesta liked anyone’s company. But he couldn’t talk himself into staying away, anymore than he could get her burning scent off the back of his tongue. Like something had possessed him, Cassian couldn’t stop tasting it on the air. Even in the sky overhead, his lungs burned with mountain cold and raging fire. Like home. Nesta didn’t make sense to him. The older sister who’d failed to protect Feyre. The wrathful pillar of ice ready to challenge a High Lord without a trace of fear. The woman who seemed determined to go down fighting- not just for her sisters- but for every single human in these lands. The spitfire who’d broken his noise, and come back for more. She looked at him like he was dirt beneath her boots- and Cassian couldn’t stop thinking about her. So like the Cauldron damned masochist he was, Cassian found himself waiting in a dead garden, struck dumb by the play of false firelight over her relentlessly beautiful face. Magic- of course- Vanserra’s raw power intermingled so deeply into the Archeron’s land that it was beginning to take on small characteristics of faerie. Will-o-whisps were old Autumn magic- and inclined to lead mortals and faeries alike to their death in their original form. Those bouncing around the Archeron’s dormant garden seemed more interested in the roses. Or perhaps the woman sitting beside them. “Is it common Night Court manners to sulk in the dark?” Nesta asked, back to Cassian as she faced the sky. “It’s not a good time to be alone at night.” Nesta remained silent. The will-o-whisps drifted closer, painting red over the old gold of her hair. Cassian fought the urge to smack one away from her fragile mortal form. An itch was starting his veins- familiar dismissal in her silence that seemed to reach right down inside him. What was Cassian doing? This woman didn’t need- or want his attention. Cassian liked fighting, but that didn’t mean he needed to take a few extra kicks to the ribs. He was just rocking back, silent even on the frosted ground, when Nesta turned to look up at him. One eyebrow rose. Cassian fought the urge to tuck his wings tight and shift, to lessened the impact of his sheer size standing over her. He settled for crossing his arms. And there was the other eyebrow, gods damn him. Her voice had razor edges. “Why hasn’t your High Lord told my sister they’re mates?” High Lord rolled out of her mouth like a curse, briefly catching him before Cassian caught up with her words. What? “What?” It wasn’t that Cassian hadn’t guessed the same thing. It wasn’t even that the rarity or the impossibility- the ten thousand childhood stories that clenched beneath his sternum to damn him with the very word mates- but Nesta had known Rhys for two cauldron damned days. “It effects her just as much, Feyre should know why there’s a crown on her head.” Nesta had continued. Something about her- gods, that face- the sharp tilt of chin, that she still hadn’t bothered to rise, the unremitting aggression in her tone that left no quarter- boiled the blood in his veins like this was a spar he’d have to fight to win. The battles he actually remembered. She looked even better without the gems and pageantry. A sword unsheathed, ready for devastation. “You don’t,” Cassian began, locking on eyes whose color he’d lost in the dark. “Get between a male and his mate. You won’t like the consequences.” That had Nesta shooting to her feet. Blue- her eyes were blue. Cassian could see it in the will-o-whisp fire now; lighter than Feyre’s, dawn rather than high noon. He’d been closer to her this morning. Now, alone, it was a world of difference to breathe the same air. “I wouldn’t want to be between Rhysand and anything,” Nesta spat, face up to meet him, “But Feyre deserves to know.” How was she so small? Petite- Cassian couldn’t call her delicate with that gaze that wanted to set him on fire. But she barely, hardly, came up to his shoulder, and that didn’t seemed to concern Nesta one bit. She’d stepped right into his space. Aggression- not violence- dominance. Nesta Archeron fought like a faery. No, a gods damned Illyrian. “They’re not”- Cassian tried to say, but Nesta cut him off. “Am I wrong?” Horribly, suddenly, all Cassian wanted to do was laugh. She wasn’t wrong at all, and he’d bet his entire fortune she rarely ever was. He swallowed it down to a smile, but Nesta saw enough for her eyebrows to spike high once more. “Mates are rare beyond measure,” Cassian said, before she could interrupt. “But it’s not instant. Permanent, but the bond takes time to snap into place.” Time to find, if you were Illyrian, equal parts damned and lucky as he was. Her quick, clever eyes were following the gesture of his hands- Cassian was grateful for half a heartbeat before he paused, and that beautiful gaze was back on his face. “If- if- Rhys is feeling the bond, but it hasn’t snapped into place for Feyre, then he’s probably trying to give her time.” Nothing about Nesta’s face changed, but the tilt of her head leveled. “Mate bonds aren’t- they’re resolute, completely.” Cassian didn’t have the words- or the desire to tell Nesta- that he thought Rhys was being an idiot. That Feyre needed all the information to choose. But he could also understand his oldest friends fear. Rhysand would take the rejection, no matter what, no matter what it did to him. He had only feeling, not the song on the wind to lead him. “And this is really none of our business." And Nesta laughed. “When she finds out in the middle of a war zone and tries to throttle him, it’ll be our business.” Again, Cassian agreed with her. He’d didn’t think it would be a real rejection- anyone with eyes could see how in love they were falling. Gods, he’d had to live with it, both of them set off like sparks every time the other entered a room. Feyre was going to be furious at being kept in the dark. But he couldn’t admit that. “Is violence how all human women show their affection?” Cassian found himself drawling. He’d leaned down into her space again without realizing it. The fast beat of her heart- ash still bound in her hair- the light of her eyes- Cassian could take an awful lot of violence. She smelled like a storm. “Or is Vanserra just that lucky?” Not just a storm- lightening, as her eyes flashed. Cassian wanted to take back the words immediately, but some stupid impulse kept him frozen. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips, in his wings. For all that Cassian was drowning in the sweep of rage like so much heavenly fire that had driven him from skies time and and time again, Nesta smiled. “Wouldn’t you like to know, General?” She turned without another word and swept away, will-o-whisps following, to leave Cassian in the dark that rang with her voice. His hands were shaking. What was the gods damned point?

