Chapter Text
The House had appeared to Nesta in human or human-like forms a few times in her dreams. Each time, it looked nothing like the last.
The House sat on a wine-colored lounge made of delicate material. The setting sun shone on her dark skin, filtered through stained glass. And the world felt right again, whole again. An uncommon anomaly in Nesta's dreams, even if the moment was fleeting.
“Are you going to wake up today, Nesta?” the house asked, standing from her perch in the light of the setting sun to walk toward her.
Nesta, who hadn’t even had the energy to get out of bed, even in dreams, watched. She watched the house walk over, black curls bouncing. With still not a word to say. Because there is nothing to say anymore.
At first, there were tears, so many tears that her body forgot how to do anything else other than cry. But then it was just nothing. A rotting tide of emptiness that no one could pull her out of because no one else was doing any better.
The house tried. It had appeared to Nesta in different human forms for weeks, whenever it found the right time to sneak into a dream.
There were Emery and Gwen, too. They came in once a week to brief Nesta on how the Valkyrie legions were progressing. In their not-so-subtle ways, they begged her to come back—to train, to fight, to watch. They wouldn’t have cared as long as she returned.
But just like the week before that, and the week before that, and the week before that, Nesta declined. Now, she didn’t even bother with words; she let the silence speak for her.
“Nesta.” The house circled the massive bed, tapping its fingers on the sturdy wooden posts. “What would break you from this? Or shall I let you fall into madness?” It asked, tilting its beautiful face to look at her, no longer letting Nesta deny that someone or something was here for her. Because the house, unlike any other being or fae at the night court, could be here, in this place beyond the misery of waking hours—with her.
“Madness,” Nesta said, her gray eyes watching the sun sink behind the snow-capped peaks.
The house sighed and climbed into bed next to her.
It looked at her momentarily before brushing a long strand of hair that had fallen from her haphazardly assembled braid. “One day, Nesta.” The house moved close, so its words were nothing but a whisper. “One day, I will see the sun shine on you, and you will know joy again.”
Now, it was the house's turn to cry. Relenting one golden tear. Nesta closed her eyes again. Because today would not be that day; there would be no sun or joy—only sleep.