#my new tea infuser came in today

[seoafin]

if you are a fellow thai tea enjoyer just know you can buy the tea leaves off of amazon for super cheap and once you steep the tea leaves all you need to do is add ice cubes or put it in the fridge for a while and then add coconut milk or condensed milk (or even both!) and bam you have thai milk tea

[wordsvomit101]

Gehenna Worldbuilding Draft 1 (with some canon divergence)

Author Notes: this is for fun, don't mind me, I'm just having a spiraling from a hihi haha moment of thinking about Minhyeok's kink to writing this 4.2k words mess. Idk how I got here. ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

(At Gehenna's capital city, Malebolge - 8:40 AM IST - Time of Dawn's Embrace)

"So Minhyeok secretly stole your underwear, Miss Raon?" Ppyong needs to control himself. He shouldn't make assumptions about his best friend. Miss Raon only said that her underwear sometimes went missing before miraculously appearing in her cupboard again. At Minhyeok's house. Minhyeok is a super organized and charismatic guy. The cowardly pretty man who can't even show his best friend how those white juices are made. However—

If that is true? Minhyeok would have the worst teasing he ever had in his life from Ppyong and maybe a bit of bullying for his (possible) sneaky and perverted behaviors. Not that he has any ground to stand on, but he wouldn't miss that chance to make fun of Minhyeok. His idiot friend has been hard to read lately. It is hard to know what is going on in that guy's head anymore.

"W-Well! I wouldn't say he 'stole' it per se…" the lovely lady with violet hair who is sitting across from him, nestled between Sir Leraye and Sir Paimon, blushed in embarrassment and tried to think for her next words as the three men patiently waited for her. Until the waitress with curled pink horns on either side of her head and wide deer-like eyes with slits in them comes over to get their orders, her jovial voice as light and dulcet as usual.

"Good days to you all, esteemed patrons! What can I get you today?"

They're sitting in the most well-known bakery in Gehenna, called "Delights Bakery", which specializes in crafting decadent desserts and pastries inspired by the fiery landscape of Gehenna. It has been around for a long time; they still stand strong even in the midst of war. They offer a wide range of treats including Chimera Molten Cake, Vesuvius Tiramisu, Ojoshew Panna Cotta, Brimstone Biscotti, and Fairy Dust Cannoli Gelato.

The bakery provides a cozy and welcoming atmosphere where customers can enjoy freshly baked goods alongside a cup of fiendishly delicious coffee or tea. They also offer custom cake designs for special occasions like birthdays, weddings, and anniversaries, allowing customers to personalize their desserts to suit their tastes.

Ppyong's personal favorite from this place is Brimstone Biscotti, a devilishly delicious treat that pairs perfectly with a cup of the place's signature Infused Fire Coffee. These crispy almond biscotti are infused with the smoky aroma of brimstone from the eastern plantation of Gehenna and studded with common sparkling chili flakes, creating a bold and intense flavor profile that is sure to awaken anyone's senses.

"Alrighty! Your orders are coming right up, please be patient!" With a cheerful hum, the cute waitress walks back to her station with slightness in her hooves-like legs with blossom fur. A misleading appearance to a devil that ruthlessly stomped on several angels' heads yesterday and handled almost everything here before help came. She even asked to keep their bodies for new recipes.

Once they finished their orders, Sir Paimon reserved an order of Mystic Amaretto Affogato to give to Sir Astaroth since they would meet after this meet-up. They got back to the topic.

"I most likely forgot to wash them and... just left them around. He often does my laundry anyway when he comes over to visit, but…"

Sir Paimon's beautiful and cheerful voice adds, "There'sss stillll a possibilityyyy he isss usingg it forrrr his ownnn pleasureee withoutttt telling youuu, if sooo, don't youuu thinkkk he needed a bitttttt of a scoldinggg?", he ends his statement effortlessly cute with a wide playful smile, his heterochromia blinking innocently as if he didn't just accuse Minhyeok of wrongdoings, and his pretty long lashes flutter above his cheekbone like two pairs of Ethereal Emberwing to Miss Raon as if seducing her to agree.

"I- I mean he could be- No wait! He wouldn't! He never showed any signs that he would use them for anything other than washing them for me," Miss Raon said with a bright red face as she tried to defend her best friend's honor now that the conversation turned into this, unlike how she first brought it up.

"Then shouldn't he be more straightforward with you? I don't think it is a problem if you're ok with it. Shouldn't he be more honest with his temptation?" Sir Leraye innocently pulls the topic back where Paimon wants it, and his charming face frowns as he closes his eyes, deep in thought.

"Even I wouldn't say I wash his underwear for him in his face! It would be embarrassing! And it would be more believable if he said he liked women's fashion instead."

"Huh? Minhyeok do aye?" That is a surprising twist, though it seems more unexpected in Ppyong's opinion since he knows Minhyeok did ask for Miss Raon's panty for his white liquid creation process.

"Minhyeok doesn't seem like that kind of guy aye, I've never seen him show any interest in dresses and makeup too aye. If anything, I think he hugged his baseball bat in his sleep aye," like a good friend, he keeps that to himself and emphatically looks up to Miss Raon in consolation as the chance that her best friend is sniffing her panty in secret is more likely than ever.

"I'm telling you it's not like that!-", her sentence was again cut off by the bright voice of the waitress, "Sorry for the interruption! Here are your orders!" Without looking at the table, she still expertly set out their meals in the right order while smiling happily at them, "While I would love to listen to this lively conversation, I got more tables to serve. Enjoy yourselves, fellas!"

"Thank you!" they all said in unison at the preceding figure of the waitress before excitedly digging into their desserts. Ppyong's cartoonish eyes light up with anticipation, and he can feel the drool from his mouth. He reaches eagerly for the plate of Brimstone Biscotti. The aroma of roasted brimstone and dark chocolate wafts up to his nose, and he can't resist taking a bite immediately.

With a satisfied grin, Ppyong chews slowly, savoring the rich flavors dancing on his taste buds. "Mn! As delicious as always aye!" he remarks between bites, crumbs scattering on the table with each enthusiastic gesture.

Sir Paimon, the refined gentleman that he is, delicately lowers his spoon into the Ojoshew Panna Cotta. The creamy dessert yields with a gentle resistance before surrendering to his touch, letting him savor each scoop with a pleased and graceful smile.

"Mnhmmm, thisss is perfectttt forrr this fineee weatherrr, isn't itttt?"

On the other side of the table, Sir Leraye's enthusiasm knows no bounds as he plunges his spoon into the Fairy Dust Cannoli Gelato. His eyes sparkle with childlike delight as he unearths the hidden treasures within the velvety layers of frozen delight. His sunny expressions bring peace to the hearts of everyone who witnesses it.

"Yeah! It has been a while since we got to hang out like this and with Raon too! Oh! This is the first time for you isn't it Raon? What do you think?"

Between the two attractive devils, Miss Raon picks up her Vesuvius Tiramisu, her eyes marveling at its intricate presentation. The dessert resembles a miniature volcano, with layers of sponge cake and creamy mascarpone erupting from the center. She takes a tentative bite, and her eyes widen in surprise and delight as she savors the decadent dessert.

Her expression mirroring the awe of a child experiencing something magical for the first time. "This is incredible," she murmurs, her voice filled with genuine amazement. They all smile at her quiet joy and let her enjoy her meal as they begin to talk among themselves.

As Sir Leraye and Sir Paimon delved into their discussion about future assignments, their voices took on a bit more serious tone, yet their postures and actions felt relaxed and full of confidence.

Sir Leraye took a thoughtful bite of his dessert, savoring the creamy sweetness before chiming in, "You know, Paimon, after this, I'm thinking of heading over to Sulfur Springs. The streets are always lively there and my men have been struggling quite a bit recently. Do you want to join me after you meet up with Astaroth?" Sir Leraye seems sheepish as he subtly requests Sir Paimon's assistance.

Sir Paimon gently tilted his head, and a few strands of his silky blonde hair softly fell over his right eye, his gaze composed as he thought.

"Sulfurrr Springsss, huhhhh? Thattt doess sounddd enticingg. Buttt I've gottt myyy sights settt on Shadowspireee attt the Tailll of the Wolffff. I heardd there's hasss beennn some spewinggg commotionn undergrounddd in thattt nightt cityyy from Belialll"

With a false tired sign, he let his head fall gently on Miss Raon's head as he chewed on his spoon between his rosy lips. His pretty eyes are saddened as he looks at Sir Leraye.

"'mm soo innn trenddd latellyy. Evennn Hiss Majestyyy Satan calll for meee to thee southernnn provincess of Ashennn Citadelll tooo..."

Sir Leraye smiled in understanding and pat Paimon on the shoulder, "It's OK! It's just a suggestion! Don't worry Paimon, me and my men can handle it! So just focus on your work and enjoy spilling blood as usual!" the devil with the bright monocle said good-naturedly and lightened the mood with his light laugh at the last part.

"Awww~ Thankkk youuu Lerayeee~ You're a sweetthearttt as usualll~," Sir Paimon smiled sweetly back at Leraye and straightened himself up to look at Miss Raon, who had been drawn into the lively conversation between the two after she helped Ppyong slice the Brimstone Biscotti into a smaller size for him to eat.

"It'ss unfortunateee thattt we can'tt spenddd moreee timeee withhh youuu Raonnn. Don'ttt worryyy, we will droppp youuu with Zagan at Pitstoppp Plazaaa once we doneee, are youuu okkk with ittt?" Sir Paimon smiled kindly at Miss Raon as he asked her, and she smiled back in understanding.

"Of course! Please don't mind me and work hard. I also planned to ask for Zagan's help with my training today. Also," Miss Raon is now looking back at him, her face slightly red, "I will likely need, um, Minhyeok's 'thing' again. Ppyong, can you take the second portion of Vesuvius Tiramisu for him? He would like it."

A mix of eagerness and pride filled his heart. It wasn't just any task. It was a gesture of trust from someone he deeply respected. Despite doing so many times before, the simple thought of being chosen for such an errand brought a sense of validation, but also a touch of excitement to meet with his best friend!... and be rewarded with Fererere from the black-haired human.

"You can count on me aye!" With a proud grin and his chest puffed up, Ppyong determined to fulfill Raon's request with care and diligence. Also, Fererere is waiting for him!

Once they finished and dropped Miss Raon with Sir Zagan for their training, they parted ways and Ppyong made his way to the Teleportation Tower, or Nether Nexus Spire for fancy sake.

It didn't take long for Ppyong to see the towering building from miles away. The tower constructed from obsidian marble and adorned with intricate carvings of arcane symbols serves as the central hub for interdimensional travel within Gehenna. The tower is imposing and grand, with soaring spires reaching toward the sky of Hell. The exterior is adorned with flickering magic flaming bright chandeliers that dance along the edges of the tower, casting an eerie glow that illuminates the surrounding landscape.

Being a regular visitor, it doesn't take long for Ppyong to get past the inspection from the entrance and get in. At the heart of the tower lies a vast chamber filled with pulsating crystals of various hues, each one representing a different destination within Gehenna and beyond. These crystals serve as conduits for the teleportation magic that powers the gates, allowing travelers to journey to distant realms without getting themselves stuck somewhere in the void or getting wrecked from the torrent between spaces.

"Sir Ppyong! Good day to you!" a bright voice from the small goat-like devil rang over the hall before he saw the figure of Cock flying down from the third floor to greet him.

"To you too aye! Can you create a portal for me to Earth? I need to deliver something at Miss Raon's request aye," he said as they made their way to the vast ritual circle surface, etched into the polished obsidian marble floor. This circular platform serves as the focal point for the teleportation process, where technicians carefully select the appropriate crystal core to facilitate the journey to the desired destination.

"Oh? Another delivery? Miss Raon must cherish this human if she often sends him this many gifts!" Once the appropriate crystal is selected, Cock placed it in the center of the ritual circle, where it resonates with magical energy. The technician then channel his power, weaving intricate spells and incantations to activate the crystal and create the portal to the desired location.

"He is her best friend after all aye! Also, I should hurry too aye since Miss Raon will need his white liquid soon," he explained as the magic surged through the ritual circle, the air shimmered with otherworldly energy, and a swirling vortex of darkened hues materialized in the center of the circle. This portal serves as a gateway between realms, offering passage to those who seek to traverse the vast expanse of Gehenna and beyond.

"Of course, Sir Ppyong! Just a bit… Here you go! Have a good journey up there Sir!" With the portal open, Ppyong is free to step through and embark on his trip to Earth. Once he passes through, he is enveloped in a whirlwind of magical energy, his surroundings shifting and warping as he is transported to his chosen destination.

The boundaries between space and time blurred as he hurtled through the ethereal void, his body and soul becoming one with the primordial forces that governed the universe. Suddenly, the whirlwind dissipated, and Ppyong found himself facing the familiar sight of his best friend's room.

"Oomphf!"

The noise of his landing surprised the person sitting at the study table beside his bed. He lay there for a moment, gathering his bearings, and enjoyed the softness of the blanket. However, he could hear the faint sound of muffled laughter coming from the human, and when he picked himself up and was about to give Minhyeok a piece of his mind, he stopped in his tracks by the sight before him.

"Are you... Minhyeok's family Miss...?"

Seated before him is a vision of elegance and beauty, their presence commanding attention with every subtle movement. Cascading down their back like an ethereal waterfall, waves of lustrous black hair frame their delicate features with a natural allure, each strand glistening like strands of jet-black under the gentlest light.

A soft pink jacket, impeccably tailored to accentuate their statuesque frame, draped over the shoulders of their crisp white shirt. A meticulously tied white ribbon hair tie added a touch of sophistication to their ensemble. Beneath the jacket, a pretty pink sailor-style collar adorned with a dainty bow hinted subtly at femininity. Completing their attire was a soft beige-colored jean mini skirt, its hemline fluttering just above their knees, creating an image of effortless delicate playfulness.

Subtle touches of makeup enhance their natural beauty, accentuating doe-like black eyes framed by fluttering lashes that cast soft shadows against their flawless complexion and faintly blushing cheeks. Their lips, painted with a delicate hue of rosy pink, curve into a pleasant and serene smile, radiating warmth and charm.

Completing the ensemble are sleek white thigh-high boots, their glossy finish contrasting elegantly against the soft fabric of their alluring black socking. Warm clothing for the current cold weather on Earth.

A familiar snort of a man from the breathtaking beauty before him gave him a shock all over his red body. The man then averted his enchanting eyes from Ppyong, engrossed in his reflection in the mirror. The soft glow of the vanity lights illuminates his delicate features as he continues to meticulously apply his makeup with his slender hand.

The array of skincare and makeup products is meticulously arranged on the elegant desk before the man shows his progress. The room is filled with the light sweet scent of perfumes and creams, adding to the air of luxury and sophistication that surrounds his every movement. The soft rustle of brushes and the gentle click of compacts punctuated the air as the masculine voice rang out from the looker's fetching lips.

"How terrible, you couldn't even recognize your bestie?

"Hah?"

"Well, I wouldn't blame you. It's not every day people see this side of me. What do you think? You gave an eyeful earlier"

Ppyong's jaw practically hit the floor as he struggled to process the sight before him. His two black eyes widened in shock, and for a moment, he couldn't tear his gaze away from the breathtaking transformation of his best friend.

"What?!- What kind of shapeshifting sorcery is this?! Who are you and what have you done to Minhyeok aye?!"

He blinked rapidly as if trying to dispel the illusion before him, but Minhyeok remained seated before him, radiating an undeniable aura of grace and captivation. Gone was the familiar image of his friend in the casual and relaxed attire of a university student, replaced instead by this mesmerizing embodiment of a tall young attractive woman.

"I'm still me. This is just a practice for my friend's club drama performance. The leading lady's best friend role becomes empty because the girl has personal health issues and no one has time to take on another role. So I got the recommendation and the part"

Minhyeok explained as he gave his hair a fix-up and a once-over in the mirror. Minhyeok ran his fingers through his hair, flicking his wrist to fix a stubborn section that refused to sit properly. He peered at his reflection in the mirror, his dark eyes narrowed in concentration.

His fingers danced over his locks, deftly styling them into place. Each movement was precise and deliberate, like an artist working on a masterpiece. His face, usually relaxed and carefree, now held a touch of vanity as he admired his handiwork. The corners of his lips curved into a satisfied smirk as he gave his reflection one final once-over, the image of a spoiled young lady of a wealthy family getting ready for a night out reflected back at him.

"It's silly that they don't change the gender of the role and make me go around campus like this during the festival," he sighed, continuing, "but I do owe the club leader for that one time he helped me out." Ppyong didn't know what to think or feel now that he saw Minhyeok giving a cute little pout to himself.

"It's also best that I look like my own imaginary mute sister. A half-hearted effort would not help in the slightest"

At that moment, Ppyong couldn't help but marvel at the accuracy of Raon's suggestion to defend her friend, especially with how at ease Minhyeok was right now. They really knew each other like the back of their hands.

Yet Ppyong's mind raced with a whirlwind of emotions, ranging from disbelief to admiration. He couldn't help but admire the confidence with which Minhyeok carried himself, not bothered a bit by the girlish clothing he was wearing right now. It was beautiful and, for Ppyong, incredibly attractive.

Until he remembers what he's here for.

"Ah! That's right! The tiramisu, aye!" Opening the pocket of his stomach, Ppyong pulled out a box of Vesuvius Tiramisu that was bigger than himself and put it on the desk, sitting on it in front of Minhyeok, looking up and delighted as he got the attention from the gorgeous man above him. Though Minhyeok seemed to already guess who gave it to him.

"Miss Raon went out to have a snack with me and Sir Leraye and Sir Paimon today, aye! She bought a second portion for you and had me deliver it here!"

A radiant smile of pure joy illuminated his best friend's face, his captivating eyes brimming with tenderness and adoration. It was as if he were a devoted spouse receiving a long-awaited gift from his husband who is away from war, his cheeks flushing with a bashful delight as he attempted to conceal his beaming grin behind a delicate, carefully manicured hand.

Ppyong had to pat himself on the back as he marveled at the sight before him. His body shivered from a wave of longing washing over his entire being. Were there any other, lesser devils present to witness this scene, they would surely have shamelessly propositioned Minhyeok or openly leered at him. Perhaps the weakest of all would have boldly pounced on the ravishing man without a second thought.

"That girl, hehe, she should just worry for herself, risking her life down there but still has time for this? That dork, really..."

Ppyong could feel the love from Minhyeok's words as he opened the box and took a look inside, his smile pleased before closing the lids. Ppyong felt a surge of satisfaction knowing that he had managed to deliver Raon's thoughtful gesture to his friend.

"Thanks for having it delivered here, really, I appreciate it. It lets me know she's still well."

As Minhyeok expressed his gratitude, Ppyong's chest swelled with pride, his heart brimming with a new sense of joy knowing that he had brought a nice smile to Minhyeok's face.

"Hmph! Of course, this much is nothing for a great devil like this Ppyong, aye!" Despite his prideful words, he couldn't contain the childish giddiness swirling inside him at having the attention of this striking man, who often kept an invisible distance between them.

With a soft chuckle, Minhyeok put his face on his hand as he leaned on the desk. Ppyong couldn't help but take in the scent of light jasmine with a hint of soap and cotton underneath, and the proximity was making him tremble slightly.

"Sure, sure, you most likely came here for 'that'. I need to finish putting on the choker and earrings to take pictures in this. It will be quick, so just give me Raon's laundry and wait for me outside the bathroom."

"Can I help—?" His question was cut short before he could finish. "No," now the beautiful man coolly looked down at him and leaned back to open the drawer from his desk, taking out a black choker and silver heart-shaped earrings.

"Just be patient, or else I won't give you Fererere," the warning effectively shoved the protest back into Ppyong's mouth, and Minhyeok began to fiddle with the choker, trying to tie it around his pale neck.

"... Do you need help, aye?"

Minutes already ticked by as Minhyeok struggled in vain, on the verge of giving up in frustration. Suddenly, Ppyong's tiny crimson body darted over to Minhyeok's back. With an echoing pop, black smoke billowed from the point of contact, transforming into his high-ranking devil appearance. Surprising Minhyeok as his friend turned to look up at him.

"Just turn around, will you, aye? Come on, give that to me, aye."

Minhyeok reluctantly handed him the choker and Ppyong's hands deftly retrieved it from Minhyeok's grasp, his movements smooth and practiced. With a delicate touch, he began to gently secure the choker around his friend's elegant and seductive pale neck.

'Damn'

The choker rested against Minhyeok's skin, a dazzling accessory that added to his friend's already irresistible demeanor.

"See? You should just let me help, aye", before Minhyeok could argue, he quickly grabbed the earrings and stilled his friend's shoulder with his left hand. He let his gaze linger on the mirror before them, greedily taking in Minhyeok's flustered face as Ppyong towered over him.

As Ppyong delicately placed the shimmering earrings on Minhyeok's ears, a soft glow enveloped the room, accentuating the tension of the moment. Standing behind him, he caught a glimpse of his friend's reflection in the mirror, his features illuminated by the warm light. Minhyeok's black eyes met his crimson ones through the mirror, revealing a slight flush of pink spreading across his cheeks as he bit down on his lower lip in a gesture of bashful charm, unaware of the captivating allure he exuded at that moment.

'Fuck, he's lucky that it's me here and not other devils'

With a heavy gulp, Ppyong's muscles tensed as a wave of heat surged through his body, originating from the attractive man in front of him. Despite the tempting pull of desire, he resisted the urge and swiftly reverted to his usual Red Lump form once he was done, dispelling the charged atmosphere with the resounding volume of his voice.

"Ok! Here! Be done quickly and give me your white liquid and Fererere, aye!" he said quickly as he pulled out a bag of Miss Raon's laundry and threw it at Minhyeok's lap.

It broke Minhyeok from his daze, and he scowled beautifully at Ppyong before he gave an exasperated sigh and stood up from his seat. Ppyong expected everyone to understand his internal disappointment from not having the attention of the enticing man anymore. It didn't matter if it made him feel like those stuck-up devils from Hades.

"Fine, and wait for me to make some food for you to bring back"

"Sure! Hurry up then, aye!"

Minhyeok gave him a suspicious glance over his shoulder before retreating into his bathroom, the heels from his white boots clicking against the floor sensually, leaving Ppyong there on his bed. Once Minhyeok was out of sight, the red devil lay down tiredly as he dazedly looked up at the ceiling. The image of the vulnerable back of the pretty man lingered in his mind, wrecking him with arousal mixed with a good dose of guilt.

"...Crap, Miss Raon will not forgive me if she knows of this"

She would probably, very likely even without magic, squeeze him in her hands until he popped like confetti for even thinking of her friend like that.

