A.N.: I was disappointed with Silver Flames. Too much poorly-written smug (read Kresley Cole's Immortals After Dark series: my faves are Demon from the Dark, Dark Needs at Night's Edge, Dark Desires After Dusk, Pleasure of a Dark Prince and No Rest for the Wicked) and whiplash from Nesta seemingly making progress only for the final chapters to render all her efforts futile. The lasting message to the reader – surrender all your power in exchange for children while grovelling for forgiveness at the feet of your abuser…
No.
So in this story, there will be no: nonsensical pregnancy plotline; Eris bullying; Rhysand getting away with threatening to murder Nesta because his ego is bruised that she is more powerful and refuses to fawn over him; interaction with the IC as a whole (not guaranteeing you won't see a couple of the characters in isolation); no Elain-Lucien mating bond; and absolutely no scene wherein the IC get the last word and decide whether characters are worthy or not based on their perceptions of them or how useful they've been.
What there will be: Nesta's perspective on life in the cottage and the reality of her role in the family vs what Feyre perceived; emotional support for Tamlin; rebuilding of the Spring Court; lots of Illyrian females and children, inspired by Mad Max: Fury Road; interaction with humans on the borders; Nesta using her knowledge of trade and economics, diplomacy and courtly manners; animal therapy; music therapy; Nesta telling it like it is; monsters and mayhem; the Trove; platonic but deeply emotional bonds of friendship and love; Azriel plot twists.
I should probably add a general trigger warning. Substance abuse; violence; miscarriage; sexual assault (mentions of historic but zero explicit SA scenes). Oh, smut later.
A House of Flame and Flower
01
Ambush
"You spent five hundred gold marks last night!" Feyre exploded, shooting to her feet to pace in front of the hearth. "Do you know how much money that is?" Nesta hid her scoff. Did she, the one who kept their pocketbook in order to the last pathetic copper, appreciate the value of money? "Do you know how embarrassed I was when we got the bill this morning and my friends—my family—had to hear all about it?"
Nesta's eyes narrowed. Family. She despised that Feyre considered those bullying sycophants her family. Fawning courtiers who worshipped the ground Feyre walked on: of course she considered them worthy of her, rejecting entirely the family she had convinced herself abused her so horribly. As if she had truly suffered through every hardship she had ever imagined. Feyre had filled their heads with her version of the truth, setting them against Nesta and, to a lesser extent, Elain, even before they had ever met.
Feyre went on, "And to hear not just the amount of the bill, but what you spent it on—"
"I see. So it's about you saving face," Nesta sighed, concealing her anger with a bored sigh.
"It is about how it reflects upon me, upon Rhys, and upon my Court when my damned sister spends our money on wine and gambling and does nothing to contribute to this city!"
Nesta smirked. Of course they had received an itemised receipt. Sad it did not also give context. But then she had learned nuance was a thing unheard of to Feyre's paragon mate and his self-righteous lackies. It would elude Rhysand and his people entirely, the fact that the majority of the money she had gambled had been redistributed amongst veterans of the war who had lost the means to support themselves, either through injury or because the High Lord had opened up the secret city of Velaris to outsiders – outsiders who had flocked to the City of Starlight in all its untouched glory, and taken the jobs left vacant by those soldiers fighting for the continued freedom of everyone in Prythian.
It always fascinated Nesta that those Fae freshly arrived in Velaris sought refuge from across the Night Court territories. Rhysand's own people fled their homes to come to the Court of Dreams – because the rest of the territory was so neglected by Rhysand that their living conditions were intolerable.
Yes, she had lost close to four hundred gold marks at the gambling tables alone last night. Because those soldiers who had fought for their home still had some pride left.
Better to win a fortune at the gambling table than take a handout.
Nesta had earned every copper they had, too. To be reliant on others' charity was deplorable. And dangerous: people were as changeable as the tide. Especially when it came to money.
Still, Feyre's family wasn't to know that. They didn't care to investigate, nor did Nesta deign to explain.
They only cared to see the worst in her: they were unworthy of her best.
"It's not your money. It is your mate's money," Nesta said coolly, relishing the look on Feyre's face when the comment stung.
After all they had endured, Nesta found it abhorrent that her sister allowed herself to be financially dependent on her husband – especially considering how high-handed the prick was. Money was one of the easiest ways to control people – especially in a relationship where the power was imbalanced. And Feyre, no matter what she thought, was not in an equal relationship with her ancient, experienced, highly-educated, power-mad husband. Feyre could not see it: Nesta, when sobriety threatened, found herself worrying about that far too much. Feyre had made her choices. It did no good to question them: Nesta could only wait for the inevitable repercussions.
There were always consequences. Especially to decisions made in ignorance – and duress.
She examined her cuticles, trying to remember the last time she had bothered to manicure her nails. "And as for my contributions? This city, this island would be nothing but rubble under Hybern if not for me. I owe this Court nothing. I owe you nothing."
Feyre ignored her. "If my sister cannot be controlled, then why should we have the right to rule over anyone else?"
Tartly, Nesta retorted, "A question for serious contemplation."
What right did her uneducated, self-absorbed sister have to rule over others, to command them, to determine their lives? This ambush proved Feyre had no idea what she was doing. The state of the Night Court outside of Velaris just showed how unfit Feyre and her beloved mate were to rule.
Again, Feyre ignored her. "You're going to train at Windhaven. You will learn to control yourself."
"You speak as if I am mindless. I know exactly what I am doing," Nesta purred. "If you think I shall bow to this…decree you have completely forgotten who I am."
"You're going, even if you have to be tied up and hauled there," Feyre snapped, her eyes glinting. Nesta smirked, enjoying how angry Feyre was. Smugness oozed through her veins like that golden liqueur she so enjoyed sipping, bitter chocolate with a whisper of chilli, lighting a fire in her belly that did not crackle and pop and trigger hateful visions of the past. Feyre's eyes narrowed, her tone nasty as she hissed, "You will follow Cassian's instructions, and you will completely whatever work Clotho requires in the library gladly."
Nesta blocked out the memory—of the dark depths of that library, the ancient monster that had dwelled there. It had saved them from Hybern's assassins, yes, but … She refused to think of it.
Still stunned by her sister's ever-growing arrogance, Nesta sneered down her nose at her – spattered with expensive paints, wasteful and thoughtless – and hissed, "You high-handed cunt."
Her youngest sister had always been hard-headed – to the point of stupidity, as demonstrated by her venture under the Fae's holy Mountain to save the beloved she had quickly tossed aside for a more powerful option – but her conceitedness had reached new heights with her union with Rhysand. He pandered to her every whim, excused every action, enforced no accountability, told her it was her right to treat people the way she did because they alone were good, and right, because others were unworthy – of trust, or of leading – or because of her power, because of what he had made her in naming her High Lady – as if she had earned anything, as if she even knew how to earn such a position of responsibility.