@breath-of-sindragosa

@flxwer-petals

@ladyvanserra

@illyrianinterrasen

@missanniewhimsy

@tntwme

@ourbooksuniverse

@pitterpatterpot

@thestarwhowishes

@abillionlittlepieces

@my-fan-side

@the-eightofswords

@wonderland–memories

@ourbooksuniverse

@cohen-theeleven

@donnarosemary

75 notes · View notes

elusetta · 6 years ago

Note

"It's a human thing, wanting what you can't have..." Strongson!

Tysm for the prompt Parker!!! This got out of hand. Pirate AU! I didn’t really have any reasoning behind this, so I’m sorry if it’s a bit incoherent. :) Hope it lives up to your expectations!

The cutlass on Hudson’s hip was as comforting as an old friend, and the sea wind at her cheek an old comfort that had been there, present, always listening, since her childhood. Yet still, there was a delicate sort of darkness that lingered in the depths of her mind, reminding her of dark rooms and low ceilings and cold steel against her skin. Reminding her that this was still new.

Although it wasn’t. This was new in the sense that it was known to her once again, after weeks of being imprisoned by that fucking brother. She had forgotten it- well, not quite; she could never truly forget the only thing she admitted to loving. This ship was her home. The ocean past it was her world. And in the grand scheme of things, that was really all that mattered.

A week had passed since her escape. She could never have done it without help. She hadn’t intended on it, until…

Until…

The salted breeze carried a familiar presence with it. Hudson turned and met the eyes of Grace.

“How are you holding up?” Grace asked softly, her eyes bearing a dark concern along with the sort of wariness one would expect from a hunter approaching a wolf.

Hudson smiled tightly.

