Itâs honestly hilarious watching the goalposts move in real time.
First it was: âthe spark doesnât matter, it means nothing.â
Then Sarah confirms the spark does matter and suddenly itâs: âoh no, not THAT spark, a different, metaphorical one.â
Except the âsparkâ she literally wrote for Gwynriel is the same kind of spark sheâs used across multiple mated couples the same language, the same context. You donât get to dismiss it as meaningless, then redefine it the second it contradicts your argument.
You can follow whatever âmetaphorical sparkâ you want Iâm sticking with whatâs actually on the page, consistently, across the text.
The funniest part? This whole debate has just proven the original point.
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Never forget Gwyn talking about how she watched the beasts in the forest until the right moment to act.... and in the very next chapter, Azriel immediately describing that this is what spying is.
gwyneth berdara â¨đ¤đť through azrielâs eyes
the đđđđđ priestess smiled đđ and Azriel thought it might have been directed at his shadows. đ¤đť
But she just hooked her đ¸đđ đ đđđ-đˇđđđđ đ˝đśđžđ behind an arched ear. đŠđ
He blocked out the bloody memory that flashed, so at đđšđšđ with the Gywn he saw before him đđđ. đĽşđĽş
Gwynâs đđđśđ đđđđ flashed with alarm. đđ đ¤
Her mouth quirked to the side, crinkling the đťđđđ¸đđđđ on her nose. đ¤đťđ¤đťđ¤đťđ¤đťâ¨
Pure đśđđđđđđđđ glittered in her stare. đľđđđđđ than the pain and grief heâd spied a moment before. đĽš
She angled her head, hair shining like đđđđđđ đđđđśđ. đŤŚđ
She shrugged again, đžđđđđđđđđđđđ. Az narrowed his eyes, studying her. đ§đ
but Gwyn blew out a breath, steadied her feet and balance, and sliced. A đˇđđśđđđžđťđđ, đ đđđ¸đžđđ blow, but it didnât sever the ribbon. đđ¤
Azriel dipped his head in a sketch of a bow, something restless settling in him. đ¸đđđ his shadows had calmed. đ
Gwyn nodded her farewell, again facing the ribbon. A warrior sizing up an opponent, all traces of that đ¸đ˝đśđđđžđđ irreverence gone. đŠđ¤
How Gwynâs teal eyes might đđžđđ˝đ upon seeing the necklace. For whatever reason. . . he could see it.
A thing of secret, đđđđđđ đˇđđśđđđ. â¨
Gwyn, without even trying and just by being herself, easily pulled Azriel out from the turmoil he was going through that Solcitice night and brought out the Azriel I personally like: playful, ironic, and awkward. It felt like he slightly let down his walls to bring himself out, when we know for a fact that he shuts down when he feels emotionally hurt for a long period of time. It felt... easy and light.
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A/N: it only took me months and months, but I'm finally back on my bullshit! Here's hoping it doesn't take months and months to finish chapter 12. This chapter was saved in my outline as "War Part 1" so this is your warning for some blood and gore
Chapter Masterlist // Previous Part // Next Part
Cassian
"Hybern's troops have completely decimated this flank."
"So then bolster it."
The almost dismissive comment, the dry tone curling around each syllable, has a growl tearing from Eris's throat. His lips curl and his ember eyes narrow, and for a moment, Cassian swears he can see the dangerous spark of a flame in those eyes. The coven leader practically slams his palms against the table and leans over it with a sneer, the small flags and figurines on the map swaying with the motion.
"And I presume it's your own troops you'll be offering to do that, Rhysand?" Eris bites out, raising a derisive eyebrow. "Seeing as you certainly have the numbers. And, of course, if you need more, you can always just go a turn some more vampires."
"How dare you," Feyre fires back, daring to take a step forward before Rhysand's hand on her arm stops her and tugs her back to his side in the farthest, darkest corner of the tent. "The bite is a gift. It's a choice. Rhys would never just go around turning people."
"Is that what he told you? Who knew you were in the habit of lying to your wife, Rhysâ"
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Itâs feels fitting that as we close out the month of love, I end it with a Gwynriel commissionđ
This concept has been festering in my mind for a while and I am so happy to share it! There are so many parallels between Gwyn and Azriel, and I really wanted to high light the contrast between them as Spymaster and Priestess!
A massive thank you to hoshi_sama2 for doing such a phenomenal job on this artwork. It is everything I could ever want and more!
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I'm getting a bit tired of seeing anti Gwynriel talking points stating that Azriel will only see Gwyn as a victim because it's a little unfair and completely negates that Gwyn IS a warrior. She is also Carynthian, she is a Valkyrie, she is quite literally a warrior. Azriel has helped train her, he KNOWS she's a warrior. He will see her as more than a victim and I'm getting tired of Gwyn being reduced to only her victimhood.
Nesta has sacrificed absolutely everything for Cassian. She changed her anatomy for Cassian. And he can't even support her, defend her, or protect her.
Nessian's so one-sided with only Nesta putting in any work. Cassian's only contribution to their marriage is his cock.
You Can Call Me Honey If You Want (Because I'm the One You Want)
A/N: Happy @sjmromanceweek! :D I wanted to have more to offer for this very fun event week, but alas. Life and work and life. So I hope you all will accept this tiny one shot offering. I promise it's very soft and sweet and inspired by the song/lyrics of Miss Swift's song Honey
"Can I get a whiskey sour?"
