Summary: Nesta returns to her rooms and finds an exhausted Cassian alone there, waiting for her, a letter for her held in his hands.
‘Shreds remain of those once beautiful wings. And they had been beautiful. Strange how she only realises that, lets herself think and fully appreciate that now that they’re almost gone. They had been alien and frightening and upon first seeing them she had wanted to keep them, both of them, away from Elain. Those hulking brutes with the unnatural wings looming over them, ever present shadows at their backs.’
Nesta finally makes it back to her rooms, smoothing down the front of her dress, cursing her overly long limbs and the difficulties they cause her. The door to her bedchamber is slightly ajar when she reaches it however and she pauses, one hand outstretched. Chewing her lip she wonders if she ought to fetch someone, sure that she had left the doors firmly closed before leaving. Then she decides to hell with it, the mood she’s in she almost wants someone to be in there, try something, give her an excuse to hurt someone.
Opening the door, hoping it appears as though she had never questioned doing so, she strides purposefully into the room. And is almost immediately brought up short by what she finds inside.
Cassian sits alone on the edge of her bed. Her first impulse would have been, should have been, to snap at him and demand that he leave, now. His scent fills the cool air like a heady perfume, clinging to everything, drenching her in him. He perches on the bed as though it’s only right for him to be there, as though he belongs here, in her chambers, the one part of this damned kingdom that is wholly hers.
She should fold her arms over her chest and coldly ask him to get out but…But the words won’t come. They lodge and stick in her throat and she can’t get them out. Above her surprise and indignation at finding him here of all places is the horror that builds over the sick churning of her stomach. It throws up new emotions that she can’t contend with and doesn’t understand.
This is the first time she’s seen him since Hybern. The first time she’s seen him since she was Made and he was broken. The first time she’s seen him since everything between them was shattered, he no longer the cocky, self-assured army commander who came to her to deliver his High Lord’s messages; she no longer the cold, indifferent human woman who had sneered at him and pushed him away because that was easy and what he represented, what he offered, was hard.
Standing in that doorway, seeing him there, before she even opens her mouth, before either of them speaks, she knows that everything has changed between them. The dynamic they once had no longer exists and nothing about this is easy anymore. Least of all pushing him away. They’re…connected now. In a way she can’t explain but the thick vein of emotion that pulses inside her like a river rushing through her blood and bones and heart is more than she can stand and she can’t look at him like this and just send him away…She can’t.
His wings are draped out on the bed behind him, tattered black silk pooling over her soft lilac sheets. Her heart launches itself up into her throat as though for a moment it had thought of going to him, gifting itself to him, as though that would help. But at the last moment it changed its mind, lodging there instead, and no matter how hard she tries she can’t swallow it back down again where it belongs.
His wings. His wings.
She had been there in Hybern, had seen him flare them wide to protect his brother, but…She had never expected this. This ragged ruin, both of the wings and of the male they belonged to. She had thought the Fae would have healed him, had thought they could have healed anything, had thought he would be alright but…
Shreds remain of those once beautiful wings. And they had been beautiful. Strange how she only realises that, lets herself think and fully appreciate that now…Now that they’re almost gone. They had been alien and frightening and upon first seeing them she had wanted to keep them, both of them, away from Elain. Those hulking brutes with the unnatural wings looming over them, ever present shadows at their backs.
Now…Now he seems…diminished. Smaller somehow, so much smaller, so much less without them. There’s an empty space behind him, and within, which should be filled by those wings and the howl of wind that rushed past them whenever he took flight. Instead there are holes that can never be filled by anything else. She can see the tattoo that runs the length of his spine, the detailed Illyrian markings set down in a thin column, usually covered by his sword or blocked out by the vast expanses of black membrane. It feels like a secret that she should never have known, a secret that the world should never have been able to see. It feels oddly personal, oddly intimate and a part of her wants to trace the dark, swirling markings with her finger while the other wants to look away.
It hurts, she realises with a jolt. She hurts for him, for what he gave up to protect someone he loved so fiercely. There’s a deep, aching sadness that lies deep in the hollows of her heart, filling them with his pain as she looks at him.
For the first time she wonders, truly wonders, what it would be like to fly. Then she wonders what it would be like to fly and be told that you never would again. She finds herself gripping the doorframe for support at that.
She sees it again in her mind’s eye, the blast of power that had torn him apart and his scream…His scream had ripped through her and sometimes echoed in her dreams, a hideous melody to accompany her own death and rebirth. There had been nothing but silence in that Cauldron when it had torn her apart and shoved her back together again without a thought, without a care, that she would rather have drowned in there than returned as she was. Her own screams had been empty, her throat and lungs flooded by the Cauldron’s black waters and no sound had ever managed to break free of the iron cage she had been held in.
