Summary: Isadora Capri, a passionate werewolf, and Nesta de Vries, a young vampire and the new philosophy teacher, are colleagues at a mysterious academy. One night of violence binds them together, forcing to confront danger, pain, and an undeniable connection that grows stronger between these two women.
Wheel Of Time, Liandrin x Fem Reader: AO3 Link
Summary: Nesta, a fiercely ambitious novice with uncontrollable power, finds herself drawn to Liandrin Guirale, a ruthless Red Sister with secrets darker than the shadows she casts. As Liandrin takes Nesta under her wing, their relationship evolves from mentorship to something far more dangerous. But when their pursuit of power threatens to destroy them, they must choose between their ambitions and love.
The Witcher, Tissaia De Vries x Fem Reader: AO3 Link
Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4
Summary: Nesta has spent her life as an outcast, a self-taught witch who learned magic on her own to survive. Hunted and nearly caught, she makes a desperate escape, opening a portal to nowhere. But something deep inside her pulls her to safety, and she lands in the last place she expects. The quarters of Tissaia de Vries, Aretuza’s formidable rector. Wounded, she must navigate the tension between her own fierce independence and the care Tissaia insists on providing. But danger still lurks beyond Aretuza’s walls, and the ghosts of Nesta’s past may not be so easily left behind.
Marisa Coulter x Fem Reader: AO3 Link
Summary: At the US Open, Nesta Pierce is forced to confront the unexpected return of legendary tennis icon Marisa Coulter, now the most ruthless coach. Publicly cast as rivals, their paths cross once again, stirring a dangerous mix of respect, resentment and unspoken admiration that neither can ignore.
Summary: Nesta De Vries has built her life on managing the hidden fortunes of the powerful Black family. But when a violent massacre leaves her the only survivor, she becomes hunted by the Italian Gang Riina. Her salvation comes with Kaulo Chiriklo, a Romani seer, whose presence stirs every prejudice Nesta was raised to believe. Now, forced into the dangerous’s world, they must rely on each other to survive.
Notes: “Doesn’t look like a monster, does he?” “They rarely do.”
- around 3k words
Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4
The days blurred together, Nesta lost count of how many camps they had passed through and how many fires she had sat beside. The vardo had become like a new home, but the nightmares didn’t fade. They came every night, crawling out of the darkness like hungry creatures. She would wake up gasping with her skin slick with sweat despite the cold.
On the fourth night at a new camp the nightmare was worse than usual. The girl was wearing a black dress, but the fabric was ripped, hanging off one shoulder. Her golden hair had come loose from its pins, falling in a messy bun that trailed strands across her face. She was running through the corridors of the Black household, while all the walls were on fire. She could taste ash on her tongue and hear footsteps behind her. When she turned, the guard was there. His features obscured by fire.
"You thought you could run away. But I've been with you all along." he screamed at her.
She tried to run, but her feet were rooted to the floor and the flames were reaching for her. "I made you a killer, but you have always been a liar." he said in a cruel tone.
He reached for her and his hands closed around her throat. She gasped, choking, her hands flying up to claw at his wrists. But his grip was strong. She couldn't do anything but stare into those hollow, black eyes as the world began to darken around the edges.
"Do you really think they didn't know? Your mother, your father, your Masters. They all knew that you were a spoiled, rotten brat who would do anything to get what she wanted." he hissed.
Nesta clawed at his hands, her nails raking violently at his dead skin, but he didn’t even flinch. The flames were climbing higher and she could feel the heat of them against her back.
"They closed their eyes. They looked the other way because acknowledging what you are would mean admitting their own failures. But I always saw you."
Finally, the flames reached his body. They spread across his whole body, but he didn’t feel any pain. "Now you'll burn with me." he said.
The fire leaped from his body to hers. It caught her dress first, the fabric igniting and racing up to her exposed shoulder. The heat was unbearable and she opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. She was burning alive and the guard was still holding her. The last thing she heard, before the fire consumed everything, was his voice, "If a blackbird flies into your house, death will come."
— — —
Nesta woke up with a choked cry. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. The dream clung to her like the flames to her skin. And across the bed, Kaulo woke instantly. She had been sleeping lightly. It was a habit born from years of survival.
"The nightmare again?" Kaulo asked in a sleepy voice.
The girl nodded, her throat too tight for words.
"The fire?" Kaulo pressed gently.
"This time, the guard was there too." She stopped, her voice breaking.
Silently, Kaulo stood up and went for the shelf. She reached for a small pouch on the shelf and took a handful of dried herbs. After, she placed the herbs in a small bowl and returned to bed. Once, she settled down, she struck a match and flame flared briefly, illuminating the concentration in her eyes. The strong smell of rosemary filled the vardo. She lifted the bowl to her lips and inhaled deeply, drawing the smoke into her lungs.
"What are you doing?" Nesta whispered, her voice barely audible.
Kaulo leaned forward and cupped the girl’s chin. She tilted Nesta's head back, exposing her throat, pressing her lips close to hers, and breathed the smoke into her mouth.
The smoke filled Nesta's lungs, her chest loosening. The tight knot of fear that had been coiled there since the nightmare began to ease. And the older woman inhaled again. Another breath of smoke, another slow exhalation into the blonde's mouth. The vardo seemed to grow warmer with each minute. The guard's cruel voice faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of Kaulo's breathing.
"The dead cannot reach you." Kaulo murmured, her voice low, hypnotic. "You are alive.”
The words wrapped around Nesta tightly. She could feel them sinking into her, carried by the smoke that now filled her chest. The warmth of it spread through her limbs, loosening muscles she hadn't realized were clenched. Her eyes fluttered closed, the smoke was in her blood, flowing through her veins like a drug. When she opened her eyes again, Kaulo had set the bowl aside. But, she was still sitting beside her.
"Do you feel better?" she asked.
Nesta nodded sleepily. For all her life, she had never believed in magic, but lying here, with Kaulo's breath still warm on her lips and the smoke curling in her lungs, she found herself actually believing.
The older woman looked at her for a long moment and then she lay back down, pulling the girl with her, arms wrapping around Nesta's waist. "Try to sleep." she said, her lips close to the blonde's ear. "I'll follow you into your dreams."
— — —
One week later the Riinas found them. It happened after midnight, when even the birds had been asleep. The girl woke up to the sound of men's shouting. Quickly, she sat up and saw Kaulo already on her feet.
"Get dressed!" Kaulo said, her voice was sharp, commanding. "No arguments, we have no time."
Nesta pulled on her clothes, her hands shaking so badly she could barely fasten the buttons on her coat. Her breath came in shallow gasps and her heart pounding so loud she could hear it in her ears. Outside, the shouting grew louder. She heard women crying and children screaming. Kaulo was at the window, her face was tense, but the girl saw the fear beneath those strong muscles.
"Riina?" Nesta asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"Yeah, there are too many." Kaulo turned and her eyes met the blue's. "I don't know how, maybe they followed a trail, maybe they just got lucky. I am sorry, we need to go."
“We have to run.” Nesta said with determination.
The older woman shook her head. "Not yet, I need to patch the horse. This vardo is my home, I can’t lose it." She moved to the corner of the vardo and grabbed the pistol. "Take this and stay here. Do not come out, no matter what you hear. Do you understand?"
Nesta clutched the pistol. "But..."
"No arguments, princess." Kaulo reached for her own knife and tucked it into her belt. "I'll patch the horse and bring it around. Then we go." She opened the door and slipped away.
Through the window, Nesta could see that vardos were burning, people ran in every direction, clutching children or their most important possessions to their chests, their faces white with horror. Both, men and women fought with knives and pistols, trying to hold back the attackers. She saw the flames and a lot of figures running and screaming. Also, she heard Kaulo's voice shouting in Romani. After, hearing the woman’s voice, she burst out of the vardo too.
By the time the blonde was outside, searching for Kaulo, the Romani woman was trying to calm the panicked horse. The animal was in shock, wild‑eyed and its hooves slashing through the air. Kaulo spoke to her in native tongue, her voice low and soothing, "Easy, easy. I've got you." She wrapped the rope around her hand and pulled the horse's head down, forcing the horse to obey.
Good, now back to... Kaulo thought when a hand fisted in her hair violently. Her scalp burned as she was yanked backward. She lost balance and the rope slipped from her grasp.
"Where is the blondie?" a voice snarled in her ear.
Quickly, she to reach for her knife, but her arms were locked behind her back. The man slammed her against the nearest vardo and her head cracked against the wood. He backhanded her across the cheek that snapped her head to the side. "Where is the blonde bitch?"
She had fought her whole life. She had fought men who had whipped her long time ago, women who had thrown stones, while all she ever wanted was a place to exist in peace. And now after all of it, she was going to die here with the screams of her people ringing in her ears. Once again, she had brought trouble to their camp.
The man hit her again and her vision swam. She could feel herself slipping away, losing focus as the world was dissolving into sorrow. No one is coming to save me, no one would risk their life for a fortune teller. She has nothing to offer but death.
She let herself go slack, the man's grip tightened, but she no longer cared. She was so exhausted. I have always been alone and I will die alone, she thought one last time.
"Kaulo!" The scream tore from Nesta's throat before she could stop it. Quickly, she pulled the pistol out and turned the safety off.
The man heard her scream and turned, while gripping Kaulo by the hair. His cold eyes widened at the sight of the blonde woman sprinting toward him with a pistol raised. Strategically, he yanked the fortune teller in front of him, using her body as a shield. His arm locked around her throat, and he pressed a knife against her ribs. "Drop the gun or I'll kill her." he snarled furiously.
The girl immediately stopped several feet away. She had already extended her arms, as the pistol was aimed right at the attacker, but she had no clean shot. Kaulo was in the way, she was blocking the man's head. Her blue eyes full of pain met hers. There was blood on her lips, but her gaze was full of determination. Pull the trigger, she said with that look.
"Last chance, girl." the man hissed. He pressed the knife harder and the older woman gasped, as the line of red appeared on her side.
Nesta's finger tightened on the trigger. She breathed in and out, and fired. The bullet passed millimeters of Kaulo's face. It struck the man right in the forehead. His grip on the fortune teller loosened and she crumpled, falling to her knees, beside the man’s corpse. Blood pooled beneath his head, staining the green ground dirty in the firelight.
The blonde ran toward the kneeling woman. "Kaulo, are you hurt?"
The blue eyes fluttered open, she was coughing, while her hand pressed to her side where the knife had cut. "I told you to stay in the vardo." Kaulo rasped.
Nesta laughed hysterically in relief. "Can you stand?" she asked.
Kaulo nodded, wincing as the girl helped her up. Her legs shook violently and for a short moment she swayed, her body weight pressing heavily against the blonde's side. She forced herself to straighten, to pretend that she couldn’t feel blood soaking through her shirt, spreading down her hip.
All while, Nesta felt the way Kaulo's body sagged with each step towards the horse. Fortunately for them, or by some miracle, it hadn’t run away far. It stood trembling by the tree. Slowly, they reached it together. The younger woman clumsily tied the rope while Kaulo soothed the animal again.
When they reached their vardo, Kaulo said firmly, "Get in, I’ll drive." even though her voice seemed smaller, weaker.
"You're hurt..."
"Get in!" Kaulo raised her voice.
Instead of arguing, Nesta climbed into the driver's seat. She turned and reached for the older woman, pulling her up. Kaulo hauled herself onto the bench beside her, her movements were heavy, the effort that it took her to get up was visible. She grunted as she settled down, her hand still pressing against her side, where the blood had spread to her clothes.
The girl's eyes caught the dark stain. "You're bleeding."
"It's nothing, princess."
"It's not nothing." Nesta grabbed the hem of her own shirt and tore a strip of fabric. "Lift your arm."
Kaulo obeyed silently, choosing not to lose strength on talking anymore. Nesta pressed the makeshift bandage against the wound and the brunette hissed through her teeth.
"We don't have time for this." Kaulo said through the pain.
"Just drive. I'll hold it in place."
The Romani woman took the reins and snapped them, the horse lunged forward, pulling the vardo away from the burning camp. Soon, the woods were dark and the vardo swayed violently, bouncing over uneven path made with rocks. Nesta had to clutch the side of the bench to keep from falling, while her other hand remained pressed against Kaulo's side.
"Can you go faster?" Nesta urged, looking back at the glow of the flames through the trees.
"I'm going as fast as I can." Kaulo gritted out. Her face was paler than Nesta had ever seen it. A lot of of sweat stood on her forehead, and her eyes were half-closed.
"Kaulo, open your eyes."
The woman's eyes opened wider, finding Nesta's face.
"You have to stay awake." the blonde said, and her voice was soft with fear, but harsh with command. "Keep driving and talking to me. It’s important that you stay awake now. So please, tell me about anything…"
"Bossy... I like it." Kaulo's lips twitched in a faint smirk.
"Not bossier than you can be, witch." Nesta tried to ease the atmosphere.
The horse galloped on and the vardo kept bouncing. At least Kaulo began to speak. Her voice was rough, as she told Nesta about simplest moments and little things in her life. She told her about the taste of strawberries that she picked from the side of the road and since that day, it became her favorite fruit. She told her about stars, ancient stories that were passed by generation.
At last, the flames faded behind them, swallowed by the trees. They drove through the rest of the night without stopping, following the path, that only Kaulo could see.
— — —
When the dawn found them, they stopped. The vardo was hidden beneath a canopy of trees. The older woman stopped the horse and slumped forward.
Carefully, Nesta touched her arm. "Kaulo..."
"I told you to stay." Kaulo's voice was hollow. "I told you to stay safe and you came out. You could have died..." Her voice broke and she raised her head. "You shot him straight in the face.”
"My aim is good." it was all the blonde could manage to say. The words felt small, like a lie, because she was so scared of her own feelings in that moment.
"Thank you for not leaving me there." Kaulo confessed quietly.
Nesta's chest ached and it became more difficult to take a breath. "I should have never let you walk out there alone. I should have been with you from the start."
"Stop. You saved my life, that is all that matters."
"We need to take care of your wounds." Nesta said, climbing down from the driver's bench. She reached up for Kaulo, her arms open. "Let me help you, please."
The Romani woman hesitated, her pride warred with her exhaustion. Nevertheless, she let the girl pull her down. Nesta wrapped an arm around her waist and half-carried her toward the vardo door.
"Almost there.” she murmured and kicked the door open.
Slowly, she guided Kaulo inside. The vardo was dark, but it was safer than outside. Nesta lowered her onto the edge of the bed and stepped back to look at the woman in front of her. The cut on the side was still bleeding, seeping through the torn fabric of her shirt. And her face was worse, with a purple bruise blooming on her cheek and a lip split and swollen. Her dark hair was tangled messily.
In short, quick steps, she gathered all the needed supplies, water, clean cloths, the salve she had used before, and of course fresh bandages. She knelt before Kaulo, her hands steady despite the fierce tremor in her heart. "It will hurt, but I need to clean your wounds."
Kaulo nodded with eyes half-closed. "Do what you have to."
Nesta cleaned the cut on Kaulo's side first, pressing a cloth against it to stop the bleeding. The older woman hissed through her teeth, body tensing on more pain.
"You are the bravest woman I know." Nesta said in admiration.
Kaulo laughed weakly. "I am always brave. For bad things and for good ones too... Sometimes. It is the only thing I have."
The girl looked up at her bruised face. "That's not true."
"Isn't it?" Kaulo's blue eyes found hers. "I am the villain in every story, princess. The gypsy who brings only death, the fortune teller who curses everyone. Everywhere I go, people die.”
Nesta shook her head fiercely. "That's not true. The Riinas are the villains, not you."
"I led them to that camp. I always bring only trouble, that is all I am good for." Kaulo's voice was flat, stripped of strength.
"No." The blonde set down the cloth and cupped Kaulo's face in her hands, forcing the older woman to look at her. "You saved my life from the beginning. You warned me. You came for me. You chased away my nightmares. You are my savior in this story."
Kaulo’s eyes glistened with fresh tears. "You don't know me." she whispered.
"I want to." Nesta replied quickly.
The woman’s hand came up, covering Nesta's where it rested on her cheek. "If you know me well, you won’t look at me the same way anymore. Just know, that I deserved every blow that man landed."
Nesta's heart clenched. "No, you didn’t."
"I did." Kaulo's voice was firm, though her eyes were wet now. "Anyway, you came for me and I don’t understand why."
Nesta leaned forward. “You are worth saving."
Kaulo closed her eyes and a single tear slipped down her bruised cheek. The blonde caught it with her thumb, wiping away.
"Let me finish cleaning your wounds." Nesta said softly.
“Thank you for taking care of me now.”
She finished cleaning the cut on Kaulo's side and then wrapped it in fresh bandages. After, she tended to the bruises on the face, cleaning them with cool water and spreading the salve over the swollen skin. Also, she checked Kaulo's injured shoulder. Through it all, the Romani woman sat still, she didn’t complain at all.
When it was finished, Nesta helped Kaulo lie back on the bed. She pulled the blankets up to her chin, tucking them around her and smoothed the dark hair back from her forehead.
"Sleep, I’ll keep the watch for now." Nesta said softly.
Unexpectedly, Kaulo's hand found hers, their fingers interlacing. "You need rest too." she murmured, her voice already thick with sleep. "Sleep with me."
Nesta hesitated, but she gave in and climbed onto the bed beside Kaulo, lying on top of the blankets. Her body curved against the woman's side and wrapped her arm around her.
"Thank you for coming for me." Kaulo whispered, her lips close to Nesta's ear.
Notes: "Dreams are the way we touch the unseen world"
- around 6k words
Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3
The golden light of dawn filtered through the small window, painting the vardo’s ceiling in brighter colors. Nesta lay on the floor, her body stiff from the hard wood beneath. She woke up slowly, trying to remember where she was, and as she rose up, she turned her head. Kaulo was still asleep, her dark hair spread across the pillow. In sleep, the sharp lines of her features softened.
Nesta looked away. She touched the small bruise that formed on her cheek, remembering Kaulo’s fingers soothing it after the slap. Four days ago, if someone had told her she would be lying on the floor of a gypsy wagon, watching a Romani woman sleep, she would have laughed.
Her mother’s voice whispered at the back of her mind, The gypsy can only curse. There is nothing good in them.
She didn't curse me, she saved me, she thought.
Of course, she had no idea that the information Kaulo had sold to the Riinas had made the massacre possible. She didn’t know that the bullet wound in her shoulder was her own doing.
The Romani woman stirred quietly and her eyes opened. Her blue eyes were immediately sharp, in instinctive alertness of someone who had learned to wake ready to fight. But when she saw Nesta, her expression softened. “You’re awake.” she said, her voice was rough with sleep.
“Yeah.” Nesta answered in a sleepy, tired voice.
“How did you sleep?” Kaulo sat up, wincing as her injured arm took her weight.
"Fine." she replied flatly.
"Fine? You slept on the cold floor after running for your life and you say fine?" Kaulo's eyebrow rose.
Nesta's jaw tightened. "I slept."
"Have you dreamed?" Kaulo asked with curiosity.
"Everyone dreams."
The older woman moved unexpectedly and Nesta heard the creak of the bed. Before she could react, Kaulo lowered herself to the floor, sitting directly in front of her. Their knees touched and the blonde couldn’t take her eyes away from her face. She had never seen anyone look so beautiful first thing in the morning.
"I can hear your thoughts, princess." Kaulo said, there was a teasing edge to her voice, but her eyes were deadly serious. "What did you dream about?"
"It doesn't matter." Nesta said, trying to avoid this conversation.
"It matters to me." she leaned forward, her face inches away. "Dreams are messages from another world.” Her eyes held Nesta's, unblinking.
"I don't..."
"Do not lie to me." Kaulo's voice was low, rough, but there was no anger in it. "I have had enough lies from you. Tell me what you dreamed."
Nesta thought about the dream. The darkness that had wrapped around her like arms, pulling her back from the fire. She couldn’t tell Kaulo that she had dreamed of her, that she had dreamed of being consumed by flames until she came to pull her out. "I dreamed of fire." she said, and her voice was barely a whisper.
“What else?”
She closed her eyes. "The house was burning and I couldn't get out."
The woman's hand moved, her fingers finding Nesta's wrist, the same spot she had gripped in the alley. “How did it end?”
"The fire was everywhere. It was going to consume me until a shadow figure’s arms wrapped around me. And the fire stopped.”
Kaulo's fingers tightened on her wrist. "Who was it?"
Nesta opened her eyes and looked at the blue eyes, the same face that had haunted her dreams since the night she ran. She thought about saying the truth. But instead, she lied again. "I didn't see her face."
Kaulo was looking at her with disappointment and understanding at the same time. "Her." she said slowly.
The girl's chest tightened, as she realized that the word slipped. She opened her mouth to deny it, but Kaulo's fingers were firm on her wrist, while her eyes were soft, and the words died in her mouth, never spoken.
"You tell lies easily." Kaulo said, as she released her wrist, but she didn’t move away. "Darling, you cannot hide it with me." She tilted her head, a devilish smirk appeared on her face again. "It is written all over your face."
Nesta's cheeks burned. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do. You dreamed of a woman who saved you from the fire. And you are sitting here, looking at me, and you cannot tell me her name."
"I can't…"
"You can, but you won’t. Is it hard to look at her face now and not be able to say her name?”
"Kaulo." Nesta breathed.
"The hands that held you in your dream..." Kaulo's hand came up, her fingers brushing a strand of blonde hair. "My hands.” She turned her hand and interlaced them with Nesta’s “When you woke up, you reached for something that was missing. You reached for me, princess."
The words hung between them and Nesta's heart stopped. Kaulo was looking at her with those impossible blue eyes that always saw the truth. "I was going to die and then..." she said, and her voice was barely a whisper.
"And then?" Kaulo asked as she raised an eyebrow.
"You stepped between me and the flames.” she said, admitting the truth.
The Romani woman's hand tightened around Nesta's. She looked at this young woman, her eyes bright in the morning light until she laughed. After, she looked away and her hand slipped away from the other’s. "You should get up." she said, pushing herself up from the floor. "We have a long day of travel."
Kaulo began her morning routine with settling the kettle on the stove, while Nesta watched her, feeling too tired to get up immediately.
The older woman turned, catching her gaze. "You're still on the floor, princess."
Nesta blinked, she hadn’t realized she was staring.
"Are you waiting for a breakfast served in bed?" Kaulo's voice was dry, amused.
The old defensiveness rose up instinctively. Her first thought was to snap back, but instead she got up. "I wasn't waiting for anything."
"Of course not..." Kaulo turned back to the stove, but Nesta saw the curve of her lips. "You were just resting on the floor, while I made coffee."
Quickly, the girl crossed to the small basin and splashed water on her face. It was freezing cold, but at least it made her feel more awake. She ran her fingers through her tangled hair. The kettle began to whistle and Kaulo poured the dark coffee in two cups.
"Just sit down, I’ll make breakfast." Kaulo said, gesturing to the small table. She moved to a cupboard and pulled out some eggs and cheese.
Nesta watched her prepare all the ingredients, setting them on a table with gentle care. The memory of the kitchen in the Black household and the servants who had prepared every meal resurfaced in her mind. The truth was, that she had never cooked anything in her life. "I can do it." she said spontaneously, wanting to prove that she is not as useless as she feels.
Kaulo's hands stilled on the knife. "Have you ever cooked before?"
"No, the Blacks had servants and before that, my mother had servants.” she admitted.
“So now you want to learn?” Kaulo set down the knife and crossed her arms over her chest, looking at the girl like she was a mystery to solve.
"Can I?" Nesta asked.
"Fine." Kaulo said finally. She stepped back, gesturing toward the stove.
Nesta rose from the table and took her place. The stove was hot and the pan already warm, ready to be used. Carefully, she cracked the eggs into a bowl, the shell fragments falling into the mixture, which made Kaulo snort out. Slowly, she grated the cheese, chopped the additional herbs for the good taste. Her movements were clumsy, but at the same time she looked certain, as if she knew what to do.
The brunette watched from the table, while drinking coffee. "You're burning the eggs." Kaulo said calmly, as she observed the process.
"I'm not..." Nesta tried to fold the omelet, but it stuck to the pan. She swore under her breath, trying to scrape the mess onto a plate.
Kaulo rose and came to the stove. "Give me the plate." she said flatly.
Nesta handed it over, bracing herself for mockery. But the woman simply took the plate and sat back down. "What are you doing?" she asked.
"Eating." Kaulo took a bite. She chewed slowly, her eyes on Nesta's face all along. "It's not that terrible."
"It's burnt." Nesta replied, feeling guilty.
"Only a little bit." Kaulo took another bite. "The cheese is delicious. Also, I am honestly impressed that you didn't set anything on fire."
"You're mocking me."
Kaulo smiled softly, "Only a little, darling." She pushed the plate toward the empty chair. "Try it yourself."
The girl joined her and took a bite of the omelet. Surprisingly, it wasn’t as bad as she expected it to be. "I don't know how to cook. Honestly, I don't know how to do a lot of things. I was raised like a spoiled brat." she said, setting down the fork.
"My mother taught me to cook when I was six. She taught me many different things. Always, saying, that those skills would keep me alive longer than any man." Kaulo said.
Nesta looked down at the omelet. "I wish someone had taught me."
"You're learning now, it's a start." Kaulo's voice was softer than before. She took a sip of her coffee.
Nesta glanced down at her own hands resting on the table. Slender fingers, long nails that had been carefully shaped and polished. She had always been proud of her hands, because her mother had told her they were elegant, a sign of good breeding. But now they looked like nothing more than tools she had never learned to use. "My mother always said that cooking was beneath us. She thought that's what servants were for." She turned her hands over, studying her palms. "I used to be proud of them. But now they only seem to be useless."
Across the table, Kaulo set down her cup. The ceramic made a soft clink against the wood. She leaned back in her chair, her dark hair fell in waves around her face, still a bit tousled from sleep and the morning light caught the golden rings on her fingers, making them glint. "Your hands are not useless." she said with a low and certain voice. Her blue eyes held the girl's with unflinching gaze that made it impossible to look away.
"They've never done anything good. Only bad things." Nesta thought about every time she had to use the pistol. She thought of the ledgers she had managed, all the hidden accounts and the dirty money that had bought only death.
"Your hands were useful when they changed my bandages. Also, gentle." Kaulo said quietly.
"That's not the same as cooking." Nesta said, her voice softer now.
"No, but it's not nothing. Now you're learning to use your hands for more than holding a pen or a pistol. You need to be patient with yourself."
"I failed at the simple omelet."
Kaulo's lips curved in a soft smile. "You succeeded at not burning down my home."
Nesta laughed quietly. It came out from a place, she had forgotten existed. And for that short moment she felt lighter than she had in the Black’s house.
Kaulo's expression softened at the sound, her eyes brightened. "There it is."
"What?" Nesta asked, though she knew the answer.
"Your laugh, princess. I was beginning to think you didn't have one." Kaulo's voice was warm.
Nesta's cheeks flushed, she looked down at the remains of the omelet. "I don't laugh much."
"That's a pity. This life should be worth your smile. And laughter too." She stood up, taking her cup to the basin, and Nesta watched her go, the sway of her hips, the careful way she held her injured arm, the dark waves of her hair falling down her back. She felt mesmerized by her presence.
"Now finish your food." Kaulo said over her shoulder with a lightness in her voice. "We have a long day."
Nesta picked up her fork and even though the omelet was cold, she finished it anyway.
— — —
At first, Nesta sat inside the vardo but the quiet felt suffocating. She had rarely been outside Birmingham. The city was her world, its dark streets and its shadowy alleys. She knew the smell of coal smoke, the loud sound of cart wheels rattling over stone. But now here, there was nothing but fields and the endless blue sky. The air was clean, it felt foreign in her lungs, without the familiar grit of industry. After an hour of watching the light move through the little window, she couldn't bear it any longer. She climbed out of the vardo and settled onto the driver's bench beside Kaulo.
The older woman didn’t look at her when she joined. Her good hand held the reins loosely, and her dark hair was tied in a braid, away from her face.
She looks so powerful, like she had been born on this road and would die on it, Nesta thought.
"You know, that you don't have to sit inside all the time. The road is safe enough." Kaulo said after a long silence.
"I wasn't hiding." Nesta quickly replied.
Kaulo's lips twitched in a smirk. "Of course not."
"How do you know where you're going? There are no signs." Nesta asked in curiosity.
