Chapter 2: Contusion
AKA Nesta in an Illyrian War Camp. It's practically five thousand words and took me forever to write, I almost gave up but here it is!
Also I read this like six times trying to remove all the typos, but I really didn't feel like going through it again, so ah well. (Shrugs)
"Cut it."
She lifted her hair from behind her and leaned back on the chair. Cassian, with his every present trepidation, simply shook his head.
"Nesta."
Shrugging in resignation, Nesta openly looked at her reflection staring back at her, "Cut it. It's of no use to me now,"
When Cassian's hands fumbled with the knife, unsure of her words, Nesta grabbed it from his hands. She would not miss her long hair, the hours washing and grooming it. Making it pretty, for people she could care less about. It was a decoration of the person who yearned for affection, the person who wanted to please. She'd never be her again.
She grasped the hilt with one hand and her golden hair with the other, seeing each thread as it flared at the tips. The blade, a piercing edge of metal, sharp enough to desecrate bodies. It cut right through.
She gazed at herself in the mirror before her. Stared at her, now, shoulder length hair.
She didn't recognize her reflection. Not for the long ears that she hid behind a wall of hair, not for the lengthened frame of her face, or the sharp edges of cheekbones. Her eyes were a dark cave of mystery, a deep abyss of nothingness. She looked at herself, stared at herself, and she couldn't contemplate how one person could be so different from another, how she could forget one as if she never knew her, and stare at another like she had yet to find out.
"Here." Cassian handing her a leather tie, like the ones he used himself. His presence a warm caress to her bitter cold.
Even as he had stood by her, and never let her feel alone, she still wondered what his intentions were. She felt guilty every time.
She wanted to know why these people stood by her, even when she hated their very existence, why they put up with her brokenness, even if it would cost them more than she would ever be willing to pay on their behalf. Perhaps, she was never meant to find out. A truth seeker never would know the whole truth, and maybe that was the irony of it all.
She was born, but did not know why. Suffered, but did not know what for. Died and was born again. An answer she would never know, and would likely die yearning to understand.
She stared off into the distance, the mirror still ahead of her, but her head far, far away. She heard the screech of a stool moving, before she felt his presence at her backside. She did not flinch; He did not cause the pain her thoughts did.
He brushed her hair, and she leaned back closing her eyes. Comforted by the dance of his fingers along her scalp. His gentle hands cradled her head like she was a gift, someone precious and worthy.
She pushed those ridiculous thoughts to the back of her mind. She was precious to no one, least of all him. But some part of her thought she was the ridiculous one in this mess they created.
She opened her eyes, seeing that blasted mirror for the last time. A deep well inside of her dark, decrepit soul was overflowing, pushing past the brim of her consciousness. She could still feel the sharp edge of the knife in her hands, pricking her soft palm. Cassian's gentle fingers did nothing to soothe the ache in her soul, did nothing to close the gaping hole that made a home in her chest. Her heart wept, she'd never be whole again.
A sob pierced the room before the knife hit the mirror. Tears streaming, an echo of the person she'd become. Broken, like the pieces on the ground.
Cassian had shielded her from the blow. Cocooned her in his wings, those blasted wings. He never did stop using them to save, to help. She didn't deserve his help, didn't want, didn't ask for it. And yet, some part of her body sang at the proximity, was pleased with the warmth of wings and the feel of his heartbeat. A steady rhythm she could hold on to.
Cassian made no sound, made no movement to pick her up and set her on her feet. He had only held tighter and stroked her head, while she struggled to catch her breath. He had witnessed her greatest fear. She was not as strong as she wanted to be. Not even close. The tears didn't stop falling from her hopeless, blue eyes. She wanted to blind him for seeing her like this, though she craved his warmth. An endless dance going on in her head that had yet to silence itself, that exhausted her to the point of deprivation.
Even so, his presence calmed her restless spirit, reminded her that she was far from alone. She'd never be alone again. When her tumultuous waves had stilled, he spoke softly,
"Rhys wants me to take you to the Illyrian war camp, thinks it'll be good for you."
She looked up at him, stared into his hazel eyes. She could see the concern crinkled in his brow.
"You want me to go?" She answered at last.
"I want to take you. I'm certainly not leaving you there to fend for yourself."
Her eyes grew stormy and the spark inside her came alive once more.
"I don't need your help," she sneered.
Moving away from his comfort was the hardest task she'd ever been faced with. She didn't meet his gaze.
