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Chapter Text

What no one ever really tells you about drowning is that there’s a moment right before you die, after the pain fades, where the peace settles in, and you're not afraid. Sometimes when Nimue is all grown up, she misses that peace. She was only trying to retrieve a waterlily from the lake to bring back for her sister Elain, but she had slipped and her head hit a rock as she fell forward. She went under quite quickly.

The water was deep, and in her confusion, she didn't realise she was swimming down instead of up. By the time she realised her small lungs had run out of air and the built-up pain in her head meant she couldn't hold on any longer. The water filled Nimue’s lungs quickly, which was a small mercy. Then the light fades, and everything is dark and cold for a very lonely moment. But after that, there was a voice, gentle and kind, and a feeling like a hand gliding through her hair followed it. Warmth fills her as soft humming enters the space, and Nim knows she’s safe.

She could hear yelling in the distance, a voice so familiar and deep, the voice of a father having found the body of his young daughter drifting in the water. Then there is pressure on her chest, followed closely by a thumping feeling. The humming stops. You can go back. A voice whispers tenderly like a lullaby. Nimue turned away from the voice, which is impossible considering it is all around her. She didn't want to go back, didn't want the feeling of restlessness she’d been born with to return. The feeling as if she was looking for something more than her mundane life could offer. The last thing the voice gave her into the open space around her like a gift was It will be different now; you will be different.

Nimue know instinctively that she could fade away into that darkness and find peace, knows that something lovely is waiting for her, but-

Another voice joins the man’s sobs, his begging, the voice of a child repeating her name over and over. A Sister. Elain. The thumping on her chest eases, and the sobbing starts anew, louder now and joined by others. The tether on her soul begins to fade. Just as it’s about to snap, Nimue reaches out and pulls. Her body shakes as her soul lands in it again, and a retching sound fills the air as she leans over and throws up the water in her lungs. She’s hearing her father sob a prayer to long forgotten gods behind her as she coughs,and feels Elain’s hand on her shoulder as she retches. She catches a glimpse of her eyes in the water of the lake before her, they glow a blinding white light but when she blinks, it fades.

Her father kept a close eye on her after the lake, for a few days at least, before he went back to his normal attitude, ignoring her. She never seemed to appeal to her parents as a person. Much too soft for her mother, who was busy shaping Nesta into a weapon. Her mind drifted away too often for her father to pay much attention to her; everything he said went in one ear and out the other. It didn’t bother her as much as it should have, being ignored; she saw it as a good thing, it simply allowed much more time for her to do what she liked. She would hate to be stuck learning all the lessons Nesta did.

She was sick a lot after she drowned, not that she wasn't already a sickly girl, born much too small. But after the lake, it was worse her lungs began aching as she coughed and coughed, but no more water came out of them, even when she could still feel it trapped there. Four days after the Lake incident, as her father called it, Nimue came back to the estate with a bundle of flowers for her twin sister Elain, who had been more worried after everything happened than anyone. She hopes the flower will bring her more joy after so long lost in her worry.

She pulls a wooden step up to the sink in the kitchen and turns on the taps filling a vase with water but she quickly gets distracted by a butterfly flying past the window so the water begins to overflow, it runs down her hand and splashes against the bottom of the sink, she hastily turns off the tap and tips some of the water out of the vase. She catches her reflection in the water at the bottom of the sink and freezes. Her eyes glow that pure white again.

She jerks away from the sink and tumbles to the floor. Her hand aches as it lands at the wrong angle, her vision blurs with tears from the pain. She fades into another coughing fit, and panic sets in as she struggles to breathe. She steadied her body with a hand to her chest and began counting in her head as her father had taught her when he came across her having a fit. He said panic only makes it worse; that she needs to ground her thoughts, or she'll black out. She pushes away the feeling of water filling her lungs and begins to count down from 30. Slow and steady, sucking in harsh breaths as she does. She has had a lot of practice with the method after all the nightmares she keeps having. The panic disappears and her coughing stops completely, but she lies there for what feels like years, but could only be minutes afterwards, trying to steady her racing heart. The cold stone she can feel against her back through her dress grounds her.

Eventually, she stands up on wobbly feet and walks over to the sink. The water at the bottom has completely drained away, and the clear vase sits still in the metal bowl of the sink. She picks up the flowers with shaking hands and slips them into the vase. She's careful not to look at the water inside it as she turns to leave the kitchen.

Elain loves the flowers, and her bright smile warms Nimue’s chest a Little but not enough to push away the aching coldness that has been present since the lake. Even her sister's warmth as they sit together in the garden doesn’t banish the image of blinding, glowing eyes.

******

It's been almost a week since the lake incident, and Nimue still feels that never-ending cold. Her lungs still ache, and she can’t quite shake her cough. The world around her feels far away and distant in a way it never has before, like she’s watching the world through a clouded lens. The only time she feels even remotely present is with Elain, who has hardly left her sister's side. The soft-spoken Elain hasn’t stopped trailing after their older sister Nesta; now she simply drags Nimue with her. Nesta, who never seemed to really see Nimue before, the lack of shared interests once a chasm of space between them, is now smaller as Elain draws Nimue into conversations. Nesta thinks Nimue is smart, unlike their mother, who thought  the girl lacked any brains. Nesta remembers the way in which the second youngest of her sisters remembers everything she has ever heard or read. She uses it to her advantage, often sending her little sister to spy on girls in town and gather gossip to bring back to Nesta. Her eldest sister eyes Nimue with scrunched up brows of concern when she drifts away into her head, but never draws questions to it, she simply holds her sister’s hand tightly as she’s seen Elain do many times until Nimue finds her way back.

“You have to bathe Miss Nimue; I understand you are afraid, but the tub isn’t the lake, there shan’t be enough water for you to drown in.” The maid explains gently, her voice raspy and not comforting at all. The old maid leans over the tub and runs the water. Her greying brown hair falls in front of her face as she does. Nimue's hand is gripped tightly in Elain's as they watch the water fill the tub. She seems just as reluctant as Nim to the situation before them.

“I’ll be allowed to stay, won’t I, Miss Marrow?” Elain asks, softening her eyes at the maid in the way that always seems to get her what she wants. The maid hesitates, knowing Elain should be heading to her lessons, but gives in. Elain turns to Nimue, holding her chin high. She often does this when she is preparing to be the older sister; she learnt it from Nesta. Nimue hasn’t managed yet to perfect it for Feyre, who seems to find Nim’s attempts funny. Elain was born 2 hours before Nimue, who was slow to come and even slower to stay, according to Nesta, who likely heard it from their Mother. Nimue had been quite a sick babe to their mother’s shame. No one had thought she’d survive, but she did. It seems to be the only thing she’s good at; surviving.

“See, I’ll be right here, so if you go under, I’ll pull you back out,” Elain said matter-of-factly, her chin still high, even as it wobbled a little, as if the idea of Nimue going under terrified her too. Nimue nodded slightly before moving toward the bath on unsteady feet. She climbs into the tub, Miss Marrow, holding her hand to help her. She sucks in a sharp breath as her feet hit the water. She lowers herself slowly, and the water rises, covering her small body up to her chest. Miss Marrow says something, but Nim can’t hear her over the ringing building in her ears. She sees the maid turn to leave out the corner of her eye, and she tries to call out to her, but the words don't come. Elain pulls a chair over to the tub and sits down. Her sister's lips are moving, but Nim can't make out the words. She moves her hand as if to reach out to her sister, but she freezes as the water swishes around her. Black floods her eyes at the edges as her vision blurs. She blinks rapidly, trying to chase away the encroaching darkness. Her vision clears briefly, and she takes in the colour of the bath water that has changed to a grey muddy colour like the lake. Her eyes widen, and she freezes, terror building, her breath comes out shallow and her heart races. She feels like she'd been hit by waves of water, and her lungs begin to fill. Black floods her eyes again, quicker this time, as it covers everything.

A taller, slightly older Nimue pops her head round the corner of her father's study. Nesta had sent her to spy on her father's new business partners when they arrived. She was still getting used to remaining unseen, but her father hadn’t thrown her out again, so she assumes she has succeeded this time. Worry mars her father’s face as he paces his study.

“All of them?” her father asks, his voice shaking. His eyes are clouded, as he turns to face in her direction. He looks like he's aged years in seconds.

“Yes, sir, all three boats were brought down in the storm.” One of Father’s partners explains in a grave voice. Her father's face is paperwhite as he turns to them. Still, he manages to keep his head high as he says.

“Thank you, gentlemen, for your time.” he holds his hand out in the direction of the door, and the men rise from their seats across from her Father's wooden, beautifully carved desk. Nimue stumbled away and hides behind one of the long curtains draped over the ornate gold windows. Her father's study door shuts with a slam as the men leave.

One of the men, short with grey hair and a big belly, tuts under his breath, “terrible business, but we did tell him it was a foolish endeavour.”

The other man, who is slightly younger his hair only just beginning to grey at the roots of his blond locks runs a hand over his puffed-up chest and mutters, “Oh, be kind, that man has just lost everything.” The younger man’s empty eyes roam around the hallway as he walks, taking in the hand-painted walls and gold crushed windows. “Although there will be a nice estate on the market shortly.”

Both men laugh cruelly at that. Their laughs echo in the open space of the hallway. Nimue scowls at their backs as she waits until they're down the hall and out the door before she slips from her hiding place. She eyes the closed door of her father’s study and hears faint sodding through the door. She hesitates briefly, wondering if she should stop and knock, check if her father is okay. She doesn’t. Remembering the last time she bothered her father in his study, the way her mother yelled at her left ringing in her ears. “We do not bother your father with fancy thoughts when he is working, stupid girl!” Nim’s shoulder aches with the faded memory of her mother's grip as she dragged her away from the study. With that in mind, she turns on her heels in the direction the men had left and goes to seek out her eldest sister.

“Nimue? Nim,” someone says as they shake her shoulder harshly, their voice bordering on hysterical. Her eyes don’t open; she tries to force them, but the darkness stays. She hears a crash and the sound of shattering glass.

“What happened?” an older raspy voice asked. It sounds distant, and she is floating away again. She fights the darkness, tries pulling away from it.

“I don’t know, she started crying, and her breathing got heavy. I tried to pull her out, but she wouldn’t move. I don't understand her head never went under the water.”

A smaller voice sobs. “Nim?”

“Move, Miss Elain, let me see to the girl.” Another voice followed.

“No, no, I want Nesta. Nim? Nesta!” the voice yells, Elain. Nimue tries to reach out to her sister, but her arms feel heavy, and her eyes don’t open no matter how much she tries. Nimue is pulled under a heavy wave of water her hearing fades into ringing again.