Feyre had never taken responsibility for her actions in her life. Never considered that there were consequences to them. Had aligned herself with people who did the same. They wreaked havoc and forced their victims to apologise for the inconvenience they had caused by standing in their way.
Nesta was living – altered – proof of that.
Feyre had never once acknowledged that Nesta had been right: that Feyre had endangered her and Elain the moment she forced their hands and demanded they serve the Night Court as emissaries in the war.
And their promises of protection? Nesta wondered if Feyre wasn't secretly thrilled that she and Elain were now immortal: she could go on punishing them for eternity for every perceived sleight against her.
She had never shown sorrow at what they had been forced to endure because of her failures. Just as Feyre had never once shown any remorse for endangering the lives of every being who had once called the Spring Court their home. No…instead, Feyre remained smug about how easily she had overturned the Spring Court as a spy, how she had lured and manipulated Tamlin and poor Lucien and wielded her new powers as weapons against those who could not defend themselves, who were utterly ignorant of her abilities, who were punished for the crime of merely getting in the way of what she wanted – petty revenge.
No-one ever got in the way of what Feyre wanted. Nesta knew that only too well. She had been left to try and raise the spoiled, stubborn little girl who ran feral through their once-grand home, Mama horrified by her wildness with no idea how to handle her, Papa too ensconced in his fortune-building to pay Feyre any attention, except when she dashed into his office to push over piles of jewels and carpets, desperate for his attention.
Hot rage pumped through her, so loud Nesta could barely hear the real fire before which her sister paced. It was easier to listen to the rage singing through her veins than the crackle of the fire, the snapping, popping wood sounding so much like her father's neck breaking that she could barely breathe. She still could not light a fire in her own home: blankets buried her, weighing her down, grounding and comforting – she was not weightless and thrashing in interminable darkness. The cocoon of warmth and security calmed her as nothing else did.
Feyre's lips parted, as if stunned to hear such language from Nesta, who never swore, who despised vulgarity, who knew how to cut down an enemy with her words more effectively – and more eloquently – than any weapon. That Nesta had called her such a thing showed how angry Nesta truly was.
Feyre's response, once again was to ignore it.
In several unpleasant ways, Feyre had risen to the role of High Lady: she had perfected talking down to people. To those she had once needed and used and discarded – Nesta, Lucien, Elain to a lesser extent. Elain was nice, after all: she would never tell Feyre anything except what she wanted to hear.
"You will respect Clotho, and the other priestesses in the library," Feyre continued, "and you will never give them a moment's trouble. Any free time is yours to spend as you wish. In the House."
"Ah, the House. What is that, your fifth private residence?" Nesta's tone was glacial. Feyre stifled a shiver at the expression on Nesta's face: it was lethal. Predatory and primal. Nesta's lip curled, her eyes vicious. She saw the weakness and pounced without hesitation. "I know exactly how much five hundred gold marks is – a fraction less than the cost of just one of these ridiculous settees you scattered about your holiday home. While the homeless still traipse across Prythian and Illyrian females have their wings clipped so they may be raped repeatedly – all to fill the ranks of your husband's armies so that he may exert dominance over anyone who dares threaten his fragile ego. I suppose that includes me. He can't stomach it, can he? That someone else may be more powerful than him. That there is someone who can see through him. He's always hated that. That I refused to yield to him, that I dare question him and hold him accountable for his actions. That's why he wants me confined and controlled – don't try to deny it. This farce is his doing."
"Amren and Cassian –"
"Do exactly as he orders them, as they always have. I wonder if they have an original thought between them," Nesta said offhandedly, though Amren's betrayal stung. "You had no right to close up my apartment, to take my belongings—"
"What belongings? A few clothes and some rotten food."
"Clothes I made, from fabric I chose," Nesta snarled. "You think an ultimatum will force me into obedience?"
"I'm having that entire building condemned, just in case you thought to return," Feyre said airily.
"You wouldn't be so stupid," Nesta said, her eyes narrowing. She was surprised: yes, her sister was that short-sighted. That petty.
"It's done. Rhys already visited the landlord," Feyre shrugged. "It will be torn down and rebuilt as a shelter for families still displaced by the war."
Nesta saw red.
"And those who live there, who are forced to remain in that slum because they do not earn enough money to support themselves, because in his wisdom your esteemed High Lord refuses to impose a minimum wage and also refuses to acknowledge that there are those in his beloved Velaris who exploit the vulnerable. When the war he sent their sons and husbands to has driven up the basic cost of living beyond their means. What of them? Where do they go?" Nesta seethed, righteous fury spreading through her body like fire, warming and delicious and good. Her power soothed her irritation, like one of her heavy, grounding blankets, a delicious balm.
She scoffed at Feyre, her ignorant sister arrogant enough to believe she was fit to rule. "Selfish. You have always been selfish. You always get what you want, no thought to the consequences for others… Your darling Rhysand has had this planned for months – he's had this in his mind since the moment he met me. Poor little Feyre's vicious older sister who forced her into the woods as a babe to fend for the family while she sat safe at the hearth and admired her reflection. How he must ache to punish me. You must make him feel so very powerful… You can't even deny it. This is his doing, all his idea."
"He is doing what he must to protect his people."
"I'm not sure how spending his days and nights fucking you and showering you with jewels achieves that."
"Excuse me," Feyre gasped, flushing hotly, indignation written in every line of her face. Another hit.
"Oh, well, talk in the city is that's all their High Lord and Lady do all day. Well…and decorate their palaces," Nesta said, her sly smile growing as Feyre flinched, watching Nesta tenderly stroke the bead-embroidered goose-down cushions arranged so prettily on the settee. "They cannot afford to feed their families but the High Lady will teach their children how to paint… Some wonder whether their High Lord trades you to the Illyrian warlords for their continued obedience or if he deigns to suckle their cocks himself. Meanwhile the price of grains has risen exponentially, trade-links with the other Courts have disintegrated, displaced Fae are aggressing borders, Illyrian females are being brutalised and their screams of pain go ignored, and the survivors of the war have had no compensation – nor have the widows and orphans been provided for after their loss. I know all this despite my drinking and whoring. And I know this because I have lived amongst the people of this city who feel abandoned and betrayed by their High lord. I've fucked the soldiers who returned from the battlefield broken, only to find their families starving while the High Lord saunters about Velaris, buying rubies the size of robin's eggs to treat his power-lusty bride."
Crimson stained Feyre's cheeks.
