Chapter Text
Cassian paced impatiently in the training ring, temper already boiling despite the early hour. Six o’clock. He had told Nesta to be in this ring at six o’clock and not a moment later. She had made such a fuss over refusing to train in Windhaven that he had agreed to train her here, and she had humored him for all of two days before this. Her body was still much too thin for her to be skipping out on their morning sessions, and Cassian thrummed with the determination to get actual muscle on her before she next presented herself to their family. But that wouldn’t happen if she refused to show up to begin with.
“What time is it now?” he asked, scowling.
“A little past seven, I reckon,” Azriel replied, dryly, content to watch his brother fret from the corner of the ring.
“This is ridiculous. She knows the agreement.”
“Are you sure she felt well last night?” Azriel asked, tilting his head.
“She was the same as she always was,” Cassian grumbled, “absolutely miserable.”
“The bruises on her face from her fall the other night were still there, did you notice?”
Cassian paused, turning to look at the shadowsinger who, while usually openly amused at the endless arguing and tension between he and Nesta, had the softest glimmer of concern in his eyes.
“What do you mean? She didn’t fall that hard. Those bruises and scrapes should’ve faded in an hour or two.”
A frown tugged at Azriel’s lips. “She could have killed herself, Cassian, had she fallen any farther. You felt inclined to tease her about it, but we very well could have been dragging a bloody corpse up the stairs had she-”
“Don’t,” Cassian cut off sharply. “Don’t say that. She wouldn’t. She’s just being stubborn. Again.”
His brother sighed then, straightening up and approaching him slowly. Face hard and serious, he said, “that is what you all keep saying, when the look in her eyes says otherwise. If that’s what you need to tell yourself to sleep at night, fine, but you can’t ignore what’s right in front of you.”
“I’m not ignoring it, Azriel, I’m addressing it. Head on. She can disagree with my methods, but if they get her to stop drinking and looking like she just came out of a war camp then I will not apologize for it.”
Azriel closed his eyes for a moment, clearly irritated. Cassian waited silently for his brother to reply, attributing his stress to what was likely another lackluster round of reports from his spies on the Queens, Autumn, and Illyria, but was ultimately only met with another sigh and a shrug as Azriel turned and walked towards the other side of the ring.
“Whatever you say, Cass. Either way, if you’re that pressed to pull her out of bed, go fetch her yourself. I’m sure she’ll love it.”
Cassian scoffed, prepared to reject the notion, wanting to argue that Nesta knew her responsibilities and thus she would come to him or not at all. But there was something in the way Azriel’s brows furrowed, the softness of his tone, that made him reconsider. He hadn’t noticed anything wrong with Nesta the last few days, but Azriel was spy master for a reason. What if she was feeling unwell?
“Fine, but it’s on you when this ends in another screaming match.”
Azriel offered him nothing in response, just simple acceptance, and, running a rough hand over his face, Cassian made his way down to Nesta’s quarters, a place he had dared not tread since her arrival, for fear of facing the realities of their situation.
The door was firmly shut, and no sound could be heard from inside. Cassian rolled his eyes at the knowledge that she was likely just asleep, buried under the covers and avoiding the world as she had always done. With a deep breath, he knocked loudly, once, twice, and waited. And waited. And waited.
Nothing.
Growing more irritated by the second, he banged his fist on the door louder, calling out,
“Come on, sweetheart, getting your beauty rest may seem important, but it is not an excuse for skipping out on training.”
Still, there was nothing. No sound of rustling sheets or sleep-addled grumbles of discontent. A frown tugged at his lips and something too close to anxiety tugged at his chest.
“Nesta if you aren’t outside this door in the next five minutes, I will come in there and drag you myself.”
Crossing his arms, he waited for a reply. There was no way she slept that deeply, no fae did, and he knew just by the black circles under her eyes that, most of the time, even a light doze was hard for her to find these days. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t disappoint Feyre by letting Nesta keep her old habits. So, he leaned on the wall beside the door, waiting for the moment she showed her angry face, teeth bared and ready to rip into him. But as the minutes ticked on and the only thing to greet him was silence, he began to care less about chastising her for her tardiness. Instead, a new, burning need arose within him to simply lay his eyes on her to ensure that she was actually alive.
