Stars and Nessian pleeeaassee :)
Eeee yes!! Thank you so much @sssoulsuckerrr! I've been planning another longfic (note to self: which I won't post until some of my wips are finished) set mostly in Illyria, and I've been sitting on lore about stars and constellations (and the northern lights) for a while now.
I hope you enjoy some soft, slightly emotional Nessian!
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The bear and wolf furs are thick beneath and on top of them, but Nesta still shivers when a gust of wind blows over the clearing. Cassian pulls her closer against his chest, wings curving around them both like a second blanket. Nesta leans back against him, soothed by the feel of being surrounded by his warmth and scent of pine and freshly fallen snow, his wings bracketing them against the mountain cold.
“There,” he says, breath ghosting her temple as he points. “The Spear-Maiden. She guards the eastern sky.”
She follows his finger. Seven stars form a figure mid-throw, arm drawn back, forever poised to strike. She thinks back to that battle in Summer, when Cassian had took a similar stance to kill the Hybernian commander. “What’s she protecting?”
“The Hearthfire.” He indicates a tight cluster of gold-white stars, brighter than the rest. “In the old stories, it is believed she keeps the dark god from extinguishing it. If the fire dies, so does the world. More practically, Illyrians believe the cluster will always guide us home.”
His voice holds a reverent tone. He must’ve learned of these stories when he was still young, passed down through generations in smoky lodges and around cooking fires. She can picture him as a boy, wings too large for his body, listening with rapt attention.
She traces the constellations with her eyes, moving her gaze across the sky, and finds a serpentine shape winding like a ribbon of silver.
“The River of Souls,” Cassian murmurs before she can ask, having followed her gaze. His hand finds hers beneath the furs, fingers intertwining and resting against her stomach. “It’s where the dead reside until they choose their final resting place. It is believed that some become stars, while others return to the mountain as wind, or snow, or drops of water traversing the country in the flowing river.”
Nesta hums, deep in thought. She knows it’s Illyrian lore, but she can’t help but think of her father while following the silver band through the sky. The night is vast and endless above them. Nesta’s never felt so small, but Cassian’s presence grounds her—his easy breathing, his cheek against her temple, the brush of his thumb over her knuckles. She sinks further into his warmth.
“Do you believe that?” she asks.
His chest rises and falls against her back. She feels him tense slightly and can practically hear him considering, taking his time.
“I believe the Illyrians who fought beside me are up there somewhere,” he says finally. “My mother too.” His voice roughens. “She used to tell me bedtime stories of the stars, and how they were like campfires. The greatest warriors who died honorably would sit around them, telling stories and waiting for the ones they loved.”
Nesta’s throat feels tight. She knows what it costs him to speak of his mother, who loved him deeply and who he loved with all his heart. Who died too soon, too early to ever witness what he became.
She tilts her head back to look at him, finding his hazel eyes already on her, soft and unguarded in the starlight, full of a tenderness that still catches her off guard at times.
“She’d be proud of you,” Nesta says quietly. “I’m certain of it.”
Something breaks open in his expression—gratitude and grief and love all tangled together. He kisses her forehead, lingering there, then her cheek, then her mouth. He presses a gentle kiss to her lips, lingering a second longer just because he can.
She turns in his arms to kiss him back properly, cupping his face between her palms. His wings curve tighter around them, sheltering them both from the wind and the world.
When they break apart, she settles against him again, tucking herself into the cradle of his body. His heartbeat is steady beneath her shoulder blade. Grounding.
“Tell me another,” she whispers. “Tell me all of them.”
His arms tighten around her. “That one over there is the Mountain Lion. She hunts the Spear-Maiden across the seasons,” he begins, voice low and warm. “Every winter she draws closer…”
His words rumble through her as the stars wheel overhead, ancient and infinite.
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Send me a prompt!
