Starfall
Nesta stood resplendent in her black Starfall gown, hair braided atop her head like a crown, and considered how much she would enjoy ripping the whole outfit off and shoving it down Rhysand’s throat.
He would deserve it, she thought viciously. She didn’t want to go to the gala, and no one, including His High and Royal Mightiness, wanted her there. He might mandate her presence, but she could see exactly how he really felt. Choking on her jewel-encrusted finery would be a lighter sentence than the punishment of her presence, and she and he both knew it.
Maybe Feyre deserved to be choked instead, she mused. This ludicrous idea clearly originated from her.
Nesta glanced outside. The sun had set hours ago; she didn’t own a clock, but she knew she was already late. The streets were far too quiet for this time of night in this part of town, which Nesta had strategically selected for proximity to her favorite cluster of taverns. (The downside of living here: According to Velaris health codes, her apartment was not actually an apartment. It was a hovel.)
Mor had offered to winnow Nesta to the gala, but she refused. She saw the way they all looked at her while Rhysand made his threats – Feyre on the verge of tears, Azriel stone-faced, as if she were an irresponsible teenager, coming home drunk one too many times.
We aren’t angry, they seemed to say, just disappointed.
Humiliation and rage seethed beneath her skin until she thought she might burn from it. Instead she had only stood there, nodding stiffly, wondering how she was not yet reduced to cinders.
She could handle their hatred. She could not handle their pity.
The fact of the matter was that Nesta hadn't been certain she would attend the gala, anyway, up until the very minute she started putting on the dress Elain had sent over. Recently, she could never be sure when she would be able to do things and when she wouldn’t. Some days were fine. Others she'd wake up heavy, like someone had come in the night and filled her bones with wet sand. Sometimes she would lay in bed staring at the cracks on the ceiling until the sun came up, and it was only when she felt she was about to faint from hunger that she would drag herself up and out of the scratchy wool covers and find something to eat.
If today ended up being one of those days, she didn’t want to have to explain it to Mor. They could make their own assumptions about why she wasn’t there.
Surprising even herself, though, Nesta was going. It turned out the threat of another night left only to her own thoughts was worse than having to make small talk with a bunch of people she hated.
She heaved a sigh, slipped out the door, and locked all four deadbolts before heading to Rhysand and Feyre’s Perfect Little Velaris Taxpayer-Funded Crystal Palace Monstrosity.
There was one upside to this whole affair, Nesta ruminated. She’d at least be able to raid their wine cellar.
The RFPLVTFCPM looked more monstrous and perfect than ever for Starfall. She had to hand it to Feyre, Nesta thought bitterly, she knew how to turn a place into a home. Citrus trees that Nesta felt could not possibly be native to Velaris’s mountain climate framed the stairs up to structure, which was built into the cliffs overlooking the Sidra and the city beyond it. Clumps of tall grasses whispered in the breeze, tickling her bare shoulders with their drooping green fronds. The path was lit by dim glowing orbs suspended in paper lanterns – Amren’s work, she suspected, there was a peculiar rune at the base of each lantern that felt….
Nesta didn’t know how it felt. She turned her attention to the chatter coming from the terrace above her.
Velaris had been empty as Nesta strode through the streets to the Palace, and from the sounds of it, nearly everyone in the city was here, preparing to celebrate the showering stars. She wondered if this was the first time Rhysand and Feyre had opened their home to the city, or if events like this happened often. She imagined her sister would be a perfect host, offering drinks to newcomers, meeting the awe and envy of her guests with nauseating modesty.
It was a bizarre reversal of their fates.
Nesta was always supposed to be the socialite, poised on the arm of the most eligible bachelor, bartering with saccharine smiles until her beauty won them a way in the world. Her mother had shaped her that way, armed her with teeth and claws that took the form of poise and grace and charm. She had been a wolf, groomed into the shape of a proper young lady. Now Feyre was the golden girl instead, the savior of these people. She fit right in, and there was no room next to her for Nesta and her rage.
Nesta reached the top of the stairs and surveyed the scene before her.
Black was the color of the evening. She supposed it always was the color of the Night Court, but never had she been surrounded by so much finery in so little variations of hue. Servers clad in black garb whisked around flutes of champagne, while clumps of revelers in shades of midnight and silver stood talking and laughing throughout the veranda. The anticipation of the crowd was palpable. It had been a hard year on top of a harder half-century, and even Nesta was acutely aware of the sense of energy and hope in the air.