She sees a woman surrounded by endless dark, it isn't her, Nimue know this from where she stands against the wall of the cell, hidden although they wouldn't see her even if she wasn't, she knows this instinctually, like a gut feeling only in her chest. The woman may look like her from this angle but isn't her. When she final lifts her head Nimue stumbles back at the blue of eyes. Feyre. She knows it's her sister, an older version of her younger sister, whom she last saw napping in the garden. She takes a step back as if to run; she doesn't want to see this, whatever it was, but warm hands hold her in place no matter how much she fights. Feyre's face is worn and tired. A bead of sweat runs down her forehead and drips onto the floor in front of her. She cradles her arm to her chest as she grimaces in pain. She raises her chin as high as she can when she asks, "Just two weeks?"

The darkness consuming the male in front of her vanishes, leaving behind a solid form. Nimue flinches away from him, feeling the overwhelming power of the beautiful male before her. He grins. "Just two weeks," he purrs and knelt before her sister. "Two teensy, tiny weeks with me every month is all I ask."

"Why? What are to... to be the terms?" feyre says, and her eyes fade as if fighting against pain and dizziness. Nimue reaches forward to steady her sister, but her hand goes straight through Feyre's shoulder.

"Ah," the male says, adjusting the lapels of his dark tunic. "If I told you those things, there'd be no fun in it, would there?"

Feyre glances down at her arm for a while before she looks back up at the male and holds his gaze. "Five days."

"You're going to bargain?" the male laughs under his breath. "Ten days."

Feyre still held his gaze as she countered with "A week."

The male is silent for a moment. He could refuse, but somehow, Nimue knows he won't. And he doesn't. "A week it is."

"Then it's a deal."

Someone drags her body out of the tub, and Nimue coughs up water as she lands on the hard tile of the bathroom.

“I don’t understand. Her head never went under the water." A voice mutters beside her. She turns over and lies flat against the cold tile, her chest heaving. Nesta kneels next to her head, Elain beside her. Her twin slips her warm hand into Nim's cold one. Three maids stare down at her, the youngest one with short brown hair and kind eyes, tumbles to her feet and leaves the room mumbling something about fetching her father.

 “She won’t be doing that again,” Nesta demands, voice hard as she watches the maid leave. The two maids remaining share a look. Nesta runs her hand gently through Nimue's hair, and Elain’s hand tightens over hers.

“Miss Nesta, she must bathe-” The older maid with greying hair and a wrinkled face argues, but is cut off by Nesta's darkening eyes as she takes in the maid, her body straightens as she stands, releasing Nim. She looks ever the image of the Lady she will grow into, so much like their mother. 

“Then she will clean with a bucket and flannel if she must, but she will not go into a body of water again unless she wishes to.” Her sister's voice his harsh, and she watches the older woman shrink away from her. It’s almost funny watching two grown women move away from a girl half their size. Nimue didn’t have anything left to laugh at it.

The maids left quickly after that; they didn’t try to make Nimue bathe again for two weeks, a bucket and flannel with soap was enough to keep her clean anyway.  One maid did try again, of course, but she didn’t last long. Nesta fired her, an easy task as she had taken over the household managing after their mother past. Their father wouldn't have time to worry about their need for a maid when he would soon be losing the money needed to pay them, not that anyone knew that yet.

It set a new precedent in the estate; anyone who made her sisters uncomfortable would not last. Even at 13 years old, Nesta had the spirit of a warrior.

Her sisters help her out of the bathroom, holding her weight equally between them as they go. Just before they leave, Nimue catches a glimpse of the bath water; it isn't grey. She wonders if it ever was or if it was all in her head. That thought makes her stomach feel like lead. Nimue was sick for days after that. And Nesta was never the same, the worry for her sister pressing against her for years to come.

3 weeks later

After the bath incident, Nimue's nightmare only persisted. Blurry snippets of what felt like memories, but had not happened yet replaying in her head over and over. One horror after another. Most centred around her sisters, but more so Feyre than everyone else. When the vision, from the bath, of her father losing the family fortune actually happened, Nimue realised that maybe everything she was seeing would happen. The horror of that kept her bedbound for days. Although that was blamed by her sisters on the cold she had developed overnight, her coughing could be heard through the wall of the estate. The now bare estate, as father rushed to sell anything of value off before they drowned under his debt. Nimue didn't tell anyone about the water she'd been coughing up for days since her father made that announcement. After the third day in bed, Nimue finally left her room. She was determined. If all these things were going to come true, she would need to figure them out, not just the brief glimpses she saw in her nightmares. She would need to see everything properly, and if the bath incident has taught her anything, water helps with that. She marches out the door of her bedroom, cloak tied tight around her. The walk to the lake isn't far from the Estate, many a mile if she hurries.

The lake is eerily still as she approaches. Her heart has been beating loudly in her chest the entire way, but as she takes it in, fear chokes her. She begins to count in her head in the hope of keeping the panic at bay. She had gotten better at that over the last couple of weeks.

"You are doing this for your Sisters, you will not be a coward," Nimue mutters under her breath as she tugs her layers off until she is down to her last layer, a small vest and thin trousers she had stolen from one of the stable boys her Father had recently fired when he fired the entire working household.

She stood frozen for a moment, taking in the lake before her. She has to repeat over and over in her head that she's doing this for her sisters before she can get herself close enough to sit at the beginning of the lake, keeping well away from any rocks. She shuffles forward slowly, the icy water wrapping around her like a cold blanket. Her breath turns shallow. The water is up to her shoulders now, and she pushes away the panic. Please, I'm doing this for my sisters , she thinks quietly in her head as he sinks the final way under, her body completely covered by the water. She doesn't notice the faint white glow to the water as she goes. Darkness fills her vision, and as she sinks deeper, a ringing in her ears grows.

She feels like she is falling through the water waves hitting her from all directions, she tumbles into different slots of colour as she goes, the colour becoming images as she falls. She stills, the sound in her ears clearing, her eyes opening to a scene in a small cottage.

"MURDERERS!" A beast roars over her sobbing father as an elder feyre stands in front of her cowering family.

"P-please," her father sobs.

"W-w-we didn't kill anyone," Nesta choked out through sobs, arms lifted over her head. Nimue can't make out her own figure in the mess of colour. The image fades like paint dripping from a canvas, a wave hits her in the chest, sending her spinning through the water again, more slots of colour passing her by. She knocked back into more colour as another waves came out of nowhere.

A finely dressed fae walks into a room and bows to a seated male with blonde hair at a table opposite her trembling sister. "Well?" the fae male questions. He's finely dressed, his face covered in a fox mask. He hasn't noticed her sister, also seated at the table.

"Well, what?" the blonde male demands, his head cocked to the side, the movement animal-like in nature.

"Is Andras dead, then?" the red-haired male questions. Nimue tries stepping closer to see more, to make out their faces, but the scene begins to fade at the edges as if it's realising she's there. She shudders and takes a step back.

The blond male answers the questions with a nod, "I'm sorry."

"How?" the redhead demanded as his grip on his folded arms seemed to tighten.

"An ash arrow," the blonde explained, causing the fox mask male to hiss sharply. "The treaty's summons led me to the mortal. I gave her safe haven."

"A girl- a mortal girl, actually killed Andras." The words were coated with venom. The scene frays at the seams, and a wave knocks Nimue back again. She grunts in frustration as she's pushed away. She begins falling faster now, slots of colour blending into a storm of lashings of different shades, words follow her as she falls.

"the suriel. But they're old and wicked, and not worth the danger of going out to find them." The ringing in Nimue's ears encases around the words that aren't her own, like wrapping paper over a present she can't open.

"I am a member of no court. I am older than high lords, older than prythian, older then the bones of this world."

"She took my wings, she took them." Red, deep coloured like blood, rushes past Nimue's eyes.

"There you are, I've been looking for you. Thank you for finding her for me." All colour fades into black like a deep night sky before slipping into shades of all kinds again.

"I'm thinking I might kiss you," a blinding light like thunder cracks through the water, breaking up the waves of colour.

"I've come to claim Tamlin high lord of the spring court." the words start to sound distant as the ringing returns.

"Feyre, an old name from our earlier dialects." The ringing builds.

"The answer to the riddle.... is....love," and builds

"War is coming, Feyre." The ringing is deafening, and her lungs fill with water once again before everything goes black.

This time, when she drowns, it isn't like before. This time, she's met with a glowing, bright light in an endless chasm of darkness. She walks towards the light when a voice breaks out into the air, the same soft voice as before. You're back sooner than I'd thought you'd be. The voice is louder than it was last time and yet somehow lighter. It sounds confused before- Ah, you've been wondering though your gifts, did I not tell you you're mortal mind won't survive it. Nimue shakes her head rapidly, unable to talk, though the feeling of water is building in her lungs. I must have forgotten, pity, oh well, now you know.

The light starts to fade, and somehow she knows she's being sent back, so through the choking, she rasps out, "wait," water pools in her mouth, but she swallows it back with a grimace. "I'm trying to help my sisters."

Why? The voice, like a mother talking to a confused child, asks.

"Because I saw such horrible things about them in my dream, but it was only glimpses I needed to see more, to help, so that it won't happen," Nimue explains quickly. The longer her mouth is open, the more the water seems to build.

It has to happen, child, it is their fate. The voice is indulgent and pitying.

Nimue froze at that. No. No, it can't, she has to fix it, change it, make it better. She sees sudden Flashes of Feyre's body not moving, chest not rising, neck bent at an odd angle. Elain's look of fear as she's shoved into a daunting-looking cauldron. Nesta fighting, clawing at the floor, trying to get to her. Nimue was never in any of these scenes or the others she'd seen, as if she didn't exist. Panic builds in her, and she knows this time counting won't help, so she begs instead, falling to her knees inside the vast darkness around her, turned away from the glowing light. "Please, please let me help, I need- I- they are my sisters." That's all she can say, all she can offer this all-knowing, powerful being that seems to wait at the edge of life and death. It shouldn't be enough, even as Nimue kneels there and begs, shoving down the water making its way up her throat, she knows that it isn't enough. And yet...

You were my favourite creation, which is why I made you here too. And now you ask for more than the existence I have offered you? In the hope of helping your sisters? Sisters, I gave you that I can take away just as easily. The gentle voice of a mother fades and is replaced by the power of a being that makes everything from nothing. And yet even trembling as she is, Nimue opens the eyes she didn't know she had closed and breathes, "Yes."

That is why you are my favourite. That voice says tone mellowed back to a good-natured hum. A snapping sound fills the space around her like the sound of clicking fingers. Nimue wakes gasping, floating above the water of the lake. She stands and coughs all the water in her lungs out as she stumbles to the edge of the lake.