The pull held on to her, telling her she wanted this, she wanted to be held. She would not think about the way Cassian's eyes looked hurt by the dismissal.
"I don't think you need anyone, sweetheart. But for your own good, and the good of the people who have to live with you, I'd suggest taking him up on his offer."
With her back turned, Nesta rolled her eyes. This she could manage.
She inclined her head to meet his. She only saw honesty painted on his face, a relief. Many moments passed before she sounded her answer, and when she did her heart felt a little less heavy, a little less burdened.
Cassian's nod of approval had nothing to do with it, she told herself.
Maybe, she wasn't strong like Feyre, maybe she lacked the courage and the will. But she could be. She had the fire, she could learn the fight. Perhaps, she didn't recognize herself now, but she could create someone who could, who would be strong and brave and courageous.
She was willing to try, if only to stop the weight of the world from crushing her to dust.
The Illyrian war camp was exactly as she'd pictured it and nothing alike. She expected the brutality, the bitter cold, the strict rules. She did not expect the calm. There was something serene about not having to hide her ever present rage, and not having to conceal the torment housed inside her body.
Cassian said she'd train here, with him. He told her about growing in this place, rising from the ashes to become commander of Rhys's armies. Although she sensed he skipped around the beginnings of his past, for her benefit or his she didn't know, he'd sounded happy about the outcome. Happy to have a family who loved him. A spark of resentment filled her that she quickly swallowed and digested.
When they had landed, Illyrian soldiers were waiting for them as if they expected them to be there. Not her, she realized, Cassian. They were armed and in formation. She didn't miss the fact that no women were before them.
A man, their leader, was in the center of them all. He didn't look too joyous at the company.
"Back again, so soon, I see," the man spoke.
"Lord Devlon. I see the girls are still not training."
"Chores," he glanced at her," You should know all about those,"
Cassian's fists curled, an anger radiating off him.
"Rhys's orders, deal with it, or I'll do it for you."
Nesta just observed. Took in the terrain in front of her, the way they held themselves. The attitudes, the looks. Felt the bitter cold from the air and the people. Lord Devlon sneered. A raging inferno sharpened at the gesture. She'd take great pleasure in getting to know what made these Illyrians tick.
"Get them out in the ring. Now!" Cassian bellowed.
"Or would you like to see what happens when people disobey my orders."
Lord Devlon looked at him, not impressed in the slightest. He gazed at her again, waiting. Nothing came and the intellectual part of warned her not to play a game she didn't know how to win. Not until she learned.
The man's head lilted downwards, clearly mocking Cassian. Nesta tried to settle the annoyance she felt crawling up her spine.
She followed Cassian as he walked off. A trail of fire in his wake.
They had trained all afternoon, Cassian clearly perturbed. She asked him no questions, simply followed his lead and began.
As much as she'd hated to admit it, she'd liked fighting with Cassian. There was something deeply satisfying about hitting someone who would hit her back, someone who would not take it easy on her no matter how many times she'd punch.
Her power was great, her fire inextinguishable, and when the day ended she found herself missing the sun. Cassian told her they needed to rest. She didn't want to rest, she wanted to burn the energy coursing through her body, to, somehow, quench the fire slowly consuming her.
Cassian sensed the argument rising in her chest.
"You won't be able to fight later, your senses will be dull, and your punches will be weak at best. Rest."
Nesta nodded. Logic winning in the end. Cassian led them to the house that used to be Rhys's mom's. They parted ways, not uttering a single goodnight. Just precarious glances, goading the other to say something, anything. She wasn't about to take a bite of the elephant.
Silence followed and they had both left to their respective alcoves.
She set her knife on the bedside table, the same one that she used to maim her first fae, polished and pretty. He wouldn't be her last. She had burned everything of that night, but she couldn't get rid of the knife. The sharp edge of the blade brought her comfort only a weapon could bring. The knowledge that she could and would protect her sisters, and herself.
Laying on the bed brought her no comfort. Her thoughts maddening her to the point of exhaustion. Even so, her body craved to get moving. Yelling at her to get up or she'd wouldn't ever be strong enough. That she couldn't do nothing, while her sisters were defending themselves.
When finally, she couldn't take the screams blasting inside her head, she gave up. She wouldn't sleep, she couldn't. There was no trying. She grabbed the knife on her way out.
She captured the landscape and the night sky. She felt the cool touch of winter along her feverish body. She almost felt relieved to be out of the utterly silent room and its confining walls, reminding her all too well that she was just a prisoner trapped in another cage.