"Spare me the self-righteous lecturing, Feyre. You and your new family believe yourselves superior: that anyone who is not deemed worthy by you must bow or be eliminated. I refuse to bow to those I do not respect: and I owe none of you any such obligation. Nor am I obligated to remain where my autonomy is threatened," Nesta sighed, gentle yet commanding, her voice low and steady and unyielding. "I renounce all ties to the Night Court. From now on, you are no longer my sister."
"Where will you go?" Feyre snapped, but Nesta saw it: the sudden realisation that Nesta meant every word.
That this would cost her.
That she had grossly overstepped.
"That is no longer your business. Goodbye, Feyre," Nesta said softly. She rose to her feet, elegant as an empress despite her unkempt clothing. As she stared down her youngest sister, Nesta caressed the delicious power shimmering like slumbering embers deep in her heart, until her veins sang with silver fire, pure light, blistering heat, deadly yet silent.
Flame was silent: everything it met shattered and snapped, disintegrating, unable to withstand it.
She was flame. She was undiluted, unrefined, unapologetic power.
She told Feyre, "You will not hear from me again."
She meant it. Her heart burned yet Nesta was a woman of her word. There was no going back – not after this.
Feyre's new family had shown their true colours. A shame that her sisters would not realise it until it was too late. Elain had made her decision: Elain would always secure her own comfort, as she had all her life.
A true smile softened Nesta's imperious beauty and Feyre's eyes widened in horror, her heart thumping in her chest. Nesta's eyes flickered wholly silver, glowing like fire, and her lips curved into an intoxicating smile full of an eerie serenity and haughtiness that made Feyre's breath catch in her lungs, dread unfurling in her stomach like barbed blossoms.
Nesta's eyes flickered and Feyre screamed, recoiling, as in an instant Nesta's entire body was consumed by silver flames. They embraced and entwined her, caressing and sensuous and almost erotic, silver and shadow sharpening Nesta's elegant features into something – someone – else. Something ageless, menacing and enthralling.
Rhysand and Cassian burst through the doors, Cassian's siphons shimmering and night drifting from Rhysand like a cape, his claw-tipped wings emerging – but too late.
As swiftly as the silver flames had erupted, they disappeared.
Cassian and Rhysand tripped up, eyes wide, jaws clenched with purpose and hands clamped around the hilt of weapons.
Feyre realised with a sudden rush of horror and shame that her mate was ready to murder her sister at the slightest provocation. That Rhysand was beyond willing to kill Nesta: that he had been preparing to do so and that this very moment had provided all the opportunity – the excuse – he needed.
"Where is she?" Cassian asked, his eyes wide. He reached the settee Nesta had risen from, where she had been engulfed by silver flames. The room was completely unaltered, but for the barest hint of scent, the only proof that Nesta had been there at all. Whirling on her with all that untamed ferocity, Cassian demanded, "Where is Nesta?"
"She's gone," Feyre murmured hollowly, staring at Rhysand, her terror drifting from her as if shedding a cloak, replaced with a feeling of lightness – she was light-headed with the realisation that Nesta was right. She gazed at the weapons Rhysand still held clenched in his hands. Softly, horror sinking its claws into her heart, Feyre whispered, "You were going to kill her."
"Did she threaten you?" Rhysand demanded, his eyes dark with menace.
Her eyes stung. She repeated softly, "You were going to kill her."
"What did she say to you?" Rhysand asked, and seemed to have decided Feyre was in no immediate danger: he sheathed his weapons, tugging gently on the glimmering darkness oozing from him until the room was filled with tranquil sunlight once again, the silk on the settees she had spent hours designing shimmering. Her eyes welled with tears and Rhysand lunged toward her, his large hands tenderly cupping her face. The intensity in his expression – the undiluted rage and lethal purpose – magnified as he gazed into her face.
As if he was imagining breaking one of Nesta's bones for every single tear Feyre shed.
She slapped his hands away, tears splashing down her cheeks, and jerked out of his reach. Her voice stronger now, Feyre said hoarsely, "You were going to kill her."
"I will kill her, if she did anything to threaten you," Rhysand growled, and Feyre gasped as if punched in the stomach, buckling, the pain like a physical blow. Her eyes darted and Cassian watched her closely, frowning, as she edged away from Rhysand.
"You planned to murder my sister. You brought her here…to push her to her breaking-point," Feyre said, her tears splashing down her cheeks; Rhysand looked agonised. Yet at a fierce glare from Feyre he stopped in his tracks, somehow understanding that the next few moments were crucial.
Cassian glanced at Feyre. She had never looked more like Nesta, the only person who could stop Rhysand with a look.
Feyre stared at Rhysand, revulsion blossoming in her blue-grey eyes. "She was right… You thought this would give you the excuse you needed to murder her and pretend it was for my safety."
"She is a threat to your safety."
"She is my SISTER!" Feyre screamed, so suddenly and so loudly that Cassian jumped. Feyre panted. "You've despised her since the moment you met her."
"She abused you."
"My relationship with Nesta is exactly that – mine and hers. You don't get to have any say in it! You don't get to dictate how Nesta is treated by everyone who ever meets her because you think you have any idea what our lives were like, what our relationship was like, how we lived."
"You told me she let you go out into the woods – a child – and never raised a hand to help you."
"No, she didn't! What did Nesta know of hunting?"
"And spending your coin on frivolous things," Rhysand sneered, fury in his eyes, yet Feyre's eyes darted to the beaded embroidery on the expensive silk cushions stuffed with goose-down, the porcelain clock chiming the hour delicately, the hand-cut crystal decanters glowing with rare wines and liqueurs from the Continent. Do you know how much five hundred gold marks is worth?
Shame tasted like ash in her mouth yet she did not shy away from the taste of it.
Feyre thought back to the cottage – truly thought about it, every single detail she had blocked from her mind since making the move beyond the Wall and leaving her old life behind: the carved settle and the rug before the hearth where she used to while away stormy afternoons with the kittens Nesta raised and sold; the gleaming copper coal-bin and the neatly-stacked woodpile; the pristine copies of books in the tall bookcase decorated with trinkets: interesting feathers Feyre had picked up in the woods, conkers and vases of dried herbs, tiny paintings, including studies of the flowers Elain tended to so obsessively, the closest Nesta had ever come to giving Feyre any sort of formal lessons. Nesta had always loaned out the books – for a nominal fee – to anyone who wished to borrow them: the children who came daily for an hour-long reading and arithmetic lesson adored story-time and some had sat with Father, learning woodworking while they listened. Feyre remembered the polished cabinet and its contents, all of which Nesta had saved from the debtors out of pure will alone: the books and painted bone china crockery and Mama's favourite tea set, the silverware they used only on holidays, the drawers filled with jigsaw puzzles and board-games, Mama's gowns refashioned into a trousseau split between them.