[rainintheevening]

Qui and Padme, 18

Beru and Padme, 16

100 ways to say ILY

Let's start with Qui-Gon and Padmé. This is set in my Promises of Fools AU.

Uh, this got long. Sorry, Adi. There's some angst, but mostly just the usual home front in a war angst.

18. "Here, drink this. You'll feel better."

For a long time Qui-Gon had disdained a gimer-stick of his own, but a hand-carved present from Anakin had been too much of a kindness to pass off, and now he was grateful for it.

Less for something to lean on while walking, and more for something to lean on while standing. Or sitting. Or rising.

He could feel it in his abdomen—the mended muscles giving out, the Nubian-made organs degrading inside him. Waves of pain or nausea were common, and only his connection with the Force and certain mental tricks helped him manage.

Qui-Gon was dying, and he wasn't going to hide from that reality any longer.

Today, he sat quietly in a highbacked cushioned chair, running his hands over the polished stick's grooves and ridges: The different constellations of four-point stars that Anakin had shyly explained meant certain blessings on Tatooine. Three specific lightsabers. The Jedi crest. The Nubian crest. Abstract swirls of carving that filled in some of the gaps. A few words carved in Aurebesh.

It was almost a meditative exercise by now. Eyes closed, fingers sliding from one design to the next as he counted them off, and turned the stick on his knee. And always something fresh to catch his attention, some part of this complex outpouring of Anakin’s love to be seen in a new way.

His commlink beeped, startling him slightly.

Opening his eyes, Qui-Gon glanced over to the desk in the corner of his sitting room, and called the comm to his hand.

"Yes?"

"Qui-Gon." The familiar voice of a Temple guard. "Lady Skywalker is here to see you. She seemed distressed, so I sent her up to your apartment."

"Ah." Qui-Gon wrinkled his brow. "Thank you, my friend."

Absently, he thumbed the comm off, and returned it to the desk with a flick of his wrist. Padmé distressed? Either she had faced something difficult in her day's work, or she had war news. Possibly both.

Qui-Gon stayed as closely connected to Obi-Wan and Anakin as he could, but even with their own encrypted comm channel, courtesy of R2-D2, there were weeks when they would be silent, when all Qui-Gon could do was sift through the news on the HoloNet, and trust in the Force to guide his thoughts. Qui-Gon wasn't even technically a Jedi anymore. He wasn't essential to the war effort, though he did what he could, little as it had become. Working with the younglings and the junior padawans left behind to learn and train, trying to mitigate the toll taken by the long separations from their masters. There were so few Jedi left to teach these days.

With a sigh, Qui-Gon set the tip of his gimer stick against the rug, levered himself to his feet with a single, smooth motion.

Whatever was wrong, he knew the first order of business was a cup of tea.

The Anakin-improved electric kettle had just begun to boil when the knock came at Qui-Gon's front door.

"Come in," he called, leaning on the worktop as he measured crumbled Naris-Bud into an infuser. It was one of Padmé's favourites.

He looked over as the door slid open, took in the light flush in Padmé's cheeks, the set of her mouth, the slight tremble in her hands.

"Master Qui-Gon," she greeted him, inclining her head.

"Hello, my dear," he said gently, holding out one arm in an invitation.

Padmé Skywalker was one of the strongest women he had ever known. She had shields of steel around her thoughts and emotions, she knew how to control her every move, her every little expression. She had precious few people she could let down her guard around. Qui-Gon understood it was a privilege that she counted him one of those precious few.

Her lips quivered, before she came to his side, put her arms lightly around his waist, and leaned into his embrace.

"Thank you, Grandpa," she whispered against his shirt, and he tightened his grip around her shoulders.

Only she and Anakin called him that. 'Grandpa', an alteration of 'grandfather'. A funny word in Basic, but one that carried an astonishing amount of love and respect.

He bowed his head protectively over hers, impulsively bent low enough to kiss her hair.

Pain swept up through his belly, a sharp, hot rush, but he breathed it in, let it come, let it go, moved through it.

He felt her shoulders tremble, and when she pulled away, she kept her head down, wiping her cheeks with her hands.

"Here now," he sighed, touching her chin, and pulling his sleeve over his other hand to gently dry her tears. "The bills they're trying to pass must have been especially useless today."

That made the girl give a watery smile. "Not exactly,"she murmured.

"Well, take a seat. Your tea should be nearly done steeping."

She moved to the small table, took the one chair there, and seemed to collect herself. Qui-Gon reached a hand toward his desk, drew the other wood-frame seat out to face her, then turned to measure out his own tea.

The fresh sweetness of heathstars wafted up to his nostrils, and for a moment he imagined he was sitting in a dim little house, a tiny red-headed baby in his lap, singing a lullaby as rain pattered on the window.

With a sigh, he released the memory, though the ache that sat next to his heart whenever Obi-Wan was gone remained.

He took the mugs of tea the few steps to the table, deliberately set his in front of her.

"Here, drink this, you'll feel better."

She looked up with a faint smile, perhaps noting the accent that had slipped into his words, the way he'd rolled the 'r's and deepened the 'o' vowels.

"Thank you, Master Qui-Gon."

"Please." He eased himself down carefully. "I think I prefer 'Grandpa'. Anakin calls me that all the time now."

Her deep breath was shaky.

"Tell me, Padmé, any news of the war that may have missed me?"

She shook her head slowly, blew on her tea. "I doubt it. The last I heard was of the liberation of Ryloth, and rumors that they might be sent to Jabiim next." She grimaced. "Or that someone will, anyway. There are arguments every day from the war council over how much should be spent on everything from armor for the troops, to the rations put on board the cruisers."

Qui-Gon gave her a small smile. "I've never heard Obi-Wan complain so much as about the victuals on the Negotiator. Anakin always tells him to be grateful, then adds something about 'a little spice' improving anything."

Ah, there, Padmé smiled back. "He does enjoy strong flavour in his food, doesn't he, our Ani. He made me what they call 'kantanaki', and it made my tongue burn."

"Yes," Qui-Gon said thoughtfully, watching the steam starting to thin above their mugs. "He made that for me a few times. Bantha or another meat, steeped in hubba gourd juice. But with a secret mix of five different spices on top. Makes a world of difference."

He'd heard the talk about Jabiim too; he knew it would not be a nice planet to wage war on.

Padmé took a sip of her tea, and when she lowered her mug she was smiling. "What is this? It's delicious."

"Ah, heathstar tea. Made from the flowers of the heathren which blankets the hills of Stewjon." He let his voice reflect the sudden wistfulness that gripped him.

"Oh." Padmé lowered her gaze. "Did your wife make you this tea sometimes?" Pain echoed off her words, as if her suggestion had struck close to the heart of whatever was most troubling her that day.

"Yes, she did. I also made it myself, many times. Often with a baby on one arm."

"I wish I could make him tea."

Padmé's voice was very small.

"I wish I could give him this tea right now."

Qui-Gon watched her, aching with tenderness. "I'm sure he would appreciate it." So would Obi-Wan of course, but this wasn't about Obi-Wan or Qui-Gon, this was about Padmé.

Oh, and now the tears were tumbling down Padmé's cheeks again. "And I wish I had a baby to hold, that little peice of him in a child, to keep with me, to bring him back to me–"

She could speak no longer, simply covered her face with her hands, and wept.

Not something she did often, Qui-Gon was sure. But dam up a river too tightly, and it was bound to burst its banks.

It hurt dreadfully, pulling at his abdominal muscles, but he leaned across the small table enough to touch her arm.

"You'll be alright, my dear," he said quietly. "I'm here."

A weak bob of her head, and he noticed how simply her brown hair was braided up, yet it was still beautiful.

Unfortunately, the pain was growing, and he was forced to sit back, regulate his heartrate. Only the Force knew how much he hated his body betraying him.

With another sigh, this one of release, he settled into the Force, doing his best to give Padmé the sensation warmth and comfort around her.

Eyes half closed, he sipped his tea, waited for her storm to blow itself out.

"I'm sorry," she said at last, wiping her face with a small syncloth, and blowing her nose.

"No need to apologize." Qui-Gon smiled kindly. "Likely you needed that. Now finish your tea, it should help."

She gave a weak chuckle. "Yes, Grandpa."

"Shall we play a round or two of Sobers?" Qui-Gon inquired, and there, her eyes brightened.

"Only if you want to lose."

So they played cards, and drank tea, and found their way to smile, sitting safe in the Jedi Temple, while far away, Obi-Wan and Anakin slept a fitful sleep, and dreamed of home.

[fiantacleasai]

How I’m Celebrating Imbolg

As a Brighid devotee, I thought I’d share how I’m spending Imbolg with my partner!

I’m personally celebrating the evening of January 31st through February 3rd! Most fire festivals were more than a one day event and I didn’t want to pack everything into 1 day anyways.

On January 31st, we put out our Brat Brídes, hanging white cloths on our door.

Then we candle painted! Using little tea lights, we painted with the hot wax onto some larger candles

I had my own flame tending shift so I finished that

Today, February First, we got all of our supplies for the day and went to the park to spend some time in nature while drinking our coffees. I found a dandelion to bring home for Brighid’s altar and also some rosemary!

Then we came home and started baking some bread, specifically Garlic Braided Bread and also made our own butter

We are preparing a bit of a feast, we got some apples and 3 different kinds of cheese (baking some brie!) to go with the bread along with some mashed potatoes.

Some bread and cheese will be offered to Brighid.

After we eat, we’re going to do some Imbolg divination spreads for the season ahead

Lastly for the night, we will make a Brighid’s doll (Brideog) and a Leaba Bhríde to put her in.

Tomorrow, February 2nd, we will be walking the bounds and grounds, doing some cleansing and cleaning and then some warding around our home.

Then we will be baking some Rosemary and Lemon Curd Tassies! (recipe below) We will offer one to Brighid as well.

On February 3rd, we will be meeting up with a friend to conclude our festivities

We’re going to go to a cemetery and commune with the spirits

Then we’re going to find some natural material for making Brighid’s Crosses and do them while we’re out!

Finally we’re going to go to a local plant store and buy a new houseplant, and plant our intentions for the season while potting it.

What’re you doing for Imbolg??

[antiphrastic]

Look what came in the mail today!

I can't remember where I saw the link the first time. But! While I always love the idea of fandom inspired teas (or candles or perfumes), I never get to partake because for some reason they always wind up full of my migraine triggers.

NOT THIS TIME THO

I tried Peace Love and Donuts. A blend of black teas infused with vanilla and caramel. It has candy sprinkles in it! And cocao nibs! And teeny little chocolate chips!

I am currently drinking it with some milk and sugar and it is so fucking nice I am so happy with my new tea ♡♡♡ the chocolate is just present enough that I can smell it, but it doesn't overwhelm any of that good good caramel sweetness.

[ejzah]

The Other Shoe, Part 8

***

Deeks spent a day in the hospital to get his potassium and other numbers stable, and make sure they stayed at an acceptable level, before being released home. With his latest hospital stay came a whole new set of care instructions and semi-weekly appointments for potassium infusions. Deeks wasn’t exactly thrilled to find out he’d be spending even more time at the kidney care center.

He stared out the window now as Kensi drove him in for his appointment. On the surface, he’d been calm all morning, keeping any

negative reactions at bay. The only signs of his true thoughts were the staccato tapping of his fingers against his thighs and the tension in his jaw.

Overall, he looked infinitely better than three days ago in the hospital. His skin wasn’t gray (just pale) anymore, the darker shadows beneath his eyes had faded some, and he didn’t seem quite so weak.

“You know, I don’t mind staying with you,” she offered. Despite her objections, after the first few sessions, he’d insisted on Kensi going home or to work after drilling him off. “Since this will be a longer one.”

“Eh, I’ll be fine,” Deeks said with a stiff shrug. Absentmindedly, he twisted his forefinger and thumb around either wrist, wincing slightly. Kensi pulled eyes back to the road, very purposely not watching his movements. He found the muscle fatigue and aches particularly humiliating.

“Are you trying to get rid of me, Martin Deeks?” she asked, deciding to go the route of teasing instead of admitting she was a little worried about leaving him alone. He insisted he felt fine, well fine for his new baseline, but the thought of him passing was a new constant fear.

“No. I’m trying to save you from an afternoon of boredom. I’ll probably sleep most of the time, anyway, and I’ve got my book, work, and snacks if I don’t.”

He reached across the consul, squeezing her hand, his fingers a familiar and reassuring pressure against hers. He winked at her, offering a playful smile that had her grinning back despite the conversation.

She took their designated exit, arriving at the frenesic center a few minutes later. Deeks grabbed his messenger bag with his supplies as she pulled up in front of the entrance, zipping up his hoodie even though it wasn’t particularly chilly out today.

“I’ll call if anything goes wrong,” he promised, leaning over to kiss her. Kensi cupped his cheek, extending it for several seconds until someone behind them honked. Deeks pulled back with a wistful glint in his eyes. “See you later.”

“See you,” Kensi murmured. She watched him go, blinking against a sudden stinging behind her eyes.

***

When Kensi onto their street 45 minutes later, there was a blue beetle she didn’t recognize parked in the driveway. Its owner became apparent as she parked alongside the beetle, and saw Nell sitting on the front porch. She hopped up, tucking a blue encased tablet into her shoulder bag, waving as she hurried over to hug Kensi.

“Nell, what are you doing here?” Kensi asked, even as she squeezed the younger woman tight.

“Uh, like I was going to leave you to read the HLA Typing results all on your own,” Nell replied, putting her arm around Kensi’s waist and guiding her towards the front door. “Eric would have come too, but he had to take a business call.”

Kensi suppressed a sigh; she’d seen a notification in Deeks’ online medical chart the day after he collapsed, but hadn’t told anyone besides Nell.

“The only reason I didn’t tell Deeks yet is because I don’t think he needs the added stress.” She unlocked the door, making a beeline for the kitchen. She needed something calming to drink. A beer sounded perfect right now, but she didn’t want to get in the habit of managing her stress with alcohol. Instead, Kensi started brewing two cups of peach tea.

“Riiiight,” Nell drawled from behind her, leaning her back against the opposite counter. “You know how Deeks feels about a transplant from one of us. I love the man like a brother, but damn the man is stubborn.”

“Tell me about it,” Kensi muttered in agreement. Said stubbornness was one of the aspects that made Deeks such a good investigator and man. It also turned out to be a thoroughly frustrating trait when it came to situations like this.

“Which is why you need to find out the results now so you have enough time to plan how to manage Deeks’ reaction.”

Kensi heaved a sigh, handing Nell one of the steaming mugs. She led them back out to the couch, sitting cross-legged while Nell tucked her tights-covered legs beneath her.

“We’re supposed to wait to discuss this with Deeks’ doctor.” Despite her protest, Kensi felt her resolve wavering.

“Then why would they send them to his account?” Seeing Kensi was about to speak, Nell forged ahead, holding up a purple tipped finger. “Kensi, if Deeks is annoyed that you checked before him, it won’t matter in the end. All that does matter is that he lives a long and healthy life.”

Nell was right. Closing her eyes, Kensi set her tea to the side and grabbed her laptop off the coffee table. “Ok.” She opened the lid, typing in her user password. Nell gave an encouraging nod. “But you cannot tell anyone else about this for now.”

“Understood. Now check the damn tests already!” Nell said, getting Kensi to crack a tiny smile.

Shaking her head, Kensi logged into Deeks’ medical account and pulled up the newest reports. “There’s only three,” Kensi murmured, opening each one and scrolling until she found the bolded results at the bottom. After a minute, she closed the laptop and sat back, pressing covering her mouth with her hand as tears flooded her eyes.

“Kensi?”

“None of them are a match,” Kensi whispered, completely devastated.

“None?” Nell repeated, grabbing the laptop and opening it again while Kensi grabbed a Kleenex. “Not even a partial?”

“Mine was,” Kensi said, which somehow felt ironically cruel and worse than if she’d been a complete mismatch. “Not enough to be a viable match though.” A fresh wave of tears filled her eyes and her throat tightened.

“Oh Kens.” Scooting closer, Nell wrapped her arms around Kensi’s shoulders. “Hey, those are only your, Rountree, and Callen’s results. There’s still hope we’ll find a match from the team. Plus, Deeks is already on the national donor list and I found a couple specialists who are doing promising experimental treatments.”

“Thanks, Nell.”

“Of course. We got this, lady.”

Kensi chuckled wetly, pressing her damp face into Nell’s shoulder.

“God, I need something stronger than tea,” she said.

“Triple scoops of brownie craze it is,” Nell decided, squeezing Kensi one extra time before she let go. “I’ll grab my keys.”

***

A/N: I don’t know if lab results like these would be available in an online chart like this since another person is involved. Feels like it might be a HIPPA violation of some sort, but as usual, we’re going to let that slide in the interest of the story.

[mimisempai]

I want to know all of you

Summary:

Through the taste of his tea, Aziraphale discovers how well Crowley knows him.

Notes

28 days of domestic fluff

Today Prompt : Making tea/coffee just how they like it without needing to ask.

On AO3

Rating G - 885 words

Aziraphale, sitting at his desk in the bookshop, was focused on the store's accounting and frowning.

Crowley, who was watching him, sitting a little farther back in an armchair, asked him inquiringly, "What's the matter, Angel? A problem with your precious bookkeeping?"

Aziraphale looked up, and, shaking his head, replied, "No, no, you can be sure, my dear, that everything is absolutely in order."

Crowley replied with a slightly sarcastic tone, "Of course, it would be unthinkable for you to be wrong in the slightest calculation. What an unforgivable mistake on my part!"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and replied gently, "I forgive you, my dear."

Crowley insisted, "So, if it's not the accounts, what made you frown?"

Aziraphale, showing him his cup of tea, replied, "This. This tea tastes a little strange, almost bland to tell you. This has happened to me several times this week. Yet I use the same tea as usual. I don't understand."

Crowley smiled knowingly and asked simply, "Do you want me to go make you a new cuppa?"

Aziraphale shook his head again, "No, there's no need, don't bother with that. I'm almost done anyway so I'll go make myself another cup later."

Crowley didn't answer and waited for Aziraphale to get back to work. When he was sure that the angel was perfectly focused again, he got up, took the cup and headed to the kitchen in the back.

When he returned, he carefully put the steaming cup down exactly where it had been before and went back to his armchair. All the while, Aziraphale was still concentrating on his accounts and hadn't noticed anything.

Then, without looking at his cup, the angel grabbed it and took a sip of tea. Instead of a frown, this time his lips stretched into a smile of bliss, as he raved, "Hmm... delicious."

Crowley merely said, a small pleased grin on his lips, "Isn't it?"

This brought Aziraphale out of his focus and he realized that first, his tea was hot and second, that it tasted nothing like the one he had made for himself. He took another sip and exclaimed again. "It's really amazing! It's exactly how I like it. The amount of sugar and the intensity of the taste are exquisite."

He looked at Crowley and asked, looking slightly puzzled, "Did you prepare it?"

Crowley chuckled slightly, "Yes, Angel, I did."

Aziraphale looked even more puzzled and stammered, "But... How- How did you do it?"

Crowley squared his shoulders and straightened in his armchair. Unable to hide his proud expression, he replied, "Because I know exactly the recipe for making the tea the way you like it best."

Aziraphale replied, skeptically, "Crowley, my dear, it is not possible that you know the recipe for my tea in the slightest detail, not even I know it."

Crowley patiently replied, "My angel, how long have we known each other? How many times have we shared a cup of tea? You don't really think that after all this time, I wouldn't know the exact recipe for tea as you like it? I know this recipe by heart. Listen to me. First I boil the water, then I pour it into a cup so that it is the perfect temperature. Then I let the leaves infuse for exactly four minutes and twenty-three seconds, no more, no less, and finally, half a teaspoon of sugar that includes exactly 6227 grains.”

Aziraphale interrupted him, "Come on my dear, it's impossible for you to know how many grains of sugar there are in half a teaspoon."

Crowley just shrugged "and yet..."

Aziraphale raised the cup to his face, inhaled deeply and then took another sip. With a delighted expression on his face, he said in an almost amazed tone, "It's really perfect. But..." he hesitated a bit before continuing, "How come you know perfectly how I drink my tea?"

Crowley smiled slightly, stood up and came to lean against Aziraphale's desk. Then, looking down at him, he said softly, "Because, my dear angel, I want to know everything about you, everything that makes you happy. Even if it's something as trivial as the way you drink your tea." 

Then he bent down, and pressed his lips into a light kiss on the angel's stunned expression.

Aziraphale, snapped out of his stupor by the tender gesture, held Crowley by his tie and pulled him closer, pressing his lips to his in a kiss that was much more heated than the previous one.

When they parted to catch their breath, Aziraphale said softly, a look of wonder on his face, "Every time I think I know you, you surprise me with something new!"

Crowley pecked his nose, then straightening up, he went to take his spot back in his armchair. He replied with a slight smile on his lips, "And you've known me for 6000 years already!"

Aziraphale replied in the same tone, "I can't wait to see what the next six thousand years will bring!"

Crowley gestured to the accounting books and cheekily replied, "Then hurry up to get back to work and finish, so I can give you a little insight."

Aziraphale didn't respond and got back to work, the only difference was that now his pen seemed to run much faster over the accounting books.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here

[belladoesmakeup]

Hey guys,

A few blog posts ago I let you in to one of my favourite beauty bargain secrets, that’s right we’re talking about the £10 Tuesday at Boots. If you didn’t see the previous post on a Tuesday Boots take an assortment of beauty products and reduce them to £10 for 24 hours. It can be anything from make up, hair , beauty , lifestyle and so much more. So today we are chatting about my recent beauty bargain finds.

Starting off with the KVD Beauty Go Big or Go Home Volumizing Mascara , £22.00. Previously I bought a KVD gift set and it came with a mini version of this mascara and I honestly adored it. The fluffy brush is amazing at grabbing every lash and giving it a beautiful volumised finish. The formula is vegan and powered by plant-based fats. This mascara looks effortlessly on my lashes and is so long wearing that if you have a issue with transferring mascara this is your new best friend.

The second product I picked up was the MAC Prep + Prime Fix+ 100ml, £26.00. Now I honestly can’t remember but I think I bought this spray before but didn’t like it because I wasn’t using it properly which was a me problem so when I saw it on promotion I had to try it again. This spray is a lightweight mist of water packed with vitamins and minerals, infused with a blend of green tea, chamomile and cucumber to gently soothe and refresh the skin. Spritz under or over makeup to revitalize skin throughout the day and keeps your makeup looking fresh for up to 12 hours. I’m excited to give this a try again and see what difference it makes to my complexion.

As always all products mentioned in my blog post are linked above!

