dawn

Nesta

By the time Nesta was tucked away in a corner of the alley far from any onlookers’ eye, she had decided to peel the flesh off of Mor was sufficient enough after the trip they’d endured.

Standing next to someone for hours on end trying to tell you that you should die would make any sane person wish the same fate.

Nesta was not a naturally violent person. Cold, but not violent. Glaring at the wispy golden strands crowding her vision was a test of morality. Even weak and thirty pounds less, she was almost positive she could take the bitch down, if not by skill but spite.

When Nesta was younger, she was once told she could rule the world.

But that world was on the other side of a wall.

A place that did not want her back.

“If you were half the woman your sister was, maybe we’d actually put up with your bullshit, Nesta.” The red devil glided across the stones, like a goddess reigning terror.

Nesta was silent in turn. Anything that came out would be vile beyond measure, and not something she wished to associate with.

And so there they were, The Morrigan and Lady Death. One blessed with no retribution for her crimes, the other a bastard of twisted fate and abandoned stories.

As Mor led Nesta down an avenue Feyre once walked, she asked herself what truly made her so different- but the answer was simple.

A mother who hated her.

Pillars of ivy littered the black jagged path, the sky a star-kissed midnight blue, as if Feyre took the dresser and splashed it across the horizon. Further ahead, lay a palace fit for Nyx. White-crested towers adorned with hanging lights contrasted the dark expanse surrounding the two women. Lanterns that kept their station, and never flickered, floated above.

Nesta, with her striking beauty, was oddly plain in comparison to the city before her. In a tattered white shirt that hung too loose and bottoms that sat far too low, all her new sharp edges jutted out. What kept men leering was still there, but not enough to be the focus anymore.

It was a sad sigh of relief, to not be put on display so openly- even when she was modest.

“I find this silence of yours so becoming, Nesta. Finally your actions and speech align.”

“I find that dress of yours becoming too, Mor,” Nesta spoke, “Basic, dull, and pointless, like the five-hundred-year-old fae whose so-called power of truth doesn’t do shit.” And she stepped forward with that.

A small gasp came from behind her, heels clicking to catch up.

“You little bitc-”

“I’m assuming this is where I’ll be, correct?” Fingers stretched toward the palace, “It’s beautiful.”

Mor paused and took a breath, “It is. Vile and wretched inside, but glorious from afar, it will serve you well in the coming months. I’ll be sending Rhys your compliments and taking my leave now. Any parting words?” She was stagnant now, looking at the Archeron sister.

Nesta turned to meet Mor’s eyes, then back toward the palace, and spoke, “Yes, tell Rhys I’ll thrive here.” Nesta began to walk, “And he can suck my dick.”

---

Nesta had explored the ghostly halls of the Moon Palace for hours until she finally found the library. It was dusty and dark, but it was the closest she could get to home. Vacant and isolated.

And hers.

There was no royal to greet her, or eyes to preen in, but rather the sweet silence of stories and fairytales. It was a wondrous thing, what books could do. Nesta lived in between the crooks of chapters and buried herself in the margins. If she’d died on those fateful days years ago, she would’ve asked to lie in a grove of trees with a tale tucked under her hands.

But death was not kind to her.

Nesta would’ve accepted both horrific ends, she was a tired soul, after all. Nesta dreamed of it since witnessing it so young. She had too much blood on her hands to deserve life anyways. The warriors she couldn’t save, her human sisters, the stable boy… The stable boy.

And just as Nesta had wiped a book clean of dust, it was haphazardly thrown back on the shelf. Her cheeks were wet and the aisles of towering novels became a blurry labyrinth. She couldn’t seem to remember how she got in, was it left, or right? No, no… It must’ve been straight.

With Nesta in the last gown Feyre would ever gift her, the woman in white ran rampant in the dead halls of a castle neglected. A ghost, again, in her own life.

A cry climbed the walls of her throat, scraping its way up to storm out of her mouth, but all Nesta mustered was a desperate choke. Her pants became more rapid, her face stained with liquid acid tormenting the collected façade of Nesta Archeron.

She was drowning once more in the only place she knew peace. The pitiful sadness that clothed her since youth followed everywhere- into dreams and parties. And then, she was falling. No longer standing but crippled on a cold floor with no one to save her.

If the Queen of All died in an abandoned library, would anyone care to catch her, to save her?

Cassian

Devlon couldn’t stand Cassian, but often found himself to be a therapist to the General. Especially now. And so, Devlon opened his door, once more, to the man aged by dark days and countless lost men.

Cassian was weary and drained from his life, no longer fulfilled by his role. There was once a time where his purpose was everything, but now, it was fruitless. Cass didn’t want to settle down, but he was tired of what position he held amongst his friends, his family, his soldiers, his mate.

Devlon hated Cassian the least, and only tolerated this new behavior because of the destruction his intolerance caused last time. He shifted outward, arm stretched in the door to give way for the younger Illyrian. With his entrance, Devlon felt the temperature drop. Somehow, warmth darted away in Cassian’s presence, his Siphons draining the room of any sparkling lights in kind.

The Illyrian went straight through the narrow cabin hall and into the far right. Devlon took pride in that space, and understood what was happening now. His feet carried him toward the same room, only pausing a stride in. His strategy quarters was expansive, but homely; the walls covered in fraying layouts and plans- a small sign of Devlons experience. Books lined the far shelves telling stories of old and lessons learned, discipline and conduct, the finest recipe for a good solider, and their history- the Illyrians.

He found Cassian slumped over the table set midway in the chaos- fine wood from the tallest peaks in the Steppes, with sculpted edges telling their own tale- a twist of fate.

Devlon walked slowly toward the edge of his grand seat, and took a second to try and catch the hazel eyes across from him. Despondent. A cough of some sort worked it’s way through his throat into the air, and with a weighted drop, Devlon fell into the chair before Cassian.

“She’s gone.” He picked dust from the table that wasn’t there.

“Who?” Devlon perched over, hands intertwined on his chin.

“Nesta- they… they exiled her.” His eyes danced furiously back and forth, waves crashing on the shore.

“And where is she?”

“In the Court of Nightmares, but they won’t tell me where.”

Devlon shifted, his arms coming to rest over his chest. “Cassian, did you try to find out where?”

Silence responded.

“Get more information and I’ll see what I can do.”

Cassian gritted his teeth, his knuckles turning pale with a balled fist tense before him, “I don’t have more information, Devlon. We aren’t speaking.”

“Well if you throw tantrums like a fucking child, of course you aren’t going to be trusted with the adult information, Cassian.”

“I am not a child!” The fist came crashing down on the wood, echoing through the halls.

Devlon quirked a brow, and rose from his seat.

“You can get the hell out of my house, or use some of the muscle and fight I taught you, boy. I owe that witch a debt, and I’ll be damned if I don’t repay it because you can’t muster up the courage.” Devlon took the steps to bridge the distance dividing them, and gripped the Generals shoulder, “I once raised you when no one cared, and trained you well. This is worth more than any battle, or testament of your duties to this court.”

Silence fell among them, draping itself over the maps splayed on the walls and in the empty space- as if it was, too, listening in.

“Why?” Cassians eyes kept still on the window, not meeting Devlons face. Shame or fear, Devlon couldn’t tell, but he felt for Cassian. Even just a sliver in his cold heart.

“Because...she saved my wife. Now, get out of my house and find her.”

And with a shove Cassian was out the door.

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WOW OKAY HAHA DUBS, anyways, this will pick up soon I just gotta lay the foundation... Love yall!