Chapter Text

The human mind is a fragile thing. When Nimue landed on the bank of the lake, she understood that fact more clearly than she ever did before. The world around her was sharper and brighter under the added weight on her shoulders. She lets out a shuddering breath as the pressure on her mind builds, a sharp pain thumping through her head. She squeezes her eyes shut against the brightness of the sun and tries to sort through all she now knows.

She has 9 years to change things before Feyre is taken to Fae, that much she can sort out through the jumble of blurry visions of the future. She pulls herself up to her feet and grabs her discarded pile of clothes before stumbling away from the Lake and back home.

The coming years passed quickly for Nimue, but more slowly for others. With the new added gift of knowledge and sharpness of her mind, came the loss of strength in her body, sickness came often, the weakness in her lungs kept growing over the years, from colds, to mucus building up, to bouts of pneumonia that her body never really recovered from.

None of this was helped by the loss of the family’s status and money. Healers cost extra when you're poor. Oftentimes Nimue came close to death, too many times to count and yet death never claimed her, no matter how close she came.

She realised fairly quickly that she could not rely on her body in this life, so she devoted her time to strengthening her mind. Visions of her sister Feyre’s shielding lessons with her future brother-in-law, Rhysand, help a great deal in this. The shielding, as well as the mind stilling, she learnt from visions of Nesta, allowed Nimue to carve out a space in her mind to dedicate to her visions, setting a loose timeline in order and gathering as much important information as she could.

This, too, came with a cost; the more time she spent in her mind, the less she noticed the real world and how quickly time was passing.

Her sisters grew accustomed to the dull, faraway look in her eyes, her words often emerging as riddles. Nesta began treating her like a fragile, broken thing, with gentle hands and words she rarely offered to anyone else. Feyre, who barely knew her sister before she drowned, being only 10 at the time, wrote off the development as if it were the way things  have always been. She didn’t expect much help from Nim when the last of the money ran out and she left with a bow to feed the many mouths in their family.

It was only Elain who seemed to understand her, her sweet, sharp-minded twin who would sit in silence with her as she worked through the weight in her head. Elain never questioned the riddle in her words, simply allowed them to fade between them before carrying on a conversation.

In the years to come, Elain remained a constant presence, keeping her grounded, talking of a bright, happy future. Her sister's imagination helped draw her away from the dark future she knows is coming. Hope is a strength she wishes for Elain to never lose.  All her sisters worry for her, of course, wondering whether the next coming sickness would be the last, the one that takes her from them. Spending years waiting and watching your sister almost die leaves a mark none of them wish to draw attention to, but all feel.

When Feyre learnt to hunt, it jolted life back into Nimue, who, when strong enough, would venture into the woods with her sister; her hands were never steady enough for a bow, but she could help carry the lighter animal and help skin the heavy ones. When she wasn’t strong enough to head out to the woods, she would help clean and dry the animals, and help her sister cook and ration what they had to last them.

Nesta was more likely to listen to Nimue's rules on portion sizes than Feyre. Nesta, who never argues with Nimue after a pretty brutal argument they had, where Nesta said some hateful things, only for Nimue to get sick the following day and almost die, the guilt of that never quite left her older sister.

When they had a particularly good year with Feyre’s hunting, Nimue pushed Feyre into buying Elain vegetable seeds instead of flowers. Carrots and beets, which were things she knew would last through the winter. The joy on Elain’s face when she was given the packets of seeds was infectious until she saw what they contained.

“Oh, Feyre, this was kind of you, but I never learnt how to grow Vegetables,” Elain explained softly. Feyre's face dropped at that. Nimue stepped forward from where she stood behind her younger sister.

“I do,” she lied. She learned years ago that lying was much easier than trying to explain the new knowledge she shouldn’t have. It was also a way around her words coming out like riddles. Her mind or whatever ability she’d developed to see her visions didn’t much like her sharing them, the words she tried to share often getting caught in her throat, and if they did come out, it was in a way that didn’t make sense to anyone but her. “I read a book about it before, when mother grounded me from leaving the estate, I worked my way through half the books we had during those three weeks.”

That part wasn’t a lie; she had read an awful lot of books during her grounding for shoving mud over her mother's friend's dress. Misses Barry had claimed Elain looked simple-minded. Nimue scowls at the memory, but Elain’s returning joy causes it to drop from her face. She spends the next 10 minutes explaining to Elain what she ‘remembers’ from the book. Her time spent in visions watching Elain gardening had seemed to have helped a great deal. Her twin quickly leaves to find the correct soil she can gather from the woods to grow the seeds gifted to her, muttering about gathering mulch from wood bark to help them grow through winter. The carrots and beets help greatly when the harshness of winter comes and meat is scarce.

When Elain took the last of the coins to buy Feyre some paint, Nimue overheard a boy sitting on a bench muttering words under his breath as he read from a book.

He seems like a well-off boy, maybe not rich, but his family had enough money to spare because all his clothes fit and his boots shone in the light. He looked clean too, that recently wash look that most better-off families had. His dark brown hair falls in waves in front of his face. He blows the treads of it out of his eyes when it obscures his vision. He looks no older than 9, but that is hard to tell by the way he’s slouching in place, his height hidden by the uncomfortable angle.

Nimue turns to look inside the shop window to see if Elain is done when the next thing she knows, the book is sailing across the path and hitting her in the chest.

The boys’ eyes widen. Nimue bends down at the waist to pick the book up, her breath catching as she does, her body still overcoming her last round of illness. She picks up a faded copy of Peter Pan and grins.

“I used to love this book. Why would you be throwing it about?” Nimue asks as she strides closer on not quite steady feet. The boy mumbles under his breath. She raises a brow. The boy grunts and groans before finally stating in a put-out voice.

“I can’t read it.” Her brows furrow. It isn’t a hard book; from what she remembers, the boy seems like the right age range for it. She turns to the page that was dog-eared, ignoring the cringe that builds inside her at an act she sees as ruining the page. Her eyes light up in delight at the chapter he seems to have landed on. With great care, she lowers herself down on the bench beside him. The boy gives her a cautious look as she does. She makes sure to soften her face completely when she turns to him.

“I’m sure that’s not true. I imagine you're simply stuck. Here,” she hands him the book, turned to what she hopes is the right page. “Show me the word you're stuck on and I’ll help.”

“Why?” the boy questions hesitantly.

Nimue grins at him. “Because this is my favourite part and everyone deserves to enjoy it.” She nudges his shoulder to encourage him to look at the book. The boy does so reluctantly with all the annoyance of a young boy being told what to do by an ‘adult’. He points to the word sacrifice. Which is quite a hard work for someone young, she reasons in her mind.

“Ah, here I’ll teach you a trick.” Nimue holds out her hand for the book, opening it up and finding the word when she gets it. “If you use your finger to cover some of the word, it makes it less daunting, look.” She places her finger so it covers the end of the word, the remaining letters being Sac. Then she moves her finger slowly until she uncovers all the word. “Sac-r-ifice, see it makes it all much easier.” She hands the book back to him and watches as he uses the method on more words on the page, his face lighting up as he does.

“dr-ea-ms do come true, if only we wish ha-rd e-n-ough. You can have anything in life if you will sacrifice everything else for it.” He read slowly, getting stuck on some words, but he managed the whole sentence. He beams at her  when he’s done, and Nim claps lightly for him.

A woman hurries towards them with a put-out expression on her face. She turns to Nimue first as she approaches. She’s a mirror image of the boy beside her, with the same dark hair and matching blue eyes.

“I’m so sorry if he was bothering you. I turn my back for a second and he’s gone,” the women huff with a sprained smile. Her cheeks are red and flustered. Nimue offers her kind smile, which seems to help relax the women.

“Oh, he wasn’t-” Nimue begins to explain that the boy wasn’t a bother, but is cut off by the boys’ excitement.

“Mama, I can read it. The lady taught me a trick way and I could read it.” The boy all but yells excitedly. The woman’s eyes widen at that, her head snapping to Nim.

“You did? How.” The woman demands before she seems to realise how harsh her words sound and gentles it with a smile that looks more like a grimace. “Sorry, it’s just we’ve gone through so many tutors trying to teach him, and none seem to have helped.”

“It was nothing, just a trick my older sister taught me when our tutors failed too.”
The woman’s face seems to brighten at that.

She explains rather quickly that her husband owns a bookstore and they’ve been trying to teach their son, the boy, Toby, as she learns, to read for years, as he is the only heir to inherit the business, but they have continued to fail.

That is when she offers Nimue a job in teaching their son to read in exchange for a small sum weekly. The money helped take some of the weight off Feyre’s shoulders while it lasted anyway, it doesn’t take her long to teach the boy to read after all. She would spend the morning teaching Toby and the evening, when Feyre’s pride didn’t get in the way, teaching her younger sister. It didn’t last long, of course, Feyre soon found the need to learn how to read pointless given the position they were in, in their lives. Still she hopes it’s enough to help her sister in the second task.

****
There are key moments in life that lead you down a path set by fate. One key moment in Feyre’s life was the moment she bought that ash arrow. Nimue stares at it as it sits untouched in Feyre’s quiver. She wonders what will happen if she takes it and snaps it. No ash arrow, no dead fae, no Feyre going over the wall.

However, the thing about having the gift of sight is the unfortunate knowledge that comes with it. If she snaps the arrow, who’s to say that the fae wolf won’t simply kill Feyre instead of the doe? Fate is about choices, and Nimue’s choices hold more power than most peoples; she learns to be careful with them, not to take them for granted.  And yet as she watches Nesta eye their father by the fire in disgust from where they sit at the wooden bench, she makes a choice. She won’t let her sister stay trapped in this helplessness, this bitter hate for the hand life has given her, not without trying to help at least.

“I overheard the old men in town, they said more fae seem to be coming over the wall every day. Evelyn, you know the butcher’s daughter?” Nimue breathes into the space between them as if sharing a secret. Nesta nods at her, her eyes soft with curiosity.

“She said her younger sister was attacked by a wolf last Sunday. Expect it wasn’t an ordinary wolf, much too big.” She doesn’t look at her sister, her eyes staying put on Feyre’s cloak, which she is patching with some old wool, but she feels the way Nesta tenses at her words. Evelyn’s sister Mia is the same age as Elain and Nim, 17. “I overheard one of the farmers claim he was starting a course in how to fight against fae. That all were welcome.”

