A.N.: I realised I needed to get Nesta over a particular hurdle and get her to remind herself just who she is. Also, I thought it was important to actually flesh out Mr Archeron's character because he's been done a huge disservice just so that SJM can make Feyre a professional victim.

Someone on Reddit (I know…) replied to one of my comments about wishing SJM would just reveal that Rhysand's a master manipulator and Tamlin's been the hero all along, and they were all "How can he possibly be the hero when he's an abuser" and I just thought… Wow, the lack of critical thinking skills in this fandom is insane. This person was also going on about explaining abuse doesn't excuse it while ignoring the fact that SJM and the majority of the fandom blatantly excuses all of Rhysand's many abuses of Feyre because he justified them as being for the greater good or "for Feyre's own good".

How can Tamlin be the hero at this point in canon, I asked myself: Rhysand's been mind-controlling Feyre since they met on Calanmai. He knew she was the only chance any of them had of breaking free from Amarantha; and that oh-so-problematic moment where Tamlin gets handsy with Feyre happens right after she met Rhysand… COINCIDENCE? I think not. It makes me question everything. Feyre seeing Tamlin sitting silent and unmoved on the dais next to Amarantha every night, when a glimpse of him is the only thing that gives her hope to endure? Tamlin groping her UTM – in stark contrast to how he behaves during the third trial, calm and resolved and ready to kill? – and Rhysand saving her, covering his hands in paint to distract Amarantha? My, these coincidences just keep popping up, there must be something in the water. I did create a Resddit post/rant about this if anyone cared to discuss in detail!

A House of Flame and Flower

17

The Nameless Warrior

"You summoned me."

Nesta bristled at the tone and narrowed her eyes. "You took your time getting here," she retorted, dusting off her hands. She draped a muslin over the bowl of dough she had just kneaded.

"I hope you weren't too inconvenienced," Jurian sniffed, his tone suggesting he hoped she took the insult that was his delayed arrival for what it was; an attempt to put her in her place.

"Oh, I expected you'd make a show of it," Nesta said offhandedly. "Now that you're here – I have tasks for you to complete."

"Am I your house-slave?"

"Slaves aren't paid," Nesta retorted. Jurian glowered. "You are. So far you've been paid to sit on your backside. It appears you're in dire need of active direction." Jurian's eyes narrowed. "Would you care for tea or something a little stronger?"

"I don't care what I drink," Jurian muttered, frowning at her. She gazed back steadily. "Tea, then."

"Strong and bitter?" Nesta asked tartly. Jurian's eyes glinted. "How was the journey?"

"Fair," Jurian said quietly. "It was interesting to see the climate change the further north I rode, how Spring's influence is spreading past the scar of the Wall."

Nesta looked up from the teapot, bewildered. "The scar of the Wall?"

"You've not seen it?" Jurian frowned. At her expression, he sighed, shaking his head. "An eyesore. It sets my teeth on edge; I can feel it. I wonder what you'd make of it."

"Why me?" Nesta asked.

"Because you and I, Nesta Archeron, are unique in the world – we alone entered the Cauldron and were remade anew," Jurian said, his voice dark. Nesta flinched and he noticed. His dark eyes roved over her, assessing and shrewd. She thought they softened, even if only for a heartbeat. His voice, though sharp as a blade, was softer and lower than usual when he said, "Only you and I can ever appreciate what it means to be Made by the Cauldron…and the Wall was Made just as we were."

"Just as it was unmade," Nesta remarked quietly, something prickling in the back of her mind that made her blood run cold. The Cauldron… Feyre had coaxed that winged prince to steal the Cauldron away to his hidden island home – to keep it safe from all those who would murder each other to possess it, so the Night Court had claimed.

If Rhysand demanded it, was Prince Drakon's loyalty to Rhysand so strong that he would hand over the Cauldron – hand over possibly the only thing in existence that had the power to unmake her? Her heartbeat thundered and her lungs suddenly could not get enough air, dizzy at the thought of the lengths Rhysand would go to…

"What is it like?" Nesta wheezed. She needed a distraction. "The scar?"