In her dreams, though…In her dreams there is Cassian. His voice manages to break through to her even as she feels her heart stop beating, feels herself die. His voice rings through her, shattering along her bones as though it is her that he screams for in those moments. His voice fills the emptiness that had haunted her inside that Cauldron. Terrible as it was, she thinks she would prefer the silence. She never wants to hear that sound, that agony from him, ever again.
Nesta realises she’s still hovering in the doorway and hasn’t moved. It’s as though she’s been fixed to this spot, bidden to stare at those ruined wings for the rest of her days, the worst kind of torment. She considers turning and simply leaving, chased out of her own rooms by the spectre of the male that made her feel….What? Perhaps that he made her feel anything at all is enough.
Then he turns to her and she knows that she can’t leave him, any more than she can ask him to leave. His wings, his torn, ruined wings are nothing compared to his eyes. They hold all of the vast, black emptiness that she had drowned in until it had killed her. But this…This hollow darkness in him she finds she can’t walk away from. Even though every instinct within her newly Made body screams at her to run from it, she finds herself walking towards him instead.
Hesitantly, she sits down on the bed beside him. His eyes remain fixed on hers for a long moment before he looks away again, visibly wincing as he shifts his wings with the movement. Nesta watches him feeling, for the first time in her life, a hopelessness that tunnels her out until she feels as empty as he is. Even in that hovel, unable to provide for her sisters, unable to hunt as Feyre had, unable to do anything to help them she had not felt this hopeless. She had had her plan, her spite, her bid to see what their father would do if they did indeed begin to truly starve and die. She had had something, bitter and cruel and meaningless as it might have seemed. But in the face of this…She has nothing.
What could she say to him now? I’m sorry. It will be alright. They will heal. So will you. He would only snarl at her for every one and then likely leave. She doesn’t know why, doesn’t know why it causes her soul to shrink back, pressing itself hard against the very edge of herself in horror, but she can’t bear that. She can’t bear him walking away from her just now. So she says nothing. She only sits there beside him, letting the silence stretch.
He doesn’t break it either, it simply endures between them. Until she looks down and notices a piece of paper held limply in one of his hands. Glancing up at him he refuses to meet her eyes and she considers leaving it, pretending that she hasn’t seen but then she sees a word, the single word at the top of the page and she finds she can’t look away. Slowly, she reaches out, the tips of her fingers lightly scraping his hand as she closes her own around the paper.
She gently pulls it free and he offers no resistance, allowing it to slide from his loose grip without protest, as though he barely notices. There are only three words printed on the note, in a hand she knows is Cassian’s, big and bold and clear, the ink pressed into the paper as firmly and meaningfully as though it were skin, the nib of a quill the needle, the words a tattoo, a commitment, whenever they’re set down by his hand.
Her name is printed at the top and on the line below he has only managed two words. ‘I’m sorry.’ The space beside them is filled with a single black dot that has melted through the thin paper. As though he had placed the quill upon its surface, intending to write more but it had become stuck, suspended in silence until it had pierced the paper and he had given up.
A hard lump forms in her throat as she stares down at those words that he had written, words that he had written for her and tries to understand. Glancing at him she feels something throb and pull deep inside her chest and she hears an echo in her head, like a half-remembered song. ‘I will stand on that battlefield again, Nesta Archeron, to protect this house—your people. I can think of no better way to end my existence than to defend those who need it most.’ Instead he had watched while she had died and…And perhaps that hurt him almost as much as those ruined wings.
The lump in her throat forms itself into tears that stain her eyes.
Blinking rapidly she turns to look at him again. His eyes are still distant and unfocused, fixed on the same spot they’ve been whenever he hasn’t been looking at her. She follows his gaze to the huge window that cuts a chunk from her bedroom wall to reveal the world beyond. Lacking glass, like all of the windows here, it provides free access to the waiting skies beyond.
Tension ripples within Cassian’s muscles at her side, as though he’s fighting something deep within him that roars for him to launch himself from that window. It terrifies her that she doesn’t know if it’s because over five hundred years worth of instinct burns in his blood and urges him to spread the wings the wind that sings to him does not yet know he’s lost and fly. Or if it is because he knows they’re ruined and some part of him longs to fall. She doesn’t know.