Nesta waits for the bartender to give her the typical nod to her request, for her to step back from the bar top and start preparing the drink, but instead the woman lets out a quiet, sigh of obvious annoyance. She actually rolls her eyes before that gaze pins back on Nesta.
"Seriously, sweetheart?" the bartender drawls, the pet-name anything but pleasant with the way her voice curls harshly around every syllable. "You can see that the bar is packed."
"If you don't want to make it, then don't have it on the menu."
The bartender scoffs at that, but she finally moves away, stepping toward the line of bottles neatly stacked on the shelf. With her back turned, Nesta finally gives in to her own answering eye roll. She settles her weight more comfortably against the bar top, settles in for however long that bartender will decide to make her wait for her drink, and glances around the bar. Emerie had chosen the location for tonight's meetup and drinks, claimed she had heard good things about the drinks, about the view of the city the rooftop location offered.
But the "perfect fall weather" that's blanketed over the city in brushes of red and yellow leaves and a cool breeze means every single table and seat in this bar is currently occupied, the harsh sounds of conversation and laughter louder than the music playing through the speakers and grating against Nesta's already fraying nerves. Not even a three-sixty, sprawling view of the twinkling, golden lights of downtown below can make up for a shit week at work. A week filled with clients who'd rather leer at her than work with her, rather call her honey than her actual name.
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Chapter ten: Tensions are rising and war is on the horizon, but Nesta feels more at home in Jorvik than ever. Meanwhile, Gwyn makes a new friend, and news arrives from the south.
(Previous chapter // next chapter)
Somewhere in the distance, beyond the open window, a crow was cawing.
It was an ill omen, Cassian thought as he tilted his head and studied the ceiling, leaning back in his chair and kicking his boots onto the small wooden table. How often had he been told, as a boy, that crows meant war was coming? That battle was near?
He couldnât even begin to count.
The whisper of a breeze rustled the papers beneath his boots, but he didnât bother to look down, nor to slide closed the window that Rhys had opened. Instead he focused his gaze on the ceilingâ on the wooden panels running parallel above his head, where an entire series of runes had been carved, piercing the wooden surface like stars in the night sky.
One, in particular, pulled at him.
A shield rune sat directly above him, three branches carved so deep into the panel that the grey light from outside got caught on its edges, becoming trapped in the grooves made by the knife that had carved it. It was the rune for protection, the lines sharp and clean. And it sat in shadow, as the sun fought to emerge from behind the clouds.
Oh, yes.
Omen after omenâ none of them good.
He shifted in his seat, the three goblets brimming with mead trembling on their slim silver stems as he crossed his ankles, breathing deeply and drawing into his lungs the thick scent of candle wax that permeated his brotherâs chambers. The thick furs thrown across his high-backed chair cushioned his shoulders well enough as he settled more comfortably into the seat at the head of his lordâs private table, and Cassian wondered for a moment if Rhys had slept at all, or if he had taken the furs from his own bed and draped them across those chairs in a night spent poring over the same papers that littered the table beneath his boots.
Given that the lord of Jorvik had summoned his two most trusted warriors for a private meeting before the sun had fully crested the sky, it seemed that, no, Rhysand hadnât slept much at all.
Neither had Cassian, really, but that was a different matter altogether.
Suppressing a smirk, Cassian cracked his knuckles and shifted his attention back to the table. It was covered by a single large map and a scattering of letters and ledgers, dog-eared parchment hanging limply over the edges. A single short-handled seax weighed down one corner of the map; an empty goblet the other. At the other end of the table, a single scarred finger tapped impatiently at the edge of that map now, like every moment not spent with a sword in hand was a moment wasted.
âYou know, brother,â Cassian drawled as his eyes slid up Azrielâs leather-clad arm, âI think this is the first time Iâve ever seen a bruise mar that pretty face of yours.â
His grin was little more than a flash of teethâ a smirk that even Loki would have envied. Smoothly Cassian plucked up his goblet and raised a toast to that shining bruise on Azrielâs cheekbone, turning purple beneath the grey light and half-hidden by shadow when the Dane half-turned his head. He drank deep; tasted honey on his tongue. It was trueâ Azriel had perennially worked hard to ensure nothing marked that face of his, almost as precious about his looks as Rhys.
Cassian couldnât ever say he had shared the sentiment.
Azriel braced his palms on the edge of the table, his expression flat as his eyes flicked up. A vicious, merciless gleam shone in the hazel.
âOne more word and youâll have a bruise of your own,â the spymaster muttered, in a voice so low that Cassian thought even Heimdallr - he who heard the grass itself grow - would have struggled to catch it. Az met his gaze, daring his brother to goad him further as his knuckles turned white around the edge of the table. Every line of him was strung with so much tension that it was wonder he hadnât yet snapped.
Cassian grinned again, swallowing a laugh as he leaned forwards. âIs that a threat?â he asked. âOr a promise?â
A muscle ticked in Azrielâs jaw. âTake it as you like. The end result will be the same.â
Laughter rolled through Cassianâs chest, his head canting to the side as his smile turned wolfish. âThe nun really got under your skin, didnât she?â
Az glowered, his dark eyes piercing as they fixed Cassian with a look the warrior was familiar with. It was the look Azriel gave him whenever heâd been bested; when his pride had been wounded. Cassian wanted to tip his head back and roar with laughter.
