Chapter Text
There's nothing quite like stepping into Feyre's beautiful new home to remind Nesta just how truly ugly she is. The literary part of her, dulled by the wine from last night and the downward spiral of the past year, appreciates the contrast. Sometimes she still likes to narrate her life in her head as though it were a book. What would she write here? The woman curves her foot inside her boot, as if that would stop her from dirtying the marble. That's a nice line, isn't it? A good hook. But she isn't a woman anymore, so it wouldn't work.
"This way," Cassian says, unnecessarily waving his hand behind him.
It's probably supposed to be insulting, that Feyre has sent him to fetch her. But she doesn't care. Feyre can do what she likes. Just as Nesta will do what she likes. She'll sit through this scolding, turn down the invitation to stay for lunch, go home and sleep until she wakes up and has another night like last.
Although perhaps she'll spend less this time. If only to avoid this headache again.
"They're waiting in here," he says, stopping in front of one of the doors. How many rooms are there in this mansion, anyway? Feyre might've mentioned it on the tour, but she doesn't remember. Only remembers that decorating the walls are dozens, maybe hundreds of pictures of Feyre and Rhysand and Morrigan and Cassian and Azriel and Amren and Elain and their father , and none of Nesta. Or their mother, for that matter. She remembers that very well.
"Wait," Cassian blurts out as she lays a hand on the doorknob.
Nesta angles her head slightly. Not a full turn, not to look at him.
"Do you want your tea?"
Rolling her eyes, Nesta opens the door and shuts it--pointedly, she hopes--behind her.
Her sisters look up from the couch where they sit, heads close together. Little cakes and sandwiches and tea are arranged prettily on the glass table.
"Nesta!" Elain says, leaping up."You're here early!"
Nesta bites her tongue to keep from answering Five whole minutes . No use snapping at Elain before they've even begun, is there?
"Let me take your coat," Feyre says, standing up too.
Ah. So this would be this sort of meeting, then. These luncheons, that they sometimes try to have with her. But it's nine in the morning.
It pulls at her heart, that they still try. And makes her sick to her stomach. She winces as she feels it. Too much alcohol and not enough food to add any extra queasiness. This will not be easy for her.
"Heard you had quite the night," Feyre says, voice bright and cheery in a way that does not quite match her eyes. "Sit down, sit down."
She does, opposite them. They take note.
"Do you want to try these macarons, Nesta? Raspberry. I made them."
"We got this new cinnamon tea. From the Continent. I think you'll like it."
Her sisters try again a few times, and eventually she says, "I'll take tea."
"I'll pour it," Feyre says quickly.
Great. Wonderful.
This isn't so bad, though, she thinks as she sipped her tea. She'll get through this...whatever it is. Force herself to make some conversation, say Feyre's newest art project is pretty, force down half a cookie and tell Elain it tastes good. Then she'll agree to see them for lunch in a week. And that will be all.
How long can they possibly keep her for? An hour? Two hours? She can do that.
And then Feyre clears her throat. "Nesta," she begins. "Elain and I have something we want to say to you."
Here it is . She should've known better. Tea and macarons, at nine in the morning? Of course not.
"And we're only saying this because we care about you," Elain adds quickly.
"Yes. Yes, right. We are. And, well, what we want to say is..." Feyre looks to Elain, who nods encouragingly.
Good grief. Will this never end?
"We know that all of this has been...difficult...for you to adjust to."
Nesta's heart stutters. They wouldn't. This--this isn't happening.
She keeps it off her face, though. She is cool, impassive. Blank. Nothing.
It doesn't make Feyre give up, but it does make her duck her head. "We understand. But we think...we know that because we love you we can't allow this to go on any longer." Feyre clamps her mouth shut as she finishes, appearing to be holding her breath.
Nesta only raises an eyebrow slightly. Inside, she is not nearly as calm.
"All of the drinking, Nesta," Elain says, lips beginning to tremble. Oh, no, not this. Anything but this. "And the m-males." She cringes as she said the words.
The color leaches from her face. She wants to die. There is no Mother, she knows, because if there were any being with mercy, they would surely split the earth beneath her feet and take her down.
"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Feyre says, now the one hurrying to add on to the other. Elain nods, but she looks sick. "Just that--you hadn't really...there was Tomas, but other than that--"
Nesta flinches violently when Feyre says his name. She still isn't making eye contact, though, so she doesn't notice, and continues.
"--so the--switch. From not being with anyone, and then...and these males don't care about you. And I wouldn't--I would never judge you, Nesta, really, but it doesn't appear as though you're enjoying yourself." She shrinks back.
"So then," Nesta says, proud of herself for keeping her voice even, "you are judging me."
"We're just noting facts," Elain says.
"And, all right, let's take a step back," Feyre says, swallowing. "We're not here to criticize you. We only want to offer a solution."
"A solution," Nesta repeats flatly. To her problem. To her.
"A--not a solution. Help. We want to help."
Elain clenches her hands into fists in front of her. Feyre stills as she visibly holds her breath.
"Well?" Nesta says after half a minute of this, voice still deadly calm. "What is your solution?"
Who will be the one to say it, she wonders? Elain, frightened as a mouse already, or Feyre, ill at the sight of her?
It's Feyre. Perhaps being High Lady makes her feel responsible. But she exhales sharply, picks up her head, and says, "We think it would be beneficial for you to spend some time in the library."