Feyre thought of the hand-carved cooking utensils and worn but cherished crockery in the kitchen, the wire basket of fresh eggs gathered daily, the muslin squares Nesta cut meticulously for her preserves. She thought of Nesta's sewing-box – once Mama's – on the scrubbed kitchen table beside a bowl of dough rising beneath a muslin cloth, as Nesta repaired yet another tear in Feyre's clothing and Elain daintily embroidered snow-white linen handkerchiefs to trade at the village shop for sugar, black tea and candles. She remembered people from the town coming all the way to their cottage for Nesta's butter and combs of honey and the spiced cakes she made, the wealthier ladies stopping by to have their gowns altered by Nesta, with her precise, beautiful tailoring. Nesta had embraced any means of making ends meet, no matter how exhausted she was – small wonder she had grumbled and complained about Feyre waking her in the wee hours to go hunting.
Feyre had to admit it to herself, for the very first time… Yes, the coin she had earned from her hunting had been spent frivolously; her sisters had taken it for granted; and Nesta had never taken her contributions to the house seriously, "Because Nesta did everything else."
"What do you mean?" Cassian frowned, his voice gentler than usual. Behind him, Azriel had slipped into the shaded corner, his posture deceptively relaxed.
Tears slid down Feyre's face, itching, and she realised, "There was never any money yet the…the larder was always stocked, and F-Father always had liniment for his leg. There was always a vegetable-patch groaning with produce, though Elain had no interest in anything but her flowers and her embroidery. And though Elain couldn't abide the idea of touching our cow's udders, there was always fresh milk and homemade butter and cheese. Every season, Nesta had a new dress and would fit us to her old ones and she'd give Elain colourful thread made of silk to embroider them as she fancied. Nesta's gowns were always made up so plain – so we could fashion them as we liked when they came to us… There was always wood in the woodpile and bread and someone had to gather the honey and make the preserves and bake the cakes… At the summer fête, Nesta always had a stall – she never brought anything home: everything was sold. People fought over the last jar of her spiced peaches."
Feyre blinked away her tears, staring at Rhysand. Beyond him, Cassian shifted uneasily on his feet, his wings fluttering slightly for balance. "When I told you my sisters spent all the money I earned from hunting, I never imagined you thought it was the only money we had. That you could believe my sister – my family – would neglect me, neglect themselves and cast me out into the woods to provide for us all."
Her hands shook as she raised them to her mouth, horror sinking in. She stared at Rhysand. "She was right. You've despised her from the beginning. You believed she was abusive and you've been treating her like she is less than vermin since you first met her," Feyre gulped. She wept and choked, "She stood up to you. She didn't tolerate you mistreating her and you resented her for putting you in your place. You've feared her since the moment she ripped herself free from the Cauldron! You fear…you fear that she has more power than you…and you despise her because you know she will never allow you to control her. You're frightened of the threat she is to you."
"Feyre…"
Feyre wiped her face, sniffing delicately. Her voice was hoarse, her eyes scratchy and dull yet she raised her chin and stared down Rhysand. "That's it, isn't it?" She knew she was right – she knew Nesta was right. She was crying and it seemed as if every tear that fell was a physical blow to Rhysand.
Good, Feyre thought, shame and grief burning through her.
"I forgave you. Everything you did to me Under the Mountain. I forgave you. I excused everything you did to me. But today…you made me feel ashamed for Nesta's expenses, when I should have been worried about her wellbeing," she cried. "And you used that shame to force this confrontation, to get what you wanted. Nesta was right about that, too, wasn't she? You've had this planned for months. Taking away her freedoms in the name of her safety. Just like this shield – I cannot even kiss Elain good-morning!" Dread stung at her, remembering the last time someone had shielded her for her safety…only…
Only Tamlin truly had tried to shield her from safety – when, bull-headed as she was, stubborn to a fault by her very nature, Feyre had decided it was entirely appropriate that she accompany a war-band hunting true monsters. She, a traumatised, untrained, newly-remade Fae with zero true fighting experience and even less understanding of her own body and its powers – and limitations.
Not wanting to endanger his own men, or risk getting hurt himself when he prioritised her safety over his own, or his men's… Tears welled in her eyes again, hot and stinging – punishing. Instead of risking his safety or that of his men, Tamlin had done the only thing he could do when reasonable discussion had failed: he had locked her in the house. A palace more spacious than the Palace of the Moon and filled with courtiers who would have sat with her and taken tea or listened to orchestras or discussed her painting…if she had ever cared to acknowledged them.
She had completely shut down, consumed by the power roiling inside her veins, the feeling of unfairness, her entitlement. As if surviving Under the Mountain – even if she hadn't, not really, hadn't survived it and would never have made it so far without others interceding to undermine Amarantha at every opportunity – made her a warrior entitled to stride alongside Tamlin's trained war-band of discipline, centuries-old soldiers. Morrigan had come for her: Rhysand had awaited her. He had whisked her away to the Night Court and left Tamlin gripped with debilitating fear of what had become of her.
The new shield around her seemed to tighten. To squeeze. To laugh in her ears. No morning kisses for Elain at breakfast. No bear-hugs from Cassian. No rare, intimate embrace from Azriel. No contact. No freedom. A cage. An invisible prison.
Nausea surged into her mouth, her vision hazy, and her breath came in sharp, painful pants as she sank onto a settee. She could not suck enough air into her lungs – had Rhysand's shield cut off all her air?
Was she forbidden even that?
She flinched as mental claws scraped at the inside of her mind, a voice wheedling, begging her to let them in. She opened her mouth but no sound came out, even as her mind shattered into an endless scream.
"She's choking –"
"It's that shield – I told you." Calm but glacial. "Remove it. Rhysand. Remove it. Now."
"Mind your tone," Rhysand snarled.
"I suggest you take a step back," said a silky voice full of threat.
Gruff, a third voice said, "Rhys, you're not helping her…"
"Feyre," said the deep voice, soft and earnest like smoke…like shadow, caressing and calm. Calloused hands gently enfolded her own, rough but warm. She was blind to everything but her panic, the feeling of being squeezed, trapped, unable to fight, to breathe. A thumb tenderly stroked her wrist. That gentle, earnest voice was speaking to her, the warmth of those hands tethering her, coaxing her focus back – back from the paralysing fear and the incessant wheedling of those damned claws scratching at her mind like a dog whining to come in from the cold.
"Leave her alone, Rhys," warned the rich voice, and the scratching stopped. A growl rumbled around her. "Don't bare your fangs at me, Rhysand. You're only upsetting her more by forcing yourself on her. Leave."
More snarling. A door slammed so hard she flinched. Tears dripped down her cheeks as she blinked, shuddering. Azriel's beautiful face drew into focus, a whisper of a smile softening the tension around his eyes and the corners of his lush lips as soon as he noticed.
