#future neris

Taking even himself by surprise, once the mass of most eager and hopeful participants had dispersed, Eris had scribbled something on the piece of parchment tied to one of the colourful lanterns, and holding his mother’s arm, who had approached him silently but with a smile speaking volume on her face, he had watched it disappear, headed towards a place where humidity would’ve smeared the ink and erased all traces of his weak heart.

When he had peeled his gaze off the brightly lit firmament, ready to wish his mother goodnight before she could return to her chambers with his father and brothers, Eris had encountered an a pair of intrigued yet icy eyes, whose owner had now joined the other females in their dance under the crackling lanterns in a rare burst of carefreeness, the nine-foot-tall statue of the Mother watching over her with a good-natured gaze, as if enjoying the delight the celebrations brought to her favourite daughter. For the occasion, Nesta had ditched her usual crown braid in favour of an evergreen wreath, an entwine of yew, holly, and mistletoe a noble youngling she had entertained the previous night with tales of glorious battles and moonlit masquerades had gifted her. Despite the festive atmosphere, there were quite a few people peeking furtively, some in apprehension, some in disdain or even fear, at her hair of burnished gold, loose on her naked shoulders and adorned with dozen bells jingling with her every movement. She seemed unbothered, the sound of her laughter lost among the lively rhythm of the percussion and the exuberant notes of the accordion, the prove of its existence painted on her plump lips stained of berry juice. Her velvet dress, whose design belonged to no Court in particular, twirled around her slim ankles every time she was dragged into a pirouette by one of her companions, the young warriors all so different from each other and yet united in reclaiming the space they deserved in a world that didn’t seem to want them on its soil. The youngest, a typical Autumn beauty, moved with a grace unnatural even among that group of excellences, the river nymph blood soaring in her veins in tune with the music as she lifted her freckles arms. Bejewelled golden ivy climbed her fair skin, leaving her barely visible curves intact, lean body hidden beneath a tunic made of a yarn at the same time warm and almost impalpable. She was the portrait of innocence, worthy of a painting posterity would look at with admiration and a hint of envy, a thought even the Shadowsinger, who observed the scene keeping a safe distance from the rest of the guests, seemed to share.

“Curious ensemble, don’t you think?” commented a silken voice on his right, so different from how he remembered it and yet not so dissimilar to his own. Eris didn’t need to turn to know it was precisely him that Lucien was addressing, nor to guess what his goals were, although it wasn’t exactly wise to showcase their rekindled brotherly bond in front of so many people after his abrupt departure from the only Court who agreed to be his ally in Beron’s deposition.

“Not as much as the one you arrived with,” Eris replied, never taking his gaze off the eldest Archeron, whom was about to be approached by a not so determined, yet drunk on the words of encouragement Tamlin had whispered in her ear for the good part of an hour, Elain. His brother’s mate had put on a little weight since the last time he had seen her in Hewn City, and where once he had glimpsed hollow cheeks there was now firm and rosy skin, and her hazel eyes didn’t scan the crowd with fear and a vague disgust oozing on her soft features, but with eagerness to partake in the celebrations. He could only hope that one day it would happen to Nesta too, once her sister's prophetic vision had come true.

“Who’s at the door?” asked the insufferably nosy housekeeper Elain loved so much.

“No one, just the wind,” she replied, and though she didn’t really expected the woman to trust her, not after what she’d seen on Feyre’s last visit, she was quite unnerved when she scuttled into the immaculate foyer to make sure she wasn’t lying and even more when she had to repeat herself after she declared she was retiring to her room and she wanted to be left alone for at least an hour. The housekeeper’s eyes thinned to stilts as she strode up the grand, carpeted staircase with steps quiet as death, the heavy, pale purple gown tight enough in the bodice to show off her slim waist and the fitted sleeves displaying her slender arms a clear sign she was hiding something. She chose how to dress and style her hair with meticulous attention and it was already paying off, for she was now sure it was definitely Cassian who was following her as silent as a ghost. She felt it in her stomach, she sensed it in the tingling caressing her spine; that Fae gave her such a physical response she was sure she should’ve been afraid of it, yet she revelled in his lust when she touched herself at night, enjoying the sensation but not the provider, fearing she might become addicted and make a faux pas. As soon as she entered her spacious bedroom, bedecked in velvets and silks of varying shades of blue and silver, and shut the oak door behind her, the heavy, slow posture vanished along with Cassian’s cloaking. A blink was her only tell of surprise in front of his wide wings.

“You’re ten minutes late,” she said, moving toward the crackling fire, where the sound of the flames might cover their voices.

“I do have other duties, you know,” he retorted, equally quiet, flashing a grin. It was a lie, he wasn’t late because of the armies he led for Rhysand, but she let the fool bask in his sense of victory, never recoiling, only lifting her chin to meet his stare.