That was her contradiction, right there. The captain of the Divine Lamb, Grace Armstrong, soldier turned pirate waging war against the Eden fleet. Hudson always claimed that her home was in the sea, and the sea alone, but Grace was her rebuttal. How could she claim that this ship was her home, that the life of the voyaging adventuress was all that mattered to her, when the woman who had made it so was standing next to her?

Grace had seen her, the city guard who had let heroics get a little bit too deep into her head. Grace had helped her escape Joseph when he had captured her the first time. Grace had given her the means and motivation to keep fighting. Grace had given her a home.

“I’m okay,” Hudson replied. “I will be, I mean. John didn’t do much to me.”

“Scare tactics,” Grace muttered. “That man’s a fucking coward.”

Hudson laughed and ran her finger along the edge of her blade, trying to convince herself that she had nothing to be scared of. “He’s a coward, but he’s ruthless.”

Grace must have seen the past in Hudson’s eyes again, because she changed her tone and subject, the care in her voice the same as it had been when she had first recovered Hudson out of the Affirmation. “If there’s anything you need, you know I’m- I’m here.”

Hudson didn’t need anything. She wanted something, sure; she wanted Grace to come to her quarters every night, she wanted Grace to kiss her senseless right then and there, she wanted Grace to tell her everything would be the same as it had always been. But there was nothing that she needed.

“I’m okay,” she said coolly, and Grace left it alone.

The night was cold, and somehow, the interior of the room that Hudson had been lucky enough to acquire was even colder. They’d made port for the night in one of the only safe cities left: Fall’s End. Mary May, the innkeeper and an old friend, was always willing to give her a place to stay; after all, Hudson had been the one who’d saved her and the inn from Eden all that time ago. Mary May hadn’t exactly approved of the shift in career when Hudson had first joined Grace at the helm of the Divine Lamb, but she had understood. She always understood. That was one of the reasons that Hudson liked her so much.

So when Hudson had come into the inn, more distant than usual, with a cold look on her face, Mary May hadn’t really asked any questions. She’d just ushered her upstairs and told her what they’d be having for dinner that night.

Frankly, the Divine Lamb was beginning to feel like an emotional deathtrap. Hudson spent every day either tortured by the memories she pretended didn’t bother her at all, or being menaced by the thoughts of a future that would never come. A future that simply wasn’t in the cards, no matter which way she spun it. A future with Grace.

Hudson breathed out, spreading her fingers in the air above her face and watching the light flicker around them. Wasn’t quite nightfall yet, but it would be soon. And in a couple of days, the ship would depart once again, Grace standing strong at the prow.

Hudson wouldn’t be on it.

A drop of unhappiness flickered in Hudson’s chest. But she’d never been one to second-guess herself. This was what she needed. She’d rejoin the guard force of the cities, go back to her everyday life of patrolling. Make up some crazy story to tell the people who had once been her friends. She’d tell them she’d gotten kidnapped, put into a boat full of pirates. Pirates like the Black Huntress, scarred and burned and brusque as the winter itself. Pirates like the woman who went only by the name of Rook, explosive and passionate and everything Hudson could ever ask for in a friend. She’d tell them that she had found herself in a life of adventures that had passed the threshold of her wildest dreams. She’d tell them she’d found life- a life she wanted.

She’d tell them that she’d loved and left a pirate queen.

Wouldn’t they get a kick out of that?

Hudson startled back into reality at the sound of Mary May’s knock on her door. “Dinner’s ready,” the innkeeper said, shutting the door as quickly as she’d opened it.

A cool breeze came through the window, and Hudson found that her cheeks were wet with tears. She wiped them off, sat up, and breathed in a shaky resolve that she knew would dissipate with the right words.

She couldn’t do this. It wasn’t pain, but it was strain, and her heart had never been ready to fight this hard.

The Divine Lamb departed from the port to fanfare from the resistance. Brave people, the citizens of Fall’s End. Brave enough to resist Eden when the rest of the kingdom was practically under its thumb already. Not to mention strong. It was no ordinary townsfolk that would fight tooth and nail to preserve a home that so many others had abandoned.

