Tentatively, you raise your hand to knock on the door. 

And pause. 

Your fingers are trembling faintly, a cool shiver sweeping down the length of your spine, a cold sweat beginning to prickle up from beneath your skin. 

You knock, lightly. 

Shadows dip at the handle, bringing the door open.

Hazel eyes glance away from the partially opened window, a cool morning breeze circulating through the room while watery autumn sunlight warms the floorboards. There’s a smell of dew in the air, along with something vaguely smokey and fresh, and it nips at your throat. You tug your sleeves a little lower over your gloves—made to conceal your skin, not keep them warm. 

“Are you…are you free to talk?” You ask, stood hesitantly on the threshold. 

“Sure.” He nods. “Have a seat.” 

You give only a small delay, space enough for a breath to pass in between moments, one that would have gone unnoticed by human minds and eyes. Then you’re covering the distance between you, taking a seat in the armchair that’s been pushed to accommodate longer visits to his bed. You try to take your time in organising yourself in the seat, making sure your skirts are flat and unwrinkled; sat evenly on the chair; split between facing directly forward as the seat would have you, or angling yourself to face him; but it’s all belied with that sense of hurry you get around him that causes your fingers to fumble and shake, for your heart to start a butterfly-flutter in your chest, throat tightening from being in his presence. 

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, hands settling in your lap, pinching lightly at the fabric to give yourself something to hold on to. You struggle to look at him, keeping your gaze averted. 

“…how are you?” You ask. 

Sheets rustle and you can hear the quiet shift of the wooden beams before he answers. “Good.” 

Toes cross in your socks, teeth tugging at the interior of your lip. “How…” —you swallow past the shudder in your chest— “Will you be up again, soon?” You ask, shifting in the chair. Eyes glance to the bedside table, peering at it for the sake of looking somewhere. 

“A few more days,” he replies, sounding as if he’s uncommitted to the time frame given. A fresh breeze rolls in through the open window, curtains wafting with the wind, and you hold down a shiver, pulling yourself tighter to keep warm. Fresh air’s probably good, right? 

“How are you?” He asks. 

“Good. Good,” you reply, nodding your head gently. “Up and about.” 

Another breeze enters, and the curtains swish against the wallpaper, scraping faintly against the vaguely abrasive texture. A book rests on the table, the edges faded yellow and for a second it strikes you how strange it is that there might not be a spell to prevent ageing. Perhaps he prefers the worn edges, though. You can imagine how they’d rasp against your fingertips. Like thousands of tiny cuts. 

“Feyre mentioned you were sick a lot, when you first woke up,” you say into your lap. 

“A bit.”

“But it’s over now?” You ask.

“It’s over.”

“Good. Good.” You nod your head faintly. “That's— I’m glad.” 

A glass of water is beside his bed, along with a candle that’s dripped wax over its silver holder, carefully welded vines making up the handle, small flowers flourishing around the rim. Lilies.

A leather-bound notebook rests beside the novel, a pencil set straight atop it, the tip worn down and blunt. 

“I heard your conversation with Mor,” he says, and your eyes flit away from the table, peering at your lap. You nod. 

“From a few days ago?” He prompts, and you nod again. He sighs. “It was good that you took initiative. Maybe a bit too soon, but she’ll need some time to process what happened.” 

You nod, accepting each slice across your skin. He’s known her for much longer than he has you, and he’s loved her. The blessed moments when you forget those unreachable likes of his only make the moments you’re reminded more staggeringly painful. Of course he’ll be on her side. But would it be so difficult to…

Don’t I deserve a little affection? 

“Why did you…” you falter over save, disagreeing with its narrative. Lick your lips.

Just a small bit of care? 

“Why?” You ask, looking at him. Tone rising at the end.

…please…

The bandages are clean across his middle torso, obscuring fractions of the ink on his chest where they curl beneath the wrappings. You know exactly where the wound lies, despite not having had the time to really study it when it happened. Just knowing it sits opposite the tiny scratch over your heart, formed into a scar. So tiny nobody would spot it unless they knew to look. 

“Instinct, I suppose,” he answers after the quiet passes. 

“Instinct,” you repeat, a touch faintly. You don’t know what you’d been expecting, but that makes enough sense. Maybe you’d at least been wondering if it was something more emotional than that. At least an, I couldn’t let you die. But instinct will do. Blind, indifferent instinct.

“Have you spoken with Rhys?” He asks after a pause. 

“We spoke in the kitchen a couple of days ago. …he said I should speak with you…?” 

“Okay,” he nods, waiting patiently. You blink, unsure where to put your eyes. You don’t know what Rhys had wanted you to visit him for. No idea if it was to try and clear up the mess that’s tangled itself between you and the male on the bed; whether he just wanted you to take the first step in improving something, to clear the air, to get things on the mend? 