Lots of love

Bella x x

[zencha]

Day 4 - Journeyman bread

nine of cups // triumph, self-confidence, cheerfulness

The sourdough experiments with the new starter continue today.

I've named the new starter The Duchess. The Viscount Baxter doesn't seem to be very fond of her, and perhaps it might be repeating my mistakes with Toby to give this starter a name if there's a chance I might need to get rid of some (or, goodness forbid, all) of her at some point in the future. Progress for the moment seems to be manageable, though - I've been using her to make a tray or two of croissants per day and everything seems to be fine so far. Granted, it's been only one day so far, but well, everything went well yesterday so that should be a good sign, right?

Anyway, back to the new experiment - it occurred to me that I could attempt something similar to kombucha if I infused some of The Duchess with my witch-hazel tea instead of just plain water. I've never tried that before, but I have had a really good Assam tea-infused sourdough once in a lovely bakery down in the Southern Archipelago, so I toyed with the idea of making a witch-hazel infused version as my homage to that. Witch-hazel tea doesn't have the strongest of flavours, but its smell does pack a punch - I've been told it smells somewhat like tequila, without the sting of the alchol - and the tea itself is fairly high in tannins. A bread infused with a moderate to relatively high amount of this tea could, perhaps, even give one the same jolt of alertness as a cup of black coffee.

The Duchess seemed pretty happy to feed on witch-hazel tea instead of plain water, and with a little bit of magic expended, I quickly ended with a neat test loaf. The Viscount Baxter came down from his perch to see what I was doing, and when I explained the whole bread situation to him, he studied the loaf for a moment before dragging his claw down the top of the rested loaf, slashing it into a vague approximation of a leafy pattern.

...Well, I was going to slash at it vaguely with a paring knife, but that works just as well.

The loaf made it through the test bake okay, and I taste-tested a hefty slice with some butter and honey. Once you get past the tequila smell (not overpowering, but definitely fairly strong) it's actually a pretty mild-tasting loaf, with the natural sourness from the starter and a light, lemony taste on top from the witch-hazel.

It's now been about three hours since I ate that test slice, and I can still feel myself being unusually awake and active. It has occurred to me that this might actually be a pretty good bread for a journeyman's lunch - one sandwich with this bread, and I'd probably be able to walk a full day's journey on the road before the fatigue kicks in. Hm, now that's a marketing idea...

I'm off to add the bread to the menu for tomorrow! I hope the crash when the bread's effects wear off won't be too strong...

[3liza]

update: dog has the pimp skitters and I showered and dried my hair which is a production due to my executive dysfunction and the fact that my hair is nearly down to my tailbone now. added a bunch of new list items related to forgotten tasks and housecleaning app schedule

so! I took a shower but grim came to get me out of the shower because he has:

Diarrhea~~~

now, to Grim's eternal credit, understanding the sequence of events "i have an upset tummy, oh no I need to poop, ring my door bell, didn't work, human is in shower, go find human in unaccustomed place (he never bothers me in the shower and doesn't like it because of Dog Bath associations), bother human until they understand my problem" is pretty impressive animal cognition for a beast with a brain the size of a pear. and he didn't poop in the house. very good boy. I don't know why his tummy is upset, he hasn't been eating anything weird, but this does just happen sometimes.

so anyway I let him out and supervised for a while and then passed out on the couch for a bit, need to stay up all morning or at least in a wake up-able state so he can rouse me again if needed. having some tea and vitamins now.

been really slamming the vitamins and minerals recently since the b complex shot seemed to knock me out of the death spiral I was in for weeks. I have a creeping suspicion that I am deathly malnourished and not absorbing nutrients from food, maybe my cilia are damaged but I don't know what I'm eating that's triggering problems. i feel like I've eliminated everything that consistently causes reactions. but something is inconsistently causing reactions now. I need to call the gastroenterologist today and catch up with them, they've been trying to do a checkup appointment with me for months. I may suggest an endoscopy to look for intestinal damage.

unfortunately a lot of this symptom-chasing ends up wasting everyone's time, not least of which the patient's. the treatments for this kind of general malaise and inflammation constellation syndrome are extremely limited. also these issues are usually happening to people with a trauma history so a lot of it is somatic, just not in the way the "fibromyalgia patients are lazy" people think it is. I think the only things I know about--related to my problems--which I haven't tried at this point are getting my wisdom teeth yanked and other teeth problems addressed (priority item, very likely to be causing at least some downstream problems), a dietician, an allergist, possibly a neurologist with a specialty in rare sleep disorders and/or brain injury, lipidema specialist, cromolyn, testing my tap water for poison (the inspector recently confirmed the 70-year-old pipes are galvanized and likely crumbling, there is realistically a chance of lead and other contaminants), ivabradine, xyrem, saline + vitamin infusions (this one seems most immediately helpful), and after that it sort of trails off into the weeds of therapies that have questionable efficacy and aren't covered by insurance. massage of various kinds, weird spa treatments, Buddhism, becoming a nun, ritual flagellation, some sort of reckless love affair, et al

it is once again time. clearly I already know what the priority item is

update: ok I'm about to reset the dog list and then probably hit some laundry

[sharkbait77]

Lex congrats on your 400 & many more!!! 🕺🏻✨

May I request from Prompt list #1: “It’s pouring rain why are you here?” + Ezra (just because i’m in love with ur Ezra from The Sun Sets With You)

WELL WELL WELL look who is so awfully late with this request (all of them, really 🤦🏽‍♀️) This once knocked around my head for a while, not gonna lie, cuz I wanted to do a fic set in Ezra's universe & I've seen so many done for when he comes back to Reader after the events of Prospect, but I truthfully haven't seen any for before he leaves, so this came out! Once I reread the final product I really liked it so I hope you enjoy! And thank you so much for being so patient! 🥺 And I hope the length makes up for me being so late with it 🥹

I labeled it gender neutral but please let me know if it seems more feminine & I will update! Title & Reader's nickname taken from the song Starlight by Muse (I love & I think the song could actually fit this situation 🙃). I guess you could say they were my muse 😏

Our Hopes and Expectations (Ezra x gn!Reader)

Rating: T

Warnings: Angst, language, food mention

W/C: 3.1k

Masterlist || Taglist || AO3

The birds chirping their joyful, morning song blended with the warm, golden rays of the rising sun is enough to wake you naturally. You breathe in the air of a new day, stretching your stiff limbs across your large bed; too large for only you, but you haven’t had the courage to toss it and start over with a new, smaller sized one. Will you ever? Maybe. But the days pass with you pondering the option, and they always end with you crawling into that same too-large-for-only-you bed.

As your naked feet hit the slightly cooler wooden floors, it helps you awaken fully, and you rise, stretching out once again as your arms reach to the ceiling, and you sigh deeply. You turn to face the sheets, shaking them out and fluffing the pillows back to neatness, then you tuck the blankets into the sides of the frame until the whole bed is made.

It feels bare to you; only the sheets and a top, warmer blanket across the mattress, two long pillows resting against the headboard. Once you broke the habit of piling on unnecessary decorative pillows and quilts that are only meant to cover the bottom of the bed, you couldn’t find it in you to start that up again. He never did like all those ‘redundant hard pillows’ and ‘impractical itchy blankets’.

The memory makes you puff out a small laugh through your nose and you mark a mental tally on your scoreboard that reads How Many Times You Thought Of Him Today. You shake your head and turn to face your wardrobe, finding nothing to wear in your copious articles of clothing until settling on a forest green Henley from his side of the closet. Tally number two.

You accept defeat on the goal of going one whole day of not conjuring up a memory of him through every single thing you do and move along to the kitchen, breaking out your tea box and scanning through which one sounds most pleasant. You settle for pomegranate cinnamon, a tea that definitely did not mingle with your taste buds at first, but you have slowly grown accustomed to.

You place the kettle on one of the stovetop burners, turning the knob and it clicks until a flame bursts from beneath. While you wait for the water to boil, you grab your teapot, a mug from the cabinet, and a spoon from the drawer, opening your tea bag and scooping some into the infuser nestled inside the ceramic teapot. You reach for the sugar bowl and, to your disappointment, find it empty. Exhaling in frustration, you remember that the item at the top of your next grocery list was sugar. He always did tease about your inability to refill the sugar bowl before it ran out.

Deciding that you wouldn’t be able to properly enjoy your tea without sugar – something you experimented with before and knew since to always add sugar – you begrudgingly conclude you need to visit the market down the road. You leave everything prepared as it is on the counter, turn off the stove, and head to the front door. Once you grab your keys and purse from the entry table, you open the door and stop in your tracks as you look outside in awe at the sudden rainfall you had no idea was happening. The sun still shines and there are no clouds in the sky; it’s as if this strange weather is an omen, foreshadowing that today will not be like any other day.

You grab an umbrella that you haven’t needed for a couple of months now from its resting place and point it just outside your door frame, popping it open and holding it upright as you take your first step out the door. You listen to the rain hitting the nylon material protecting you. The pitter patter creates enough music to accompany you on your trek that it doesn’t make you regret bringing your headphones. You notice, however, the rain begins to fall down harder and you pick up the pace in your steps, hoping to get to the market quickly and return home even faster.

The covered market comes into view as well as the fellow townspeople, just in time as the trickle of rain becomes a downpour. You keep your head down once you close your umbrella, hoping to avoid any mundane conversations to further expedite your trip, though the good natured part of you still can’t help but reply to whoever calls out a ‘good morning’ in your direction. You quickly find the different sacks of sugar and pick out one that suits your needs, rushing to the cashier with payment in hand. You can almost taste the tart of the pomegranate and the spice of the cinnamon dancing on your tongue.

Once you’ve finished your transaction, you turn in the direction that you came and make your way through the market once more to head home. Suddenly, a feeling washes over you, a small voice in your head telling you to look up as you sense a familiarity in the air. As soon as your head is back in an upright position, your eyes instantly catch on the target your instinct was telling you to find: a tall man in a dark coat. He’s turned away from you and you see he has a rucksack strapped to his broad back and he has a head of shaggy black hair.

From this perspective, he looks like any ordinary man, but deep down you know it’s the most unique man in your life. You gravitate towards him, an invisible rope tied around your waist and he’s the man operating the pulley, closing the distance between you two despite your best efforts. The world around you fades away; no sounds of people chattering or coins jingling or rain falling penetrating your eardrums. Finally, you find yourself nearly right up against his back and fight the urge to reach out and touch him for a guarantee that he isn’t an apparition.

“Ezra?” You call out to the man and when he turns in your direction, you confirm to yourself it is your love returned.

“Ah… Starlight,” he grins, a charming grin, as if the time that has come to pass has suddenly vanished and all is right again. “It’s pouring rain, why are you here?”

You scoff, the excitement of seeing him melting away, leaving anger and frustration at the forefront. For the time being, his nonchalant remark of concern is enough for you to respond coolly.

“I could ask you the same question,” you snark and he’s visibly taken aback.

“I…” He speaks softly, so quiet you almost can’t hear him over the pattering of rain against the tin covering above your heads. “I had hoped I would remember the path to you, my Starlight.”

“And you have,” you reply in a whisper. As of right now, you’re not sure if he deserves a slap in the face or a warm embrace.

The silence between the two of you is awkward, to say the least. You long to run into his arms, to inhale his deep, woody and spicy scent until it’s all that fills up your senses. However powerful that need is, you also feel equally as strong that you deserve all the explanation he has for leaving so suddenly. For leaving you and the life he supposedly couldn’t wait to build with you.

“More sugar?” He chuckles as he points out the small sack you carry in your arm; an attempt to break the tension, no doubt. He shakes his head and looks to the gravel beneath his boot. “You always did wait until the last granule beckoned you to the market once again.”

You catch the small laugh that threatens to exit your mouth; how can someone who knows you so well – who knows all your quirks and habits – just leave the way he did? You try your best to be strong, the anxiety of your next words flooding your mind until you push yourself to say them aloud.

“Well, I better get back home. It was nice to see you, Ezra.” You move past the man, showing him your back just as he did to you some weeks – months? – ago and are barely able to make it two steps away before he calls out to you again.

“Starlight,” his given name for you from his lips in that low, rumbling tone freezes your feet where you stand, but you don’t turn to look at him again. “May I join you? Can I come home?”

“That depends, Ez. Will you stay this time?” You ask quietly as you gain the courage to look at his face.

Ezra opens his mouth to respond then looks around at his surroundings and the people walking close by as they go about their shopping before locking his eyes to yours once again.

“I’ll explain more… Please,” he nearly begs with his eyes, the same look he always gave you when he tried to get what he wanted. You hate that you fall for it each time.

“Fine,” you breathe out and turn on your heels, heading in the direction of your house once again. “No umbrella?” You ask him as you reach the end of the market, preparing to open yours once again.

“I am woefully unprepared, but I’m sure I can manage fine,” he grins and you nearly swoon.

You nod and continue as you were, almost pretending that the man you had dreamed of seeing again wasn’t currently behind you. He dawdles behind your fast paced steps, stopping every so often to comment on the flora and fauna that has changed during his absence, but you don’t wait or slow down for him, chuckling softly to yourself as you hear the crunching of the gravel quickened as he catches up to you again.

The quaint cottage you and Ezra had once shared together comes into view just as the rain begins to dissipate. A light sprinkle is leftover and you decide to close up your umbrella for the remainder of your walk. Meanwhile, Ezra shakes off his coat from the rainwater that had gathered in the material during the walk. You hadn’t even noticed he took it off to use as a cover and you feel a small sense of guilt for not sharing your umbrella. You make your way down the pebbled path that cuts through your garden and to your door.

“Wow,” he breathes out. “The garden has grown so much; so many vegetables.”

“Yes, well… I had to pour my energy into something to stay busy,” you reply, looking straight on into his eyes to let him know the true reasoning behind the lusciousness of your garden. He understands, shifting nervously from one foot to the other and gripping the strap of his pack tightly.

“Come in,” you say as you open the door and step inside, standing in the frame as you wait for him to enter, and shutting it once he comes through.

You walk straight through to the kitchen to continue your quest of tea drinking and notice that Ezra stands awkwardly, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to get comfortable here without your permission. You turn the stove on once again, the water in the kettle still warm from already having been boiled before. You turn to face Ezra and meet his gaze, a light flush creeping along the tops of his cheekbones when he sees you had just caught him watching you in the kitchen. You chuckle softly and gesture to a chair, offering for him to sit down. He smiles and nods his thanks, removing his pack and setting it, along with his coat, by the door and taking a seat.

“I was just making some tea. Would you like a cup?” You ask, the volume of your voice reverberating through the quiet home.

“I would love some. Thank you, Starlight,” he smiles and you nod, grabbing an extra mug and spoon for him.

While the water begins boiling again, Ezra regales you in his adventures with such ferocity that it begins sounding like he’s reciting an epic poem. The glint in his eyes proves to you where his true passions lie and you pretend you don’t feel saddened by that fact. While you hoped you could live a simple, quiet life with him, the call of adventure to him is a constant itch he cannot seem to scratch in order for him to finally stay. He catches on that his tales bring you sadness and it falls silent again for a moment.

“Is that my shirt you’re wearing?” He asks and your heart drops in embarrassment.

After you tried so hard to make it seem as if you weren’t interested in letting him back into your life, your appearance obviously proves otherwise. You don’t respond, redirecting your attention to refilling the sugar bowl, and Ezra notices you avoiding the topic.

“You redecorated,” he says as he looks around the kitchen and front living space.

“Here and there,” you nod, moving away from the counter and heading back to the stove as the kettle whistles. “Like I said, I had to stay busy somehow.”

“Well, it still feels like home,” he says underneath a smile and you softly laugh through your nose, the statement not seeming as sincere to you at the moment.

You prepare the two mugs of tea just as you did countless times before in the mornings and evenings, a small ritual you both kept to during your time together. Before his head became filled with thoughts of prospecting. Before he left this life for one of greed and betrayal. You shake your head slightly, attempting to release those negative thoughts, and you grab the mugs and head to the table.

“Mm… Pomegranate cinnamon. My favorite,” Ezra smiles warmly as he sniffs his mug. “Surprised to see you still drink it.”

“It slowly became my favorite, too.”

You sit down in a chair across from him at the table, both of you knowing what conversation needs to be had but neither of you knowing how to start it. You take a deep breath, releasing it with the intention to open your mouth and speak, but you chicken out in the end. You used to be able to speak to this man about anything, yet asking him this one little question gives you more anxiety than finding out the answer. Another deep breath.

“So… You’re back,” you finally speak, the tone of your voice remarking it almost as a question. He looks down at his mug.

“Yes, I-I’ve returned,” he replies, though he does not meet your gaze.

“I mean that… Are you finished?” You clarify, heart pounding as you wait for his answer that takes far too long to come.

“Well…” He trails off and you shut your eyes in disappointment. You lower your head as well. May as well rip off that proverbial band-aid.

“When?” You finally mutter.

“Tomorrow,” Ezra replies curtly, most likely knowing it wouldn’t do any good to sugarcoat the situation.

“Damn you, Ezra!” You muster up the strength to yell out, unleashing all the pent up frustration you’ve had at the same time. “Then why even bother showing up here? Just to take away my hope as soon as you give it?”

“I had to see you,” he says, those brown eyes turning down in sadness; a puppy dog gaze that he knows all too well works on you. Although the anger you feel is too strong to hold back now.

“I am not your marionette; you cannot keep me on these strings expecting me to wait around forever,” you say and stand from the table, admittedly a little more dramatic than you normally would act, but you hope the point comes across to Ezra in this way.

“Starlight, please try to understand.”

“No, Ezra, I don’t and never will understand,” you lean against the kitchen sink, supporting your weight with your hands as you hang your head, begging the tears not to flow. “I can’t – I will not keep doing this.”

“Doing what? Exactly what do you mean?” He asks, standing up as well to stand in the middle of the kitchen, getting closer to you while also respecting the space you want between you two. You scoff and face him.

“I mean…putting myself through this heartache. You leaving for months with no end in sight and then just popping back in my life with nothing to show for your disappearance.”

“Starlight,” Ezra begins softly, taking one more step closer to you and you let him. “I am, whether you’d like to believe me or not, doing this for us. For us to be able to live the life you long for.”

“No, Ezra, don’t blame me for that. Don’t pretend you do this for anyone except yourself,” you sneer and it’s obvious on his face that your words cut him. “I never needed any of it; I told you from the start. My life was fulfilled with you in it just as we were before.”

“Starlight, my love, please,” he steps forward, closing the space between you and grabbing your hands. “This one is the winner, I can feel it. And… I promise, it will be the finale.”

“You always say that,” you sigh, feeling the weight of his hands in yours; a feeling you won’t admit you missed. “But I can’t promise I’ll be here when you come back.”

“You always say that,” he chuckles and places his warm palms on either side of your face. “And where do I find you when I return?”

“I mean it this time,” you look into his eyes, your own welling to the brim with tears. “I mean all of it. Of what I said.”

“I see,” Ezra nods in understanding. “Then… I can only hope for your beautiful face to greet me when I land at your feet again.”

You curse the tears that fall from your eyes, a weakness you had begged yourself not to show him during your conversation. You lean into his touch slightly as he wipes the stream from your cheeks with his thumbs.

“Goodbye Starlight,” he says softly, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead.

He picks up his rucksack and slings it on his shoulder, and you watch him as he steps through the front door and out of your life once again. Your heart doesn’t hurt nearly as bad this time as you watch him walk down the path and you wonder if it’s because you’re used to the pain or because you know you didn’t mean a word you said.

~

Tags: @the-ginger-hedge-witch @pascalpanic @aliwritesfic @outercrasis @hnt-escape @winter-fox-queen @sarahjkl82-blog @pedrocentric @astoryisaloveaffair @amandalovess @foli-vora @lucrezia-thoughts @chasingdreamer @quica-quica-quica @mishasminion360 @wardenparker @fan-of-encouragement @javierpinme @writeforfandoms @ew-erin @you-got-me-starry-eyed @beskarboobs @andiesturgss @maryfanson @princessxkenobi @castleamc @magpie-to-the-morning @horton-hears-a-honk @radiowallet @stevie75 @honestly-shite @bison-writes @amneris21 @disgruntledspacedad @eri16 @tintinn16 @lowlights @fictitious-little-stitious @luz-introvertida @shadesofnerdlygrace

Ezra Prospect Tags: @quietpainter @grogusmum @tenderwhat

[ibijau]

Futures past pt19 / on AO3

As music lessons resume, Lan Xichen has a suggestion for Nie Huaisang

Nie Huaisang cheerfully knocked on the door, ready for his first music lesson of the year, only to be met by a decidedly grumpy Lan Xichen. The other boy tried to smile at him, tried to make conversation as usual and to ask how much he’d practiced that week, but Nie Huaisang wasn’t fooled.

“So, what’s wrong?” he asked as he set up his guqin, a little proud to show off again that he had his own instrument now. “You look so dejected that I could mistake you for your brother.”

“Let’s not talk about Wangji right now,” Lan Xichen replied, his expression turning sour. 

Now he looked like his uncle, though Nie Huaisang was too polite to say as much. It was really strange to see him so upset, and a little worrying as well, but Lan Xichen did not give him the chance to ask any questions.

“I’ve been thinking a lot while you were gone,” Lan Xichen announced with a fake smile that wasn’t fooling anyone, “and I think your level is good enough to start teaching you something a little more advanced. Shufu has given me permission to give you an introduction to some techniques we use for musical cultivation, if that interests you.”

Nie Huaisang gasped at the news.

“Really? You mean, real musical cultivation?” he asked excitedly. “The real deal? Like… like battle songs? Healing songs? You think I’m good enough?”

His earlier bad mood quickly melting away, Lan Xichen smiled warmly and came to sit next to Nie Huaisang.

“I think you’re very skilled, yes,” he said, making Nie Huaisang flush at the praise, “though it’ll be a while until you can use musical techniques in a Night Hunt. But since we have this entire year before us, I thought you could try to learn Inquiry.”

“Really?”

To confirm it, Lan Xichen merely handed Nie Huaisang a musical score, one he appeared to have copied himself. Nie Huaisang took it with trembling hands, awed to be trusted in that manner.

“The song itself is not particularly complex,” Lan Xichen explained as Nie Huaisang looked over the score, “and it can be learned and used even by someone of ordinary cultivation level. The real difficulty, and what is going to take us a while, is the Qin language needed to understand the answers given by spirits.”

His eyes still on the sheet of music, Nie Huaisang just nodded. Then, realising what he’d just heard, he looked up and stared at Lan Xichen with wide, shocked eyes.

“Isn’t that a secret Lan technique?”