It was easy to slip that idea into the head of one of the village farmers, a subtle nudge that maybe he should teach his daughters how better to protect themselves if fae were coming after the village’s women. A small sigh about how she wishes their father had the strength to teach them. A couple of words about the strength of men that helped puff up his ego. But it’s a shame strong men can’t be on guard everywhere, she had muttered under her breath as she walked away.  Two days later, it was posted on the village news board that Henry Parker was hosting a course for all young women to help better protect themselves against the ‘fae bastards’, as he so kindly put it.  Men were so easy to manipulate, but her sister, however, was harder.

“Some fathers seem to want to help their children at least.” She said, pulling at a thread in the cloak that won’t unwind, watching out of the corner of her eye as Nesta glares with fury at their sleeping father. “With Feyre in the woods so often hunting and Elain going with her more often than not to find more bark and soil for the vegetable garden, I wonder if we should all join. Not like we have any men to rely on for help.” She almost gags as the words leave her mouth, as if men were the only strong ones, she thinks as she rolls her eyes internally.

“Elain wouldn’t want to learn, and a strong wind would knock you over, Nim.” Nesta huffed. No word of Feyre, although there never really is. Nesta hates the way Feyre stepped up when Father couldn’t, wouldn't. Resents the idea that their little sister was the one to save them, yet she does nothing about it. Nimue puts on a fake scowl as she turns from Nesta.

“I could try! Anyway, why would you care, not like you would give it a try, you hate doing anything you aren’t already good at.”  She grumbled, glad her back was to her sister as a grin broke across her face at the way Nesta pushed away from the table in anger. Her sister's weakness is her pride; the idea that she wouldn’t be great at something digs at that deep part of her sister where their mother hides with her degrading words as Nesta fails to be perfect at something.

Nesta leaves the cottage in a storm of rage, slamming the door behind her. Their sleeping father barely moves in his chair at the sound. Elain enters the cabin two seconds later.

“What did you say to her?” Elain asks as she makes her way over to the bucket to wash her hands, which are covered in soil.

“I simply mentioned the course Mr Parker will be teaching,” Nimue explains as she ties off the stitch in Feyre’s cloak. She folds up the cloak and sets it on the table before turning to her sister and holding out her hand. Elain groans before tugging off her cloak carefully, so as not to ruin her hair and hands it over. Nimue runs her fingers along the seams until she gets to the part where the threads have started to fray and sets to work.

“You mean you tricked her into joining.” Elain counters, sitting beside her, refolding the messy pile of clothes she had finished mending. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you talking to the farmers a couple of days before the course was made.”

Elain used to joke that her sister enjoyed meddling in things that didn’t concern her too much, that maybe it would make her a good housewife. Then Nimue would argue it would make her a good spy. They were children, spies and housewives, being the only things they worried about. Elain would claim her home with her husband would always be open to her twin when her spying came to an end. Nimue found the idea that Elain wouldn’t be joining her in her work insulting.

Nim doesn’t look at her sister as she says,

“There was a gap in the activities market in the village, I simply encouraged them to fill it.”
Elain giggled at that. She sets the finished, now neatly folded pile down. Nimue tightens the thread on the seam of Elain’s cloak, pulling it through the other side and tying it off.

“I think it will be good for our sister to have an outlet for all her anger,” Elain says, agreeing with the unasked question written across Nim's face. She rises from her seat and takes the cloak her sister finished mending from her hands and ties it around her neck. “One day you’ll have to tell me why you bothered.”

“One day,” Nimue promises and hopes she can keep it.

Being a twin is quite different to being a sister. It’s like having a part of your soul outside your body. Someone who’s a mirror image of you, yet completely different. Someone who knows you better than you even know yourself at times.

The way Elain eyes her before she turns to leave reminds Nimue of that. Reminds her that maybe Elain isn’t completely oblivious to the way Nim seems to manoeuvre things to her liking. The vegetable seeds, Feyre’s reading, and now Nesta’s new determination. The subtle ways in which she seems to get them ready for something. But Elain doesn’t ask, doesn’t question her choices, simply lets them be that, her choices. She leaves as quietly as she came, without any fuss. Nimue wonders if her choices will be enough.

Nesta spends days at the Parkers’ farm for that course; they last for months before the Parkers end the course entirely. But it’s enough to calm that building rage in her sister; she hopes it helps, knowing how to defend herself against fae. Maybe when Hybern comes, Nesta will give them a run for their money.

That year was the last good one they had before the world’s harshness came back harder.

Years later...

A scream builds in Nimue’s throat as she throws herself out of her nightmare and onto the hard floor beside the bed. She chokes back the sound and on the water in her lungs that isn’t really there and raises her mental shields against the image of Feyre's dead body. Her younger sister, who woke with her, watches her from the bed.

“You were sobbing my name,” Feyre remarked as the thin blanket fell from her shoulders, pulled in the other direction by Nesta and Elain.

“I know,” Nimue mutters, too tired to offer an excuse. Feyre’s eyes widen. She isn’t used to her sister being so straightforward; her words are normally a tangled mess that makes no sense. “I had a dream that you died.” A lie and a truth. It’s all she has to offer to the quiet room, to her sister.

A shudder works through her body as she curls in a ball and leans her back against the dresser. The beautifully painted dresser, with flames from Nesta, a starry night for Feyre and on the drawer, divided in half for Elain and Nimue, where painted flowers for her twin and a bright sun over a lake that glitters like stars for Nim. Even years later, that sun stayed with her, she'd often trace it with her fingers on particularly bad days,their father carved it into a necklace for her as a gift.

“And that scared you?” Feyre asks her words washed with confusion.

Nimue snaps her head up to look at her. Her younger, smaller, stronger little sister with the weight of the world on her shoulders; a weight Nimue was familiar with, if only in different ways.

Maybe she hadn’t done enough, maybe in all the distance she keeps from her sister whether from being locked in visions, feeling so very far away from the world or fear that if she got to close to the person she had lost over and over in her head she’d lose her grip on herself and her sanity, maybe Nimue had failed in making sure her sister knew she was loved. Her heart breaks slightly at that. She’d been spending so long mastering her visions, trying to find ways to save her sisters, to save Feyre, that she forgot the one thing that always seemed to be a constant in Feyre’s life. Love. A deep craving to be loved. By their mother, their father, and their sisters. Tamlin. Something everyone in her life before Rhysand failed to do for her.

“Feyre, if you died, it would ruin me,” Nimue said, offering her sister another truth dredged up from deep inside her soul. “If you left the world before I could leave with you, I would never be the same. Nothing would be the same.”

She watches her sister, watches as the words seem to hit her in the chest, her eyes widening once more. “Your place in my life, in my world, is important and yours. Nothing else would seal the gap you would leave behind.” Maybe it’s because she’s tired or angry at her own failure at making her sister feel loved, but the words come out clearer than anything she has ever said in years. “I would die, kill and ruin anything for you.”

Feyre is still for a while. But after a time, she nods sharply and holds her hand out to Nim, who stands to meet her grip. She’s tucked into bed and pulled up against her sister, who grips her tightly as if she’s going to fade away into nothing if she lets go. “I would do the same for you,” Feyre vowed into the quiet room filled with only the sound of their other sisters breathing.

Nimue holds her sister's hand tightly to her chest as she watches Feyre drift off to sleep, and when nightmares of her own try to claim her, Nim soothes her with soft hands through her hair. She doesn’t sleep again that night, doesn’t even try. She simply watches over her sister like a guard against the night.

Nimue spends that day in quiet, even as all her sisters wake and begin bustling about. Elain and Nesta's gossip became background noise as they sit beside the fire. The harsh winter weather leaves little room for much less. She doesn’t join as she usually would, can’t find the energy to. She simply spends the day watching the snow through the window with a detached sense of misery.

Feyre came out of the bedroom after a while, a cloak tied tightly around her. Nimue watches as Feyre laces up her boots, eyeing the faded leather and the way the sole comes away. Her sister rises to leave, pulling her bow over her shoulder, but Nim calls out to her just before she pulls open the door, the first words she's spoken since last night.“Feyre?”

Her younger sister doesn’t turn to her, just stops still at her croaking voice. Nesta and Elain pause slightly before they resume their gossip. Nimue doesn’t pay them much attention, not today. Not when she knows this will be the start of it all.

She musters up what little courage she has.
“If I told you that your life would be wonderful, but you would have to suffer terribly before you got there, would you still want it?” Nimue asks in a voice suddenly stronger than it has been in years. Feyre turns to her then; she looks annoyed now as she always is at Nimue's vague words. She hopes this time it makes sense; she hopes Feyre answers. Hopes she gives her a reason to upturn the whole world. To save her.

“What?”

“Would you still suffer something awful if you knew it would give you something great?”
Feyre rolls her eyes and turns to leave, but something stops her just as she pushes the door, a sudden tightening in her chest, a tugging in her ribs.

“Yes,” she mutters, unsure where the need to answer comes from. She usually disregards Nim’s words, brushing them off like words of a broken mind, the way she’s come to see her sister as broken. Nim’s moments of clarity are few and far between these days. But in that moment, something in the air seems to change, like something is watching, a shiver runs down Feyre’s back.

So, she answers the pointless question, maybe it will bring Nim some peace after the nightmare she had last night. “Yes, even if I had to suffer for it, I would do it for a future where I would be happy.” Isn’t that what she’s been doing for years, after all, suffering for a future? Where her sisters are married off and happy, where she has time to paint. She tilts her head slightly to look at Nim, whose face is suddenly a wash with grief; her sister’s soft brown dove-like eyes seem to shatter as she looks at her. Nimue nods quickly and rises from the table and heads into the room that the sister shares.  Feyre leaves the cabin after that, heading into the woods, sealing her fate.

Nim tugs on her cloak as she slips out of the cottage, her footsteps barely leaving marks in the snow. She knows where she’s heading, what she’s walking towards, but a small part of her hopes she’s wrong.

As she makes her way closer to the woods Feyre is hunting in, she knows she isn't wrong. Nimue makes out her sister's crouched form beside a cluster of brambles as she moves in closer and huddles herself behind a tree and watches. She tugs at her braid as snow falls from her lashes.

She makes the wolf before her sister does, and her hand wraps around the wooden carved pendant sun from her father, the leather straps allow it to sit over her chest, and the weight grounds her.

She watches as the wolf takes down the doe, watches the arrow her sister let loose hit its side. The ground seems to shudder as the wolf barks in pain, releasing the doe's neck. The wolf turned quickly to Feyre, and despite knowing what would happen, Nim held her breath and wrapped her hand around the cooking knife tucked into her belt. Feyre jolted up and notched another arrow. The wolf didn’t dodge the second arrow as it went through his wide yellow eye; he collapsed to the ground after that. His legs were twitching, his whines filling the vast space of the clearing. Nimue lets go of the knife at her side. It wouldn’t be long now. She allows pity to fill her chest for the fallen creature.