“Would it help if I asked you some questions?” He prompts tentatively. 

You flush, lips parting slightly as you peer down into your lap, fingers pinching your skirts to keep out their tremble. You’re not…speaking about what happened; the arrow; the deep darkness that’s been cloying at your mind for the past few months… Years… 

But if it’s going to be anyone, it’s going to be him. 

Your lip is pulled between your teeth, blunt enamel prodding at the full flesh of the interior of your mouth. The idea of speaking about it…why you aimed the arrow at yourself…a lot of it wraps around him in a way. So if you’re going to share that with anyone…  

Lungs shake when you inhale quietly, but you manage to sit a little straighter, steadying yourself. You have to learn to take the first step.

All you have to do is answer. And be honest.

“Yeah.” You nod, swallowing. “Okay.”

“Alright.” He nods. “We can go slowly, to start off. I would appreciate answers, but if you aren’t ready, tell me so and we can move on.” 

Your heart thunders in your chest, but you agree, gloved fingers twining together in your lap, legs crossing themselves apprehensively. But slow, and easy breaths. Keeping calm, and steady. Answering as truthfully as you can bear.

“Okay,” he says, “what can you do with your magic now?” 

You nod a little to yourself, swallowing, “…I think, sometimes, I can…I mean, I think I can bring it out by myself sometimes now?” He nods encouragingly. “…it didn’t hurt the last time it came out. I hardly even noticed it, actually, compared with how it was before.” 

“And when was the last time it came out?” 

“Oh…” you falter, quieting. “Yesterday. With Mor.” 

“With Mor?” 

“We had a…an argument, I think,” you answer, wanting to shrink into the floor.

“What happened?” 

You fumble, there. “Can we…can you ask something else?” 

“Okay.” He nods. “I can ask Mor, if that would be easier?” Your lips part, glancing at him in surprise before your eyes flit away again. “I…we just bumped into each other after dinner, and she…she asked why I went to…” You trail off, shifting uneasily in your seat. 

“Did you tell her?” 

“We spoke about it…yes,” you hedge, peering into your lap. 

“That’s great,” he says, voice sounding softer than before, and you look at him hesitantly. “You should have mentioned that to start with. I can speak with her about it, when she comes round. If you come back tomorrow we can clear up anything left out. Will you be okay with that?” 

You nod, unable to do much else as you attempt to digest and process what’s happening. 

Please ask.

Hazel eyes glimmer faintly and his mouth softens, as if trying to show he’s proud with you for managing the conversation. “Was that fine for you?” He asks, watching you quietly while thousands of tiny eruptions occur beneath your skin. You manage a nod. 

He glances at the clock mounted on the dresser pushed against the far wall. “I think Feyre mentioned you’ve been seeing Madja around ten, haven’t you?” He asks, and again you manage a nod, not really thinking about the occurrences. 

Please don’t leave it here. 

“She’s been keeping an eye on me, yes. Making sure everything’s working right.” Your voice is distant to your ears, feeling as though you’re being pulled back into your skull, watching from somewhere further away. 

Ask me. Please.

“Ah. Have they been okay for you?” He asks, and you nod your head. “Fine.” 

He nods. “Then I won’t keep you any longer.” 

You stare at him through the surreal moment. 

Show me you care. Even a little bit. 

But he doesn’t, so you stand, watching distantly as your skirts swish over the floor, and you turn to leave, feet carrying you to the door, obeying the dismissal. Heart feeling as though it’s being squeezed. A heavy pressure crushing down on your chest. It’s only when you reach the threshold that you pause, something making it impossible to leave without…

You turn. 

“Is it a deliberate choice?” You ask, voice shaking, hands curling in your skirts. He looks at you patiently, waiting for you to elaborate. “Are you—… Are you choosing not to ask me why I want to die, or has the thought plainly not crossed your mind?” You try to hold his gaze, but your heart fumbles, and you look away before you can even count to two. A hot wetness drips down your cheek. 

“I hadn’t though you’d want to tell me,” he answers. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” You ask before you can think. “You were the only one who was there. Who saw how it happened. Why wouldn’t you be perfect to speak to?” 

He pauses, but you can’t bring yourself to be embarrassed over the vulnerable wording. “I don’t think you should make me the person you go to for that kind of solace,” he answers at last. “I don’t wish to give you reason to believe me the best choice for that.” 

“Who else?” You ask, staring at him. “Who else can I go to?” 

“Your sisters will always be there. I’m sure they want you to go to them. So don’t share with me that part of yourself. They’re the ones who have been there for you.” 

“How can I expect them to understand? They weren’t there.” 

“And you think that I’ll understand? That I do understand?” 

“Yes.” 