Warm fingertips tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, playfully tweaking the tip. "It's just you and me, now, Feyre. Can you breathe with me? Just in…there…it's all there for you, Feyre. All you can have; no-one's going to take it from you. Breathe in…fill your lungs… Focus on my voice, if you can. Just me. Just me and your lungs filling with air, filling with freedom… You're free. You are free. You are free…"
She shuddered. Filling her lungs was an effort, and tears stung as they slipped down her sodden cheeks. Her teeth chattered and her lip quivered but Azriel held her hands gently. A quiet, subtle warmth emanated from his exquisite hazel eyes, from the faintest hint of a smile at the corners of his luscious lips.
Her breath gusted out, mesmerised by those pretty hazel eyes and stunned… Azriel was holding her hands. Azriel, to whom physical touch seemed almost abhorrent, was holding her hands to comfort her. Did he know the power of that rare touch, the tether that had grounded her as panic overwhelmed her? She could feel the silky soft scars amongst the calluses against her skin. Azriel, who touched others so rarely, had gifted her this touch to bring her back to herself. Those scarred hands, so adept at torture, were nothing but tender as he held hers.
He saw the clarity in her eyes, her gentle breathing, and smiled before releasing her hands and sitting back. He had perched on the edge of the coffee-table, a knee either side of her legs, wings tucked in neatly to avoid upsetting a large vase overflowing with fragrant flowers.
Feyre gulped and wiped her face with her sleeve, the yarn scratchy against her skin, and she couldn't stop the sob that escaped as she thought of the thick cowl Nesta had crocheted for her, all those years ago, when Feyre had insisted on going out into the woods in the dead of winter. It had been thick, deliciously warm yarn. It must have been expensive yarn, she now realised. A gift on the winter solstice. Elain and Nesta, Feyre remembered, had gone without presents, claiming they were "too old" for Solstice gifts.
She had worn that cowl for years. And now she understood why Nesta had been so furious that Feyre had let the moths attack it rather than treat it properly during the warmer months, protecting it with lavender and cedar. It had cost Nesta to buy the yarn and crochet that cowl. A gift Feyre had taken for granted.
"She's gone," she whispered hoarsely, gulping.
Azriel sighed softly. "I will find her."
Feyre shook her head, tears trickling down her cheeks. "She doesn't want to be found," she moaned miserably, her lip trembling. "I betrayed her. I let… We mistreated her. If we force her back, she will despise us forever."
"She can't go out into this world alone," Azriel said carefully.
Feyre's lip quivered. "She always has been," Feyre said mournfully. "She has taken on every burden alone."
And she had never whined to her friends about how hard-done-by she was. She did whatever was necessary. She never cared what others thought of her. She didn't complain. She just got on with it.
And now… After a lifetime of tireless devotion, this was how she was treated. She'd had it thrown back in her face.
Her youngest sister had tried to strip her of all her freedom as punishment for the invisible injuries she had sustained in the war.
Nesta's pain wasn't written on her body the way Azriel's was. Her past was not laid bare for all to see. Only the glimmer of silver embers glinting in her eyes that occasionally sparked into something dangerous and fierce.
Nesta, who had braved the wall and all the dangers that lay beyond it to seek Feyre out the first time Tamlin had come to claim her – her life for the life she had taken. Nesta, who had tirelessly cared for the catatonic Elain after they both came out of the Cauldron, ignoring her own needs to ensure Elain felt safe and cared for.
Elain, who had refused to come to this meeting, refused to acknowledge that there was anything wrong with Nesta, let alone offered to help, who had assumed Nesta would react "hatefully". And Feyre… She had let Rhysand's hatred of Nesta, his fear of her indomitable spirit, dictate her relationship with her sister.
"I will find her," Azriel promised on a murmur. "I will not bring her back here, kicking and screaming. But I will make sure she is safe."
"She hasn't been safe since we forced her into working for us," Feyre whispered hoarsely. She gazed unseeingly at Azriel's scarred hands. Her voice agonised even to her own ears, she asked, "Do your shadows whisper about what happened to her in the Cauldron?"
"No; even they do not know," Azriel said quietly. She watched him reach instinctively for the cuffs of his sleeves, to pull them lower over his scars.
"Just because they're not visible doesn't mean Nesta doesn't have scars," Feyre said miserably, her voice hollow.
"I wouldn't say she has any," Azriel said, his voice neutral, and Feyre's lips parted. Azriel continued, "Scars form when you've healed. And Nesta is far from healed."
"I don't know how to help her," Feyre admitted.
Azriel's face remained perfectly handsome as ever, his voice utterly neutral as he said, "I doubt Nesta knows herself. Perhaps you might have worked it out with her if you had spoken with her, just the two of you."
Feyre closed her eyes and let the gentle accusation wash over her, through her. From calm, gentlemanly Azriel, the words meant something different. He, who knew better than anyone the many varied, complex ways in which to glean information from people.
"Instead of ambushing her. Instead of blaming her for letting Rhysand humiliate me over how she is hiding from her pain, you mean," Feyre gulped, and Azriel gave her a sad smile. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"I did," Azriel said gently. "When we met to discuss this ambush… We should never have had such discussions about Nesta without her presence. None of us have come away from this favourably."
"Now we risk losing her forever."
"Nesta has enough self-respect never to remain where she is treated poorly," Azriel conceded, and Feyre realised she had never heard him speak a bad word of Nesta. Not once. "She will never flourish here. Rhysand would never allow it."
"What do you mean?"
"You said so yourself: Rhysand has feared Nesta since she came out of the Cauldron. He will always view her as a threat," Azriel said evenly. He gave her a small smile. "And he will always do whatever he must to protect those he loves from any threat. Whether it means destroying or controlling it."
"I won't let him hurt her."
Azriel gazed at her. "Nesta and Rhysand are similar in many ways. If they remained in proximity, Rhysand would likely have pushed Nesta too far – created her into the enemy he fears she is."
"And Nesta knew it!"
"Despite all she is going through, Nesta remains…unsettlingly discerning," Azriel said, his lips quirking at the corner. Feyre couldn't help but think that perhaps Azriel…liked Nesta. "Nesta needs to be around people who do not despise her if she is to allow herself to lower her guard and start to heal."
"I told her that she could either stay here with us or be banished to the Human lands," Feyre said, her lip trembling. "Where is she going to go?"
"She is resourceful and intuitive. I am sure she will find somewhere that suits her," Azriel said quietly. He offered her a gentle, coaxing smile. "And if not, perhaps she will create it for herself."
"There's nothing Nesta can't do if she sets her will to it," Feyre sniffled. She winced and gasped.
"Feyre…" Azriel murmured, his handsome features tightening with concern.