She hadn’t anticipated it. Nor had she anticipated how their excitement would make her feel in contrast: A shade walking amongst the living, conspicuously alone.
Nesta swallowed and turned back towards the stairs. She had done what Rhysand asked and shown up at the gala. He never specified how long she needed to stay, so now she would leave. She was sure he and Feyre would be too caught up in their hosting responsibilities to mark her lack of presence anyway. When she was inevitably interrogated about shirking her gala-attending duties, she’d describe the lanterns and trees and waiters and prove she was there, and then they would leave her alone for another six months.
Maybe they’d even give up on her entirely, she thought hopefully.
Spirited by this foolproof new plan, Nesta turned her back on the crowd and began descending back down to the Sidra. She imagined that to any curious onlookers she would cut quite the mysterious figure – a scorned lover, perhaps, or a widow, bravely attempting her first Starfall without her mate before succumbing gracefully and elegantly to her grief.
A shadow detached itself from one of the citrus trees and began walking alongside Nesta. She shrieked, tripped, and nearly toppled into a bush.
“Running away so soon?” Azriel said, his gaze glittering. “A drunk, maybe, but I didn’t take you for a coward.”
Nesta held a hand over her racing heart, trying to hold back the flush of embarrassment that was slowly creeping up her neck. “Azriel,” she said. “Fuck you. I thought you were –” The embarrassment was quickly congealing into rage. “I’m leaving,” she said coldly. “I did as I was instructed and came. Now I’m leaving.”
If he was repentant, he didn’t show it. “A loose interpretation of what was asked of you.”
Her lips thinned as she looked him over. Same battle-worn black gear as always, blue discs flickering dully. In another lifetime Nesta had wondered at their purpose. “I don’t think hiding in the bushes like some sort of pervert counts as attending the party, either,” she pointed out.
“My shadows keep watch for me.”
“You’re right, that sounds so much less creepy.” Nesta started down the path again and made it less than two steps before he materialized in front of her. She tried to dodge around him but he blocked her, again, and she nearly rammed into him, almost toppling over. Again. She clenched her jaw.
“You don’t want a scene. Let me go, and you can return to spying on couples making out in the foliage.”
He just stared at her, eyes narrowed. “You walk away right now, you deliberately disobey a request from your High Lord. You might think the satisfaction of tossing your hair and getting your way is worth the cost of that, but believe me. It is not.”
He took a step back.
Nesta felt the slow burn in the pit of her stomach rising, crackling through her spine until it reached the base of her neck. She wanted to punish him for speaking to her that way, to prove to him that she would do as she wished. The heat reached the back of her eyes.
Azriel just stood, still as a statue, watching her.
Nesta had the uncomfortable feeling that he was waiting for something. Her fingertips tingled, and one of her thumbs twitched.
With monumental effort, she forced the flames into a corner of her mind and leashed herself.
“He is not my High Lord,” she said, before turning her back and walking up the stairs once more.
The scene on the top of the veranda had not changed one bit. Nesta appropriated a champagne flute and skirted the edge of the crowd, one hand trailing atop the marble balustrade, letting the friction ease some of the tension still in her fingers. She ignored glances thrown her way, gave a single nod to a familiar face (the barkeep at one of the taverns she frequented, she graciously ignored the second it took him to recognize her sober) and decided she would simply walk laps around the crystal monstrosity until the whole stupid night was over.
Except, unfortunately, it appeared her quota of regrettable encounters was not quite filled for the night.
Amren lounged against a pillar directly ahead, sipping something out of an opaque glass. The way forward was blocked, unless Nesta took the cowardly (extremely tempting) way out and simply turned around. She strongly considered the option, but she was sure Amren was already aware of her approach.
She straightened her back and continued forward. She had done nothing wrong.
Liar, a voice in the back of her head whispered.
Amren turned to face Nesta as soon as she got within spitting range, not bothering to conceal her expression. “Well, I didn’t expect to see you this far from a gambling hall,” she said, then sniffed. “Showered, too. What a charming surprise.”
“Amren,” Nesta nodded stiffly, attempting to continue forward before being blocked for the third time that night. She cast her eyes skyward. “Does the concept of personal space not translate in Velaris, or –"
“Why are you here, girl?”
“The gambling hall was closed,” Nesta said sweetly. Amren snorted and stepped back, studying her.
It was disconcerting.
