Chapter Text
"I painted flowers for Elain on her drawer. Little begonias and irises and roses. Nesta, I painted flames for her. She was always angry, always burning. I painted stars and the moon and clouds and just endless, dark sky."
- - -
NESTA
“I need you to hunt with me today.”
Nesta Archeron did not bother to look up from the book she was pretending to read. It was a boring, predictable romance she had read too many times to count. But staring at the yellowed pages was better than looking at the bleak surroundings in which she was forced to call home. She was cold, tired, and hungry. She was always those things. And the last thing she wanted to deal with was her nagging sister.
But Feyre, ever like the cruel winter that pressed upon them, was relentless. “Nesta,” she said again, this time with some bite. “I need—”
“I heard you the first time.”
Elain, sitting closest to the fire, shifted uneasily, as she often did, when Nesta and Feyre spoke more than two sentences to each other.
“Then grab your cloak and come on,” said Feyre.
“I am not going.”
A beat of silence. Nesta wondered how hard Feyre would push before giving up. While her younger sister was stubborn, it was nothing compared to Nesta’s own relentless steel. And today—today she would not relent.
“Nesta, I don’t have time for this,” Feyre said, her voice heavy with exasperation and fatigue. “It will be dark in a few hours. The animals are moving deeper in the forest and—”
“All the more reason for you to go about it alone,” Nesta interrupted. She raised her chin and added, in the best imitation of her sister, “‘You’re too loud. You keep scaring everything away. Why are you here if you’re just going to whine the whole time?’”
Feyre’s mouth thinned. “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”
“As I said, you don’t need me.”
“I could go,” Elain offered timidly.
“No.” Feyre and Nesta spoke simultaneously, their voices echoing in the crowded cottage.
Elain bit her lip, her fingers playing with the tattered sleeves of her shawl. She never complained about them—the patchy, threadbare clothes they were forced to wear. Not like Nesta, who complained every second she could, who wanted to rage and scream at the life they had once had and lost, all thanks to their good-for-nothing father who had been drowning in debt and then had the nerve to die.
Elain said he died of a broken heart. Nesta and Feyre thought he had given up on the will to live. It was perhaps the only thing they agreed on.
“Listen, if you will just—” Elain started, but Nesta cut her off.
“No,” she said again. “You don’t know the first thing about handling a weapon.”
“And you do?”
She whipped her head toward Elain, who flushed at her own boldness. Even Feyre blinked in surprise.
Spine stiffening slightly, Nesta turned back to her book and flipped a page. “I know more than you. But neither of us could ever be as skilled as our warrior sister.” She said it mockingly, a nasty sneer on her face. It was beginning to feel more and more like a permanent fixture.
“You could learn a thing or two if you’d bother,” Feyre said icily. “Isaac showed me—”
Nesta cut her off with a laugh, her voice shrill and cold. “Isaac Hale? The only thing he showed you was how to rut in the hay like an animal. No wonder you move so silently among them.”
A terrible, horrible silence fell. Nesta felt a sliver of guilt, but that ever-constant rage burning inside her quickly consumed it. Several long seconds passed before footsteps pounded across the cottage and the door was wrenched open. A blistering cold swept into the room, followed by the slam of the door.
Elain whirled on Nesta. “Why must you be so cruel?” she asked, hurt evident in her voice. “You shouldn’t have said that to Feyre.”
“Why? It’s true, isn’t it? You know what they spend their time doing.”
Elain’s cheeks burned. “It doesn’t matter what they do, Nesta. You needn’t be so cruel.”
Cruel. Bitter. Angry. Words she had heard a thousand times. They might have stung once, long ago. Now she was too cold to feel even the slightest of burns.
“You should have gone with her,” Elain added.
“Anything else I should have done?” Nesta snapped.
Elain just shook her head and stood up, wrapping her shawl tighter and padding toward the tiny kitchen.
As Nesta stood from her chair, her eyes caught on the single arrow above the fire’s mantle. It was perhaps their most valuable possession: an arrow carved from mountain ash, set with an iron head.