It was the hum of the night that made her suddenly wary, that made her notice she wasn't the only one on the brink of falling in an endless chasm.
It was her fae hearing that made her aware of the grunts and the shrill cries. Her heart began to beat like the wings of a bird, and her stomach lurched like it had that day. She could not forget the sounds, the feel of that moment. Like the universe had watched and done nothing.
Her feet dragged her to the commotion before her mind could catch up; her body practically wailing not to go in that direction, not to go back to the memories. Her heart had made up its mind, she would not watch and sit pleasantly, while another was harmed. Not when she could fight. And she would fight.
She gripped the knife in her sweaty palms.
She saw the membranes, the large stature of the Illyrian. She could not see the woman, but she knew. By the sounds of her cries, she knew.
The fire in her roared back to life, her eyes stinging from the sheer intensity. He was going to burn and a delicious triumph filled her at the task.
She moved like the night and placed the knife on his throat. She did not wait for his approval or applause. Her arm moved swiftly and the blade glided along his skin like a lover's caress. She managed to lug the bastard sideways before he toppled the girl. A part of her yearned for the sweet torment; she wished she had more time to play with him.
She was no more than 16. The picture of Feyre flashed through her mind and her breathing became rapid. Her eyes taking in all of her, scanning where he had touched. Hoping, yearning that she had gotten to her soon enough.
Her eyes were red rimmed, her nightgown tucked all around her. Her knees clasped firmly to her body. She looked up at Nesta, and she saw gratitude and an ice she knew well. A deep breath steadied her uneasy heart. Her blasted fae body had not failed her.
"I'm going to help you stand up, okay?"
The girl nodded, cheeks wet and eyes dazed. Nesta could see the cuts and bends of her wings, her heart clenched, her mind suddenly far away. They were damaged but not unfixable.
The girl led her to a small hut on the outskirts of the camp. Farther than most houses. Nesta's head spun. She suddenly hated this camp. Hated its bitter cold, it's mountains, its people, its treatment of women. Her fire swelled, she wanted it to burn. To all burn down.
"Thank you." The girl said, looking down, momentarily distracting Nesta from her rage.
She couldn't leave this girl, here, alone. Couldn't allow herself to leave her fend for herself. Never again.The knife was still dripping with blood, but Nesta placed it in the girl's hands.
"Use it and don't hesitate. You can and will protect yourself."
The young girl looked up at Nesta, and for the first time, she could see the pale green eyes and the innocence contained within them. She hoped it would never dull. The girl nodded her head and receded inside.
Nesta felt pained to leave, seeing Feyre's face over and over again. She stayed guarding the door until the crack of dawn approached. She would not leave sooner; she wouldn't have slept anyways. The sounds haunted the echoes of her sanity, sounds that reminded her too much of her own.
An uproar stormed the camp when they found the body. Blood pooled on the ground. She was unapologetic. He was one of their strongest warriors; but he used his strength for more than his advantage. As far as she was concerned, he deserved what he received.
She hadn't told Cassian what had happened, but some part of her knew that he would have done the same. Even promised on her behalf.
When he had seen the body, he glanced at her. She doubted she could tell the smallest lie, without him knowing. Nesta thought she saw admiration in his gaze. The cut was clean, straight through the jugular. The work of someone who valued precision.
She had sent solvent and bandages to the girl. Her wings and body needed to heal. She wouldn't be able to do anything for a while. Her mind needed to, as well. She hoped she found the strength to carry on and fight. But she knew the fire that roared in her, did not ignite in everyone.
She had tried to train with Cassian, hoping he wouldn't ask questions. She fixed him with a fiery gaze when he seemed like he wanted to, he quickly backed off.
"You can talk to me if you want." His eyes clearly hoping she'd tell him.
"I'm really not in the talkative mood." She punched and he parried. He was quiet, too quiet. She waited for the inevitable and she wasn't the least bit surprised when the silence ended.
"Why'd you, do it?" Nesta rolled her eyes.
"What happened to 'talking about it' being an option." Cassian's lips twitched.
"It was until you refused to tell me. Now it's more like a strong suggestion."
His eyes twinkled, and irritation itched up her spine. She looked up at him, steel solidifying itself in her stance, sweat dripping from her brow.
"I will never be weak again."
Nesta turned to move away, wanting to be anywhere far from him, his infuriating care, and his know-it-all attitude. Cassian sighed.