Feyre edged closer. The blood continued to flow from the wolf's wounds, the dark red colour staining the pure white snow below him. The blood washed away any innocence left in her sister, a sign of more yet to come. Nimue wonders for a second what would have happened if she hadn’t let her sister go today, if the wolf had gone on and found another to kill it. If it would work.

The wolf pawed at the ground as if trying to hold on. Nimue watches till its body stills. She doesn’t look away, no matter how much she wants to. She sucked in a long, deep breath and thought a prayer for the fallen fae that died in the hopes of breaking a curse. She watches Feyre examine the wolf and step up to skin him. Nimue settles her back against the tree and waits for her sister to finish.

Her sister works quickly, no doubt worried about the blood attracting predators. Once she’s finished, Feyre leaves the clearing, dragging the doe with her, and Nimue waits until she's far enough away before she moves from her hiding spot behind the tree. She makes her way closer to the fae and kneels at his side.

A skinned animal is a ghastly sight, but she refuses to turn from him. She pulls the bundle of flowers she spent days collecting out of her pocket, daisies all neatly twisted into a wreath. She lays the wreath beside the wolf’s body.

“Cauldron save you; mother hold you. Pass through the gates and smell that immortal land of milk and honey, fear no evil, feel no pain, go and enter eternity.”  She whispers, her words being carried away by the wind to long forgotten places. “I’m sorry.”

She hurries to her feet and begins the trek back to the cottage, knowing everything has changed and mentally preparing for it.

Feyre watches Nimue as she helps prepare the doe for cooking. Her sister has that faraway look in her eyes, like her vision is clouded by something Feyre can't see, and yet her hands are steady as she prepares the meat.

The winter has been harsher on her, more so than anyone else, which is saying a lot considering how much of a toll it has taken on Feyre and her other sisters and their father, but as she watches Nimue, she wonders how her sister has survived so long. Her bones are much too thin, even by Feyre’s standards, and the dark circles under her eyes that never seem to fade are even deeper than usual.

But despite looking like a walking corpse, her sister still manages to be beautiful, with clear, soft-looking skin dotted with light freckles, with delicate, dove-like features and rich brown eyes. She's pale but for once not in a sickly way. Her hair falls behind her back in soft waves of golden brown locks recently released from a braid. Feyre remembers when they were younger, Elain and Nimue were identical, but as they’ve grown, you can begin to tell the difference if you truly look.

“The stars are falling, falling, failing,” Nimue mutters under her breath.

Feyre pauses in her cutting of the last couple of remaining carrots from the garden; all other vegetables had run out days ago, and left them with the smallest ones. Her sister’s eyes shudder, and her hand pauses in cutting. Tears gather in Nimue’s eyes, but the door slams open, knocking her out of her head. Nesta walks in, dropping the axe to the floor with a huff of annoyance. Nimue turns from the table to wash her hands, and Feyre forgets the moment. When they eat later that night, she makes sure to add slightly more to her sister's bowl. Nimue spends the whole evening fiddling with that carved necklace at her throat and mumbling words and phrases that make no sense.

Chapter Text

Nimue didn’t go to the market with her sisters despite Elain’s urging. She didn’t move from her seat at their table, staring at the door before her. Waiting. She barely notices time moving, the day fading as she sat there.

She felt her father’s eyes on her throughout the day, but he didn’t say a word; he never did. Nimue can’t remember the last time her father spoke to her and only her, not as an add-on to words he spoke to her sisters.

She imagines she brings back bad memories for him. Memories of their sick mother with the paleness of her skin, the emptiness in her eyes.

She didn’t mind much. After the vision of his death, she began mourning her father, the man he hadn’t been in years. She hopes she can save him for Elain at least. So, her sisters may not go through the pain of mourning him, but she views their father with a detachment she feels for a lot of things these days. Maybe it makes her cruel, but she will not miss him.

Her sisters come back with new things from the money Feyre fetched for the pelts. Nimue doesn’t attention to it all.

Elain eyes her with soft concern as if she knows her twin is waiting. Knows that somethings wrong. Her twin doesn’t comment on it, she’ll save it for later before bed when its just them. A moment that won't come. It’s something Nimue knows Elain will grow to regret later, when she gone, not asking her in that moment.

Sometimes Nimue thinks Elain suspects that Nim’s been different since the lake. Knows that something in her changed. But Elain never asks, just looks at her softly in her distant moments, watching her when she drifts back to the present, like she is waiting to be told, when Nim is ready. Nimue wonders if she’ll ever get the chance to tell her.

She doesn’t touch her venison that evening, simply hands it off to Elain. She doesn’t join them at the fire; she doesn’t move from the spot she’s sat in all day.

The air around her grows heavy and thick just as a beast bursts through the door with a deafening roar. Nimue watches the snow fall into the cottage in waves. She pinches her arm wondering if this is all in her head or if he’s finally here.

There's no blurring at the edges of her vision, or a ringing in her ears that comes along with a vision of the future. This is real. It’s time.

She stands slowly from her seat, her movements slow and dragging, a sharp contrast to the rushing of her sisters. Nimue moves to stand beside Feyre, shoulder to shoulder, despite Elain’s tugging on her skirt.

Elain kneels against the hearth, almost entirely covered by Nesta; their father crouches in front of them. The only show of protection he has given them in years.

The creature bellows, “MURDERERS!” The noise echoes all around them, and the hairs on Nimue’s arm rise in answer. She grips Feyre’s hand, the one not gripping the knife, tightly.

Despite knowing it would happen, despite seeing it repeatedly, the real thing is terrifying.

“MURDERERS!” he bellows again, hackles raised.

“p-please,” her father babbles, hiding behind his youngest daughter’s. He doesn’t move to stand beside them. Nimue isn’t shocked. “Whatever we have done, we did so unknowingly and-”

“w-w-we didn’t kill anyone,” Nesta added to father’s cut-off words. She chokes on her sobs, lifting her arm over her head, the thin iron bracelet the only barrier to protect them. It wouldn’t.

Feyre lets go of her hand and snatches another dinner knife off the table, banishing it before her.

“Get out,” she snaps, stepping slightly forward. “Get out and be gone.” Her hands trembled visibly.

The beast bellows again in response, shaking the entire cottage. The plates and cups rattle against one another.

Feyre launched her knife at the beast’s neck. The beast swipes at the air so quickly you can barely make out the movement and sends the knife skittering away. Nimue tugs her sister back a step as the beast snaps at her face. Feyre jerks as she’s pulled, almost causing them to tumble over their father.

Nesta and Elain’s sobs build in volume as they mutter silent prayers to long-forgotten gods.

“WHO KILLED HIM?” the beast demands as he moves towards them. He set a huge paw on the table, and it groaned beneath his weight. His claws embedded themselves in the wood one by one.

Feyre attempts a step forward, but Nimue keeps an iron grip on her arm, stilling her. She mutters a near-silent ‘no’ under her breath. Feyre doesn’t try again. The beast sniffs at them loudly, his deep green eye taking them in; the flecks of amber in them seem almost to glow.

“Killed who?” Feyre asks voice even, in challenge. Nimue admires her courage, or stupidity.

The beast she knows to be Tamlin growls low and vicious. “The wolf.” His words carry an undercurrent of sorrow beneath the deadly rage.

She feels Feyre stiffen. Elain shrieks a high-pitched sound; Nimue pushes away the urge to tell Nesta to take her and run. Pushes down the need to protect them, Feyre needs her now more than her older sisters.

Feyre tips her chin up high and asks, “A wolf?”

“A large wolf with a grey coat,” The Beast snarls in answer.

She feels Feyre set her shoulder, and her stance as she asks calmly. “If it was mistakenly killed, what payment could we offer in exchange?”

The beast lets out a bark that sounds close to a laugh. He pushes off the table and begins to pace around in a small circle.

The shattered door lets in a burst of cold air that makes Feyre shiver, or maybe it was the fear.

“The payment you must offer is the one demanded by the treaty between our realms.”

A lie Nimue knew, there was no such rule in the treaty. She fights down the urge to tell him that, to fight back. She doesn’t; she has no idea what sort of temper Tamlin has at this point in time, no idea the backlash this could cause. She bites her tongue and swallows the blood that builds.

“For a wolf?” Feyre retorts, Nimue digs her nails into her sister's arm as their father mutters a warning behind them.

“Who killed the wolf?” the beast demands, whirling on them. Nimue tightens her hold on her sister’s arm again, but it doesn’t stop Feyre’s response.

“I did.”

The beast blinks, his eyes glance at their trembling sisters, takes in their father, and then Nimue before darting back to Feyre. “Surely you lie to save them.”

“We didn’t kill anything,” Elain wept. “Please, please spare us!” Nesta’s sobs cut out briefly to hush her sharply before they pick back up again.

Nimue moves her body slightly, still keeping hold of Feyre, to hide her hunched sisters. No doubt if Nimue didn’t have the knowledge she did, she’d be in the same place as them. Their father finally climbed to his feet, grunting at the pain in his leg, but before he could intervene, Feyre repeated.

“I killed it.” The beast stops sniffing at the others in the room and turns his attention to Feyre again. “I sold its hide at the market today. If I had known it was a faerie, I wouldn’t have touched it.”

A lie. With the hate in Feyre’s heart for Fae currently, Nimue knows it to be a lie.

“Liar,” he snarls. “You knew. You would have been more tempted to slaughter it had you known it was one of my kind.”

“Can you blame me?” Feyre asks.

“Did it attack you? Were you provoked?”

Nimue shuffles closer to Feyre now in case of a reaction to her response.

“No,” Feyre says, letting out a snarl of her own, be it a lesser one. “But considering what your kind has done to us, considering what your kind still likes to do to us, even if I had known beyond a doubt, it was deserved.”

The words were so very stupid, and yet she did not doubt her sister meant them. The beast growls in answer, his fangs that become exposed look even more menacing.

Nimue nearly tumbles as she edges her way in front of her sister, watches the beast clock the step. She doesn’t correct her move, doesn’t hide behind her younger sister. She would throw herself between the beast and Feyre if it came to it, if her visions were wrong. Maybe it would buy them time, buy Nesta time to take Elain and run, buy Feyre enough time to reach for her bow and that single ash arrow still there.

Feyre angles her remaining knife at the beast from slightly behind her sister; her hand doesn’t tremble this time. “What is the payment the treaty requires?”

Nothing, Nimue wants to scream, it requires nothing.