Nesta did not think much of faerie superstition, and she had raged at Feyre for wasting those coppers that summer when she brought home that arrow. But as she stared at it…that sliver of guilt was creeping back up her spine as she thought of her sister trudging through those snowy woods alone, armed with one less arrow—the only arrow that might actually kill a faerie, should she encounter one.
When their father died all those years ago, Nesta was left with a mountain of debt to deal with. After sorting through the accounts and paying off all the debt, they had very little money left. So Elain helped the baker in the village for extra coppers, and Feyre sold paintings on market day. Nesta managed their limited stores, expenses, and money—or what little they had left of it.
Directly after their father’s death, the villagers would bring them game, seemingly feeling sorry for the fatherless girls. At some point they stopped, but then started again. It didn’t take long for Nesta to figure out Feyre had taken up a bow and learned how to hunt. She occasionally went with her, mostly to be another set of eyes on the trees. But Nesta felt useless out there, and far too vulnerable, and both of those things made her even more bitter.
You needn’t be so cruel.
Nesta sighed and tossed aside her book. She stood there for a long moment, staring up at that arrow.
Then she reached up and pulled it down from the mantle.
Turning to find Elain hunched over a pot of stew, she said, “Stay here. I’m going to help Feyre.”
- -
It was not long before Nesta was doing exactly what Feyre had claimed of her—complaining under her breath and making unintelligible noises that would scary off any quarry. The wind was biting, with clumpy, fat snowflakes fluttering down and catching on her lashes. She carried a shoddy wooden bow and had the ash arrow clutched in her other hand. They only had one quiver, which was strapped to Feyre’s back. The ash arrow was surprisingly heavy, which made Nesta move even slower. She knew the route Feyre would take, and followed it closely, slipping through the trees as silently as she could. She wouldn’t be too far behind, but the cold made her slow.
Still, she trudged on, her steps heavy and clunking in the deep snow. She walked a mile. Maybe two or three, when a twig snapped in the distance, causing Nesta to halt. Her heart pounded in her chest.
Of all the stupid ideas, this had to be the worst. What was she doing? She was no warrior, and all she had was a single arrow.
A single arrow!
No, they had never seen anything in the woods larger than a boar, but there were stories of the monsters that ventured out of Prythian. But—
Nesta let out a breath of relief. It was just a doe. It appeared to be eating, chewing on tree bark, oblivious to her presence. As she watched it, she felt a pang of emptiness. The woods were a dangerous place, and it was alone, utterly useless.
Just like her.
She turned her head slightly, looking to the trees, and that’s when she saw a flash of familiar furs and leather. Crouched in a tree, too far away to properly see Nesta, was Feyre. She was pulling an arrow silently from her quiver, her gaze locked on the doe.
Nesta felt satisfaction at having snuck up on her sister. But that feeling quickly faded as she caught a flash of gray and white and black. Faster than lighting, an enormous wolf shot from the brush, yellow fangs gleaming and paws thundering across the snow. It moved inhumanly fast, it’s body too muscled and large to be an ordinary wolf.
A single word—faerie—rang through Nesta’s ears as the beast lunged toward the doe. At the sound, Feyre turned in the direction of the wolf, but she did not move fast enough.
She did not move as fast as Nesta.
The arrow soared through the air and hit its mark—right into the wolf’s eye. The beast yelped and hit the ground with a heavy thud. Its remaining keen yellow eye met Nesta’s across the wood, and for a moment, she swore there was something there, something more than animal.
Die, she thought at it, years and years of hatred and cold and rage burning through her. Rot in hell like the monster you are.
The wolf’s body trembled, a whine slipping from its snarled snout. Nesta just stared at the fallen beast as Feyre eased down from the tree.
“What are you doing here?” she barked over the raging wind.
Lifting her gaze, Nesta closed the long distance between them. To her disappointment, up close the wolf looked ordinary, if still large for its size. There were no distinct markings to indicate it was anything but a wolf. No extra long fangs, no wings or scales or second tails.
But even with the arrow lodged in its eye, somehow, the wolf was still alive. Its whine cut through the blistering wind, its legs pawing at the ground, like it wanted to run away but couldn’t. Blood soaked its fur and into the snow.
Feyre went for her hunting knife—to give it a merciful death, no doubt—but Nesta stopped her.