On the other side of the table, Rhysand rolled his eyes. Their lord was only barely listening, rolling a silver coin silently across the back of his knuckles. It was an idle gesture, one that might have been mistaken for ease were it not for the creases in his brow or the shadows beneath his eyes, or the fact that he had summoned them here at allâ for a private meeting in his private rooms, where he had said said little and barely taken his eyes off that gods-forsaken map.
âEnough,â he interjected flatly, his voice a low, intemperate rasp.
Without preamble he slammed the coin face-up onto the table, letting it glimmer weakly in the thin light. Alfredâs face looked up at them; Elfred Rex inscribed upon its surface like a taunt.
The three of them looked at that coin, lying so innocently - so innocuously - atop the map that had only recently been marked up with the treaty line, inked in a long, diagonal line from coast to coast, east to west. Cassian felt the air between them grow cold, the breeze from the window one that chilled his skin as each of them studied that fucking coin, like they were all wondering how exactly they could ensure the face carved on that piece of silver would be haunting the underworld before the month was out.
âRhys,â Azriel said, turning away from Cassian to face their lord. Their brother. âI have had several reports now of Alfred collating an army at Winchester. We need a plan.â
Rhysâ face was impassive. âMessengers were dispatched last night to all those in the surrounding areas. They know to be on the alert.â His eyes flicked up, landing on Cassian at the other end of the table as his lithe fingers reached out to slowly circle the base of his goblet. âIt seems your womanâs husband conveyed our message and then some.â
Cassian said nothing.
Still, a slow smile curved his lips, a kind of slick satisfaction coursing through his veins as he heard those wordsâ the ones that marked her out as his. She was, of course, in all the ways that really mattered. Fate might have bound her to another, but it wasnât her husband who Nesta had feared for last night when the threat of battle had loomed. It wasnât her husband who had taken the time to remind her - several times, in several different ways - of just how alive he still was.
Heat gathered in Cassianâs chest with the memory of it, the palms of his hands suddenly burning with a longing to touch her, to feel her beneath him again. He shifted in his seat, the chair beneath him groaning, and the grin he had sought to suppress rose to the surface anyway as he recalled itâ how deeply she had taken him, how his body had merged so completely with hers that it had felt like they were merely two souls inhabiting one vessel. How she had been limned by the candlelight, a golden corona around her hair.
A fucking saint if ever there was one.
Rhys might have been the one baptised in the name of peace, but it was Cassian who found religion every night; blessed when he was between her thighs, possessed of something holy when she held him in her arms.
Oh yes, Cassian thought as he took a breath.
Nesta was his now, and her husband was going to learn - sooner or later - just how far a Dane would go to protect his own.
Azriel huffed, his scarred fingers curling around the edge of the table with a grip strong enough to splinter the oak beneath his hands. Suddenly, Cassian was forced to remember that war was on the horizon.
âAlfred is wilier than we gave him credit for,â he said carefully, caution in his tone as he all but ground his teeth. âHe will mislike being caught out.â
Rhys snorted. âWould you?â He waved a hand, silver rings catching the grey light. âIf you thought you had concocted a plan so clever only to have it turn out to be as transparent as glass?â Another snort. âTo have it be foiled by a nun?â
Rhysâ face contorted into a sneer at the mere mention of the nun Az had dragged back to Jorvik with him, but the spymaster kept his own expression entirely blank as Cassian learned forward and dropped his feet to the floor at last. For a moment he thought of poking his brother even further - to remind them all once again how the nun in question had bested a Dane with a candlestick - but he thought the better of it as he scanned the map on the table, as if he could count the miles between this room and the king of Wessex.
âWe need to pick a location,â he said smoothly, running a fingertip across the middle of England, crossing valleys and rivers until he landed on the red cross that set Jorvik apart from the rest. The thought of battle made the beast inside him sit up and take notice; the thought of bloodshed making his own run a little faster through his veins.
He could almost feel the field of battle titling beneath his feet, like Odin was standing beside him, guiding his steps and his sword both.
Rhys tilted his head. âAnd what makes you think a coward like Alfred will come to us in battle? Heâs far more likely to hide behind his walls until we hammer them down.â
Cassian shrugged. âBring him back north. Send another messenger with another proposal for peace.â
âYou and I both know that any attempt at peace will fall apart. We tried it once and failed. I have no interest in trying again.â
âNor I,â Cassian agreed smoothly. He tapped the map, right above the cliffs of Whitby, where an abbey currently sat in ruins. âBut youâre right that Alfred is a coward. He attacked that abbey in the dark and was content to let Danes take the blame. He fears battle. But bring him north under the guise of peace and meet him in a location we choose. He will come armed anyway.â
Azriel nodded slowly. âA veiled invitation to battle.â
âIf he really wishes to make peace,â Cassian shrugged, âthen we will have the upper hand. He will do anything to avoid getting his hands bloody.â Another shrug, another grin, a weight at his shoulder that felt like the hand of Odin slowly urging him forwards. âAnd if he decides to face us in the field, wellâŚâ
âWe still have the advantage because we picked the location,â Azriel finished, nodding slowly. The move set the silver in his ear shining in the light, a contrast to the bruise darkening his cheek.
Rhys rolled his eyes, plucking up the coin and studying its face, like the likeness of Alfred might provide some kind of insight. âHe isnât a fool. Heâll know that.â
Az leaned over the table, eyes flicking once to Cassian before traveling to Rhys. âBut we have a bargaining chip.â
The words hung in the air for a moment, as pointed as a blade. Rhys leaned back, letting the coin clatter to the surface of the table once more.