“I'm not sure about 'secret' but it is an exclusive technique,” Lan Xichen confirmed, his expression turning more serious. “That’s why I had to ask for shufu’s permission before I could offer to teach you. I won’t hide that he was reluctant,” he added with a strained smile. “But I told him that I fully trust you to respect our secrets.”

Hands clenched on the music sheet, Nie Huaisang hurriedly nodded again. He couldn’t think of a bigger honour done to him. He’d never have dared to ask to be taught any Lan secret techniques, but since it was offered he would do his best to be worthy of it, and to show proper respect and gratitude.

“I also told him that having a goal of your own seemed to help you in your studies last year,” Lan Xichen added, “and that this might help you do better in your exams by giving you better motivation.”

However pleased he was that Lan Xichen would trust him, and with something that important, the reminder of his failure to do well in class made Nie Huaisang grimace, and instantly reduced his enthusiasm. “Does it mean the music lessons will be dependent on the grades I get in regular classes?”

“It’s possible that shufu came to that conclusion,” Lan Xichen replied with a mischievous smile. “But I never actually said that, and your grades are of no concern to me. I just like teaching you”

“Xichen-gege, you’re so crafty!” Nie Huaisang laughed. “Who knew you were capable of that! You’re the best, you know? I like when you teach me, too. I’ll try to be as good a student as you are a teacher!”

“I’m pleased you’d think so well of me,” Lan Xichen said, his cheeks turning a little pink. “Now, let’s get to work. I think for today, we’re just going to focus on the song itself. Then next week, if you are comfortable enough playing it, I can show you how to infuse it with your spiritual energy to have the right effect, and we can start learning Qin language.”

It sounded like a great plan, and one Nie Huaisang wholeheartedly agreed to.

Just as Lan Xichen promised, the song itself was not particularly challenging, and short enough that Nie Huaisang had good hopes of quickly learning it by heart if he just put his mind to it. He’d try to be careful not to practice it around the other Nie disciples, since it was a Lan technique, but he’d still work hard on it, and… maybe that might turn Night Hunts into something interesting at last. It should certainly make Nie Mingjue happy if his brother finally became interested in those, even if he had to use another sect’s method for it. 

It opened a world of possibilities, and Nie Huaisang promised himself to practice hard to make this happen, so both his brother and Lan Xichen would be proud of him. Or at least, as hard as he was capable, especially with all that he had to do that year. 

That would come later. The lesson having reached its conclusion for the day, Lan Xichen served tea for both of them, and offered some candies to celebrate the start of a new year of learning. By then, Lan Xichen’s mood appeared to have improved a great deal, and Nie Huaisang decided it would be fine to start the first phase of his great plan. 

"So, Xichen-gege, what do you think of this year's students?" Nie Huaisang asked innocently while grabbing some candies.

Lan Xichen's expression turned sour for a brief moment, before he got himself back under control and smiled again. 

"They are an interesting lot, certainly," he said without enthusiasm. "Are you making friends this time?" 

After taking a quick sip of tea, Nie Huaisang nodded, grinning.

"Gege, you won't believe it, but even last year I made a friend!” he announced. “Apparently, Zixun thinks I'm really cool and told his cousin about me!"

It was still really funny to him, and judging by his surprised expression, Lan Xichen hadn’t expected that either.

"Then Jin Zixun has better tastes than I expected,” Lan Xichen said with some hesitation, “and I must reconsider my opinion of him." 

"Well, me too! But I am making friends this year too, and they're nicer about it than Zixun was. Have you met Wei Wuxian yet?" 

Stopping short of drinking some tea, Lan Xichen's smile wavered. He froze for a second, and put down his glass again.

"I have,” Lan Xichen said in a tone of voice that made it plain the encounter had brought him little joy. “Jiang Cheng… I mean, Jiang gongzi came to greet me on his second day here, and Wei gongzi was with him. I suppose he was polite enough with me."

Nie Huaisang laughed at seeing him struggle to find something nice to say.

"But he upset your uncle and you don't like that."

That was all the encouragement Lan Xichen needed to allow his expression to turn into anger, which Nie Huaisang found very funny.

"He was extremely rude to shufu,” Lan Xichen complained. “It’s very unfortunate that he should show so little respect to a teacher. He's also determined to pester poor Wangji, who isn't used to being treated like that!” He paused, taking a deep breath to compose himself, but didn’t manage to put on a smile again. “Huaisang, since you're his friend, do you think you might tell him to leave Wangji alone?"

All of Nie Huaisang’s amusement quickly dissipated at that demand and he frowned.

"Well that's a problem! You really dislike him that much?"

Lan Xichen fell silent for a moment. Nie Huaisang found it more worrying than if he’d answered right away. A little anger at a misbehaving student was one thing, but he’d talked enough with Lan Xichen to recognise those moments when he was trying hard to be fair to someone he didn’t particularly like. He used to make the same face when talking about Su She, back before he started warming up to him.

"He doesn't seem like a bad person,” Lan Xichen said at last, “and he hasn't done anything to me, so I cannot dislike him. I am just worried for Wangji, who isn’t very good at dealing with people." 

"That's really inconvenient,” Nie Huaisang sighed. “Xichen-gege, I was really hoping you'd help me help them to become friends! It would have been a lot of fun, the two of us scheming together…” he sighed again. “Oh, well. I'll see if I can get Jiang-xiong or Su-xiong instead. I don’t want to involve you in something you’d find upsetting."

"I think the fact you’d want such a thing is already upsetting me a little,” Lan Xichen replied. “Is it even possible for them to be friends? They are… very different."

Nie Huaisang gave that a moment of consideration before shrugging.

"I guess. But we're pretty different too, and we didn't start off so well either, and look at us now! If it worked for us, it can work for them! I’m sure they can become good friends like us!" 

A spot or pink appeared on Lan Xichen's cheeks, but his expression remained conflicted. 

"I think it's different. Their first meeting was a fight."

Nie Huaisang could only laugh.

"And I ran away from you when you tried to chat!” he pointed out, grabbing another candy which he pushed toward Lan Xichen. “Anyway, wouldn't it be good for Wangji to have friends? He's too serious. It's not healthy for a boy his age to be so serious. As his elders, we need to make sure he doesn't get lonely." 

"you're barely a year older than him," Lan Xichen remarked, fighting a smile as he took the candy. "I'm not sure you have much claim as an elder." 

One hand on his heart, Nie Huaisang faked an offended expression which made Lan Xichen chuckle.

"I am an elder!” he protested theatrically. “I am wiser in the way of the world, so it is my duty to guide these children. Wei Wuxian too!” he added, a touch more seriously. “I think he was impressed by Wangji, you know. Jiang-xiong says that it's unheard of for him to find someone he can't beat.” He paused, and considered that. “Jiang-xiong also says he kind of hopes that Wei-xiong gets his ass kicked very hard, so it teaches him humility. And Meng-xiong didn't say anything, but he did nod."

Lan Xichen grinned.

"I do get the sensation that people tend to be as irritated by him as they are endeared. And I suppose… Wangji too was impressed by Wei gongzi's skill. Mostly he said it was quite upsetting that such talent should belong to a person with such poor manners."

Nie Huaisang smiled at that most encouraging news.

"There! If Wangji is complimenting him, then they need to be friends!" he exclaimed, making Lan Xichen laugh hard enough that he felt the need to hide it behind his sleeve.

"That's hardly a compliment."

"Coming from Wangji, it is."

That got another laugh out of Lan Xichen, which he quickly got under control and attempted to replace by a more severe expression. It might have worked, if his eyes had not been shining with barely repressed mirth. 

"Wangji is not nearly as bad as you seem to think,” Lan Xichen said. “He's just very shy, and being distant is the way he deals with it. Not everyone can be as bold and determined to collect friends as you are, Huaisang." 

"I'm not sure how to take that." 

"Coming from any other Lan, it might be an insult,” Lan Xichen admitted. “Coming from me, and to you, it's probably a compliment." 

Nie Huaisang grinned, delighted to be teased like that. How had he ever thought that Lan Xichen was boring? Maybe his future self was right about him not being too bright. But then again, wasn't it easy to make that sort of judgement in hindsight? Lan Xichen was fun now, but it had taken time for his smiles to gain real warmth when they were together. It had been time well invested though, and realising that made him hopeful that this business between Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian might turn out fine. Maybe they too would get to have that sort of comfortable relationship someday.

More comfortable, even, since they were to fall in love someday. It was going to be so funny to see how Lan Wangji acted when he was in love.

After this, the two boys fell silent for a moment as they finished their tea. It was getting a little late, and Nie Huaisang knew that he would soon have to leave. It made him almost wish that Lan Qiren had already given them homework, so he’d have an excuse to stay a little longer by whining that he always worked better when he was with Lan Xichen. Or else, he might have offered to help copy some scroll or other for Lan Xichen’s great secret project. Anything at all so he wouldn’t have to go. After almost a whole winter apart, he just wanted to be in his friend’s company a little more, just a tiny bit more, even if he knew they were sure to have time together again the week after.

Then, just as Nie Huaisang was trying to accept that he couldn’t find a good excuse to stay, Lan Xichen spoke again.

"If we do help Wangji and Wei-gongzi become friends,” he said, “and that's still an 'if' on my part, the main issue will be to make them understand they both want to be friends. Wangji seems to think Wei-gongzi only exists to torment him, and despairs to see again his more positive qualities."

Excited both for the excuse to chat a little more and by the fact that Lan Xichen was falling to his side, Nie Huaisang nodded.

"Wei-xiong is convinced Wangji is giving him the cold shoulder in spite of his efforts to become friends,” he replied. “He’s not used to people not fawning over him, I fear. Xichen-gege, we're gonna have to work hard!" 

"It would take effort,” Lan Xichen agreed. “I can see you're very excited about this little project, but don't let it get in the way of your studies."

Nie Huaisang dismissed that worry with a hand gesture.

"Don't worry! I'll practice the guqin every day no matter what!"

That answer made Lan Xichen laugh.

"I meant your actual studies, Huaisang,” he corrected, trying to sound scolding but too obviously amused to be scary at all. “The lectures? With my uncle? You do remember that's why you're here in the first place?" 

Blushing a little at his blunder, Nie Huaisang shrugged.

"Oh, that. I'll deal with that,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “At worst, I'll just come again a third year. Wouldn't that be fun? We'd get even more time together!" 

"I'm not sure shufu would be thrilled,” Lan Xichen pointed out. “But I would certainly be happy to have you around as long as you want. And… of course, you'd get more time with Su She as well. Apparently you've even told your brother about him?"

If he hadn’t been in such good humour upon hearing that Lan Xichen enjoyed his company that much, Nie Huaisang might have noticed that the other boy’s expression became a little more pained when he mentioned Su She. But he was in too good a mood to be observant.

"Of course. It fell through last year because I didn't plan it enough in advance and my grades were bad,” he explained, “but this year, I absolutely want to invite Su-xiong home with me when I go back, even if I don't pass! I think we'll have a lot of fun, and da-ge can't ground me if I have a guest to entertain!"

Lan Xichen's smile turned strained again, nearly as much as when Nie Huaisang first arrived to see him. 

"How cunning of you. I'm sure you'll have great fun. I could try to steal your brother for a Night Hunt, so you and Su She can have some peace." 

It was a very generous offer, and Nie Huaisang gave it all the consideration it deserved.

"No, I think if you make it all the way to Qinghe, I'll want to keep you around too,” he announced. “Xichen-gege, even though you've come a few times, we weren’t friends back then so I've never really shown you my birds, right? And we could go painting all three of us… wait, Su-xiong isn't that fond of painting!” he remembered, hitting his forehead. “So it won’t do. Then… let's dump him with da-ge for a bit, so they can get all excited together about fighting and cultivation, and I'll steal you away! Oh there's this gorgeous little spot from where you can see the mountains at a wonderful angle… I've always wanted to show it to someone, and I think you're really someone who would know how to appreciate it. Will you go there with me next time you visit us, Xichen-gege?"

Lan Xichen tried to smile, his face a little pinker than usual.

"Wouldn't you rather take Su She, if you like it so much?"

Nie Huaisang considered that, too, before shaking his head.

"There are other places I can show him. That one, I really want to show you."

Looking definitely quite pink now, Lan Xichen smiled.

"Then I will gladly accompany you. If you like it so much, it must be very beautiful indeed, and I can’t wait to see it." 

"Xichen-gege is too kind,” Nie Huaisang replied, delighted by that new plan. “Really too kind. And in his great kindness, will he help me give Wangji a friend?" 

"You’re just as stubborn as your brother,” Lan Xichen accused, his good mood fully returned. “We'll see. I need to see a little more of this Wei Wuxian before I decide. But if I find him to be a good person, and if I am given reasons to think he’ll be good for Wangji, then yes, I will help." 

It wasn't unfair to worry about that, especially when Lan Xichen didn't have a messenger from the future to tell him that Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji were pretty much soulmates. Indeed, without that information, Nie Huaisang would never have guessed that Lan Wangji's cold anger might have hidden any other sort of tender feelings. That was why Nie Huaisang really needed Lan Xichen's help, he was the only person in the world who could understand his brother. 

Since he needed Lan Xichen's assistance so badly, Nie Huaisang wondered if he should maybe not ask Wei Wuxian to help him cheat in the next test. But he had already done his part of the deal in that regards, so it would be very upsetting to have copied all those boring texts for nothing. Besides, it would probably be fine. 

There was no way they'd be caught, right? 

[mardereads19]

Elriel Month 🌸🦇

Day 6:

Continuation of Day 1: Rosehall.

His mother. His mother was here.

He had never mentioned her before. Elain had not even known she was alive.

Azriel led Elain inside the estate, the shadow spy returning to report in Azriel’s ear what it had discovered. He nodded, but said nothing.

Elain vaguely took in her surroundings, but every detail she noticed quickly faded away from her memory. Her mind was spinning around with the idea that she could meet Azriel’s mother today.

She was not appropriately dressed.

“I just need to check on a few things and then we’ll leave.” Azriel had taken her to a parlor. A fireplace of white stone was on the wall to her left, while a couch made to accommodate Illyrian wings faced it, pushed against the wall to her right. The wall directly before them was covered in windows gazing out to a field of flowers. Elain’s eyebrows raised, her lips lifting at the corners. An image popped into her mind of her sitting on the couch, a cup of tea in her hand and the saucer on the low table, while she gazed at the lovely view. At the flowers and how they swayed in the breeze.

“Wait for me here. I’ll be back in a moment.” Elain snapped back into reality and managed a nod before Azriel strode away, leaving a shadow behind. She watched him go, his stalk proud and easy, his back straight but relaxed. The light played in his wings, painting them red and purple and blue, a melange of color infused with a map of veins. They look soft, Elain thought in awe.

When he was gone, she turned to the fireplace. There were no pictures there. No sign of memories to be seen. The room was mostly empty, safe for the various flower bases, the couch and table, and the bookshelves to either side of the row of windows. There was also a small mirror next to the fireplace where she caught her reflection. The shadow floated just beside it, staying by the mantle of the fireplace, seeming to be looking at her.

Elain frowned at her reflection and reached above her head to pat down a hair that was sticking up. Then, her gazed lowered and she ran her hand through her hair strands. Did they seem too flat? She studied her attire. Was that dust on her dress? With a frustrated sharp exhale, she began to dust-off the area near her bellybutton.

Why hadn’t Azriel told her who would be here? She was not dressed for this. Her dress today was simple, one of the dresses she wore to train. If she had known his mother was here, she would have donned something more pretty, less drably. She would have fixed her hair into—

“What are you wiping away, my dear?”

Elain startled, turning to her left. The female standing there laughed softly. There were wings peaking above her shoulders. They were scarred.

Elain had not heard her come in.

Azriel’s mother.

Elain knew a blush was spreading on her cheeks. Great. She hadn’t even opened her mouth and Azriel’s mother was laughing at her. She was going to stab Azriel with truth teller during training today.

A sudden fear overtook her briefly. Making a good impression on this female was important for Elain. She pushed the reason away, but there was no denying it.

Elain saw Azriel’s shadow tilt curiously from the corner of her eye.

“What’s your name, child?” The female’s voice was tender, but rough like gravel. Her skin was a tanned brown like her son’s and her hair was just as dark as his. Azriel had inherited his father’s eyes, because his mother’s were the darkest brown Elain had ever seen.

A few scars extended across the Illyrian’s cheeks and neck. One of them ran across her right eyebrow.

Beautiful. She was absolutely beautiful. And if Elain had not known this female was older than Azriel, she would’ve assumed she was in her late twenties.

Now she understood why Azriel was so handsome.

The female’s lips twisted up in a smile. Elain blinked. Her name, the female had asked Elain for her name.

“Elain Archeron, Miss,” she answered, shifting on her feet before offering an awkward curtsy.

The female tilted her head to the side —another habit Azriel must have gotten from her— as she regarded Elain. “Elain Archeron?” Elain nodded. “Archeron like my new High Lady?”

Elain nodded again. She cringed and forced herself to speak. “Feyre is my younger sister.”

The female raised her eyebrows. “I see.” She walked closer and past Elain until she stood before the windows, gazing out at the field of flowers.

I see? What did that mean?

“Tell me, Elain. Do you like flowers?”

Elain smiled, coming to stand beside Azriel’s mother, pressing her shaking hands against her dress. The view really was breathtaking, she noticed now that she came closer to it. “I love flowers.”

The Illyrian did not remove her eyes from the field, but there was a smile on her lips as she said, “You smell like one.”

“Jazmine,” they both said together. The female turned to her then. What Elain felt looking at her face could not be described as anything other than comfort. The warmth she radiated with her gentle expression was enough to to make Elain wonder if this was what having a caring mother felt like. Having the female smile at her brought great peace to her heart, diminishing her fear. “My sister, Feyre, told me I smelled of jazmine and honey,” Elain added shyly.

The female grinned. “Yes.” After a moment of silent consideration, she motioned her hand towards the field. “Would you like to—“

Footsteps sounded from the hall and both of them twisted in time to see Azriel come inside the room. Elain’s shoulders relaxed at his presence. He frowned at his mother before noticing his shadow next to the fireplace and throwing a glare it’s way. “My shadows told me you were in your room.”

“I was,” she responded nonchalantly.

Azriel assented with his head slowly. Elain glanced between the two of them, their faces equally impassive.

Azriel glanced at Elain before returning his gaze to his mother. He gave her a small smile. “Hello, Mother.”

The female’s face broke out in a bright grin and she made her way to him, reaching her hand to cup his cheek. His face went soft, his eyes filled with love. Elain’s heart reacted to his happiness in kind.

“My boy,” the Illyrian female said, her voice —like her son’s eyes— full of love.

Elain turned her back to them, focusing again on the field of flowers below. Concentrating on naming them in her head while Azriel and his mother caught up. Eventually, she mentioned something about a leak and began to walk him out of the parlor.

Elain faced them again just in time to see Azriel’s mother pause on the doorway and look at her. Azriel glanced between them, his face neutral. “It was a pleasure meeting you, young flower,” she said. “I do hope to see you again.”

Elain smiled, feeling warm in the face. “Likewise, Miss.”

The female winked at her before leading his son away. Elain heard their cheerful voices fading and was delighted when she caught Azriel’s laugh.

Her eyes found the field again.

What a lovely female. It seemed accurate, that she lived in this graceful home.

The shadow that still stood by the mantle got closer to the view. Then it playfully approached Elain and tugged on a strand of hair before darting back to its initial spot.

Elain laughed. “I know. My hair is a mess.” She ran her fingers through the strand. “It wouldn’t have been like this if it weren’t for your cranky boss.” The shadow did not react beyond twisting in the air. “I don’t care if you tell him I said that.” It moved no more.

She didn’t know if it understood her. But while Azriel and his mother were away, taking care of whatever leak there was, the shadow kept her company. Both of them close to the window, looking out at the view, at the field of flowers. Dark and light looking out.

And as the breeze made all those petals dance, Elain wondered whether she had been meant to see this place and to meet her.

[skellebonez]

Happy Birthday Kit!!!

It’s your birthday @kitkat1003​ heck yeah! And for your birthday Spirit is going to have a good day because I and many other people love them a lot! I hope you like this fic as much as I loved writing it!

It was possibly the oddest favor Spirit had done for anyone, ever. But, if they were being at least a tiny bit honest with themselves, it sounded like it could have been one of the more enjoyable ones. Well… technically Pigsy said it was “not a favor I’m just asking you to do this”. So. Potato potahtoe.

Specifically he asked if Spirit would “spend the day with him.” That was it. Simple, easy, long to be sure but not as long as many of the other favors that required a fetch quest at the very least. That was the original bare bones request, vague as it was. Just spend the entire with with Pigsy, 9 AM to 9 PM, and they would be right as rain.

And it wasn’t even like that would be hard! They already had work scheduled for the day, helping Pigsy open the shop and working the register. Why, they could even finish up the task while at work, two bird one stone and all that!

At least, that was what Spirit thought. Before Pigsy met them at the shop entrance and announced in a tired voice after chugging some very very clearly fresh and not sweetened coffee-

“Store’s closed for the day. We’re going shopping.”

Store closed.

For the day.

And going shopping.

Going.

Shopping.

Spirit pushed down their immediate shudder of “oh, that’s not what we had planned today and now today is different oh no I was not prepared for this oh dear oh jeepers” that ran up their spine.

“Uh- o-ok… where are we headed?”

“Food market, mostly,” Pigsy said with a shrug as he adjusted a few reusable baskets in his hands. He must have had a lot on the list for the day or he was buying a lot in advance. “Thinkin of hitting up another place or two in the area if we got time, but nothing too strenuous.”

A bit of Spirit’s tension eased from their shoulders and spine at this. They’d been to the market plenty of times before, so even though it was out of the blue it wasn’t exactly that unusual for them. The last time they went had been with Pigsy and Tang, and while their fighting over which carrots looked “good enough” wasn’t the most… fun conversation to be present for, it was nice.

Pigsy had even bought them a snack, insisting there were no strings attached. No favors. Just a snack from a friend to a friend. And that memory was nice… nice enough to help elevate any extra anxiety still lingering in the demon’s spine (that came from the news anyway, the regular anxiety was as there as always).

“Well, best to head as quickly as possible?” They offered, following Pigsy as he lead the way. “Want to get there fast to get the pick of the best vegetables, right?”

“You’re speakin my language!”

~

The market was surprisingly calm and quiet. Maybe it was because it wasn’t one of the usual busy days, or maybe it was because of how early they were in the day, but instead of the loud bustle and clutter and yells of vendors there was just a set of clearly dedicated loyal customers and relaxed vendors making small talk.

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” Pigsy said suddenly as they made their way down to where he would usually buy root vegetables. “They do this sort of thing a couple times a month where the market isn’t open to the public for a couple hours. It’s a little somethin to help out the local restaurants and other businesses who come here for their supplies.”