He shakes his head; is the first one to look away. “You can’t expect them to know what you feel if you haven’t even tried speaking with them about it. You’re cutting them off before you’ve even given them a chance.” Hurt aches across your chest—you want to speak with him. Want more than anything to have that shared moment between the both of you. 

You open your mouth, but he looks at you again, beating you to it. “Speak with them first,” he says firmly, his features set. “If you try honestly speaking with them, giving them the chance to look after you…and if that doesn’t work, if you feel they haven’t understood you as you need them to,” he continues, making it impossible for you to look away from him, caught up in the connection. “Then I will speak with you. You may tell me about whatever you like, what you’re reading; how your day was; anything that has taken or caught your interest, be it from the Night Court, the Autumn Court, or anywhere else in our realm. But give them a chance first.” 

Your jaw is trembling lightly, a delicate heat simmering in your flesh as a cool sweat slides down your spine, overwhelmed and quietly trying to keep up. 

Again you open your mouth, but again he speaks before you do. “And I know you’ll instinctively want to speak with Elain, but you always pick her first. Nesta has been through what you are going through, or at least something similar,” he says, watching you with an expression you can only call imploring. “Speak with her.” 

You’re too stunned to reply, left staring at him silently. 

It’s probably the most you’ve heard him say. The most the two of you have spoken so intently without the conversation taking a sharp plummet. 

You barely manage a nod of your head before you acquiesce, then you’re turning from him, carefully bringing the door to a close, heading for your room while the conversation circles through your mind. 

————

Slim, pale fingers latch through the delicate ceramic of the teacup’s handle, thin and elegant, easily broken with an application of force, requiring careful handling. It’s a temptation Feyre resists every time she picks one up, refusing the urge to press her fingers together and snap the thin bone-like curve. How many things had she accidentally shattered after first turning? How many spoons had she inadvertently bent? 

She supposes it doesn’t matter now, but the urge is still there, stronger than usual. 

The two females are sat in the parlour, a fine silver tray perched between them on a dark-wood table with ornate swirls carved into its edges and swirling up its legs. A few pastries sit untouched on a finely decorated plate, a carafe of cool cream at the edge, three flavours of jam contained to glass pots that fit nicely to the dip of one’s palm. The sugar pot remains undisturbed upon the tray, its short, golden shovel tucked deep within the sweetened grains, nestled beneath and awaiting use. 

“Were you aware of it?” Feyre asks, raising the teacup to her lips, basking in the wet heat that’s rising from the steamy liquid. Across from her, Mor is cupping her own drink, heated and steaming like Feyre’s, idly swirling the thin spoon to stir in the milk. 

“No,” Mor answers honestly, gazing down at the swirl of her tea, clasped between her hands. Red nails squeaking faintly across the porcelain. 

“You had no right to tell her any of that,” Feyre says quietly, watching her friend from over the rim of her cup, before glancing down, and taking a sip, testing out the heat. Too hot. She takes another sip, feeling the tingling singe of pain as the scalding liquid trickles down. 

“I know,” Mor agrees, also looking at her tea. “I didn’t mean to.” 

“Didn’t you?” 

Blue-grey eyes are watching keenly, a sharp wildness glinting just at their edge, one that’s been surfacing more and more as of late. Everything seems to have such unfortunate timing. A damn filling up to its maximum capacity, before breaking. Mor meets her High Lady’s gaze steadily, unwavering. “I didn’t.” 

The connection remains unfaltering, each not wanting to look away, one for the sake of appearing mistrustful, and the other for the sake of appearing too forgiving. 

“What do you think it is?” Feyre asks at last, and the two mutually avert their eyes. 

“I don’t know,” Mor answers quietly. “It doesn’t feel good, though.” 

Feyre sends a sharp glare in Mor’s direction, but her red lips purse. “You felt it, too,” Mor points out. 

“Briefly.” 

“And it set you on edge, too.” 

“I also only came into contact with magic a few years ago. Don’t give me excuses.” 

“I’m telling you the truth,” Mor grits out, raising amber eyes from her pale mug. “I hardly noticed it  having an affect until you appeared.” 

“Because you were too caught up in all the emotions you wanted to unload onto my sister.”

“I’m not trying to make you pick sides,” Mor says carefully. 

“Good. Then don’t.” 

“You know it’s a tender wound,” she whispers, lowering her mug. “It shouldn’t have come out like it did, but it hurts.”

“You know what else hurts, Mor?” 

The rest of that sentence lies unspoken between them. 

Feyre knows she’s being unfair, that she clearly is picking a side. But she’s speaking as Mor’s friend, and also a sister. Not as High Lady. 