"I don’t need the signs, princess. The wind will show its path." Kaulo glanced at her sideways. “Also, my people have been travelling these roads longer than your people have been building them."
Nesta eye-rolled, “Sounds very practical. I wonder how far we’ll get if there is no wind someday.”
"Still, it's more practical than a map. Maps can change. But the land remembers what it is, no matter what names you put on it."
The girl wanted to point out that maps were used for centuries and that the Romani weren’t the only ones who knew how to navigate. But she looked at the fields stretching to the horizon and decided to try a different approach. "How do you survive in cold seasons? When the roads are bad and it’s hard to travel."
"Well, we find shelter and we share what we have between each other." Kaulo replied calmly.
"But where do you get money and food?"
"We work, darling. The same way everyone does." Kaulo's voice was patient, but there was an edge beneath it now. "Some of us sell goods or they trade. Some of us do readings, like me. We don't steal, if that's what you're asking."
"Kaulo, I wasn’t..."
"Nesta." Kaulo cut her off with a certainty that made the girl's protest die in her throat. "I know, that you've been trying to find the truth behind the stories your mother told you. The truth is, we're not so different from you. We work, we eat, we cry, we love. The only difference is that we don't pretend to be better than we are."
It was true, that she had been looking for any kind of evidence that the Romani were exactly what her mother had described. But so far she had found none. After it, they drove in silence for a while. The sun rose higher, warming the air and Nesta found herself relaxing despite inner fear. The tension in her shoulders eased and her hands unclenched in her lap.
In the afternoon, they passed a small group of wagons pulled off the road near a stream. Women with bright, colorful skirts hung washing between the vardos, while children played in the meadow, chasing each other. Nesta stared at all these families working together. What a strangeness life, not the one she had expected.
Kaulo called out a greeting in Romani, her voice warm and kind. A woman by the wagons waved back and she smiled in return.
"Do you know all of them?" Nesta asked, her voice quieter than she intended.
"They're my distant family." Kaulo glanced at her with a smile. "Have the Blacks ever told you that we, Romani people, also have community?"
"They only told what they wanted me to believe in." the girl admitted.
She admitted it, Kaulo thought. Satisfaction with relief spread through her chest. Finally, she started to realize about the manipulation in those prejudices. Now, she can see the truth with her own eyes.
Carefully, she studied Nesta's face, the shadows under her bright eyes, the way her lips were parted slightly, as if she was surprised by her own words. There was no defensiveness in her expression, just an openness that made her own heart beat faster. Exactly for this honesty she had been waiting for.
This girl had been lying to everyone, that Kaulo had begun to wonder if she even knew what the truth sounded like. And finally, here on this dusty road, she had told the truth. It was a good beginning and for Kaulo it was a start of hope.
— — —
They reached a new camp as the sun was setting, the sky turning violet. There were a lot of vardos and between them a bunch of small fires. But in the middle, there stood the biggest, a central fire with smoke rising high into the sky. People moved between the wagons and Nesta stood back, uncertain. This was Kaulo’s little world, these were her people. Of course, not all of them, but still a strange family in the way that was bound by blood or mutual history of the road.
Kaulo climbed down from their wagon and turned to look at her. “Are you coming?”
Nesta hesitated, because she was feeling like an outsider. The blonde woman in borrowed clothes and the fear in her eyes. “I’ll wait here.” she said.
“As you wish, princess.” Kaulo turned and walked toward the fire, her shoulders straight, her head high. She could feel the girl's eyes on her back. If Nesta wanted to hide, let her hide. She had her own world to return to.
She moved with a chin raised high through the camp, nodding to the people who called out greetings. A young woman with red hair waved from beside a cooking fire and Kaulo raised her good hand in response. The central fire was the true heart of the camp, it crackled loudly in the air.There was a pot of stew on the edge of the flames and the smell made her stomach growl. She knelt by the fire, reaching for the warmth, when a small body slammed into her side.
"Auntie Kaulo!" he screamed with joy.
She laughed, wincing as her injured arm took the impact. A boy around eight years old wrapped his arms around her waist. Each time, she visited them, he was the one who had followed her around all the time, and always begged for stories about the stars.
"And how is my little dreamer doing?" she asked in Romani, ruffling his hair with her good hand.
He told her a funny story about a frog he had caught and brought to his parents’ bed, his words tumbling over each other in his excitement. Kaulo listened, laughing at the parts that were supposed to be funny. She was aware of the camp's attention, almost everyone around her, was watching closely, but she didn’t let it distract her. She had earned the right to be here.
She was still laughing when she felt a shadow behind her. Slowly, she turned and there was Nesta. The blonde stood at the edge of the firelight, her arms wrapped around herself as if she were cold. At last, she had climbed down from the wagon.
She could have stayed in the wagon, hidden from all of this, but she came, Kaulo thought.
The boy tugged at Kaulo's sleeve, asking who the woman was and she told him she was a friend. He nodded and then ran off to rejoin his friends. So, she rose to her feet and closed the distance between herself and Nesta. "You came." she said.
"I couldn't stay in the wagon forever."
"Right." Kaulo said calmly, trying to hide the smirk.
The fire crackled in the short silence. Nesta's eyes moved over the camp, while Kaulo watched her face, seeing the war play out behind her eyes. The suspicion was still there, but it was fading and in its place was wonder. They stood together, watching the flames dancing, sending sparks up into the darkening sky. Somewhere behind them, women began to sing and Kaulo closed her eyes, letting the peace wash over her.
When she opened them, her old friend was standing by her side. "Is she your woman, Kaulo?" she asked in Romani, her voice carrying over the crackle of the fire.
Kaulo's cheeks flushed pink. She could feel the heat spreading across her face and unfortunately for her it wasn’t because of the fire. "She is trouble, nothing more." she snapped back, sharper than she intended. "Mind your own business, old woman."
The old woman laughed. "I have known you since you were a child, Chiriklo. You don’t bring meaningless trinkets to my camp."
"She is not..."
"She has been looking at you like you hung the stars. And you are looking at her the same way. So don’t tell me she is nothing. I might be old, but not stupid." the old woman said firmly.
Kaulo opened her mouth to argue, but her friend had already turned away, walking back toward her vardo.
"What did she say?" Nesta asked.
Kaulo hesitated, because the truth felt too vulnerable. But the girl was watching her with those blue eyes and she found she couldn’t lie. "She asked if you were my woman."
"What did you tell her?" Nesta asked and her voice was steadier than she had expected.
She met her eyes, the firelight danced in thr girl's blue irises, and she saw something unusual there, something that almost looked like hope. She forced a smile and said, "I told her you were trouble."
Nesta looked away, straight into the fire and Kaulo noticed that her hands were no longer wrapped around herself. They hung at her sides, openly.
"Let’s sit down. The stew is ready." she said finally, gesturing toward a log near the fire.
They settled onto the log with a hot stew in their hands. It tasted better than good and both of them ate in silence, while their eyes were fixed on the flames dancing in the centre of the camp. The fire was mesmerizing, it danced wildly, casting shadows across the faces of the people gathered around. Nesta watched the way the smoke rose and disappeared into the darkness where the stars appeared. But even as the fire held her gaze, she found her attention being pulled toward the woman sitting beside her.
— — —
The camp quieted as the night deepened, most of the families left to their vardos. But, Kaulo and Nesta still sat together on a log, looking at the sky. The girl had never seen so many stars at once. In Birmingham the sky was always grey, but here, the darkness was so deep, that the stars burned bright.
“You look like you have never seen the stars before.” Kaulo said, breaking the silence.
Nesta shook her head slowly, her eyes still fixed on the sky. "I never had a chance to see them so well. You can never really see them in the city. They're always hidden."
The older woman pointed up. "There, do you see those seven stars shaped like a wagon. That is the Great Bear, but it is also called the Big Dipper.”
She followed the line of Kaulo's finger. After a moment, she unmistakably found it. "I've heard of it, but I've never been able to find it."
"Tonight you did." Kaulo's hand shifted, pointing to a fainter stars nearby. "And there is the Little Bear. Do you see how the two brightest stars at the end point to the North Star?"
The pattern was fainter and it was harder to see, but still the blonde found it. "They're so beautiful."
Kaulo lowered her hand. "My father taught me those when I was a child. He said the Great Bear is the guardian of the north, the one who protects the travellers. And the Little Bear helps to find the true path. It always points true north, no matter how lost you are."
Nesta looked up at the stars and thought about her inner strength. The fire that had kept her alive when she almost died. The same fire that had made her fight and survive. She lay back a bit staring up at the expanse of the sky and let herself imagine what it would be like to be among those stars. "I always wondered what it would be like to fly up to the stars. To find freedom." she whispered, "When I was a child I used to dream about flying. I would stand on the balcony of my house and look up at the sky. I wanted to go somewhere no one could find me.”
"Did you ever find that place?" Kaulo asked in a soft voice.
"No, I learned that this world would never let me fly." She turned her head, finally meeting blue icy eyes.
"Maybe someday you will." Kaulo said quietly.
Nesta exhaled deeply, “Someday.” She didn’t know if she would ever find freedom, that place from her dreams feeling, but right now looking at the stars spread out above her like a destiny, she allowed herself to imagine a happy end.
— — —
By the time, they returned to their vardo, the night became cold. The girl’s teeth were chattering and she shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her red coat. Her shoulders were hunched and she walked with quick steps, as if trying to outrun the cold.
Kaulo watched her from the corner of her eye as she unlocked the vardo door. The girl's face was pale and her lips had taken on a faint blue tint. What a stubborn pain in the ass. She is freezing and won’t say a word, she thought.
Once they entered, the room was dark and cold, the stove long since gone out. Kaulo moved to light a lamp and her fingers found the matches by memory. Behind her, Nesta made her pallet on the floor, spreading the blankets with hands that shook violently.
The older woman had noticed it before in the kitchen of Tommy Shelby's house and later in the alley, when she had pressed her against the wall. She had spent her whole life watching people’s behavior, their small tells that revealed what their words hid. And this young woman was no different. Right now, her hands were screaming what her mouth would not say.
“Get in the bed.” Kaulo said firmly.
“I’m fine.” Nesta said, through her teeth that were chattering. She turned and the woman’s hand closed around her arm, pulling her up. Quickly, she stumbled, caught off-balance and found herself pressed against Chiriklo’s chest.
"You're freezing." Her face was inches from hers, eyes blazing. “Stop arguing with me about this.”
Nesta tried to pull away. “I don’t need your...”
“You need warmth and you are too stubborn to admit. So I am making the decision for you.”
She pushed Nesta toward the bed and crawled onto the bed after her. Deliberately, she moved slowly forward. She braced her right hand on the mattress beside the blonde's head and lowered herself until her face was inches from Nesta's. Their breath mingled in the small space between them, and her lips parted slightly as she stared down.
"Try to fight me, go on." Kaulo murmured, her voice was rough. "Tell me you are not cold."
Nesta's heart pounded against her ribs. Her cold hands lay flat on the mattress at her sides. She could feel the heat radiating from her skin. Slowly, she relaxed her shoulders and let out a breath.
The Romani’s expression softened and she reached down, her fingers brushing a strand of blonde hair from Nesta's face. "Good girl."
Nesta’s cheeks flushed pink that spread from her face to her chest. She had never been called that before and she had never wanted to be called this way before. But hearing it from the woman's lips made her want to hear those words again.
"We need to undress. The body heat will work better without any clothes on.” Kaulo said calmly.
"Undress?" she blushed even more.
"You heard me, princess." Kaulo tilted her head. "May I?" she asked without any mockery in her voice. It was a genuine request for permission.
Nesta nodded and Kaulo undressed her slowly, getting rid of each fabric of the clothes, leaving her only in underwear.
"You have a pretty body." she murmured.
“I know.” Nesta replied, not looking away. She didn’t try to cover herself, just sat with shoulders back and chin lifted.
The brunette's eyebrows rose, she had expected shyness or modesty, but the girl met her gaze with confidence that made her own heart beat faster too.
"You're not shy at all." Kaulo observed.
"Should I be?" Nesta asked with a small smirk.
"No." Kaulo's lips curved.
Slowly, she reached out, her fingers tracing the line of Kaulo's collarbone. “My turn.”
The older woman held her eyes, as she reached for the buttons of the blouse. Now, her fingers were steady. She undid the buttons one by one. It slipped from Kaulo's shoulders, revealing the bandage beneath on a pale skin. Soon, her clothes joined the pile of clothes on the floor.
Kaulo’s body was strong and lean, but marked by scars on her back. There were long, thin lines, as if someone had whipped her.
"What happened to you?" Nesta asked quietly.
“Don’t.” her hand came up, pushing the blonde away in a reflexive gesture of self-protection.
But Nesta didn’t retreat. Slowly, she reached out again, her fingers brushing the edge of the largest scar, tracing it with a gentleness that made Kaulo's breath catch. "You don't have to tell me, but I want you to know that I don't think less of you."
The girl's blue eyes were so honest without a trace of pity or disgust. She was looking at her scars the same way she had looked at her wound, with care and softness.
"You really don’t find them disgusting?" Kaulo asked, her voice rough.
"No. They are part of you." Nesta leaned forward, closing the distance between them until her face was inches from the Romani's. "Every part of your body is beautiful."
Body... But not soul, not heart, not even the woman beneath the scars. Just the body. She knew that Nesta meant it in a good way, but still disappointment settled in her chest. It was just a single word, but for those like Kaulo, who had spent her life listening to what people said and more importantly what they didn’t say.
Nesta had called her body beautiful. She hadn’t called her beautiful. This realization hurt more than she expected. She hadn’t realized until this moment how much she wanted this girl to see her fully. Not the vessel that carried her through the world, but only her. The woman who had done terrible things and tried to make something good after everything bad. But the word stayed deeply in her heart and she knew she couldn’t ask for more.
Anyway, Nesta had given her a genuine compliment and perhaps, it was more than most people ever gave her. The thought made her want to laugh with the hollow ache of someone who had learned to take what she could get and pretend it was enough. At the end, she laughed. It wasn’t the usual teasing laugh she used before, but smaller, that it even seemed sad.
The girl's brow furrowed. "What?"
"Nothing. I'm just not used to compliments."
“What do you mean?” Nesta asked in confusion.
"You know, for someone who called me a charlatan, you're being very generous with your compliments tonight." Kaulo said, her voice took a lighter voice.
"I'm trying to make up for it." Nesta forced a smile.
"Are you, princess?" Kaulo tilted her head, her eyes glittering. "Perhaps you should try harder."
Nesta blinked. "What do you mean?"
Kaulo leaned closer, her hand coming up to trace the line of the girl's jaw. Her touch was soft, teasing. "You said my body was beautiful." Her voice dropped, low and playful. "But you didn't say what you'd do it it, given the chance."
"What would I do to you?" she echoed, trying to control her breath.
The woman's thumb brushed the corner of Nesta's lips. "Perhaps, worship it." Her eyes were half-lidded, daring and hoping. "If you were truly sorry, darling. Of course, if only you wanted to make amends."
"You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you? Me on my knees." Nesta made her own voice drop to match.
"Maybe." Kaulo breathed deeply.
"Maybe?" she tilted her head, mimicking Kaulo's earlier gesture. She reached out, her fingers walking slowly up bare arm. "I think you'd enjoy it a lot. Also, I think you've been thinking about it since I said your name."
Kaulo's lips parted. "You're playing with fire, princess."
"You started the fire." Nesta leaned in closer.
Kaulo’s hand slid to the back of the girl’s neck, fingers threading through blonde hair. "Careful, I might hold you to that."
The reckless words hung between them and Nesta felt the heat of Kaulo's body. They were balancing on the edge of a kiss, but neither moved to close the final distance. The older woman pulled back to look into blue eyes, her expression a pure restraint. "Not tonight."
Nesta's heart stuttered. "No?"
"When I have you, I want you to be sure. And you're not there yet." Kaulo said in a rough voice.
Nesta wanted to disagree, but she was right. Yes, she was drawn to this woman but the fear with prejudices was still there. “I understand.” She pulled away, settling back against the wall.
The tension eased, but the warmth and the heat between them remained. Kaulo moved on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position, her injured shoulder made her wince. "Fuck." she muttered.
"Do you need help?"
"I need you to move. My side is the right side of the bed." Kaulo gestured vaguely.
"Do you seriously have a side?" Nesta raised an eyebrow.
"I have a preference, so come on, move." Kaulo said firmly.
A laugh escaped Nesta, "You're always so bossy."
"I'm simple." Kaulo waited until the girl scrambled over her to the other side of the bed. When Nesta was settled against the wall, Kaulo lowered herself back onto the mattress with a sigh of relief. She arranged the pillows and positioned her injured arm carefully.
"Why the right side?" she asked after a long silence.
"It’s easier to reach for a knife here.” Kaulo answered quietly, “And if someone comes through the door, I want to be between them and you."
Nesta turned her head, looking at the woman's profile in the darkness. "Do you think, they will come after me?" she asked.
"I think, we should always be prepared." Kaulo turned her head, meeting the girl's gaze. “You're in my bed, princess. And that means you're under my protection, which I take very seriously."
"You're not my bodyguard." Nesta sighed.
"No, but I'm not going to let anyone hurt you." Kaulo's voice was firm.
"Are you a knight in shining armor?" Nesta teased.
Kaulo snorted. "My armor isn't shining. It's black and dirty."
"Then a knight in shitty armor with a bossy attitude." Nesta smiled, "Thank you for trying to keep me safe."
The woman’s hand found found her under the blanket, long fingers interlacing with the girl's. "Sleep, princess."
Nesta closed her eyes, keeping Kaulo's hand steady in hers. This night she dreamed of a woman in black armor standing between her and the flames.
— — —
In the middle of the night Kaulo lay awake, listening to the girl breathe. She was pressed against her body, her long hair blonde against Kaulo’s cheek. Probably it was wrong to sleep next to Nesta, holding her tightly, and expecting the strange feeling of hope to disappear, that was building in her chest.
If you knew the truth, you would hate me, the thought circled in her mind, keeping her awake. She had never planned to care for this woman. She had never wanted to be anyone's savior, least of all for someone whose troubles were her own doing. From the very beginning, she was the villain of Nesta's story, the one who had handed the Riinas the information they needed to slaughter the whole family. And yet, here she was holding her and hoping desperately for the better future.
It hadn't started this way. At first, helping the stranger had been only about guilt. She wanted to prove to herself that she wasn’t entirely the monster she feared she had become. Truth be told, there had been moments when she wanted to strangle the girl or simply leave her in the dirt to rot. Nesta's prejudice had been awful, every cutting remark about the gypsy. Kaulo had bitten her tongue raw holding back the urge to walk away and never look back. But bit by bit, something changed through their arguments. And she had started to care for her.
Now, lying awake with the girl's body pressed against hers, she felt hopeful. Perhaps. despite all the blood, the lies, the different worlds they came from, they might find a way to be close. Or at least, as close as two women from opposite sides of society could ever be. It was a foolish and dangerous kind of hope. But as Nesta sighed in her sleep and nestled closer, Kaulo found that she couldn’t let it go.
Notes: “If you can’t let go of the past, the mistakes you’ve made will eat you alive.”
- around 4k words
Chapter 1, Chapter 2
A circle of vardos appeared almost an hour later. Nesta stood at the treeline and felt every eye in the camp turn toward her. She knew that she wasn’t welcomed here. The women stopped talking by the fire and all the men looked wary at her. A blonde, strange woman in a bright red coat. She was everything they had learned to fear and yet no one moved to block her path. The children whispered between each other and an old woman by the nearest fire said something in Romani that made the others laugh. Kaulo walked ahead of her. She said something to the man in that foreign language, a quick exchange that Nesta failed to follow.
"This way." Kaulo said and the girl followed, her boots sinking into the earth.
The vardo was smaller than Nesta had expected. "After you." Kaulo said and there was something in her voice that sounded like a challenge.
The blonde climbed the steps and stepped inside. The space was tiny. A single room, no larger than her bedroom in the Black household. Shelves lined one side, cluttered with jars of herbs and many different books. A small iron stove sat in one corner with a kettle on top. And at the far end, one bed was covered in blankets. She had expected this place to be messy and dirty, but instead, she found peace and order. There was a place for everything needed.
Kaulo closed the door behind them and suddenly the space was even smaller. "It's not much, but it’s all mine."
Nesta stood in the center of the vardo and felt like an intruder. She wanted to say something cutting, that it's smaller than what she used to, but then she looked again at the collection of books and the words died in her mouth. "It's clean." she said instead.
"What a high praise from the princess."
"I'm not a fucking princess." Nesta said again, her voice rising slightly.
"You're standing in my territory and you're going to argue about what I call you?" Kaulo moved past her to the stove. "Sit down somewhere, before you pass out from walking so much."
The girl was so tired of being ordered around, but her legs were truly shaking and before she knew what she was doing, she sat down on the edge of the bed. The mattress was softer than she expected and she let herself relax a little bit. “You live here alone.” she said out of observation.
“People come to me when they want something. Nobody stays for long.” Kaulo said simply, but there was a hint of sadness in her voice. "You look like you haven't slept in days."
"I haven't." she replied quickly.
"Then go sleep." Kaulo said with a slight smirk.
"Not yet." Nesta looked down at her hands and noticed that they were still shaking.
The older woman said nothing. She only lit the stove with matches from her pocket and set the kettle on to heat. Once the water boiled, she made tea and offered to a girl a cup. "Drink. It will help." she said quietly.
"I'm so tired of tea. Everyone keeps forcing it on me. Polly, Tommy and now you too. I don't even like tea. I've never liked tea. But for the last four days, every time someone looked at me, there was another cup of it. As if it would fix me."
Kaulo glanced at her and there was a glint of amusement in her eye that Nesta was beginning to recognize. "It's not the same kind of tea. Polly drinks English tea. It’s weak, while mine is not. Drink, princess." she said firmly.
The girl lifted the cup to her lips and drank. The tea was bitter, but there was honey in it. And the warmth spread through her chest pleasantly. So, she drank again and the trembling in her hands began to ease. Kaulo was watching her, a cup of her own cradled in her hands. She didn't say, I told you so, just stood there and let this incredibly stubborn woman drink in silence.
Nesta lowered the cup. "What is it?"
"It’s my own secret." Kaulo answered with a smile.
"It's not terrible." Nesta said, trying to hide how much she actually liked it.
Kaulo inclined her head, accepting the praise with a grace. "Was that so difficult?"
"Yes." she said with annoyance, even though she was enjoying the interaction.
Kaulo laughed and it surprised Nesta. She looked away, lifting the cup to her lips again, trying to ignore the way her heart was beating. Slowly, the woman started to move around the vardo, gathering supplies. She moved stiffly, her left arm held at an angle that spoke of pain and for the first time the girl noticed the blood that had seeped through the dark coat.
She should offer to help, but the words stuck in her throat. This was the Romani stranger who had pressed her against a wall, and now offering help felt like submission. So she sat on the edge of the bed, her tea cooling in her hands and watched silently, as Kaulo set the supplies on the table. There were bandages, a small pot of salve and a bowl she filled with water. Her movements were precise, like she had done this many times before. But when she reached for the buttons of her coat, her left arm faltered. She tried again and this time she managed the first button, but the second made her breath hiss through her teeth.
Nesta's hands tightened on her cup. Once again, Kaulo's fingers fumbled with the third button. Her face was paler now and the she could see the fine tremor in her hands.
She was going to hurt herself, Nesta thought. She could see it in the way she was forcing her arm. The gypsy was too proud to ask for help and admit she couldn't do it alone. Silently, she set down her cup. She should let it go, because it was none of her business. But this woman had dragged her through alleys, trying to keep her safe and alive.
"Let me." It sounded like an order, the words came out sharper than she intended.
Kaulo's head snapped toward her, there was surprise in her eyes. "I don't need your help."
"You can barely move your arm." Nesta replied firmly.
"I've managed before." the woman turned back to her coat, her fingers finding the next button. Her eyes were determined and there was something in the way she held herself that made Nesta's breath catch. Even now, with blood seeping through her clothes and her arm hanging useless at her side, Chiriklo radiated a control that made the girl feel smaller.
Still, stubbornly, she moved closer. "Let me help you. Please."
Kaulo's fingers paused on the buttons and she stared at her. Nesta forced herself to hold that strong gaze. At last, the older woman shook her head and her hands dropped from her coat. She moved to the bed, sitting down on the edge with a slowness that told how much the effort had cost her. "Fine." she said.
Nesta retrieved all the supplies and knelt before her. Carefully, she reached for the buttons of the coat. Her fingers brushed against the warmth of the pale chest beneath the fabric and she forced herself to focus. "Take it off." she said, her voice was steadier than she felt.
Kaulo shrugged out of the coat with her good arm, letting it fall to the bed behind her. Beneath it, she wore a dark blouse, the left sleeve dark with dried blood, the fabric sticking to the wound beneath. Nesta's hands moved to the buttons of the blouse. She undid them one by one, while sharp blue eyes were watching her every move. The blouse slipped from the woman's shoulders and she saw the bandages above the wound. "It looks recent." she said, forcing her voice steady.
"Yes." Kaulo replied.
“How did you hurt your arm?” she asked.
Kaulo’s gaze dropped to her shoulder. “An accident.” her voice was carefully neutral.
“What kind of accident?” the girl asked again.
“The kind that happens when you live on the road.” Kaulo looked up and her eyes were flat. “It is not your concern.”
Nesta wanted to press, but something in the woman’s voice told her she would get no further answer. She let the question fall, filing it away with the other things that didn’t make clear sense about her. So, she turned back to the wound. Her hands were gentle as she reached for the old bandage, peeling the old fabric away from the skin. "I'm trying to be careful." she murmured.
"I can see it." Kaulo quietly said through the pain.
Slowly, the bandage came away. The wound was raw beneath and Nesta could see where the stitches had been. It was obvious that it has been stitched by someone who had done it alone. She dipped the cloth in the water and began to clean the wound with patient care. The skin was warm beneath her fingers and the muscle beneath the wound were tensing with each touch.
"Now, you're staring." Nesta said without looking up.
"You're interesting to watch, princess." Kaulo said with a tilt of her head and a smirk appearing on her lips.
"I'm just cleaning your wound." Nesta said simply.
"You're doing it gently, despite everything you think of me. Despite everything you've been taught, you're being gentle."
Nesta's hands stilled and she looked up. The older woman was much closer than she had realized, her face inches away. There was no mockery or challenge in her expression. "I'm not a monster." she said, but her voice came out smaller than she intended.
Kaulo's blue eyes held hers. "I know. You don’t have to justify anything to me."
"Earlier, you said you saw what I…" Nesta tried to speak up, but she didn’t manage to finish that sentence.
"I see that you carry it every day and every night, when you close your eyes. I know, you think it makes you a monster. But I've seen real monsters." Kaulo continued, her voice low and steady. "They feel no guilt. They don't lie awake at night wondering if they could have done something different. And they don't carry the dead with them."
Nesta blinked and one tear slipped down her cheek. She hadn’t cried in years, but now this strange woman was looking at her like no one have ever done. "You can’t really know what I did." she whispered.
"I know that he hurt you so much that you wanted him dead." Kaulo reached out and her thumb traced the inside of Nesta's wrist.
The girl looked down at their hands and forced herself to breathe. "I really meant it." she said. "I’ve done it and then lied to everybody. I still keep living in this lie. But I..." she stopped.
"I know it." Kaulo's voice was soft.
"How?" The word tore out of Nesta. "How can you see things you shouldn't be able to see?"
"I was born this way. My mother was the same. She saw things, too." Kaulo said quietly.
"And what do you see in me?"
"I see someone who has been running for a very long time. You think you don't deserve peace. The burden, the truth you carry is yours alone. You think, you should carry it forever because forgetting would mean you're the monster."
Nesta's breath caught, the words were true. The final truth, that she had been hiding for a very long time. She blinked rapidly, refusing to let more tears fall.
"But you're not a monster. You were pushed past what anyone should have to endure. You are a survivor.” Kaulo said firmly.
Nesta wanted to confess, that she had lied until she didn't know where the truth ended and the lie began. But the woman's hand was so warm on her wrist and her blue eyes were looking right back at her without any fear or anger.
"Finish the bandage." Kaulo commanded softly.