"I, uh… I don't feel very well," Feyre admitted, exhaling sharply. The moment Rhysand had threatened to kill Nesta, she had felt it like a physical blow – pain searing through her abdomen. Her panic had stripped her of all feeling yet now, calmed by Azriel's constant presence, it lashed her again. She hunched over, her wince becoming a grimace as she gasped. She felt it. Azriel scented it, his eyes widening.
"Blood – "
Crimson blossomed on the cushion beneath her. Her breath caught in her lungs, her heart seizing, and the sound she made…to Azriel's ears it was halfway between a scream and a sob. Her eyes swimming, Feyre clapped a hand to her mouth, her body buckling as blood seeped into her clothes, the cushion, even dripping onto the carpet. With a dreadful, hollow sort of numbness, Azriel watched on, helpless to do anything. Tears glittered on his sister's face and Feyre gasped and panted, her hands shaking as she muffled her cries.
"Feyre, you're miscarrying – "
"I know what's happening," Feyre choked, tears splashing down her cheeks. "Rhysand –"
"He's gone," Azriel breathed. "I'll call him –"
"No." Feyre's tone was firm, though her cheeks were ashen, all colour leeched from her lips. Overwhelmed and deeply emotional, Feyre cried, "He can't know. Azriel, he can't know. He'll blame her for this." Tears spilled down her cheeks and she gazed at him, her expression one of fierce desperation. And he knew she was right.
"I know," he said softly, reaching out to take her hand. She clung to him, gritting her teeth. Her lip quivered and Azriel felt it like a physical blow. He could defeat almost any enemy yet he could do nothing to help her in this moment, as the life in her womb ended before it could even begin. As she reclined on the sofa, her face a mask of agony, he reached out and tenderly stroked her hair. "But not nearly as much as he will blame himself."
"He can't know," Feyre repeated, weeping. She curled up on her side, shuddering with pain.
"We need to get you to Madja," he breathed.
"No," Feyre insisted, whimpering. "Nobody can know. Azriel – promise me. No-one will know!"
"Feyre, they will find out," he told her gently, still stroking her hair. He could taste it – not her pain but her fear. She feared for her sister's life: she feared that Rhysand would blame Nesta, that he would believe the arguments had triggered this miscarriage…that Rhysand would hunt Nesta down and murder her for the child she had cost him.
Her immediate concern was Nesta. Not the child she was losing. That grief would come later, Azriel thought. Later, when her sister's life wasn't threatened because of that lost child.
"But not yet," Feyre cried.
He sighed, still stroking her hair gently. Finally, he nodded. "Alright," he agreed. "No-one will know, not until you tell them. I need you to bring up your shield again."
"My shield?"
"It disguises your scent. It's…it's already changing, Feyre," he said sorrowfully. "It's the first thing Rhysand will notice. Bring up your shield to disguise it." Feyre's lip trembled, tears leaking from her eyes, but he saw the focus, the resolve on her face, and his breath came a little easier in his lungs as he sensed rather than saw the shield go up. He could still touch her hair, though – perhaps because the shield was intuitive, knew that in that moment, Feyre needed the gentle touch of him stroking her hair. Meanwhile, the magic of the house came to life, cleaning up the blood staining the sofa, the carpet. As if it had never been there.
Hours later, when Rhysand had returned from a vicious training bout with Cassian, Azriel glanced at Feyre across the little table at which they sat drinking tea. He had sat by her side as she endured the pain, and when it finally abated and her body seemed to relax, he had carried her to her bathing chamber. He had removed her bloody clothes and ensured any last hint of what had occurred was eliminated. She now sat in a coal-black cashmere tunic and tights and thick woollen socks, drawn and pale but calm.
He could believe she was still upset only about her sister.
Rhysand seemed to think so too. He lingered in the threshold, perhaps realising too late that he had overplayed his hand. And this time, Feyre would not tolerate it.
Azriel exchanged a look with Feyre. She gave him the barest hint of a smile and he rose from the table, dipping his head respectfully before striding to the door.
"How is she?" Rhysand demanded.
Azriel frowned. "Ask her yourself."
"You need to hunt Nesta down."
"I need do nothing," Azriel countered quietly, his hands in his pockets. Rhysand's eyes darkened, glinting dangerously. Azriel remained unfazed. He had endured true horror: Rhysand's tantrums never moved him.
"Nesta is not a monster," said a quiet voice. A delicate chink told them Feyre had set down her teacup. Azriel watched Rhysand's face as his head whipped around to stare at his mate. Feyre gazed out of the window, watching the Sidra idle by, sunlight glimmering off the water until it shone like a silver ribbon. The silver of Nesta's eyes when she called upon the unknowable power that frightened Rhysand to his core.
"She has defied our orders and put you at risk," Rhysand glowered.
"She has renounced all ties to the Night Court," Azriel said quietly. In withdrawing her loyalty to the Night Court she had armoured herself against Rhysand's wrath: he held no power over her, either magical or political. Other Lords could deny any demand Nesta be returned to him, should she choose to find refuge in their Courts. She was free to pledge fealty to whoever earned it. Azriel wondered just how much Nesta truly knew of Fae laws if she was aware of those simple, powerful words: I renounce all ties to the Night Court.
It was simple, powerful magic – and ancient.
Not irrevocable – but it was not likely the bonds with Feyre, always so fractured even before their lives became entangled with the Fae, would ever heal enough to see Nesta return.
She was gone.
Rhysand stared at him, his lips parting. Azriel watched him, fairly certain his thoughts and feelings ran from wounded pride to rage to horror and grief at Feyre being upset and back to rage again. Within the same heartbeat, Rhysand regretted Feyre's pain yet condemned Nesta forever as his enemy for daring to defy him.
Azriel sighed and turned away.
He would hunt Nesta down. He had never heard of anyone travelling by firelight – the idea of it alone was awe-inspiring. And Azriel admitted to himself that half his interest in tracking Nesta down was not in actually finding her: it was in working out exactly how she had done it.
Wherever she found herself, Nesta was entitled to go her separate way. Azriel appreciated all she had done and how fiercely she had fought, in spite of the very real trauma she had endured when their promises proved empty. He also acknowledged that she owed them nothing.
Azriel believed in action over rhetoric. His words were always careful but his actions spoke for him. And Nesta… She had the sharpest tongue of anyone he had ever met yet she had risen to any challenge, devoted to herself to any task they had demanded of her…which was more than he could say for Morrigan.
Nesta… She had a way of stripping everyone of their masks. She saw through them. And in doing so she shone a light on their truest natures that allowed others to see through the veneers. And Azriel…after five centuries, Nesta's utter disdain for Morrigan had cracked open that façade Morrigan had so assiduously retained all these years. He thought back to Nesta's ferociousness during the war, forced to liaise for them, violated utterly because of them, only to fight beside them when the time came…all the while Morrigan made excuses.
