Nesta's Love is Quiet
Nesta's Love is Quiet: Nesta protects Cassian in battle
Inspired by "Comatose" by Sod Ven
Nesta's love is quiet.
He has learned to hear it in the whisper of her presence and the echo of her footsteps along hardwood floors. He has learned to hear it through the grinds of coffee beans and the steam of water; through the clink of a cup she doesn't acknowledge she saves for him. Knows it is as sure as the hot liquid warming his soul every morning, never tiring of the taste on his tongue.
He has learned to hear it in the scoff of her lips as he tells her she needs to train, and she refuses. Stubborn to the very last breath she carries inside of herself. When Nesta does agree, he hears it in her cursed words, sees it in her rumpled clothing that clings to her sweaty skin. Later, he is proud to hear it in the arrows that fly past his body, as she aims at him pointedly, and tells him that next time she won't miss.
He sees it in her eyes, in the smirk of good-natured humor. In the satisfied look she carries when she catches someone watching her, a little girl or boy, a mother, or just someone else with enough rage to rattle the stars. Freedom looks good on Nesta, like a sturdy pair of flying leathers. She wears it with pride.
Cassian learns to hear it in the groan she makes at his antics, at his jokes that have never once been funny, but somehow make her eyes resemble the clouds he flies in. Her voice, once filled with derision and pain, becomes breathy laughter escaping her lips. She hits his arm and tells him he better stick to his day job and he feigns hurt at her words. When he picks her up and carries her to their home, he likes to pretend the threats she throws at him are playful teases, even if he knows she'll make do on her promises. She always does, after all.
It's in the way her eyes soften when he's frustrated, the subtle gesture of comfort from someone who knows what its like when the world has made them the enemy. The arms that wind themselves around him, and the scent of lavender when her head burrows into his neck. The shivers that run up his spine as her nose grazes his pulse, and makes his heart beat again, but faster and faster. It's funny, he thinks, that she tries to hide from him when she is the only one he truly sees. A beacon when his heart has found the shadows.
Her love is soft, even if that contradicts everything he has ever learned about her. There is nothing soft in her fury and firm grip. Nothing comforting in her sharp tongue that whips hellfire to the camp lords and the men who refuse to see her as anything but womanly parts and the price it would cost to tame her. To those who want to put her and them into a little box, wrapped neatly and tightly, that they can never escape from. Nesta's love is too large to be trapped in anything.
It is hidden like her very shadow or the magic that runs deep in her veins. Just like the anger she tries so hard to hide. But Cassian hears it and sees it all.
When the knife goes through her shoulder and his wings are spared the injury, Cassian hears her love in the thud of her body. Hears it in the soft moan of his name and the ringing in his ears. It erupts so suddenly that he can't hear anything else but fury. She is exhausted, and what little control of her power she has learned has erupted and left her with nothing.
He sets her gently to the ground, even if his whole being fights against leaving her. A vicious rage courses through him. Cassian makes the soldier suffer, a slaughter that leaves blood on his clothes. He is not sure which is Nesta's and which is the body left for the ground to feed on, but he pledges for worse as the arrows fly past him, grazing his armor. The many lives he takes, the many men he shoots down is not enough to stomp out the fire he contains.
Only a moment later, mere minutes turned to eternity, Cassian clutches Nesta to him, his body gladly becoming a shield to keep her safe. Those wings she protects flies her home, and by some mother or cauldron or star he is not hit once while they escape.
He is a worrier, always has been where Nesta is concerned. Whether it was the day her head went under water, or the days she drowned her sorrows in alcohol and touch. He can never guarantee her happiness and still can't, though he tries. He just wants her to be okay—some person who can pick herself up when she falls so drastically. But Nesta is a hurricane. She sweeps everything into the whole of her, claiming nothing and no one is safe. He doesn't ask to tame her, to control her or wall her in, he merely wants to be the ground. Solid enough to grasp when she feels out of control.
It is no surprise of his own that he turns into a mother hen, a worried, irate bat at anyone who tries to take her out of his arms. Cassian must stop himself from ripping the healers to shreds at their incessant need to touch her. It is Mor who recognizes the ferocity in his eyes, opening the blankets on the bed for him. It happens in a whirlwind, and he half expects the world to be in disarray, the wind fighting the Earth for territory. He is surprised to see the sky is calm.
Her small frame, though stronger than the first day she left this house, is trembling, her skin pale and clammy. He wants to get her water or bandages or a blanket, but Nesta grabs his hand before he can move an inch towards a towel. He squeezes it and she holds on to the best of her ability. Her hair still smells like lavender, as he brushes it out of her face.
He doesn't care if the others are watching. He barely acknowledged them when they landed, only barked out commands to get the healers. Their voices, though hysterical, are not loud enough to distract him from the soft thump of her heart.
Cassian assumes they are noting the change, the way they grasp each other, as close as they can while the healers work. His friends are busybodies he knows, but the way Nesta's soft smile lights up her face makes the overwrought beast calm into a simple worry he can manage.
But then she closes her eyes and the panic sets in. He shakes her roughly and the healers grab his arms, he can hear Rhys and Az coming to help them. She makes no move to awaken and he fights them, everyone in the room and in the sky or down below. Anyone who wants to take her away from him he will fight.
The grip on her hand loosens and it slips out of his grasp, and some part of his soul feels torn apart. Ripped apart like his very own wings have been severed from his body.
"She's lost too much blood and she's used too much power, so her body won't heal by itself." They try to explain. It is lost in the pounding of his heart.
"The poison has entered her blood stream—"
"We're going to need more people. Everyone out."
He swears he hears her screaming, but her eyes remain closed, and they finally succeed in taking him away.
"Nesta. Nesta. Nesta." He chants, like a prayer. Asking her to open her eyes, to not give up, to not let the fire go out.
The wood splinters as the door is slammed shut, but it resists the beat of his fists. Magic never was his friend. Feyre asks him what happened, Elain is crying, Rhysand is holding it together, and there is blood all around him. He sees it even as he closes his eyes. Red walls, red faces, red wounds, and fire. Burning and burning and burning.
He has always heard Nesta, like the small voice that urged him on. Her heartbeat and her breathing following him like his own shadow, soft and comforting and warm. He hears nothing. Not their worry, not their reassurances, not even the healers muffled voices.
It's only then that Cassian finally learns that although Nesta would rather read than communicate, or rather do than say, and even if she hopes no one will hear her, Nesta has never been quiet in her entire life. Nesta's love is just too loud.
I actually wrote this a long time ago, but I forgot to upload it on to Fanfiction. Usually I update more on AO3 or tumblr, so check me out there vidalinav I'll try to remember to cross post on here.