The girl nodded and picked up the salve to spread it over the wound. When she pressed the new bandage into place, Kaulo's body tensed and Nesta pulled back immediately, waiting for the anger she expected. But the older woman just looked at her.
"You can't hurt me more than this world." she said quietly.
Nesta's throat tightened, she finished the bandage and then she sat back on her heels. The vardo was quiet and through the small window she could see the bright stars.
"Thank you." Kaulo said quietly.
Nesta nodded, not trusting her voice. She occupied herself, gathering the supplies, putting them away. When she looked back, Kaulo had pulled on a clean shirt.
"We should sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day." the Romani woman rose, moving to a shelf to take down another pillow, which she quickly laid on the floor beside the bed. She began to arrange it comfortably, working slowly with one hand.
“What are you doing?” Nesta asked in confusion.
“I will take the floor. My bed is yours.” Kaulo said flatly.
Nesta was surprised at this gesture and she only managed to say, “You’re injured.”
Kaulo straightened, her expression of pure stubbornness. “I have slept in worse places.”
The blonde woman looked at the bed and then at the floor. She thought about the days she had spent at Tommy’s, lying awake in the dark, waiting for the nightmares to come and claim her. She thought about the way she had run without looking back. She thought about the woman who had come to warn her, who had led her through the dark, and who was now offering her a bed while she slept on the floor. "I'm not taking your bed." she said firmly.
"I can manage, princess."
"You're the one injured. You need to rest more than I do. Especially, to be able to move the wagon tomorrow." Nesta tried to justify her decision.
"I know what I need. I've been managing my own wounds longer than you've been alive." Kaulo said sharply.
Nesta stood her ground. "I'll sleep on the floor."
"You will not." Kaulo’s voice started to rise slightly.
"I will." the girl said firmly, looking straight into the blue eyes.
Kaulo's hand shot out, her fingers closing roughly around Nesta's wrist. The grip was strong, even bruising. "Listen to me. You are not sleeping on my floor. You are taking my bed and you will stop arguing with me before I lose what little patience I have left."
Nesta's heart bit violently in her chest. The grip on her wrist was painful, the pressure of nails digging into the skin unpleasantly. "Let go of me."
"I will when you stop being a fool."
"You're the one being a fool right now." She held Kaulo's gaze, refusing to back down. "You're injured and you want to sleep on the floor so I can take your bed? That's not stubbornness, but stupidity."
The woman's icy eyes narrowed. "You think I'm stupid?"
"I think you'd rather bleed out on the floor than let anyone see you weak.” Nesta's voice was steady, even as her wrist throbbed.
"You think too much, girl." Kaulo released her wrist with a shove, pushing her back. "A couple minutes ago, you walked through my camp like it was beneath you. When you entered my home, all you were expecting to find was dirt and shit.”
"I didn't." Nesta replied quickly.
"You did. You stood in the street and looked at me like I was nothing. You called me a charlatan and now you want to play the martyr? Now you want to sleep on my floor and pretend you're being noble person?"
Nesta's face burned with anger and shame. "I'm not pretending anything."
"You're acting that you're better than this. That you're above sleeping in a gypsy's bed. That even when you're running for your life, you still have high standards." Kaulo's voice was harsh.
The words hit the girl like a slap. "That's not…"
"Isn't it?" Kaulo stepped closer and Nesta found herself pressing back against the bed, her legs hitting the frame. "You'll sleep on the cold floor, but you won't take my bed. Because that would mean accepting something from a gypsy. That would mean being in my debt."
"You are wrong."
"I've seen a hundred women like you with good manners and smart words about people like me. You are willing to take my warnings, even my protection, but you won't take my bed, because that would be too close to admitting that I'm a human being too." her face was inches from the girl, her eyes blazing with fury.
Now, Nesta's breath came in shallow gasps. Every instinct screamed at her to to fight back, but she couldn't. "I'm not taking your bed because you need it more than I do. Not because you're…”
"You're lying to yourself again.” Kaulo's hand came up, her fingers pressing against the girl’s collarbone. It wasn’t hard or bruising this time. Just as a reminder of who had the upper hand here.
Unexpectedly, Nesta's hands shot up, shoving her back. It was a weak shove, but Kaulo was off-balance, her injured arm making her stumble. She caught herself on the table. Now both women stood facing each other, breathing hard.
"You don't get to stand there and speak about my truth.” Nesta's voice was shaking now, her carefully constructed control cracking.
"I know you killed a man, I know you've been running from it ever since, I know you're so afraid of being seen that you'd rather sleep on a cold floor than accept a bed from somebody who you were raised to hate."
Nesta wanted to scream back, to tear down the walls of this tiny gypsy wagon and run into the night alone. But her hands were shaking. At the wrong moment, the older woman took a step forward and her own hand went up in a reflexive movement, as a stop gesture.
Kaulo saw the girl’s hand rise and her body tensed. Quickly, her good arm came up and before Nesta could understand what was happening, Kaulo's palm connected with her cheek. The slap cracked loudly in the small room. The blonde’s head snapped to the side. She stood frozen with a breath caught in her throat. The vardo went quiet except for Kaulo's ragged breathing.
Slowly, Nesta turned her head and looked straight at the Romani woman. She stood motionless, her eyes wide. The fierceness was gone from her face andin its place was fear. Kaulo's chest was rising and falling way too quickly and her right hand was trembling.
She had thought I was going to hit her. The realization settled in the girl's heart. Kaulo, who had made her say her name aloud, now had struck first because she thought Nesta was going to strike her.
"I wasn't going to hit you." The words came out of her stripped of all usual sharpness. "My hand went up, but I wasn't…" Her cheek was throbbing and she could feel the strength of the woman's palm on her skin.
"You weren't going to hit me." Kaulo said, her voice was hollow.
"No." Nesta's hand moved to her cheek, her fingers hovering over the spot where she was slapped. "You thought I was going to hit you, and you..." She didn’t finish the sentence.
"I read you wrong." Kaulo whispered.
Nesta's cheek throbbed, the heat of the slap had faded into a dull ache. She had every right to be angry. But she wasn’t. "I was never going to hit you."
Kaulo stood very still, until she stepped forward. The blonde didn’t step back, she confidently stood her ground and watched Kaulo's fingers reach toward her face. Her pale fingers cupped Nesta's cheek, tilting her head toward the light. She was looking at the mark on the face, where was the red bloom of skin from her slap. Now, her face was soft, without any harshness. Even the fierceness faded. "You're going to bruise." she said and her voice was barely a whisper
Nesta let her touch her face, she let her fingers trace the edge of the bruise that was already forming. She thought about the words she had said in the street. Gypsy, charlatan, thief. She thought about her parents’ voices and the Black’s rude comments.
I deserved this, the thought came to her mind. She had earned every word Kaulo had thrown at her after and she had earned this slap too. "It was well deserved." she said and the woman's hand stilled on her cheek.
"What?" Kaulo asked in shock.
"I deserved it." she said calmly.
Kaulo stared at her in disbelief. Her hand was still cupping the cheek, but now she looked like she had been struck herself.
"I called you terrible names. I thought awful things about you and your people. When you hit me..." She swallowed deeply. "It was right, for every word I said. For every time I looked at you like you were less than me. I am sorry.”
"You think I hit you because of what you said to me?" Kaulo's voice was rough and shaky. Her hand dropped from the girl’s face and she stepped back. "I hit you because I thought you were going to hit me. I've been hit so many times that my body learned to strike back before my mind could stop it. I saw your hand rise and I reacted."
Nesta's throat tightened. "Kaulo…"
"I have been hit by men who thought they could take what they wanted. I have been hit by women who thought I was nothing. I have been hit by people who saw me on the street and wanted to remind me of my place." Her voice was shaking now. "And I told myself, I would never be the one who made someone else afraid. But I saw your hand rise and I didn’t think.”
"You didn't know, that I wasn’t going to hit you." Nesta said quietly.
"I should have known. Usually, I can read people well.” Her whole body was shaking.
Nesta moved before she could think. She stepped forward, closing the distance between them and reached for Kaulo's hand, that had struck her. She held it gently, her fingers wrapping around others, feeling the tremor that ran through them. "I'm not angry. And I’m not afraid of you."
"I'm sorry, I hit you.” Kaulo’s hand tightened around Nesta's. "There is no excuse, no matter what you said to me, I shouldn’t have raised my hand."
The girl shook her head. "You thought I was going to…"
"It doesn’t matter what I thought." Kaulo's voice was fierce, even as it trembled. "I was wrong and I hurt you." She reached up, her injured hand hovering near the cheek. "I am sorry, Nesta."
"It's just a bruise. It will heal quickly."
At last, Kaulo's fingers brushed against her cheek. "You didn’t deserve this."
Nesta caught her hand, pressing it against her cheek, holding it there softly. The warmth of the woman's palm against the bruise was strange, like the pain and comfort mingled together. "We are both sorry for things we did."
The Romani woman’s lips parted as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right words. Instead, her thumb moved, brushing the edge of cheekbone, just below the bruise. "It's going to ache."
"I survived through worse." Nesta replied with a small smile.
"I know. But it doesn’t mean you deserve more pain.” Kaulo continued softly. “We definitely, should head to. Please just take the bed."
Nesta opened her eyes and the small sparkle of fire was back. "You need it more."
"Nesta." Kaulo breathed out deeply.
"Kaulo." Nesta held her gaze fiercely. "You are exhausted too. Tonight, you need to rest more than I do. And tomorrow, perhaps I will take the bed. But tonight, you. Please."
"You are the strangest woman I have ever met." Kaulo shook her head, but she was almost smiling. "I'll take the bed, but if you get cold…"
"I won't." Nesta replied quickly.
"If you spend the whole night shivering on my floor, I am going to be very pissed."
Nesta felt her own lips twitch in a small smirk. "So I haven’t seen you pissed, yet?"
Kaulo's eyes narrowed, but there was no anger in it. "You're impossibly stubborn."
"I've been told."
Kaulo stared at her and then she laughed. It filled the vardo like a glimpse of sun on a rainy day. "Get some sleep, princess." she said, as she moved to the bed, settling onto it with a sigh.
Nesta lay back on the blankets, that were tossed on the floor. "Kaulo?"
"Yes?"
"I'm truly sorry for what I said." Her hand moved to her cheek. She touched it gently, missing the feeling of the woman’s palm gently cupping it.
"I know, darling.” Kaulo whispered.
"You were right about everything" she said into the darkness. "About all my lies."
"I know. You are hunted by your own past. But with time you’ll learn to live with it, Nesta. You need to let it be part of you, instead of something you're running from."
The girl pressed her face into the blanket. She could feel the tears again. "Why are you being kind to me?" she asked.
"I don’t want you to burn alone. You deserve to live, not because you're good or bad. But, because you're a fighter. Just like me.”
Finally, the silent tears came, soaking into the blanket. Nesta pressed her hand to her mouth to keep from making a sound, but Kaulo must have heard it anyway.
"You're not going to fight alone anymore. I promise." Kaulo said.
Notes: If a blackbird flies into your house, death will come.
- around 4k words
The days after the massacre bled together, Nesta De Vries sat at the window of Tommy Shelby’s guest room, watching the street below. She had been here four days. Four long days of pacing the length of her room, of staring at plans she wasn’t allowed to help with and of drinking tea made by Polly Gray to calm down the nerves. Four days of Tommy’s men coming and going with reports she wasn’t permitted to hear. Four exhausting days of waiting. She hated waiting, even though the guest room was comfortable with a proper bed, a wardrobe of needed borrowed clothes, and a nice fireplace.
Every time she closed her eyes she saw the garden, the pistol in her hand and the dark figure who had let her go. She touched her wrist, where the gypsy woman had grabbed her in the street before the attack. The skin there was unmarked, but she could still feel the pressure of those fingers.
Nesta pressed her forehead to the cool glass and watched a cart rattle down the cobblestones on a rainy day. The city was slowly waking up, shopkeepers opening their doors and children running to school. Another normal life for everybody else except herself.
A knock came at the door, but she didn’t even turn. “Come in.”
The door opened and she heard the familiar footsteps of Shelby’s boots. He moved through the room with authority that seemed to precede him everywhere. “You should eat something.”
“I’m not hungry at all.” Nesta said grumpily.
“You said that yesterday too.” Tommy insisted.
She turned from the window and looked at Tommy, who stood by the fireplace, his hands in his pockets, his blue eyes fixed on her with a caring expression. He was dressed for the city, for his work, sharp suit that made him look rather a gentleman than a gangster. But there was something softer beneath the surface when he looked at her, something that had been there since the night she had shown up on his doorstep asking for help.
“Have you found them?” she asked.
“We’re getting close.” Tommy replied calmly.
“You’ve been saying that for four days.” Nesta said with an eye-roll.
Tommy’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. He crossed to the small table where Polly had left a tray of food, poured a cup of tea, and held it out to her. “Drink.”
She wanted to scream at him that she wasn’t a child to be fed, that she had been managing the Blacks’ affairs for years. But her hands were shaking again and the idea of the tea was warm, and Tommy was looking at her with soft eyes. So, she took the cup.
“I’m not going to tell you to be patient, Nesta. But I need you to trust me.” he said quietly.
“I do trust you.” Nesta said, taking a sip of tea.
“Then trust that I’ll find them. And please stop being so stubborn.” Tommy said with a small smile.
Nesta looked down at the tea, at her own reflection in the dark liquid. “They want the money. They killed everyone for it. And I have it. As long as I’m here, alive, they’ll keep coming.”
“Which is why you’re here and not somewhere they can find you.” Tommy said firmly.
“You know, that they’ll find me anyway.” She set the cup down, her voice rising despite herself. “They found the Blacks. They’ll find your house. They’ll find me too.”
“Nesta, look at me.” Tommy’s hand closed around her wrist gently.
She raised her eyes to his. He was so close that she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the shadow of exhaustion he tried to hide from her. His thumb pressed against the pulse point in her wrist and she knew well enough, that he could feel how fast her heart was beating.
“I won’t let anything happen to you.” he said.
The words comforted her. The great Tommy Shelby had always looked at her as if he saw an equal in her. But lately, she noticed that the dynamic of their friendship changed. And she had no idea what to do with it now. Anyway, there were more important things on the table than their unspoken little things. Gently, she pulled her wrist free. “I’m grateful for your protection and help.”
“I know.” Tommy whispered back. He held her gaze for a long moment. “There’s a map in the study. We’ve identified five Riina safe houses. If you want to help, you can take a look, see if you recognize any of them.”
Relief flooded through her. “Thank you, I will.”
He almost smiled. “I can’t believe, that you have the guts to argue at every possibility with me, Thomas fucking Shelby. You can’t even imagine the amount of respect, that I have for you.” He shook his head and left, the door closing softly behind him.
Nesta sat down on the chair, her wrist still warm where he had touched her, and wondered why the only face she saw when she closed her eyes was not Tommy’s, but a gypsy woman’s.
— — —
Kaulo Chiriklo sat by the dying embers of a fire and watched the smoke rise. Her left shoulder throbbed. The wound was healing well, but every movement reminded her of the young woman who had put the bullet there. The blonde with the pistol, blue eyes and the courage that had made Kaulo forget how to move.
She had been searching for four days. She moved through camps, asking questions, trading small favors for scraps of information. Her network wasn't large, but it was deep, the Romani families who respected and feared her, the travellers who owed her debts, and women who trusted her because she had never lied to them about what she saw. At the fourth day, she had learned that Nesta De Vries was with the Shelbys.
The name Shelby was well known everywhere in Birmingham and a tall, blonde woman in a red coat was not easily forgotten. She had learned that the Riina gang were still hunting, that they had men watching the Shelby houses. And in the strange way, the way she learned about some certain things that came from somewhere beyond the physical world, she knew Nesta was running out of time.
She closed her eyes, the fire was low now, but she could see the flames behind her lids. But, not the campfire’s, it was another fire. A house, a woman running and men with shadows for faces coming after her. Now, she was certain that if she didn’t act, the woman she had warned once would die.
— — —
The Shelby house was quiet when Kaulo arrived. The wound in her shoulder was aching, but she had learned to work through pain long ago. It was just a signal that the body told her, and she as always chose to ignore. Coming closer, she had expected Tommy Shelby’s men to be watching the doors, the windows, the approaches. But the street was empty.
Careless or confident, she thought. She knocked softly and heard footsteps approach. They were light and quick, the steps of someone who couldn’t sleep.
Nesta moved to the door, her steps silent on the worn boards. Through the glass pane, she could see a woman, all alone, her face half‑hidden in the shadows. There was something familiar about the set of her head, the way she stood, confidently. Her own hand tightened on the pistol. “Who’s there?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.
“You know me.” The voice was low with a roughness that scraped against the girl’s memory. “Open the door.”
Nesta recognized that voice. She had heard it in the square, on the evening before the attack, when a woman had grabbed her wrist and told her to run. Quickly, she unlocked the door and yanked it open, the pistol raised to chest height, her finger on the trigger.
The door opened and Kaulo found herself looking into the face of the woman she had been searching for. Nesta stood in the doorway, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders. She was thinner than she had been in the street. There were shadows under her eyes dark as bruises. But her gaze was the same suspicious and sharp.
“You.” Nesta said, raising her eyebrow.
“Hi there.” Kaulo said with a smile, not flinching away at the pistol that was pointed right at her chest.
“You should not be on this doorstep.” Nesta’s voice was firm and aggressive. “How did you find me?”
“The stars showed me.” Kaulo said with a smirk. “We need to talk, darling.”
“We have nothing to talk about.” Nesta moved to close the door, but Kaulo put her hand against it. The movement sent a bolt of pain through her shoulder, but she didn’t move.
“The men who killed the Blacks are coming here tonight.” the older woman said. “You need to leave this house.”
Nesta’s expression flickered in fear, but then it hardened again. “More gypsy tricks? You warned me once and then my family was slaughtered. For all I know, you might be working with them.”
The words were like another bullet and they found the wound Kaulo carried beneath her bandages. Yes, she had been there and passed all the needed information to men who had turned it into a bloody massacre. And Nesta, who didn’t know for sure, had said the unknown truth.
“I warned you because I knew what was coming. I told you to run. You didn’t listen.”
“I ran.” Nesta said, her voice rising. “I survived and now they’re hunting me. So if you have something to say, say it and then get fuck out of here.”
“I came to warn you again. They know you’re with the Shelbys. They’re coming and if you stay here, you’ll die.” Kaulo said firmly.
Nesta’s grip tightened on the pistol. “And how do you know that?”
“I hear things, I see things. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Kaulo stepped closer, the pistol touching her body.
“Try me.” Nesta said with a sarcastic smile.
“You keep opening your window on the second floor, even though Tommy asked you not to. The lock on the door is old, it would take a teenager to break it. There is a man in the pub on the corner who has been asking questions about a tall blonde woman staying with the Shelbys." She paused, her voice dropping. “They will come for you and if you stay, you will die.”
Nesta stared at her, searching for the lie but the woman’s face was still, her eyes clear and there was nothing in her voice that sounded like a trick.
“If you know so much.” Nesta said slowly, “Then tell me everything.”
Kaulo shook her head. “Not now. We don’t have time.”
“We have all the time I say we have. You were there in the square. You grabbed my hand and told me to run. You knew something was going to happen. How?” Nesta demanded.
“I saw it.” Kaulo’s voice was steady, but there was frustration beneath it. “I see things. Sometimes, death. I saw it around you.”
“You expect me to believe in your gypsy magic?” Nesta asked harshly.
“I expect nothing from you. I came to warn you because I couldn’t let them find you unprepared. What you believe is your own choice.” Kaulo’s eyes flashed.
“You came to warn me. A gypsy fortune teller, wandering the streets of Birmingham, concerned for the safety of a woman she met once in a square. That’s your truth?” Nesta asked with suspicious.
“It is the truth.” Kaulo said firmly.
“The truth.” Nesta laughed, but there was no humor in it. “My dad used to tell me about your kind. He said you’d say anything for a coin.”
Kaulo’s face went very still. “Your dad was a fool.”
“He was a gentleman.” Nesta declared.
“A gentleman who taught his daughter to look at another human being and see only dirt.” Kaulo’s voice was low and controlled, but the girl could hear the anger beneath it. “I didn’t come here for your coin. I came because you are going to die if you stay in this house and I couldn’t close my eyes knowing I had let it happen.”
“Let it happen?” Nesta’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, let it happen?”
“I mean that I saw the danger and did nothing until now.” she said carefully.
They stood on the doorstep, the night air cold between them. Nesta could feel the weight of the pistol in her hand, the comfort it had become. She wanted to send this Romani woman away, to close the door and never think of her again. But her words found their place deep in her soul. She studied her carefully, but Kaulo’s face was a mask and the only truth she could read was the exhaustion in the blue eyes.
“Why should I believe you?” Nesta asked and now her voice was quieter. “You’re a stranger. A gypsy with no reason to help me.”
Kaulo’s gaze held hers. “I have no reason. And yet here I am. You’re a survivor, Nesta. You do what you have to do to live and you hate yourself for it. But you keep doing it anyway. I’m not leaving until you’re safe. You can hate me. You can call me a charlatan, a thief, whatever you like. But I’m not leaving.”
Nesta opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, a voice came from behind her. “That’s not your decision to make, Kaulo.”
The older woman looked past Nesta’s shoulder and saw Thomas Shelby standing at the end of the kitchen with a pistol in his hand. He was not aiming at her but his posture was relaxed in the way of a man who had killed before and would kill again without any hesitation.
“Tommy, she said the Riinas are coming tonight.” Nesta said.
Shelby’s eyes narrowed, he studied her with the same intensity, as if searching for danger. “Why should I believe you?”
Kaulo met his gaze without flinching. “You know who I am, Mr. Shelby. You have used my services before.”
“I’ve only paid for information.” Tommy said calmly.
“The information I sold you was true. You are still alive.” Kaulo simply replied.
Tommy’s lips lifted. “Fair point.” He looked at Nesta. “What do you think?”
“She warned me before the attack.” Nesta said slowly, trying to control her voice again. “She told me to run, but I didn’t listen. If I had...” She stopped. “She tried to warn me, Tommy. Before anything happened, she tried.”
For a long moment, Tommy said nothing. Carefully, he holstered his gun and stepped back. “Get inside. Both of you.”
Kaulo hesitated, her eyes flicking to Nesta as if seeking permission. And the girl gave a short nod, as Kaulo crossed the threshold into the house.
— — —
The kitchen was bright with candles. Tommy gestured for Kaulo to sit, but she remained standing, her back against the wall, her wounded arm held close. Nesta poured herself a cup of tea with special herbs from Polly.
Tommy leaned against the wall, lighting a cigarette. “You’re hurt.”
Kaulo touched her shoulder without thinking. “It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing.” Tommy moved closer, his eyes sharp. “Who did that to you?”
Nesta’s gaze followed his and for a moment Kaulo saw her looking at the way she held her arm. Something that might have been like concern crossed the girl’s face, but quickly, she hid it away.
“It truly doesn’t matter. What matters is that the Riinas are coming. I have a place, outside the city. It’s a small vardo, but it’s mobile and they won’t think to look for her there.” Kaulo said.
“A wagon...” Nesta said, and her voice was sharp again. “You want me to hide in a gypsy wagon?”
“I want you to live.” Kaulo said, slightly raising her voice.
“You really expect me to let Nesta walk out with you into the night and then just hide in a wagon?” Tommy asked.
“I have special ways. You know this well enough, Thomas Shelby.”
Tommy drew on his cigarette, his expression calm, yet on edge. “I can protect her. I have resources, men, guns. They’ll think twice before attacking a Shelby property.”
“They attacked the Black’s property. They are not afraid of names. And yes, your men are good, but it’s going to be a war. What’s the point of letting Nesta stay in the middle of it, while she can be far away?”
The girl’s head snapped back to Tommy’s face. “I am not going anywhere with her.”
“You are not truly safe here. I can fight them, yes. But if they come tonight, there will be a lot of blood. And if they win...” He stopped.
“If they win, they take me. And they’ll find out what I know.” Nesta said quietly, as if she knew already that’s how it’s going to end for her.
“Which is?” Kaulo asked curiosity.
“Nothing that you need to know.” Nesta said sharply.
The kitchen became quiet, except for constant tickling of the clock and the sound of the wind rising outside.
“I don’t trust her.” Nesta said calmly, trying to read Tommy’s mind regarding the fortune teller.
“You don’t have to trust her. Just to survive.” Tommy said gently.
Suddenly, the kitchen door burst open and Arthur came through it with a pale face. He was breathing hard as if he came back from the run or a boxing training. “We’ve got trouble. There are at least a dozen of Riina’s men heading in our direction.”
Tommy’s eyes didn’t leave Kaulo’s face even when Arthur came inside. “Polly told me that if a blackbird flies into your house, death will come.”
“I told you.” Kaulo said flatly.
“Nesta, go with her.” Tommy said quickly.
“What?” Nesta’s head snapped toward him. “You can’t be serious. She’s... Tommy, if I go with her, then what happens?”
Kaulo answered instead. “We’ll go north, there are camps along the old roads, that are not well known. We’ll move from one to another.”
“And when it’s over? When they stop hunting?” Nesta asked urgently. She looked at this strange woman with the pale, exhausted face and the arm, that she held close to her body. Then, back at Tommy, who was already reaching for his coat, his mind moving ahead to the fight that was coming.
“Then you go back to your life, darling.” Kaulo’s eyes met hers. “I will not keep you.”
“If I go with her, will you continue fighting?” Nesta asked Tommy with hope in her voice.
“Of course.” Tommy’s voice was steady and kind. “And I will win, Nesta. But I cannot protect you if you are here, when they attack.”
“Give me five minutes.” she said to Kaulo and went upstairs to pack.
— — —
Nesta was back in the kitchen in five minutes with a bag in her hand and the pistol in her coat pocket. Kaulo was waiting by the back door, her face calm, but her shoulders were visibly tensed. And Tommy stood in the center of the room. He looked at the girl for a long moment and she saw softness in his face that she usually never noticed.
He stepped forward and Nesta thought he would embrace her. Instead, he reached out and touched her shoulder. “She’s not what you think. But never let your guard down.” he said, low enough that only she could hear. “As for the Romani, they’re not what you were taught. Give it a chance, please.”
Nesta didn’t know what to answer that. She simply nodded and Tommy stepped back, his face hardening into the professional mask she knew so well.
Kaulo saw the war playing out behind the girl’s eyes. The mixture of pride, fear and the prejudice that had been forged into her since childhood. She clearly wanted to refuse. Every line of her body screamed resistance and tension.
“You will survive this all.” Kaulo quietly.
The girl didn’t look at the older woman as she moved toward the door. But at least, she didn’t argue, either. Kaulo followed, but at the door, Tommy stopped her with a hand on her arm. “If anything happens to her…”
“I know.” she said flatly.
They slipped out the back, through a door that opened onto an alley Kaulo had planned in her mind before she ever knocked. Nesta followed without speaking. The streets were dark, the gas lamps flickering silently, and Kaulo could hear the distant sound of men’s voices, moving closer. She led the girl through alleys she had known by heart. The passages that cut between buildings and small gaps in walls that only the Romani knew. These routes had been used for generations to evade the police and the men who thought they owned the city. Nesta kept up, her breathing hard but steady and Kaulo felt admiration for this young, stubborn woman.
“How do you know these streets?” Nesta asked, her voice low.
“I’ve been walking them since I was a child.” Kaulo whispered.
“Did you grow up here?” Nesta asked, trying to distract her mind.
"I was born in these streets. Not the nice parts, where your friends lived. Mine were different, where children go hungry and men drink themselves to death." Kaulo turned left, into a passage so narrow they had to walk one by one.
Nesta said nothing, only thought of the Black’s house and their meals that appeared on silver platters.
Soon, they emerged onto a wider street, the distant sound of shouting still carried from somewhere behind them. Nesta's lungs burned, her ankle throbbed, but she forced herself to keep moving. Kaulo moved ahead of the girl. Her posture was confident and strong, despite the way she carefully held her injured arm by her side. At some point, she turned abruptly, cutting through a gap in a garden wall that Nesta would have walked right past, never noticing. She followed, stumbling over loose stones and found herself in someone's back garden.
The Romani woman was already at the far wall. She hooked her good arm over the top and pulled herself up, her teeth gritted against the pain. For a moment she perched there, silhouetted against the dark sky and then dropped to the other side with a soft grunt. Quickly, Nesta reached the wall and looked up. It was only chest height, but her arms were shaking slightly. She jumped up, caught the edge and immediately began to slip.