"I say a scar…it feels more like a gaping wound – the land was gouged open and the Wall was clumsy suturing," Jurian muttered, frowning at her.

"The Wall created the wound," Nesta said.

"Have you ever used maggots to treat an infected wound?" Jurian asked casually as she poured hot water over the tea-leaves. "The Wall was intended for the same use. To tend the infection and give precious time until it could be properly treated."

"It delayed the inevitable," Nesta said quietly. "It allowed the humans to forget and the Fae to fester. It provided an excuse to ignore the root of the problem."

Just as how Rhysand and his ilk made a ruse of hiding away the victims of horrific abuse in their court rather than addressing the root of the issue; the pervasive misogyny of their culture.

"How to live side by side," Jurian said. Nesta glanced sharply at him when he said, "As humans and faeries do in Cretea, allegedly."

"Why do you mention Cretea?" Had she not only moments ago been thinking of the same thing? She narrowed her eyes on Jurian. He appeared human…

"I'm very curious to know how they created such balance," Jurian said, shrugging. He sighed, "Unfortunately I don't foresee an invitation."

"Why should you wait for one?" Nesta asked. "You're free to roam this world as anyone else is. More so than many."

"More so than many," Jurian agreed. He shrugged.

"Is your past with Drakon and Miryam what prevents you from going?" Nesta asked. Jurian scoffed.

"They can obsess over each other 'til the end of time," he sneered. "I've other concerns on my mind."

"I think that's what lost you Miryam in the first place," Nesta said glibly.

Jurian snorted. "Miryam… She was a skilled healer and decent in bed, I'll admit that. She was desperate to be loved. The only thing I have ever loved is my freedom… Fascinating how time warps facts. Even those who lived that history believe the stories. I suppose their memories have become warped by the ages… Amarantha knew my only great love was my freedom; it was her greatest revenge to trap my sentience for eternity, forced to watch every depravity and unable to do anything about it. Speaking of, where is Lord Tamlin?"

Nesta stared at Jurian, frowning. "Not here."

"Pity. I'd grown rather fond of him Under the Mountain," Jurian murmured, his eyes faraway. Nesta stared at him. Jurian flashed a grin suddenly. "She never broke him. No matter what she did, he triumphed. He is the kind of male born once in a generation… I was glad of the opportunity to work with him during the skirmish."

"Skirmish?" Nesta raised her eyebrows.

"The Fae must truly have been aching for conflict if they called a handful of brief tussles a war," Jurian snickered. He sobered up, frowning, "Or they truly lack any experience and believe that is what war is?"

"A combination of both, most likely," Nesta said. "Weren't all the old ones killed during the War?"

"As many as we could get to," Jurian said, his eyes gleaming cruelly. Nesta stared at him. He had spent centuries at Amarantha's side; she went cold thinking what he might have witnessed. Despite the burning desire to know what nightmares Tamlin literally clawed his way free from, Nesta knew it would be an utter violation to ask Jurian, who had witnessed it all. Jurian sighed to himself, "Hybern's Skirmish… It was a thwarted invasion at best and a woeful humiliation at worst. All thanks to the High Lord of Spring. He has a good head on his shoulders – strong instincts, fierce compassion and utterly ruthless. Brilliant strategist."

"I never thought to hear such warm sentiments from you for one of the Fae," Nesta said.

"Without Fae like Lord Tamlin, you would've been born in chains, girl," Jurian said. It occurred to her that Jurian, despite his appearance of youth, had a sentience over five centuries old, had survived the majority of the worst war in the world's modern history – had not only survived battle after battle but led armies and united people. "There were many Fae like him who allied with us during the War – and yet far too few."

Curious, Nesta asked, "Do you despise all Fae?"

"I despise slavery," Jurian answered. "Any who practise it are my enemy; those who abhor it will be my fiercest allies."

"Do you worry?" Nesta asked. Jurian frowned. "You fought to end slavery. Five centuries later, we're teetering on the edge of…something."

"I do worry," Jurian admitted. "I see that humankind has evolved dramatically in the last five centuries but from what I have witnessed, humans have never been more vulnerable to the Fae than they are now."