âMandrayâs wife.â
Az hummed, tapping the edge of the table with scarred fingertips.
Unease pricked at Cassian like a thorn, the taste in his mouth growing bitter. He stilled, preternaturally so, as his eyes narrowed.
âI heard rumours when I was travelling,â Az continued, barreling on regardless with a wry kind of humour that made his lips curve into something almost like a smile. âNews of her remaining behind has spread quickly. The word is that weâre keeping a Saxon woman hostage in a dungeon, brutalised and tortured, et cetera, et cetera.â
Cassian took a breath, feeling Odin at his back once more. It was a calm hand on his shoulder, a cool reminder of how he had left the woman in question that morningâ safe and buried under piles of furs, sleeping peacefully in his bed after heâd spent the night memorising the taste and feel of her on his tongue. A dark smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, crooked and entirely sinful.
Az met his gaze. âI suggest we left Alfred know exactly what will happen to his favourite thegnâs wife if he does not face us in person.â
Cassian snorted. âAnd what will happen to her exactly?â He splayed his fingers on the table. âBecause we all know that I am not about to let a damned thing happen to that woman.â
Noâ heâd sooner bare his own throat to the blade. Sooner see all of Jorvik - all of England - burn.
Az smirked. âAye, but Alfred doesnât know that does he?â
Rhysâ fingers curled beneath his chin, his eyes flat and cold. âAnd how do we know that her husband cares enough to persuade his king to march north? He was content enough to leave her here in the first place.â
It was Cassianâs turn to shrug, now. âHe doesnât,â he said slowly. âBut he cares for his reputation. They see their women as a possession. He will want her back, if nothing else to avoid the humiliation of losing her to a Dane. And if Alfred wishes to be known as a great and benevolent kingâŚâ
âHe cannot afford to abandon the wife of his retainer,â Azriel finished, straightening in his chair. âSo we are agreed, then?â
Cassian leaned forwards again, dragging his fingers along the map once more, a direct echo of the way heâd traced those same fingertips over the curve of Nestaâs hip the night before; tracing the contours of her body the way he traced coastlines, now. He looked at the distance between Jorvik and Winchester, running through the miles in his mind. If they were lucky - exceptionally lucky - they would have a week at most to prepare.
At last he looked up, meeting Rhysâ eyes.
âAgreed.â
***
It was quiet, by the river.
The long grass, swaying in the wind, sat beneath a sky that was bruised and promised rain, and though once Nesta had found a Dane standing, glistening, in that water, it was entirely empty now, without even a single ship moored by the shoreline. It was cold, the weather almost harsh enough to bite, and as she stood there alone, she scanned the waterâs edge, searching for a now-familiar crop of auburn hair.
Gwynâs chamber had been empty that afternoon.
It had taken Nesta a single heartbeat to resolve to find the nun. After all, in those early days - after Alfred had left but before Cassian had charmed her - she had been forced to navigate Jorvik almost entirely alone. The streets had been foreign to her, the language she heard from outside her window unintelligible. It was a land that thirsted for her blood, according to the men in Wessex.
So it was easy, really, when Gwyn had arrived, clutching her cross and wearing her travel-stained cloak.
Nesta would not allow her to face the same uncertainty. The same anxiety.
And when she had sought solace, this was where she had found it. The river curled before her, the wind hurrying the current along, and even when the weather was turning, the air felt freer here. Calmer. The grass whispered in the breeze, and so, Nesta thought as she turned her head and caught a glimpse of pale fabric and red hair, was it any surprise that Gwyn had found herself drawn to the water too?
She looked out towards the river flowed towards the horizon, to eventually meet the sea. Perhaps it called to the nun somehow; perhaps the salt air reminded her of home.
Indeed, it was on her knees by the waterâs edge that the nunâs head was bent. Her hands were clasped tight in prayer, pressed close to her lips. So tight was her grip that her pale knuckles were turning white, and prayers fell like raindrops from her lips, so fervent it was as though she thought the strength of her faith alone might erase the pain of the past few days.
In silence Nesta watched as Gwyn pressed her wooden cross to her lips, heard the whisper of her Latin on the breeze. It was a simple thing, that cross; wooden and crudely carved. A world away from the silver one around her own neck. And yet as Gwyn continued, Nesta knew innately that the woman before her felt her faith far, far more deeply than she ever had.
Pater noster, qui es in caelisâŚ
Should it have been a comfort, she wondered, to hear those prayers spoken aloud? After so long in the clutches of paganism, should it have felt as familiar and as reassuring as a warm blanket?
Sanctificetur nomen tuum âŚ
It didnât.
Instead, the only image conjured was that of Alfredâs priest and the sneer that bent Osbertâs lips into a sermon. It sounded purer when Gwyn prayed, more sincere, and yet still Nesta could only think of how her own faith had suffered of late and how, in the wake of Alfredâs betrayal, she was beginning to wonder if God was really watching them at all.
The wind sent a shiver down her spine, but she did not move. She waited for the Pater Noster to end, and when at last Gwyn finished her prayer, she sat back on her heels and took a deep, audible breath.
âThank you,â she said quietly.
Nesta tilted her head. âWhatever for?â
âFor allowing me my prayers.â
Slowly Nesta moved towards the water, until she stood beside the nun who remained on her knees.