"I don't know why you keep saying that. I'm convinced you have never been weak in your entire life."
Eyebrows furrowing, Nesta pondered on the thought.
"No one with an attitude like yours can be weak and submissive," His voice exasperated.
She tried not to feel touched at the words. She wanted to be strong, needed to be strong. She tried to convince herself it was for Elain and Feyre, and it was, but it was for her too. To keep her from remembering, to keep her sane when the world was falling around her and crumbling beneath her feet.
"He tried to rape her."
Cassian stilled at the sound. Turning towards him, she saw his hands clenching. A vein in his neck protruded. His silence lethal.
"That prick…"
"He's dead, there's no use in being angry now." She said monotonously.
Cassian's chest rose sharply. She could see pure, unadulterated rage still swirling in the hazel of his eyes. She knew her death was a mercy compared to whatever Cassian would have planned. And he would have planned it, he was detailed like that.
"Next time something like this happens, tell me." He pleaded.
"I can handle it." Nesta spoke, fists clenching at her side like a petulant child.
Cassian stared at her, a renewed spark in his gaze and something else, something much more rash and dangerous. His voice low and gradual.
"I know you can, sweetheart. But the next time someone wants to hurt anyone like that, they won't be getting a swift cut to the throat."
Etched in a seriousness Nesta had rarely seen on his sculpted face, Cassian, the commander, stood before her. She gave him a small smile, one that was everything fatal and death-defying.
She was going to get new bandages when she saw her again. Her wings still covered and healing. Although the bruises were fading, they were clearly visible.
She should not be working, was the first thought that came to Nesta. The mother hen in her wanted this girl to march straight back to her home and not step back out until she didn't look like she could collapse at any moment.
She kept her head down, washing dishes. She did not look up. Nesta suddenly felt sorry that she hadn't learned the girls name, but that feeling was quickly overcome by the sheer vexation that started to make a path throughout her body.
"What are you doing?" The girl's head sharply turned to view her at the doorway. When recognition filled her gaze, she suddenly developed a liking for looking everywhere but at her. She tilted her head down, and her eyes found Nesta's. The pain was still painted in the color of her irises.
"They told me I had to continue," she softly spoke," with my chores."
Nesta's spine stiffened and her whole body stilled at the proclamation.
"Go home." Nesta sounded, opening the door wide and holding her hand out to the outside, "I'll take care of it from here."
Swaying her head side to side was the only effect she had on the girl. She lowered her eyes once more, and Nesta swore she wanted to yank her head up and hold it there. Like an itch she couldn't scratch, this habit of hers infuriated Nesta. A motion of weakness and submissive conduct. A person who didn't know the strength she held in her own bare hands.
"I do not wish to anger them." The young girl finally spoke. A defiant smirk made its way onto Nesta's face. Oh, but she did.
"Go, and do not make me tell you again."
She rushed out before Nesta could hold the door open once more.
She met Lord Devlon in the center of the camp, surrounded by his many puppets. She tried not to let the disgust show on her face at the sight of him. A man who wouldn't let a young girl heal was not a man at all. Or a good person for that matter. She could feel the ire twists its way around her lungs, but it did nothing to suffocate her flames. Her fire needed very little to roar like the monster it was.
"Why in the world would you make a person who is suffering from bruises and wounds do your dirty work?" She questioned, trapping her annoyance in a jar she tightly held the lid to. Lord Devlon's bored and nonchalant gaze stared back at her.
"If she can't do a simple task, even while her wings are damaged, how will she ever be ready for battle? It's a minor cut, maybe the pain will make her work harder." His voice condescending and crass.
The memories flashed inside her mind, a series of images she had yet to forget. Couldn't even if she tried. The girl's bent wings, her innocent face, her trembling limbs. The cries that ceased to stop pounding Nesta's skull. Her enmity trapped in a jar that was all but ready to combust from the pressure.
Nesta couldn't control the speed in which she grabbed his neck, nails digging into flesh. His eyes widened, his guards too slow for her wild fire. Her grip tightened. She wanted him to feel her pain, feel the girl's pain; for all the women who still lacked freedom and who would never be able to grasp the stars.
"Hmm," she whispered, "I wonder how you'll rule when I snap your neck."
She looked at the wings behind him, knew the value of such precious objects. Treasures taken away from those who were only obedient and compliant to their every whim and desire. The voice inside of her screamed to be let out of the prison she was trapped in. Her free hand grazed the delicate, skin. He shuddered, pupils dilating. She could see the hatred pouring out of him.