“Is that why that guy at the entrance looked at me like I was about to steal a child’s lunch money?”

That hadn’t been fun at all. Until Pigsy had stepped up beside him Spirit thought they were genuinely in some sort of trouble they didn’t know about.

Then again. That happened a lot. Thinking they were in trouble they didn’t know about. Pigsy was trying to make sure that didn’t happen as much. “If I could tell their brain to stop it wouldn’t happen at all” was what he said when Spirit overheard him talking to Tang about them.

It wasn’t good to snoop, Spirit knew that, but… it was. Nice. Oddly nice. He wasn’t going to be able to just tell Spirit’s brain to stop telling them things, and before Spirit would be confused and maybe a little horrified at the idea, but after spending so much time with the pig demon it felt. Nice.

Their conversation continued on for a moment, Pigsy explaining what the market on these special days was like and how the deals here were so helpful and every stall they stopped at Pigsy made it a point to keep the conversation going with the vendor himself. Just open enough for Spirit to insert themselves if they wanted, though they didn’t except at the vendor selling oddly colored flowers (which led into a short explanation about how they were made) and an explanation of how many of the dried ones on sale were imported from other countries and difficult to find outside their stall.

They didn’t know why Pigsy was buying flowers, though. At least, not the specific reason. Dried, fresh, some with stems and some with only the heads. Some bulbs as well. Maybe he was going to try some more floral broths or flower infused noodles? He’d done that in the past apparently! And Spirit had watched him made odder things, experimental dishes that didn’t really change much with the old recipes so much as they simply added more depth to them.

Spirit did notice, however, most of the flowers he had purchased were… purple. Or, in the case of one, blue. An odd one out to be sure.

“Alright, we’re done!” Pigsy announced, smiling widely at his haul. Which, all things considered… wasn’t actually as much as Spirit expected. Still, a good haul. “We’re going to put this all away at the shop, I have an appointment with Sandy later but we’re not expected at any specific time so there isn’t really a need to rush.”

“AH, hold on just one moment!” The flower stall vendor said as he came out from behind his stall. “Pigsy, I want you both to have these. For being a wonderful return customer and for the nice conversation.”

Spirit watched as he tucked a purple flower behind Pigsy’s ear, a daisy if Spirit was correct. And then he did the same to them, making them tense in surprise. If they said anything after that Spirit didn’t realize due to their shock, but the next thing they registered was Pigsy gently guiding them out of the entrance.

~

Sandy was more than ready for them when they arrived, urging Spirit inside and to his couch while Pigsy and he talked about… something.

Spirit wasn’t paying as much attention as they normally would when they were immediately swarmed with cats.

Cats on their lap, cats on their arms, cats on their shoulders. Cats. Cats everywhere. So many cats.

“Uh… S-Sandy…” Spirit started, an uncertain chuckle bubbling up as another cat plopped down on their head. “Do your cats… smell fear? Or do I smell delicious? They’re vibrating very violently. And… rubbing against me. A lot. I mean, I know they’re purring but this is weird.”

Sandy turned toward Spirit, covering his mouth to keep himself from laughing at the sight.

“No, no they don’t and you do not,” he said with a shake of his head, and he gave a look toward Pigsy. “You probably got some catnip on you somehow at the market. You’re just their favorite person right now.”

“… oh,” Spirit breathed out, reaching up to pat one of the cats on his lap carefully. The cat let out a trill, rolling onto their back as they pressed harder into Spirit’s side. Spirit couldn’t help it. They gave in to the temptation to quote a video Mei showed him long ago. “… I have been chosen.”

They didn’t even pay attention to Sandy and Pigsy until something on a trey was placed on the table between all of them, the clinking jolting some of the cats and making them roll off Spirit (who was grateful for the use of their arms back).

“So… I was hoping you might want to taste test something I wanted to add to the menu for special occasions that Sandy is teaching me to make,” Pigsy said with a smile, gesturing to the trey. “He actually made these in advance, they take a long while to dry properly, but they’re supposed to be worth it. But I, uh, can’t guarantee anything.”

It was very… purple and blue. A clear cup filled with what Spirit assumed was blue tea and a purple… stick of some kind that seemed to be flowers dipped in sugar? The only thing that seemed to stand out was the tiny cup of what smelled like lemon juice between them.

“The stick is candied lavender!” Sandy explained, gesturing to the hardened blossom. “You can use it to stir the tea and add sweetness or just eat it as is! But before you choose, pour that little cup into the tea.”

Spirit raised an eyebrow, almost wondering if this was some kind of prank. It didn’t feel like Pigsy and Sandy would pull a prank like this but. Well. Who knows… but they wanted to trust that they weren’t so they did as asked, slowly pouring the lemon juice into… the…

“It’s turning purple,” Spirit whisper shouted, eyes wide and awed as the blue tea slowly turned from the brilliant blue to a more brilliant purple from the bottom of the cup up. “What. Purple? It’s purple! The tea changes colors!”

Pigsy chuckled, nodding his head with a wide smile. “Yup.”

“It’s called Butterfly Pea Flower tea,’ Sandy explained, smile just as wide. "Lemon and lime juice made it do that! It’s not really a rare tea, but we added some extra stuff to the lavender that should make it taste even better when you mix it all in. Go on, give it a try!”

Spirit looked between the two of them and picked up the lavender stick and tea cup, mixing them together as they sat back and took a sip.

It was… amazing. Earthy and slightly bitter from the lemon juice. There must have been honey as well as sugar in the lavender stick, bringing a bright sweetness to the drink. There was a bit of spice to it, maybe cinnamon, as well. It was nothing like anything Spirit had ever drank before. It was warm without being too hot, and combined with the purring of the cats surrounding them…

They realized they felt. Good. Not perfect, not completely relaxed. They didn’t know if that was possible. But they felt good. Happy.

“I think… I think people will love this.”

[duskandstarlight]

Embers & Light (Chapter 25)

Notes: Hi lovely readers,Thank you for everybody who commented on last weeks chapter and for those of you who fed back to say you would keep on reading E&L after ACOSF. It's great to know I can continue at my own pace, especially as work is about to pick up for me so it would be hard to write more than I have been already.

Let me know what you think of this chapter :) And as usual, apologies for my typos!

Chapter Twenty-Five Nesta

Nesta barely heard the sound of the door opening and shutting as Feyre left. Neither did she truly register the murmur of voices or the sensation of power vacuuming into nothing as Rhys and Feyre winnowed back to Velaris.

Feyre’s words had cracked her open again, and all Nesta wanted was to sleep so she didn’t have to think about her sister or the errors of her own past. Of the forgiveness her sister had granted her which she did not think she deserved. How her sister had offered a slate wiped clean, something that Nesta had secretly hungered for so long she couldn’t even pinpoint when it had started.

It was a chance to begin again, if Nesta wanted it. Or the chance to draw a line under everything and leave entirely.

A choice, either way.

Everything Feyre had said had been true. Nesta had felt her sister’s honesty in her stomach laced with her sister’s scent — pear and lilac. But was Nesta ready to forgive her sister? Seeing her sister curled up in the armchair — stationary rather than moving, the world still — made everything hurt. But when they had been in the midst of action, when together they had fought side-by side, a team rather than two opposing forces, Nesta had felt whole.

Another wave of tiredness washed over Nesta. She was too drained to contemplate it further, so she allowed the exhaustion to tug her down, down, down with both of its strong hands. She allowed her body to mould into the mattress, surrendering to the comforting weight of the midnight blue duvet and the woollen blankets.

Nesta dipped in and out of a sleep infused with pine and musk. Her pointed ears picked up the sounds of someone moving about the house, the bedroom door as it opened. She felt large hands on her forehead. The dip of the mattress. Heard the rustle of wings.

At one point, she had cracked open an eye to see a tent of red umber. Felt the ghosting warmth of a body and soft, even breathing before she slipped back under.

She had nightmares and vivid dreams. At first it was lifeless eyes, cracked wings, screams and blood. But then she saw her mother at the breakfast table, pouring herself a cup of tea. Her father returning from a long absence, his hair smelling of sea salt as he picked Nesta up in a hug. Nesta saw a younger Feyre, her face full of innocence and youth as Nesta read to her, a book of fairytales lying across her skirts. And Elain, brushing Nesta’s hair in front of a cracked mirror, the strands a dull, brittle brown in the weak firelight…

When she woke the next morning, Nesta was still tired but the pain in her abdomen had been dialled back, gnawing quietly rather than roaring.

Cassian was not there.

Wincing, Nesta eased herself into a sitting position just as Mas bustled into the room with Roksana in tow, the latter carrying some dusky blue snowdrops in her chubby hands.

Setting down the tray she had been carrying on the bed, Mas moved to open the curtains. Beyond the deep-set window was a stretch of luminescent white snow and a sliver of startling blue sky, the colour you usually saw in paintings rather than in real life. The Illyrian sky still took Nesta’s breath away, the colours brushed across its canvas so vibrant that Nesta knew that anywhere else would seem dull in comparison.

Roksana started to clamber onto the bed, her small wings stretching as they prepared to launch her into flight, but Mas caught her before her feet could leave the ground. “No you don’t, little youngling,” Mas tutted, placing Roksana firmly back on her feet. “Tuck those wings back in and show Lady Nesta what you have brought her.”

Shyly, Roksana stuck out her hand to show Nesta the flowers and said in Illyrian, “Ecce.”

Nesta did not allow her eyes to widen as Roksana spoke, but she allowed a her lips to tug upwards. She had picked up enough Illyrian to understand the youngling: Here.

“Thank you,” Nesta told the little girl sincerely as she took them from her clenched fist. “Pulchra.”

Nesta darted a look at Mas to check she had said the word ‘beautiful’ correctly and Mas nodded as she kissed Roksana on the cheek and tickled her belly.

“What do you say, sinta?” she asked the youngling.

But that seemed to be the limit of Roksana’s conversation. A shy blush stained her tan cheeks and she stubbornly shook her head, her tangled hair moving.

Mas shot Nesta an apologetic smile but Nesta shrugged it off with a small smile of her own. One word had been enough to make the whole of Illyria that little bit brighter. She longed to give the girl a hug, but she had yet to test the range of her movement given yesterday’s injuries.

“How are you feeling?” Mas asked, bending to kiss Nesta’s cheek before she rubbed it away with her thumb. Nesta wished she wouldn’t. Wished she could let the mark of love sink deep into her skin.

“A little sore,” Nesta conceded as Mas handed her a steaming mug of Frawyley’s tea. Then she admitted, “I’m desperate for a bath.”

Whilst Nesta had woken with no blood on her, she still felt the grime coating her skin like a thick oil. She longed to scrub off the residue of blood and screams, the images of limbs and dead bodies. Durkhanai’s green unseeing eyes floated across Nesta’s vision, and she closed her eyes tightly in a bid to shut out the image.

Sweet, kind Durkhanai. A female, who like so many others, had deserve more than her harsh, miserable life. A female who had decided to fight but had been cut down before she’d been properly able to wield a blade.

Nesta swallowed and Mas cupped Nesta’s face in her hands. “We will remember them all,” Mas said quietly. “Today we will burn their bodies on the pyre and let their souls go. Then they will be free.”

When Nesta opened her eyes, Mas was staring at Nesta with a determination Nesta had not seen on her before.

Mas sat down on the mattress and took Nesta’s hands. She stared at them for a long moment.

“I think I am done, Lady Nesta.”

Nesta froze, scared somehow, at the words. Her heart thumped. “What do you mean?”

Mas’s hands squeezed Nesta’s fingers, and then she looked directly at Nesta. “What I mean, is that I am done,” Mas repeated quietly, but there was a fervent way in which she spoke. Her dark hazel irises burnt with a deliberate intent that Nesta had felt raging in her own on many occasions. A steely resolution. “I am done being ruled by males. I am done being inferior. I have been given a new life and I do not intend to waste it.”

Mas smiled tightly at her and then kissed Nesta’s cheek again. It was a loving gesture and Nesta’s heart swelled. This time she did not rub it away. “General Cassian said someone might have been behind the attacks. That us widows might have been targeted somehow.” The housekeeper huffed angrily. “As if we deserve more suffering than we have already endured, most at the hands of males. Well, I will not stand for it any longer, and neither will the fellow females in my camp.” Mas let go of Nesta’s hands and straightened up, as if that was the end of the conversation — black and white. Obvious. “I will run you a bath.”

She handed Nesta a spoon loaded with liquid. “Take this for the pain and drink the tea for your magic whilst I get it ready,” she told Nesta, “General Cassian told me to let you know that your sister will be arriving soon. There is a consul for the lords. He asked if you’d like to attend.”

Swallowing her medicine, Nesta gingerly eased herself out of bed and wrapped her fingers around her mug. She had been in too much pain the day before to be eased into different clothing and her leathers creaked and cracked as she moved. Nesta winced at the dull throb that twisted through her side. It was nothing like the pain that knocked the breath from her lungs yesterday, but it was enough to be uncomfortable.

Mas shot Nesta an admonishing look as Nesta stiffly followed the housekeeper to the bathroom, but she did not reach out to help her. Nesta appreciated it; she was fed up of being mollycoddled. Only Roksana came to Nesta’s side, her arms wrapping around Nesta’s right leg.

“Hi sinta,” Nesta said, running a palm over Roksana’s messy hair. Hi darling. Mas’s favourite phrase, but one Nesta had adopted for herself when she spoke to Roksana. “Once I’ve had a bath, shall I do your hair?”

Roksana nodded, slipping her hand into Nesta’s.

“How are you?” Nesta asked the housekeeper once she was fully submerged into the deliciously hot water. Mas had slipped in the same oils Cassian had used when he’d drawn her a bath all that time ago, and already Nesta could feel all of her muscles relax. Roksana was sitting on the carpet, drawing patterns into the thick plush of the bath mat with a stubby finger, her little wings trailing on the floor.

“I am fine,” Mas replied, lathering up Nesta’s hair. Normally Nesta would have refused to let anyone bathe her, but it hurt to lift her arms. For the first time that morning, it made Nesta glad that Cassian had not been there when she woke. Had not had to bathe her himself. The thought of Cassian having to bathe her — his hands in her hair — sent a shiver through her, goosebumps littering her skin.

“You’re cold?” Mas asked, raising an eyebrow as goosebumps littered Nesta’s skin.

“No,” Nesta replied, sinking a little lower into the steaming heat of the bath. “I don’t know if I would be fine if I had experienced what you had.”

I wasn’t fine, Nesta thought. I wasn’t fine for a very long time. It’s ok for you not to be fine, too. But she didn’t say that. Couldn’t, even now.

Mas eyed Nesta for a moment, before she continued to rub shampoo into the ends of Nesta’s hair.

“When the life bled out of me, it was not the pain or the injustice that plagued me, but the regret that I had not fought,” Mas admitted quietly. “And when you gifted me with a new chance, I realised that I had a choice; I could let my experiences consume me, or I could use them to fuel something else.”

“So I am not fine,” Mas continued, “but I will let that feeling motivate me into doing something good. I will try to do my bit.”

Nesta craned her neck to look up at the housekeeper. She had dipped a jug into the water ready to wash the suds from Nesta’s hair.

“What are you going to do?” Nesta asked, after Mas had gently poured the water over her head. Suds ran down the length of Nesta’s hair and Mas submerged the jug into the water again.

“You’ll see,” Mas said, her expression tight but promising as she carefully poured more water over Nesta’s head.

And that was that — conversation over. Nesta did not press the housekeeper. Mas had not pushed her when Nesta had first come to Illyria, when she had been a tangle of hollowed out grief and anger. Mas had not raised an eyebrow as Nesta was tapered off the alcohol, her clothes stained with vomit and her body relentlessly shaking. Mas had not forced her to eat when her cheeks were sunken and her figure skeletal. She was like Cassian in that way. Choice after choice after choice. An endless presence. Silent support.

So, Nesta would do the same. Because that’s what you did for those you loved.

  Nesta was braiding Roksana’s hair when Feyre arrived. To her surprise, her sister did not winnow directly into the living room but to the front door. When she knocked, Roksana jumped. Nesta dropped her hands to the youngling’s shoulders in reassurance.

When Mas opened the door, Feyre smiled tentatively. “I don’t think we were properly introduced,” her sister said to the housekeeper as she stepped inside in a waft of pear and lilac. “I’m Feyre.”

Blushing, Mas kept her eyes downcast as she bobbed into a curtsey. “I know who you are, High Lady.”

“Feyre,” her sister insisted. “Please. How are you today?”

“I’m well,” Mas said, a blush staining her tan cheeks.

Nesta bit down on the inside of her cheek to stop in place of rolling her eyes. She was sitting in her usual spot at the corner of the U-shaped couch with Roksana sitting on the floor between her legs. When Feyre approached them, Roksana began to scrabble, her small wings flaring as if she were ready to take flight.

Nesta managed to run a hand over the little girl’s head without losing hold of the end of the plait she had been finishing. “You’re ok, Roksana,” Nesta assured the youngling. “This is Feyre, my sister.”

Roksana’s wary eyes followed Feyre as she walked to the hearth and held her hands out to the flames, but she settled back into her previous position so Nesta could finish weave the last few twists to her hair.

“How are you feeling?” Feyre asked tentatively, her softened expression moving from Roksana to Nesta’s midriff, before finally settling on her face. No doubt taking in the colour in her sister’s cheeks that was absent the day before.

“Sore,” Nesta said, because it was the truth. Then she turned her attention back to Roksana. “Now,” she said to the youngling, “what colour ribbon are we going to choose today?”

Roksana pointed silently to a ribbon the colour of pine.

“And what letter does the word ‘green’ start with?” Nesta urged.

Roksana twisted to look up at Nesta. For a moment, she thought Roksana would refuse to speak, but then she mumbled, “Guh.”

“Very good,” Nesta praised with a nod. “Perhaps we can ask Feyre to pass the ribbon.”

Eyes sparkling, Feyre picked up a red ribbon from the collection littering the pine coffee table and asked Roksana, “This one?”

Roksana shook her head.

“Silly Feyre,” Nesta chided. She tickled her finger across Roksana’s chubby cheek as if she were erasing the little girl’s somber expression. To Nesta’s relief, the beginning of a smile promised to bloom across the youngling’s face at the touch. Nesta was thankful to Feyre for playing. Roksana’s eyes weren’t as haunted as they had been yesterday and Nesta was determined to keep it that way. “She doesn’t know the difference between green and red, does she, Roksana?”

No giggle but that small, secret smile widened slightly as Feyre passed Nesta the right ribbon.

“You look lovely,” Nesta told Roksana, her heart twisting as the little girl glowed. “Why don’t you go and show Mas your new hair?”

Feyre smiled as Roksana scampered off, her wings bobbing behind her. Then she turned back to Nesta and produced a letter from the folds of her cloak.

“From Elain,” Feyre said, handing the envelope to Nesta. “She sends her well wishes. She wanted to see you today, but there’s a consul meeting with the lords. Will you attend with me?”

“Yes, I’ll come,” Nesta replied, easing her body off the couch in a movement that she knew to be stiff.

Feyre eyed her as Nesta eased her headband over her head with a wince. She had opted for leathers again today, and although it had been a trial for both Mas and Nesta to get her into her them, Nesta was thankful for it. She was wearing her favourite pair, the material stretched from hours of fighting so that it moulded her body like a second skin. She fastened a midnight blue cloak around her body, the edging lined with soft, dappled fur, and tried not to notice how similar she looked to her sister.

Feyre was also wearing leathers, the close-fitting material complimenting her long limbs and the elegant shape of her body. Around her neck, she had fastened the black leather clasps of a thick silver cloak lined with white fur.

Her hair was the only difference to Nesta. Whereas Mas had braided Nesta’s hair into a bun held in place by a woven plait that ran from the right of her hairline, Feyre’s golden strands were weaved into a tight braid that ran from her crown to the very ends.

Even so, there was no mistaking that they were sister’s.

Thankful that she hadn’t tried to thread her arms through her coat, Nesta reached stiffly for the door handle.

“I can winnow us, if you like,” Feyre said carefully, before Nesta had the chance to bear the house to the elements. No doubt her sister had clocked her grimace.

The old Nesta — the girl angry beyond measure — would have turned her sister down, merely because conceding that someone had dissected how she was feeling made her feel too vulnerable. But Nesta needed to change. Wanted to… to a point.

So, she nodded shortly. “I don’t think I can walk that far.”

Then Nesta turned to Mas, who had emerged by the alcove to see them off. Roksana peeked from behind Mas’s legs, a ring of chocolate around her mouth.

“I’ll come and meet you at the camp later,” Nesta told the housekeeper. “Shall I bring anything? Blankets and warm clothes?”

But Mas only shook her head. “We have plenty. Emerie — the shopkeeper — bought armfuls of blankets and clothes for the widows last night. Durkhanai used-“

“I know,” Nesta interrupted, not able to hear about Durkhanai when the wound was so fresh.

Mas did not scold Nesta for the interruption. She only smiled sadly and waved the two of them off, before disappearing back into the kitchen with Roksana at her heels.

“Roksana is an orphan?” Feyre asked Nesta, glancing sideways at her sister after they had winnowed into the midst of the camp.

Ahead of them, beyond the pointed tents, Nesta could see the outlines of the sparring plateaus. Shadowy, winged figures moved within them, the clang of steel and grunts carrying on the wind.

Letting go of her sister’s hand, Nesta settled her headband over her ears so it was snug. Despite her determination to dull any unwanted noise, she had a feeling that today was going to try her ability to succumb to battle fatigue.

“Yes,” Nesta replied shortly. But then there was a beat of a pause in which Nesta realised that Feyre was right; communication was an issue for them. So, she elaborated, “Mas fostered Roksana when she was first brought to the widows camp. When Cassian found out, he employed Roksana alongside Mas to keep her out of harsher work.”

Nesta had seen the little girls who were set to work in the kitchens, or worse, the laundry rooms. The latter was the harshest of the camp jobs, and the younglings were often required to stamp and wring cloth for long durations of time until their feet and fingers blistered from the friction. It was always easy to tell apart the orphans from the other girls. Their faces were more gaunt, their clothing ragged, their eyes hollow. They looked exhausted and Nesta had always left feeling so outraged she wanted to set the laundry houses alight.

Feyre looked at Nesta sharply. “But Roksana can’t be more than five.”

Nesta’s lips tightened until they turned white. “No,” was all she said.

Surprise wound through Nesta as Feyre took her hand. “Will you show me the camp when you are better?” Feyre asked. “I would like to get a better sense of how things are run here. Children should not be working—”

“There are many injustices here, not just to the younglings,” Nesta clipped, because she could not stand by and allow her sister to think that was the only twisted cultural tradition in the camps.