The creatures’ eyes don’t leave her sisters as he lies, “A life for a life. Any unprovoked attacks on faerie-kind by humans are to be paid only by a human’s life in exchange.”

Funny how his words could mean any human. Not just the human who took the life of the Faerie. Her sisters become silent.

“I didn’t know,” Feyre breathes. “Didn’t know about that part of the treaty.”

“Most of you mortals have chosen to forget that part of the treaty,” Lie. “Makes punishing you far more enjoyable.” Perhaps a truth.

“Do it outside,” Feyre whispers. “Not… here.” Her sister's voice trembles as she spits out the words. She pushes Feyre behind her more despite her sister's attempts to stop her.

The beast doesn’t acknowledge Nim, simply huffs a vicious laugh, keeping his eyes on Feyre.

“Willing to accept you're fate so easily. For having the nerve to request where I slaughter you, I’ll let you in on a secret, human: Prythian must claim your life in some way, for the life you took from it. So as a representative to the immortal realm, I can either gut you like swine or… You can cross the wall and live out the remainder of your days in Prythian.”

She wonders if this is rehearsed, this little speech. Or if he’s pulling it out of his arse. If it’s rehearsed, she imagines Lucien had a hand in it. Tamlin doesn’t seem like a man of many words.

She doesn’t move from her place in front of Feyre, even if he wants to pretend she isn’t here. Nimue doubts she was a part of their practice if it was really planned. The thought almost makes her smile.

“What?” Feyre asks, shocked.

The beast explains again, slowly as if speaking to someone stupid. “You can either die tonight or offer your life to Prythian by living in it forever, forsaking the human realm.”

“Do it, Feyre,” their father whispers from behind them. “Go.” Nimue glares at him as she turns slightly. How dare he? Does he even know anything? The beast didn’t say she would be safe or cared for, just said she could live in Prythian, who knows what gods awful things could happen to her there. Well, Nimue does but that's a different matter entirely.

“Be quiet,” Nimue says to her father. She doesn’t want to know what her face looks like to make him flinch away from her like that.

“Live where? Every inch of Prythian is lethal to us.” Feyre asks.

“I have lands,” Beast-Tamlin says quietly, feigning reluctance. Here comes the trick. “I will grant you permission to live there.”

“Why bother?” Feyre questions.

The beast snarls, “You murdered my friend. Murdered him, skinned his corpse, sold it at the market, and then said he deserved it, and yet you have the nerve to question my generosity?”

Nimue chooses this point to finally say something after her struggle to keep silent. “You didn’t have to mention the loophole. Who’s to say you didn’t just so you can take her over the wall and do awful things to her? Maybe the Treaty only allows you to take a human life here, not harm a human life here.”

Nimue’s words are soft and with a slight quiver, but she refuses to hide like her instincts are telling her to, as the beast takes her in, as if only just seeing her.

Feyre grips her elbow tightly.

The beast snarls again, at her this time. She pushes back against the fear in her chest, drowns it with her urge to keep Feyre safe and alive.

“Foolish of me to forget that humans have such low opinions of us. Do you humans no longer understand mercy?” his hand is inches from her throat.

Nimue doesn’t balk from it, doesn’t allow Feyre to step between them. She is terrified, her legs shake slightly, but she stays put. She’s never been very brave, always a runner, not someone that sticks around to fight like Feyre, but for her little sister, she would push back against that urge and channel every ounce of bravery she had.

“Let me make this clear to you, girl.” The beasts gaze switches back to Feyre. “You can either come live at my home in Prythian, offer your life for the wolf’s in that way, or you can walk outside right now and be shredded to ribbons. Your choice.”

Their father tries to hobble forward, but Nimue’s gaze sends him back; she doesn’t need his useless words making things worse. She steps forward, drawing the beasts’ eyes away from where they’d narrowed on her father. Feyre tries to tug her back by the arm.

She breathes deeply and hopes her words work, “I was there also, in the woods.” Her words are quiet; she can't bring her voice any louder. She can feel Feyre’s gaze on her.

“I watched my sister shoot the wolf from behind her; I could have stopped her before she took that first shot, or the second. I didn’t. My sister is younger than I; she is my responsibility.”

Nimue shudders out a breath. Feyre doesn’t breathe behind her. Doesn’t move. “I let her skin the wolf and waited in till she left to make sure nothing followed her back. So, I will take the blame and the punishment in her place.”

“No,” Feyre mutters. “No.”

She doesn’t think it will work, not entirely. He won't take her in Feyre’s place, they need Feyre for the curse, the one who actually killed the Fae, but-

The way the beast eyes her, with intelligent, high fae eyes, she knows what he sees. A backup. That’s the plan she needs to work now. The one she spent months, years, working though in her head. She will make herself a back up plan, if all else fails they’ll have her.

She turns her gaze to Nesta, who has Elain held against her, and watches the way she monitors every move the beast makes. Elain’s face is deathly pale, and when their eye connect, Nimue sees the pain in them, the pain that is a match to the pain in her heart, forever is a long time without her twin. And yet Elain doesn’t question her choice, not that she could in all her fear, of course, but it’s enough that Nimue stands slightly taller. It’s painful to move her gaze from Elain’s, knowing not when she will see her again.

Her father steps forward again in Nimue’s distraction, “I can get gold-” No, he can’t, it takes everything in Nimue not to groan.

The Beast sneered, “How much is your daughter’s life worth to you? Do you think it equates to a sum?”

Their father didn’t reply. Feyre steps forward so they’re shoulder to shoulder once again.

“When do I go?” Feyre asks, always way to stubborn.

“When do we go. One life hardly makes up for a fae’s long-lasting life, but two may.” Nimue channels all her strength into the words. She makes eye contact with the male beneath the beast. I will follow; I will make it harder for you if you don’t take me too. She hopes the words come through in her gaze.

The beast tilts his head at her, a slight curiosity in his gaze, but he nods. She ignores Feyre’s tugging on her arm as she returns that nod with a slight one of her own.

“Now,” the beasts said.

Feyre seems to sag behind her; Elain's eyes widen with mute horror. Feyre doesn’t look at their sisters as she crouches by their father, begins speaking to him. But Nimue goes straight to Elain, Nesta’s arms fall away from her as Nimue kneels beside her twin. Elain's arms are steel hard as she grips Nimue, whispering ‘no’ under her breath repeatedly.

Nesta make eye contact with Nimue, her hand grips her skirt tightly as if fighting against the urge to fight back, to tug Nimue to her and not let go. A small childlike part of Nimue that remembers tight hugs from Nesta when she was sick, wishes she would. Nimue simply nods at her, no words needed. I know, I see you, I understand, you must fight another day.

Her older sister's face hardens, and if you don’t know where to look, you wouldn’t see the ache in her eyes. Nimue pulls away from Elain but still holds her sisters’ hands in hers.

“It has to happen; I have made my choice.” The words mean more to the twins than they ever will to others, two sisters forced by their mother to never have choices, to be kind and pretty, and that is all for the rest of their lives. Two girls who have no use. “Make your own choices, make sure he is kind.” More meaningless mores to others. Make sure the man you marry is the best for I will not be here to test him.

Elain nods, but her eyes weep as she lets Nimue slip away. Feyre comes up behind her.

“Whatever you do,” Feyre says quietly to Nesta. “Don’t marry Tomas Mandray. His father beats his wife, and none of his sons do anything to stop it.” Nesta’s eyes widen. Feyre adds, “Bruises are harder to conceal than poverty.”

Nesta stiffens but still says nothing.

Feyre grips Nimue’s hand, her grip tighter than death. Father stumbles forward again as they turn to the door.

“Feyre,” his hand trembles as he grasps her gloved hands. Nimue drops hers so he cannot do the same to her. His eyes are clearer and bolder than she’s seen in years. “You were always too good for here, Feyre. Too good for us, too good for everyone.” His fingers tremble around Feyre’s, his gaze moves to Nimue, and he wavers slightly before looking away. “If you ever escape, ever convince them that you’ve paid the debt, don’t return. Don’t ever come back,” He releases his hold on Feyre’s hand. “You go somewhere new, and you make a name for yourself.”

She will, she will make many names. The knowledge of those names echoes through Nimue’s head as she turns on her heels, her hand still in Feyre’s as they make their way out into the cold, huddled together following the beast.

*****

The estate is as beautiful as she knew it would be. Sprawled across lush green rolling hills. Covered in beautiful Ivy and roses with thorns sharp enough to do more than nick. There were patios, balconies, and twisting stairs that almost seemed to be growing from its sides. The grounds themselves encased in wood, stretching so very far. the walls of the manor were alabaster, neatly carved and uncracked.

Beautiful and old, so very old. The grounds were silent; the falseness of it made her skin crawl. She wonders how many of his hidden people they have passed so far as they walk through the gardens. Wonders how one breaks a glamour such as this.

The garden is rich from deep purple irises to the pale snowdrops, and yellow daffodils that sway in the breeze. Elain would love this. Nimue imagines in another life she would, too, if it were safe. But in this one, all she can focus on is the faint metallic scent of magic, the falseness of it all.

Tamlin, still in his beast form, leaps up the needless marble staircase leading to the giant oak doors. The doors opens for him on silent hinges.

The horse came to a stop of it’s own accord at the beginning of the stairs. Nimue slips her hand from her sisters and leans over to slip out of the saddle. She lands on nimble feet and watches Feyre hesitate, her sister feels for a knife she’d hidden and then pauses in horror when she doesn’t find it. Her sister hastily tugs on the reins, but the horse doesn’t move.

Feyre finally slips from the horse. Nimue eyes her under the almost watchful gaze of the manor as her sister's legs buckle when they land on the ground. Feyre’s eyes cloud with thought for a beat as she looks around. When they clear, she stares into Nimue’s. She is thinking of running. Nimue shakes her head and steps back from her. She watches Feyre pause before coming to the right conclusion, and with a shuddering breath, Feyre grips her hand in hers once more, and they set about walking into the manor, one step at a time.

The door opens, and the inside is even more showy than the outside. Black and white checkered marble stretches out beneath their feet. For a moment, Nimue worries about their shoes tracking in mud for the poor cleaners. The old worn boots on the spotless floor are a blinding sign that they don’t belong here. She pushes the thought away.

There are many doors in front of them, too many, and a sweeping staircase. You could get lost easily. The long hallway ends with huge glass doors at the other end of the house. They led through to a second garden that she could just barely see. A growl sounds from a nearby room; it makes the vases with hydrangea rattle against the scattering of hall tables they sit on.

A set of polished wooden doors swing wider to our left. A command. Feyre lifts her hands to rub at her eyes with shaking fingers as they walk slightly closer.