"Keep moving, princess." Kaulo's voice came from the other side, low and dry.
Nesta's teeth ground together, as she hauled herself up and threw one leg over the top. "Don't call me that."
"Why not? It suits you." Kaulo was standing below, her good hand extended, offering help. "It must be such a romantic experience for you to run through dirt and mud with the gypsy."
"I am not..." Nesta swung her other leg over, lowering herself down with as much dignity as she could muster, which was none at all. Her foot caught on a loose stone and she fell forward.
Kaulo barely caught her. Her good arm wrapped around the girl's waist, steadying her before she could actually hit the ground. They both froze, standing pressed together in the narrow alley behind the wall, Nesta's hands braced against the woman's shoulders and Kaulo's face inches from her own.
"Careful." Kaulo murmured, her breath was warm against Nesta's cheek. "I wouldn't want to get you dirty."
Nesta shoved herself away, her face burning. "My hands are dirty, everything is fucking dirty, because I'm running through back alleys with a..." She stopped herself, the word the Blacks always used sat on her tongue. She had almost called Kaulo what they all called her people and she saw in her eyes that she knew.
"With a what?" Kaulo's voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it now. "Say it, go on."
Nesta kept her mouth closed. "I wasn't."
"You were. Don’t play a fool now." Kaulo took a step closer and Nesta found herself backing up against the wall. "Your dear family told you about people like me. Your old boss taught you what we are, right? All liars and thieves."
"That's not..." Nesta tried to speak.
"I know the words, princess. I've heard them all my life. So go on and say what you were going to say." Kaulo's head tilted, her eyes never leaving the girl's face
Nesta's hands were pressed flat against the wall behind her. She could feel the rough stone, the cold slowly seeping into her palms. Kaulo was close enough that she could see the flecks of silver in her blue eyes. "I was going to say, that I'm running through back alleys with a woman I don't trust." she managed.
Unexpectedly, Kaulo moved closer, her body pressing Nesta harder against the wall. The stone bit into the girl's shoulders, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t even look away from those hypnotic eyes.
"Nice try." Kaulo murmured, her voice rough. Her good hand came up, fingers brushing the collar of Nesta's coat. She wasn’t threatening, just reminding of how easily she could close the distance. "You don't trust anyone, do you? Not Tommy, not the men who work for him. Not even the woman who got you out of the house so you wouldn't get your throat cut."
"I trust..." Nesta started but was immediately interrupted.
"What?" Kaulo's fingers tightened on her collar. "Yourself? The woman who's been surviving since she was a kid, who's been lying since she learned to talk, who looks at me like I'm dirt and expects me to be grateful for it?"
Nesta's heart slammed against her ribs. "I never said that."
"Do you actually think I don't know what you were going to call me? Back there, before you caught yourself? You had the word right on your tongue, darling. Years of your parent's poison and the Black’s training. You were ready to spit it at me like I'm nothing."
"I wasn't..."
"You were going to call me a dirty gypsy." Kaulo said sharply.
Nesta wanted to look away, but Kaulo's merciless eyes held her in one place.
"Do you want to know why I came for you?" Kaulo continued, her voice dropping lower. "Why I dragged your prejudiced self through the dirt, so you wouldn't get what's coming to you? It's not because I like you, princess. It's because I saw something in you that reminded me of myself. And I'm too stupid to let it go."
"Then let me go if I am so terrible." Nesta's voice came out smaller than she intended.
"I didn't say I was letting you go." Kaulo's hand moved from the girl's collar to her chin, holding it tightly. "I'm saying that you're going to learn to watch your pretty mouth. You're going to learn that I'm not one of your servants, not one of Tommy's men, not someone you can dismiss with a word you learned at your Mistress's feet."
"And if I don't?" Nesta asked like a challenge.
Kaulo's smile was dangerous and the girl's stomach tightened at the sight of it. "Then I'll make you wish you had."
The words hung between them heavily. Nesta's breath came in shallow gasps, her body pressed against the wall, the woman's hand on her chin, Kaulo's body like a solid presence that she had no chance to escape. She should be furious, but beneath the anger and the humiliation of being pinned like that, there was something else, that made her pulse race and her hands stay flat against the wall instead of pushing back.
She had always admired strong women. Polly Gray, Mrs Black, Aria Carter, Lizzie Stark, and now this Romani woman who had been hurt, but come anyway. She never wanted to be conquered. But she desperately wanted to be seen. And Kaulo saw her right now for who she truly was. She had seen her from the first time she touched her hand.
"I'm not going to call you that." Nesta whispered.
"Call me what?" Kaulo's thumb traced the line of her jaw. "A gypsy or a charlatan? You've called me all of those already. You called me worse in your head before you even opened your mouth."
"I know." Nesta admitted.
"What are you going to call me now?"
Nesta didn’t know, she had no word for what this woman was becoming in her own mind. Kaulo waited passionately, her hand didn’t move. She was giving the girl a choice. A chance to say the right thing or perhaps nothing at all.
"I will call you by your name." Nesta said finally.
Surprise flickered in Kaulo's expression and she genuinely smiled for the first time. It was warm and soft. "Kaulo." she said quietly.
"Kaulo." Nesta said it slowly, without breaking eye contact.
At last, the woman's hand dropped from her chin and she stepped back, giving Nesta space to breathe. "You'd better don’t forget it." Kaulo said with a tease in her voice. "I don't like repeating myself."
Nesta pushed herself off the wall on unsteady legs. "You're so annoying."
"I'm a gypsy. It’s in my blood." Kaulo said dryly.
"That's not..." Nesta stopped again. She had almost said that's not what she meant, but it was a lie. It was exactly what she had meant in the kitchen and in the street earlier. And now, Kaulo had fairly called her on it.
The older woman was watching her with one eyebrow raised and her mouth curved in a smirk. "You're staring." she said.
"I'm not." Nesta replied flatly.
"You are." Kaulo turned and began walking. "Come on, princess."
Nesta followed, her legs carrying her forward, while her mind was still stuck on Kaulo's hand on her chin. I'm not going to call you that, she wanted to mean it, but the words were buried so deep, that she didn’t know if she could dig them out. Beside her, the older woman walked in silence, and she found herself watching carefully the way she moved.
"You're staring again." Kaulo said without looking back.
“Kaulo, please..." Nesta asked, only wanting a little bit of silence.
The Romani woman glanced back and smiled once again. "Keep up, princess. I won't carry you if you fall." she said.
"I wouldn't let you." Nesta said firmly, trying to regain her confidence.
But the blue eyes gleamed back at her. "We'll see about that."
Summary: Nesta De Vries has built her life on managing the hidden fortunes of the powerful Black family. But when a violent massacre leaves her the only survivor, she becomes hunted by the Italian Gang Riina. Her salvation comes with Kaulo Chiriklo, a Romani seer, whose presence stirs every prejudice Nesta was raised to believe. Now, forced into the dangerous’s world, they must rely on each other to survive.
Notes: enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, wlw
- around 4k words
The September’s cold wind cut through Birmingham’s dirty streets, carrying the smell of coal smoke and whiskey. Nesta De Vries walked with her chin high and her hands buried in the pockets of her red coat. She was a tall blonde woman whose fancy clothes marked her as out of place among the small shops and grumpy people passing her.
Beside her, Aria Carter chattered about her life, her ginger hair a bright mess of curls against the grey evening. “I told Lizzie that I am so tired of having new patients who expect me to heal them with two words or one pill.” she was saying, her laugh warming the chill air. “However, she didn’t find it amusing.”
“You’re one of the best nurses in town. I’m sure Lizzie just misses you dearly.” Nesta said with affection in her voice. Her best friend Aria was one of the few people who could always make her smile without trying hard.
They turned onto a wider street where gas lamps flickered against the upcoming dusk. Nesta’s gaze drifted to the far end, where a cluster of caravans was drawn up on a ground, Romani travellers again. A few women in long skirts moved between the wagons and Nesta felt her lip curl before she could stop it.
Aria noticed her friend’s quick change of expression and the way her shoulders tensed. “They’re just people, Nestie.”
“I didn’t say anything.” Nesta replied with slight annoyance.
“Your face does it for you, dear.” Aria said with a smirk.
The truth was that Nesta had been raised on certain beliefs. While the other children were raised on fairy tales, she was raised on horror stories. Her mother had been the most strictest woman, always reminding her not to look the gypsy people in the eyes. She used to say, “They’ll read you like an open book and then find your weakness. A gypsy’s curse is worse than a bullet.”
Later, she understood her mother meant that Romani people were manipulative and that they always preyed on the nativity of people. The lesson had been drilled into her core so often it had become the only truth.
And her father had been more direct. He was a simple, practical man, a financier who believed in numbers and contracts. He had taught her that fortune tellers were not mystics but another form of artists. He explained how they watched, how carefully they listened, how they gathered scraps of information and fed them back as big revelations. It was not magic, but well observation made in lies. They took a person’s coin and left them miserable.
Then there were the Blacks. The family she worked for had built their fortune on a belief in their own superiority, money, pure blood and old prejudices. Mrs Black referred to the travelling people as dirt. Mr Black had once remarked at dinner that the Romani ought to be dealt with or shipped off. As usual, Nesta had sat among them with a glass of red wine in her hand and said absolutely nothing. She had been raised to say nothing, only to absorb, to smile and to behave.
Now, standing on the dark street with the smoke of their small fires in her nostrils, she felt all of those beliefs rise up within her. They’ve made their own reputation she thought and the phrase came out of her mouth before she could stop it. “They’ve made their own reputation.” she said flatly.
Aria’s smirk faded. “That’s what your class of people say about everyone who are beneath them.”
Nesta opened her mouth to retort, but before she could an elegant figure stepped out from the shadow and both women stopped. She was Romani, dark hair falling past her shoulders, golden rings gleamed on her fingers. But it was her bright blue eyes that made Nesta freeze.
“A reading, ladies?” The woman’s voice was low and a bit roughened at the edges. “I can see your future.”
Aria tugged gently at Nesta’s sleeve. “Thank you, but no.”
“I don’t believe in superstition.” Nesta said coldly, as she made to step around the woman, but the fortune teller moved forward, blocking the path.
“For you, I will read for free.” A smile curved her lips. “Your hands are bloody, darling. You tell lies as easily as you breathe.”
Ice slid down Nesta’s spine, she opened her mouth to say a cutting dismissal, but the woman’s hand shot out and seized her wrist. The grip was firm and even though she tried to pull back, the fortune teller held her strongly in place, her thumb pressing into the center of Nesta’s palm.
“Everybody saw a good, trusted man. But you knew. Eighteen and he thought he could take what he wanted. But you showed him different, didn’t you?” she said with a devilish smirk.
Nesta tried to wrench her hand free, but the grip tightened.
“He hurt you deeply. For months nobody noticed it.” the fortune teller continued, her blue eyes unblinking.
“Let go of me.” Nesta’s voice was a rasp, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“One day, you made him close his eyes forever.” The woman’s thumb traced the lifeline on Nesta’s palm. “You were always stronger than they gave you credit for.”
Nesta’s breath came in shallow gasps. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t look away from those hypnotic eyes, that held her like a shattered mirror, reflecting back something she had buried so deep she had almost convinced herself it had never happened.
“You meant it but you fed everybody an ugly lie.” the fortune teller whispered. “I understand you, girl. You just wanted him to stop, but he wouldn’t.”
The memory rose from the forbidden box of memories. The corridor, his hand on her, and then the way he crumpled and she just stood there, watching the blood pool beneath his head. They had called it self-defense, the Blacks had been generous, protecting their own pet by calling it a tragic accident. A guard who was meant to protect, had turned violent and their poor companion had been forced to defend herself. “We take care of our own.” Mrs Black had said.
“How?” The shaky word tore out of the girl.
The fortune teller’s expression changed into sorrow. “I see what is written. You think it makes you a monster, but it only made you a survivor.” Finally, she released her wrist.
Nesta stumbled back, her hand flying to her chest as if to protect her heart from those eyes. The older woman made no move to follow, she simply stood there looking with curiosity in her eyes.
“Don’t go to sleep tonight.” she said and her voice was no longer a whisper. “Run. Survive as you always do.” Quickly, she turned and disappeared into the alley between two buildings, swallowed by darkness.
“A fucking gypsy.” Nesta spat, her heart hammering violently in her chest. She could feel Aria’s wide eyes on her.
Her friend said nothing, just took Nesta’s arm softly and pulled her forward. “Your hand is shaking.” she said quietly.
Nesta looked down and saw that she was trembling. “It’s cold.” She curled them into fists, pretending it’s just the weather. But the face and the words of the gypsy woman stayed with her.
— — —
The Black household rose at the end of a clean street, that was known for its high class. Nesta let herself in through the main entrance and climbed the stairs to her room. She wasn’t family, not quite a usual staff member, but more a companion, a secretary and a fixer when it was needed. Her room was big with a comfortable bed, a writing desk and a wardrobe of glorious clothes.
She lit the gas lamp and sat on the edge of the bed, still in her red coat. The gypsy woman’s face rose in her mind again. Don’t go to sleep. Run.
“Ridiculous.” Nesta said aloud. She was a rational woman, she dealt in hidden accounts, and never believed in curses or any of the gypsy stuff. But she found herself checking the lock on her door twice. After, she poured a bit of whiskey and drank it way too quickly, the burn in her throat was a welcoming distraction.
Slowly, with fatigue in her body after a long walk, she changed into her nightgown and lay down, pulling the blankets to her chin. Sleep didn’t come, every time she closed her eyes, she saw those blue eyes. Furiously, she sat up and hissed into the darkness of the room, “It’s just a charlatan playing on my fear. Get yourself together! I’m not some superstitious peasant.” But still, she left the lamp burning low. Her small, yet elegant pistol lay in the drawer of her bedside.
Outside, the house settled into the deep silence of the night hours. The servants were long gone or asleep, and Mr and Mrs Black had retired after another important dinner party. Nesta stayed awake listing to the distant clatter of a cart in the street. Her eyelids grew heavy, she was just drifting off when she heard a sharp crack. Immediately, her eyes flew open. In the next several minutes she heard men’s voices shouting somewhere far away. Urgently, she grabbed the pistol and got out of bed. The gypsy’s words screamed now in her ears, Run. But, instead, she crept to the door and pressed her ear to the wood. She heard many footsteps in the corridor and then a feminine scream. Her own hand flew to her mouth.
Quickly, she pulled on her shoes, grabbed a bag, that she kept always ready with cash, papers, and a change of clothes. Right now she only needed to get the hidden ledgers, that were in the office on the ground floor. She needed them, in case as a bargaining chip. It was the only value that mattered at the moment. When, she got out of the room, the corridor was dark. Carefully, she moved along it, pressing herself to the wall. At the top of the staircase, she looked down and immediately wished she hadn’t. There were two men standing in the main hall, one of them wiping a blade on his trouser leg, and Mr Black lay crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, his white shirt blooming red. She turned away from the stairs and ran for the servants’ staircase.
Fortunately for her, the office door was ajar. She slipped inside, closed it quietly and went to the hidden safe behind the portrait of Mr Black’s mother. Her hands shook terribly as she put the right combination. The safe opened and she pulled out everything that she needed. The ledgers, old letters and the needed bank books, all that documented the money that had been hidden away. She shoved them into her bag and went straight for the window.
In the middle of the night that was filled with blood and screams, Nesta dropped onto the side garden, landing badly on her ankle. Pain lanced up her leg, but she chose to ignore it. She looked at the garden wall, deciding if she could climb it or not, when suddenly a hand seized her hair. Violently, she was yanked backward. She tried to reach for her pistol in the bag, but the man held her tight.
“That’s the blonde we need, right?” a voice growled above her head.
Another man appeared in her blurring vision. “Yeah, she’s the fixer. Boss wants her alive.”
Gathering her strength, she drove her elbow into the ribs of the man holding her. He grunted, his grip loosening and finally she wrenched free, running for the wall. Her ankle hurt, but she didn’t stop. Somebody shot and she threw herself behind a hedge, gasping for air. They were going to kill her. Or worse take her away and make her talk. She looked around, trying to control her breathing. The wall was too high to climb with injured ankle. Looking at the gate, she saw another figure moving in the shadows. This one was smaller, moving without any rush and towards her.
He’s seen me. Nesta’s heart slammed against her ribs, there was no time to think, as the stranger was advancing, but at last her finger found the trigger. She raised the pistol with both hands and fired. The shot was loud in the middle of the night. The person cried out, in a choked sound and stumbled back, one hand clutching left shoulder. For a moment the stranger stood there, swaying, their dark eyes wide and fixed on the girl.
Nesta didn’t wait, she ran again, the pistol still clutched in her hand, her legs carrying her forward through dark streets. Her lungs burned, her ankle throbbed. She ran until she couldn't run anymore, until she collapsed against a wall in a narrow lane.
He let me go, he could have called out or just shot me back. But he didn’t.
— — —
Far across the city, in a clearing where a dozen vardos formed a circle around a big fire, Kaulo Chiriklo dragged herself to her wagon. She didn't call out, because there was no one to call for. The camp was quiet at this hour and the other wagons were dark.
Kaulo had chosen this spot deliberately when she had joined them a couple years ago. She was respected here, her gift for seeing what others couldn’t earned her a place by the fire, but there was only respect, nothing more than that. No one ever came to her wagon unless they wanted or needed something.
She pushed her door open with her right shoulder and stumbled inside. The vardo was small, a single room fitted with a bed, an iron stove and shelves cluttered with herbs and candles she used for her own needs. Slowly, she lit a lamp with shaking fingers and sank onto the edge of the bed, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The pain was like fire spreading from her left shoulder and across chest. She had been shot many times before, twice in this life and more in another lifetime.
With difficulty, she stripped off her jacket, biting her lip to keep from crying out. The black shirt beneath was soaked wet, the fabric clinging to her skin. She cut it away with a knife from her belt, revealing the wound, a small hole just below her collarbone. There was no exit wound that she could see, but the blood was flowing and she could feel the warmth of it spreading down her side. Her hands were shaking, as she reached for the box of supplies beneath the bed. There were bandages, a needle and a bottle of whiskey. The whiskey she uncapped with her teeth, pouring a big amount over the wound. The pain was an explosion behind her eyes and she bit her lip once again to stifle the sound.
Cleaning the wound was the worst experience for her tonight. She couldn’t see the back of her shoulder, only feel it, and her fingers were growing tired and clumsy with pain. When she finally stitched the wound and put a bandage around it, she slumped against the wall of the vardo, her skin slick with sweat. The pain had settled into a throbbing ache, but she was too exhausted to feel relief. She closed her eyes and a familiar face came to her. The blonde woman, her hair loose around her shoulders and eyes wide with fear. The pistol in her hands raised and firing before Kaulo could say something. At least, it seemed that she hadn’t recognized her in the darkness of the night.
She had warned her on purpose. She had come to that square with one intention of driving her away from the house before the men arrived. The attack wasn’t supposed to happen tonight, the original plan had been for tomorrow, but something had gone wrong and Kaulo had found herself in the garden. After the shot, she managed to keep the men at bay with misdirections.
You foolish girl, I told you to run, she thought. The Riina Gang had hired her to scout the Black household, to learn all the entrances and its weaknesses. She had done it only for the money, because it meant survival. She had told herself she had only been gathering information, not pulling the trigger. But she had seen the men with their knives and their pistols and she had gone anyway.
Kaulo touched her bandaged shoulder and let out a sound that was almost a laugh. She had frozen in the moment when she should have moved. She should have done anything but stand there looking at Nesta De Vries. However, she saw something she hadn’t expected at all, courage. This stubborn young woman had been terrified and yet she had fought.
She shot me, Kaulo thought and there was admiration. Slowly, she closed her eyes, her body demanded sleep, but her mind was not finished. The Riinas would hunt Nesta now. She must have been smart and stupid at the same time to grab the papers from the safe. And now she was the only one who knew where the money was hidden. The exact money the Riinas would kill anyone for.
Of course, Kaulo could warn her again. She could find her and somehow make her listen to her. But in Nesta’s eyes, she was nothing but a gypsy charlatan, probably in alliance with the men who had murdered the family she worked for. If Nesta knew the truth, she would hate her or shoot once again.
She turned onto her side, ignoring the fire in her shoulder. It was a strange thing to be grateful for being shot. But as sleep finally pulled her under, she actually found a new meaning, because now she had a reason. Now she had a debt to pay. At last, she decided to find Nesta De Vries. She would warn her again and if the Riinas wanted to hurt her, they would have to go through a gypsy woman who had nothing left to lose.
— — —
Nesta De Vries stood on the doorstep of Thomas Shelby’s house, her knuckles white where she gripped her bag and the pistol with another hand. The door opened after several knocks and Arthur Shelby came out, his eyes widened when he saw her. “Jesus Christ, Nesta what happened?”
“I need to see Tommy.” she gasped.
Arthur stepped aside and she walked into the warm light of the hallway. She walked into the sitting room where Tommy Shelby sat a bit drunk by the fire. “Nesta, what happened?” He set down the glass and asked.
She sank into the chair across from him, her bag clutched to her chest and for the first time since she had run from the garden, she let herself truly shake.
Tommy was on his feet in an instant. He didn't touch her, because he knew her well enough to know she would kick his arm away if he did, but still he crouched in front of her, bringing his face level with hers. His blue eyes, so like the gypsy's held steady. "Nesta, look at me."
She raised her eyes to his.
"You're safe here." he said, trying to sound calm. "Whatever happened tonight, we'll deal with it. But I need you to breathe first. Can you do that?"
Nesta nodded, not trusting her voice. She pulled air into her lungs several times and soon her chest unlocked enough for a couple of words. “The Blacks are dead. All of them.”
Tommy's expression didn't change, but she saw the calculation behind his wild eyes. Like a quick assessment of what this all meant and who might have done it. "“You got out. That’s what matters the most." He said with relief.
But Nesta shook her head. "They're all dead, Tommy. Mr Black, Mrs Black, servants, guards, all of them. And I ran away." She looked down at her shaky hands. "I shot someone."
Tommy's hands tightened, but he didn't flinch away. "You did what you had to do to survive.”
She wanted to believe him so much. She always wanted to believe that the man she had killed at eighteen had been self-defense, that the figure in the garden tonight had been an enemy, that the blood on her hands was justified, but the gypsy's words echoed in her skull, You think it makes you a monster, but it only made you a survivor.
"Who would do this?" she asked instead.
Tommy rose from his crouch position and moved to the window, pulling the curtain aside to scan the street below. "The Blacks had enemies. You know that better than anyone. They crossed too many people. The list of who might want them dead must be long."
"The money." She clutched her bag tighter. "I have it. Everything, the accounts, the offshore codes, all the fucking hidden money."
Quickly, he turned back to her. "They'll come looking for you."
"Tommy, I know." Nesta said sharply.
"You'll stay here. Tonight and for as long as it takes."
Nesta wanted to argue, to prove him that she could take care of herself, that she had survived before and would survive again. But her body was trembling, her ankle throbbed and the memory of the dead bodies were too fresh in her mind. "Alright. Thank you."
Tommy gave a small smile. "I'll have Polly bring you something for your injuries. And Nesta?"
She looked up quickly.
"You survived. That's more than most would have managed." He left before she could respond, closing the door softly behind him.
Nesta sat in the silence, her bag still pressed to her chest and stared at the fire. The flames danced in golden colors. And in their shifting shapes she saw the gypsy woman with blue eyes and a deadly stare that had seen straight through every wall she had ever built.
Run, the woman had said. And she had run, she had survived, and now she was here in Tommy Shelby's house. She didn't know how long she sat there, but at some point Polly came in with a basin of warm water and bandages.
Nesta let the older woman clean her without speaking. When Polly finished she pressed a cup of something hot into her hands and left. The tea was laced with brandy, or perhaps something stronger. She drank it anyway and when her eyelids grew heavy, she let Tommy's housekeeper lead her to a guest room on the second floor. She didn't remember undressing or even lying down. She only remembered the pillow beneath her cheek and the darkness closing in.
— — —
She was in the Black’s house again. The walls were tall with high windows, the corridors narrow and the doors all closed. Thick smoke curled beneath the frames, she tried to move, but there was no escape. Behind her she heard the crackle of flames, heat pressing against her back.
Survive, the voice screamed inside her.
But there was nowhere to go, every door she tried was locked. Every window she passed was barred. The smoke filled her lungs, making her cough and the flames were rising higher from every direction. She was trapped, she was about to be burned alive. The floor beneath her feet grew hot and she knew that this was where she died.
The flames reached for her and she closed her eyes. But the fire didn’t touch her. She opened her eyes and there was a woman standing between her and the flames. Dark hair, blue eyes that were like the sea. The gypsy fortune teller from the street. Her arms were open, her body a shield between Nesta and the fire. They rose behind her, but they stopped at her outstretched hands, as if she had commanded them.
"It's not your time." the woman said in a rough voice.
"Who are you?" Nesta asked.
The woman smiled, not the devilish smirk from the street, but in a much softer way. "Do you care?"
"Yes, I don't know you."
The flames crackled, but still they didn’t advance. The woman took several steps closer until she stood close enough to touch the girl. Her eyes were the same blue Nesta remembered, but in the firelight they seemed to deepen, to hold another universe she had never seen.
"Take my hand." the Romani woman said.
"Why?" Nesta asked in confusion.
"I will burn with you."
Nesta looked at the flames and then she looked at the woman's hand, the same hand that had seized her wrist in the street and held her still. At last, she reached out. The woman's fingers closed around hers and the fire stopped. The smoke cleared and in the silence, the woman pulled Nesta close, her arms wrapping around her, holding her against a chest.
"I have you." the woman murmured against her blonde hair.
Nesta closed her eyes. The arms around her were strong and for the first time in as long as she could remember, she didn’t feel like she had to fight. The fire vanished with the house. Everything was gone, only darkness remained.
I have you, the voice said again and she let herself surrender.
— — —
Nesta woke with the ghost of arms around her. The room was dark and she was back in Tommy's house. Her heart was pounding and for a long moment she just lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to control her breathing.
It had been a dream. But she could still feel the warmth of those strong arms. She pressed her hand to her chest, where her heart raced quickly and closed her eyes. The image of the gypsy woman lingered with her sharp tongue and firm grip of her hand.
Who are you? Nesta thought.
She lay in the darkness until sleep came again, but it was dreamless.
Have some frames/gifs for an animatic based on @nestadevries 's Wheel of time fic! With Lanfear, Liandrin, Nesta and ofc Aria! This is not really lore accurate but could fit somehow
You can see the full video here (support will make me so happy)
I'm so motivated to do those kind of stuff, i'm really back into wot!
Notes: The game of cat and mouse
- around 2k words
Nesta groaned, flinging an arm out from under the silk sheets to stop the alarm on her phone at 8:00 AM. New York’s early morning light sliced through the gaps in the blackout curtains. She noticed a new notification, that was a text message from an unknown number. With a grunt, she tapped the screen, expecting a spam advertisement or a message from Daniel about a schedule change.
Unknown Number: A spirited effort. You’re learning to wield the fire, not just be consumed by it. Her breath hitched, the sleep fled from her body in a rush, leaving her cold and utterly awake. She sat up, the sheets pooling around her waist. She read it again and again. Spirited effort. The exact same phrase from Wimbledon a lifetime ago. It couldn’t be true, it must be a prank, or a journalist with a sick sense of humor.
But the cold tone, the analytical precision of it. Wield the fire, not just be consumed by it. It was way too specific. It felt like a knife, designed to slide perfectly between her ribs and probe at her most vulnerable insecurities. Her thumb hovered over the screen. Who is this? she typed, then deleted it. Marisa? Too desperate. Fuck off. Too emotional.
In the end, she did nothing. She just stared at the message, a knot of conflicting emotions tightening in her chest, anger, confusion, and a flickering spark of something that felt dangerously like validation.
She spent the morning in a state of heightened agitation. Her second-round match wasn't until the following day, but her schedule was packed with physio, a practice session, and the same boring media obligations. The text message was a ghost in the machine of her mind, disrupting every thought. During her practice with Daniel, she was distracted, her timing was absolutely off.