Nesta blinks. A library? That doesn't sound--
And then she realizes. Not a library. The library. The one off the side of that mountain, where Hybern had attacked...where Bryaxis had lived...where all those priestesses...those priestesses...
"Are you out of your mind?" she blurts out, losing grip on her faux calm completely. "You want me to go to that library? Are you insane? How is that possibly supposed to help?"
"Nesta--"
"With those--those sycophants? Who worship that thing ?" The thundering of her heart blocks the sounds from her sisters' protests. "Is that what you want me to be? Some acolyte of that--you want me to pray to that--how can--how dare--"
"Nesta, please!" Feyre cries, hands thrown up in front of her.
"We don't mean that at all!" Elain says, tears in her eyes.
Nesta's chest heaves as she struggles to catch her breath, her mind too full of that Cauldron. That thing they all worship--that thing that did this to her--to Elain--to Father--
"Please hear us out," Feyre says. "Sit back down, please."
Nesta falters. She hadn't even realized she had jumped up. She fights to keep her cheeks from reddening in shame. Stupid--she shouldn't have lost control like that--and what if something had happened? Shattered a window, shattered one of her sisters' bones?
"Thank you," Feyre says as she sits. "What we mean is to spend time at the library during the day, working on entirely secular things. Nothing to do with any worship at all. Not reading those books, not participating in any prayer, not even wearing their robes."
"We would never suggest you do that, Nesta." Elain's voice is tight. Feyre reaches out and holds her hand.
"Just during the day," Feyre continues, "and then at night staying in the House of Wind."
"So you don't even have to share a room with any of them," Elain is quick to clarify. "Or eat with them. And you could go to that private library, too, remember?" She still fights back tears, but her voice takes a hopeful turn upwards.
Nesta latches onto everything inside her and holds it down tightly. "What would I even be doing there?"
Elain and Feyre exchange a look. Was that excitement? They probably take it as her willingness to go. That is not what this is.
"So, day to day, it would involve librarian duties. Reshelving books and such. And over time, if you find something you're interested in, aiding a senior librarian with her research. Or perhaps doing some of your own, if you'd like. But the real purpose, Nesta," Feyre sneaks another look at Elain before saying to her, "is for you to heal."
"We're not saying there's anything the matter with you," Elain says, jumping in before she can respond. "Just that...you've been hurt. And w-we take responsibility for not being by your side all this time. That was obviously wrong. We thought, well, we know you've always preferred to be on your own. But you're--you're hurting yourself too much. We can't just let you do that anymore. We love you," she finishes, choking back a sob. Her tears start falling from her eyes, but she does her best to keep quiet.
Feyre squeezes her hand, but doesn't turn to look at her. She keeps her eyes focused on Nesta. "Look, we know it'd be a big change. But just give it a few weeks. Get a feel for it. And if it's really not working and you don't like it..."
"Then what?" Nesta asks, hollow.
"Don't worry about that," Feyre answers, firm. "We'll think of something else."
She's going to be sick right here. She cannot handle this concern. Their trying. It's too much.
And now she has to say no. And Elain will cry--maybe Feyre, too. And then she'll have the rest of them upon her; Rhysand leading them to storm down her apartment, probably. It'll drive her down further, and perhaps be the last snip needed to finally sever the frayed, sole remaining string tied between herself and her sisters. Goodness knows she has ripped apart the tie between her and Amren, had stomped out the one between her and Cassian before it even had a chance to be something--
"Hey," Feyre says, placing a hand on her knee. "Stay with us, please."
"We know it's not easy." Elain speaks slowly, breathing deeply and fighting back her sobs. "But...don't think of it as a big thing. Just one step. One change. And w-we're not abandoning you to do this alone."
Feyre stands up and moves to sit by Nesta's side. Elain takes her other.
"I know how you feel," Feyre says, quiet and calm, squeezing her knee. "I've felt the same. If you can't do this for yourself...that's fine. Just please, please. Do it for us. Please."
Nesta narrows her eyes on Feyre's hand. She doesn't open her mouth for fear of what might come out. She won't give this voice-- can't --
"I killed two innocents," Feyre says in that same voice, and suddenly, Nesta forgets her own thoughts as she turns to face her.
"It was my third trial," she continues, meeting Nesta's gaze, "Under the Mountain. Amarantha made me. I could've killed myself...and I was going to. But then it all ended and she died and Tamlin took me back to Spring. And I..." Only now does a tear slide down Feyre's cheek. But she just wipes it away and musters a small smile. "I promise I know how you feel. Please do this for me."
There are some truths Nesta knows. That she is not worth anyone's effort because of who she is, what she is. Which is defiled. And rotted. And small. And ugly. And these are the reasons why people give up; why she deserves that.
And yet, here her sisters sit, quietly crying, begging, beside her, and they are not giving up.
It's not exactly seeing the chance, rather...knowing it's there. In her periphery. Out of reach from where she is now, but perhaps she can get there.
And Nesta realizes that there is a small, nearly insignificant--except it's the most important, isn't it?--part of her that throughout this whole drowning tempest, remembers what it is like to breathe. And it wants to breathe.
The girl who gave everything she could against the Cauldron may be buried, but she's not dead yet.
So she nods once.
Elain gasps and throws her palm against her mouth. Feyre squeezes her leg so hard she thinks she might draw blood.
"Thank you," Elain chokes out, crashing her head onto Nesta's shoulder.
Feyre doesn't say anything; only leans onto her other side.
Nesta doesn't relax. She sits there stiff and unmoving. But that distant, minuscule thing inside her flickers and breathes.