But then, slowly, she nodded in agreement. If Feyre could make change happen in the camps, then Nesta wasn’t going to let their difficult past get in the way of that. “I will show you,” she conceded. “Mas can help, too. She is like a mother figure to many of the females.”

Silence fell again, but this time it was not uncomfortable. They continued to walk through the snow towards the large tent Nesta knew was reserved for war counsel. It was huge, the canvas at least three times the size of the other tents.

“Do you think the rebellion has weight?” Feyre asked her sister. “Do you think the Illyrian’s have a reason to want a different leader?”

It was a plea for honesty and it was not in Nesta’s nature to lie. So, she said, “I think the Illyrians are a proud race who are ingrained in tradition, but they desperately need help in how they restructure the injustices in their communities. They need to do it without losing the elements of their culture which make them who they are.”

Then Nesta changed the subject, because she could not sense him. Had not sensed him since she’d woken that morning, and it was starting to unnerve her, even though logically, she knew he must be in the tent with the other lords. “Where is Cassian?”

Usually, Nesta would not ask outright, but the more things shifted between them the less she cared. There was a part of her that needed to see him. Did he not feel the same? She supposed she had driven him away one time to many. Was that not what he had said yesterday?

If I remember correctly, it was always you trying to rid yourself of me.

Sometimes, Nesta thought the both of them were traversing down a path that was tangled in miscommunication and mistranslated actions.

It was true that Nesta had told Cassian to leave her alone after the war, but had he not chosen someone else well before that? And despite his dying promise to her, Cassian had left the battlefield with Mor rather than her. That had spoken volumes for Nesta. It was not how the love story was supposed to play out in her head. It told her they were nothing but a tie strung between them, rather than being motivated by true feeling.

Even now, the thought made Nesta angry… Yet, the way Cassian looked at her sometimes, his eyes tender and his touch reverent… It was almost enough to convince her that there was something deeper.

They may be magnets but if that attraction was severed, would there by anything left or would they both part ways without a glance over their shoulders?

“Cassian has been with Rhys all morning,” Feyre told Nesta. “Azriel brought news this morning and Rhys disappeared from Velaris in the early hours.”

Nesta did not want to imagine her sister’s mate curled and sleepy around Feyre, dragging himself unwillingly out of bed. Did not want to hear about her sister existing in a home that had been made without her. A home built specifically for every member of their inner circle but her.

And Nesta had wanted to be left alone initially, but then to see how it played out… to see her erased as her sisters started anew and Nesta was forced to attend…

Well, it turned out that Nesta had not wanted that at all.

“What was Azriel’s news?” Nesta asked.

“I’m not sure,” Feyre admitted. “Rhys left whilst I was asleep.”

“Didn’t he speak to you mind-to-mind?” Nesta asked with a frown. Her sister and her mate were always doing that with one another, especially in the company of others. If Nesta were the sort, it would have made her increasingly paranoid. Instead, it just made her irritable.

Feyre nodded. “He only asked me to come to Illyria and see if you would join us in the war-tent at midday. He said there was an update.” She glanced sideways at Nesta. “It’s harder to speak to one another when the distance is great,” she elaborated. “It’s like we’re speaking under water. The sound is muffled, so he made it brief.”

Together they stepped up to the huge war tent. Feyre had fallen silent, as if Nesta had reminded her of her own abilities and she were conversing with her mate.

Nesta stared at the tent whilst Feyre’s eyes remained glazed. Stared at the black banner that flew from the top of the canvas, bearing a mountain with three silver stars above the monolith - Ramiel.

“Rhys says we are to go right in,” Feyre said finally. “They haven’t started yet.”

Inside, Nesta heard the rumble of low voices. It was not a comforting sound; rough and weathered, rather than Cassian’s gentle rumble that felt like a caress.

“Are you ready?” Feyre asked.

Nesta snorted. “What for?”

“The lords.”

A harsher snort. “I don’t care about them.”

Straightening her posture, Nesta drew up tall and formidable. Even though she knew every male in there would rival her in height, she would not allow herself to be intimidated. And she shouldn't be, not with the double-edged serpent which writhed inside her veins — her welcome friend.

Nesta allowed that power to seep from her fingers, testing it out, winding the mist until it was a string of fire around her wrists; a coiled, formidable whip.

Feyre’s lips twitched as if she were pleased to see her sister’s magic. She held up her own tattooed hand, showcasing the fire that she darted between her outstretched fingers.

Her smile was feline. “Let’s go.”

  The tent was surprisingly warm once Nesta had pushed through the heavy flaps. Roaring open steel fire pits crackled fiercely, lighting the canvas and the simple yet comfortable interior ochre.

In the centre of the tent was a large pine table with studded detail, and rather than strewn with maps, it was surrounded by low-backed chairs. In them were the local lords.

Nesta recognised some of the lords cruel faces as she strode inside, her long legs carrying her despite the bark of pain that bit at her side. A quick glance around the table told her that there were no spare chairs, but she kept walking anyway, as if she were nothing but certain in a tent full of testosterone and muscle.

“Good,” a smooth voice drawled — Rhys. “We’re all here.”

He was sat at the head of the table closest to the back of the tent, bedecked in his usual black rather than leathers. A modest crown was inlaid into his unruffled blue-black hair with such subtlety it seemed as if it were a part of him. It was twin to Feyre’s, the stone the colour of the midnight sky and the same as the jewel set into the ring on her sister’s finger — her mating ring.

It was a purposeful move to wear their crowns. Neither of them had done that the last time they had visited Illyria together. The day that Nesta had first met Devlon. When he had called her a witch. The thought amused her now. Her power jumped too, as if it was also entertained by the memory.

The mist wreathing around Nesta’s wrists thickened, gleaming silver.

When Nesta found Cassian, she stopped searching. He was decked out in full scaled leathers and his hair hung wild around him.

With the flickering flames bathing him in a warm glow, he looked indisputably rugged and fierce, but his eyes were on her wrists. Letting her walls fall away Nesta speared for him, just as Azriel had taught her. The method was easy, as if her magic was already seeking him out.

When Cassian’s hazel eyes darted to look at her face, a barely detectable light danced in them. And when her stomach filled with mirth and pride, she knew he was privy to her invisible move.

“What are they doing here?”

All amusement in Cassian’s eyes winked out, his irises turning dark as he snapped his head to the lord who had sneered.

The lord — like all of the most powerful Illyrian warriors — was tall, his entire body corded with unyielding, fierce muscle. Black ink peeked out of the armour at his neck and his hair was close-cropped to his scalp, which was flecked with white scars. His eyes were depthless and such a dark brown in some lights they appeared obsidian, his irises practically blending with his pupils.

They were fixated on Nesta.

Nesta allowed the lord to glare at her. She stared right back, her expression blank but her eyes burned.

He looked unmistakably like his son, Ragar.

“Your High Lady and her sister will be joining today’s counsel, given their involvement in yesterday’s events,” Rhys said calmly, but nobody could mistake the sudden chill of starlight eternal which filled the tent.

A growl of disagreement from the lord. Grumbled murmurs from the other males also ran around the tent.

“A witch has no place on this counsel,” the lord replied bitingly.

Nesta did not let herself rise to the comment. She did not let her power leap to assert authority. Did not need to, even as Cassian’s snarl whipped around them with such ferocity that the fires sputtered.

And then, to everyone’s surprise — before Rhys or Cassian could even open their mouths — Devlon said coldly, “I believe the witch has earned her place on this counsel more than you have, Albar. She is the reason we don’t have more deaths and casualties.”

When Devlon got to his feet, his scaled armour clinked at the movement. Broad wings flared to balance him as he pulled out his chair. And rather than offer it to his High Lady, he gestured for Nesta to sit with a jerk of his chin.

Silence fell but Nesta only drew up taller. Did not allow herself to wince as she seated herself at the table. She felt Cassian’s concern anyway. Slammed up her ice to block him out. She didn’t need the distraction of his emotions right now, not when she wanted to remain collected.

Not when she was trying to block out the sounds of the roaring fires from the open pits.

Rhys waved a hand and two more chairs appeared around the table for Devlon and Feyre. The war lord sat in the chair beside Nesta, just as Cassian settled himself in a chair one place down to allow Feyre to sit next to her mate.

Another flick of the hand silenced the fires. Some of the lords frowned in confusion.

Rhys did not rest his violet eyes on Nesta. She was relieved.

“Since when have we allowed a witch to live amongst us,” Albar sneered, clearly not finished. “We are Illyrian’s. We do not accept outsiders, even if this bastard has a preference for one.”

The way in which Cassian leant forward over the table was slow, but every single lord turned to look at him as he braced his hands on the wood. His seven siphons gleamed threateningly and his face… it was brimming with thunderous calm.

Cassian opened his mouth to speak, his hazel eyes flashing, his wings rustling, but Nesta stopped him before words left his mouth.

She did not need someone to fight her battles. And Cassian did know that, but she also knew that Cassian could not help himself in his need to defend her. She was not angry at him for it. Did not judge. She would do the same. If anyone dared to speak ill of him she would burn them until they were nothing but cinders.

The knowledge was terrifying and soothing at the same time. An irrevocable conflict.

Nesta’s chin rose, determined and unintimidated. “I am not a witch and I belong to no-one but myself.”

Ten pairs of dark eyes snapped back to her, but Nesta acted as if she were entirely unfazed.

“You’re unnatural,” Albar said, his voice cold.

Nesta expected the words to spear home, but they merely bounced off her leathers as if they were made of nothing but a ball of yarn.

“Then I suggest you don’t get on my bad side,” Nesta clipped, holding up her fingers to showcase the mist that was moving with more intent, like a serpent waiting to strike with venomous, pointed teeth.

Albar bristled. But then, with a sneer he sat back, his horrible, dark eyes fixated on her hands. Nesta rested them on the table, kept her power burning slowly. A visible reminder that she would not yield.

“Now we are all here,” Rhys said, “we can begin.”

His violet eyes scanned the table as he spoke, even as he remained sat back in his chair, a powerful king relaxed amongst his subjects. He recapped over yesterday’s events, called in Feyre and Nesta to comment when it came to the start of the attack.

“Devlon,” Rhys said when they had finished recalling the ambush. “Report on the gaps in the patrol.”

A tense silence followed, but the war-lord did not snarl. He only said in his deep, rough voice, “Three of Windhaven’s warriors are missing. Their absence is the reason we were not alerted to the kerits sooner. They were supposed to be patrolling that side of the pass.”

All of the lords sat up straighter.

“Who?” One of them barked. He had a nose that had been so broken, it lay flat and twisted on his face. Nesta had heard Cassian call him Laggar.

“Druis, Alaksandar and Hakkir,” Devlon replied. “Good soldiers. Excellent flyers. Expected to perform in the Rite this year.”

Another of the lords grunted. Nesta recognised him. He was often at Devlon’s side in the sparring ring. His name was Saker. “All bastards.”

“Should we be surprised,” Albar drawled, “that bastards are the reason we have thirteen dead Illyrian’s lying on the pyres today?” He paused as his eyes tracked their way across the table to Devlon. “You have always been soft on the bastards in this camp, Devlon. Look where places of responsibility have gotten us when bastards should not have been elevated above the ranking of foot soldier-“

Nesta could not help but cut a glance at Cassian. His jaw was clenched, but he remained silent. She melted her ice a little, reached for him, felt his anger simmering in her stomach. She contemplated sending an emotion back to him, to let him know that she was not standing for these arrogant males either. That she sympathised, but Cassian was already leaning forward.

The gesture made Albar pause.

“Perhaps you should not be surprised,” Cassian replied quietly, “that bastards may have finally become fed up with those who have cast them out and left this camp all together.”

Cassian’s voice was deathly calm. He did not move from where he was sitting, but the flickering flames of the pit fires emphasised his dark eyebrows and his angular jaw.

It made him appear as sharp and dangerous as freshly forged steel.

And to Nesta’s surprise, not one of the lords opened their mouths. They only cast their eyes downwards, to the siphons gleaming with promise on Cassian’s scaled armour.

“For all we know, the males could be dead,” Devlon answered, his chair creaking as he sat back in his chair. “Lord Slat and I already have males scouting the areas for signs of the males.”

“They are warriors with no honour,” Laggar sneered. “We—“

But Rhys cut Laggar off. “It has not yet been determined why the warriors weren't in the skies. We will not cast judgement until they are found. I believe that is what we call a fair trial, Laggar,” Rhysand said smoothly.

A snort from a number of the camp lords. Only Devlon and Slat did not grunt with derision.

In fact, the latter male tilted his head at Rhys, his round, beady eyes boring into his High Lord as if he were trying to read him. The male was shorter than the others, his hair cropped close to his head, his body leaner but still packed with muscle. His figure was not unlike Lorrian’s — built for the skies — and on the inside of his right wrist, he wore a tattoo; a glowing siphon encased by huge, mighty wings. A symbol that marked him as part of the aerial unit. On the backs of his hands, his four siphons gleamed emerald.

More powerful than the other lords, who wore a maximum of three siphons on the backs of their hands. As powerful as Devlon.

When Slat spoke, his voice was thick, “If you are searching for the males, you are searching for bodies. If they are strong flyers, they will be long gone by now. The skies will have left no trace of them.”

“Even Illyrian’s can’t fly forever,” Feyre said. “They have to rest at some point. It’s been snowing. It will be hard for three warriors to hide their tracks.”

“Not if it’s been snowing,” Albar countered, his voice thick with derision. As if Feyre was stupid.

Nesta bit back a snarl, but she allowed her fingers to spark silver and her whip to glow. A warning. Nobody spoke to her sister like that, unless it was Nesta herself.

But Feyre did not back down. “Especially if it has been snowing. They will have left tracks that can be spotted easily enough from the skies. It hasn’t snowed since yesterday afternoon.”

“What I think we really need to discuss is why warriors would go missing just before a kerit attack,” Slat announced.

“As General Cassian has already insinuated, we are considering it a possibility that the attacks might have been manufactured,” Rhys admitted, arranging his hands so his fingers were steepled in front of his body, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair. He, too, was seated in a low-backed chair, having chosen to wear wings today rather than arrive without. It was a deliberate move. It showed the Illyrians what their High Lord had in common with his subjects rather than how he was different.

Nesta would give her sister’s mate that. He was not stupid. For the most part, he thought things through.

A low murmur ran through the lords.

“Kerits have never attacked our camps before,” Cassian elaborated, when Rhys did not say anything further. Nesta wondered if it was because he was giving Cassian the ability to assert authority. “It is strange that it has happened across three separate camps in a matter of weeks.”

“I’ll be damned if Lord Beron isn’t behind it,” Albar spat, his fist coming down on the pine table so hard the table shook. “Forktail has never had any qualms about organising raids on Windhaven in the past—”

“If Forktail has had no qualms about acting on past feuds,” Nesta said coldly, unsurprised by the lack of intelligence of the males, “then they would not have beasts attack the camps. They would do it themselves.”

A flicker of pride wound through her, despite her walls, but Nesta did not glance Cassian’s way.

“Lady Nesta is right,” Rhys said, before any of the lords could open their mouths to speak. “We cannot assume that this is an attack from another camp. We are considering external forces might be at work. With that in mind, Devlon will be organising fiercer patrols around the camp and it is time for us to erect tougher boundaries around the perimeter.”

Rhys continued, “Myself, my mate and others will be putting protective shields in place for each of the camps. We will not lose any more unnecessary lives when there’s a simple solution to stopping the kerits from attacking again. Your General will work with those on patrols. My spymaster will be present in the camp over the next few weeks questioning warriors.”

“We do not need your fancy shields,” Devlon snapped. “We are Illyrians. We are born to protect. We do not need your magic-“

“Females died because your protection failed,” Nesta interjected with a snarl, her head snapping to look Devlon straight in the eye. Her voice was brimming — shaking — with fervour.

She felt her emotional shields falter, her anger too sharp and ruthless to be stifled. Nesta thought of Durkhanai’s lifeless eyes and the cook’s broken body. Of Mas’s trailing guts as she lay in a pool of blood, Roksana’s hands inside of the housekeeper as she tried to stop the bleeding. “They did not know how to defend themselves yet they did not hesitate to protect your young.” Mist was running rings around her limbs, her whip glowed bright but did not burn — not unless she willed it.

Nesta leant forward. So her face was so close to the war-lord’s that her breath touched his cheek. Devlon did not flinch. Did not move. His dark eyes stared right back at her, as she said, “You will allow your High Lord to erect protective shields around this camp.”

Slowly, dangerously, Nesta sat back in her chair, never breaking eye contact with the war-lord.

And then, to Nesta’s surprise, Devlon gave a sharp nod as he pushed back his chair. The legs scraped on the low wooden platform despite the rugs atop it. “Put the shields in place,” he told Rhys coldly. “We’re done here.”

And then he left the tent, the other lords trailing behind him.

  Cassian found Nesta the moment she left the tent. Rhys and Feyre had disappeared to put the protective barriers in place, winnowing from inside the tent as the lords started to leave.

Nesta had not wanted to remain in the war-tent. Sitting straight for so long had the dull pain in her stomach elevating to an insistent throb, so she had risen stiffly with the other lords and left in search of fresh air.

“How are you feeling?”

Cassian’s voice was a low, welcome rumble in her ear — the only male voice that day that hadn’t made her power itch to escape. Nesta turned into that warmth that always seemed to radiate from him, to find him looking down at her with eyes that swam gold.

“Fine,” she replied. “Sore,” she added, when his expression didn’t change but his wings rustled.

For a moment, Nesta remembered the sleepy memory of a curled wing and even breathing close to her. Had he slept beside her? She wasn’t sure if it had been a dream or real. It had felt real, but she had taken a lot of sedatives and her subconscious had conjured images from both dreams and nightmares.

Cassian’s dark features tightened into a slight frown. For a moment, she thought he was going to suggest she go home and rest, but he only nodded shortly.

“You didn’t tell them about the carrion,” Nesta said.

Cassian threw an invisible bubble around them as they walked. “No,” he replied. “Any information like that could strengthen feuds between the camps. Illyrian’s are hot-headed at the best of times, we don't want to add kindle to the fire before we know who is responsible for leading the kerits to the camps.”

Nesta nodded to indicate she had heard him.

“If the missing warriors have sought allegiance elsewhere, I can’t say I blame them,” Cassian admitted quietly. He was staring away from her, his features twisted. “If I had not had Rhys and an allegiance with his court, I might have been bought when I was younger. I was outcast from such a young age… Those males cannot be blamed for hoping they might belong elsewhere.”

Nesta’s insides squeezed at the concession. She curled her fingers around Cassian’s arm of scaled armour, forcing him to stop and look at her. “Nobody should be outcast,” she told him. “It is not wrong for you to admit what might have been, or to understand another’s point of view. That is not a weakness, it is a strength.”

Cassian looked down to where she clutched at him before he met her gaze. Nesta did not back away, made her expression as earnest as possible.

“They are burning the pyres in a moment,” Cassian told Nesta, casting his gaze to the front-left side of the mountain pass. “Would you like to come?

Nesta swallowed. She thought of the cook… of sweet, beautiful Durkhanai who had not deserved the fate the damned Cauldron had dealt her. “Yes,” she said.

Cassian gestured with his arm to indicate that they should continue to walk to the main path that cut through the camp. “Devlon’s changed his attitude towards you.”

Nesta snorted softly, but then she admitted, “I don’t know why.”

“I do,” Cassian replied, but he didn’t expand further.

Nesta took a moment to study his face. Shadows ringed beneath his eyes, his tan skin a shade paler than usual. “Did you sleep?”

If he were surprised by the question, Cassian did not let it show. Nor did he indicate that she had thrown him with the sudden change of subject. “For a bit,” he replied.

“You needn’t have tended to me, I would have been fine,” Nesta told him, knowing somehow that his exhaustion was partly her fault.

But Cassian shook his head. “You had me worried,” he admitted eventually. “The sedative gave you nightmares but you were in such a deep sleep I couldn’t reach you.”

Nesta fought the red that wanted to flush across her face. She hoped that she had not been speaking in her sleep. Did not like anyone seeing her that vulnerable, not even Cassian.

“You settled after a while,” Cassian added, after another pause that had stretched out for a beat too long. And then to her dismay, a stain appeared on both of his cheeks.

She watched him drag his gaze away from her to stare resolutely at the ground beneath his feet.

Oh. Not a dream then. Cassian had slept beside her. Had arced his wing over her.

Nesta remembered how safe she had felt when she’d woken to a dome of umber. How the gentle, even breathing had lulled her straight back under. How she had fallen into dreams rather than nightmares.

“Thank you,” Nesta said quietly, the words barely audible, but Cassian dipped his chin to indicate that he had heard her.

Then she stopped, a sudden realisation hitting her. “Do I need to change? I - What do I wear to a funeral in Illyria?”

But Cassian’s eyes only softened as they took in what she was wearing. “You’re fine,” he replied, his head tilting slightly to consider her. “Warriors wear armour to funerals.”

  The widows would be given a warriors funeral, Cassian had informed Nesta as he walked her to the front-left of the mountain pass. He led her on a route that she had not taken before, but which Cassian seemed to know with his eyes closed, his feet anticipating rock and uneven ground before it rose up to meet their feet.

 Usually the burning of widows did not draw an audience or demand a ceremony; they were seen as a stain on society, a blemish of which Illyrians were glad to rid themselves. Yet… the act of the widows. The way in which they had sacrificed their lives for the younglings… Devlon had not protested when Rhys had ordered they were given an honourable send off. He had only grunted to show he agreed before he stalked off to make the necessary arrangements.

Sentiments were changing in the Windhaven camp, Cassian told Nesta with detectable hope. It was a positive sign, even if the events leading up to it had been unimaginable.

After a long while of walking along the rocky wall of the mountain pass, a clearing petered out to their left. It was full of too-small ramshackle tents and fae-made fire-pits fashioned by scooped out earth and a circle of craggy stones around the perimeter which no doubt acted as makeshift shields from the battering winds that Illyria was known for.

Somehow Nesta knew what it was without Cassian saying a word, even though the camp was deserted.

“Is this where you lived?” Nesta asked.

Cassian did not stop. “Yes.”

He shrugged, even though Nesta could tell by the tightness of his shoulders that the memory was painful for him. Because of the trauma or the reminder of what he thought to be his own unworthiness, Nesta wasn’t sure.

“This is where Rhys found me and dragged me from my tent,” Cassian expanded, pointing to a spot by a cluster of bare-looking pine trees. “The mud is frozen at the moment because of the snow, but when it rained, the forest floor would become waterlogged. The pine trees provided us bastards with the best shelter against the elements.” Nesta surveyed the thin, red trunk and the pine needles above that couldn’t do much to protect the run-down looking tents below it.