“You need me far more than I need you, you should remember it. So let’s start again, nicer this time, and maybe I’ll be prone to help,” she replied as he took a step closer, bracing a hand on the mantel. Nesta leaned close enough to breathe in his scent, and it hit her in the gut so hard she could barely focus on making sure her eyes didn’t roll back into her head. She could nearly taste it, snow-chilled wind and embers, and she wondered if his skin had the same sweetness or if he was somehow more like the mortals in this sense. She would never know, not if he stood poised instead of burying his face in the crook between her neck and shoulder, not if his iron will kept him from touching her.

“There are other ways I could play nice, Nesta Archeron,” he purred as he moved closer, less than a hand’s span between their faces. The offer was another test, no doubt to find a weakness she was unwilling to show. A small smile curved her lips.

“If I wanted a male pawing at me,” she said, refusing to let her chin lower, “I’d sooner ask one of the hounds.”

Those words should’ve hurt him, but his insufferable smile persisted and Cassian went right for the throat as he asked if she’d ever been with a male. Telling the truth would’ve gave her no real advantage, but it wasn’t a loss either, and she was too tempted to know how deep he lusted for her not to use her virginity against him.

“Why should I have bothered?” she asked, pushing gently on his broad chest. A trained killer, a predator by birth and training, and yet he straightened when she stepped closer, a move that would’ve deleted the distance between their lips. He was scared, she realized with a cocky grin, scared and frustrated. It wasn’t a good mix of emotions to read on a man’s face, especially when a woman was alone in his company. The last time she’d seen it was when she cut things off with Tomas Mandray, and it hadn’t exactly ended well.

“Who did it?” Cassian asked through gritted teeth, with such certainty in his voice she almost feared he read her thoughts. She hated Tomas, she hated him so much she sometimes wished he’d be run over by a carriage, but the Fae’s eyes promised torture.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she retorted, and started to withdraw her hand when he grabbed it with a movement too quick for her mortal senses and pressed it to his chest, right above his galloping heart.

“Someone hurt you,” he stated, his tone so low and at the same time so mighty. It wasn’t a question.

“Would it change anything?” she asked, a shiver running slowly down her spine. She knew it wouldn’t, inexplicably, she knew he would still want her and kill for her and it shamefully turned her on so much she closed her eyes and gave him total access to her neck.

“Who says this isn’t another manipulation?” the crone asked. “A lot has changed since the war and the Morrigan’s so called friendship with our female ancestors. Perhaps you’re not who you say you are and the High Lord crept into our minds to make us believe he has allies more powerful than those he can really count on. It would explain why you seek our help so desperately.”

“That’s crazy talk,” hissed Nesta, unable to hold her tongue any longer. “Crazy talk from arrogant, crazy fools.”

Feyre turned to her with a pleading expression at the same time as Elain reached out to silence her, but there were too many innocent lives at stake to stand back and let everyone else do the dirty work. If they didn’t want to risk their lives, so be it, but they at least owed them a chance to fight back.

“Perhaps an evacuation is possible...” speculated the golden woman, but it was evident she was just making up things to shut her up.

“We’ll need ten thousand ships,” Nesta replied, her voice nearly breaking. She did the math for a whole night and ran over the same calculations nearly a hundred times, fearing she missed something, hoping there was an error and they weren’t really in need of such a fleet, but she was right, and she didn’t even started to consider the cost of transportation from the inner villages. Everyone was talking about numbers, and hypothetical lives, but Nesta knew those people, she knew they had nothing, she knew families born poor and farmers who preferred to die than abandon their fields or a couple of decrepit cows. No mortal knew the whole truth about the Fae, their knowledge based on erroneous legends and rumours, they had no idea what they would’ve to endure and they didn’t know how to fight. They would be slain, and what little good was left in their simple lives blown away like a house of cards in a blizzard.

“We’re stuck here,” she resumed, cold rage and burning accusations exuding from her like a vengeful aura. “And you’ll watch us die in hope they’ll be satisfied and won’t look at the Continent, but they would, and if you do nothing you’re going to regret every choice you made in this room.”

The old Queen gripped the shiny armrests of her chair, furious at such obstinacy: “Then I suggest you ask one of your winged males to take you across the sea and see for yourself the power of our defences.”

Nesta stared at the woman in pure disgust. She wasn’t going to beg, she wasn’t going to ask for more, and judging by the look on Cassian’s face, even he wouldn’t have allowed her to make a fool of herself. It was a matter of pride, and love.

“Five hundred years ago, I fought on battlefields not far from this home. I fought alongside both humans and Fae who believed in equality, and I’ll be on that field again, Nesta Archeron, to protect this home and your people. I cannot think of a better way to end my life than to defend those who need it most,” said the Illyrian with such ardour, that for a moment Nesta felt more important than she was, not just a pawn in someone else’s game but a powerful player who somehow won the heart of Prythian’s most fearsome warrior. A single tear trickled down her hollow cheek, and thick calloused fingers were ready to wipe it away before it could fall on her dress. If he’d got down on his knee right now and asked her to marry him, it would’ve made less of a stir, but Nesta felt no embarrassment, and didn’t flinch at the almost familiar touch, completely ignoring the Morrigan who looked at them with wide eyes. She didn’t seem jealous or annoyed, even though Nesta suspected she and Cassian had some shared history, but rather amazed. The Queens didn’t seem to share the same sentiment, and as swiftly as they arrived, they disappeared from the large drawing room, leaving behind them a heavy lead box. Nesta gasped as Rhysand lifted it to reveal what was inside, but she didn’t lean over Cassian’s shoulder to find out what was written on the note resting on the second half of the coveted Book.