"Even before the Slaves' War?"

"We appreciated the true extent of the malice of the Fae," Jurian said grimly. "But as a race they have forgotten what to fear."

Nesta frowned. "All those nights spent drinking and doing who knows what else in that manor-house, have you never asked Vassa why she is a queen in name only? How she lost her crown and her country? Why her family was forced to abdicate all rights to the throne and live in exile?"

"She has mentioned a war," Jurian said, "though she remains cagey about sharing details."

"You think well of her; she's desperate to have that continue," Nesta sniffed. "Her father attempted to conquer the entirety of the world and subjugate it – he convinced his armies they were liberating people but he murdered anyone who stood against him. His armies swept across the human realms, plundering, slaughtering and enslaving as they went. He had 'undesirables' rounded up and confined in camps, executing them by the millions, experimenting upon them, raping and torturing, committing every atrocity imaginable. We may not remember being enslaved to the Fae, Jurian, but humankind is well-versed in every kind of cruelty that can be inflicted upon each other." Nesta sighed, softening. "And you will find that there is not a human being in the world who will not fight viciously for freedom. It is the foundation of all that we have built. It is why Vassa's father was defeated; the entirety of the world joined forces to defeat him. Everything was set aside – history, politics, ambition – to ensure our human rights remained sacred."

Jurian frowned at her. "I…did not know."

"As I said, Vassa's found a rare thing with you and Lucien – ignorance. You have no idea who she is – what her father did," Nesta said, her tone gentler than before. "I do sympathise with Vassa – it was not her fault she was born of the most evil man in half a millennium. The guilt must be crippling. I imagine friends are hard to come by. I do sympathise."

"But you'll drag her back to hell to make sure no-one suffers on account of her family ever again," Jurian said, recalling Nesta's threat that day in the architect's manor.

"One day soon she must return to the lake," Nesta said quietly. "She knows it… She must crave your friendship more than anything in the world if she spends her precious freedom with you and Lucien rather than seeking solutions… Or perhaps the guilt of her father's legacy is so great that she feels it is her penance to remain enslaved by Koschei."

"Either may be true," Jurian said, watching her carefully. "Vassa is tempestuous and stubborn but she is also just. One day she may become wise."

"One day she will be gone," Nesta said. "Why haven't you immersed yourself amongst humans? Why hide away in that wretched manor-house?"

Jurian shrugged. "They don't need me."

"No. But you need them," Nesta said, frowning. "You were the one to survive where legions were massacred. The only one to live to see what they could have become. You've seen what their sacrifice laid the foundations for."

"Hundreds of thousands died for a world they would never get to experience. They never imagined such a world was even possible. They were glad to give their lives for it. And I am furious – I want to curse and rage until my heart's done pumping," Jurian seethed, his eyes flashing. "Their deaths were a gift for you – for all humans. People who'll never know what they did or how they died, what they endured to secure your freedom. But you're alive because some nameless slave gave their life for yours."

"You've not seen it," Nesta realised, staring at him. He didn't know. "How can that…?" She stared at him then checked the clock on the mantelpiece. "I have an hour. You and I shall go to Prythian. There is something you must see."

"I thought you'd summoned me here because you were too afraid of going out into Prythian, being pointy-eared and all," Jurian said, his eyes narrowing.

"No-one will violate the place we are going by instigating violence," Nesta said tersely. She offered her hand to Jurian, who frowned at her. His anger had fired something in her blood, made her furious and hurt – not for herself but for him. He didn't know – of course he wouldn't know; he was stuck in that house with a High Fae princeling and a cursed foreigner. What did they know of the Republic?

She had never travelled by firelight with another. Yet she took his hand and flickered away without a second thought, appearing in the cold of a snowy meadow in the heart of a city. A familiar skyline loomed around her but Nesta focused on the building in front of them, dominating the very heart of the meadow. Its crumbling structure looked oddly romantic in the snow, which brought a timeless serenity to the place.