âI am a Christian too, you remember.â
Even if it felt like her soul was damned alreadyâ if she had drawn away from the God that had raised her.
Gwyn shrugged, letting her wooden cross drop back against her sternum as the clouds moved to block the sun, bending the light as it struggled to find a way through the grey. A strand of fiery-red hair shifted across Gwynâs forehead, and as she looked out across the water, slowly she tucked it back behind her ear, drawing in another deep breath.
Nesta was quiet for a moment longer before she, too, sank to the ground. Pulling her knees to her chest, she wrapped her arms around herself and pulled her cloak tight around her in a vain attempt to keep out the chill.
âIt isnât so terrible here, you know,â she began slowly, looking sideways as Gwyn fixed her eyes on the horizon. âNot all that different from Wessex, in the end.â
Noâ and Nesta was beginning to understand that, now. Their people still worked the land, still sent boats on the water to bring back fish. Still raised their children and plied their trades. They might have spoken different tongues and worshipped a different set of gods, but at their core...
Werenât they all just trying to make a life for themselves? Didnât they all - Dane or Saxon or something else entirely - thirst and hunger and bleed just the same?
Gwyn hummed a little, her eyes still pinned to the grey sky and the gathering clouds. Nesta tilted her head.
âOne of their women even offered to teach me how to wield a sword.â
With that, Gwyn turned. Surprise flashed in her eyes like lightning in the teal, and for a long moment, two swift blinks were the only sign that she had heard Nesta speak until her lips parted, a furrow in her brow.
âA sword?â
The word was spluttered, disbelief on Gwynâs face as she leaned closer, resting her palm on the ground, grass flattened beneath her fingers. Nesta nodded, looking down at her own hands, her fingertips smooth and devoid of callouses. Emerie had a bracelet of scars around her wrists, evidence of a life hard lived on her skin.
âIt is unusual, I know, butââ
âNo,â Gwyn said, shaking her head as her hand reached out slowly and alighted on Nestaâs wrist. âI⌠wish someone had taught me how to wield a sword.â
The grief in her voice was enough to give Nesta pause, and as Gwyn dropped her hand and turned her face back towards the water, Nesta only looked at her new friend and inclined her head, a single brow raised in a silent invitation to continue speaking if she wished.
âI was supposed to be inside the abbey that night, you know,â she admitted quietly. In the water, the warped reflection of both Nesta and Gwyn trembled, but still Nesta saw mirrored back at her the way the nun squeezed her eyes shut, like the memory was a wound she was tearing open anew. âI was walking along the cliffs, even though the Abbess has scolded me a hundred times for doing so, but⌠I always loved to watch the sun set over the sea. It is⌠peaceful.â
She shook her head, dipping her face.
âI stayed longer than I should have; it was almost dark when I started back. And then I saw the smoke.â
Nesta could picture itâ smoke curling against the night sky, flames illuminating the black. A single nun, racing along the cliffâs edge as fire licked at stone. A shudder racked Gwynâs chest, a single breath sawing from her throat.
âRhysand said there were no casualties,â Nesta pointed out gently. âIs it not possible that they escaped?â
âThe roof had caved in,â Gwyn said, a hoarseness to her voice that hadnât been there before. âBy the time I got there the refectory was nothing but ash and wood, andâŚâ She paused. âI donât know that they got out. And even if they did, I have no way of knowing where the Abbess fled to, or when theyâll be back. Either way my sister is lost to me.â
A moment passedâ a heavy, aching kind of silence.
The sky darkened, and there was no comfort Nesta could offer. Nothing substantial that she could do. Slowly, she dropped her gaze.
âI have sisters too,â she offered quietly. Like an olive branch, or a shared pain that might bind them closer together. âTwo of them. But I have not⌠spoken to them for a long while. Not since I was married.â
Gwynâs face softened. âThey live far? From Wessex?â
Silently, Nesta shook her head. She angled her face away, fixed her eyes on the river. Because how could she explain that though it wasnât unusual for a bride to visit home infrequently once married, she hadnât so much as penned a single letter, not even to Elain?
It was only a matter of time, she had supposed, before her father sought to use her connection to the king to find a match for Elain and Feyre too, and, well, Nesta had decided long ago that they were better off far away from Winchester. From Alfred. From Tomas and his cabal of friends.
So she had chosen not to think of them. To protect them by forgetting they existed.
âPerhaps one day I will be reunited with my sisters,â Gwyn said as Nesta shook her head again, a quiet settling between them as the wind rusted the fabric of her cloak. âI must have hope. And so must you.â
Nesta swallowed. Said nothing.
âThat is,â Gwyn corrected, clearing her throat, âif you wish to be reunited with them.â
And Nesta didnât know what to say. How to answer.
Did she? If reunion meant a return to Wessex? How could she ever return when she knew what awaited her there?
And perhaps God was watchingâ perhaps God did still have some care for her after all, because she was saved from answering by footsteps pushing through the long grass, and a voice calling her name above the wind.
âThere you are!â Emerie said as she stopped directly behind the pair still seated on the ground. She rested her hands on her hips, the hilt of a sword sticking out of a leather sheath that hung from a belt around her waist. Emerie grinned down at them as Gwyn blinked, her eyes fixed on that sword. âCassian sent me to look for you.â
Nesta pushed to her feet; Emerie held out her hand to help her stand.