“Anyway,” Cassian continued with a shake of his head, as if he were ridding himself of an unwanted memory. “Rhys took me to the house he and his mother were living in. She was livid, but she told me to get in the tub to bathe or I could go back out in the cold. She never let me leave, after that. Rhys’s mother was full of soft-fire, but she had grown up low-born and knew what it was to suffer, so she gave me clean clothes and a bed to sleep in. I never left, after that.”

Cassian’s darkened expression had caved to make way for something smoother. Yet, it was laced with a sadness.

“She sounds lovely,” Nesta said, not knowing quite what to say. For once, she did not avert her gaze from him. Instead, their eyes locked and something started to turn inside of her. Not her power. But as if a different key were turning in another lock, opening rather than closing.

“She was,” Cassian corrected, and then he looked away, the key jamming in place. “The bastards tents are near the pyres. Whenever there was a funeral, if the wind was blowing in the wrong direction, I’d crawl out of my tent to find the ground covered in ash.”

Horror twisted through Nesta. At the thought of little boys with nobody to love them having to crawl through the ash of flesh and bone. “That’s horrible.”

But Cassian only shrugged and gave her that crooked smile of his, the one he wore when he spoke about the injustices inflicted upon his race by his race. “Yes,” he agreed. He tilted his head in the direction of the trees that ran along the mountain wall. “It’s not much farther.”

Nesta allowed him to lead her across the forest floor through the snow and pine needles. Eventually, the trees cleared and a wide ledge jutted out from the mountain pass, suspending them in midair.

Crowds and crowds of Illyrians had already gathered. No, Nesta corrected, crowds and crowds of females. And it was not just widows and female orphans. Nesta recognised the the faces of females who worked in the laundrette, in the kitchens, as seamstress’s…

Nesta spied Emerie too, standing a little away from the crowds by the mountain wall. Her unusually blank expression was twisted with grief, her tan cheeks stained with dried tears, her eyes red. Durkhanai had worked in her shop… Emerie probably knew the orphan better than anyone else.

At the bottom of the huge pyre, Nesta spotted Rhys and Feyre. Devlon was nearby speaking to Slat. The other lords were nowhere to be seen. Nesta was not surprised, but she couldn’t help the fury that heated her blood at the knowledge that they did not deem the widows worthy of a send off. It clouded her mind, until the fear she had not yet admitted to herself was pushed far, far back: that the sound of the fire would trigger her trauma.

Cassian seemed to know what she was thinking, because his eyes flicked briefly to her headband, as if he were tempted to make sure it was properly secured over her ears. But eventually, he merely jutted his chin towards the bottom of the pyre and led them through the crowds to where Rhys and Feyre stood.

Not long after they had arrived, Nesta spied Mas weaving her way through the Fae with little Roksana in tow. The youngling was clinging to the housekeeper’s hand with an apprehensive look on her face, as if she had witnessed a funeral before and it brought back dark memories. She was hanging back slightly from Mas, her footsteps heavy, her little wings drooping…

Mas did not smile as she approached, but she did not look down. Did not become subservient. Her back was straight, her short, choppy hair ruffled by the breeze. Her eyes were determined in a way that Nesta had never witnessed before

“Masak,” Cassian greeted, his voice low in Nesta’s ear before he bent down to kiss the housekeeper on both cheeks.

Nesta did not fail to hear the murmur that went around the crowd, as the General of the Night Court’s armies greeted a low-born widow not with civility, but clear affection.

“High Lord,” Masak said to Rhys after Cassian pulled back, dipping into a low curtsey. Nesta suspected the two had met many times before. That it was that familiarity that allowed Mas to bury the gender role dictated by her culture. “Thank you for sending off the females this way.”

Rhysand dipped his chin, and to Nesta’s surprise, a dark shadow passed over his features. “Of course, it’s the least we can do. I am sorry we could not prevent their deaths.”

Mas nodded shortly. Nesta watched her wings rustle, as if she were nervous, and then she said, “I would like to speak to the crowds. To the females, before you light the pyre.”

Beside Nesta, Cassian stilled. His chest was almost pressed against her right arm, and he was closer — much closer — than he usually was. Nesta assumed it was him being over-protective. She knew she had terrified him when she had collapsed yesterday. Had felt his unleashed panic, the sensation so fierce that it had practically consumed her. Had been so overcome with it that he had not even bothered to contain it within his shields.

Even so, Nesta knew he had dialled back the territorial side of him that had wanted to snarl at everyone and everything. Knew that he had made the conscious effort to reign it back because he thought she would not like it.

Yet… to know someone felt that strongly about her that they were on edge enough to fight off any threat that might compromise her safety… It was an unusual feeling, to have someone care about Nesta that way.

She didn’t find that she hated it. Perhaps because she knew she would have done the same thing for Cassian. Would not have hesitated to burn the entire camp if it meant he would be safe and well.

If they ever had to go, they would go together rather than apart. It was an unconscious choice, but a choice all the same.

Rhysand’s expression flickered with surprise for a fraction of a second, but then he bowed his head and held out a hand to the crowd. “It would be my honour.”

With a flick of his hand, magic shot from his palms and a bubble slid into place with a gentle glow of violet.

The crowd quieted.

Mas turned to Nesta, passed her Roksana’s sticky hand. Gently, Mas cupped her palms to Nesta’s cheeks, stared deeply into her eyes, as if she were able to see directly into Nesta’s soul and loved every part of it, fire and steel and all. She kissed each of Nesta’s cheeks in turn, just as she had done to Cassian, before she turned and stepped out in front of the expectant crowd.

A surprised murmur ran through the sea of bodies, but the females stood up taller, eager to listen…

“My fellow widows,” Mas started, and a quiet hush immediately fell over the crowds. Rhys had clearly done something with his magic to ensure Mas’s voice rang loud and clear, so even those at the back could hear her. “And my fellow females,” Mas corrected as her eyes ran over faces upon faces, not just from the widows camp but from Windhaven in general. “Today we remember the females who gave their lives for our safety. For the females who offered themselves for the pyre so we could walk free.”

Pausing, Mas took a deep breath. For the briefest of seconds, her dark eyes settled onto Nesta, but then she continued to speak. “Yesterday I was blessed with a new life, and with it, a fresh perspective — a chance to start again. Yesterday, the widows camp was attacked by kerits. Us widows, and the female orphans who live with us, were targeted first because we were banished up a mountain for no other crime than that our husbands or parents had passed. Our isolated camp was subject to the harshest of weather conditions and the most treacherous of paths, not to mention the least safe location in the camp should we be open to attack. Without our High Lady and Lady Nesta arriving early on the scene to fight off the beasts, many of us would not have made it to safety and our death toll would be far greater. It is thanks to them,” Mas said fiercely, looking to Nesta and Feyre in turn, “that so many of us are alive and breathing.”

Mas stopped speaking to survey the crowds, her hazel eyes falling on face after face after face.

No-one spoke.

When Nesta glanced at the sea of fae, she saw that each and every female was fixated on Masak, their expressions stricken with grief and… something else.

“I have been a mother to many of you,” Mas continued, holding out her hands to encompass those that had gathered. “I have taken you under my wing and put clothes on your back. I have never wanted anything in return. But today I do. I ask you to wake before dawn tomorrow and meet me in the sparring ring with a General who cares if we live or die and a High Fae who slew beast after beast to protect us. Two Fae, who like us, know what it is to suffer and who have emerged triumphant despite it.”

Mas was eyeing the crowd with a determination that Nesta had never seen. In the grey light, her eyes danced with a strength Nesta had not witnessed before.

For once, the housekeeper stood tall, the ancient lines of wisdom on her face powerful and indisputably fierce.

“And,” Mas continued. She had fallen into a rhythm now, her voice enchanting — addictive. “I ask that when you travel to others camps, you tell the females of what happened here yesterday. Of how we have suffered but emerged strong. Of how together, we will learn how to defend ourselves, to ensure we are not mutilated or beaten down, or cast out. Of how we will honour those who died by no longer allowing ourselves to be disposable or be told that we are not worthy, because we are. And the next time males or beasts try to knock us down, we will fight and we will win.”

The crowd roared with sudden chatter; the females who had once been silent beyond measure, sparked into conversation, as if life had been breathed into their bodies for the first time. But when Rhysand — their High Lord — walked towards the housekeeper and handed her an unlit torch, they fell silent again with a wave of hush.

For a moment, Mas merely stared at Rhysand. Then she looked down at the torch he had placed into her hand.

Nesta didn’t know what fuelled her to do it. It was as if her fingers moved independently of her body, the digits flicking with an expertise she did not know she had. Silver flames crackled across the clearing in a contained whip of heat. It struck the torch’s cloth with a precision even Nesta was surprised by — that she knew, if she and Cassian had been in training, he would have praised her for.

The torch roared to life in Mas’s hand. Silver flames licked into the fresh, untamed air of Illyria, but then, somehow, Nesta willed them to be silent and they obeyed. As if her power had rolled over at her will, subservient. As if finally, Nesta had understood that her magic was not separate from her, but part of who she was, and as such, bent to her will.

Mas’s widened eyes connected with Nesta’s, but Nesta only nodded, her chin dipping in encouragement.  Her heart was bursting, full to the brim with love and pride for a female who was brave beyond measure, despite the atrocities life had dealt her.

The sensation melted through the icy cage Nesta held fierce around her emotions as if it were made of nothing but air, hitting her square in the chest, but Nesta did not try to stop it. Instead, she allowed herself to truly feel. Let her barriers fall away so she could be overcome with it. Throwing her magic out over the crowds like a fishermen casting a net out at sea, Nesta allowed it all to hit her. And as the awe, grief and determination of the inspired females in the crowds wound its way into her gut, Nesta realised that her gift was not just a curse. That it could be beautiful.

Biting back a sob, Nesta stood tall, gathering Roksana so the little girl was hugging tight to her legs. Cassian’s hand came to grip Nesta’s upper arm, but when she craned her neck to look up at him, he was not looking at her but at Mas. His grip remained tight as together, they watched their foster mother — the mother to so many vulnerable Illyrians — lower the torch to the pyre.

Nobody spoke as the flames took hold, even as the pyres blazed with silent silver. Instead, they all stood and watched the dancing flames submerge the cloth bound figures.

Cassian did not drop his hand. Did not loosen his grip, as if he were too caught up in the moment to catch himself.

His dream, for so long, finally coming to fruition. The dream he had held since he had learned of his mother’s fate. Another female who had been discarded and deemed unworthy, even as she had brought life to the world.

Nesta knew all that without him having to speak. Unthinkingly, Nesta brought the hand that was not pressing Roksana close upwards, so that she could slide her icy fingers against his warm ones.

And she squeezed, just once, before she let them drop.

  At dawn the next morning Cassian, Nesta, Devlon, Lorrian, and a few of the camps best instructors watched Mas walk to the sparring ring. Behind her was a stream of females both young and old.

They were not just from the widows camp. Nesta spied Emerie and the female who worked in the apothecary. The females who worked as seamstresses, in the kitchens… No camp-matrons, but Nesta hadn’t expected that. They were too deeply entrenched and favoured to sacrifice the positions they have no doubt battled for in their own way.

“They’re determined,” Lorrian murmured to Cassian. He clapped his friend briefly on the back, as if he too knew what this meant to him. “It’s a good sign.”

Cassian only nodded to indicate he had heard, his features tightening. Nesta knew it was because he felt too much. Because he didn’t know how to arrange his expression. Because he had never dreamt that his vision for the females of Illyria might come true.

Nesta could feel all his emotions churning around in her stomach. Had let herself feel them. After the funeral, Nesta had not stacked her ice walls back to form an icy cage around her heart. Instead, she had stacked them into a wall heigh enough to block out lower level emotions. Any emotion that surged would still reach her, but Nesta had found the new height allowed her to filter out the lower-level intensities.

“You will demonstrate?” Cassian asked Nesta.

He turned his head to face her. Concern was etched upon his face and his eyes darted to her stomach, which was clad in her favourite leather’s.

Nesta’s injury had faded away with another night's sleep, and she had woken that morning feeling refreshed and new, as if she had not suffered major internal bleeding at all.

“If you like,” Nesta agreed, even though she had been going to offer anyway. Was not in a million years intending to watch on the sidelines.

“Please,” Cassian said.

Nesta blinked. In all the time that she had known him, Cassian rarely said please. When he had, it was usually when he was begging her.

Please talk to me. Please don't shut me out. Please eat, Nesta. 

But this was different. It was not Cassian simply asking her to help him, but telling her what she wanted more than anything. What she had always wanted.

You are useful. You are needed.

So she just nodded, unable to find the words to respond verbally.

The males soon set to work, splitting the females into three groups dependent on age. Then Cassian started to teach. He explained that they would start with self-defence, talked through each move, demonstrating each one with Nesta. When he finished talking through the counter-assaults, he had the groups split up into the three separate training rings to begin their practice.

Today, the females would focus on learning to strike down their opponents with a forearm to the neck, followed by a hard strike to the stomach with an elbow. When they had mastered that, Cassian had informed Nesta during their walk to the sparring rings, they would move on to harder moves.

Cassian had taken his time explaining to the females why each move was important. Why every Illyrian who trained in the rings mastered the self-defensive moves first. Whilst Cassian spoke, Nesta had scanned the females faces; many of their expressions were grim, as if they had suffered from attacks before.

Nesta tried not to wonder how many females had been raped or beaten. It hurt too much, so she concentrated instead on the look of determination on their faces. It blended in with the apprehension, but not one of them walked away.

Afterwards, when the females had finished for the day, Lorrian came over to join Cassian and Nesta where they stood just inside the entrance of the main training ring. The Colonel had been training the eldest females with Slat, a lord who Lorrian appeared to have a terse but amicable relationship with. Nesta supposed that being part of Windhaven’s aerial unit, Slat respected Lorrian’s expertise in the skies. Just the night prior, Cassian had informed Nesta over dinner that Slat had fought in the most recent war against Hybern, but that he had escaped the fate of the Cauldron’s blast because of an injury to his left wing, which had forced him to remain in the war-camp.

“How many females have had their wings cut?” Cassian asked Lorrian as the Colonel stomped through the mud. The weather was still bitterly cold, but the trampling of feet had meant that icy ground had given way to thick mud just at the opening to the ring. Cassian’s expression was grim — expectant of bad news — but there had been a rare light in his eyes that morning which he did not usually allow the Illyrians to see. It was as if someone has swept a hand over his face and lightened the sense of foreboding and worry he harboured when it came to his people.

Lorrian grimaced. “Too many. A lot of the younger females can fly, but I’d imagine they lacked the training as youngling’s, so it will be slow work if we want them in the skies.”

“But not impossible?” Nesta asked, before she could help herself.

“Not impossible,” Lorrian assured Nesta. His eyes fell to Roksana. The youngling had come over to shyly clutch at Nesta’s legs.

The Colonel’s features softened, but then Devlon was stalking over to where they stood, and Lorrian straightened.

As always, the lord’s face was serious, but there was no trace of a sneer across his face. “They are all green and weak,” he told Cassian coldly, his tone matter-of-fact rather than outrightly cruel. “The trainers have been given orders to turn up five days a week.”

Cassian dipped his chin once to show he was satisfied. “Colonel Lorrian will attend every Wednesday,” Cassian replied. “Alongside Slat, he will get those able up into the skies and organise drills so the females can strengthen their wings.”

Cassian and Devlon continued to converse in short, terse sentences. Nesta wondered how difficult it was for Devlon to allow the females to train, when his upbringing told him otherwise. Nesta knew he had only been begrudgingly teaching the few female students when she first came to Windhaven because of Cassian and Rhys’s insistence. That if Cassian was not there, the lord would have let the sessions slip. But… with such a big turnout it seemed that even Devlon could not deny the females the right of learning how to fight. Had not complained to Cassian, apart from to grumble briefly about pulling extra trainers from the male rings to compensate for the amount of new recruits.

Nesta’s attention was pulled away from Cassian and Devlon as Roksana began to tug urgently at Nesta’s leg. The youngling’s wings were flapping with such agitation that Nesta was worried, but when she bent down she realised that Roksana’s face was alight with excitement.

Roksana’s hands slipped around Nesta’s neck, pulling her head down by the loose tendrils of hair that had slipped free of the plait that Nesta had braided down her back when she had woken.

Nesta was so astounded by the fact that Roksana wanted to whisper in her ear, that she didn’t make out what the youngling was saying until she had repeated it for the third time. “Manticore.”

Nodding encouragingly, Nesta looked over to where Caerleon was lying in the mud as if it were a throne. His beautiful, sandy head was raised regally, and he was surveying the scenery with a look that was all-seeing.

“That’s right,” Nesta told Roksana, her lips twitching upwards. “M is for Manticore. His name is Caerleon. Would you like to say hello?”

But that seemed to be too much for Roksana and she scampered off, her wings flapping every few strides as she went to join some of the other young orphans just outside the training ring. Mas was conversing with some of the widows a few feet away and Roksana was no doubt waiting for her foster mother to take her back to the camp.

“That little one has small wings.”

Nesta’s head snapped Lorrian who was nodding in the direction of Roksana. His expression was thoughtful.

“Is that bad?” Nesta asked with alarm.

Lorrian shrugged. “She might have a late growth spurt, but it wouldn’t hurt her to start strengthening them as soon as possible. If youngling’s don’t learn to use their wings, it slows down the growth rate.” When Nesta continued to look concerned, he elaborated, “As a lot of older widows have clipped wings, it is not unusual for orphan younglings to grow up without witnessing their guardian’s fly. It means that many of the female younglings have wings that are underdeveloped.”

“I can tell Roksana wants to fly,” Nesta told Lorrian. “She is always scooting over the ground.”

Lorrian jerked his chin at Roksana with a small smile, and Nesta saw the orphan skate over the mud to meet Mas. “I’ve noticed. Will she let me examine her?”

Nesta frowned. Roksana did not like males. Cassian was the only male Roksana did not shy away from. He had even held her the other day, and that morning, Nesta had felt a fist clench over her heart when Roksana had hovered over to Cassian when he had bent down to say hello.

Nesta knew how it had affected Cassian. Had felt joy flare inside of him as he fell into soft Illyrian which Nesta could not follow. Had seen the way his eyes lit up as Roksana had quietly said thank you as he complimented her hair.

“We can try,” Nesta told Lorrian. “You’ll have to bend down to her level. She’s wary of males.”

Lorrian just nodded to indicate he understood. “She will need to stretch her wings for me.”

When Nesta called to Roksana, the little girl spent no time coming over to her, but she still clutched at Nesta’s legs and stared up at Lorrian with an apprehension which hurt Nesta to look at.

Smoothing a hand over Roksana’s braided hair, Nesta said, “This is my friend Lorrian, Roksana. He wants to take a look at your wings. Would that be ok?”

Silence fell as Roksana’s hands tightened on Nesta’s leathers. When Lorrian knelt down to eye-level, she darted behind Nesta’s legs, only her face peeking around the tops of Nesta’s knees.

But Lorrian did not let her movement faze him. He smiled kindly, wiping all traces of Colonel from his face. It made his features less harsh, revealing the male that Nesta had come to know since first day in The Steppes when she and Cassian had been attacked by kerits.

“Hello, stella,” Lorrian said. “Can you stretch your wings out for me?”

He puffed his chest out with mock importance and pulled his wings wide, straining the tendons. After a little hesitation, Roksana followed suit.

“What beautiful wings,” Lorrian said conversationally. “I’m just going to touch them quickly. Would that be all right, Roksana?”

“Roksana?” Nesta prompted gently, running her hand over Roksana’s head when the little girl remained mute. The youngling was still clutching at Nesta’s legs, but she dipped her chin just once in agreement, the action so wary Nesta’s heart ached.

“Atta youngling,” Lorrian said with another gentle smile.

Quickly, he examined Roksana’s wings, running his hands brusquely over the tendons and bone. He asked the orphan to open and close her claws, to curve and straighten her wings, for her to hover above the ground.

For the latter, Roksana wobbled as if she were unable to balance herself.

When Lorrian nodded to indicate that he was finished, Roksana half-scampered, half-skimmed the ground as she went to join Mas.

Nesta and Lorrian watched her go. 

“She’s got excellent control considering her wings are under-developed,” Lorrian told Nesta. “I’ll speak to Cassian about ensuring all of the orphan younglings aren’t being missed out when it comes to flying lessons. I can oversee them myself during my weekly trip.”

“She’s a quiet little thing,” Lorrian added after a moment. “Do you know what happened to her parents?”

“No,” Nesta said. “She’s only just started to say the odd word. The grief rendered her mute.”

Lorrian’s expression tightened. “It’s a good job Frawley isn’t here,” Lorrian said finally, but he didn’t offer anything else, even though the following silence was pregnant. In the end, he added, “If you want to help Roksana strengthen her joints, you could hold her hands whilst she practices flapping her wings a few feet off the ground.”

Nesta nodded. She would do that. Would do anything to make sure Roksana tasted the skies. Nesta knew Roksana hungered for it. The same way that she did, herself.

Roksana deserved that freedom. All of the females did.

“You have Caerleon today,” Nesta observed.

When Lorrian had arrived at the training rings, the manticore had been padding silently by  his side. It had only taken Caer moments to spot Cassian. Nesta had noticed the beast’s ears prick forward, but rather than bounding over to the General, he had remained close by Lorrian, his spiked tail flicking leisurely from side to side as his hips swayed. And the Illyrians… they had stepped backwards, their eyes wary as they took in Caer’s huge body and impressive wings. To them, he was a deadly predator under Lorrian’s control. It certainly made a statement. It told them that Lorrian was not to be messed with.

It hadn’t stopped Caer from pushing his head into Nesta’s hand when he had passed her, or butting his head lightly into Cassian’s midriff. The action had been enough to tell any watchful eyes that Caer held an allegiance with them — that they were his to protect.

“Yes,” Lorrian replied. “Frawley insists that Caer likes to stretch his wings, but I think she likes to know that having a manticore reminds the Illyrians that they would be wrong to challenge my authority.”

Nesta’s lips twitched upwards. “And does it work?”

Lorrian snorted. “It certainly makes them cautious.” He turned to Nesta, then. “Cassian says you chose the bow.”

“Yes.”

To Nesta’s surprise a pleased expression wound itself across Lorrian’s face. “Would you like another instructor?”

Nesta blinked at the Colonel. “You want to teach me how to use the bow?”

Lorrian crossed his arms firmly across his chest, as if to demonstrate that he was immovable on the subject. “Of course. I’ve been told you’re formidable in the sparring ring. I’d be honoured to teach you how to fight with my weapon of choice.”