In the end, he didn’t actually know if five minutes had passed or not when he finally caved and opened the door, only a little surprised that it was unlocked.
“I warned you, Nes, I won’t apologize for what happens next,” he called as he entered, but froze when he took in the disarray of the room and, most notably, the very empty bed in the center of it.
“Nesta?” he asked, wondering where she would have gone without them knowing, or what would account for the blankets strewn about as if she shed them off her as she rose. Suddenly, Azriel’s comment about the incident on the stairs flashed through his mind, and his heart clenched. He scanned the room anxiously, looking for any sign of her, when he heard it.
A soft, quiet, pitiful whimper.
His head snapped towards the door to the bathroom, which he now realized was cracked open, though no light came from within. Slowly, he crept towards it, ears straining.
“Nes?” he said softer, and as he pushed the door open just enough to let the light in, his breath caught in his chest at what he found.
Nesta was still in her night gown, though it was soaked through with sweat, arms covering her head to block the ruckus he had made. Her breathing was labored, and as he looked at her closely, he could see the way her arms trembled, as if the muscles were straining just to keep them up over her.
“Just…give me a few… a few minutes,” she mumbled, her voiced slurred and muffled, as if her mind was too sluggish to form coherent thoughts. Cassian's chest tightened. Never, not once in the time he'd known her, had Nesta ever stuttered over her words.
Quickly, without fully registering what she had said, he dropped to his knees beside her.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Are you sick? Is it your cycle?”
She didn’t respond verbally, but he saw the way her head shook. After an agonizing moment of silence, he watched as she pried her arms off her face and used them to push herself up, though it looked to be a monumental effort. Instinctively, he reached out to help her.
“Please don’t touch me,” she whispered, eyes still closed, and the words sent a spear through his heart. “This is normal, just…just go back outside and I’ll come once I…” she trailed off then, in a wince, and a hand shot to her head. At the loss of support, she suddenly pitched forward, and, without thinking about the demand she just gave him, he caught her, fear spiking at the limp way she laid against him.
At once, they both hissed. Nesta, from the pain, but Cassian from how hot her skin was. It nearly burned him, but as quickly as he held her, she had flinched back, out of his reach. As he looked for anything to cool her with, he heard the sound of her slumping back onto the floor, only this time her back was to him. Beside her, a bucket of cool water and a cloth had appeared, a courtesy of the House.
“Gods, Nesta, you’re on fire, what do you mean this is normal?” he asked, shifting to grab the cloth. A heartbreaking shudder moved through her as he placed it on the back of her neck, and, even from the limited way he was touching her, he could feel how tight her muscles were, the small tremors that continued to make their way down her arms and legs.
“It’s just a condition I have,” she murmured, grimacing as she shifted away from him just enough to send another wave of guilt and anxiety through him. Determined to help her, he settled more comfortably on the floor, closer to the basin of water that he was already re-dipping the cloth into. His brows furrowed at her words, trying to remember anyone mentioning such a thing.
“What do you mean, sweetheart? How long has this been going on?”
She didn’t answer him for a long moment, her eyes closed, so he gently brushed his thumb along the back of her neck, to get her attention.
“Nes, how long has this been happening?”
She let out a long breath, as if the thought of speaking anymore exhausted her.
“I don’t know, forever?” she mumbled against the tile, where she had turned her face into, “I have these episodes sometimes, they’re just worse now. I told you to just give me a few minutes, Cassian.”
Cassian shook his head. “I’m not letting you train like this; I need to get you to Madja.”
He started to get up, intending on putting her in his arms, but as soon as his hands touched her fully, she flinched, another whimper making its way past her lips at the sudden jostling. He decided he never wanted to hear that sound again.
“Please don’t,” she whispered, and her voice was so weak, so vulnerable, that he couldn’t refute her.