âHe sent you?â she echoed, skeptical, as she gave the shield-maiden a pointed look from beneath a raised brow. âThe last time I saw you, you were threatening to have his head.â
Emerie waved a hand. âBah. That was thenâ this is now.â She grinned, thrusting out her hand as Gwyn rose to her feet. âYou must be the nun who hit Azriel with a candlestick. It truly is an honour to meet you.â
It was almost gleeful, the way Emerie took Gwynâs hand and shook it. Mirth glittered in her eyes, and when she pulled back, Emerie looked to Nesta and smiled so brightly it was almost enough to clear the clouds that were gathering darkly overhead.
âI have been dying to meet the one who gave him that nasty bruise ever since he walked through the city gates. Itâs about time someone put a dent in that ego of his.â
âGwyn,â Nesta said as the nun flicked her eyes again to Emerieâs sword. âMeet Emerie.â
Emerie grinned, flicking her long braid over her shoulder. âI have a feeling we are going to be such good friends.â
***
By the time Nesta neared the lordâs hall, the rain had started.
She had left Gwyn and Emerie by the river, with Emerie patting Nesta on the arm and promising her in no uncertain terms that she would see Gwyn safe back to the hall after showing the nun around the city, starting with the forge. The rain was gentle at first, falling gently as Nesta walked away from the water, but as she made her way through the narrow streets, it had started to rain in earnest. Puddles had swallowed her feet; clothes hanging on lines strung between houses had been hauled inside, and even though Nesta pulled up the hood of her cloak, the wool had been saturated so quickly that soon enough, water seeped through the fabric and soaked her to the bone.
She had no intention of slowing, the rain falling in sheets from a slate-grey sky, but as she reached the small courtyard in front of Rhysandâs hallâ
Her steps faltered.
There, standing beneath the wooden awning that served as some kind of shelter, Cassian was waiting. His arms were folded and resting on the wooden railing, sleeves pushed up to reveal the tattooed, muscled expanse of his forearms. Around his wrists were a litany of string bracelets, small silver charms dangling from each oneâ for protection, for luck, for health and prosperity. Nesta blinked the rain from her eyes as he straightened, watching as he immediately came out to meet her, as if the Heavens hadnât just opened.
In moments, his tunic was stuck to his skin, his curls dripping water into his face.
He held out his hand, fingers outstretched and reaching for her as she hurried through the downpour.
âEmerie found you, I take it,â he said smoothly, her hand sliding home against his as he pulled her under the awning and out of the deluge.
At last, Nesta took down her hood. A shiver undulated down her spine. âYou did not wish to find me yourself?â
Cassian smirked at the challenge lacing her tone, but said nothing, only shrugged as he lifted his eyes to the sky, thick with rainclouds so dark, so black, it seemed like night had descended early.
âIt felt⌠important for the three of you to meet,â he said after a moment, giving her another shrug as he waved a hand. âPerhaps the gods were nudging me to make it so.â
She quirked a brow. âI fail to see what interest your gods would have in two Saxons and a shield maiden.â
The Dane before her rolled his eyes, reaching out to push the wet hair from her face before his fingers dropped to her neck, untying her cloak and removing it from her shoulders. Gently his palms skated down the sides of her arms, rubbing over her forearms to try and bring back some warmth.
âThe gods have an interest in us all, sweetheart,â he said, folding her cloak and draping it over the wooden railing. He turned, giving her a pointed look as he moved back to her, tilting his head. His eyes were lined with kohl, his scar-split brow lifting as his gaze roved across her face. âBut, for whatever it is worth, you are no mere Saxon.â
Nesta allowed herself to be pulled into him when his hand rounded her waist. She braced herself with a palm flat on his chest, her chilled fingers seeking warmth in his skin. The air was still, silent save for the pounding rain, and Nesta could hear nothing above the beating of her own damned heart. His nose nudged at the space beneath her ear, his hands fisting at her waist.
âOh?â she breathed.
He hummed.
âNo mere Saxon could so successfully bewitch a legendary Norse warrior such as myself.â
âLegendary?â She scoffed, tilting her head back to look up at him. He smelled like leather and rainwater; like petrichor. His hands were cold, still soaked from the downpour, but still he tried to wipe the rain from her cheeks, his thumb gliding across her cheekbone in a long, slow swipe. Rain still dripped from his hair, small droplets collecting like diamonds on his silver earrings, and his skin shone, even in the grey light. When he grinned down at her, against all her better judgement, Nesta let out a soft, rolling laugh. âYou are certainly in a good mood today.â
He dropped his head, his lips curving against her neck. âI spent the afternoon plotting the death of all those who would dare to take you from me,â he said smoothly, easily. âWhat can I say? It gets the blood flowing.â
Another shiver raced down her spine, entirely independent of the cold, and her entire body locked at the thought of her husband, a hundred miles away and yet still able to turn her blood to ice. Cassianâs hands tightened, his lips pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of her jaw, like he knew exactly where her thoughts had turned, and knew, too, how to bring her back again.
She felt something visceral inside her react, something that made her want to hang on to this - this man, this life - with her fingertips. Perhaps it was the conversation with Gwyn; the reminder of her sisters. Whatever it was, it had some kind of ache building in her chest, a kind of defensive need to hang on through the storm she could sense on the horizon.
Nesta felt herself wavering, but Cassianâs palm slid up her back as he chased her lips for a kiss, his fingers tangling at her nape as he held her tight against his chest.