Mor once again raises her eyes to Feyre’s blue-grey set, putting every ounce of sincerity, and truth she can find within herself behind her amber eyes. “I wasn’t myself,” Mor whispers, fingers paling from their grip on the cup. “I don’t know what happens with her magic, but it’s influential, even on me.” 

“You want me to let this slide, then?” Feyre questions, her jaw set but there’s an obvious conflict in her eyes. Neither of them are enjoying this fallout. 

“No,” Mor concedes, looking away. “My actions are my own, and I agree I went too far. But you felt it, too. You know what I’m talking about, Feyre.” The two females share a look. “Madja’s going to be here to check up on her soon, isn’t she?” Mor asks, earnestly. 

“Every day, at ten o’clock.” 

“Ask her to give her own opinion. What it feels like,” Mor urges. “I know my anger, I know how I hurt, and I don’t lose myself like that.” 

Feyre’s lips are pursed, her brow pinched. Fatigue lines beneath her eyes, the stress of a newborn unavoidable, even with all the support being offered. It’s not easy for her. For anyone. 

Not easy to deal with everything else, either. Not to mention a sister who apparently wants to die, on top of all that.

There’s so much to think about…it’s inevitable a mistake will be made. 

“I’ll mention it to Madja.” Feyre relents, drinking deeply from her tea, savouring the hot liquid on her tongue. “Maybe she can offer some insight to what’s going on.” 

Insight. If only it were available for the mountain pile of other problems plaguing their lives. That might crumble into an avalanche, if they aren’t careful. 

————

“It’s good to see you again,” Madja greets, her round face smiling as she enters your chambers. “How have you been?” 

You manage a reciprocating smile, hands tucking together in your lap as you shift on the bed. “I’m good, for the most part anyway.” 

“For the most part?” She questions, taking a seat, and you toe off your slippers to settle properly against the pillows. “I…my magic flared up a little yesterday,” you admit, glancing at your toughened, flaky skin. “It didn’t hurt like it usually does; I hardly felt it. Though I was a little carried away…” 

Madja nods gently. “Yes, Feyre mentioned something about that.” You look up at the healer with raised brows. “…she did?” 

“She requested I look into it, if I could; it’s something I would like to discuss with you, before we start with the checkup,” she tells you clearly, that gentle look in her eyes that helps keep you at ease. 

Your tongue flicks over your lips, but you agree. 

“Your sister spoke of your magic feeling deathly,” Madja begins. “I’d like to see if there are any abnormalities that appear while it is in use—if you think you can manage that?” 

“You’d like me to… You want me to intentionally use it?” You question, a hint of fear creeping into your voice. “I don’t know…I…” 

“If you’re worried about it getting out of control, or that you might injure me, I will remind you that I am a healer,” she says solemnly. “And if you are still concerned, I can tell you that your sister and I agreed it might be better if the High Lord were present, should anything get out of hand. He is available should you wish for that reassurance.” 

Something sinks in your chest—you’d forgotten Madja is their healer, that she is theirs more than  she is yours. She’s just doing her job. 

“I…I should be able to do it on my own,” you hedge, looking at your palms. Nobody else can see how ugly your skin is. Your sisters…Madja…technically Azriel too, though he hasn’t seen it now that it’s crawled up your arms…you don’t want to have that humiliation with anyone else than you must. “If that’s okay with you?” You check, looking at her. 

Madja smiles, nodding her head. “That is fine by me. Whenever you’re ready.” 

Teeth worry the interior of your lip, but you splay your hands out, palms tipped upward as you recall their tingle, gathering what you can remember and bringing it to the tips of your fingers. There’s no more than a slight itch beneath your skin. 

It comes easier to you that it has done before, and you can’t help the breath of ease that slips into your lungs. Before it had felt stunted, like it was trying to squeeze a full, fleshy body through a windowpane of jagged glass, slicing itself as it attempted to crawl out. But now… “There’s no pain…” 

You stare down at the faint green glow, the golden shine at the edge of your skin. You could simply push, and— The light brightens, filling your flesh and shining from your knuckles, hands encompassed in the strong light. 

Madja opens her hands, fingers splayed as she approaches you gently, before you feel a slight company. Something else joining you. You try to push toward it, in the direction of her magic so she can examine it better, like you do when offering your hands, shifting yourself so she can better access them. 

Madja nods, and you let the magic recede back into your body, curling itself up into a peaceful rest. “I’m going to check your torso now, please hold still.” Her hands open over your body, palm settling firmly over your rib cage, that tingling warmth sinking into your skin. Her brows narrow. “You’re going to feel a brief surge of heat…” she murmurs, eyes closed in concentration. 

Sure enough, there’s a small spike in temperature, and a slight sting in the aftermath but it fades swiftly enough. Her palms inch over a bit, slowly making their way across your stomach, fingertips still faintly hot with power as she continues with the checkup. You keep yourself as relaxed as possible but your heart is beating faster than usual at the discovery.