“Okay,” he relented, deciding to ignore the way his throat had tightened at her aversion to him. “Okay, sweetheart, I won’t touch you. But we need to get someone to bring Madja, then.”
He knew the words would prompt the shadows throughout the house to alert their master, and as he waited for Azriel to come down from the ring he began pondering his options for how to keep her settled, how to help.
“We need to cool you down,” he said gently, “a bath will help until she gets here,”
At this, Nesta reared back, attempting to sit herself up at such a speed that the dizziness that overcame her was palpable. For the first time since he found her, she met his eyes, and her gaze held such raw pain and terror that he was suddenly adamant about finding whoever gave her this “condition” and giving them a slow, painful death.
“No baths,” she gasped, and he frowned at the way he saw her fingers tremble from their place on the floor.
He stared at her for a moment in confusion, but her distress alone was enough for him to acquiesce, if only to soothe her. Gently, and slow enough to give her time to move away, he lifted a hand to brush the sweaty strands of hair from her face.
“Okay,” he said. “No baths. Just the cloth, okay?”
Her body sagged at the words, and, to his surprise and immense relief, Nesta allowed him to ease her back down into the floor. Once she settled, head resting just next to his thigh, he began tentatively running the cool cloth over her arms, neck, and shoulders, listening for his brother’s footsteps. She still flinched the first couple times the fabric touched her skin, but after several moments she quieted, encouraging him to keep up the gentle movements until she said otherwise.
As expected, Azriel peaked his head in through the door a moment later, lips pursed as he took in the state of her. They didn’t need to exchange any words before he turned on his heel, mission clear. Nesta had nestled her face back into the tile, to block out any light, and he was growing increasingly frustrated that he couldn’t pull her into his lap properly, either from the pain or the chasm that now strained their relationship.
“Does Feyre know about this?” he asked, frowning as he watched the way her too thin frame shook with another wave of tremors rocking through her. Nesta shook her head.
“Don’t bother her with it,” she said, muffled, “don’t bother anyone with it.”
“Nesta you’re in agony. How often do you hurt like this?”
Her silence at the question left him uneasy, and he began to wonder if she had felt this way the whole time but hadn’t said anything. Suddenly, the harsh words he said to her after her incident on the stairs filled him with a sickening sense of dread.
Attempting to settle himself, Cassian closed his eyes for a long moment, going through the rote motions of soothing the cloth over any exposed skin he could reach before re-dipping it in the water and repeating. She didn’t say whether it helped, but, selfishly, he needed to do something, anything to make him feel less awful for neglecting whatever this was. Because clearly, she was sick, and had been for awhile. And, clearly, he was the asshole who missed it. They sat for several minutes in silence, so long that Cassian wondered if Nesta had succumbed to sleep. But her breathing was still labored and uneven, and every once in a while, a soft, near silent whine would pass through her lips, stirring that instinct buried deep within him to protect her at all costs. An instinct he had refused to acknowledge until now.
He heard, rather than saw Azriel and Madja’s arrival, mainly because it was followed by the familiar sound of Rhys’ voice, and by Feyre’s. He fought the urge to let out a long sigh, unsure whether he wanted them here at all, and just hoped they wouldn’t all come in at once and shatter this fragile moment of peace he had created. But, even with the commotion down the hall, Nesta didn’t stir, not even when, thankfully, it was just Madja who entered her bedroom.
The old healer had a firm frown on her face as she set herself down by Nesta’s side. Gently, she reached out a hand to brush over the back of Nesta’s head, her magic thrumming as it assessed her. When her frown only deepened, Cassian’s throat became uncomfortably tight.
“Leave her to me,” Madja said, no room for questioning in her voice. Cassian opened his mouth to protest but was met with a glare so sharp it jolted him, for he had never seen such open anger on the usually kind female’s face. So, reluctantly, he set down the cloth and watched, helplessly, as Madja settled Nesta’s head into her lap without protest.
Pushing himself up on unsteady feet, he left them to it, deciding he should, at least, inform Feyre about her sister’s condition. He turned back to look at Nesta once more before he left, frowning deeply at the way Madja was already running her magic through her body. And as he finally stepped through the door into the hall, he heard the healer say softly,
“It’s alright, my dear, you can rest now.”