“Where the fuck is your head?” he asked, stepping closer, his voice a mixture of anger and panic. “Is it about yesterday? The match is over. You won, get over her!”
She’s in my head, Nesta wanted to scream. She’s literally texted her way into my phone and now she’s renting all the space in my brain. But she just nodded, gritting her teeth. “I’m fine.”
Daniel’s eyes darted around and his hands gestured wildly as he muttered under his breath about lost focus and wasted talent. He sounded less like a coach and more like a man unraveling in real time.
Nesta’s heart pounded, as she shut out his words, focusing instead on the burn in her legs and the rhythm of the ball. Every fiber of her being screamed that she needed to regain control.
-
Her last appointment of the day was a small fitness session in the player’s gym at the tennis center. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a place of mindless physicality where she could sweat out her demons. And today, she needed it more than ever.
The gym was mostly empty, the late afternoon lull before the evening matches began. The air hummed with the loud thrum of treadmills and the clank of weights. She claimed a squat rack in a far corner, loading the bar with light weight that promised a satisfying burn to calm her nerves. She wrapped her knees, slipped on her headphones, and lost herself in the rhythm of the lift.
It was on her third set, the bar heavy across her shoulders, her muscles screaming pleasantly, that she saw her. Marisa Coulter stood near the entrance, dressed not in her signature linen but in form-fitting, charcoal-grey athleisure wear. She was speaking quietly with a tall, junior player, Nesta recognized as one of the sport’s rising stars. Marisa’s hand rested on the girl’s shoulder, her posture both intimate and commanding.
The realization was like a splash of cold water to Nesta’s face. Of course she was coaching. She wasn’t here for her. She was working. The text message was just a psychological damage, just a stray thought Marisa had deigned to share.
Nesta reracked the bar with a loud, metallic clang that made a few people jump. She grabbed her towel and water bottle, intending to flee to the cardio section, but her path to the exit was blocked by the one and only Marisa Coulter.
The junior player was gone and now Marisa stood alone, her arms crossed, leaning against a weight machine. Her gaze was fixed solemnly on her. “Nesta.” she said, her voice lower here, smoother and a bit warmer, but no less commanding.
“Marisa.” Nesta made the name sound like a curse. Her body thrumming with adrenaline and post-workout fatigue. “Searching for innocent freshies?”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile lifted Marisa’s lips. “I like to keep an eye on the competition. Even the unrefined parts of it.”
Nesta’s grip on her water bottle tightened, her knuckles whitening. Her chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, legs trembling slightly, yet her posture remained rigid, defensive and proud. “Well, you can stop keeping your eye on me. I’m not one of your projects.”
“Aren’t you?” Marisa pushed off the machine, moving with measured steps that made every inch of the gym feel smaller. “The entire tennis world seems to think you are. My beautiful, broken prototype.”
The words cut deeper than any critique from Daniel ever had. Nesta’s throat tightened, her pulse spiking. “I am nothing of yours.” she said, steadying herself against the wave of shame threatening to overtake her.
“Your performance yesterday suggested otherwise.” Marisa said, eyes sweeping her from sweaty hairline to quivering legs, lingering on the fire in Nesta’s gaze. “All that passion finally directed for once. It was truly intriguing. It made me wonder what you could do with real guidance.”
“I have a coach.” Nesta snapped back.
Marisa’s gaze flicked just slightly, sharp and dismissive, before returning fully to her. “Ah, yes, Daniel.” she said, each word carefully measured, dripping with controlled disdain. “So obsessed with controlling what he cannot understand that he misses everything that truly matters. He cannot see you. Not the brilliance mixed with chaos that he fears.”
Nesta’s chest tightened at the truth in Marisa’s words. She was furious at the exposure, at the reminder of Daniel’s incompetence, but also, in the deep center of herself, she knew it was accurate. She had tolerated his volatility for so long, allowed his instability to seep into her preparation. And now, here was Marisa, cold and ruthless, laying bare both her coach’s shortcomings and her own untapped potential.
Her fingers twitched around the water bottle, trying to ground herself. “And you? You’re just here to judge me?” Her voice was sharp, but underneath, it trembled with the force of unspent emotion.
Coulter took another step closer, close enough that Nesta could feel the faint heat radiating off her, smell the dark floral of her perfume. “I’m here because the fire you nearly burned down with yesterday deserves direction, not suppression.”
The sting of sweat, the ache in her muscles, they all coalesced with Marisa’s presence into a destabilizing intensity. She could feel both danger and possibility in the same heartbeat. Her hands shook slightly, the water bottle rattling in her grip. She stared, struggling to hold her composure. But the woman's eyes didn’t waver. She didn’t need to raise her voice or make threats, her calm certainty was enough to unbalance Nesta more than any verbal tirade ever had.
“You know, I saw you looking at me during the match. You were playing for me. Don’t bother denying it.” The directness of the attack was breathtaking.
“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Nesta spat, her voice low and venomous. “Sitting up in your golden tower, judging everyone. You retired because you couldn’t handle the real competition anymore. You quit at the top because you were scared someone would finally knock you off your pedestal. You’re a coward, Marisa.”
The words hung in the air, toxic and sharp. Nesta expected fury or a cutting retort. However, she didn’t expect Marisa to laugh. It wasn’t a loud laugh, but a soft, husky sound that was somehow more terrifying than any shout. Her eyes, a cool, piercing blue, crinkled at the corners.
“Oh, my dear girl.” Marisa murmured, her voice dripping with amusement. “Is that the story you’ve been telling yourself? That I was scared?” She closed the final distance between them, so close Nesta could see the fine lines around her eyes. “Let me remind you of your place.” she said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, an intimate secret just for the two of them. “Wimbledon, the quarter-finals. You had me 5-4 in the third set. You were serving for the match. You were a point away. Do you remember what happened?”
Nesta’s blood ran cold. She remembered. God, of course, she remembered. The thunderous roar of the crowd, the feeling of destiny in her hands, and then the double fault. A nervous, tentative second serve that had floated pathetically into the net. The air had gone out of her.
“You couldn’t handle it.” Marisa said, the words a soft, brutal hit. “You had the fire, but you didn’t have the nerve. You were consumed by it. I didn’t beat you, Nesta. You beat yourself. I was merely the instrument of your own self-destruction. And you’ve been running from that moment ever since, trying to prove to the world, and especially to me, that it was a fluke. But we both know the truth, don’t we?”
This cold-hearted woman had reached into the most humiliating corner of Nesta’s psyche and held the memory up for them both to examine. She had no retort. There was none. It was the unvarnished truth.
Marisa’s expression softened, but not into kindness. It was the satisfaction of a chess master who has just declared checkmate. She reached out and, with a startling intimacy, brushed a blonde strand of sweat-damp hair from Nesta’s forehead. Her fingers were cool against the feverish skin.
“The fire is a tool. Not a master. Until you learn that, you will always be just a spirited player. Never a true champion.” With that, she turned and walked away.
Nesta stood there, trembling, the ghost of Marisa’s touch burning on her skin. She felt put in her place, dominated. And the most horrifying part was the shameful, electric thrill that shot through her at the contact, at the intense attention. It was hatred and desire, twisted into an indistinguishable knot.
-
Nesta fled the gym, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She needed a shower, she needed to wash the sweat and the scent of jasmine that was intertwined with the memory of that conversation. The women’s locker room was blessedly empty. The echoes of her footsteps were loud on the tiled floor. She made her way to her assigned locker, her mind a chaotic whirlwind of Marisa’s words. You beat yourself. Never a true champion.
She fumbled with the combination lock, her hands shaking so badly she messed up the numbers twice. On the third try, it clicked open. She yanked the door open and began to pull out her clean clothes with angry movements, when a hand closed in her hair, not painfully, but with a firm authority. It wasn't a yank, but a guiding pull, twisting her head to the side. At the same time, a body pressed against her back, pushing her forward until the cold metal of the locker door was against her chest, trapping her.
A gasp caught in Nesta’s throat. Her first instinct was to fight, to elbow, to scream. But then she smelled the night-blooming jasmine, Marisa. Her body went rigid. She could feel the length of the woman’s front pressed against her back, could feel the whisper of her breath against her ear.
“You have a habit of not listening.” Marisa’s voice was a low, intimate murmur, her lips so close they brushed the shell of the ear. “You let your emotions deafen you.”
Nesta tried to speak, but only a strangled sound came out. Marisa’s grip in her hair tightened fractionally, a silent command for silence.
“Your next opponent is a grinder.” Marisa continued, her voice a whisper that sent shivers down Nesta’s spine. “A human backboard. She has no weapons to hurt you, only the patience to wait for you to hurt yourself.”
The girl’s mind, which had been a storm of anger and humiliation, suddenly focused with laser-like intensity. This was coaching. This was a fucking advice from Marisa Coulter.
“Everyone will tell you to be patient. To work the points, to out-grind the grinder. But, they are fools. That is exactly what she wants. It plays to her only strength.” Marisa’s voice was laced with contempt. Her free hand came up, resting flat against the locker door next to Nesta’s head, caging her in completely. “You will not be patient. You will be a hurricane. From the first point, you will go for your shots. You will serve and volley on your first serve. You will hit drop shots to bring her to the net, where she is clumsy and afraid. You will show her no rhythm, no pattern. You will do everything to disrupt and humiliate her. Break her spirit in the first twenty minutes. Do you understand?”
Nesta was trembling, but not from fear. The proximity was overwhelming, the heat of Coulter’s body, the feeling of being completely and utterly in her power. It was a violation and a gift. It was the most alive she had felt in years. “Why are you telling me this?" She managed to whisper, her voice hoarse. “
Marisa’s lips brushed her ear again. “Because I am tired of watching you waste your potential on fools who don’t know how to use it. And because I want to see what happens when the fire is properly directed.” She released the girl’s hair as suddenly as she had grabbed it and stepped back.
The cold air rushed in to replace the warmth of her body, and Nesta felt abruptly, desperately alone. She turned around, her back pressed against the locker for support. Marisa was already walking away, not towards the exit, but towards the showers, as if this was the most normal interaction in the world.
Coulter paused at the entrance to the shower area and looked back over her shoulder. Her eyes, dark in the locker room’s faint light, scanned Nesta from head to toe one last time. “Don’t disappoint me.” she said softly.
And then she was gone. Nesta slid down the length of the locker until she was sitting on the floor, her legs unable to hold her. She brought a trembling hand to her head, to the place where Marisa’s fingers had been tangled in her hair.
As time passed, she looked at her phone, which had fallen from her pocket during the encounter. The screen was lit up, displaying the old text. She finally understood the true meaning of the text, the gym, and the locker room. It was all part of the same lesson. A brutal masterclass in psychological manipulation and perhaps something else, that felt dangerously like possession.
She had been put in her place, her deepest wound probed and exposed. And then, in the same breath, she had been given the key to her next victory. And as she sat on the floor, her heart still pounding, a defiant smile spread across her face. Marisa Coulter thought she was pulling the strings. She thought she was the master and Nesta was the instrument.
But as she replayed the feeling of Coulter’s body against hers, the whisper in her ear, she realized that two could play this game. She picked up her phone. This time, her fingers were steady. She typed a single word in reply to the unknown number.
Summary: At the US Open, Nesta Pierce is forced to confront the unexpected return of legendary tennis icon Marisa Coulter, now the most ruthless coach. Publicly cast as rivals, their paths cross once again, stirring a dangerous mix of respect, resentment and unspoken admiration that neither can ignore.
- around 2k words
The US Open was a special kind of madness. It wasn’t just the oppressive New York humidity that clung to skin and clothing like a second layer, or the deafening roar of the crowd that vibrated through the bones of the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center. It wasn’t even the fact that every sidewalk within a mile radius felt like a runway of athletic egos and impossible expectations. It was something more primal, a crucible where legends either survived or were burned alive.
But for Nesta Pierce, it was home. She thrived in chaos. The brighter the lights, the more unbearable the pressure, the better she played. Commentators dissected her like a wildfire, a danger to herself and others. Every match was a spectacle, a collision between brilliance and self-destruction. However, the parallel they loved most was the same one that haunted her. Marisa Coulter.
Her ghost lived in every headline, every press conference, every pointed remark comparing Nesta’s temper to “a younger Coulter.” That name haunted her career, a specter of perfection and ruthlessness that the media could not forget. They dug up the same old footage, a nineteen-year-old Nesta, wild and ferocious, facing the unshakable Coulter in the quarter-finals of Wimbledon. It had been a brutal, three-hour match, a masterclass in controlled aggression versus untamed fury.
Coulter had won, 7-5 in the third set. She’d walked to the net, her handshake firm and brief. “A spirited effort.” she’d said, her voice a low counterpoint to Nesta’s ragged panting. The words, meant to be patronizing. “You’ll learn to control that fire one day. Or it will burn you alive.”
From that moment on, Nesta had pretended to hate her. She had spent the better part of a decade proving she didn’t need to control her fire or better to say temper. She’d let it burn, and she’d risen through the ranks on the ashes of her opponents. She was World Number Three now.
But the ghost of Marisa Coulter remained. She retired at her peak with a career Grand Slam, was now the most feared coach in the industry. She was famous for creating champions with the same cold precision with which she had once dismantled them. She was also famous for her ruthlessness, dropping players the moment they showed a hint of weakness.
The press adored the narrative, “The ice queen and the wildfire”. They pitted them against each other, dissecting Nesta’s every on-court outburst as a pale imitation of Coulter’s cold, calculated dominance. In public, Nesta played along. She’d scoff at Coulter’s name in press conferences. “I play my own game.” she’d snap. “I don’t need to be compared to some relic.”
It was a lie, of course. A carefully constructed fortress of animosity built around a deep, all-consuming admiration. Nesta had studied every one of Coulter’s old matches. She admired the sharp, analytical mind, the way she commanded a court not with noise, but with a terrifying, silent authority.
Every atom of Nesta’s game had been carved, consciously or not, from studying Coulter. Her discipline, the flawless technique, and the way she made silence feel like a weapon. She saw in Marisa everything she herself was not. Not controlled enough, not quick enough, not strong enough, not disciplined enough. And she hated that a part of her longed for that very control.
-
In the air-conditioned silence of the players’ lounge, Nesta was trying to calm down before her first-round match, which was in an hour against a qualifier, a hungry young woman with a blistering forehand and nothing to lose. The kind of match that was a potential trap.
Nesta was draped over a leather sofa, with headphones on, eyes closed, visualizing her game. She steps in, hit her favorite backhand. The most signature shot, that the Sports media called it “The Classic Coulter precision”, a label Nesta pretended to despise but secretly savored, because it was true, that her backhand was art sharpened into violence.
A subtle change in the light made her open her eyes, and there she was. Marisa Coulter stood at the entrance of the lounge, a vision in tailored black linen, a stark contrast to the sweaty fabrics of the athletes around her. She looked as though she’d just stepped out of a Vogue photoshoot. Her auburn hair was perfectly styled, her posture straight. She held a simple clutch under her arm and her gaze, sharp and assessing, swept the room until it landed on Nesta.
For a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, their eyes locked. Marisa’s lips, painted a dangerous red, curved into a knowing smile. The true predator’s smile, a reminder. After, she turned and glided away, leaving a trail of expensive perfume in her wake.
Nesta ripped her headphones off. The blood was roaring in her ears, louder than any crowd. What the hell is she doing here?
She wasn’t coaching anyone in the tournament. She made a point of being notoriously selective about her clients. Her presence could only mean one thing, she was here for her. Just to piss her off.
The old, familiar anger, that had fueled her for years, surged hot in her chest. The memory of that Wimbledon loss, of Coulter’s condescending words, flashed behind her eyes.
Her coach, Daniel appeared at her side, less calm today, more agitated. He’d been on edge for weeks. “She’s just trying to get into your head.” he barked. “Ignore her. Don’t let her mess with you before you even step on court.”
Just hearing Daniel say, she, had sent a flash of heat down Nesta’s spine. She could already feel Marisa’s presence in the building like a shift in the universe. Even without seeing her, she could picture her perfectly, the composed posture, the perfectly still gaze, the infuriating lift of one eyebrow that said, Is that really all you’ve got?
His volume jumped again. “I’m serious, Nesta.” he snapped. “You lose focus and you’ll hand this match over.”
Nesta hated when he raised his voice. Hated the way he always assumed her fire needed caging. Hated that he treated her like a wild, undisciplined creature. Her teeth ground together, because it wasn’t Coulter she wanted to hit now. It was always Daniel.
But her mindset was suddenly different. The calm, focused visualization was gone, replaced by a new need. A need to prove something. Not to the crowd, not to her coach or family, but to that one pair of cool eyes she knew would be watching from the stands. So she swallowed, grabbed her bag, and stalked out.
-
The walk to Court 6 was a blur. The flashes of cameras, the humid air of the city, it all felt so distant. Her entire world had narrowed to a single objective, to be so undeniably magnificent, that Marisa Coulter would have no choice but to acknowledge it.
She stepped onto the court, the blue hard surface vibrant under the shining sun. She tried to focus on her usual routine of the warm up, but her eyes were constantly darting towards the guest box until finally, she saw her. Marisa had taken a seat not in the official players' guest section, but in a shaded corner, almost as if she were trying to observe unseen. She sat with her legs crossed, looking utterly bored and disinterested.
The sight of her was a spark to gasoline. Nesta’s first service game was a statement of power. She didn’t just hold serve, she annihilated it. Two aces, rocket down the T, and a backhand winner so clean it barely seemed to touch the court. The crowd erupted, but she didn’t acknowledge them. Her gaze flickered towards that shaded corner. Marisa hadn’t moved an inch, but Nesta could have sworn the corner of her mouth twitched.
Her opponent, a Slovakian player was good. She had a powerful game and the fearless energy of youth. She broke Nesta’s serve in the third game with stunning shots. The young Nesta would have spiraled. She would have let the frustration boil over into a self-destructive frenzy. But not today. Today, she felt a strange, icy calm settle over her fire. The frustration was still there, but it was now being wielded. It was the ghost of Coulter’s own control, imposed upon her chaos. She could feel Marisa’s gaze on her, like a physical weight.
Is this what you wanted to see? she thought, a silent snarl in her mind.
She broke back immediately, with a series of ruthless groundstrokes. She wasn’t just hitting the ball, she was finding angles that shouldn’t have been possible. She was playing with a vicious kind of fury. She was proving a point with every swing.
During the changeover, she grabbed her towel and chugged her water. She risked another glance. Marisa was now leaning forward slightly, her chin resting on her elegant fingers. The bored expression was gone, replaced by one of the analytical focus, as if she was studying her.
A thrill shot through Nesta again. Look at me. Look at what I can do. she thought, a desperate, internal plea.
The first set flew by, 6-2. The second set was even more of a masterclass. Nesta was everywhere, her movement fluid and explosive. The crowd went insane and she allowed herself a small, fierce smile, and this time, she looked directly at Marisa. Their eyes met across the distance. But Marisa didn’t smile back. She simply held her gaze, her own expression inscrutable, before giving a slow nod.
The match was over in under an hour. 6-2, 6-1. Nesta shook the opponent’s hand at the net and turned to pack her bag. The crowd was on its feet, chanting her name. She gave a wave, but her mind was already elsewhere. As she walked off the court, sweat-soaked and triumphant, she saw a flash of dark linen disappearing up the stairs towards the exit. Marisa was leaving without a glance back.
-
The post-match press conference was a real circus. “Nesta, a dominant performance today. You looked incredibly focused out there. What was the difference for you?”
She leaned into the microphone, a smirk playing on her lips. “I just felt inspired today. The energy here in New York is unlike anywhere else.” A lie, wrapped in a half-truth.
“There were reports that Marisa Coulter was in your player’s box. Is there any truth to the rumors that she might be considering coaching you?”
Nesta’s smirk vanished. She let the silence hang for a moment. “Marisa Coulter, can sit wherever she wants. It has no effect on my game. I don’t need or want her approval.” she answered, her voice dripping with cold disdain.
A journalist from a British outlet raised her voice over the others. “Nesta, given your style of play, especially your backhand, many analysts are calling you the Coulter 2.0. Some are even saying today felt like watching a younger Marisa. How do you respond to the comparisons?”
Something deep inside Nesta clenched at the phrasing, a younger Marisa. As if she were merely an echo, as if she lived in the woman’s shadow. Her fingers curled under the table, nails pressing half-moons into her palm.
“I’m not anyone’s version of anything. Least of all Marisa Coulter’s.” she said. Her voice had dropped, but somehow grew even more dangerous for it.
-
The room went completely still, she should have stopped there, but the words kept coming. “Yes, we both hit a strong backhand. But, that doesn’t make us interchangeable. If you want to compare us, compare our records. Compare the eras we’re playing in. But don’t act like I’m chasing her shadow.” Her voice remained steady, but her pulse was a storm, because the truth was that Marisa Coulter did affect her.
Nesta’s backhand wasn’t born from imitation, but from watching Marisa’s matches, when she was younger and thinking, I want to be better than you.
-
Later, in her hired car, scrolling through the match highlights on her phone, her bravado began to fade. Her phone buzzed with a notification from an Instagram post, that they’d already run the story: “Fire & Ice: Coulter’s Presence Ignites Nesta’s US Open Campaign.” There was a photo of her mid-backhand, muscles coiled, face a mask of ferocity, and right next to it, a close-up of Marisa.
Nesta threw her phone onto the seat beside her, leaning her head back against the cool leather. She could still feel the ghost of that gaze on her skin. It hadn’t felt like hatred, more like curiosity. And the most terrifying part of it all was that, for the first time since she was a nineteen-year-old girl walking off the grass at Wimbledon, feeling utterly seen through, Nesta had enjoyed it. She had played for her today. And a secret, shameful part of her hoped, that she had been impressed.
-
Across the city, in a penthouse apartment that overlooked the skyline of Manhattan, Marisa Coulter stood by the high windows, a glass of red wine in her hand. On the large television screen behind her, muted, was a replay of Nesta’s match. The girl was a beautiful, chaotic mess of talent and unbridled emotion. She was everything Marisa had been taught to suppress, everything she had disciplined out of her own game. And yet, she was winning, spectacularly.
Marisa took a slow sip of wine, her eyes fixed on the skyline but her mind entirely on the court. She had gone today to unsettle her. To remind Nesta of the hierarchy that, in Marisa’s world, still existed. She had expected a meltdown, a fiery collapse that would prove the girl was still the same undisciplined brat she’d beaten all those years ago.
But, she had not expected the way Nesta had channeled her anger, how the fury had sharpened her focus instead of shattering it. The defiance in her eyes when she’d looked up at her. It was a look Marisa recognized intimately, because she saw it in the mirror every day. It was the look of someone who would burn the whole world down to prove a point.
A slow, genuine smile touched Marisa’s lips. “My darling, fascinating, stubborn creature.” she murmured.
She had thought the girl was merely a reflection, a shadow of her own past glory. But now she saw that Nesta wasn’t a shadow. She was a flame and Marisa had the sudden, overwhelming urge to see just how brightly she could make her burn.
So she picked up her phone, her fingers hovering over the screen. She had a number, an old, unused contact she’d acquired through a friend, just in case. She typed a single message, her movements precise and deliberate.
A spirited effort. You’re finally learning to wield the fire, not just be consumed by it.
She paused, her thumb hovering over the send button. This was a line, once crossed that could not be uncrossed. It was an acknowledgment, an opening of a door she had sworn to keep locked. But the memory of Nesta’s infuriating performance was too compelling to ignore. At last, she pressed send.
The grand hall of the Brotherhood’s stronghold was dimly lit by flickering torches, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. The air was thick with murmurs, the weight of ancient power settling like a heavy cloak around the assembled mages. A long table stood the center of the room, with chairs arranged in a semicircle around it.
The room was filled with mages who had proven their power over the years. And there, at the head of the table, stood Tissaia de Vries. She was composed, regal, as always, her presence commanding even the most subtle shifts in the room. But today, there was someone new by her side.
Nesta entered with a subtle yet undeniable presence. The sound of her cane striking the stone floor echoed, marking her arrival. Her form was enveloped in dark, elegant clothing. The fitted black suit clung to her figure, with gilded armor pieces at her shoulders and bracers that gleamed in the torchlight. Her black boots, polished to a high shine, tapped lightly against the floor as she walked, but there was no mistaking the authority she carried with each step. Her hair had been swept into an elegant yet messy bun, strands framing her face in a way that spoke of confidence.
As she took her place beside Tissaia, the room seemed to shift. A few of the Brotherhood members took note, their eyes flicking toward the newcomer, sensing the quiet power radiating from her.
The meeting was already in full swing when Vilgefortz’s voice broke through the murmur of conversation. His words were sharp, laced with the arrogance that only someone like him could carry so effortlessly. “I fail to understand, Tissaia, why you insist on harboring a wildcard like her. The people who hunted her, may still be looking.” His voice was condescending, a calculated sneer in his tone. “Is this what you want? To leave the Brotherhood vulnerable to such pathetic reason?”
The air in the room seemed to tighten as his words fell. There was an underlying sense of danger. Nesta’s grip on her cane tightened slightly, but she said nothing, her gaze cold as she locked eyes with Vilgefortz. Her posture remained poised, but there was a storm brewing beneath the surface.
“Do not mistake my actions for weakness, Vilgefortz.” Tissaia responded, her voice steady, composed. “Nesta’s place here is secure. And as for those who may still seek her...” She paused for a fraction of a second. “We will deal with them.”
But Vilgefortz was not finished. He turned his ire back toward Tissaia, his words growing sharper, more venomous. “And your decision to keep her here, to allow her presence among us. What does that say about your leadership?” he spat, his eyes glittering with disdain. “Have you forgotten what the Brotherhood stands for?”
Nesta stood, the sound of her cane punctuating the silence that had followed Vilgefortz's last words. Her gaze was unwavering, the blue of her eyes flashing dangerously as she addressed him. “Perhaps, you’ve forgotten what it means to respect power, Vilgefortz. Or perhaps, you’re too busy playing politics to understand it.”
The room fell silent. No one dared speak, watching as Nesta’s gaze held Vilgefortz’s with an intensity that could scorch. Sabrina Glevissig stood tall with her arms crossed, her lips curved into an amused smirk as she watched the tension unfold. Her sharp eyes flicked between Vilgefortz and Tissaia, clearly entertained by the drama. But when Nesta stood to intervene, Sabrina’s smirk deepened, a glint of respect or perhaps curiosity in her gaze. She seemed to enjoy the spectacle, as if eagerly awaiting how the stranger would handle herself.
“If you’re so concerned about threats, then you should be worried about the ones who still underestimate me. Maybe you’re just afraid that I’m not as easy to manipulate as you think.” Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned slightly on her cane, her stance one of utter confidence. “Or maybe, you’re just angry that you don’t wield enough control or power in your precious Brotherhood.” she added with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
The words hung in the air like a challenge. Vilgefortz’s expression flickered, anger building beneath his calculated calm.
And another mage, Triss Merigold appeared more composed but no less invested. Her brow furrowed slightly as the conversation grew heated, her green eyes flicking with concern but at the same time quietly calculating.
When Nesta rose to defend Tissaia, Triss’s expression softened with quiet admiration, her lips pressing together in a gentle smile as she silently supported the new witch’s bold move.
Tissaia watched the exchange, her heart swelling with an unexpected emotion, pride. There was a certain beauty in the way Nesta had stood up, not only for herself but for her as well. It was the first time Tissaia truly felt the depth of the bond between them, the unspoken understanding that went beyond mere words.
Her mind flitted to the moment when Nesta’s eyes had shifted, the bright blue deepening into a silvery flame, an almost unnatural glow. Tissaia hadn’t been able to place it at first, but now, as she looked at the young woman with admiration, she understood. Nesta had tapped into something raw and powerful, something that even Tissaia hadn’t seen before.
It was as if Nesta had taken the flame within her and turned it outward, a reflection of the very strength that Tissaia had always known was there but had never fully witnessed. And now, standing in front of Vilgefortz, Nesta had proven she could wield that strength.
-
The echoes of the Brotherhood members' footsteps slowly faded as the room cleared. The tension still hung in the air, leaving a charged atmosphere in the wake of the heated exchange. As the last of the mages filtered out of the hall, Nesta remained standing, her grip on the cane now more relaxing. The Rectoress remained by her side, her composed demeanor unchanged, though there was a flicker of something in her eyes as she regarded the girl.