“Another quick surge,” she murmurs, and you nod despite her eyes being closed. You feel a small ball of tension popping along with a careful, targeted burst of heat. You ease a full breath into your lungs. 

Her brows furrow as she settles her palms over the base of your sternum. “Will you activate your magic again?” She requests, voice faint while she concentrates. You do as she says, unspooling it again, and the heat of her palms intensifies in response to your own. “Can you bring it into your body? Away from your hands?” She asks, and your brows furrow. You’ve never tried to manipulate its centre before…but you can try now. 

Your eyes flutter shut, easing back incrementally into the bed, allowing the power to prickle up your arms, crawling between the bones, wrapping around your shoulders…the two of you recoil at the same time, though you flinch from the sting of pain that splits down your spine; lacerating across your chest; through your lungs, while Madja’s retreat is from shock. The corners of her mouth are slack. Her eyes dark. 

“I’m sorry,” you say frantically, trying to sit upright, “I didn’t mean— Are you okay? Did it get you?” 

Madja looks at your torso, then at her hands. Then she’s settling her palms back atop your ribs. “Will you repeat that?” 

You pause, looking at her as she gently guides you to lay back in the bed. “Madja…I’m not sure…are you okay?” 

“I’m very well,” she replies with a smile, voice as soft and smooth as it usually is. Carefully curated to put you at ease. “I saw something that I should examine in more detail, if that’s possible. Will you repeat it?” 

You look at her, lost. Concerned. Helpless. You swallow. “Okay…” 

Your lids slide shut, and you reach for the power again, feeling as Madja’s warmth begins seeping into your torso, filtering through your vessel as heat begins rising in a steeper intensity to your surface, as if being called to one place by her magic. Again, you own power sprawls itself across your palms, dragging itself higher, slinking between bone and muscle, threading itself through sinew and cartilage until it reaches your shoulders, and…

“Try and hold it steady,” Madja tells you, the heat from her hands amplifying at the peak, just as you power curls itself to strike down from your shoulders. 

Your throat shuts, eyes squeezed closed as you attempt to grapple with it, hands balled into fists as perspiration breaks on your brow. Trying to keep it from lashing at your internals, causing that familiar, piercing pain. 

“I want you to try pushing it back to your hands now,” she instructs, but you’re struggling enough as it is. Barely keeping it contained. You need to breathe. 

Madja releases her magic over your torso, and the weight of your power increases, your body straining beneath the tension when she removes that blanket that had been between you and this blazing magic. But then both her hands are firmly gripping your own, and you can feel as it filters through you, prying the pain away, dragging it back down into your forearms, then your palms, and eventually your fingertips, until it’s dissipated entirely. 

You inhale heavily, breathing ragged as you try to calm yourself. “What…what was that…?” 

Madja’s quiet, thumbs stroking carefully over your knuckles, keeping her magic to a faint pulse so she doesn’t upset your skin. “Will you breathe with me?” She asks. “Deep breath in…hold…one, two, three…slowly exhale…” She makes you repeat the process thrice before deeming your pulse to be relatively calmed. She offers you the glass of water that’s always sat by your bed, never draining, and you take a few sips to appease her, then a few more. A couple of small gulps, before handing it back to her. 

You lick your lips, finding them hot and crisp. 

She looks at you solemnly. “I would like to ask you a few questions about your magic, if you feel right enough to manage,” she tells you calmly. “I would like you to answer with as much clarity as you can. It’s imperative you’re truthful and don’t hide anything. Are you alright with that?” 

You stare at her, bewildered—where has this come from? Is it serious? Are you going to die? Is it going to be painful? Will you know when it happens? Or will you have no warning. Is it happening now? About to?

You inhale sharply, deeply, breaking out of those thoughts. Exhaling heavily, before managing to nod. 

“How long have you known you’ve had magic?” Madja starts with. 

“…I think maybe two months? I can’t remember exactly how long ago it was that I first realised what was happening…” 

“Perfect. And can you tell me what made you first realise you had magic?” 

“I think it was when…I had an altercation with someone, and felt upset and angry. My hands were glowing.” 

“Great. I believe you’ve mentioned a feeling that accompanies your magic?” 

“Yes. …It used to hurt a lot, but recently hasn’t? The past few times, at least. Not while it’s been in my hands, anyway.” 

“Lovely, you’re doing well,” she smiles. “You sister mentioned a deathly feeling to those around you, have you ever noticed that?” 

“No. No, not a deathly feeling. I had no idea it felt like that for other people.” 

“Okay, can you tell me how it feels for you?” 

“It’s…it used to be like burning? My fingers and hands would hurt a lot. They would sweat, and I would feel dizzy some nights…I used to get up to drown my hands in water, when it started.” 