They hadn’t spoken since the winter solstice. Amren had always been gifted at the cruelest sort of honesty, her tongue a blade, her nose made for sniffing out weaknesses. As a newly fledged fae, she was less cold and controlled than she had been before. Her thoughts were perpetually written on her face – no longer a finely sharpened knife, but something heavier, blunter.
She had no reservations about letting Nesta know that it was her fault that Cassian was dead.
Now she was surveying Nesta with the usual disgust, but there was something else flickering in her dark eyes alongside it. Nesta was sure she already knew about Rhysand’s threats, that they were the only reason she had shown up at this stupid party. It felt stupid to pick a fight right here, and she stared at Amren, nonplussed.
For once, Nesta couldn’t read her.
“I’m going to continue on now,” she said in a hard voice, and strode forward. Amren did not stop her.
A burst of cheers rang out behind her, and Nesta flinched before realizing there was happiness in the sound –- Starfall had officially begun. The edge of the veranda curved to the left, towards the front entrance of the Monstrosity, while a small staircase to the right cut into what looked like gardens, or perhaps a small orchard. The same hovering lights that flanked the walkway up from the Sidra illuminated the path here. In comparison to the crowd behind her, it seemed quiet.
Nesta took the path.
She could almost feel the tension in her shoulders slipping away as the sounds of the crowd faded, much more quickly than they probably should have – Nesta thought there must be some sort of sound barrier or ward between the pagoda and the gardens. Clusters of rose bushes and dark orchids broke up a row of trees on her right, and up ahead, a white stone bench glowed under the moonlight. Nesta smoothed her gown and sat down, wondering if Rhysand would consider hiding out in his gardens a sufficient amount of presence to keep her on the payroll.
A streak of silver and green cut through the night sky above her. Nesta felt her jaw fall open as another followed, then another, curling and twisting, living flames set loose in the sky. Soon there were dozens, dashing past each other, sparking and popping like exploding embers. Nesta had never seen anything like it. At a tavern earlier that week she had heard the original legend of Starfall, that each ribbon of light was a spirit crossing the horizon. Privately, she thought that the whole thing seemed sort of hokey. Despite the obvious and abundant quantity of magic around her, it felt impossible that the souls of the dead were anything but vanished forever.
Now, though, watching the spirit-lights race each other through the sky, Nesta felt a fissure of doubt crack open inside her. They just seemed so.... so exuberant, so desperately alive. She pressed a hand to her collarbone, her heart pounding beneath her palm. Some of the shimmering green lights flew by so closely she could reach out her hand and touch them. Something was rising in Nesta's chest, some unnameable feeling swelling like a tidal wave.
She stretched out her palm -
A crack split the night, so loud Nesta felt it in her teeth. She instinctively dropped into a crouch as a wall of air exploded out in front of her, popping her ears, shredding the surrounding foliage. It was an avalanche, she thought wildly, or lightning --
But no.
A man, hair shining white under the light of the falling stars, stood in front of her.
He was bent double, one hand clutched to his abdomen. The smell of ozone drenched the air. Nesta stayed crouched low, watching his shoulders heaving before he straightened up and looked at her. They stared at each other.
Even from this distance away she could see he had eyes like hers. Silver.
Then he bent over again and vomited onto the ground.
“Nesta,” Azriel murmured. She jumped – he’d soundlessly appeared on the bench next to her. “Who is this.” She turned to him, eyes wide, shaking her head. “I—I have no idea. He just – winnowed here. I don’t know. One second the garden was empty, and then –” Azriel’s mouth tightened, and he silently stalked over to the man, who was wiping his mouth on his black robes. They reminded Nesta of the garb of the Children of the Blessed, and she wondered if one of them had truly found a way to use magic.
She reluctantly sniffed the air. He smelled human.
Azriel grabbed the man by his collar and hauled him up to eye level. “Who are you,” he ground out in a tone that Nesta found surprisingly level, given the fact that this person had just appeared on the private grounds of his high lord with all the subtlety of a bomb going off. The stranger looked distinctly unwell, Nesta thought; as he straightened up he appeared to sway on his feet, although his expression gave no acknowledgement of this.
He spoke, then, although what came out was not in any language Nesta recognized. She looked over at Azriel for interpretation, but he appeared just as stymied. He tried again.
“Who are you—” the threat was less subtle now, shadows began creeping towards Azriel’s feet – “And where did you come from.”