"This was a temple devoted to the worship of the Mother," Jurian muttered, as Nesta led the way slowly into the ruined temple. The roof had long ago collapsed; in the heart of winter, the vines climbing the broken columns were dormant, bare, the ground carpeted with snow. At the foot of the columns, Nesta could see posies of winter roses, of early-blooming narcissi, of forced glasshouse blooms all left by mourners.

"We claimed it," Nesta said simply. She led the way into the heart of the temple, where the snow had been cleared away. More posies had been left, neatly arranged around a central rectangle. Lights flickered warmly at the four corners of a simple marble slab laid into the ground. Not a snowflake had been allowed to obscure the marble, though immediately all around it beds of hellebores bowed their heads sorrowfully. The marble was taller than she was and about five feet across, inscribed with the words The Nameless Warrior and a set of dates – more had been added to it recently, with the Great War and the World War that had followed.

She read solemnly, "Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death."

"What is this?" Jurian breathed, staring at the marble. The gravestone was simple and devastatingly effective, just those few words and a set of dates, black and bold against the pristine white stone.

"This is the grave of the Nameless Warrior," Nesta said gently. "After Prythian was established, this memorial was created by Queen Angharad and her sister-queens Ceridwen and Heledd. Every year, on the same day, all across Prythian – all across the world – we honour our ancestors. We pause and we give thanks. This grave was laid to honour the ones who died nameless and forgotten, an acknowledgement that so many gave everything – even their names. The hellebores have come to symbolise grief and mourning – they always have their heads bowed respectfully."

"Why are there flowers under the columns?" Jurian asked, his jaw slack, grief written into the lines of his face.

"There were wars – two terrible wars. This is a place of pilgrimage for those whose loved ones died, or whose remains were never recovered," Nesta said, flinching.

"They're gone and I am here," Jurian said hoarsely, glaring at the gravestone. "Of all the thousands who deserved – "

"They're not here," Nesta said kindly. "You are. Live to honour them. You owe it to yourself."

She waited, glad to have pulled her coat on as snow started to drift silently around her. Jurian sank to his knees before the gravestone, kneeling amongst the hellebores that joined him in mourning. She gazed at him – the dark hair touched with silver, the drooping shoulders, and her breath caught in her lungs, a deep wound. She heard the crack of bone snapping and panted as she stumbled in the blood-drenched mud as her father's body crumpled to the ground –

Nesta flinched and gasped for breath, eyes fiercely hot and blurry.

She set off at pace, leaving Jurian to his grief, stalking through the snows. Her hands clamped over her ears to stifle the sound of bones breaking, the finality of the dull thud. Around and around the temple she strode, trying to catch her breath, until her muscles, still tender from Galit's workshop, ached and her fingers were raw from the cold. In the growing darkness, the lamplight coaxed her, warm and enduring despite the snow. The last of the lingering light cast the skyline into shadow, the many towers and domes and bridges familiar to her. This was Esmeara, the Garden City, the beating heart of the Republic.

And she stood in the Meadow of Mourning, her fingers tipped with talons ready to tear her own heart out of her chest. Surely that agony could be nothing compared to this?

But she stood in the Meadow of Mourning. She stood in Prythian.

The land had not changed. She had. Why had she feared returning to this place? When had she decided she needed to rely upon Jurian to intercede on her behalf, to cringe away from any contact with humans, her former friends and acquaintances?

Once again, she had succumbed to fear without even noticing. She had never shied away from anything in her life before; why should she be frightened now? She was no coward. Nesta had decided at fourteen that she would never let anyone dictate how she lived her life or what she made of it.

She had decided in Tamlin's kitchen over a dish of ragu that she wouldn't allow anything to stop her – not the traumatic experiences of her past, not the people who wanted to dominate her.

Father, her mind wept, and she flinched at the creaking of a young tree in the wind. Father, Father, Father…

She had forgotten her promises to herself.

She had started turning into her father.

The Nameless Warrior. Father was one of the few to return from the War but that grave marked the symbolic resting place of all those he had fought beside – and lost. Brothers and cousins and friends who had marched to war side by side – and fallen side by side. Whatever Father had experienced there, he had left there; it had come surging back when the creditor's thugs attacked him. His leg healed but it had taken years for his mind to recover. Day by day, little by little. Sometimes he hadn't recognised them. Sometimes smells or sudden movements, his daughters' arguments, set him off, made him disappear into himself, into his memories. The memories he would never share – had never shared, not even with Nesta's mother. But she had suspected. And Nesta had known just enough to realise what was happening.