Madja nods, her brows furrowed faintly as she listens carefully—believing you. Your heart tightens, and you avert your gaze. 

“And all of that has been happening over the past two months or so?” She inquires. 

“Well, no…I…” you pause, trying to grapple with your memory, get it into a coherent, linear form. “I’ve…I experienced the sweats, and nausea, and dizziness a lot when I first…after the…when we came to Prythian,” you answer. Madja nods her head encouragingly, and you wet your lips. “Sleeping was difficult, and it lasted for a few months before I could be normal again…I think we each had our own…moments, after the Cauldron.” 

“But you didn’t experience any feelings similar to what you now know is your magic?” She asks, offering you the full glass of water, that you sip from again. Hand it back. “No. Those have only been in the past couple of months.” 

Madja pauses in thought, her round face tightened as she thinks, though she doesn’t look unkind, or stern. She still looks like Madja. Then she looks up again, her warm brown eyes softened, an intent look on her face. “And how have you been feeling?” 

“Me? I...” You trail off, unsure how to answer. “I’ve…been reading a lot…?” 

She smiles, “that’s lovely, but I mean how have you been feeling internally?” 

Her lips twitch when your brows furrow in question, looking at her strangely. “You’ve been telling me about your physical senses, tell me about how you’ve been feeling these past few months. I can imagine it might be scary to go through this?” 

“Oh…I suppose…” 

“You sound unsure,” Madja speculates, “do you not feel fear is an accurate descriptor?” 

“I mean, I’ve been scared when it happens, naturally. It hurts, and I don’t know what causes it, or how long it will last, so I suppose in those moments it is scary.”

“But the rest of the time?” Madja prompts. “I understand you were staying up in the House of Wind, by yourself for the most part. Do you like being alone?” 

“I guess I do,” you hedge, “I don’t…there wasn’t really anywhere else to go. And I liked having my own space up there, so I think it worked well. Plus I could access the libraries, so I enjoyed that part a lot.” 

“You’re a big reader,” she smiles, nodding her head. “What do you like to read?” 

“Mostly whatever I can find, but I like the books that tell me more about the world. There’s a lot of information I never would have gotten access to as a human, like the different climates in each of the courts, some small accounts of what it’s like overseas, where the food we eat comes from too which I find particularly intriguing. The plants and flowers are engaging too—you can see correlations between the flora and fauna distinct to each court and the characteristics they each exhibit, which I find fascinating.” 

Madja’s smile broadens as she nods her head, eyes twinkling. “I remember first learning about their benefits, how different plants have certain properties too. Often plants endemic to the Dawn Court are the most potent, and it’s where we import a lot of the ingredients for medicine from.” 

“Yes! I remember reading about that! But that sometimes the riversides and shores struggle with overgrowth, and measures are made to make sure seeds don’t spread too far. I remember reading too about the animals there—that a lot of them seem more jovial, compared to their relations in other courts.” 

Madja’s smiling so wide you can see her teeth, one of her canines is slightly twisted inward, and the teeth on her lower jaw are a little crooked in places. You can’t see anything wrong with them—they’re just hers. 

“And who else do you tell all of this?” She asks, “I imagine you would have read a lot over the course of your time here so far, who do you share all of it with?” 

“I don’t…really,” you say, trailing off. “I don’t mind though. I love reading.” 

“Elain enjoys botany too, doesn’t she?” 

“Yes, but to the extent that she can have, I suppose. She has a garden that she keeps alive, and she bakes, too. They’re similar interests but they ultimately lead in different directions.” 

“So you don’t speak with anyone about what you enjoy?” Madja asks, and you blink, fumbling a little. 

“I…I choose not to, so it’s fine,” you assure. “I like reading. And I speak with Azriel about…” You wet your lips, voice fading. “I mean when I was up in the House of Wind…we spoke a lot more.” 

Madja’s watching you quietly, listening to what you have to say. It feels like she’s expecting you to continue, and you don’t want it to be quiet, for the conversation to halt its flow, so you think of something to say. “We spoke a lot more…back then…” 

“Has something changed?” She asks. 

You look down into your lap, feeling a little far off. Distant. Not entirely present. 

“I like his company…” you say vaguely, “but he’s busy, and hardworking. …and I don’t think he…” Your lips curl at the edges like dried leaves tend to beneath the sun, then they seal together. “I think he finds me a bother, at times.” 

Madja’s quiet, but you can’t bring yourself to continue. Silence falls. 

“Can you tell me how long you’ve been feeling that way?” She asks gently, allowing pause for you to recollect yourself, should you wish. “I think a few months,” you murmur. 

“And can you tell me why you think he finds you bothersome?” Madja asks. 