Nesta studied Lorrian’s expression, tilting her head to try and decipher whether he was being serious or not. In the end, she dropped her emotional shield and felt around until she found that air of heat laced with sandalwood - Lorrian. And she felt…  no humour. No mocking. Only honestly.

Feeling guilty for having doubted him, Nesta stacked up her wall again.

“I would like that,” she conceded.

A smile broke across Lorrian’s face. It wasn’t the true, unfettered smile she had been privy to in his home, but it was unguarded and genuine enough. “Frawley wants you to come and visit. Perhaps I could oversee some of your training whilst you are with us? Otherwise, I can give you a lesson when I’m here to oversee the aerial legions. It would only be once a week, so I’ll have to trust you in the hands of that brute for the rest of it.” Winking, he jerked his head to Cassian who was striding towards them through the mud.

“You don’t have to visit,” Lorrian added, seeing Nesta’s taken aback expression, “but we would love to have you.”

Nesta thought of the warm cottage, a place that brought only a sense of comfort despite the way she had first ended up there. And… Nesta liked Frawley as much as she liked Lorrian. The witch was brusque and direct, but clearly kind-of-heart. Someone who predominantly chose to heal rather than injure.

Perhaps Nesta could use the opportunity to take up Frawley’s offer of mastering her healing magic. It was the first strand of her power that Nesta truly liked. It felt like it was a manifestation of the most secret part of her, a chamber which barely anyone knew about or understood. That she did not thirst for her ability to bring about death, but to give life to those who deserved it.

The thought sent a thrum of power through her veins, silver turning over to give way for white light.

“No,” Nesta assured Lorrian, who was still looking at her with reserved expectation. “I would like to come.”

“Come where?” Cassian asked as he drew up beside them, so close that his chest was inches from Nesta’s side.

“I’m going to visit Frawley and Lorrian next week.”

Mock-wounded, Cassian threw a hand to his heart as he said to Lorrian, “And you didn’t ask me? One of your oldest friends?”His eyes were sparkling when Nesta craned her neck to look up at him. He winked at her and magic spiked in her veins.

Grunting, Lorrian replied wryly, “I don’t know why you’re pretending that you won’t hound us for a visit. Pick up Nesta and come for dinner. We’ll see you the following week for Solstice, anyway.”

At that, Lorrian turned to the manticore who was still lying in the mud, his large almond eyes blinking in the pastel sunlight. “Caer,” Lorrian called, as he started to spread his own wings wide. The manticore stood, stretching slowly with a wide yawn which showcased his long, sharp teeth and his leathery wings. As Caerleon trotted over to Lorrian, his ears perked forwards and his tail shot up so it was engaged and upright, the deadly bristles at the tuft soft rather than pointed.

“I’ll take you back to the cottage with me when I visit next week then,” Lorrian told Nesta. He looked to Cassian, “Start Nesta on the basics before then.”

And then, with a wide stretch of his large wings, he shot into the air.

  Mas found Nesta shortly after Lorrian had left. She and Roksana were the only females left in the sparring grounds. In the distance, Nesta could see the last of the retreating figures of the widows as they made their way back to their new camp, which was set up at the back of the mountain pass, not far from the sparring rings. The new camp was full of green pine trees and forest floor rather than treacherous, ominous rock and battering winds.

“Come,” Mas urged to Nesta, taking her by the hand. “Not you,” she told Cassian firmly, but he had only grinned in that unbridled way of his, before he shot into the skies in search of breakfast.

Together, Nesta and Mas walked up the mountain to the old widows camp with Roksana in tow. Nesta watched the youngling skim across the patches of deep snow. The path was a blanket of white, but despite the bite in Nesta’s feet, she did not complain. Nor did she moan about the dull ache in her side. Instead, she walked hand-in-hand with the housekeeper, allowing Mas to lead her up the zig zag path until they reached the even ground.

The destruction and death in the camp had been covered by the snow, but Nesta could still feel it: the sorrow, pain and terror seeping into her skin, lining her stomach in a way  that was so intense that her power surged. Yet, Nesta did not try to push the sensation away as Mas led her with purpose to the Eastern side of the camp. They passed the makeshift canteen, the shell of tents scattered with snow and the rusted fire drums, until they reached the far point where Mas had lain on the ground as the life bled out of her.

The mountain wall loomed up into the dusky sky to their left, running until the ground round at the tip, leaving only a sheer, terrifying drop to the right.

When Mas stopped, so did Nesta. Roksana was a little way off, approaching the edge, and Mas scolded her to come back before she fell off the precipice.

Roksana skimmed over the stone, her little wings flapping at a rate that was faster than normal, as if she had to work extra hard to stay aloft. She collided with Mas’s legs, but the housekeeper only tutted in a way that held no bite, before bending to press a kiss to the little girl’s head and ordering her to stand back.

Nesta did not say anything. Not even as Mas clasped her dry, weathered hands in Nesta’s and peered into her face.

“Diyosa,” Mas said quietly, her voice brimming with feeling — love and anticipation — as she led Nesta slowly to the edge, carefully stepping backwards. “I wanted you to see it first. I wanted you to witness the freedom you have granted me.”

Despite the tears lining her eyes, a toothy grin spread across the housekeeper’s face.

Nesta watched Mas stretch her wings out wide, the movement slow and purposeful, as if she were flexing unused muscles.

And then she stepped backwards off the cliff.

For a second, Nesta was consumed with a terror that gripped fiercely at her throat, but then the boom of wings sounded around the mountain pass and Mas soared up on the wind, her beautiful wings beating hard as she caught an upward draft to climb above them.

Beside her, Roksana let out a cry. Her little hands clapped together and from her mouth… a laugh. Not one of Roksana’s small, secret smiles, but a delighted laugh that was so joyous it rang around the mountain wall.

And it was that, coupled by the whoop of delight from the housekeeper, that made Nesta laugh, too.

Nesta could not remember the first time she had truly laughed. As if it were a forbidden sound, her hands flew up to clap over her mouth, but then Roksana was hovering high enough in the air to pull them away, tearing off that mask that desperately wanted to cling on out of years and years of habit.

And Nesta allowed the youngling to do it. Clasped her fingers around Roksana’s as for the first time that Nesta could remember — through the tears of happiness that poured down her face — Nesta felt joy.

So Nesta laughed. She laughed for the female flying above her who had got her freedom back. For the little youngling who was holding onto Nesta’s hands as she hovered in the air, her wings flapping in desperation to join Masak… to taste freedom, too. And Nesta laughed for herself. For having finally done something right. For giving life rather than death. For bringing happiness rather than sorrow.

Then Mas was diving, her form flawless as she swooped down to take Roksana’s hands in hers, taking the youngling up, up, up into the Illyrian sky brushed with pastel hues.

That was when it happened. Nesta’s laugh fell into an untethered smile… a smile which had been imprisoned for so long. And as she did that, Nesta allowed her magic to reach out again… to sense the emotions that seeped up from the ground from years and years of suffering. But Nesta did not let them surge through her veins to charge her power. Instead, she gave something back. Nesta added a new layer upon the rocky ground that was tainted with death and pain. A comforting blanket of her own joy and happiness. A layer that symbolised that there was hope. That there was a way out of the inky black and the biting cold.

And the camp, which had been full of anguish and pain and unimaginable suffering, suddenly burst with light so pure that it was dazzling. The promise of healing shone from Nesta’s palms, and she stared down at her upturned hands in awe. At the light which travelled upwards to bathe the two females dancing in the air, as they laughed and laughed and laughed.

Tags: @arin1030 @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az  @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @iammissstark @lovelynesta @melphss @nestalytical @darkshadowqueensrule @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @grouchycritic7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @princessconsuela02 @lavendergoomsltd @little-diyosa @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @sjm-things @imwritingthesewords @nestable

[bloody-bee-tea]

BeeTober 2020 Day 12

Gate - Change

Day 12 of Beetober brings more of my MXY&NMJ fic from BeeTober 2020 Day 5, because that definitely needed more exploring, and this time MXY will get to protect those he loves.

Mo Xuanyu has never felt as safe as he does in the Unclean Realm, at Nie Mingjue’s side, but it all threatens to come tumbling down when Nie Mingjue announces that his sworn brothers will come for a visit.

To say that Mo Xuanyu panics would be an understatement.

Mo Xuanyu trusts Nie Mingjue, but he loves Lan Xichen like a brother, and Lan Xichen loves Jin Guangyao, so should Jin Guangyao really want to see him gone then Nie Mingjue—he would—he will—

“Breathe,” Nie Mingjue suddenly says, his hand on Mo Xuanyu’s neck again and Mo Xuanyu takes a shuddering breath.

“Don’t give me back,” Mo Xuanyu whispers as he clutches at Nie Mingjue’s forearm. “Please, don’t.”

“There is nowhere to give you back to,” Nie Mingjue tells him and squeezes his neck. “You’re my disciple. What was before doesn’t matter. You’re with me now.”

Mo Xuanyu closes his eyes at those words, and lets out something that sounds too much like a sob.

“You’re safe with me, Xuanyu,” Nie Mingjue reiterates again and Mo Xuanyu never had much reason to trust anyone, but he trusts him.

If Nie Mingjue says he’s safe, then he is.

“Okay,” he agrees and Nie Mingjue nods at him. “But I can be safe from very far away, right?” Mo Xuanyu asks, only half joking and Nie Mingjue frowns at him.

“You’re my right hand, Xuanyu. You’re going to be there.”

Mo Xuanyu had known that would be the answer, of course he had, because Nie Mingjue trusted him more than he maybe should, considering that he only came to the Nie Sect a few months ago, and so he only gives a resigned nod.

“Of course I am,” he whispers and Nie Mingjue gives him a blinding smile.

“Good. Then just imagine how much he’s going to hate to see you at my side, and let that carry you through the day,” Nie Mingjue tells him and Mo Xuanyu has to admit, that thought is more than entertaining.

“You’re a menace,” he mutters, careful to keep his voice low enough that Nie Mingjue can pretend not to have heard him, since Mo Xuanyu is still a little bit afraid that Nie Mingjue is going to snap one day.

Old habits die hard, Mo Xuanyu thinks, and even when Nie Huaisang repeatedly tells him that he has nothing to fear from his da-ge, Mo Xuanyu can sometimes hardly believe he’s right.

“I have to be with a brother like Huaisang and a right hand man like you,” Nie Mingjue gives back, his attention already on the letter, informing him of Lan Xichen’s and Jin Guangyao’s visit. “You would overthrow me in a second if I weren’t.”

Mo Xuanyu has to admit that maybe Nie Mingjue is right, but he still has Nie Zonghui by his side.

Sure, he adores Nie Huaisang and he seems to like Mo Xuanyu well enough, too, but Mo Xuanyu has no doubt that his first priority will always be Nie Mingjue.

“Not if your guard dog gets us first,” Mo Xuanyu says, mainly to keep his thoughts away from the impending visit, and he can feel Nie Zonghui’s glare in his back.

“Careful,” Nie Mingjue mutters. “He bites.”

Mo Xuanyu sticks out his tongue when he’s certain Nie Mingjue won’t see it and then he goes off to prepare for the visit of Nie Mingjue’s sworn brothers.

So far he managed to stay out of Jin Guangyao’s eyes when he dropped by, but of course that had to end at some point.

Lan Xichen knows he’s here after all, and Mo Xuanyu is under no impression that he told Jin Guangyao about it as well.

So far he hasn’t reacted to that, but Mo Xuanyu’s luck had to run out at some point.

He just hopes he can survive this meeting.

~*~*~

“Would you just trust me,” Nie Mingjue whispers from where they are waiting at the gate for Lan Xichen’s and Jin Guangyao’s arrival, when Mo Xuanyu continues to shift behind him. 

“I do,” Mo Xuanyu gives back, and he’s surprised to find that he means it, too. “It’s him I don’t trust.”

Nie Mingjue mutters “Fair enough” under his breath, right before Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao come into sight.

Lan Xichen is smiling brightly at both of them, but Jin Guangyao’s eyes immediately fall on Mo Xuanyu and Mo Xuanyu has to fight the urge to run away and hide.

“Da-ge!” Lan Xichen greets Nie Mingjue and gently elbows Jin Guangyao when he’s not quick enough to follow.

“Da-ge,” Jin Guangyao dutifully says, much more subdued than Lan Xichen, and his eyes never leave Mo Xuanyu.

“I see that illegitimate children are held in high esteem here,” Jin Guangyao snarls when Mo Xuanyu doesn’t cower under his gaze like he surely expected him to.

“I give everyone the same chance,” Nie Mingjue easily gives back. “Even to sons of whores,” he tacks on and then turns around to lead them into the hall.

Nie Mingjue doesn’t see the hate flare up on Jin Guangyao’s face, but Mo Xuanyu learned to fear that look, so he instantly recognizes it, and he keeps his head bowed as he follows them.

Once they are all settled down, Mo Xuanyu watches with growing unease how Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue update each other on the important news, while Jin Guangyao keeps silent.

At least until his first cup of tea is gone.

“Da-ge,” Jin Guangyao says, rather rudely interrupting Lan Xichen’s and Nie Mingjue’s conversation. 

“Yes?” Nie Mingjue asks, but by the tension in his shoulders Mo Xuanyu can tell that this is what he was waiting for.

“Are you not aware of who this person to your right is?” Jin Guangyao asks and Nie Mingjue makes it a whole thing to look surprised and turn big eyes on Mo Xuanyu.

“Him? Should I?” he innocently asks and Mo Xuanyu has to press his lips together to hide his smile.

Nie Mingjue can be such a troll sometimes.

“Da-ge,” Jin Guangyao chides him and Mo Xuanyu shivers with the condescending tone.

Old habits die hard indeed.

“He’s Mo Xuanyu. You should have heard what he did. I have personal grievances with him and yet you make him stand there. I shouldn’t have to endure that, not after what he did.”

Mo Xuanyu is in the process of shrinking in on himself, when Nie Mingjue picks up his cup and toasts Jin Guangyao.

“I have personal grievances with you, too, and yet I am serving you tea. We all have to deal with things we don’t want to. Things change, and you should make sure to adapt to them,” Nie Mingjue pleasantly says, and now Mo Xuanyu is trying very hard not to burst out laughing.

“Da-ge,” Lan Xichen chides Nie Mingjue, who doesn’t even try to look apologetic.

“What? It’s true,” Nie Mingjue says to Lan Xichen and then expertly changes the topic.

Mo Xuanyu isn’t mentioned again, and for that, he’s thankful.

~*~*~

Lan Xichen had to leave rather abruptly shortly before dinner, and he seems as worried about leaving Jin Guangyao and Nie Mingjue alone as Mo Xuanyu feels.

It’s not a good combination, especially not after what happened over tea.

“Come, let me play for you, da-ge,” Jin Guangyao says after a beat of awkward silence and Nie Mingjue glares at him as if he wants to say no. “Er-ge instructed me to play well for you today,” Jin Guangyao tacks on and just like Jin Guangyao clearly expected, Nie Mingjue sinks down on his seat.

“Fine,” he bites out and Jin Guangyao smiles his most smarmy smile at him.

Mo Xuanyu wants to punch it off his face.

“We should be alone for it,” Jin Guangyao says, his eyes finding Mo Xuanyu. “We can’t be disturbed.”

Mo Xuanyu is not going to leave Nie Mingjue alone with Jin Guangyao, but after a heavy sigh, Nie Mingjue nods.

“Xuanyu, go find Nie Huaisang,” he instructs him, and Mo Xuanyu wants to argue, wants to tell him that there is no way in hell that he’s going to leave him alone with this snake, but Nie Mingjue seems tired all of a sudden and Mo Xuanyu knows that his qi deviations have gotten worse over the last months.

“Fine,” he says and bows, before he takes his leave.

Except, he doesn’t leave.

He waits until he’s out of sight and then he turns back, lingering just behind a door, so he can hear everything without being seen.

He does not trust Jin Guangyao.

And rightfully so, it seems, when the song Jin Guangyao plays Nie Mingjue turns into something more sinister; turns into something that Lan Xichen most definitely never played for Nie Mingjue.

Mo Xuanyu waits for a few moments, just to make sure that he’s not accusing Jin Guangyao for nothing, but when his headache from the infused spiritual energy gets too much, he knows that he has to do something.

The goal of this music is not to calm Nie Mingjue down.

Mo Xuanyu gets up from where he was hiding and marches into the hall, almost running, trying for an urgent look on his face.

“Nie Mingjue!” he calls out and Jin Guangyao’s playing ends with a discordant note.

“What?” Nie Mingjue bellows and between one blink and the next Baxia is in his hands and pointing at Mo Xuanyu, while a satisfied smirk crosses Jin Guangyao’s face.

Well, Mo Xuanyu is not going to give him the satisfaction of dying here.

“Nie Zonghui ran into a problem at the training grounds,” Mo Xuanyu lies straight through his teeth, because this is one of the few things that will get Nie Mingjue’s attention.

Nie Zonghui is the most capable person Mo Xuanyu has ever seen; if he ran into a problem, Nie Mingjue will want to go investigating immediately.

“He asks for your presence.”

“How dare you,” Nie Mingjue presses out through clenched teeth and Mo Xuanyu can see the first signs of an impending qi deviation.

He has to react quickly now.

“Mingjue, it’s just me,” Mo Xuanyu says and forces himself to be smaller than he actually is. “You said I’m with you now. You said I’d be safe with you,” he whispers and Nie Mingjue blinks two, three times, but in the end he lowers Baxia.

“Xuanyu,” he mutters and he shakes his head as if to clear it. “What problem?”

“At the training grounds,” Mo Xuanyu says with a nod, noting the slight tension of Jin Guangyao’s jaw, how he narrows his eyes at him. “Come with me.”

“Lead the way,” Nie Mingjue says, but he sounds unsteady, and Mo Xuanyu wishes he could simply strangle Jin Guangyao.

How dare he try to take the one good thing in Mo Xuanyu’s life away from him.

Mo Xuanyu doesn’t actually allow both of their backs to be turned towards Jin Guangyao, so he let’s Nie Mingjue wander off by himself as he forces himself to bow to Jin Guangyao.

“If you would excuse us, I think it’s best to return to your Sect,” he politely forces out and is met with one of the falsest smiles he has ever seen on Jin Guangyao’s face.

“Sure,” he says and his tone makes a shiver run down Mo Xuanyu’s back. “We wouldn’t want anything to happen to Nie Zonghui. Or Nie Mingjue for that matter.”

Mo Xuanyu has half a mind to kill him on the spot but then Jin Guangyao turns around and leaves.

He doesn’t even take his offensive guqin with him.

Mo Xuanyu glares after him for a long moment, before Nie Mingjue calls for him from the hallway.

“Mo Xuanyu, where are you? Let’s go!”

Mo Xuanyu hurries out to him and then pushes him into the next unoccupied room instead of leading him out to the training grounds.

“What are you doing?” Nie Mingjue asks, and some of the anger from before must still be left, because he’s glaring hard at Mo Xuanyu.

“Saving your life,” Mo Xuanyu hisses and then, after he made sure that no one is lingering in the hallway, he whirls around to Nie Mingjue.

“What about Zonghui? He needs help.”

“He doesn’t,” Mo Xuanyu gives back. “I have only been here for a few months but I doubt the guy has ever needed help with anything.”

“What is going on here?” Nie Mingjue asks and Mo Xuanyu forces him to sit down.

“How are you feeling?” 

“I have a headache,” Nie Mingjue admits and then looks at his hands. “I was close to a qi deviation, wasn’t I?” he then quietly asks and Mo Xuanyu takes a deep breath.

“Yes. And I am guessing it’s because of the music Jin Guangyao plays you,” he admits and Nie Mingjue looks questioningly at him.

“But Xichen plays me the same music,” he argues but Mo Xuanyu shakes his head.

“He doesn’t. There’s a part in the middle, a part he heavily infuses with spiritual energy, that is different from what Lan Xichen plays you.”

“Are you sure?” Nie Mingjue asks and Mo Xuanyu rolls his eyes.

“Not all of us are as tone deaf as you are,” Mo Xuanyu tells him and Nie Mingjue sighs like only an older brother can.

“You sound exactly like Huaisang,” he complains and Mo Xuanyu shrugs.

“Maybe you’ll listen to me then,” he mutters and then takes a deep breath. “Your temper has gotten worse since he plays for you, right?”

“Yes,” Nie Mingjue admits. “I—did I hurt you?”

“No, you didn’t,” Mo Xuanyu rushes to reassure him. “You stopped before anything could happen.”

“Xichen will have to drop by more often, if Jin Guangyao can’t play for me anymore,” Nie Mingjue whispers, and Mo Xuanyu knows how much it irks Nie Mingjue to take up so much of his friend’s time.

“I’m not too bad with an instrument,” Mo Xuanyu says and looks down at his hands. “And thanks to Nie Zonghui’s training I’m not as weak as before. I could—learn, if you’d be okay with that?”

Nie Mingjue stares at him in surprise, and Mo Xuanyu is about to take it back, just to make Nie Mingjue stop looking at him like that, but then he smiles at him.

“You, Xuanyu,” Nie Mingjue says and puts his hand on Mo Xuanyu’s neck to rest their foreheads together, “are a saint sent from the gods.”

The sentiment is so ridiculous it startles a laugh from Mo Xuanyu, but Nie Mingjue only continues to steadily look at him, and soon enough the laugh fades from Mo Xuanyu’s lips.

“If anyone should be saying that, it should be me,” he protests, because there is no doubt in Mo Xuanyu’s mind that without Nie Mingjue, he’d long be dead by now.

“I’m only repaying a debt,” Mo Xuanyu mutters and has to fight back some tears when Nie Mingjue lightly squeezes his neck in warning.

“You’re not,” Nie Mingjue says, “because there is nothing you owe. You’re a valued member of my Sect and there is nothing you have to repay.“

“You’re too good to me,” Mo Xuanyu whispers and if he leans a little bit heavier against Nie Mingjue, then there’s no one around to judge him for it.

“I am just as good as you deserve,” Nie Mingjue replies and tilts his head to brush his lips over Mo Xuanyu’s cheek.

Mo Xuanyu blushes furiously, he can feel it, but Nie Mingjue doesn’t say anything to his more than obviously red cheeks.

“Now let’s see if we can convince Lan Xichen to teach you the song,” Nie Mingjue then decidedly says and gets up.

Mo Xuanyu knows that the incident with Jin Guangyao is not forgotten, but that Nie Mingjue needs a few days to come to terms with it, to fully accept it.

And until that happens—and until they decide on a course of action—Mo Xuanyu will stay right by Nie Mingjue’s side.

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