Used him to get what she wanted.
Wielded him as she would a sword.
It was an uncomfortable process, allowing himself to accept the flaws he had blinded himself to for so long. His wings fluttered, agitated, aching to soar above the clouds. It was an uncomfortable process but much like healing a broken bone, it was worth it for the relief, for a life without pain and discomfort, to grow in strength and push new heights.
After five hundred years, Nesta Archeron had forced them all to gaze at their reflections – of themselves, yes, but of each other. Five centuries with the same people and Azriel acknowledged, with more than a little shame, that they had become complacent, had excused each other's worst qualities – or wilfully ignored them because the alternative was dealing with the repercussions of calling each other out on their toxic behaviour.
Nesta had shattered the illusion.
It was part of the reason Rhysand despised her so much.
And why he feared her. She saw through it all.
Azriel exited the house, sighing as a crisp breeze tousled his hair and flirted with his wings. They twitched, longing to soar into the air. You are free… He sighed, thinking of Feyre's first flying lessons.
Azriel was nearly twelve years old when he learned what wings were for the first time. Appendages, yes: muscle and sinew and bone. That was what they were made of. But what they were, what they meant…was freedom.
The purest joy he had ever known was flying. The freedom.
He would defend that freedom viciously.
In her own way, so had Nesta.
Perhaps flying would help him clear his head. He needed to get out of range of Rhysand's powers in order to clear his head: flying would help him determine a course of action. He needed to find Nesta. Not to drag her back to face Rhysand's wrath.
He needed to know she was safe. She was free.
Nesta collided with solid earth hard enough to knock all the wind from her lungs. The rich scent of new grass after a thunderstorm overwhelmed her, the twittering of thousands of songbirds in chorus serenaded her and the air tasted of honeysuckle and camellias as she struggled, hissing breaths into her aching lungs, nausea roiling violently in her stomach.
Groaning, she sat up, her head between her knees, raising her hands to her head in the hopes that the pounding would stop. Dizziness and nausea overwhelmed her but it had less to do with her drinking last night than a reaction to whatever magic she had instinctively tapped into, had hurtled her through what felt like the fabric of the world at the speed of light – of firelight.
Winnowing had never felt like that.
Had never set her blood alight with how deliciously right it felt. She had travelled by firelight – with her own inner flames. Whatever power she had in her veins, it sang now. Because she was free.
She focused on her breathing, in and out, eyes closed and listening to wind soughing through the leaves of trees and the songbirds chirping merrily as the scent of camellias and lily-of-the-valley and fresh water and sun-baked earth cooled by a sudden storm enveloped her, the sun's warmth gentle as a lover's kiss on her eyelids, her cheeks, the tip of her nose.
Awareness prickled her skin and she groaned, wincing in the bright sunlight as she opened her eyes. She sat sprawled in a woodland lush with vibrant foliage in every hue of green imaginable, the sound of the wind sighing through the trees like a gentle waves on the shore. Wood anemones carpeted the earth, their dainty white blossoms shivering in the breeze, and looming over them, imperious and enticing, were foxgloves, thousands of them as far as the eye could see, waving elegantly in the breeze, their pale lilac and white blossoms irresistible to the army of bees buzzing amongst the wildflowers gathering pollen that teased Nesta's nose and seemed to coat her tongue. Beautiful ferns fluttered in the breeze and clusters of bluebells and lily-of-the-valley dotted throughout the woods added their perfume to the air, cowslips a bright spark of colour as they rose beside hostas, and ancient dog-roses showed off their thousands of open pink blossoms, bright hearts of golden-yellow pollen calling the bees to them.
Nesta gazed around her in awe. A woodland at its peak of spring, glorious and lush with wildflowers, with life teeming all around. She squinted in the shafts of sunlight spearing through the tree canopy, making the anemones glow. Shaky from her travels, Nesta breathed in the scents all around her, so decadent and rich with life, and pushed to her feet. Wandering aimlessly, she came to a picturesque brook bubbling happily as it meandered around ancient oaks and crab-apples, downy-birch and elm, juniper and hazel trees and a tremendous hawthorn in full flower – the largest Nesta had ever seen, and the first time she had ever seen one bloom so magnificently.
Hawthorns were rare in the human realm: they were considered sacred to the Fae and some believed their power was rooted in the trees. She reached out and gently pulled a branch lower so she could examine the flowers: they resembled cherry-blossoms. She let the branch go and the great tree seemed to sigh as it settled back into place.
A familiar scent caught her nose and a smile almost teased at her lips. Everywhere she looked, elder was dotted about, growing from the crevices of a rock formation through which the brook made its way, beside an oak tree so large it could fit Rhysand's townhouse inside it quite comfortably, spreading out in an open area where a silver birch had fallen and now lay rotting away, a feast for the thousands of insects Nesta could hear scurrying around inside it. There was no gift Mother Nature could give quite like the elderflower: fritters, cordials, liqueurs, tea, sweet pastilles, facial toners, let alone what she could bake with it as a flavouring. Her hands almost itched to start gathering the flowers.
Her life had not been her own for the last couple of years. Two years – was that all it was? Two years since Feyre went beyond the Wall to pursue her male. A little over a year since the war had ended. It didn't feel that way to her. Time…had ceased to have any meaning. Her days felt interminable. She struggled to endure them.
She had done nothing, in the last two years, that helped her feel like herself.
Ever since their family had had its reversal of fortune and they had left the cottage…the place that gave Nesta purpose, the security of a defined role – even one she had designed for herself – she had been struggling.
Feyre despised the cottage, as she despised Nesta. It was never good enough for her: nor was Nesta, no matter what she did. Elain would always take more when it was offered, thoughtless to anything but her own comfort and ease.
Nesta had loved the cottage for the independence it had offered her. The hard work and the little, everyday victories of tasks completed to a standard she set for herself. She had made the cottage her home in a way no mansion had ever been, not even their family home before their misfortunes. The cottage was hers. It was home. There, she had set clear boundaries and expected everyone to respect them. The cottage had taught her to be accountable to herself, if no-one else. If she did not do the work she had committed to, no-one would. And no-one had. Father, bedridden, unable to move without excruciating pain: Elain, self-absorbed and focused only on her plants and her embroidery: and Feyre, spending days out in the woods convincing herself every nasty thought she had about her family was irrefutable truth.
Nesta's heart panged, anger simmering in her veins, but she listened to the birdsong echoing around the woods and inhaled the perfume of lily-of-the-valley and wild roses and examined the silver gleam of entire shrubs covered in silvery threads where thousands of caterpillars had spun their chrysalises, and released her hold on her anger. It felt wrong to keep hold of her rage here, surrounded by such tranquil beauty.