"Well." Tissaia said, breaking the silence. "You certainly know how to make an impression."
Nesta turned her head to meet the blue eyes. She could feel the adrenaline beginning to fade away, replaced by the unsettling sense that she had just done something unexpected. Of course, she was aware of the dangerous path she had just walked, one where challenging Vilgefortz might come at a cost, but it didn’t matter now.
"Someone had to do it." Nesta responded, her voice steady but with a hint of weariness creeping in. Her grip on the cane loosened, but she held herself upright with a dignity that matched the Rectoress’s own. "He needed to be put in his place."
“Indeed, Miss Nesta.” Tissaia’s lips curled slightly, though the smile didn’t reach her eyes.
Nesta met her gaze head-on, her mind was whirling with the undercurrents of this exchange. "I’m not looking for a fight, Tissaia. But I won’t stand by and let him speak to you like that. Not when you..." She stopped herself before she could say more, her words hanging awkwardly in the air.
Tissaia’s sharp gaze softened for a moment. "You stood up for me today. And I won’t forget that."
A silence stretched between them, one that felt heavier than the words they had exchanged. But before Nesta could respond, something unexpected happened. In the depths of her mind, a sudden surge of warmth washed over her, an emotion so clear and distinct that it felt as if Tissaia were right there beside her, speaking the word aloud, admiration.
The feeling swirled around Nesta, like an invisible touch that reached deep into her core. She blinked, her brows furrowing as she took a step back. Tissaia? she thought, her pulse quickening. She’d felt the connection before, but this was different.
Tissaia’s eyes widened slightly, her face a mask of control that was swiftly slipping. "I didn’t mean for you to sense that."
Nesta’s lips parted in surprise, her hand instinctively moving to clasp her cane tighter. "What was that?"
The bond between them, still new and fragile, hummed with a strange intensity. The connection was raw, chaotic, wild, unfiltered, and as much as Tissaia might try to hide it, Nesta could feel the admiration that had been inadvertently projected into her mind. She could feel the gratitude, not just for the act of standing up for her, but for the trust that was building between them.
“I...” Tissaia began but faltered, as if she were struggling with the right words. “I wasn’t prepared for that.”
Nesta studied her for a moment, her mind racing with questions she wasn’t sure she wanted to ask. She knew that the Rectoress was a woman of control, always calculating, always precise. But this was something entirely different.
“I didn’t know you could do that.” Nesta said softly, her voice betraying a hint of awe.
Tissaia’s expression softened, her eyes flicking to the door as if to avoid the weight of the moment. She took a deep breath. "It’s something we’ll need to discuss. Not now, but soon."
Nesta nodded, though she wasn’t sure what to make of the whole situation. The bond between them, however strange and sudden, was undeniable. She could feel it. The more she learned about Tissaia, the more she realized just how much she still didn’t understand.
Before she could say anything else, the door to the hall creaked open, and the sound of footsteps signaled the arrival of more company. Triss Merigold stepped forward, her expression warm. She was the first to approach Nesta, her green eyes lighting up with a mixture of curiosity and kindness. "You were impressive." she said, her voice gentle. "I didn’t expect you to confront Vilgefortz like that. You have quite the spine."
Nesta raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "I don’t take kindly to people who think they can talk down to others."
Triss chuckled softly, her smile warm. "I can tell. And that’s a quality I respect."
Before Nesta could respond, Sabrina Glevissig took a step forward. She tilted her head, her sharp gaze appraising Nesta from head to toe. "So, stranger with the spine." she began with a teasing glint in her eyes, "You’ve got a backbone, that’s clear. But I wonder how much of that is just for show. Or do you actually back it up with something other than sharp words?" There was no malice in Sabrina’s tone, but her challenge hung in the air, playful yet probing.
Nesta narrowed her eyes, the sharpness of her gaze matching Sabrina’s. "I’m not someone you want to test." she said, her voice low and controlled.
Before Sabrina could reply, Tissaia, who had been quietly observing the exchange, spoke up. Her voice was calm, but there was a sharpness to it too. "Careful, Sabrina, you’re walking a fine line." Tissaia said, her gaze cool and steady as she looked between the two women.
Sabrina’s lips curled into a smile, her eyes dancing with amusement. "I wasn’t testing you, just curious. You’re a bit of a puzzle, aren’t you?"
Triss, sensing the shift in energy, intervened quickly. "Sabrina, you’re pushing too hard." She shot her a look that was both reproachful and affectionate. "Let the woman breathe. She’s clearly not here for games."
But Sabrina shrugged, her smirk not fading. "Fine, fine, I was just trying to see if there was more to you than just the sharp edges."
Nesta’s eyes flickered with something dangerous but also amused. "There’s plenty more. You just need to find out."
The tension was thick for a moment, but Triss’s gentle laughter broke it. "I think, you’ll fit in just fine here."
At that moment, Tissaia cleared her throat, stepping away from the small group with a graceful motion. She had been observing the exchange with a slight furrow in her brow, as though weighing whether the conversation was taking a dangerous turn.
"I’m sure you three have much to talk about." Tissaia said, her tone calm but firm. "However, I must depart for my duties." She glanced briefly at Nesta, her gaze lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, before turning back to Triss and Sabrina. "I’ll leave you to get to know each other better."
The redhead gave a soft nod, her smile still warm, but there was a flicker of concern in her eyes as she looked at Tissaia. Sabrina, however, merely smirked in response to the Rectoress’s departure, as though pleased by the shift in the room.
Tissaia’s footsteps echoed on the stone floor as she walked away, leaving the three women standing together. Sabrina turned to face Nesta again, her eyes alight with a mixture of challenge and curiosity. "Well, well, now we’re alone. Tell me, how did you end up here?" Her tone was lighter now, less probing but still playful.
Nesta glanced over at Triss, who offered her a reassuring smile before turning her attention to Sabrina. "I don’t have much of a choice. You know how it is. One day, you’re running for your life, and the next, you find yourself standing in a room full of powerful people."
Sabrina raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Running for your life? Sounds like a story."
"Perhaps one day I’ll tell it, blondie. If you behave well enough." Nesta replied with a slight tilt of her head, her expression guarded but not unfriendly.
Triss’s hand flew to her mouth to hide a small laugh. Sabrina’s brows shot up, and then she smirked wider. “Blondie, is it? Careful, you might make me like you.”
“How awful.” Nesta deadpanned, but there was the faintest flicker of amusement behind her eyes.
Triss stepped between them, shaking her head with a smile. “Don’t mind her. Sabrina likes to see how far she can push before someone pushes back.”
“Oh, don’t ruin my fun, Triss.” Sabrina protested, feigning a pout. “Besides, it’s not every day Tissaia brings to Aretuza someone she seems to trust.” She let the last word linger, testing it, watching how Nesta reacted.
The girl’s jaw tightened, just slightly, but she didn’t rise to the bait. “Trust is a big word. Don’t put it in her mouth.”
Sabrina’s teasing smile softened into something more genuine. “Well, then. welcome to Aretuza, Nesta. Try not to add more trouble to all of us.”
Nesta’s lips twitched. “No promises.”
There was a moment of quiet, the three of them exchanging glances, each woman sizing the others up in her own way. A quiet laugh passed between them, not exactly a friendship yet, but a truce formed in the echo of shared understanding. Outside, the light crept higher through the windows, and for the first time since arriving, Nesta didn’t feel entirely like an intruder.
-
The quiet of Tissaia's quarters felt comforting after the chaos of the Brotherhood meeting. The lingering tension from the confrontation with Vilgefortz still hung in the air, but here, in this warm space, it seemed to dissipate.
Tissaia had prepared a small, simple dinner for them both, a quiet gesture that spoke volumes in its own way. They ate in silence, each lost in their thoughts. Tissaia’s gaze occasionally flickered over to Nesta, noting how the younger woman’s posture was slightly more relaxed than usual, the sharp edge of her defiance softened, though not completely gone. It had been a difficult day for both of them, but the bond between them had only grown stronger.
When the meal had ended, the Rectoress rose from the table, collecting the plates. Nesta stayed seated for a moment longer, absently rubbing her knee with her hand, a faint grimace crossing her face. Tissaia didn’t comment on it, though her eyes lingered.
“You’ve been through a lot today.” Tissaia said, her voice steady but not without a trace of concern. “I have something that might help with your knee. It’s a method I don’t often use, but it could ease the pain.”
Nesta glanced up, raising an eyebrow. “Another one of your little secrets?”
Tissaia met her gaze with a soft smile, though there was something thoughtful in her expression. “It’s not a secret. Just a bit unconventional.”
“Unconventional? That sounds intriguing.” Nesta muttered, standing up and stretching her legs. She winced slightly, the ache in her knee evident. "I’m willing to try anything at this point."
The Rectoress nodded and gestured toward the bed. “Lie down. This will be different from what you’re used to.”
Nesta hesitated for a moment, eyeing Tissaia, but still she gave a resigned nod. “Alright.” As she moved toward the bed, she shot the older woman a questioning glance. “What do you mean by different?”
“I will ease the pain. Just trust me.” Tissaia’s voice remained calm and measured.
Nesta wasn’t sure what she expected, but this method seemed far too simple to be effective. Still, there was something in the woman’s voice that gave her a small measure of trust. She lowered herself onto the bed, trying not to grimace from the pain.
“Try to relax.” Tissaia said, her hands warm as they touched the edge of the knee. “Let me do the work.”
Nesta stiffened as warm hands pressed gently against the injury. For a moment, nothing happened, but slowly, like a soft current flowing through her, the pain seemed to shift. It wasn’t a release, but a deep, heavy pressure, as if Tissaia’s energy was pushing against the injury, pulling something from it. The ache deepened momentarily before it began to shift in strange waves, spreading in unpredictable patterns. The Rectoress didn’t speak, her expression focused, lips pressed into a thin line of concentration. Nesta’s chest tightened as she felt the weight of the process bear down on her, but she tried to stay still, not wanting to disrupt whatever Tissaia was doing.
After a bit of time, a strange sensation filled the air, an invisible current threading between them. It was almost as though Tissaia’s presence had enveloped the room, a quiet intensity wrapping around her, pulling the energy from the space itself. Still, at least there was no pain, none that Nesta could immediately identify as her own. And just as the tension seemed to reach its peak, Tissaia gasped quietly.
The sound was soft but unmistakable, an involuntary whimper of discomfort. Nesta’s eyes snapped open. Her gaze locked onto the woman’s hands, still pressed firmly against her knee. But now, Tissaia's expression was slightly strained, lips parted, brows drawn tight.
“What’s happening?” Nesta demanded, pushing herself up slightly, her gaze darting between Tissaia and the spot where her hands touched her knee.
The Rectoress tried to keep her composure, but there was a tremble in her hands that betrayed her.
Nesta’s suspicion deepened. “What are you really doing?”
Tissaia paused, her jaw tightening as if she were considering how to respond. She didn’t meet the blue eyes, her expression briefly flickering with discomfort. But after a moment, she spoke, her tone seemed even more measured. “I am simply helping you. Trust me, this is how it works.”
The girl narrowed her eyes, not believing it. “It’s not right.” she muttered, her voice low but edged with suspicion. “You can’t just tell me to trust you when it is clear that something is wrong.”
“I am absorbing your pain. That’s all.”
Nesta blinked in disbelief. “You what?”
“I am absorbing it.” Tissaia repeated, her voice calm despite the visible strain. “It’s a method I’ve used before, though not often. But it works.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Nesta snapped, sitting up fully now, her face filled with concern. “You should’ve told me what this involves.”
“I didn’t think it would be necessary to explain the process.” Tissaia said, her voice softening.
But Nesta could see the effort it was costing Tissaia, the way her composure faltered for just a split second before she regained control. “This isn’t just about me, Tissaia. You’re taking my pain. It’s not fair.”
Tissaia’s eyes lifted calmly, carrying exhaustion beneath the surface. Her hair, normally swept into its elegant bun, now fell freely around her shoulders in soft, dark waves. The candlelight caught on it, and she looked more softer. She reached out to gently push Nesta back down on the bed. “It’s nothing, I can’t handle. I’m fine, Nesta. I promise you.”
However, the girl remained tense, unsure of how to feel. The word, fine, seemed to lose its meaning when she saw the way Tissaia’s hands trembled, her face pale from the strain.
“You’ve had enough for one night. Rest now.” The Rectoress's words should have been final and yet, they lingered in the air, as if neither woman believed them.
Nesta’s mind raced. She wanted to speak, to protest, to say you shouldn’t have done that or you’re hurting yourself, but the lump in her throat held the words. So instead, she just watched the way Tissaia’s shoulders straightened with dignity, even as her hands trembled once more before she clasped them behind her back, hiding the weakness.
The silence stretched, the faint hum of chaos magic still clung to the room, like the echo of their heartbeats. Nesta could still feel Tissaia, could sense the echo of her pain resonating faintly within her own body. At last, she swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”
Tissaia’s eyes lifted, and for a moment, all the walls she kept so carefully built seemed to thin. She gave a small nod, the faintest hint of a smile curving her lips. When she finally turned away, the soft brush of her loose hair caught the candlelight, and Nesta found herself unable to look anywhere else.
“You should rest too.” Nesta said quietly. “You look tired.”
For a heartbeat, she thought Tissaia might dismiss her with some cool remark, but the older woman only hesitated long enough for Nesta to see that the suggestion had struck something true.
“Perhaps you’re right.” Tissaia murmured, her tone measured but faintly human. She moved to the side of the room, and began to preparing for bed, gracefully even in exhaustion. She removed the outer layers of her robes, folding them with careful precision before placing them aside. Beneath, she wore a silken undertunic.
“You don’t have to stay awake on my account.” Tissaia said without looking back.
Nesta gave a faint huff of a smile. “And miss the chance to see the great Rectoress actually rest?”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Tissaia murmured, her tone measured but faintly human. She moved to the side of the room, and began to preparing for bed, gracefully even in exhaustion. She removed the outer layers of her robes, folding them with careful precision before placing them aside. Beneath, she wore a silken undertunic.
“You don’t have to stay awake on my account.” Tissaia said without looking back.
Nesta gave a faint huff of a smile. “And miss the chance to see the great Rectoress actually rest?”
Tissaia exhaled through her nose, half amusement, half resignation. She blew out the last candle by the window. While Nesta had already moved to one side, her knee elevated slightly.
When the mattress dipped under Tissaia’s weight, Nesta’s breath hitched slightly. Neither of them moved, as the world seemed to shrink to the quiet sound of waves outside and the low hum of magic that still clung faintly to the air. Almost imperceptibly, Tissaia shifted closer. It was a hesitant motion, uncharacteristic of her usual control.
The Rectoress glanced toward the girl, confirming what she already suspected. Nesta’s breathing had steadied, her eyes were closed, and she looked utterly asleep. Satisfied, Tissaia allowed herself to soften. Her body relaxed, the exhaustion she’d been keeping at bay finally pulling at her limbs.
But Nesta wasn’t asleep. She felt Tissaia settle beside her, felt the faint tremor of energy still humming beneath her skin. Without opening her eyes, she reached out slowly and found the woman’s arm beneath the thin sheets. Her fingers brushed against it, and carefully gave a small, instinctive squeeze.
Tissaia froze, breath catching, and with a quiet exhale, she let her arm move an inch, so that Nesta’s hand could rest there more easily as both of them fell asleep.
Notes: Tissaia smoking on the balcony
- around 4k words
Nesta sat stiffly at the edge of the bed, her hands curled into tight fists atop her lap. The remnants of the meal Tissaia had insisted she eat remained untouched on the tray beside her. However, the stubborn refusal had not gone unnoticed.
Tissaia sighed, tilting her head slightly as she studied the younger woman. “You need to regain your strength.” she stated, her voice firm but lacking sharpness.
Nesta kept her gaze down, jaw tightening. “I’m fine.”
“You are not.” Tissaia moved to stand before her, offering a hand. “Come.”
Nesta hesitated, muscles tensing as if expecting a trick or a blow. The instinct to fight rose unbidden, but she froze when she caught Tissaia’s expression. There was no mockery there, no satisfaction at her weakness. Only determination, and something else hidden underneath.
After a long pause, she placed her hand in Tissaia’s. Her palm was rough, calloused from fights she didn’t want to remember, and it looked almost wrong against Tissaia’s perfectly composed short fingers. Yet there was unyielding strength, as Tissaia pulled her up carefully.
The journey to the bathing chamber was slow and agonizing. Each step was a torture for her patience, the wound in her knee burning with every movement. Pain radiated up her leg, throbbing, insistent. Nesta gritted her teeth, hating every second of it.
For her part, Tissaia said nothing about the awkward rhythm of their steps. She simply kept a steady pace, her hand hovering near Nesta’s arm in silent readiness each time she faltered.
When they reached Tissaia’s private bathing chamber, Nesta stopped short. Steam curled lazily through the air, wrapping the space in a misty warmth. She exhaled slowly. It had been weeks since she’d seen a proper bath. Her fingers twitched against the hem of the tunic, the one Tissaia had given her earlier. The fabric was clean and soft, an intimate reminder that it didn’t belong to her. “I can manage.” she said, her tone clipped.
“Can you?” Tissaia turned slightly, her eyes finding blue. “You are still weak, Miss Nesta. Let me help.”
Nesta raised a brow at that, her lips curving faintly despite the tension. “Miss Nesta?” she repeated, voice edged with mock offense. “You seemed perfectly ready to see me naked a moment ago, and now you’re calling me Miss again?”
The older woman blinked before she straightened, the faintest quirk of her lips betraying a hint of amusement. “I see you are feeling well enough to be insolent.”
“I find your sense of formality fascinating.” Nesta countered. “Especially considering...”
Tissaia cut in smoothly, her tone calm as ever. “Considering that when you collapsed in my quarters, I had to remove your blood-soaked clothes to stop you from bleeding to death?”
Nesta froze, her smirk faltering. But Tissaia continued, unbothered, her voice as precise as if she were reciting a list of observations. “I have already seen you naked, Nesta. There is nothing left to hide.”
“Right.” Nesta murmured under her breath, scoffing.
“If it helps, you were far too covered in dirt and blood for me to admire anything of aesthetic value.” Tissaia added lightly.
Nesta’s head snapped up, eyes wide, caught between outrage and surprise. “Did you just?”
Tissaia’s gaze slid to her, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at her lips. “Tease you? Perhaps.”
The tension in the room shifted. It became less sharp and more electric. Slowly, Tissaia stepped closer, her composure settling back over her shoulders. “Now, will you let me help or shall we continue trading words until the water cools?”
Nesta exhaled slowly, the corners of her mouth lifting despite herself. “You really don’t let anyone win, do you?”
“No.” Tissaia said, almost gently.
Nesta scowled, as the ache in her knee pulsed harder. She swallowed her pride, a small, bitter surrender. “Fine.” she muttered.
The Rectoress stepped closer, movements efficient and deliberate. Her fingers brushed the laces of the tunic, unfastening the buttons one by one.
Her hands didn’t falter, though her touch softened when she reached the blood-stained bandages wrapped around Nesta’s ribs. “Hold still, please.”
Carefully, she unwound the linen, each layer peeling away with quiet resistance. Beneath it, the faint marks of recent healing glimmered where chaos had mended what it could not erase.
Nesta’s breath hitched despite herself. She didn’t need to look to know what Tissaia saw. The scars all over her body, some clean and pale, others darker. They told stories she didn’t want to speak of.
Tissaia said nothing, only moved lower, to the bandage binding the left knee. Her touch lingered there, as if testing her stability. “This must be changed too.” she said softly, fingers working with steady precision. The fabric stuck slightly where blood had dried, and Nesta bit the inside of her cheek rather than flinch.
Once the last strip was freed, Tissaia straightened, studying the damage with a calm that bordered on reverence. “You have endured so much.” she said quietly.
Nesta forced a faint, humorless smile. “Don’t start pitying me now.” Her hands twitched, but she didn’t move to cover herself.
“I do not pity. Observation is not pity.” Tissaia said quietly.
“Feels the same when you’re the one being looked at.” Nesta snapped back.
The woman’s only response was a faint incline of her head. She offered her hand again and Nesta took it. Together, they moved to the bath. Steam rose between them, blurring their reflections. Tissaia guided her down, steady and sure, until the girl’s legs met the water. The moment the heat enveloped her, she exhaled sharply, tension bleeding from her muscles in slow surrender.
“Lean back.” Tissaia murmured.
Nesta hesitated, studying her through the haze. The woman’s face was unreadable, but her tone carried a softness that disarmed her. She obeyed, sinking deeper.
Tissaia knelt beside the tub, dipping a cloth into the water before pressing it gently to Nesta’s shoulder. The contact sent a small shiver through her. But neither spoke for a long time. The only sounds were the quiet trickle of water and Nesta’s uneven breaths.
“You are used to doing everything alone.” Tissaia said finally, her voice low.
Nesta stared at the ceiling, her jaw working before she replied. “That’s how you survive.”
“Survival is not the same as living.” Tissaia countered softly.
The girl turned her head, meeting sharp blue eyes. “Easy for you to say. You’ve got a whole Aretuza to yourself. Students hanging on your every word. Power and influence. You don’t have to run.”
A faint smile curved Tissaia’s lips, though it carried no triumph. “If anything, power only isolates you further.” She dipped the cloth back into the water, her reflection trembling across the surface. “The higher you stand, the fewer dare to reach you. People see the discipline, the title, the control, and they assume you no longer feel.” Her voice grew quieter, but not colder. “They look at me and see order. A woman carved from stone.”
Nesta’s lips parted slightly, unsure whether to respond or stay silent. The honesty in Tissaia’s words felt strange. “I didn’t think you’d care what people think of you.”
“I don’t.” Tissaia said, a hint of dry amusement slipping through. “But it doesn’t mean their perceptions are without consequence. Even the truths can grow weary of being misunderstood.”
Nesta blinked at that, caught off guard. “So people misunderstand you, too.”
The Rectoress's smile deepened faintly, but her gaze remained steady on the task before her. “At first glance, they see something cold and untouchable. But first impressions rarely reveal anything worth knowing.”
“That’s one way to warn someone off.” Nesta sank a bit deeper into the water.
“On the contrary, I am stating that you should not believe what others assume. Not about me and not about yourself. Ever.” Her hand moved with exquisite care as she dabbed at a cut near the ribs. The cloth’s warmth pressed into tender skin.
Nesta’s breath caught and she looked away quickly. “You talk a lot, dear Rectoress.”
Tissaia’s brow arched delicately, a soft huff of amusement escaping her. “Only when silence fails to serve.” She paused, studying the younger woman. Nesta’s shoulders were tense beneath the bathwater, her jaw set, the muscles in her throat working as though holding back words she didn’t trust herself to say.
“You do that often.” Tissaia said suddenly, her tone calm but probing.
Nesta frowned, her head tilting slightly without meeting her gaze. “Do what?”
“Look away.” Tissaia’s cloth stilled in the water. “As if meeting my eyes might expose something you wish to keep hidden.”
“You think too much.” Nesta said after a pause.
Tissaia gave a quiet scoff, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Perhaps, but I’ve had years of practice reading people, and you, Nesta...” She leaned slightly closer, her words almost a whisper. “You wear your defenses like armor, yet they crack the moment someone sees through them.”
Nesta tensed. “You don’t know me at all.”
“Not yet.” Tissaia said easily. “But I understand the type. The ones who have never been seen enough to trust it when someone finally looks.”
That silenced the girl completely, the words hit somewhere she hadn’t let anyone touch. She looked at Tissaia briefly. The precision in her posture, the composure in her expression, and the faint glimmer of understanding in her eyes that felt dangerous.
After, her gaze fell quickly back to the surface of the water, watching the way it rippled from the slightest of movements, distorting her reflection until she barely recognized herself. Tissaia’s voice lingered in her mind like a spell she hadn’t meant to absorb, Not yet.
It echoed like a promise. She had spent years teaching herself to survive alone. To rely on no one. But here was this impossibly calm woman poised, saying words that made her feel truly exposed. In the quiet between them, she realized something she didn’t want to, Tissaia didn’t just see her wounds. She understood them.
And for someone like her, who had spent her entire life being misunderstood, hunted and feared, that was far more dangerous than any of the threats.
Finally, the Rectoress broke the silence. “Don’t do that.” she murmured.
“Do what?” Nesta asked quickly.
“You are retreating.” Tissaia said, gesturing lightly with a finger toward her downcast gaze. “Nesta, you’re not a frightened novice, and I’m not your enemy. Let yourself be seen for once.”
Nesta’s throat tightened. “That’s easier for you.”
“Is it?” Tissaia’s tone softened but carried no pity. “I’ve built a life behind walls far thicker than yours, dear. Yet here I am, offering to see you. Not the power, not the scars, not the defiance. Just you.”
The last word lingered in the air, soft as a touch. Nesta felt it like warmth spreading through her chest, unwanted and impossible to ignore. “I don’t need...” she began, but her voice faltered halfway through.
Tissaia gave her a knowing look. “Help or care?” She tilted her head slightly, an edge of teasing returning to her tone. “You could at least pick one. After all, I can’t read your mind.”
Nesta gave a small, reluctant huff of laughter. “You sound certain about that.”
“I am certain about many things.” Tissaia replied smoothly, dipping the cloth once more into the water. “But I know, that you are safe here for now. Whether you believe it or not.”
A silence fell between them again, but softer this time. For a fleeting moment, despite the ache in the body and the strangeness of being vulnerable, Nesta felt trust stirring in her chest.
Tissaia hummed lowly, as if sensing the shift. She rinsed the cloth one last time, her movements reverent, before setting it aside. “Done, no more ghosts on your skin tonight.” she murmured.
Nesta closed her eyes, sinking deeper into the water, and for once she let herself be seen.
-
The night was heavy with silence, the air thick with the scent of lavender and lingering candle smoke. The candles had long since burned low, their faint glow softening the edges of the room. Nesta lay rigid on one side of the bed, her back to Tissaia. Her eyes were open. She should have been asleep by now. The exhaustion that had dragged at her limbs all day was still there, but it didn’t soothe at all.
Every time she closed her eyes, the past slithered through the cracks of her mind. Faces she couldn’t forget, voices that wouldn’t die, the smell of smoke, and the sound of her own screams swallowed by fire.
Her body remembered before her mind did. A sharp gasp tore through her chest as she jolted awake, the sheet twisting in her fists. Her pulse thundered against her ribs, as if she had just escaped something unseen. She sat up frozen, staring into the dark, reminding herself where she was. Aretuza.
Behind her, there was a quiet shift. The older woman had not slept. She had noticed the change the moment it happened, the sharp inhale, the tremor that rippled through the mattress, the way Nesta’s shoulders locked in that defensive rigidity. Her instincts rarely failed her. Years of being the Rectoress had made her attuned to every flicker of tension, every unspoken pain. But this was different now.
She saw as Nesta’s fingers curled into the sheets, gripping as though the world might disappear if she let go. Tissaia recognized the look of someone trying to stay anchored in the present. Another battle she knew too well but never admitted to fighting herself.
For a long moment, she hesitated. Boundaries had always been her armor. She didn’t comfort unless necessity demanded it. And yet, something in her resisted staying still this time. There was a fragility in Nesta’s stillness that pulled at her, an unspoken plea hidden in the rigid line of her back.
Deliberately, Tissaia moved closer. The movement was slow, as if not to startle. Her hand hovered for a breath before she let it rest gently against Nesta’s arm. Quietly, she slid her arm around her, drawing her close.
Nesta’s entire body went tense at first, the instinct to pull away immediate. She wasn’t used to touch that wasn’t meant to harm or control. But this was none of those things. It was warm and safe. Her pulse still raced, but its rhythm began to slow. The tension bled from her shoulders inch by inch, until her breathing evened out again.
Tissaia said nothing. There were no questions, no demands for explanation, just presence. The scent of lavender lingered between them, that always seemed to cling to Tissaia. Nesta focused on sensations, the warmth against her back, the rhythm of another heartbeat close enough to hear. It grounded her in a way she didn’t expect.
For a long time, she stayed awake, eyes open in the dark, listening. Her mind kept circling back to the same thought, Why this woman, of all people, made her feel safe and seen.
Maybe it was the calm in her voice earlier, or the way her eyes held truth rather than pity. Perhaps, it was the way she didn’t flinch at the sight of her scars. Whatever it was, Nesta felt her defenses slipping just enough to let her breathe again.