"Or maybe, I'll let you live." Her stare scalding his skin; her grip tightening further. "You know I've always wanted to see what the appeal of these pretty wings are. Maybe I'll just take them from you."
His body stilled. The guards did nothing, waiting for a signal that would be too late if she intended to kill him. She leaned in closer to his ear. For his ears, and his alone.
"If you don't protect these girls, I will."
She lifted her hand off his neck and turned away, reigning in the fire that left her gasping for air. The guards were too stunned to move. When they had at lasted gained their footing, they reached for their swords. Lord Devlon had only raised his hand and they silenced their movements.
She walked out, feeling equally light and dizzy. Power coursed through her veins, she could feel it's movements, enraptured in its bewildering song. She swaying her hips to the beat of the pride she just took from his soul. When she reached the end of the walkway, she merely turned her head to once again glance at the behooved faces watching her. Her lips tilted up, as deadly as a viper.
"I almost forgot," she said loud and clear, "the girls will start training with me from now on."
They stared at her for a long while, not quite contemplating her statement.
"Go get them." Nesta sneered.
Lord Devlon nodded hurriedly, and the guards tripped over themselves to get to the door. They passed her on the way out, their heads practically falling off from how hard they were nodding.
"We're, we're going to go them, right now."
Nesta didn't so much as blink before she turned and walked out. Shoulders back and head held high, a task that was getting easier to do every time. She did not look back, but she knew they were watching. She was a threat, as dangerous and lethal as any enemy they had made before this. She smiled at the thought.
Huddled together on the outskirts of the camp, where no prying, judgmental, or doubtful eyes could make these women second themselves, Nesta had called a meeting. She had wondered where all the women were kept, when the men were trained and valued. She felt a shame for her sex, to be only known as child-bearers or lovers or chore-doers. For not being given a choice of being any of those things. Never again.
"I am not going to proclaim myself your leader. I'm not in charge of you, I don't make your decisions. I understand you have not had many choices in your lifetimes, so I'll give you one right now. I can train you to protect yourselves, to protect each other, but only if you want it."
For a while no one spoke, many didn't even look up at Nesta's face. The girl with the bandaged wings only glanced to acknowledge her.
"No one is going to fight on your behalf. The won't protect your wings or your freedom." Her throat clenched, her body shaking from the adrenaline at the mere mention of entrapment.
"They're can't protect you, when they want to strip you of your only chances of survival, when they want to keep you polished and pretty like the prizes they take from conquered lands."
Several women stared at the glistening floor, cleaned by their more than strong and capable hands. Hands that could yield weapons and make enemies flee with terror.
"They're not going to let us train." A brave voice spoke out. A young woman with the stance of a warrior. Potential, potential. These women could be weapons of war, instead of spoils of one.
"As soon as you leave, they're going to stop letting us train, and we'll be back where we started."
Nesta's eyes trailed the room, looking at each of these unknowingly powerful people. She had already thought of that solution before she walked into the room.
"I don't think you understand that you hold a great power in being women, though I'm sure they'll tell you differently." One by one, they began to face her. Eye to eye. "Who will have their children, who will give them love and fuel their egos, who will offer them sex? No one," She enunciated," if they disrespect you, your bodies, and your wings."
She could see the light entering their eyes, their stances becoming strong and straight. Creatures of midnight and fury.
"And let's say that they try. I'll teach you to fight so well, they'll tremble at the very sight of you." Nesta smiled wickedly.
"All of you are capable of being strong, of fighting back. Training or no training. Wings or no wings. Give them what they gave you." Nesta toured the room, meeting each of them head on. "But here's your first lesson, and maybe the last if you choose not to train. One, you are sisters whether you fight together or not, you must protect each other. You are only as strong as the weakest one of you, but together, you are an unstoppable force. A tempest that cannot be controlled."
Nesta shook her head at the pure wonder before her. At the hope and pride she found her in voice; at the strength, she felt in the very core of her being. For the first time in her blasted fae body, she recognized herself, recognized her broken pieces that molded together to become able and resilient.
"Who will fight with me?"
The smile that appeared on her face, and the light that seeped into her eyes could not be contained at the movement before her. Starting now, the skies were limitless and she'd be damned if she never touched the heavens.
Hope you liked it (crossing my fingers) tell me what you think!