Your lips part by a fraction, a small gap opening between the centre of your upper and lower lip, then you’re closing them again. “I…I make bad choices, quite a lot,” you answer quietly. “And I…I don’t make it easy to be around.”

“I think your company is lovely,” Madja says softly, palm resettling over your hand, drawing your attention back outward. “What makes you think you’re difficult to be around?” 

You open your mouth to give your answer, but your throat tightens sharply, lips forcefully being dragged down in the corners, and you crumple back into the bed. “I am,” you insist, eyes growing hot, then squeezing shut when they blur. “I don’t know how…I don’t know how to be normal around him. I feel like every time we speak I make it so obvious…and he doesn’t like it…and I just…” 

You pull your hands away from hers to try and hide your face, to push the tears away as they fall heavily. “I wish I hadn’t tried to tell him what I…how I felt for him. I never should have…”

“Does how you’re feeling right now have any reason to do with why I was tasked with looking after you?” Madja asks, voice softened to a tender effect, and you could weep from how believable she sounds. 

“He finds me a nuisance,” you whisper, hot tears dripping down your lowered face, letting them roll down your cheeks to collect at the underside of your jaw, before falling heavily into the crisp linen of the sheets. “I’m always causing him trouble of some kind. All of them.”

Heat wells behind your eyes, wishing you could go back and reorganise events so things wouldn’t have ended up like this. So you wouldn’t have caused him so much trouble, and given him reason to further distrust you. At least before he trusted you enough to give reliable recollections of your sister. If only you could go back to then. 

You could at least have a use. 

Madja’s thumb gently swipes across your knuckles, magic softly seeping from her fingertips. “You’re not a nuisance,” she replies solemnly. “You are not causing them trouble.”

You stare at her with a down-tilted mouth, and tears overflow from your lashes, dripping down your cheeks as your brows bunch, heart aching in your chest as small sobs break through your lungs. “I am,” you cry, head hanging as you try to inhale, but your body takes control of itself when it’s sad, and it’s not giving you chance to breathe. Madja, I am.

“Is this how you’ve been feeling these past few months?” She murmurs, stroking your palm, a hand at your shoulder as you curl your knees up to your chest, pulling them from beneath the duvet. You nod. 

“I thought it might be something like this,” Madja sighs, making you look up questioningly, pushing at the tears so you can better see her. She takes both your hands in her own, and looks into your eyes. “There’s no quick fix to matters of the heart. The way you’re feeling right now, the way you’ve felt in the past, and the lows you’ll experience in the future—I can do very little right now to give ends to those. But what’s going on with your magic, within your body—that we can work on. We can start somewhere familiar, and take steps from there. How does that sound?” 

But despite her good words, you shake your head. “I can’t, Madja,” you whisper. “I don’t want to.” 

“Sometimes you have to,” she says, squeezing your hands. “Do you believe I have any reason to lie to you?” 

You shake your head. 

“Then have faith that I’m telling you the truth: you are not troubling them.”

You watch her, a pained look in your eyes. “I can’t believe that.” 

“Why not?”

“Because, Madja,” you cry. “It doesn’t matter what you say, or what anyone else says. I am convinced. I know it like you know a bone will break under pressure, or that adding sugar to a tea will sweeten it. How I feel is not temporary, or fleeting, it is ceaseless and pervasive; it’s not something you can simply disprove like that—please don’t try to.”

“But in the same way I know a bone will snap with too much force, I know you are not as bad as you think you are.”

“Please, Madja,” you whisper. “If you can’t help me, do me the courtesy of believing me.”

The healer is silent, gripping your hands with her own warm palms, squeezing them gently but firm.  “I do believe you,” she says with conviction. “I believe you because I have seen what you are going through, and I know how you’re feeling is as real as a broken bone, or sweetened tea. But the bone will heal, and the tea will cool—can we both agree on that?” 

You cast your head down, eyes falling to your lap. “I chose poor analogies.” 

Madja thumbs across your knuckles. You can hear the almost sad smile in her voice. “Then I’ll return tomorrow and you can tell me what you’ve come up with.”

———

Outside, the wind bites at your throat, stinging at your nostrils with each inhale, burning on the way out. 

You clasp the scarf tighter around your neck, shoving your hands under your arms as you make the walk down the streets, careful to watch for ice on the cobbles. Winter is a while off yet, but the nights are becoming frigid enough for you to keep an eye out, particularly as the sun hasn’t yet gotten to her point in the sky where she could thaw any frost out. 