As her breathing deepened, the tremors fading, Tissaia allowed her own eyes to close, her mind brushing against something unexpected, like a faint pulse of energy that wasn’t her own.
-
The morning light spilled softly through the open balcony, carrying the scent of sea. Breakfast had been too quiet for Nesta’s liking. The gentle clink of porcelain and the occasional murmur of wind outside were the only sounds between them, while Tissaia ate with the same precision she did everything else, measured and graceful.
Nesta, still sore and half-lost in her thoughts, found herself watching her more than once. Every movement seemed deliberate, and so effortless. The kind of composure she had never mastered, nor trusted.
When the meal was done, Tissaia set her cup down with a soft click and turned toward her. “You should accompany me this morning.” she said. “There’s a lesson for the younger mages, that you can observe.”
The girl blinked, caught off guard. “Observe?” Her brow furrowed slightly. “You mean sit there and watch you all day?”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Tissaia’s mouth. “You’ll find observation is never wasted.”
Nesta tilted her head, suspicious. “Are you inviting me?”
“I am.” Tissaia replied evenly.
“And here I thought you planned to keep me locked in this chamber like some secret experiment.” Nesta’s lips curled into half-smile.
Tissaia’s brows arched delicately. “If I wished to hide you, Nesta, I assure you the chamber would be far less comfortable.”
Nesta gave a short, amused laugh despite herself. “So this is your version of generosity?”
“Call it pragmatism.” Tissaia said, rising from her seat. “You need stimulation as much as you need rest. I will not have you sulking in here, convinced the world is ending because you are made to recover.”
Nesta scoffed, though her tone was softer now. “And what will I be observing exactly? You or your students?”
The older woman paused, considering her answer. “Perhaps both.” she said at last.
“Fine, but if I die of boredom, I’m haunting you.” Nesta replied.
The faintest trace of a smirk touched Tissaia’s lips. “Then I shall have to ensure the lesson is interesting enough to prevent such a fate.” She crossed the room with measured grace, opened the wardrobe and drew out a neatly folded set of garments, carrying them back to the bed.
She laid them down carefully, dark, elegant, and structured. Trousers of soft midnight blue, a fitted blouse with clean lines, and a tailored overcoat with subtle embroidery at the cuffs that caught faintly in the morning light.
“Something more suitable.” Tissaia said simply.
Nesta blinked, her eyes tracing the garments. “Do you keep these around for unexpected guests?”
“Hardly, I had them brought for you.” Tissaia replied, her tone as calm as ever.
There was no boast in her words, though to Nesta, the gesture landed with surprising weight. Someone had thought about her comfort. So, she hesitated before reaching out, brushing her fingers over the fabric. “You didn’t have to.” she muttered.
“I am well aware.” Tissaia answered smoothly, her gaze steady.
Before Nesta could reply, Tissaia turned slightly and from beside her desk, she retrieved something else. A cane of dark wood, polished and curved elegantly at the handle. She held it out to her. “For your knee. It will ease the strain while you heal.”
The girl stared at it, momentarily speechless. The cane was too exquisite to be a mere tool. Every inch of it was deliberate, the polished dark wood, the subtle engravings, the faint glimmer of blue that danced beneath the surface like trapped light. It looked crafted for her.
“This doesn’t look like something you just had lying around.” she said slowly, suspicion and awe tangling in her tone.
Tissaia’s eyes lingered on the way girl’s fingers brushed the carved handle with reverence she likely didn’t intend to show. There was something unexpectedly endearing in it, the mix of defiance and hesitation, the refusal to admit she was touched.
“It was made for you.” Tissaia said simply.
The words came quieter than she meant them to, and for a moment, she almost regretted saying them aloud. It sounded personal and too revealing. She caught herself, shoulders straightening, chin lifting slightly, but the corners of her lips betrayed her, tugging upward in the faintest curve before she quelled it.
Her gaze drifted to the cane once more, admiring its balance of strength and grace. She deserves something beautiful, she thought.
Across from her, Nesta still hadn’t spoken. She only looked between Tissaia and the cane, searching for a hint of mockery that wasn’t there. When she found none, her gaze softened, the sharpness in her features easing just slightly. Her grip tightened on the cane as if grounding herself. “You really do think of everything, don’t you?”
Tissaia inclined her head with quiet satisfaction. “It is necessary.”
Nesta let out a slow breath, eyes dropping to the garments once more. Somehow, she couldn’t tell if the room felt warmer because of the sunlight or because of Tissaia. “Still, you didn’t have to go through the trouble.”
“I am aware, but I chose to.” Tissaia replied, her tone soft but sure. She stepped back, gesturing toward the folded garments. “Take your time and dress.”
Nesta nodded slowly, her fingers brushing over the cane once more. She exhaled deeply, feeling the strange flutter in her chest that the older woman always seemed to leave behind.
-
Later, Nesta found herself observing Tissaia in the classroom, where a group of Aretuza’s students stood in disciplined silence. Tissaia’s presence commanded the room effortlessly, her gaze sharp as she moved through the lesson with an unyielding precision. Gone was the quiet softness of the morning, here she was a force of order and control.
Tissaia took in Nesta’s presence with careful neutrality, though she was keenly aware of her watching. It was an interesting dynamic, a blonde outsider, sitting at the edge of the hall, scrutinizing a world that had never been hers.
"Again." Tissaia instructed. A student who had fumbled her spell flinched, quickly correcting her stance. "If you cannot master the fundamentals, you will never wield true power."
Her tone was not cruel, nor was it unnecessarily harsh but it was absolute. The students, some of whom had been at Aretuza for years, were disciplined under her watch, their posture straightening, their magic steadier. They were afraid of disappointing her, but more than that, they wanted to earn her approval.
Tissaia moved between them with calculated precision, each correction delivered with the authority of someone who expected nothing less than excellence. She could feel blue eyes on her, assessing, weighing, perhaps even admiring. It was a realization that settled deep within her, though she gave no outward indication of it.
One girl attempted a complex summoning too soon and nearly lost control of the spell. Before Nesta could react, Tissaia was already there. With a flick of her wrist, she dissipated the unstable magic, stepping into the girl's space.
"Do not reach for power you are not yet ready to hold." Tissaia said, low and precise. "Power does not forgive impatience. It does not reward recklessness. If you cannot command yourself, you will never command it."
The girl swallowed hard, nodding quickly. The Rectoress of Aretuza did not offer comfort, only the lesson.
Nesta, from where she sat, felt something unfamiliar settle within her chest. Awe. Not just for Tissaia’s skill, but for the force of will she was. The way she seemed untouchable.
A true storm restrained within unshakable discipline. She didn’t mean to think it so loudly, the thought was only meant for herself, a fleeting flicker of admiration that pulsed and faded before she could catch it.
Yet something shifted. For the briefest heartbeat, Tissaia’s concentration faltered, and a whisper, soft but unmistakable brushed her consciousness. It wasn’t her own thought. It carried Nesta’s sharp inner tone she had already come to recognize. Clear as if spoken directly into her mind.
Her brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. Her mental shields had been in place, tightly woven as always. Another discipline she never abandoned. And still, the girl’s presence had slipped through them. Remarkable and dangerous.
Tissaia turned slightly, her gaze finding the girl’s. It was brief, a glance that lingered just long enough to convey understanding. And she looked away again, as though nothing had passed between them at all. But her heartbeat had quickened.
Nesta inhaled sharply, realizing what had happened from the faint change in Tissaia’s posture, the flicker of awareness that crossed her expression before she hid it again. The connection between them was growing stronger. And even more uncontrollable.
-
Tissaia had been quiet through most of the evening, her mind preoccupied in a way Nesta couldn’t quite read. The lesson had been demanding, and though the older woman had dismissed the mages with the same composed authority as always, Nesta could sense something lingering beneath the surface. So, when Tissaia suddenly stood from her chair, straightened her robe, and turned to her with an unreadable expression, Nesta tensed.
"Come with me." Tissaia said simply, already moving toward the door leading to the balcony. "The air will do us both some good."
Nesta arched an eyebrow. "I didn’t realize you needed fresh air."
"I don't, but you do.” Tissaia replied, pausing only long enough to give Nesta a pointed look.
It was an excuse. The girl knew it well enough and yet, before she could come up with a sharp remark, Tissaia had already opened the doors, the cool night breeze curling into the room like an invitation.
Nesta sighed, reaching for her cane, and followed. The ocean stretched endlessly before them, dark waves rolling beneath the silver glow of the moon. The scent of salt and night jasmine mingled with the crisp air, a stark contrast to the warmth that lingered between them. Nesta exhaled slowly, adjusting her grip on the cane as she leaned against the balcony railing.
She was aware of Tissaia beside her. The way the wind caught in her dark hair, the way her sharp features softened in the moonlight. Her gaze snapped to Tissaia’s hands as she lit her pipe with a precise movement, the ember casting a brief glow over her face. It illuminated the quiet tension in her jaw, the delicate but firm curve of her fingers. The image was so striking that Nesta nearly forgot herself.
"You smoke?" she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Tissaia exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift into the cool air. "Occasionally, it helps me to relax."
Nesta hummed, tilting her head slightly. "I wouldn’t have guessed."
Tissaia’s lips curved, not quite a smirk, but something close. "You assume too much."
The girl let out a breathy chuckle, shifting her weight onto her good leg. "And you say very little."
Tissaia took another slow drag, her gaze steady as she turned her head enough for their eyes to meet. Nesta swallowed, pulse quickening. She had never been the type to be easily flustered, and yet there was something about the way Tissaia looked at her like she had already unraveled Nesta’s defenses without even trying.
The thought surfaced unbidden, like a spark flaring in the dark before she could extinguish it. You are beautiful.
The silence between them thickened, electric, threaded with disbelief. The older woman stilled, her fingers paused against the stem of the pipe, her lips parting just slightly before she caught herself. The faintest tremor of surprise rippled through her composure. She blinked once, twice, almost imperceptibly as her mind raced behind the still mask she wore so well.
Impossible, she thought. Twice in one day, Nesta had pierced her mental shields. And not through deliberate intrusion, not through practiced skill, but through feeling. Her defenses were absolute, refined over centuries of practice. No one had ever slipped past them, not even Vilgefortz when he had tried. And yet this girl had breached them without even knowing she had done so.
Tissaia’s gaze flicked toward her, searching Nesta’s profile in the pale moonlight. The younger woman was staring hard at the sea, every line of her body screaming denial.
Nesta’s heart pounded against her ribs, each beat echoing like a drum. She could feel Tissaia’s awareness brushing against her mind now. She turned her head slightly, pretending to focus on the horizon, pretending she hadn’t just let something irretrievable slip.
The woman’s fingers finally lowered the pipe. "You should rest soon." she murmured, though there was no real dismissal in her tone. If anything, it sounded like a distraction. "Your knee needs it."
Nesta forced a smirk, trying to regain her footing. "Ordering me around again, Rectoress?"
Tissaia’s mouth twitched, betraying the smallest hint of amusement before she smoothed it away. “If I recall, you rarely listen to orders. Perhaps suggestion will fare better.”
Nesta huffed, trying for indifference, but her heart wasn’t cooperating. The warmth of Tissaia almost smiling seemed so intimate to her. She shifted her weight, gaze trailing over the woman beside her. How easily she returned to composure, every gesture measured, every breath deliberate. And yet, Nesta could still feel the echo of that moment. The flicker in Tissaia’s blue eyes when she had heard the thought.
The older woman lifted the pipe again, drawing in one last breath. Nesta watched her, unable to stop herself. There was something about seeing the Rectoress, always immaculate, in a new light, hair loose, posture softened by the quiet. The contrast tugged at her, made her chest tighten in a way she didn’t want to name.
When Tissaia finally spoke again, her voice was calm, though a thread of something gentler wove through it. “Let’s go back inside.”
Nesta’s smirk faded. She nodded once, though her eyes lingered on Tissaia’s profile a heartbeat too long before she turned toward the chamber doors.
Notes: stubborn Nesta & curious Tissaia
- around 3k words
Pain greeted Nesta the moment she stirred, a deep, gnawing ache in her knee that refused to be ignored. She shifted slightly, testing the limits of movement, but as soon as she tried to bend her leg, agony shot through her like wildfire.
She hissed through clenched teeth, her fingers gripping the silk sheets beneath her. Damned dimeritium. Even now, with the arrow long gone, its effects lingered, stripping her of strength, slowing the healing process her magic would have otherwise quickened.
"You are awake."
Nesta's head snapped toward the source of the voice.
Tissaia stood near the foot of the bed, as composed as ever, with a book in hand. She was dressed in dark green today, her hair pulled back into its usual immaculate style, not a strand out of place.
Nesta swallowed the bitterness rising in her throat. "How lucky I am." she muttered.
“You should not be moving.” Tissaia said calmly, her tone even but carrying the quiet weight of authority that brooked no argument. Her blue eyes, always assessing fell to the half-healed wound at Nesta’s leg. “The wound is not fully closed, and forcing it will only make matters worse.”
“I don’t plan to rot in this bed forever.” Nesta muttered, defiance coating the edges of her exhaustion. Her hand clenched at the sheet, as though she could anchor herself with it.
“No.” Tissaia said, taking another measured step closer, the faint scent of lavender drifting with her. “But you will remain until you are strong enough to stand without crumpling.” There was no cruelty in her words, only the hurtful truth.
Yet it scraped at Nesta all the same. She bristled, eyes flashing upward to meet the older woman’s calm gaze. There was something unbearable in that composure, that poise unmarred by pity. So she opened her mouth, ready to spit out some retort, but the attempt to shift her leg sent a bolt of pain up her side. Her breath hitched, her hands gripping the sheets until her knuckles whitened.
Tissaia didn’t flinch, but Nesta caught the faintest flicker of something in her expression. With a wave of fingers, the Rectoress whispered a quiet word, and cool energy pulsed through the air, settling over the girl’s wound. The pain dulled, replaced by a warm thrum that almost felt like a heartbeat beneath the skin.
“You are remarkably stubborn.” Tissaia said with a low voice.
Nesta’s lips curved into something between a grimace and a smirk. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Tissaia’s head tilted, a small spark of intrigue glinting in her eyes. “It depends who you plan to fight.”
Her voice was measured, but Nesta caught the faintest ripple beneath it. Something close to curiosity, or perhaps just caution.
The Rectoress continued, stepping closer to the bedside once more, her hands clasped neatly behind her back. “You were running when you arrived here. Who was hunting you?”
The question hung in the air and Nesta froze. Her jaw flexed, breath catching halfway between defiance and exhaustion. The answer burned on her tongue, images flashing behind her eyes, the faces, the screams, the death wishes. But she swallowed them down. Saying it aloud would give it shape, would make it even more real. And worse, it would pull this woman, this into a mess she couldn’t control. So instead, Nesta looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”
Tissaia said nothing. But her silence was a force unto itself. It pressed against the room like the weight of judgment. After a long moment, her breath left her in a quiet sigh. “Very well.” The words were an elegant dismissal, cold and final.
But Nesta didn’t relax. She could feel the unspoken thoughts gathering between them, the quiet hum of power that seemed to surround this woman. Tissaia’s gaze lingered for a heartbeat too long, drawn to the faint tremor in Nesta’s fingers where they twisted in the sheets.
Something about the girl unsettled her. Not her defiance, because Tissaia had seen plenty of that in her years at Aretuza. But the strange gravity she exuded. A pull that gnawed at Tissaia’s control, tempting her to reach further, to understand her better.
No, distance is discipline. she thought firmly. Yet even as she turned away, her pulse betrayed her with a strange echo in her chest. Slowly, she began to move toward the door, every step a quiet retreat into composure.
“Wait.” The word cracked the air between them before Nesta even realized she’d spoken.
Tissaia stopped, her back straightening, but she didn’t turn immediately. “Yes?”
Nesta’s heart thudded painfully. She didn’t know why she’d stopped her. Her pride screamed to let her leave, but the thought of being alone again, trapped in silence felt unbearable. She exhaled sharply. “How long?”
The older woman turned her head slightly. “Until you heal?” Her tone softened by a degree. “Days, perhaps even weeks. The damage was extensive, Miss Nesta.”
Nesta’s stomach knotted and she clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. The word echoed like a death sentence. Weeks of being helpless.
Tissaia watched the play of emotion cross the girl’s face, the sharp inhale, the way her throat worked around a swallow. She recognized that raw look, restless instinct of someone who had survived by fighting and had no idea how to rest. For the briefest moment, empathy threatened to crack through her calm. But, she stilled it with a breath. “Perhaps for now, surviving will have to be enough for you.”
As she turned again, Nesta watched her go, every line of her body aching to rebel, but pain rooted her where she lay. She needed to get out of here, but first she needed to stand.
-
The attempt came hours later. Tissaia had left her alone for the time being, no doubt trusting that she would listen to reason. Nesta waited until the last echo of the Rectoress’s presence slipped far away. The silence that followed was suffocating. It pressed against her skin like a cage.
Her fingers curled into the sheets, the muscles in her arms tensing as she shifted her weight. The dull ache in her leg flared instantly, but she ignored it. Pain meant she was still alive, she’d lived through worse.
Get up. Teeth gritted, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Cold air hit her bare skin, the floor biting against her soles. For a heartbeat, she hesitated, pulse thrumming in her throat and then she moved. The moment she put weight on her left leg, agony exploded through her knee. White-hot and blinding, it stole her breath, her vision sparking black at the edges. But she refused to fall.
One step forward. Her breath came sharp and ragged, a low hiss escaping between her teeth. Her fingers clutched at the bedpost until her knuckles whitened, every muscle trembling with effort.
Another step. Her whole life had been a fight. Against fear, against circumstance, against anyone who tried to cage her. Lying here, helpless and dependent on a stranger’s mercy, was worse than any wound. Every instinct in her screamed to move, to run, to fight.
But her body betrayed her. The world tilted suddenly, vision spinning, and for a breathless moment, she was falling. Except she didn’t hit the ground, as hands caught her mid-collapse. Her body went rigid on instinct, panic sparking up her spine. The scent of lavender and parchment filled her senses, and realization struck like a blow. Once again Tissaia.
Nesta’s head snapped upward, breath catching as she found herself face to face with the older woman, closer than she’d ever been. Tissaia’s arm was wrapped around her waist, firm and sure, holding her upright with strength that clearly caused her a lot of effort.
Fury hotter than pain burned through the girl. “Let me go.” she snarled, shoving weakly against Tissaia’s arm.
The older woman didn’t move an inch. Her grip only tightened, steady but not cruel. “And let you crack your skull open on my floor?” The words were mild, but there was something in the intonation that sounded dangerously close to care.
Nesta’s breath came hard, ragged between clenched teeth. She hated the way her body leaned involuntarily into that support, the way her pulse hammered in her throat. Her pride rebelled at the very idea of being held up, of being seen this vulnerable and weak. “Still better that, than being coddle.” she hissed.
Tissaia’s brows lifted, a faint glimmer of amusement breaking through her composure. “You call this coddling?” Her voice was low, but her arm stayed firmly in place. “You are a foolish girl if you think stubbornness is a substitute for strength.”
Nesta’s retort died in her throat, her breath catching again, but this time from the closeness of her. The steady rhythm of Tissaia’s breathing, the faint warmth radiating from her body.
Softly the Rectoress exhaled, almost imperceptibly, and eased Nesta back onto the bed with careful precision. “You need to rest.” she said, stepping back, voice cool once more. “The world will still be there when you’re able to stand."
Nesta wanted to curse her, to tell her she didn’t need her pity and her damned rules. But when she looked up, Tissaia’s gaze was already turned away. Distant once again, though Nesta could swear she saw the faintest tremor in her fingers.
“I don’t need your help.” she said firmly.
“Clearly.” The dry amusement in Tissaia’s tone was like oil on flame.
Nesta’s teeth ground together, jaw tight enough to ache. There it was again, that maddening calm, that poise that made her feel foolish just by breathing in the same space.
The sorceress exhaled, and this time her voice softened, barely audible beneath the crackling silence. “Enough, Nesta.”
The simple intimacy of her name uttered without title or formality hit harder than any reprimand. It made something twist in the girl’s chest. With a muttered curse under her breath, she let herself relax onto the bed with small, shuddering breaths.
Tissaia’s presence filled the small space. Her intelligent eyes studied Nesta with the precision and the faint wonder. She should have been annoyed, even furious. This girl had risked reopening her wounds, had defied instruction, had challenged her authority at every occasion. And yet, Tissaia found herself admiring it. The sheer refusal to bend, even when her body had already surrendered. It was very foolish, but also rare. That unique spark, that unwillingness to yield even to enormous amount of pain.
Just like Yennefer. But different. Wilder and fully untamed. Tissaia thought fleetingly.
Her lips pressed into a line. “Why do you do this to yourself?” she asked finally, her voice low and even.
Nesta hesitated under that gaze. Tissaia’s eyes were impossibly clear, like still water that could reflect truth whether no one wanted to see. There was no harshness there, only the piercing focus of someone who saw too much.
She could feel the weight of that attention, the way it stripped away her defenses, layer by layer. If she looked at her for too long, she was certain Tissaia would see everything she tried to bury. The fear, the exhaustion, the cracks she’d hidden behind stubbornness. It felt like standing naked in the middle of a rain with thunder. So she just looked away.
For a long time, Tissaia said nothing. She simply watched her, the faint candlelight tracing the lines of Nesta’s face, illuminating the exhaustion beneath the bravado, the tremor she tried to hide in her fingers, the vulnerability that peeked out from behind the fire.
The girl was tall, easily a head above most of the novices Tissaia had seen, her frame strong, honed by whatever life had shaped her through. Her hair, a pale gold, fell around her shoulders in careless waves, catching the candlelight like threads of sunlight. The blue of her eyes struck Tissaia, bright and alert even beneath the shadow of fatigue.
A faint scar marked her left eyebrow, thin and subtle, running partway into the middle, hinting at a past wound that had left its mark. More scars marred her left shoulder and the curve of her hip, faint but insistent. The proof of resilience and battles fought, whether against others or against life itself. Each one seemed to pulse faintly in Tissaia’s awareness, a story written on skin that drew her fascination.
She also noted how the girl’s muscles flexed beneath the thin fabric, the careful way she shifted despite her injuries. Every detail was a clue to strength, endurance and defiance. Tissaia’s eyes lingered longer than she would have allowed herself in any other situation, analyzing, measuring the impossible presence that had appeared in her quarters yesterday.
And yet, there was something beyond all of it, that defied analysis. An undeniable feeling, tugging at the edges of her perception, urging her to reach out, to help, to protect. A part of her mind whispered that this strange girl was meant to be here by destiny itself.
Unconsciously, with a small and a bit hesitant motion, Tissaia reached forward. Her short fingers brushed lightly against Nesta’s temple, a touch so careful it startled her.
Nesta stiffened, instinct screaming to retreat, but she didn’t. The touch was too soft and absolutely unexpected. The woman’s thumb lingered for the briefest second as she tucked a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear.
“You are not weak.” Tissaia said quietly.
The ache in Nesta’s chest deepened, pressing against her ribs until it hurt to breathe. She didn’t have a name for the feeling. Only that it unsettled her and stripped her bare in a way she hadn’t felt in years.
Tissaia didn’t press her for more. She simply rose to her full height. The faintest shadow of regret passed behind her eyes before it vanished entirely. “Rest.” she said softly, but the word carried the weight of command all the same.
Nesta didn’t argue this time. She couldn’t, when every part of her still burned from the fight against the strange pull this woman stirred in her.
As the Rectoress turned away, Nesta watched her in silence. The quiet grace in her movement, the control that seemed absolute, and yet Nesta thought she saw her pause. As if she too were unsettled by something she couldn’t quite name.
When the door closed behind the older woman, Nesta exhaled shakily into the quiet. The scent of lavender still lingered in the air. And for the first time since waking, she wasn’t entirely sure whether she wanted to fight her way out or stay.
-
Pain was a steady companion by now, but at least it had dulled to something tolerable. Nesta shifted against the pillows, her body protesting every movement. The candlelight flickered in Tissaia’s quarters, casting long shadows against the stone walls.
The Rectoress sat at her desk, a book open before her, but Nesta could feel those sharp eyes flicking toward her now and then. There was a precision to the way Tissaia watched with a calm control that unsettled her. And yet, there was something magnetic in it. Something pulling her attention despite herself.
Nesta forced herself to sit up fully, exhaling sharply through her nose. She hated the way Tissaia had taken control, the certainty in her hands, the quiet authority that left her exposed in every sense. And yet, even as she seethed, a small part of her was fascinated. How could someone so measured, so untouchable, make her feel so scrutinized and so seen at the same time?
“Are you going to keep staring at me all night?” she muttered, voice rough with irritation and a trace of curiosity she didn’t intend to show.
Tissaia didn’t even look up. “Perhaps.”
Nesta scoffed and looked away. Her body ached, but her mind was still racing, darting through every thought and every possibility. Alongside the irritation, a thrill of curiosity gnawed at her.
Who was this woman who could hold such power so effortlessly, who could appear untouchable and dangerous, and still draw her in?
Nesta found herself stealing glances, observing the way Tissaia’s fingers traced the pages of her book, the subtle shift of her shoulders, the tilt of her head. Even the quiet of the room, the stillness of the air around her, seemed charged with powerful chaos.
She needed to think, to plan something, to find a way out. But as her eyes kept wandering back, she realized it wasn’t just curiosity about her own survival. It was curiosity about the woman who had saved her. Who had allowed herself to be seen, if only in fleeting glimpses. That one thought was more unsettling than the pain.
The faint scrape of porcelain made Nesta’s eyes snap back toward Tissaia. A tray had appeared on the small table beside the bed. Simple, but warm food. Soup, fresh bread, and tea. The aroma was comforting, almost domestic.
“Eat.” Tissaia said simply.
Nesta eyed it, but didn’t reach for it. “I’m not hungry.”
Tissaia’s eyes lifted to the girl’s, sharp and unwavering. “You are lying.”
“I just don’t want it.” Nesta replied, hunching slightly against the pillows.
Tissaia’s gaze remained steady, unblinking. “Do you truly intend to make this difficult?”
Nesta let out a dry, humorless laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t intend anything. I just don’t want to be fed like some wounded animal.”
“Then do not behave like one.” Tissaia said with commanding voice.
Nesta’s lips parted in shock, and then narrowed into a glare. “Excuse me?”
“You require sustenance.” Tissaia said, each word deliberate. “You may despise your circumstances, but don’t allow your own stubbornness to worsen them.”
A part of Nesta wanted to lash out, to refuse simply to prove a point. But even as she resisted, the scent of the soup, the warmth of it made her stomach betray her. She had been too proud to admit it, but hunger had been gnawing at her ever since she landed here. Yet still, she hesitated, refusing to meet Tissaia’s piercing gaze.
The Rectoress studied her a moment longer, the corners of her mouth just hinting at a smile, an acknowledgment that she knew exactly what was happening inside the girl. Then, with quiet, measured steps, she approached the table, picked up the tray and placed it directly in front of Nesta, setting it down with gentle care.
“Eat.” she repeated, softer this time.
Nesta exhaled sharply, caught between irritation and the reluctant pull she felt toward the Rectoress. “Fine.” she muttered, grabbing the spoon. Her first sip was slow, almost experimental, as though tasting both the food and Tissaia’s presence at the same time.
Tissaia said nothing, only returned to her desk, as if the matter was settled. Yet Nesta could sense the lingering weight of her attention, the almost imperceptible hum of scrutiny that followed every movement.
She had expected cold professionalism, maybe even indifference, but Tissaia’s calm authority wasn’t just command. It was awareness mixed with something else she couldn’t name. Something that made Nesta want to understand it, to see if she could provoke more.
Summary: Nesta has spent her life as an outcast, a self-taught witch who learned magic on her own to survive. Hunted and nearly caught, she makes a desperate escape, opening a portal to nowhere. But something deep inside her pulls her to safety, and she lands in the last place she expects. The quarters of Tissaia de Vries, Aretuza’s formidable rector. Wounded, she must navigate the tension between her own fierce independence and the care Tissaia insists on providing. But danger still lurks beyond Aretuza’s walls, and the ghosts of Nesta’s past may not be so easily left behind.