Again, words fail her. She doesn’t even understand what she’s seeing, what she’s feeling, so how can she find anything to say to him to express that? Instead she lets instinct drive her, heedless for once of thought and consequence, she shifts a little closer to him. Both hands loop around his arm, holding onto him, anchoring them, him to her and her to him. She feels less lost when she has something to hold on to. Despite the deadened cold that haunts his eyes he remains warm. That dares a faint flicker of hope to pulse inside her.
Slowly, he turns his head to look at her, dragging his gaze away from the beckoning heavens that are slowly fading from a clear blue to a rich, velvety purple. Inviting, even to her, who has never felt the sky lightly kiss her cheek as it embraces her, to him…But he looks away from it and looks down at her instead. For a moment she’s afraid that she’ll find that emptiness in his eyes again, that he’ll allow her hands to slip away from him as easily and indifferently as he had allowed her to take the note from between his fingers. And she knows that she can’t bear that, can’t bear it if he pulls away. She knows that that, above everything else that has happened to her these past few weeks, would break her.
He does not pull away. His eyes soften as he looks down at her, her armour of ice and steel melted away from her like a shed skin. They remain on the bed, clothed and separated by a healthy distance, neither breaking the silence between them, but as she looks into those raw, unguarded hazel eyes she has never felt more vulnerable in her life. She has also never felt so safe.
Swallowing hard she feels the tear slide down her cheek before she realises that she’s given herself permission to cry in front of him. As though on instinct, as though he can’t help himself, as though he barely even realises that he’s doing it- a call from her soul answered without thought by his- he reaches up and softly wipes the tear away with the ball of his thumb, as he had done all those weeks ago.
Drawing a ragged breath into her lungs, the gesture, the intimate contact, gives her the burst of near reckless courage she needed to move in closer. She doesn’t stop until her body presses against his and she’s struck by how much larger, how much stronger than her he is. But she has never once looked at him and seen a weapon or a male made to hurt or to wound. She has only ever thought of him as a shield, as a safe point, as the one she would run to if she felt threatened or scared.
It’s only when she presses their bodies so closely together that she might have been determined to fuse them into one that she realises he’s shaking. Looking up she sees with a jolt of surprise that he’s crying, silent tears streaming from his eyes and falling quietly down into her lap. Nesta finds herself weeping as well as he gently rests his forehead against hers, leaning on her even as she leans on him. For all that he has lost and everything she has become, she cries with him.
The crumpled note she had held so tightly in her hand, ink now blurring, falls from her thoughtless fingers to the floor at their feet. Nesta wraps her arms around his chest, pulling him closer, holding onto him, and he wraps an arm around her, tucking her close to him.
They break the quiet between them at the same time, with the same words. Their voices are a blend of rough and soft, high and low, but both raw and tempered by the same fire when they whisper into the silence as one, “I’m sorry.”
I have a headcanon that harry tells ginny anything important through lymerics
Ginny came home one day after quidditch training, sweat dripping from her form and eyes closing from exhaustion when suddenly a letter is shoved under her nose. Instinctively she grabs it, still slightly tense from the war- they all are. But she didn’t need to worry, because the writing is a mixture of print and cursive, the capital G for her name unique. She smiles, recognising it as Harry’s writing, before wondering what he can’t say but can write. Curiosity getting the best of her, she reads it, leaning against the doorframe and zoning out the playful squeals from her children.
“Hair dark and pretty,
Her smile lights up the city,
I love her heaps,
My wife’s really neat!
And I might’ve bought a kitty…”
She laughs when she recognises the format as a poem. She smiles when she sees the compliments. Her mouth drops and her eyes widen as she shouts out Harry’s full name. “YOU BOUGHT A CAT?! WHERE IS IT??”
Harry was relieved to realise that Ginny liked cats.
Oh. My. God. How do antis think the world - especially the legal aspects of domain registration - works? Do your due diligence, send a legitimate cease and desist letter to the actual parties, exhaust registry administrative options, file an ICANN complaint with WIPO. Stop harassing people.
Aaaand yet another love letter to my goddamn Nerevarine.
Finally done! Hhhhoy shit. This was getting to ‘please let me be done’ levels. Hey so maybe the next time I jump back into digital painting, I should pick, like, something 40 times simpler. But, uh, it was definitely good practice? I think I am pleased.
You just need
To study a little longer.
A few more minutes.
A few more hours.
What I really need
Is a few more days
To figure out a way
To keep my head from spinning
Off my shoulders.
Every minute counts
But I’ve only got about 25 left
Before I have to
Go to work,
Go to class,
Go to the gym,
Go to the store,
Go to lunch,
For God’s sake,
Just let me go to sleep.
Life is exhausting
When your potential seems to be measured
By letters and numbers.