She had been able to see the signs in her father, all his foibles and agitations. She hadn't known professionals called it post-traumatic stress disorder until their family had regained their wealth and she had started to explore psychology. Since the War there had been enormous advancements in how to identify those suffering from it and how to treat it. She hadn't realised that was what her father was afflicted with; they just got on with it. She had learned how to handle his pain and manage their home so that he wasn't set off.

Nesta had finally had a name to give to what her father had suffered from. And he had suffered. He was reliving his worst memories over and over again, trapped in them.

She could see it all in her father's behaviour but she had been unable to recognise it in her own. She hadn't recognised that she was suffering from the same affliction that had haunted her father for years. She hadn't understood that she had post-traumatic stress disorder.

Her heart cracked. What she wouldn't give to be able to talk to her father. To tell him she finally understood. She had taken care of him, helped him, ensured his memories were not sparked, but she had never understood – how could she? She had never experienced what he had – could never. Just as no-one could ever experience what she had been through. She understood his reluctance to share because how was it even possible to share what they had endured, how was it possible to make others appreciate just what they had survived?

Bitter tears prickled hotly and stung her eyes; she sniffed loudly and shoved her hands across her eyes, panting for breath.

It wasn't fair.

She understood now. And he was gone.

Crack! Thump.

Gone. Taken from her.

She regretted that she was only able to behead Hybern once.

She had never been to this place – to the Meadow of Mourning – and had any connection to it.

But was it not also a memorial to her, too? The human Nesta Archeron had been a casualty of war; abducted, tormented, murdered. She had been mutilated by the Fae – and there were no remains to be found, nothing remaining of her human life. Nothing to bury so that she could be mourned. The only reason people knew her name was because she had endured in a new form, a magical new body she had seized from the very thing that sought to destroy her and all that she was. She had endured; she had upheld her oath to destroy Hybern.

Many had died, including Nesta. She had died in that Cauldron. So had Elain. They were some of the first casualties of Hybern's skirmish, as Jurian so condescendingly called it. But they were casualties. There would be no memorials to commemorate their loss or honour their sacrifice. She didn't need them; but she realised that she had wanted the acknowledgement – of what it had cost her. What Rhysand and his Inner Circle had sacrificed – and had no right to do so.

Her fury honed her focus and brought her back to herself. She drew in lungfuls of searing cold air, patiently counting – using Galit's breathing exercises to help her. Her eats twitched at the sound of approaching footsteps. Someone cleared their throat. Nesta became aware of the searing pain between her shoulder-blades, the cold biting her bare fingers, the tension in her body as she lowered her hands from her ears. She straightened and stared at Jurian. His eyes glowed with a furious fire that she recognised; she had felt it all too often. Those furious eyes dropped to her trembling fingers.

"You said you had an hour; get back to the hearthfire," Jurian muttered. "You can tell me about the errands you want me to run for you."

"I – " Nesta cleared her throat and raised her chin. Something sparked in Jurian's eyes as she did so, something like pride. "I have errands to run; I do not need you to complete them for me but I would be grateful for the company."

"A hired blade?" he asked.

Nesta frowned. "I can take care of myself," she said grimly. "No; I wish you to see the world – the best it has to offer. All we have created." She paused. We. She cleared her throat. "I wish you to have joy of this world, Jurian."

"Why?"

"During the – skirmish – you fought to honour the sacrifices that were made in the past," Nesta said quietly. Her eyes drifted to the columns illuminated by warm, flickering light – always, they were illuminated. Warm golden light illuminated the final resting place of the Nameless Warrior. "It's time you learned how we've honoured the sacrifice."

"Find something else that's worth dying for, you mean?" Jurian asked.

"Just…promise me you will not focus only on the bad things," Nesta said quietly. "The Republic is not perfect. But you will find that we strive alwaysto be better than ourselves."