- around 1k words
The scent of blood clung to the air, thick and metallic, drowning out the crisp bite of the ocean beyond the cliffs. Nesta ran, as her breath came in ragged gasps, legs burning from the relentless chase, but she didn’t dare stop. Not now, when the shadows behind her grew closer with each heartbeat. The forest had given her cover for a time, its tangled mess of roots and branches slowing her hunters, but even she knew it wouldn’t last. Not against them. And definitely not against dimeritium arrows designed to bring down witches like her.
The first arrow had grazed her ribs, just another wound to add to the countless ones she already bore. But the second had struck deeply. The pain roared through her as she staggered forward, her left knee nearly giving out beneath her. The dimeritium-tipped arrow was buried deep in the joint, its cursed metal burning against her flesh, rendering her magic useless. She clenched her teeth, pushing forward, her vision blurring at the edges. There was only one option left. One last desperate chance.
The air crackled as she threw her hands forward, summoning what little strength she had left. A portal, but not to anywhere specific because she didn’t have time to choose. Just somewhere else. Anywhere far away from this cursed forest.
The portal snapped into existence before her, swirling in deep shades of violet and black. It flickered unstably, because her magic was weak, all reserves nearly drained. But unexpectedly she felt a pull, that was beyond any logic or reason. However it screamed to her safety.
She didn’t hesitate, as she threw herself through and fell.
-
Nesta hit the ground hard. The cold sting of marble met her body, and for a few fleeting seconds, she didn’t move. Everything seemed so quiet. Not the kind of silence she was used to, that preceded danger, that warned of predators lurking in the dark. No, this was different. A calm quiet.
But, pain screamed through her knee as she tried to move. Carefully, she forced herself onto her elbows, blinking rapidly against the dim candlelight flickering overhead. It took her a moment to realize where she was. The smooth stone beneath her hands, the lingering scent of ink and perfume in the air, the heavy presence of power that hummed like a second heartbeat in the room. Aretuza.
Her bloodied hands left smears on the pristine floor, when suddenly she heard measured, but hurried footsteps. The young woman barely had time to lift her head before the looming figure of Tissaia de Vries stepped into view.
The sorceress was as composed as ever, her blue robes untouched by the chaos and dirt Nesta had dragged in with her. Those blue, sharp, calculating eyes swept over her, taking in the injuries, the filth, the clear signs of battle. And yet, her expression remained unreadable.
Nesta tried to move, to push herself up, but her body betrayed her. Her knee buckled, and she barely bit back a cry as fresh pain flared.
The great and legendary Rectoress of Aretuza simply observed the stranger in her own quarters. "Who are you?" she asked finally, voice smooth and controlled. "Explain. Now."
Nesta gritted her teeth. "Hunted." she forced out, fingers curling against the marble. "I opened a portal."
Tissaia tilted her head slightly. "And you chose my quarters to make your escape?"
Not by choice. Not consciously, at least. She thought, but the words wouldn’t come. Her body trembled from exhaustion, the effects of dimeritium spreading like poison through her veins.
Tissaia sighed, a soft, almost imperceptible sound. She knelt beside Nesta, one hand ghosting over the wound at her knee before stopping. "Dimeritium." A flick of her fingers and a pulse of magic surrounded them. "Foolish girl." she muttered, as if Nesta had a choice in where she landed.
The young woman wanted to snap back, to summon whatever strength she had left for a retort, but darkness was already creeping at the edges of her vision. Tissaia’s face was the last thing she saw before unconsciousness took her.
-
Pain was the first thing she felt when she woke. A dull, throbbing ache in her knee, in her ribs, in every part of her body that had been pushed too far. But there was warmth, too. A soft bed beneath her, the scent of herbs lingering in the air. She wasn’t dead.
Slowly, her eyes fluttered open, and she found herself staring at a stone ceiling. Not the sky, not the forest, but the great Aretuza.
She shifted slightly, wincing as pain flared up her bandaged leg. Someone had tended to her. Her thoughts snapped into focus as movement caught her eye. Across the room, standing beside a polished wooden desk, Tissaia de Vries watched her.
Her robes were different now, deeper blue, her dark hair pinned back with precise elegance. Her gaze remained unreadable, though there was something in the way she observed Nesta that made her uneasy.
"You are awake." Tissaia noted.
Nesta licked her dry lips. "Observant."
The Rectoress arched a brow, but didn't rise to the bait. Instead, she moved closer, each step precise and small. "Your knee is useless for now. The dimeritium damage will take time to heal."
Nesta exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down her face. "Perfect."
Tissaia’s gaze flickered briefly to the girl’s trembling fingers. There was defiance in the tone, but beneath it, hidden pain. “You should be grateful.” she said, voice smooth but distant. “Had you landed anywhere else, you would have bled out by now.”
The girl tensed, moving slightly against the pillows. “I didn’t choose to land here.”
Tissaia’s lips curved, almost imperceptibly. "Didn’t you?" The words came softer than expected, but laced with something dangerous and knowing. Even as she said it, a flicker of unease stirred within her. No one could enter her quarters unbidden. Not even the most gifted of her students. The wards she had laid were old and unyielding, tied to her very essence. And yet this girl had appeared, broken and bleeding, as if the rules of the world had bent to deliver her.
The air still hummed faintly with chaos. She had felt a strange, irresistible current that had guided her back to the stranger sprawled across her. It had been centuries since Tissaia felt anything like it. A compulsion that wasn’t born of will, but something deeper. And now, standing over her, she felt it again. That subtle tug beneath her ribs. As if it wasn’t only chaos, but something more.
She forced herself to steady, brushing invisible dust from her sleeves. What are you? Tissaia wondered.
Finally, she spoke again, her tone deceptively calm. “What’s your name?”
Nesta hesitated. It had been a long time since someone had asked for it without already knowing. A long time since her name had meant anything other than a whispered curse or a forgotten ghost. However, something about the woman’s gaze made lying feel pointless. “Nesta.” she muttered, voice hoarse.
There was a slight tilt of the sorceress’s head. Perhaps, an acknowledgment. “I am Tissaia de Vries.”
The name sent a shiver down her spine. She had heard of Tissaia before. Anyone with even a whisper of magic had. Aretuza’s strict and formidable rector, a woman whose control over chaos was said to be unparalleled.
Nesta swallowed hard. She didn't know why her magic had led her here, why safety had felt like this place. Like her. But it had and now she was at the mercy of the most disciplined and dangerous woman in Aretuza.
Tissaia studied her a moment longer before sighing. "You will remain here until you are well enough to stand."
"And if I refuse?" Nesta asked in defiance.
Tissaia’s lips quirked slightly. "Then you may try to crawl out the door. I imagine it will be quite painful."
Nesta scowled but said nothing. She hated feeling weak. She hated that all perfect Tissaia, had seen her like this. But there was no denying the truth. She couldn’t leave. Not yet.
The older woman turned, moving toward the desk. "Rest, Miss Nesta. We will discuss the matter of your presence here when you are in a state to hold a conversation."
The girl narrowed her eyes. "And if I don't want to talk?"
Tissaia didn’t even glance back. "You will."
Nesta grit her teeth, but this time, she had no argument. She let her head fall back against the pillows, exhaustion pulling at her once more. For the first time in a long time, she was safe. But she had no idea if she had just escaped one trap, only to step into another.
The moon was not yet full, but its pull already pressed like heavy chains on Isadora’s skin. The day had been wrong from the moment she opened her eyes. Everything was too sharp, too bright, the scents around her clinging too vividly to her senses. She could feel the coming monster inside her, that primal tide of hunger and fury she’d tried so long to master.
She had fled the upper floors long before dark, her body carrying her almost instinctively downward, to the place she dreaded most. The underground basement. It wasn’t spoken of openly at the Academy, but every faculty member knew it existed. The reinforced chamber, stone walls with heavy iron bars spanning the doorway. A cage for werewolves, built long ago and designed to contain any who lost control during the full moon.
Isadora hated it. Every instinct rebelled against the cold stone, the chains bolted to the walls, the reek of old iron and fear that lingered in the air. Yet she forced herself down there tonight, her hands shaking as she barred the door from the inside. Better a cage than waking to blood on her hands.
But still, her chest felt tight, her lungs refusing to fill no matter how deeply she tried to breathe. The truth was, she had been anxious for weeks. Absolutely restless, irritable, her temper fraying at the edges in ways she could no longer excuse. Her sleep had been fragmented, haunted by half-dreams of running under a merciless moon. Her senses had sharpened, every scent and sound gnawing at her until she felt like she was unraveling inside her own skin. It was more than the pull of the lunar cycle. She knew it. Her fiercely guarded control she had spent years building was slipping and that terrified her.
She was an Alpha, and if she lost herself tonight, if the beast broke free fully under the moon’s merciless light, it would not be a simple frenzy. It would be an Alpha’s rampage. A force of destruction magnified a hundredfold. The thought made her stomach twist with nausea. She could feel the tremors beginning in her limbs, the itching burn along her skin as her body strained toward change.
“Not yet.” she whispered to herself, her voice shaking. Her claws dug crescent marks into her palms. “Not yet, damn it. Hold it.” But the moon was rising and the pull was relentless.
The shadows pressed heavy around her, broken only by the flickering of a single lantern she’d lit before locking herself in. But suddenly, she heard footsteps. “No!” she rasped, her voice hoarse, panicked. She pressed herself to the bars, amber eyes flashing in the half-dark. “Don’t you dare open that.”
Nesta appeared in the sliver of lamplight that spilled down the stairwell. Dressed still in her teaching attire. An elegant, tailored trousers and a deep green shirt. The soft tap of her cane against each stone step echoed in the chamber, a measured rhythm that cut through the oppressive silence. She looked like a phantom carved from shadows, yet her piercing blue eyes were fixed on Isadora with warmth and concern.
“You feel it already.” she said softly.
“Stay away.” Isadora’s voice cracked with desperation. She backed deeper into the cage, as though putting bars between them could protect Nesta from what she knew was coming. “You shouldn’t be here. You don’t understand what tonight means. I can seriously hurt you.” Her voice broke, body trembling with the strain of holding the wolf at bay.
Nesta stepped to the bars, her long pale fingers resting lightly against them. “You won’t, Isa.”
The calm in her tone only stoked the wildness burning through Isadora’s veins. She whirled on her, curly hair whipping across her face. “If I lose control tonight, I won’t stop at a shoulder. You’ll be dead before I even know it.”
“I’m still here, my love.” Nesta replied simply.
Isadora gripped the bars so hard the iron groaned. Her heart hammered with fear of Nesta’s refusal to run. “Why?” The word tore from her throat, raw and aching. “Why stay when you know what I’ll become?”
Nesta’s cane clicked softly against the stone as she stepped closer, until her face was just beyond the bars. “Because I love you. And I will always choose you and stand by your side.”
The werewolf sagged against the bars, her forehead pressing into cold iron, tears pricking her eyes. Relief washed through her so sharp it almost broke her, relief that her lover hadn’t left, that she believed in her, that she was not alone. But beneath there was terror. The wolf inside her didn’t care about love or vows. It wanted blood, and Nesta was standing too close to the bars.
Isadora swallowed, her voice trembling. “If you’re staying, don’t open the cage. Don’t come closer. Swear it to me, Nesta. Swear you’ll keep yourself safe.”
The vampire’s hand lifted, brushing her fingers along the iron until they rested directly over Isadora’s clenched fists. Cool against burning heat. “I will not open it. But neither will I leave you in the dark. You’ll not face this night alone.”
Isadora leaned her forehead against the bar where the vampire’s hand lay, her tears burning hot trails down her cheeks. Love warred with fear and rage, but through it all was one truth, if Nesta stayed, she would fight with every last shred of her strength to hold on to herself.
Slowly, she drew a ragged breath, the wolf already rising beneath her skin, every muscle twitching with the urge to rend and tear. With shaking hands, she reached for the heavy cuffs bolted to the wall. The sound of metal scraping against stone filled the basement, a grim ritual she had performed before, but never with Nesta watching.
Her fingers fumbled once, then locked the first shackle over her wrist. The cold bite of iron sent panic racing through her chest, heart hammering faster as if the wolf sensed the trap. For an Alpha, chains were humiliation, an admission that her strength was no longer her own. A part of her wanted to hurl them aside, to snarl that no prison could hold her.
But she looked at her lover. At the steady, unflinching eyes that had seen her bleed, rage, and falter, and had never turned away. That gaze gave her the strength to snap the second cuff closed, iron biting into her flesh until her breath shuddered out in a half-sob, half-growl.
Nesta’s chest tightened at the sight. The sight of Isadora, the woman who could command any classroom with her presence, reduced to chains and trembling, hit her like a blade to the ribs. Her hands itched to reach out, to sweep away the cuffs, but she knew had to let Isadora make this choice.
She couldn’t remain silent anymore and her voice cut through the heavy, cold air. “I love you.” she said firmly, each word carrying the weight of centuries she had spent surviving. “I love so much you, I love every part of you. Soon, we’ll be wrapped around each other, warm under a blanket by the fire. Everything will be alright.”
Unexpectedly, the chains groaned as Isadora pulled against them, muscles trembling with unnatural strain. Her claws scraped sparks off the stone, and her teeth bared in a soundless snarl. The wolf inside clawed at her ribcage, howling to be free, demanding blood.
“Its louder than me tonight. I can’t drown it out anymore.” Isadora choked, her voice breaking as her body jerked against the cuffs. The iron cut into her wrists, hot blood trickling down her arms.
Nesta pressed closer to the bars, cane forgotten against the wall. “You are not a beast to me.” she said calmly. “And if you break those chains, if you come through that door, I’ll still stand here. You’ll see me. Not as a prey, not as an enemy. But just me.”
A sharp growl burst from Isadora’s throat, feral and violent. “I’m slipping...” Her throat closed, teeth lengthening against her will, words dissolving into a shiver of anguish. Her whole body shook, as her claws flexed, ready to rend, while her fangs bit down hard enough that blood pooled on her tongue. The wolf wanted out. The wolf wanted everything. And yet through the red haze, she saw the eyes of the woman she loved the most.
“Look at me.” Nesta whispered. “You’re still in there. You’re still mine. And I won’t let you go.”
Isadora’s head jerked forward, a guttural sound escaping her throat. She slammed against the cuffs, rattling the chains so violently the stone wall cracked at the edges. Her body jerked violently against the chains, muscles taut and glistening with sweat under the harsh lamplight. The wolf inside her was no longer whispering, it was screaming, demanding release, hungering for freedom. Every instinct to fight, to hunt, to assert her Alpha strength clawed at her sanity.
“I am not afraid, Isa. You are not alone. Breathe with me, please.”
The werewolf’s claws scraped uselessly against the stone again, sparks flying, as her tail lashed in agitation. Her head dropped, fangs bared, and she let out a feral snarl that rattled the bars. Yet, through it all, the vampire didn’t flinch from the predator Isadora was becoming. Instead, she mirrored calm, steady patience.
Inside Isadora's mind was a storm. Anxiety, shame, and fear collided with the pure, unfiltered urge to dominate. Her Alpha pride burned hotter than the panic. She hated the chains, hated the need for someone to witness her weakness. But the fact that Nesta stood there, unshaken and unafraid, sent a pulse of warmth and love.
Nesta pressed her forehead again against the iron, trembling, and she whispered softer now, her voice wrapping around the tempest inside the werewolf. “Your wolf can roar, it can howl, it can rage, but it will not touch anyone tonight.”
The wolf’s scream inside Isadora faltered and she shivered violently, hot tears mixing with sweat, but a fragile thread of clarity returned. Her amber eyes, clouded with fury and fear, flicked to Nesta. Every line of the vampire’s body radiated care and patience. Every unflinching glance was a promise that no matter how wild, how dangerous, Isadora became, she would not be abandoned. Once again relief coursed through her chest, almost suffocating her in its intensity.
Nesta’s voice softened further. “Soon, this will pass. Soon, you’ll feel safe again. I’ll make sure of it. I am here, my love. Breathe with me. Hold on to me.”
Isadora’s body heaved in response, a violent shuddering that seemed to span every fiber of her being. She pressed back against the cold iron, muscles bulging as her spine arched. Bones shifted with sickening cracks, fur tearing its way through her skin in a cascade of violent change. She screamed, though the sound quickly warped into a snarl that reverberated in the cage like thunder.
The chains rattled madly, metal biting into her wrists until the stone itself cracked. Her vision blurred, amber light spilling across her eyes as the wolf surged forward, ripping through the last fragile thread of restraint. With one violent lunge, the iron cuffs tore from the wall, sparks flying, the cage door bending under her brute force.
The monster was loose, but the vampire didn’t move. She simply just watched the creature before her. The massive, fur bristling, eyes glowing like molten gold. Saliva glistened on fangs long enough to pierce through her throat in one motion. The wolf filled the space, a terror that even hardened vampires would flee from.
But Nesta didn’t flee. Carefully, she stepped forward and with deliberate care, she lowered herself to her knees on the cold stone. Her movements were graceful and unhurried, the very picture of submission.
The wolf prowled closer, claws scraping, a growl building deep in its chest. The beast snapped its jaws inches from the vampire’s face, hot breath spilling over her cheek. The sound was primal, a predator’s warning.
Nesta’s heart thundered in her ribs, each beat sharp with instinct screaming to run or to fight. But she refused to obey it. Instead, she bowed her head, tilting her throat, a gesture no vampire should ever make, not even to her own kind. It was the most dangerous act of trust she could give.
“I will not abandon you. If you must destroy me, then destroy me. But I will not fight you.” she whispered softly.
Isadora’s mind was chaos. The wolf raged, demanding dominance, demanding blood, snarling at this kneeling figure who dared to stand its ground. Her claws flexed, her body trembled with the urge to strike. Yet somewhere, buried beneath the frenzy, the human heart inside her caught the glimmer of trust.
It confused the predator even more. The wolf’s growl grew louder, vibrating the air between them, until finally, Isadora lunged forward. Her fangs stopped a breath from Nesta’s pale throat, a growl tearing the silence apart. Spittle sprayed, hot and wild.
The blue eyes met the glowing amber, and in their depths was no fear. Only sorrow, that was so deep it seemed bottomless. Nesta’s gaze didn’t waver, even when her body screamed at her to retreat. While, for Isadora, that look was unbearable.
The wolf snarled, jaws snapping, as if trying to force the vampire back, to shatter that calm devotion. Yet the snarl cracked and the rage was hollow. It slid into a heavy, rumbling growl, then faltered further, becoming ragged panting, each breath hitching with strain. The Alpha trembled, her body jerking with the struggle between fury and restraint, instinct and love.
Nesta saw the battle inside Isadora. Every quiver of muscle, every ragged exhale was a cry of pain. Her heart clenched so hard she thought it might shatter in her chest, when a sound tore from the werewolf's throat, neither beast nor woman, but something broken between the two. Her strong legs buckled and she staggered backward, claws raking helplessly against stone, scraping sparks as though she could dig herself out of her own torment.
Slowly, she collapsed in the far corner of the basement, her massive body folding in on itself. The wolf, proud and terrifying, reduced to a trembling shadow of her power. Her great head pressed flat against the floor as a pitiful whine slipped past her muzzle.
Isadora’s thoughts flickered with one word, monster. She curled tighter, wanting to vanish into stone, to spare Nesta the sight of her like this. To be seen by anyone, especially by her, as anything less than the Alpha she was meant to be was worse than chains, worse than iron biting her skin. Yet even curled small, her ears twitched toward her lover.
Nesta rose carefully and step by step, she closed the distance until she reached the corner where Isadora lay. The sight of the great wolf reduced to a trembling creature was a wound deeper than any talon could carve. Every instinct screamed danger. It told her she was a fool to step closer to the beast that had just torn chains from stone. But her love was louder than fear. Slowly, she sank down beside her.
The wolf’s eyes rolled toward her, still wild with rage. Their eyes locked again, predator and prey. But Nesta didn’t look away, she only breathed steadily, letting the rhythm of her chest rise and fall, offering calm where the wolf’s heart hammered out of control.
For a long moment, she simply sat there, still as stone, letting the wolf feel her presence. No chains, no commands. Just her. Carefully, with infinite slowness, she reached out. Her cool hand found its way to the fur between Isadora’s twitching shoulders. And she let it rest there, not pressing, only touching. A growl rose, low and uncertain, vibrating beneath her palm. It was a warning, but not rejection.
“I am here, Isa.” Nesta whispered, her voice shaking with tenderness she had never shown another soul. “You didn’t lose yourself. I will never let you lose yourself.”
The words slid into Isadora’s chaos, reaching the part of her that still clawed desperately to hold on. The wolf shuddered under her hand, whining again. And the beast curled tighter, breath ragged, shoulders twitching. But when Nesta leaned against her side, letting her cool body rest against the wolf’s quaking warmth, the wolf allowed it.
There on the cold stone floor of the basement, vampire and werewolf sat together as the full moon raged above them. Nesta closed her eyes, feeling the wolf’s trembling slowly ease under her touch. The sound of their breaths filled the basement, one shallow and quick, and another slow and steady. Gradually they found harmony together.
The scent of iron, sweat, and wolf surrounded the vampire, yet beneath it she caught the faintest trace of Isadora, wild and warm. Her heart ached, she couldn’t cage the moon or mend the scars the world had carved into her lover, but she could give her presence, her stubborn refusal to leave.
Isadora’s amber eyes flickered once more, heavy-lidded now. They lingered on Nesta, and for a fleeting instant the beast’s rage seemed drowned beneath a wordless gratitude.
“I’ve got you, my love.” Nesta breathed.
And just like this they remained, tangled in peace, vampire and wolf, until exhaustion overcame them both. The full moon blazed on above, but in the stone depths below it, two predators found comfort of each other’s presence. Sleep claimed them slowly, as though even the moon itself dared not part them.
-
A thin shaft of dawn light slipped through the narrow window high in the basement wall, painting the damp stones in gold. The moon’s fury had ebbed, as the vampire stirred first. Her body was stiff from the cold floor, her muscles protesting as she shifted. She forgot where she was until her hand brushed against warmth.
Messy fur was gone, replaced with bare, trembling skin. Isadora lay curled beside her, no longer a beast but a woman again, her body sprawled in the same defeated shape the wolf had taken. Her wrists bore angry red welts where the cuffs had cut deep, and her breathing was shallow, but human once again.
Relief surged through Nesta’s chest. She reached out instinctively, brushing curly strands of hair from Isadora’s forehead. The werewolf flinched faintly at the touch, eyes flickering open. They were her own gorgeous amber, but clouded with pain and disorientation, that always followed the moon. Her gaze drifted around the wrecked room, and at the end landed on Nesta, who was now kneeling beside her.
Isadora tried to scramble away, to hide her nakedness, her vulnerability, but her body was fully spent. A weak cry of fear escaped her lips as she collapsed back onto the floor. She curled into a tight ball, refusing to look at her lover.
“Go away.” she whispered, her voice raw and broken. “Please, just go away.”
Nesta’s heart ached. “Isa...” she started, her voice soft but firm.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Isadora choked out, tears welling in her eyes. “You shouldn’t have seen this. This mess... This monster.”
“Please, look at me.” Nesta said.
“I lost control. I gave up to the beast that lives inside me. A destructive, uncontrollable animal." Isadora shook her head, burying her face in the her hands. "Just leave me to my cage.”
“Isadora Capri, look at me.”
The command in the vampire’s voice made her flinch. Slowly, reluctantly, she raised her tear streaked face. She expected to see pity or fear, but there were none of those things. She saw Nesta’s pale, beautiful face, calm and loving. She saw her blue eyes, which held not horror, but a depth of understanding that stole Isadora’s breath.
“You are not a monster.” Nesta stated, each word clear and precise. “You are a woman who endures a curse with more strength than anyone I have ever known. What I saw last night was not a beast. It was a incredibly, strong wolf. A true Alpha.”
Isadora stared at her, utterly disarmed. The words were so far from anything she expected, anything she told herself in the cold light of day after a transformation. A sob broke from her and tears came in a relentless stream. Nesta didn’t try to stop them. She simply moved closer and reached out with a gentle hand, brushing the ginger curl from Isadora’s forehead.
“You stayed for the all night.” Isadora whispered, the words ragged.
Nesta’s thumb stroked her temple. “You shouldn’t have to face this alone.” she said softly.
Isadora’s hand, trembling hand found her lover’s where it rested against her face. She intertwined their fingers. “It’s so cold.” she whispered, another violent shiver wracking her naked body.
“Come on.” Nesta said, her voice infused with a new tenderness. “Let’s get you off this floor.”
With a strength that belied her slender frame, Nesta helped Isadora to her feet, supporting most of her weight. She guided the trembling woman through the wreckage of the room, out the door, and down the silent corridor to her own chambers.
-
The door to their chamber closed softly behind them. Warmth greeted them immediately, countless candles lined the shelves and windowsills, some burned down to stubs, others tall and graceful.
It smelled of them both. Of lavender oil that Nesta often used. Of wood polish from the cello bow Isadora often left near the fireplace. Of old parchment and ink from the piles of books stacked on every available surface, the spines worn from centuries of touch. Philosophical tomes sat side by side with works on psychology, and fragile manuscripts that Nesta had collected across lifetimes.
Amidst it all, traces of something softer. A bouquet of dried wildflowers, violets faded to a dusky blue hung from a ribbon above the writing desk. Others were set carefully in glass jars along the shelf. Isadora recognized them all. Each flower had been gathered on their walks through the forest. They had brought them back like small trophies of peace and Nesta had preserved them as if refusing to let beauty wither. And against the far wall rested Isadora’s cello. Sheets of music, some carefully notated, others little more than scribbled fragments lay scattered across the nearby table.
It was their room. Their safe place. The vampire’s centuries of thought, the werewolf’s music and restless spirit, all woven together into one space. Isadora’s chest tightened as she took it in, this tangible evidence of their lives entwined. A true home.
Isadora slumped into the nearest chair with a ragged sigh, her body trembling as the last reserves of strength drained from her. Her wrists hung limply in her lap, the skin raw and red where the iron cuffs had bitten deep. Angry welts striped across delicate veins, a cruel reminder of the battle she had fought with herself.
But Nesta knelt before her without hesitation, her cane propped against the arm of the chair. She reached for Isadora’s hands, cradling them with exquisite gentleness, her cool fingers ghosting over the bruised skin. Wordlessly, she rose and fetched a thick woolen blanket from the bed. She draped it over Isadora’s shoulders, wrapping it snugly around her trembling frame.
The werewolf tried to pull them back. Shame flushed hot in her chest, twisting her mouth into a grimace. “It’s alright. Don’t look at them.” she rasped.
The vampire’s head lifted and she pressed kisses to her wrists. “They are proof of how fiercely you fought to protect me. They’re proof of your strength, Isa.”
“Nesta, I...” But the words caught, stuck in self-loathing. Her throat tightened, and tears welled again.
“Shh, it’s okay.” Nesta’s voice was low and steady. She rose briefly, crossing to a small chest by the bed, and returned with a small vial of salve.
Isadora watched her through blurred eyes. The sight of the vampire sitting at her knees and tending her wounds unraveled her. She felt both unbearably weak and profoundly safe. “You don’t have to.” she whispered, her voice trembling.
Nesta glanced up briefly, her expression soft but unyielding. “Yes, I do. Accept my help, the way you always wanted me to accept yours. Please.”
The salve’s faint herbal scent filled the air as Nesta smoothed it gently over the inflamed welts. Her touch lingered longer than necessary, her thumb stroking lightly across the werewolf’s pulse. “Now, they will heal quicker.” she murmured.
“Thank you. But, I’m still sorry for the things you saw. The things I am when I lose control.” Isadora said quietly.
“Don’t ever apologize for who you are. The wolf is a part of you. A powerful, wild, beautiful part. It’s not something to be locked away and be ashamed of.”
“You truly believe that?” Isadora asked, her voice trembling.
“Of course.” Nesta said, turning to meet her gaze. “You are magnificent in any form. Wolf and human.”
Without a word, Isadora leaned forward, resting her head on Nesta’s shoulder. It was a gesture of utter trust and acceptance. The vampire went still for a moment, but slowly her arms came up, wrapping around Isadora, holding her close. She was cool to the touch, as she rested her cheek against ginger hair.
They sat like that for a long time, as the sun rose fully, bathing the room in a gentle light. The long, brutal night was over. In its place was something new, and strong all at once.