“No,” she said, staring down at the wolf. “Let it suffer.”
“Nesta…”
“Let it suffer.”
As we have.
And so they did.
- -
Elain was waiting eagerly on the doorstep when they finally returned. She sagged in relief at the sight of them before her eyes widened at the pelt draped across Feyre’s shoulder. The doe had gotten away, but at least they didn’t come home empty handed.
“That will fetch well at the market,” Elain said, and gestured them forward. “Come inside where its warm. I’ve finished dinner.”
Nesta didn’t need telling twice. Her entire body ached, her fingers were numb, and she could hardly feel her face. Feyre kicked the ice off her boots before entering the cottage, but Nesta didn’t bother. She walked straight to the fire, slid out of her boots, and nearly collapsed in front of the flames.
Elain hurried over and bent down, forcing Nesta out of her outer clothes and heavy cloak. “You’re freezing. Let me bring you something warm,” she said.
Feyre snorted from where she stood by the door, easing her way out of her own heavy clothes. She did not look the state Nesta did, but of course she was more attuned to the harsh weather.
Nesta managed to glare at her. “You can chop the wood tomorrow,” she snarled. It was the first words she had said to her since Feyre had skinned the wolf in the forest.
“I usually do,” Feyre replied coolly.
Before Nesta could hurl an insult, Elain cut in, “I will chop wood tomorrow. It’s my turn. Now, both of you hush and come sit down for dinner.”
And that was that.
- -
They ate mostly in silence, hunched over steaming bowls of stew at the crowded table, a hunk of stale bread in the center. The utensils were mismatched, the plates and goblets chipped. Nesta looked at it all and wanted to scream. They had sold their mother’s fine flatware long ago. They had sold almost everything that had any value. Jewels, trinkets, gowns, books. They had no memoir of the life they once had. Nothing that shone, glinted, or glimmered, that felt soft or silky to the touch. Nothing at all. It was almost like that life never existed and Nesta’s memories were hazy dreams of some other high standing lady.
She knew what needed to happen, the only chance they stood to survive: one of them needed to marry. All of them needed to marry, preferably. The problem was lived in a small village, and they had nothing to offer. No dowry, no livestock. Nothing.
It was as though Elain had read the troubles in her mind, for she said, “I met someone the other day.”
A beat of silence fell as the meaning of those words registered.
“Who?” Feyre asked around a mouthful of stew.
“His name is Graysen. He is a lord’s son.”
Nesta straightened a bit. “A lord’s son?” she repeated.
Elain nodded, her brown eyes bright, a smile playing on her mouth. Even dressed in tatters, she was still lovely. The loveliest of them all. Where the years of poverty had made Nesta and Feyre cold and bitter, Elain had remained gentle, hopeful, and kind. Sometimes Nesta hated her for it.
“Graysen told me of his family estate. The soldiers, the stores, and even the hounds.”
“The hounds?” Nesta asked.
“They have been bred and trained to hunt faeries. His father seems to think faeries will invade the human lands. He’s dedicated his life to hunting them.” Elain made a face, as though disturbed by the idea.
“Good,” Nesta said, taking a sip of hot water she pretended was tea.
Feyre was watching Elain carefully. “Do you like him?”
“I don’t know him that well, but he seems to be agreeable. And he is handsome,” she added a bit sheepishly.
She was hiding it well, but Nesta could see the hope in her sister’s eyes—and the dreaminess. She liked this lord’s son, but was being careful not to get too hopeful. If their mother were here, she would know exactly what to say to Elain, how to guide her and manipulate the boy to ensure a hand in marriage.
But like their father, she too had died, leaving them to fend for themselves.
Elain would need little guidance though, Nesta thought. She was beautiful, and charming, and sweet. Graysen would be smitten with her, as most people were. Even the grumpy blacksmith in the village was kind to her. No, it was not a matter of Elain’s desirability, but of what little she had to offer a lord. It would be the father that would be the real thorn, not the son.
But Nesta did not want dampen Elain’s hope, so she attempted to lighten her voice as she said, “Well, I look forward to meeting him.”
Elain brightened, a star in a sky of darkness that was the cottage, and they finished their meal in comfortable silence.