Nimue forces herself to calm her breathing as they enter the room. A long table littered with an overflow of food, chicken, bread, peas, fish, lamb, and stews greets them as they enter.

Tamlin, still in beast form, moves to sit at the oversized chair at the head of the table. He plops down in the chair that groans beneath him and, in a flash of white blinding light, switches his form. She feels Feyre tense beside her and moves them by their linked hands back until their pressed against the panelled wall beside the door.

“You should eat something,” Tamlin says. His face is covered by the mask, the mask she’d seen in so many visions. It beautiful, which draws Nimue's attention. She wonders how someone sleeps in such an unmoving piece of art. Nimue steps closer.

Feyre’s hand tightens on hers, pulling her back, as she makes for the food. Right, she had forgotten, Feyre thinks the food will harm them.

The sun shines through the huge windows behind him as Tamlin pours wine from a crystal decanter that is worth more than most things mortals own, she bets, into a glass and drinks deeply from it.

“Who are you?” Feyre questions her back, still against the wall, she has inched them closer to the door.

“Sit, eat,” Tamlin says waving a hand to encompass the table.

Feyre doesn’t move. Nimue doesn’t try going to the table again, just stands beside her sister and watches her internal panic out of the corner of her eye.

Tamlin lets out a low growl, “Unless you’d rather faint?”

Feyre builds up the courage to mutter, “It’s not safe for humans.”

Tamlin huffs a feral laugh, “The food is fine for you to eat, human,” and with a flash of wicked teeth, his eyes pin Feyre in place. “Leave, if you want. I’m not you're jailer. The gates are open; you can live anywhere in Prythian.”

Nimue doubts that’s true; she wonders what laws other courts have on humans. She eyes Tamlin; what would he do if they did leave? His words are enough of a deterrent; give someone a key to the world, and they rarely use it. The cage they find themselves in seems much nicer than any other that would follow.

They don’t know enough about Fae, even Nimue, with her future knowledge, it isn’t enough. They’ll need to fix that.

Feyre doesn’t move towards the table.

“Fine,” Tamlin grunts, the words laced with a growl as he begins serving himself instead.

A figure passes them; a gust of wind follows in his wake. Lucien. His long red hair falls behind his shoulders. He’s finely dressed in a tunic of muted silver; his fox mask gleams in the sun from the window as he stretches a bow before his high lord. His arms cross over his chest once he straightens.

“Well?” he asks.

“Well, what?” Their host coaxed his head, tilting to the side in a false imitation of a curious animal.

“Is Andras dead, then?”

Tamlin nods and says quietly, “I’m sorry.”

“How?” Lucien demanded, gripping his folded arms tightly, his knuckles whiten.

“An ash arrow,” the high lord explains. Lucien hissed. “The Treaty’s summons led me to the mortal. I gave them safe haven.”

“A girl. A mortal girl actually killed Andras.” He glanced towards the empty end of the table where their seats stood. “And the summons found the girl Responsible.”

Tamlin gave a low, bitter laugh and waved his hand in our direction. “And her sister, they refused to be parted. The Treaty’s magic brought me right to her doorstep.”

Whoever told humans Fae couldn’t lie where doing them a great disservice; these Fae lie plenty.

Lucien whirled with such fluid grace, her mother would have clapped. His mask was a bronze cut that concealed the top half of his face. She couldn’t make out all of the wicked scar that slashed from his brow to jaw, but it was visible enough. He looks a lot like a mask prince in the stories Nesta used to read to her before they lost everything. His remaining russet eye widens as he clocks them. He sniffs once, his lip curling slightly, revealing straight white teeth as he eyes Feyre, blatantly ignoring Nimue beside her.

“You're joking, that scrawny thing brought down Andras with a single ash arrow,” he said quietly.

“She admitted to it,” his High Lord says, tightly running his finger along the rim of his goblet. A long-wicked claw slides out, scraping against the metal; the sound of it sends Nimue tensing. “She didn’t try to deny it.”

What good would denying have done? When your magic knew who had killed him. What good would doing anything but what you asked us to, have done?

He’s playing with them now, stating things as if they had a choice: that they could leave without dying, that they could have chosen not to come. That they could have denied it. Nimue hates him then, hates him for making them feel like any of this is their fault and not that monster under the mountain.

Maybe Feyre shouldn’t have killed the Fae wolf, but he shouldn’t have been over the mountain in the first place.

Lucien sank onto the edge of the table with all the elegance of a High lord’s son; he doesn’t for a second look out of place. His red hair glows like fire in the sun seeping through the windows.

“Well,” Lucien seethes. “Now we’re stuck with them, thanks to your useless mercy, and you’ve ruined-”

Feyre steps towards cutting off his words. Lucien's eyes finally seem to land on Nimue as her sister's body moves, taking the shadow covering Nimue with her, she doesn’t shrink from it, no matter how her inside seems to beg her to make herself smaller, lesser. Compared to the company they now had she can’t help but think they must look horrible in comparison.

But she can’t find it in herself to care. They took them. They can deal with the sight before them, however long it lasts.

She channels all that lovely grace her mother had forced into her and straightens her back. For a second, for just a flash, Lucien’s real eye seems to gleam as he takes her in, before both eyes move away from her and back to Feyre.

“Did you enjoy killing my friend, human? Did you hesitate, or was the hatred in your heart riding you too hard to consider sparing him? It must have been so satisfying for a small mortal thing like you to take him down.”

The High fae studies her sister like she's something to dissect, and Nimue doesn’t like that one bit. She steps forward till their shoulders touch. Lucien cuts his eyes back to Tamlin, “Anyway, perhaps there’s a way to-”

“Lucien, Behave.” Tamlin's voice echoes with a hint of a snarl.

Lucien goes rigid, but he hopped off the edge of the table and bowed deeply to Feyre. “My apologies, lady,” the title is mocking. He gestures with a flourish, “I’m Lucien Courtier and emissary. Your eyes are like stars, and you're hair like burnished gold.” He turns to Nimue, dips again but only slightly, “You stand as graceful as a swan, skin shining like a fresh fall of snow.”

Nimue almost grins at the falseness in his words, the mock sincerity. He’d noticed her change in posture when he looked at her, though, as if he clocks everything. Nimue finds herself giddy with the idea of finding something he won’t notice, like a game. She hasn’t played games like this in years.

Nesta used to set her tasks at balls, find out the most about the people present in the room, and don’t let them notice you, was a common one.

She learnt quickly how to blend herself away in the seams of the room, in the corners no one sees. She wonders if Lucien has ever done the same. Hid in a room full of people. She wonders what strange things he’s heard.

He cocked his head, waiting for either of them to say their name. Feyre doesn’t, doesn’t offer any part of herself, no matter how small. But Nimue has been giddy to use her training for years.

She curtsies slightly, gripping the threadbare skirt at her waist, much too short, but still, her posture is perfect. Lucien's eyes gleam once again.

“Nimue.” She breathes softly, her head slightly bowed. She doesn’t offer a complaint in turn, doesn’t need to gain his attention; she already has it. She steps back into place with Feyre, ignoring her sister's looks in the corner of her eyes. She’s missed these courtly games. Feyre still does not offer her Name.

Lucien doesn’t look away from Nimue in till Tamlin breaks his attention.

“Her name is Feyre,” Feyre’s gaze snaps to Tamlin when he says her name. Their eyes catch. “Alis will take you both to your rooms. You could use a bath and fresh clothes.”

Nimue turns to face the female and places a steady hand on Feyre's back as she jumps when she feels Alis's grip her elbow. It takes everything in Nimue not to grin at the woman who will become a friend of her sisters. A great friend. A simple, brash bird mask conceals her face as she nods toward the open door. Her crisp white apron sits atop a homespun brown dress. Nimue follows her as they leave, her hand moves from Feyre back to her hand again.

Lucien's voice just catches them as they leave.

“That is the hand the cauldron thought to deal us? She brought Andras down? We never should have sent him out there; none of them should have been out there. It was a fool's mission.” He lets out a bitter growl. “Maybe we should just take a stand, maybe it’s time to say enough. Dump the girls somewhere, kill them, I don’t care. She’s nothing but a burden here. She’d sooner put a knife in your back than talk to you, or any of us.”

“No,” Tamlin bites out. “Not until we know for certain that there is no other way will we make a move. And as for the girls. They stay. Unharmed. End of discussion. Their life in that hovel was hell enough.”

Hovel is such an awful word, accurate but awful. Alis’s eyes slide to them, and Nimue meets them head-on. She had no shame for the hand they had been dealt; they had survived.

“Then you’ve got your work cut out for you, old son. I’m sure their lives will be a fine replacement for Andras’s; maybe they can even train with the others on the border.”

A snarl of irritation fills the air; Nimue tugs her sister’s hand slightly harder at the sound.

*****

The servants, Alis passed her off to help Nimue into a pale-green dress with floral lace trimming. The silk fabric was smooth like butter. Nimue ran her hands up her now-covered arms; even the sleeves were soft.

A servant wearing a raven bird mask gently nudges her towards a low-backed seat in front of a mirror.

The dress was beautiful, if it made her look more like the lady her mother would have wanted her to be, she swallows back her grimace at that thought. She looked lovely, even she could admit that as the servant brushed her soft waves behind her head, pinning pieces back. If you overlooked the dark circles under her eyes, of course.

The soft green of the dress brought out the flecks of green in her eyes, making them look more hazel than the deep brown she’s used to. Elain would love this dress. She would adore the light, airy layers and the beautiful finishings of lace. The faerie doesn’t say anything to her as she turns to leave, not that Nimue expected anything different.

She slips on shoes, softer than anything she has ever worn. She's grateful the heel is short; she hasn’t worn heels before, much too young at the time of their mother's passing. But she was taught the art of it through books and lectures. She adores the clicking sound that follows her steps as another servant brings her back to the dining room, where she meets up with Feyre.

She watches her younger sister take in her dress as they walk closer to each other; her eyes widen.

Feyre had never seen her in something so elegant and expensive, it suits like a second skin. Like she was made for all this, Feyre can’t help but think that maybe her sister had found her place.

“Did you kick up a fuss about the dress, sweet sister?” Nimue mumbled under her breath as Feyre links their arms. Her sister doesn’t respond, she doesn’t need to Nimue already has her answer. Feyre’s hand tightens harshly on her arm as they walk into the imposing dining hall.

The golden-haired High Lord of spring is still lounging beside Lucien as they enter the room. They sip casually from golden goblets.

Lucien, her twins’ mate. Nimue's heart races at that thought, gods, maybe she is in way over her head.