"You've showed me something…something extraordinary," Jurian said, glancing over his shoulder at the memorial. "I want you to see what remains of the Wall."

"Why?"

"This honours the past," Jurian said. "The scar left on the world by the Cauldron is as much a memorial as this place. I want to know how the memory of the Wall and all it represented will be honoured."

"You mean you want to know the terms of any treaties between humans and faeries will be honoured," Nesta said.

"The Wall was a temporary fix," Jurian sighed. "Neither side has honoured its oaths to work on building…"

"Symbiosis," Nesta said. "Everyone benefiting from each other."

"Can you winnow us to the border?" Jurian asked.

"I cannot winnow; I do not know what it is that I do," Nesta said. "I call it flickering."

"Why?"

"Because that's what flames do; we travel by firelight," Nesta said, holding out her hand. "Think of where you wish to be in your mind; you can guide us." Jurian eyed her hand warily but took it. She could never say he did not have courage.

They flickered through the world and Nesta's breath was stolen from her as they arrived amid scorched black earth. An enormous full moon hung heavy in the sky, enormous, shedding its light everywhere – except on a swathe of land half a mile wide and straight as a ruler, cutting heedlessly through forest and meadow.

Nesta wobbled. She felt as if she was being suffocated, all the air leeching from her lungs. All the goodness of the earth around her, the richness, the life, was burned away. She could hear the barren black earth hissing as if flames had only just scorched it, igniting everything in its path, a wasteland riddled with ash. And it hurt. It physically pained her to stand with her boots in the ash.

Her connection to the Cauldron connected her to the world; and it was hurt as it had never been hurt before. The Cauldron had been used to inflict pain – the unnatural barrier demarking Fae and human territories had been inflicted upon the world. Proof of the world's injury glared back at them; the cracked black earth sending forth angry bursts of blistering steam, great sores of magma bubbling sluggishly, festering and oozing.

Nesta collapsed to her hands and knees, her body racked with excruciating pain. She could feel its pain. The earth – their living world – was in agony. She had never thought of the Wall as anything but what it was – a barrier. But it had been a thing of pure magic imposed on the world like a manacle that was too tight and had chafed for so long that the flesh beneath was raw and ruined.

She had sensed when the Wall came down. She had felt it – agony and release mingled together, the sweetest anguish. She had felt the world sigh with relief that the Wall was gone, no longer restricting it, paining it... But its wounds had been left untended.

This was a wound. Jurian had it right. It was a wound. And Nesta felt its pain as if it was her own. She felt the connection to the Cauldron, to the world, more powerfully here than she had since she was in the Cauldron.

Her entire body shook as nausea overwhelmed her and she dry-heaved. It was unbearable. She couldn't leave it like this. She couldn't let it fester; something had to be done. This could not be their legacy – to leave this sore untreated.

Hot tears dripped from her eyes; she could taste them in the air as she gasped for breath, mingling with the ash digging under her fingernails.

Someone grabbed her under her arms and dragged her. A moment later, she let out a sob, digging her fingers into lush grass glittering with frost. Birds chirped and sang and the wind rustled through the trees. Her heartbeat slowed, her lungs filled with daintily-perfumed air as a breeze lovingly caressed her face.

"You felt it." Jurian's voice was heavy, sad. "The connection."

"The Cauldron gave first life to this world," Nesta wheezed, her body aching as she clambered to sit up, "but it has become so much more since then… It became more than the Cauldron. It fought back."

"The black land…?"

"The land fought back – it calloused, protected itself," Nesta wheezed, kneading her hand over her heart. She could still feel the echo of agony. She wiped her face and hissed at him, "Why did you want me to come here?"

"I wanted to know what you felt. I can sense it – the hurt," Jurian frowned. "But you…" His words trailed off and he pulled a face. She followed his gaze. The moon shed its light everywhere but on the wound left by the Wall, the light seemed to be swallowed by the black ash. Beyond the drag marks left by Jurian as he pulled Nesta from the place that caused her such visceral agony, something glimmered softly silver. It was barely more than a whisper, and they would never have seen it but for the full moon. "What is that?"