He tried not to let the implication leave a bitter taste in his mouth as he made his way towards his family.
---
Stress lined Feyre’s face as she met Cassian’s gaze when he entered the sitting room down the hall. Rhys had made himself comfortable, drink already in hand, though he too had distinct tension in his shoulders, a frown on his face.
“What happened?” Feyre asked, “Azriel said she fell down the stairs?”
Cassian looked at his brother who was standing by the door, arms crossed, broodier than when he had left. With a sigh, he said,
“She did, but that isn’t what this is. She’s burning up, I found her on the bathroom floor. I don’t know if it’s an illness or something else.”
Feyre’s lips pursed. “Do you think it’s her magic? Those flames?”
Cassian shrugged, tucking his wings in tight. “She said it was normal, but I’ve never seen her like that before.”
“If it is her magic, that’s all the more reason she needs to train,” Rhys said, and Cassian pinched his brow, not really in the mood to have another discussion about what Nesta should and shouldn’t do when they apparently didn’t even know what state she was in to begin with.
Luckily, before they could get into rehashing that conversation, Madja appeared in the living room, arms crossed, mouth set in a grim line.
“How is she?” Feyre asked, wringing her hands, “Will she be alright?”
Madja assessed the group of them for a moment before replying, “your sister’s health condition seems to have worsened after she was Made, rather than being healed. I believe whatever powers she took from the Cauldron are exasperating it.”
“Condition?” Feyre said, confusion clear in her voice. “What condition?”
Madja stared at her High Lady with something akin to bewilderment. “Your sister suffers from an inflammatory condition of the nerves and muscles. According to her, she’s had it her entire life. I find it difficult to believe you are unaware of it.”
A pregnant silence filled the room, and Cassian’s mind came to a screeching halt.
“She’s…never said,” Feyre replied, brows furrowed. “She always seemed well enough. I mean, there were days she’d spend in bed, but I just assumed it was to keep warm or because she couldn’t be bothered. But you say it’s worse now?”
“I believe the magic she inherited from the Cauldron has manipulated it, accounting for the increase in body temperature in addition to the pain.”
“But this condition is already painful on its own?” Cassian asked. “Or is that just from the Cauldron?”
Madja’s lips pursed, and almost looked as though she were ready to call him an idiot. “Such inflammation on its own would be very uncomfortable, to say the least. I wouldn’t be surprised if Nesta has been in a considerable amount of pain on most days of her life. This episode, I believe, was triggered by extensive physical exertion. I don’t suppose you have any insight on why that might be?”
“We’re…training her,” Cassian replied, swallowing, and shifting uncomfortably, suddenly nervous.
“Training for what, exactly?” Madja shot back, irritation clear on her face, “the Blood Rite? There’s no reason for her body to be put through the kind of strain I know you Illyrians like to inflict on yourselves, not in her condition.”
“We didn’t know about it, Madja, please believe us. We hoped it would help with her behaviors,” Rhys said, gently, “the drinking and self-destruction, that is, in addition to control her magic.”
“Two issues that you should have come to me for immediately,” she replied, almost scolding, unbothered by the fact that she was talking to the High Lord. “For you to take matters into your own hands without a proper evaluation of her health was reckless. If she managed to keep her condition secret from you, which frankly is quite baffling given how debilitating it can be, I fear she would similarly hide the consequences of this plan you have in place. We’re lucky the consequences weren’t more dire.”
Another round of silence fell for several moments, each of them processing the weight of Madja’s words. Azriel’s shadows had darkened the room, and Feyre had bowed her head, racking her brain for memories of her sister’s pain. Rhys sat with his lips pressed into a thin line, attempting to reconcile her diagnosis with his perceptions. Cassian, meanwhile, felt as though the room was spinning. How did they miss this?
“Unfortunately, it seems that we were misguided. What do you recommend?” Rhys asked, though the judgement or suspicion in his tone that was normally present when they discussed Nesta was missing.