Feyre pulls her to a stop halfway into the room. Nimue tightens her own hand around Feyre’s wrist in what she hopes is comfort, but the tension in her sister’s shoulder doesn’t drop.

The food remained on the table before them, such rich food of all kinds, Nimue’s stomach aches with hunger. She doesn’t make a move to touch it despite knowing it will do them no harm.

Tamlin’s golden mask gleams as he says to her sister, his eye never leaving her. “Before you ask again: the food is safe for you to eat.” He pointed to the chairs at the other end of the table, claws tucked away. Feyre doesn’t let go of her arm, doesn’t make to move towards the table.

Tamlin sighs sharply, “What do you want then?”

Feyre says nothing, Nimue follows her lead begrudgingly.

Her head darts to Lucien as he drawls, “I told you so, Tamlin,” his eyes flicker to his high lord. “Your skills with females have definitely become rusty in recent decades.”

She feels Feyre tense even more as Tamlin glowers at Lucien, shifting in his seat. Lucien’s russet eyes moved to fix on her sister, Nimue is all but forgotten, not that she minds. She understands, as he sees it, she wasn’t the one to kill his friend, even if she hadn’t stopped it. “Well, you don’t look half bad now. A relief, I suppose, since you're to live with us. Though the tunic isn’t as pretty as the dress.” His eyes flicker away to Nimue briefly.

“I’d prefer not to wear the dress,” Feyre says, her words even, without any feeling. She isn’t shaking with both high fae’s attention on her.

Nimue wonders for a moment if Nesta would be proud of her now, Feyre has never looked more like their elder sister.

“And why not?” Lucien crooned.

Feyre doesn’t have to answer as Tamlin says, “because killing us is easier in pants.”

Both males’ eyes finally settle on Nimue at that, on her dress and back up to her face. Nimue tries not to bulk as Lucien raises a perfect brow at her. Silly of them really to think someone can’t kill in a dress, she’d love for them to say that to Mor.

Feyre pulls the attention away from her, her nails digging into Nimue’s arm. “Now that we’re here, what… what do you plan to do with us?”

Lucien snorted, but Tamlin snarls with annoyance, “Just sit down.”

Nimue pulls her arm from where it’s clutched in Feyre’s and slips away on soft feet. There's a con of the heels, it would seem, they make too much noise when one is trying to be sneaky.

She makes her way towards where the two seats have been pulled out; she doesn’t take the one opposite Tamlin, knowing that it isn’t for her.

Feyre doesn’t turn to her as she moves; she keeps her eyes firmly on the males in front of her, but Nimue feels Lucien’s eyes on her the whole way to the chair. When she finally sits in the seat with all the grace their mother had engraved into her as a child, his eyes finally shift back to Feyre.

“We don’t bite,” he says, but he grins with gleaming white teeth in a way that suggests otherwise.

Feyre inches towards her seat and sits down with less grace and more of a drop. Tamlin rose from his seat and began serving Feyre.Nimue swallows down her huff of amusement. He really isn’t good at courting women, is he?

She places the napkin on her lap and picks up a crystal white bowl filled with what seems to be stew and ladles some into the soup bowl sitting beside her plate. She then reaches over for some white, crusted bread with nimble fingers. Food that will be gentle on her stomach. She picks up her soup spoon and eats slowly so as not to make herself sick.

She ignores the way Lucien seems to be eyeing her again.

“You look... better than before,” Tamlin attempts to compliment. It’s a struggle not to groan at his attempts. Lucien’s gaze moves away from her to give Tamlin an encouraging nod. “And your hair is clean.”

Feyre leans back in her seat, “You’re high fae, faerie nobility?” she asks, causing Lucien to cough and look at his high lord.

“You can take that question.”

“Yes, we are,” Tamlin says, frowning.

Nimue dips a crusted edge of bread into her soup and all but shoves the thing in her mouth; she hates crusts.

If Tamlin wants to win over her sister, he’s going to have to get better at his talking. Though Nimue isn’t quite sure she wants him to win over Feyre, being the male, he turns out to be. She almost chokes on her bread, remembering the fear on Feyre's face in that study after under the mountain. The way he locked her in this very manor.

She hopes the fae males at the table don’t notice the way her hand tightens on her spoon, or the way she knows her glaze fades in and out of focus as she watches a future play out before her eyes.

She drifts back into the moment as the food vanishes from the table. Gods, she’s missed too much. She is going to have to learn to control these slips, or she might miss all the important things.

“One more bite and you’ll hurl you're guts up,” Tamlin says as he drinks from his goblet.

Nimue’s soups stay sitting before her, the only thing left on the table. Tamlin doesn’t glance at her. She lifts her spoon and begins to finish her food.

“Thank you for the meal,” Feyre offers reluctantly. Nimue doesn’t rise from her seat just yet.

“Won’t you stay for wine?” Lucien quips with softened venom and false kindness as he lounges in his seat.

Nimue places her spoon on the plate underneath the bowl. She takes the napkin off her lap and folds it neatly, and sets it on the table beside her now-empty bowl.

Feyre braces her arms on the chair to rise, “I’m tired, I’d like to sleep.” Her eyes flicker to Nim briefly, who offers her a nod.

“It’s been a few decades since I last saw one of you,” Lucien drawled. “But you humans never change, so I don’t think I’m wrong in asking why you find our company to be so unpleasant, when surely the men back home aren’t much to look at.”

At the other end of the table, Tamlin gave his emissary a long warning look. Lucien ignored it.

He isn’t wrong, of course. Compared to these males, men of their realm pale in comparison. Even our princes and royalty do not come close.

“You're high fae,” Feyre says tightly. “I’d ask why you’d even bother inviting me here at all. Or dining with me.”

“True. But indulged me, you’re a human woman, and yet you’d rather eat hot coals than sit here longer than necessary. Ignoring this,” Lucien says, waving a hand at the metal eye and brutal scar on his face. Nimue swallows down the urge to tell him he’s beautiful despite it, because of it even. He would be devastatingly lovely without the scar, of course, but with it, he looks like a warrior out of a story. She doesn’t know where the thought comes from or the urge to voice it. “Unless you have someone back home. Unless there’s a line of suitors out the door from your hovel that makes us seem like worms in comparison.”

The dismissal is there, the insult. Yet Nimue can’t help but think about another life they could have had. A life where, with their father’s fortune, there would have been a line out the door for her sister’s hand. Because Feyre was beautiful and talented, she would have been wanted by many, Nimue was sure.

“I was close to a man back in my village,” Feyre explained. Issac. Nimue never quite liked him, never quite liked how he thought Feyre wasn’t worth more than an old run-down barn.

Then again, Nimue might be biased, having seen how Rhysand would treat her sister; nothing else would compare.

Tamlin and Lucien exchange glances, no doubt worrying that her sister loves another, that this would ruin their plans. Tamlin asks, “Are you in love with this man?”

“No,” Feyre says casually. The males again share a look.

“And do you…love anyone else?” The high lord asks through clenched teeth. Nimue struggles not to roll her eyes.

A burst of laughter jerks from her sister, “No.” She looks between her eyes, narrowing. “Is this really what you care to know about me? If I find you more handsome than human men, and if I have a man back home? Why bother to ask at all, when I’ll be stuck here for the rest of my life?” Feyre’s words carry a wave of anger as she all but spits them out.

“We want to learn more about you, since you’ll be here a good while,” Tamlin explains is lips a thin line. “But Lucien’s pride tends to get in the way of his manners. Go rest. We’re both busy most days, so if you need anything, ask the staff. They’ll help you.”

Nimue rises from her seat at the dismissal, and the High Lord seem to stiffen at her movement as if he’d had only just remembered she was there. She turns to stand with her side to him, facing her sister. Feyre keeps her gaze on the males.

“Why?” she asks. “Why be so generous?”

Tamlin stares at her for a long while before he finally finds an answer to cover up the real reason. “I kill too often as it is. And you're insignificant enough not to ruffle this estate. Unless you decide to start killing us.”

A blush warms Feyre’s face at his words. Nimue finds his words funny, in a detached sort of way; only someone who knows what’s to come can. Feyre is anything but insignificant. She will be more important than he will ever know.

Her sister struggles with the words as she offers her thanks, likely not feeling very grateful. Tamlin offered her a distant nod and motioned for them to leave.

Lucien props his chin on a fist and gives Feyre a lazy half smile that Nimue struggles not to find attractive. He’s a prick, we don’t fancy pricks. But even as she whispers the words in her head, she knows they’re a lie.

Feyre stands abruptly to her feet. She intends to grip Nimue's hand in hers as she turns from them, but Nim stops her. She falls back on the manner her mother taught her.

She dips her head, “Thank you for the food and your kindness.” The words bite at her as she says them; they have not been kind, simply didn’t kill them. Mercy, not kindness. “The food was lovely, compliments to you're chef.” With that, she turns on her heels, ignoring Feyre’s glare and the new curiosity in the fae male’s eyes. She grips Feyre’s hand in hers as they slip out of the room.

A moment later, a barking laugh echoes into the halls, “Too bad it wasn’t her.” The words are followed by a sharp, vicious growl.

“What was that?” Feyre demands as they slip into her younger sister's room. Nimue makes her way over to one side of the bed, not waiting for Feyre as she tugs the blanket from where it’s tucked in neatly. The quilt is puffy and soft, like a cloud. “You thanked them,” Feyre growls, a false imitation at least, nothing as scary as a faerie’s.

“It’s called manners to your hosts,” Nimue stated, gesturing to the other side of the bed. Feyre rolls her eyes but moves over to help Nimue untuck the bed.

“But they-” Feyre begins, but her older sister cuts her off.

“We killed their friend.” She holds her hand up against Feyre’s protest of Nim’s involvement. “They could have easily decided to change their mind on killing us.” They won’t, of course, they need Feyre, but they could make their lives harder, she imagines. “Manners cost nothing, and maybe they will keep the peace. You should try it.”

Based on the grimace on Feyre’s face, Nimue knows she will not.

Feyre groans softly in relief as she slides into the airily soft bed. Nim side in next to her and does the same, the bed softer than anything they’d had in years. Despite not being too happy with her, Feyre still links their arms.

“Why did you say that to Tamlin? Back at the cottage. To take you with us.” Feyre asks into the dark room around them, the only light coming through the crack in the curtains from the moon. She doesn't look at Nimue.

Nimue sighs softly before turning to look at the side of Feyre's face. “Because you’re my little sister and I’d rather suffer terrible with you than wilt in the knowledge that you were doing it alone.” She can make out the surprise on her sister's face at her words. “Good night, sweet sister,” she breathes, turning to the window and way from the pain that seeing that surprise does to her