They both clambered to their feet. Nesta held her breath, wonder spreading through her, and was the first to walk forward, retracing those drag-marks, the black ash pluming around her feet as she was drawn to the silver gleam in the emptiness. She crouched down and stared in awe.

"Shoots," she breathed. The moonlight shed its light upon tiny pinpricks of green emerging from the charred dirt. She counted five separate clusters of shoots each striving to emerge from the cracked black earth. "Something's growing."

"They weren't there a moment ago," Jurian frowned.

"They didn't just appear," Nesta countered. She reached out to brush away some of the ash but thought better of it; nature did best when left undisturbed. She stood and glanced at Jurian; he was frowning all around them. "What are you looking for?"

"More," he said simply, frowning. Nesta cast her eyes around; there was nothing. "Do you hear that?"

"The hissing," she realised, "it's stopped. The geysers – they've gone dormant!"

Jurian frowned deeply. He asked her sharply, "What do you feel?"

"It feels calmer than it did before," Nesta said, still startled by her awareness of the wound – of the magic that the Wall had left behind, that the Cauldron had left. "That feeling you get when you've been in pain for a long time and realise it's gone."

"Yes," Jurian frowned. "That is what I sense as well."

Nesta stared at Jurian. Elain had never wanted to talk about the Cauldron. She had never considered that Nesta needed to be able to talk about it. The two of them alone were unique in the world, unique in their experiences with the Cauldron. Yet there was a third. And Jurian… Jurian was engaged in his life, in their new lives, in a way Elain never would be – he was engaged and curious, cunning and intuitive. He was hungry for knowledge, for answers.

"Do you dream of it?" Nesta asked softly. Jurian was glaring at the ground all around him; he glanced up at her, still scowling.

"I dream of many things, each worse than the last," Jurian said, and for a heartbeat his weather-beaten face shone with youth, with fright. His voice shook ever so slightly as he added, "I dread the Cauldron most of all."

"Did it – it felt endless. Disembodied… A force that flung me about like a riptide," Nesta said breathlessly.

"Unceasing power, churning – always churning," Jurian muttered. "That ancient magic. It is unlimited potential. It is what we make of it."

"Do you truly believe that?" Nesta asked.

"Magic is neutral," Jurian said.

"Creative ways to endure," Nesta murmured to herself. At his frown, she said, "Nature is neither good nor evil but rather it finds creative ways to endure."

"Magic and nature… Are they not one and the same thing?" Jurian sighed.

"A question for the philosophers," Nesta said. She reached up and rubbed her tired eyes. "I must return home. If you would like me to flicker you back to the manor, I shall arrange to have your horse returned."

Jurian nodded and said, "I would appreciate that."

She sat by the oven watching the rising bread unseeingly as the kittens mewled and squeaked in her lap. She stroked them dutifully; they helped. It helped to be needed by something so vulnerable. It wasn't like abandoning the dough; she could have knocked it back and let it rise again. But the kittens needed her; needed her to be present. They needed her for warmth, for food, even to relieve themselves. They couldn't afford for her to curl up under the covers and disappear for days the way she longed to, her heart sore.

Tamlin sighed and drew up a chair nearby. He reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear and rested his hand at the base of her neck, rubbing gently. The heat of his huge hand seared through her night-chilled dress and made her shiver. Her eyes burned and the kittens squirmed.

As tears dripped, Nesta ask throatily, "Was your day better than mine?"

Tamlin sighed and gathered her up against him, his arms around her. She let out a sob and buried her head in his neck. Sighing heavily, he kissed her hair and muttered, "Just."

A.N.: I think it's important to acknowledge that everyone mollycoddled Elain after the Cauldron, especially Nesta. She put herself last to ensure that Elain was always cared for and safe. They are the only two, minus Jurian, to have gone through what they did in the Cauldron and while I imagine their individual experiences were different it's a trauma unique to them. I don't imagine Elain would ever want to discuss it with Nesta, which puts Nesta in a very lonely position – the only person she could have trusted can't face talking about it and the only other people close to her don't care to ask.