Before midday you find blues and purples lurking in the shadows, greens and yellows splashing where the sun spills across the exterior of coloured houses, shop windows shining viciously where the light is hitting just at the right angle to temporarily blind and disorientate. Though an upside of Prythian is the magic that’s infused into the land, sustaining special plants that thrive in this environment: frost lilies that bloom in the coldest months, taking their water from the dew that freezes on their petals over night; moon drops that have a pale, hanging outer shell of short petals that shrivel up and die if faced with an overdose of pure sunlight; the pale pink sprawl of the lengthened, stretching leaves that creep up from the earth between houses and cobble, settling narrow, capillary-like veins spreading across whatever they can cling onto. 

The long walk is enjoyable, despite the intrusive and unpleasant cold. Enough to look at, study, and recognise, to preoccupy your mind from the chill nipping at your skin, even beneath the gloves. By the time you reach the house however, your body is freer flowing, less stiff and disjointed though your extremities remain a little on the numb side, fingertips tingling faintly, and you have to remember to keep wiggling your toes in your shoes. But you’re warm enough you’ll be happy to discard the scarf once you’re inside—if she’s inside. 

Looking where the shadows lie, you would think it’s an hour or so from midday, so Nesta should be in… As far as you know for certain, training is the only activity that might be an obstacle, but that should surely be done by now.

Their house is a relatively new build, but finished enough for them to have moved into soon after their mating ceremony. While remaining naturally a little barren from its short-lived existence, there’re obvious touches already emerging in the patterns and style they’ve opted for, selecting things that catch their eye, taking time to build a home rather than to rush it in a year. 

A window of stained glass sits in a half-circle atop the wooden door, the panels that make up the imagery mostly clear. Dimples ripple in the crystal clear frames, while the neat cuts of coloured glass are smooth and flat, showing off the sprawling petals of a tuft of milk flowers—you realise with vague surprise milk flowers are endemic to the Night Court, but perhaps more interestingly are mostly found in Illyria. Exclusively found, rather. They’re rare, and symbols of endurance, due to the unforgiving and brutal environment they live in, remaining a small beauty amongst the barren rock of mountain. Compared to the wealth of information available on other plants, there’s little recorded about milk flowers, likely due to their habitat up in the Illyrian Steppes. 

You wonder if it’s a subtle way to hold onto Cassian’s history, without brutalising their home with architecture particular to the Illyrians: exhibiting traits expressed as sturdy and practical—an antithesis of that aspiration caught in the elegance of the stained glass. 

Maybe that’s a bit of Nesta’s humour bleeding through. 

You land three knocks to their door, starting with a hard strike to the wood with your knuckles then a sharp decrease in force when pain bleeds through your carpals, the final knock hardly louder than a soft tap, all but giving out entirely. You cradle your hands beneath your arms, regretting the bout of recklessness. 

No noise comes from inside, so you’re startled when the door opens, sharp hazel eyes peering at you from within the relative darkness, watching for a second before the door opens wider and a broad smile breaks across his face. “Well aren’t you far from home,” Cassian chuckles, shoulder keeping the entrance open, “what are you doing all the way out here? On a mission?” 

You swallow, managing a smile, understanding he’s joking but too drained to be believably reciprocative. “Somewhat,” you reply, trying to sound humorous, “is Nesta in, too?” 

“I should have known you’d be here to visit her,” Cassian remarks, sighing into the frame before gesturing for you to come inside. “Come in, I’ll go pull her from her reading.” 

You give an appreciative nod before following in behind him, catching the door as it closes with an oomf, surprised by its heavy weight, knocking you back a step. You gingerly step inside, crouching down to untie the laces of your boots, freeing your socked feet as you push the shoes to the rack before again standing, peering about the entrance hall. The walls are pale, having not yet been painted with whatever colour or wallpaper they’ll eventually settle on. From around the corner you can make out the faint pad of footfalls, and Nesta appears a few seconds later, sharp eyes finding you instantly. She greets you. Asks you why you came. 

You fumble. How does one begin a conversation like this?

“I…haven’t visited in a while,” you end up telling her. “I thought I might come by—if you aren’t busy? It’s not urgent,” you quickly add.

“I’ve nothing planned,” she replies, glancing to where the light is falling on the floor. “It’s a little early for lunch, but I suppose we can begin.” 

“Oh, it’s fine,” you assure, “I don’t think it’ll take long.”

“What will take long?” 

“Nothing,” you affix, blinking once. 

Nesta hums, then turns in the hallway. “Then we can go to the sitting room. It’s still lacking some furniture here and there, just so you know.”  

You nod, forgetting she can’t see you with your head turned, then follow after her as she makes her way down the hallway and to the right, entering through an empty doorway that leads to the living room. She takes a seat in a chair with a dipped pillow, guessing it was where she’d been before you interrupted. You take a seat adjacent. 

Ataraxia lays upon the table like a discarded shopping list, except much bigger, and much deadlier. 

“So,” Nesta muses, “what did you want to speak with me about?” 

——————————————————————————————————————————————

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