She wasn't there anymore. Wasn't anywhere near her ungrateful, self-absorbed sisters. She was done with them, as she should have been years ago – she should have married, and left Elain to the work. To free herself and force Elain into some sort of responsibility, of thinking about others. There were many things Nesta should have done but didn't. She hadn't married and left her sisters to realise just what she had done for them, the work that went unnoticed. She should have insisted Elain take on her share of the chores, or that Feyre be educated. Perhaps she should have allowed Father access to the money Mama had left her, to invest it and rebuild…but she hadn't. She hadn't trusted that Father could handle the money responsibly, hadn't dared allow him to take risks with all that they had left. She hadn't trusted that the work would be done if she left it to Elain, hadn't trusted that Feyre wouldn't burn the bread out of spite for forcing her to stay indoors on a fine day.
Nesta had taken all of the responsibilities of taking care of the family herself, not trusting her family to do anything to help themselves, let alone her.
She tasted copper on her tongue, the scent of freshwater that had recently taken a sour turn, and looked away from the foxgloves swaying in the breeze, realising that she was scowling. A soft, petrified bleating made her pointed ears twitch and Nesta turned, following the bubbling brook further, until she reached the edge of a large pond. Her mouth went dry and she tensed, stepping back instinctively at the expanse of open water. How deep was it? She sniffed the air delicately, following the tang of fresh blood, and found a young doe curled up on a bed of moss, scarlet splashed all around her. Her eyes were wide with panic, her body shuddering with sharp, shallow breaths. Something had gouged along her side: Nesta swallowed the nausea that threatened her as she gazed at the wound, deep enough to see the gleam of the deer's exposed ribs.
Her ear twitched again. Dread filled her as she turned to the water.
Tiny ripples grew from the heart of the still water, as if something beneath was churning, waking. Nesta jumped, the air knocked from her lungs a second time as her back collided with the trunk of a tree, dodging the vicious talon at the end of a long, bony paw as it slashed out of the water and through the air. A roar shattered the calm of the woods as a tremendous body burst out of the water, twelve foot tall with at least seven more of those horrendous taloned limbs thick as tree-trunks, its mottled black skin glistening, a single great eye with a vertical pupil protruding from a nauseatingly humanoid head stuck awkwardly on its torso, bloody jaws open and revealing needle-like fangs. Nesta gaped as the beast roared, and the Fae slashing at it with a long sword answered with a bellow, severing its limbs, slashing and stabbing, dodging the talons and those vicious, glinting needle-like fangs. It was a horrific dance, talons and sword flashing in the sunlight, circling each other in the churning water, and the Fae grunted almost as if in annoyance as a talon struck its mark, tearing across his chest. With a bellow that made Nesta clap her hands over her sensitive ears, he struck, stabbing his greatsword through the monster's gaping mouth as it screamed.
The monster's shuddering body collapsed.
With a grunt, the Fae removed his blade. The monster's carcass buckled but the Fae, stabbing the point of his sword into the shallow water so that it stood upright, gleaming, grabbed hold of two of those thick, talon-tipped limbs and started to drag the corpse out of the water. Nesta stared as the Fae dumped the carcass a few feet from the edge of the water, then returned to the pond, fishing for the severed limbs he had hacked off moments earlier. These, he threw onto the pile as well.
Drenched and panting, he wiped the water dripping from his chin and pushed his shoulder-length blonde hair back from his face, already drying in the heat of the day, the tips of his elegantly pointed ears peeking through the tousled locks. His hair glimmered gold like wheat in the sunshine, dripping onto broad, flat shoulders that could wreck doorframes.
She remembered those shoulders, that blonde hair. She remembered the eyes more vivid a green than any emerald. And she remembered the plain clothes he favoured over finery: a linen shirt and leather breeches that rose to his natural waistline, buttoned up, strong knee-high boots.
She remembered his rage, appearing at Lord Thesan's palace at the last moment. He had simmered with power then, barely leashed.
Now, despite being fresh from the fight, he seemed calm. She scented the air delicately, a new instinct she was not quite comfortable with yet, had no understanding how she knew how to read the scents that told her Tamlin was calm, and content now that he had killed the monster. A whisper of his surprise reached her and Nesta raised her eyes to his.
He stared at her, frowning slightly.
She remembered the last time an Archeron had come to these lands. Shame filled her. What had Feyre done to this land, to this man – male? War had threatened and she had destabilised the Spring Court out of spite.
Nesta knew her sister was uneducated. But to believe that destabilising one of their potential allies' lands would do anything but endanger their ability to defend their home was ludicrous. And it reaffirmed Nesta's belief that Feyre hadn't destabilised Spring for any political reasons: she did it because she wanted to. And Rhysand and the others had excused her destruction as political retaliation, taking away all accountability from Feyre, because Tamlin and his people deserved whatever they got…
Feyre had convinced herself – tried to convince others – that she had simply shown the world Tamlin's true nature.
Nesta disagreed: Feyre had shown the world who she truly was.
Vicious and vindictive, taking pleasure in punishing others, thoughtless to the consequences others had to suffer, excusing herself of any blame by turning it on her victims. Just as Rhysand and his favourites did: Nesta knew this from personal experience.
So did Tamlin.
He frowned at her, reaching for his sword, and splashed his way out of the water. Nesta raised her chin delicately, straight-backed, as Tamlin strode toward her.
He knelt beside the wounded doe bleating pitifully as she bled out. He raised a hand and tenderly stroked her neck. In a swift, efficient motion, he killed the doe, putting an end to her pain.
Sheathing his sword in a scabbard she hadn't noticed on the edge of the pond, Tamlin grasped the doe by its ankles and slung it over his shoulders, carrying the weight easily. Striding off into the woods, Nesta heard him say gently, "You may join me, if you're hungry."
A.N.: A lot happened, I know. And I hope I've managed to do what I set out to do, which is show both Feyre's and Nesta's perspectives, and hints of the truth of what the situation actually is. Also, I know it's awful to have written it in, but having Feyre miscarry will actually give her time to reflect on everything that happened with Nesta, and what Rhysand did, and give it her full attention rather than brushing over it and instantly forgiving (or rather, not even acknowledging or blaming) Rhysand for his actions because they've got a baby coming.
I'm going to do my very best to not make this a bashing of any particular character, but as the characters are all in such awful places (and they're all pretty awful people, with the exception being my luscious Lucien) there will be nastiness in characters' internal monologues about each other. Because they've all been hurt. And, hell, if we stay true to canon, Rhysand is a petty and vindictive bully who enjoys piling on when he finds people at their lowest.
I would appreciate comments but anything nasty will be deleted. I've posted this story because I enjoy writing it and want to explore these characters: I will not entertain Feysand stans hurling abuse.