For the first time Nesta noticed the man was holding something – a stick? She would’ve scoffed, but he held it defensively, the same way Azriel held his knife, and she reflexively tensed. He was speaking once again, the tone increasingly aggravated. The blue discs on Azriel’s armor pulsed.
And then all the sounds of the garden, the night, went silent, and it was no longer the three of them: Rhysand was standing to Azriel’s left, head cocked, wings half unfurled, and even Nesta repressed a shudder at the nightmarish figure he struck under the starlight.
Flames crept up through her spine once more, longing to be set free. Not now, not now, she thought – they raged against her, her fingers tingled and sputtered with repressed fire, but she couldn’t lose herself to their cold rage, she needed to maintain control –
Three things happened almost simultaneously, so fast that Nesta didn’t consciously process them so much as react, the animal part of her brain seizing control.
The stranger shifted, taking a step backwards, that ridiculous stick in his hand subtly shifted forward like some sort of blade. Azriel flared blue once more, illuminating the storm cloud of darkness he had gathered around himself. And Nesta felt her palms burn like she had touched something freezing cold, a dagger of ice shivering up her spine and into the backs of her eyes.
The man flicked his gaze from Rhysand to her, and she could see flashes of starlight flickering in them as they widened.
Then he toppled over.
Azriel clicked his tongue. “Again? Really?”
The silence of the garden was abruptly replaced with cacophony as Mor winnowed in, Amren and Feyre in her clutches. “We missed out on all the fun,” Amren complained. “He’s already dead.”
“He’s not dead, use your ears,” Azriel said, rolling his eyes. “He’s just fainted.” He gingerly nudged the man with a foot. “I think.”
“Pity you weren’t here before, Amren,” Rhysand said mildly. “Neither of us could understand him.”
“HEY,” Feyre barked. “Nesta. What’s happening to Nesta?”
They all spun around to look at her.
Nesta was locked into her defensive half-crouch, palms spitting silver fire, scarcely daring to breathe lest she lose control and burst into flame entirely. A dark song whispered through her veins, begging to smash and burn. The temptation was almost too strong to resist.
Let me out, it begged.
Go away, she pleaded.
Abruptly, Azriel was in front of her again. She let out a snarl almost without thinking. “Nesta,” he said, his voice low. “Nesta, calm down." His blue discs flickered again, in warning. The tiny rational voice in the back of her mind recognized that there was no threat to her -- just everyone else.
Burn. Destroy. Set it all on fire.
Amren nudged Azriel out of the way and studied her. It was a concerted effort for Nesta to drag her attention away from the hulking fae men and refocus on the tiny woman in front of her. She could feel her lips pulling back to expose her incisors, and the tiny part of her that was still conscious cringed.
“Nesta. You are the one in control here,” Amren cautioned. “No one else.”
I am in control.
The animal rage that held her body didn’t trust those words. Danger, it hissed. Trying to fight off the adrenaline and icy rage was like attempting to shove back the force of a wave with only her spread arms, her meager torso. It forced itself past her, swirled around her, ignoring her feeble attempts.
She grit her teeth and tried to shove the flames down once again. I am in control. Behind Amren, wings ruffled. Rhysand.
“Nesta,” Amren snapped her fingers. “Look at me. The threat is gone.”
Nesta stared back into her dark eyes and felt the rage recede, just a bit. With an almost impossible effort, she closed her eyes.
Stop, she whispered to the angry voice. Stop.
The cold abruptly vanished, and she gasped. Then there was dirt beneath her palms, her knees – she had fallen. The air was warm again, and she sucked in deep, shuddering breaths, an ache in her solar plexus as if she had just taken a blow.
“There we go,” Amren said.
A hand, reaching down. Nesta grabbed it and found herself face to face with Feyre. Her eyes were wide, uncertain.
“Are you okay?”
Nesta let go of her hand and turned slightly, shaking out her skirts. “I’m fine,” she said stiffly, ignoring the fact that all of them were openly staring at her and directing her attention to what looked like an enormous bush, trimmed into the shape of a face.
She squinted. Wasn’t that Rhysand’s face ---
“Nesta,” Feyre began softly, and Nesta whirled back around.
“I’m fine,” she said loudly. “Really. Thank you, all. I’m going to go now.” She avoided making eye contact with Feyre, nodded stiffly to Rhysand, whose expression was inscrutable, and spared one last glance at the stranger, still lying prone at Azriel’s feet.
And then she turned and strode out of the garden quick as her feet would carry her.