“You should come with us,” whispered the Fae, so softly only she and Elain, who was still by the window looking on her garden, could hear him. “You heard the situation and you’ve made perfect calculations. You should pack lightly and stay in Velaris for a while, as safe as it can be now that the Queens know of its existence.”

“I...”Elain muttered, looking like a dog caught in a snare. “I can’t.”

The words flowed out so quickly, and Elain looked so stubbornly at the floor, that Nesta wondered if she was having second thoughts on the wedding and something happened between her and Azriel. More than ever, the iron ring she wore on her finger seemed immensely ugly and unsuitable for her sweetest sister.

“Then I’ll send a unit of my soldiers to guard the estate. No one will notice their presence and they’ll be completely autonomous. If you change your mind, one of them will wait in this room at noon and midnight every day.”

Nesta just nodded, unable to find the right words to thank Cassian for such a great kindness.

“I wish things were different,” he admitted, before walking off to rejoin the rest of his companions, who were beginning to cast curious glances at them.

“Welcome,” Rhysand said with placid calm as a mix of women of different ages, colours and heights suddenly appeared in the living room, each with two guards in tow. The eldest of the Queens wore a very dark blue woollen robe, perfectly matching with her sharp, cold eyes. The two who looked middle-aged were at opposite extremes, one dark and one fair, one with a sweet face and the other carved out of granite, one smiling and one frowning. They even wore a white and a black dress, and it seemed as if their movements represented mutual questions and answers, leading Nesta to wonder what their kingdoms were like, what relationship they had and if the identical silver rings they wore connected them in other ways. The younger Queens were something else entirely, one as young as Feyre, who scrutinized everyone with guarded shrewdness and the other, barely thirty, kissed by amber and gold, her body soft where men favoured it but lithe where necessary, graceful yet feline. Nesta was sure she could move entire armies with just a glance, but the Fae weren’t as charmed, and Rhysand advanced towards her stately, proud to have brought with him the Morrigan of the War, whatever that meant.

“Please, take a seat,” said his cousin, as if just accepting her presence made her partly owner of the house. Nesta bit her tongue, forcing herself to be patient in her rebellion until the time was right. If only she had the power, she would’ve already killed all those vain women with her own hands.

“An emissary in a golden crown,” said one of the Queens, casting a sharp look at Feyre. “Is this a Prythian tradition?”

“No,” admitted Rhysand casually, knowing full well there was nothing casual in his choice. “But she’s so pretty in it I couldn’t resist.”

Everyone stiffened, and Nesta wondered if the High Lord realized he just gave their enemies a notion far too succulent to not put it at use. Sure, Feyre proved she could fend for herself just fine even when she was still mortal, but if the idea of these women hurting her because of their connection hadn’t occurred to him, then they all really deserved to die for his arrogance.

“You have an hour,” the older one intervened, pragmatically. “Use it well.”

They talked about many things, but mostly it was a victory for the Queens, although Nesta learned the ability to move from one place to another – it was called transmutation – had been gifted to them along with the half of the Book the Night Court desperately needed as a repayment for what the Fae did to their subjects.

“War is imminent,” Feyre insisted, “yet the humans of this territory seem unaware of the greater threat and we’ve seen no signs of preparations to defend them.”

“This territory,” the golden Queen explained coldly, “is only a tiny strip of land compared to the vastness of the Continent. It’s not in our interest to defend it and waste resources.”

At those words, which were to Nesta and Elain a death sentence, Rhysand objected with reason and compassion, but the golden witch seemed to have an answer to everything and suggested the High Fae of Prythian as their defenders, if they cared so much. A heavy silence fell upon the room, and Nesta wondered if anyone would have the courage to say aloud what everyone was thinking. In the end, cowardice won over the truth, and only Feyre murmured one last plea.

“I’ve been Made by the Seven High Lords because a General of Hybern killed me, but before she did it I saw what horrors she was capable of,” she explained, and the light coming from the outside slightly diminished, as if Rhysand momentarily lost control of his powers. “One of them was enough to cause such destruction and suffering it will leave its mark for decades to come, if we allow a whole army of people like her to destroy the Wall, the consequences will be brutal and the survivors will be enslaves, as will the generations to come.”

Not even her story stirred the Queens’ hearts of stone, and when they were gone, it was Elain who wished for them all to burn in hell. Based on the look in Azriel’s eyes, it seemed like he was about to grant her desire.

“We should really do it,” Cassian growled, close enough for Nesta to hear. “If we kill them, we can crown someone who isn’t so stupid and scared.”

“It would take too long,” Nesta retorted, looking out of the window, hoping Feyre was too caught up in her conversation to notice how close she and the General had actually gotten on his last visit, though nothing of importance actually happened.