They should put my letter at a ‘D’,
D as in Damn it,
I am trying.
My heart and soul goes into every paper I turn in
And I try so hard to be perfect
But I just
I’m supposed to push myself
Just a little farther
And by the end of it all,
I will probably have gone as far as I can go,
Plus ten more miles.
I’ve got the endurance,
Endurance can only get you so far.
okay but can season 12 have an amnesia episode? consider:
dean gets selective amnesia and forgets about hunting/the supernatural. maybe a spell. whatever
sam having to teach dean how to hunt, using all the techniques Dean used to teach him
all the meta. ( “do people really believe you’re an fbi agent with that hair?” “oh, yeah, this car is really inconspicuous. nice, though.” “you’re telling me the apocalypse happened… and no one on earth seems to care?”)
sam wistfully recalling some of the people they’ve loved and lost
dean being clumsy and fumbling with holy water
sam being the Big Protective Hero and Dean being all ‘man who taught you this stuff’
dean staring at castiel and being like ‘where are your wings’ and cas being like ‘boy is that a long story’
sam and cas sighing in unison while watching dean play with the men of letters scimitar like exhausted parents
dean’s faith in god restored, especially after meeting castiel, and sam not wanting to shatter the glass
sam asking cas if they have to restore dean’s memories - why can’t they just let him be happy - why can’t they set him free - but they both know they need dean in order to keep fighting
The four to six young aides usually slept in one room, often two to a bed, then worked long days in a single room with chairs crowded around small wooden tables. Washington typically kept a small office off to the side. During busy periods, the aides sometimes wrote and copied one hundred letters per day, an exhausting grind relieved by occasional dances, parades, and reviews. At night, the aides pulled up camp stools to a dinner table and engaged in lively repartee. Hamilton, though the youngest family member, was nevertheless Washington’s “principal and most confidential aide,” as the general phrased it. Instead of resenting him, the other aides treated Hamilton affectionately and nicknamed him “Ham” or “Hammie.” For an orphaned boy from the Caribbean, what better fate to become part of this elite family?
“Hammie” though… I’m weak
(also maybe Alex and John were sleeping in the same bed okay bye)
i used to care so much about spelling out twenty one pilots with letters and all lower case but it’s exhausting and I’m so over that I’ll spell in TwIfsafdjknty 1 Pilots or 21p if i want to,,,,, holding down the o to write tøp is exhausting just let me live for one day. let me live.
I was having a conversation with a friend of mine last night which was almost entirely about how much queer media has changed over the course of our lives. Not a new conversation by any means but it got me thinking about how large a roll fandom has played in my life.
Picture this: a 15yo catholic only child, living in a small country town, begins exploring the Internet. That’s it. That’s how it started. I watched all of The L Word (three seasons at that point) on YouTube with Spanish subs, listening with scratchy headphones while my parents sat opposite watching the tv, with no idea how much sex was happening on my screen.
I was never into TLW fandom but I soon found the Buffy the Vampire Slayer one by accidentally stumbling onto a couple of virtual series (sadly the only one I remember now is The Watcher’s Council but there was another where Tara was alive which I really enjoyed). I stumbled onto The Mystic Muse when researching some of the authors - I don’t know if any one reading this remembers it but it was a fic archive just for BtVS.
Then I started actively looking for fic and naturally found fanfiction.net. BtVS, Veronica Mars, CSI, Criminal Minds….
Criminal Minds led me straight to LiveJournal. And there I found my people. From a lurker to an occasional writer, to even less occasional Beta, here I found a family.
I’ve never had a lot of queer friends in real life. But the internet is now pretty accepted as part of real life and to me, all of you are the family that got me through my early years of internalised-homophobia, self-hatred and depression and continued to look after me through all the years of insomnia which followed.
You warmed my heart with your fluff, soothed my soul with your fix-its and stood in solidarity with your angst. Your rec lists, virtual series, communities and challenges were (and still are) godsends.
The femslash fandom has been through thick and thin together, from cancellations to characters being written off shows, to bigoted networks and asshole show runners. And that was only with the subtext pairings. Guest stars, sweeps week kisses, gay-until-graduation, murders and suicides as well. Somehow we’re still standing.
And now here we are on tumblr.
It warms my heart to still see the same names (or, same people at least) still here in my fandom circle. I was never one for starting conversations so I do still feel like a lurker in some ways but I’m glad you’re all still around.
And nowdays there’s maintext queer characters in so many shows! I’m looking forward to exploring the new world of femslash with you guys next year. Let’s keep our heads up and keep writing that fic, because in a small country town somewhere, there’s a young girl who hasn’t yet found her family.