“The nature of her condition can cause significant strain on the mind, subjecting her to increased vulnerability to depression, anxiety, and difficulty to cope with trauma, in addition to the physical pain she feels. It’s rare in fae, but her circumstances aren’t exactly normal. The behaviors you describe are, in my opinion, not out of the question from what I’d expect for someone who went through what she has. She needs to be treated gently, with care, rather than put through paces like a soldier.”
Rhys nodded, frowning. “But what about her magic? That must be controlled.”
“I would think you’d know by now that not all magic is honed through harsh combat. In fact, I would say it only exacerbates her suffering further. I recommend a more refined approach, treat it like an academic pursuit rather than a foe to be vanquished. But she needs rest, now. No working, no training, just rest and gentle care. I don't know whether you’re keeping her up here for punishment or for healing, but she needs to stay within her physical limits. If physical training is something she wants to continue, I can provide a list of exercises that will help her build strength in a way that isn’t as stressful on the body.”
Cassian watched as Rhys took Madja’s criticisms, shoulders slumping as if he had just been chastised by his mother. He expected him to push back, to criticize Nesta as he’d always done. But instead, he just nodded, something akin to guilt in his eyes, as if he was unable to bring himself to go head-to-head with the female who helped bring him into the world.
“I understand,” he said quietly, “I hope you’ll forgive our oversight.”
Madja nodded. “It seems Nesta was keen on hiding it from you, so I cannot fault you entirely. Though, in the future, when one of you has an issue, I ask that you contact me before the crisis, rather than later. I must have told you that a thousand times by now.”
Rhys offered her an apologetic smile, and briefly the tension in the room eased. But Feyre’s eyes were still full of concern, anxiety, and in a tentative voice she asked,
“Can I see her?”
“She’s sleeping,” Madja replied, “I gave her something to cool her down and to ease the pain. I reckon she’ll sleep for the rest of the day. But she was adamant for privacy, so in the interest of my patient I’ve warded the door to her room. Unless she is in distress or opens the door herself, you’ll have to wait till tomorrow morning.”
Feyre frowned deeply, and looked almost ready to protest, but after a beat of silence, likely in which Rhys was communicating with her mind to mind, she nodded, a crestfallen expression on her face.
“I’ve left a healthy supply of the tonics I gave her for future episodes. Let her sleep, and make sure she eats in the morning. If she isn’t better by tomorrow, I’ll return. Otherwise, I’ll check in with her in a few days.”
Decidedly finished with her evaluation, Madja turned to Azriel to take her home, who did so without a word, leaving Cassian, Feyre, and Rhys to their thoughts. As they left, Rhys let out a long sigh, rubbing a hand over his face before lifting an arm for Feyre to sink into his side. She sat stiffly, quiet as she contemplated the last few years of her life, trying to remember any signs that Nesta was in pain.
“I swear I never knew,” she said quietly, “we’ll have to ask Elain. But Gods, if she’s been in pain all this time…”
“Then we’ll help her,” Rhys finished, pressing a kiss to her head. “She is your sister, and will be taken care of. At least we know now.”
And while that seemed to ease Feyre, at least for the moment, Cassian could only stare blankly down the hallway towards Nesta’s room, mind caving in with the guilt he felt over the consequences of their ignorance. His words to her the other night, telling her everyone hated her, paired with the way she flinched away from his grasp would haunt him for the rest of his life.
But at the same time, he knew just as well why many hid their pain. He himself did so more than most. The difference was his family knew that too, and thus didn’t let him get away with it very often. And so, the longer he sat, stewing in his own anxieties over the well being of a female who meant more to him than he was ready to admit, the firmer he became in his decision.
He would not let her get away with hiding her pain. Not from him. He would be there, day or night, showing her what it meant to be cared for, if only to atone for the months he should have spent doing so. He would listen, and he would learn what she needed, what she wanted, something he realized he’d never even asked. And, most of all, he would be the male who she deserved, who kissed her on that battlefield and promised her time, ready to die with her in his arms.
He only hoped she still had the strength to listen.