âThey canât have you,â he murmured. âNot unless you wish it.â
Nesta felt herself nod, her body no longer entirely her own as she ran her fingers along the skin at his collarbone, where the laces of his shirt had loosened just enough to reveal a slice of damp, burnished skin. This - this - was safety, she thought as the gold of her wedding ring caught the dim light. This was freedom.
Cassian dropped his head, pressing his forehead against hers as his fingers moved to lace tightly with her own.
âIt is cold,â he said, his voice a burr against her skin. âCome inside and drink with me.â
With another nod Nesta freed herself from his hold, but she kept their hands entwined as she took a step back and turned to face the hall that stretched behind them both. She took the first step, and as she looked over her shoulder to find him a half-step behind her, she watched the smirk on his face and wondered how it had happenedâ how she had become the one to lead him through the halls of this god-forsaken place.
He smirked again as he watched her, like he had been wondering the same thing.
And when they entered Rhysandâs hall, met with the sound of crackling fire and a hundred voices, Nesta wondered, too, when exactly a place so foreign had started feeling like home.
***
âMuch changed whilst I was gone, I see.â
Azrielâs voice was dry as he slid an oiled cloth over the flat of his blade, his eyes lifting to study the distance between Nestaâs hand and Cassianâs, still linked as Cassian pulled over a stool. Wearing fresh clothes and warmer than she had been before, Nesta felt his fingers escape hers, only to land on her shoulders and guide her down onto the seat heâd procured for her. He said nothing, only squeezed her shoulder once before backing away in search of a stool of his own.
Nesta kept her eyes on Rhysandâs spymaster. She didnât move, didnât flinch. Only held his gaze.
âIndeed,â she said lightly. âYou were bested by a woman, I heard.â
Cassianâs laugh reverberated through her chest as he returned, setting down his stool beside hers with a thud. Azrielâs face was mirthless, his eyes shadowed, and Nesta knew innately that this was a man who did not easily accept being bested, by a woman or not. She thought of Gwyn, so steadfast in the face of upheaval, and wondered how the two of them had managed to survive the journey to Jorvik at all.
âDrop the scowl, brother,â Cassian said smoothly, laughter in his voice. âShe isnât wrong.â
At that, Nesta could have sworn Azrielâs scowl only deepened. Somewhere across the room, as the fire cracked and spit, a bard took up a song in a language Nesta did not understand, and as Cassian called for someone to bring them some ale, she watched the spymaster study them with an intensity that might have made her shift nervously in her seat had she not felt so entirely at ease.
âAnd you?â Azriel said, pinning Cassian with a glare. âHave you told her yet?â
Cassian raised a brow. Nesta tilted her head.
âTold me what?â
A slow, wicked smile spread across her Daneâs face, and suddenly Nesta had no trouble remembering what kind of man this was; how ruthless and how cunning he could be. He leaned back a little, stretched like a cat in the sun. Entirely confident, entirely at ease. He tipped his head back, baring the skin at his neck as he let out a slow, deep hum.
âHavenât you heard, sweetheart?â he drawled, giving her a wink that reminded her of all the times heâd teased her beforeâ before she was his, before Jorvik had become comfortable. âAll of East Anglia is aflame with the rumour that youâre hanging from the rafters in some dungeon or other.â
Nesta turned on him, her eyes widened. Cassian could barely contain his laughter, his eyes dancing as they roved over her, from the braids at her temple to the silver brooch at her collar, lingering on her neck, where heâd pressed a hundred kisses the night before. Each and every one a sign of devotion, of reverence, that seemed to make it all the more amusing for him as he tipped his head back and laughed again, the sound so rich it felt like a sin just to hear it.
âAnd you think it funny?â Nesta pressed.
He met her eyes and bit his lip to keep that laughter from bursting out of his chest.
âIt is funny, love.â
Nesta rolled her eyes as Cassian clapped Azriel on the back as his brother-in-arms rose to his feet. Across the hall, another Dane - a boy, really - had signalled to the spymaster, and Nesta watched as Azriel inclined his head in a silent command for the boy to wait outside.
âFetch her another drink, Az! Havenât you heard that those god-forsaken heathens have been treating her so terribly?â
He raised his own cup, like a toast. Silently Azriel disappeared, and though the noise of the hall was deafening, each and every one of Nestaâs senses was fixed only on the Dane left by her side, like he had somehow became a fixed point in her universe, a port she kept returning to.
âHas it been dreadful for you, my love?â His eyes sparked, bright enough to rival the fire in the centre of the hall. His face was close to hers, his voice dipping low enough that only she could hear. âIs it so awful, to have a Norseman on his knees for you night after night?â
Nesta only brushed him aside, tilted her head as she fixed the Dane with a stare. With effort, she ignored the way her skin tightened at his words, at how her blood started to race at the sound of his voice.
âAnd so?â she said, clearing his throat as she straightened her spine. âWhat is your plan?â
He grinned again, like they were conspirators and confidantesâ not two people from such different walks of life that enmity had been all but guaranteed. It was not lost on Nesta that he pulled her closer, hooking his foot around the leg of her stool the way he had done once before, when they were in this same hall, playing a game of strategy. And what was this, but yet another game?
His eyes were pinned to her lips, hunger in his gaze, and oh, yes, this was a game.
A game Nesta would relish in playing.
