“Nesta,”the Bone Carver murmured. “Nes-ta”

@azrisweek🌹

The sun bleeds orange through the pines when Nesta finally finds what she hopes might be the right road. By then all she has are Feyre’s directions, scrawled in purple gel pen on the back of a Starbucks cup sleeve, because her sister apparently still believes in whimsy even when Nesta feels like her world is ending. The GPS gave up somewhere past the state line, leaving her squinting at the looping handwriting, holding the sleeve at different angles to read the impossible combination of brown and shiny purple in better light, the overwhelming urge to murder Feyre growing stronger by the minute.

Left where the asphalt ends. Then it gets tricky.

Tricky had been an understatement. The roads have deteriorated from highway to the scenery route to something that barely qualifies as maintained.

Right at the boulder that looks like a sleeping bear. If you hit the creek, you’ve gone too far and you’ll have to return until there’s a fork in the road.

The drive was supposed to take five hours, but it’s taken her almost the entire day. Not even her bout of insomnia could drag her out of bed early enough to beat morning traffic. She hasn’t been able to do much of anything efficiently, truly, ever since the funeral three weeks ago. She’s also not used to driving long distances alone. She hasn’t needed to, living in a city where everything is a subway ride away. And on the rare occasion that she did embark on such an undertaking, she never used to go alone. Her father would come with her on trips like this, before things went to shit. He was always content to sit in the passenger seat with his crossword puzzle, occasionally reading clues aloud until she solved them for him, even though she knew he could almost always solve them himself. But that’s all past tense. She’ll never go on trips like that again, because she’s part of the dead-dad-club now. This drive has been the longest stretch of uninterrupted time she’s had with her own thoughts in three weeks. She’d made a playlist in an attempt to drown out her own racing brain, but after the second repeat she’d turned it off.

Another reason she’s quickly losing daylight is because she made so many coffee stops her back teeth appear to be floating. She’d stopped at rest areas, drinking terrible coffee from vending machines and taking bathroom breaks in an endless cycle, each gas station bathroom more depressing than the last, with its flickering lights and paper towel dispensers that wheeze out single squares. She’d sit in her car in desolate parking lots trying to remember why she thought this was a good idea. The question would be answered by Feyre’s voice in her head every single time. You need to get away, clear your head a little. Just for a weekend. Rhys has this cabin, which used to be his mom’s cousin’s. It’s very quiet and remote, somewhere upstate near the mountains. It’ll be good for you, having some time to yourself.

Time to herself. To do what? Fall apart where no one can see? Finally scream the way her body has been demanding for three weeks? Be alone without Elain asking if she’s eaten, or Feyre’s worried eyes following her from room to room?

—————

He's testing the bounds of his magic, he knows. Nyx pushes further anyway. It feels like stepping through thick mud as the exertion makes his head pound. He's almost at his limit but there's nothing beneath him but ocean, ocean, ocean, ocean—

Wind tangles his wings and he plunges from the air, saltwater filling his lungs as he crashes into the waves face-first.

Nyx thrashes. The water is freezing, choking off his judgment, his instincts. Leaves him numb and flailing, another briny gulp cutting off his gasp before the current drags him under again.

He's going to die. His first stupid step outside Velaris and he's going to die. No—disappear, leaving Mother with no answers, Father without an heir. Maybe they'll try again. Ironic, that he'll beat them to their promise.

The water makes a home in his lungs. His thoughts are calm somehow. Light dims, froth dancing on the surface far above. A tendril of darkness snakes around his wrist, pulling it upward.

Then a winged shadow looms.

It's over. He's not afraid. The Mother's arms will welcome him soon.

Only then the shadow comes closer, and his uncle is grabbing him by the collar and sweeping his wings down with a giant boom that propels them to the surface.

“You,” Azriel hisses, “are in the middle of the Sundering Sea.”

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“I would really like to kiss you, Nes,” he said in a low voice.  “But like I said, I—I don’t want you to get the wrong idea of why I invited you out here, like I only want one thing—”

“You don’t need to keep explaining yourself to me, Eris. You’ve been nothing but respectful, and if I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't," Nesta countered softly, her eyes fluttering open halfway to stare upwards at him.

He huffed a small laugh through his nose, then rested his forehead against hers. “God. I really did plan to be a lot smoother about all this, I hope you know. I just… I don't even know how to put it. End up falling apart when you’re around?" 

Nesta chuckled, her cheeks heating up. She could feel his warm breath on her lips, and the anticipation was dizzying. “I’m pretty out of practice, too, for what it's worth” she admitted. “But do you remember what I told you at that gourd place back in Ithaca?”

By then, they were practically flush with one another. “Who could ever forget Gourdtopia?” 

She bit her bottom lip slightly, which Eris’ eyes tracked immediately; when he next caught her gaze, his pupils had blown, darkening his eyes to nearly the color of molasses. “I told you to stop overthinking.” She took a shallow breath, then added, “And while I don't have an awl this time, I’m about to—hm!”