Hudson weighed her cutlass in her hand and wished that she could stave off the feeling in her stomach. A wild, violent urge to run clear across the town square and throw herself into Grace’s arms, back into the life that she knew she had to let go.

What were her options? What was she meant to do, when every direction she turned to threw her headfirst into another dilemma? She couldn’t go back to the ship; it had Grace, it had every reminder of the tortures she’d endured on the Affirmation. She couldn’t stay here; she’d lose everything she loved.

But given the choice that wasn’t a choice, given the choice that would rip her heart out one way or another, Hudson had always been better at loss. Lose everything, or risk everything and then lose everything. Why not take the more straightforward path to desolation?

She hadn’t come out of the room above the inn for the whole night, and had remained there for the morning. Now, watching the ship, her ship, sail into the golden waters of the sun, Hudson knew that if she left the room, she wouldn’t be able to restrain herself from pursuing it.

And then, from the wall of the inn, came a noise.

Something solid. Something heavy. Something that turned into a muttered swear word in a familiar voice.

Hudson stared at the window and tried to stop herself from investigating.

A shape appeared on the other side of the glass. Two eyes, familiar and beckoning as the eastern horizon; dark skin that was weathered by days of sun and salt; the cast of a smile on the lips.

Grace pulled herself through the window. “You’re running a little bit late.”

Hudson stared, and stared, and finally sat down in one heavy motion on the bed. A moment passed, and then another, and eventually, all she could manage to say was “Why?”

Grace sat next to her without a second thought. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Hudson glared at her hands, and when Grace showed no signs of budging, let out a resigned breath. “I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“The ship?” Grace asked, shaking her head. “I knew John hurt you more than you said. I guess I just hoped-”

“Not the ship, Grace,” Hudson said in a bitter laugh. “More like who was on it.”

“You mean Jess? I know she’s rough around the edges, and she hadn’t been too nice to you, but-”

Hudson shook her head. Maybe, if she hadn’t spent the past week boiling alive in her own emotions, this situation would’ve been funny. But, as the circumstances stood, it was nothing but a kick in the teeth. “You, Grace.”

Grace sat in a stunned silence, and Hudson felt herself compelled to continue. “I guess… I guess it’s a human thing, wanting what you can’t have,” she said reluctantly. “I mean, I always knew it was there, but now… I mean, after seeing you ride in to save me from that goddamned ship like some kind of hero… I just… I guess it was finally done stewing.”

Grace found her voice. “What was?”

Willing her voice not to shake, Hudson brought it into the light. The reason, the impetus, the prison that had kept her. “My… feelings. For you. Feelings… for you.” She coughed, not daring to look at the woman beside her. “I’d known for a while, but… since we’re not on the ship anymore, and since I’m probably not coming back, I guess I can just say it.” Her eyes darted around, seeking something to catch on. “I… I think I love you, Grace. At least, that’s what I… that’s what I’d guess this is, considering what it did to me.”

After a pause that seemed to last forever, Grace responded. “And that made you leave?”

“Well, yeah,” Hudson said, shifting on the bed. “I mean, I can’t imagine it would be good for morale, having the first mate in love with the captain.”

Grace’s fingers tapped out a rhythm on the blankets. “And what about the captain being in love with the first mate?”

That, Hudson realized with a shock at the base of her spine, she hadn’t considered.

“…Maybe that would be a different story,” she finally answered.

Their hands found each other. Hudson’s lips curved into a smile for the first time in such a long time.

“Wait- the ship!” She untangled her fingers from Grace’s and darted to the window. The Divine Lamb was already disappearing into the sun. “Fuck, she’s gone. We’ll be here for hours. Maybe even days.”

Grace grinned at her. “I can think of a couple ways to kill the time.”

#far cry 5 #grace armstrong #joey hudson #far cry 5 fanfiction #writing #my writing

9 notes · View notes