âOur plan,â he purred, âis to lure Alfred north with the promise of rescuing a hapless damsel in distress.â
She leaned closer, her eyes on his, daring him to look away. Flatly, she asked,
âAnd what of said damsel in distress?â
He snorted. âSince she is neither a damsel nor in distress, I think it is her prerogative to proceed however she sees fit.â
Nestaâs heart hammered in her chest. Freedomâ it was offered to her on a platter, and all she had to do was take it. Smoothly, she pulled the ring from her finger. The one Tomas had given to her at the altar. The one that marked her as property, little more than a collar binding her to a master.
âSend it to Alfred,â she said as she pressed it into Cassianâs waiting fingers. âSo there is no uncertainty.â
His face was lit with a cruel, merciless smile. His fingers closed around the ring, his eyes dark as he scanned her face again. âShall I dip it in blood, first?â
Nesta rolled her eyes. âDo with it what you wish,â she shrugged. âI donât want to see it again.â
Cassian nodded, tilting his face towards hers. It was an invitation, an offering, and Nesta reached out and steadied her hand on his thigh as he tucked her wedding ring into his pocket and used his free hand to pull her closer. His fingers danced along her wrist first, skating higher, until he reached her shoulder and could push her braid back over her shoulder. His eyes were ravenous, his cheeks as flushed as her own. In his throat, Nesta could see his pulse hammer beneath his skin, and God, she wanted to press a kiss to that throat. To feel his blood running beneath her lips and know that he was at her commandâ a man so ruthless, so bloodthirsty, so unafraid of taking what he wanted.
Hers.
This man was hers.
This time, she was the first to press her lips to his. His hand tightened at her shoulder, shifting until it rounded her neck. With his other hand he drew her legs across his thighs, leaving her half seated in his lap. It was scandalous, it was brazen, and it would have been the end of her in Wessex. But as Cassian kissed her with abandon, Nesta found she no longer cared for anything but the way his body moved against hers; all the promises he laid at her feet with every pass of his tongue against her own.
At some point, Nesta had stopped breathing.
And then, as swiftly as it had startedâ
âNews from the South.â
Rhysandâs voice rang out through the hall, the lord who had been absent suddenly standing in the centre of the room, thunder in his features as his voice echoed so loudly it brought an end to everything. Rhysandâs eyes trailed across the room until he found Cassian. In one hand he raised a piece of parchment.
A letter.
Behind him, Azriel slipped silently back into the room, and suddenly Nesta understood. The boyâ the Dane who had signalled to the spymaster had come bearing news. Slowly, Cassianâs hand fell away from Nestaâs thigh, leaving shivers in his wake.
Rhysand tossed the letter onto a table with disgust writ large across his features.
âAlfred comes back north,â he announced, stone-faced and cold. âWe prepare for war.â
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A/N: it's time for more Welsh Cassian and Victorian Nessian shenanigans! More yearning! The consequences of Cassian's concepts of a plan! And and extra special gift for @unhealthyfanobsession! I hope you enjoy this chapter, especially the callback to one of your favorite reformed rakes.
Nesta
Nesta takes a moment for herself, closing her eyes and focusing on her breathing. In out in out. If she listens closely, she can almost make out the sounds of the kitchen staff working, swears she can hear the soft sounds of the piano from her sister in the drawing room. But it's all quiet in this hallway. It's just her, alone, and the large door she can't quite bring herself to open.
She knows what's waiting for her on the other side of that door.
Her father may have been willing to be dismissive the last time they spoke, may have merely sighed his displeasure when she voiced her refusal at being wed to Lord Tomas Mandray. But she knows it can't last forever. She knows that it's not just her father waiting in his study for her this time, but also her mother.
And no one tells Elinor Archeron no.
Least of all her eldest daughter.
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ho ho ho - it's me, your secret Santa! @jsmelodies I had so much fun writing this and I can't wait to see what you think! part 2 coming asap!! thank you as always to @acotargiftexchange for organizing such a fun event <3
Summary: When Nesta runs into an old friend holiday shopping in the city, little does she know she'll be doing a lot more than saving his new number to her phone...
Read on AO3 here!
Nesta was on her way back to the 7 train, carefully juggling her bags while trying not to whack anyone with them, when a tall, broad-shouldered man cut into her path. She had to swing her left arm in a truly ridiculous arc not to hit him, and all of her patience suddenly and completely evaporated on the spot. âAre you fucking kidding meââ
The man spun around with his mouth already open, like he was just as ready to argue as she was, but then Nesta did a double take as she suddenly recognized him. His brown skin, curly hair, and hazel eyes abruptly shifted from Tourist Asshole Stranger into a face sheâd know anywhere, and Nesta cut herself off so she could say his name instead. âCassian?â
âNesta?â Cassian replied, seemingly as confused as she was. That confusion quickly disappeared in favor of a huge smile, and he reached out to scoop her into a massive hug, shopping bags be damned. âI havenât seen you in forever!â
If it had been anyone else, Nesta would have found a million excuses to sidestep the hug, but it was Cassian. Theyâd been good friends in high school, but theyâd grown apart as college and adulting and just life in general had gotten in the way. Nesta hadnât seen him in years, and she certainly wasnât expecting to run into him in Midtown Manhattan of all places.
âItâs good to see you,â she told him honestly, doing her best to return his hug despite all the stuff she was holding. He squeezed her one last time before letting go, and sheâd be lying if she said she didnât miss his warmth immediately. âWhat are you doing here?â