#nesta centric

[theteaqueendom]

The Witch in the Mountain

A late submission for Nesta Week 2026 Day 3: Fate/Destiny

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“But why can’t I have a berry?”

“Because, silly! It’s for her.”

Nesta raised her eyes from her novel to assess the two children standing in the doorway of the bakery.

Younger than ten, the pair of them, a brother and sister dressed in warm cloaks. Autumn was settling fast in Velaris, bringing with it a cold chill that often had her shivering, despite her best efforts.

Still, it was nice to finally be out of the House.

“Is that even real?”

The boy sounded exasperated, eyeing the basket of fresh berries eagerly. They were fresh – enticing enough that she couldn’t blame him for the desire. It was lunchtime.

“Of course it’s real! We must have the best altar, so that she protects our souls for another year!”

The boy rolled his eyes.

“But why can’t we just get her different berries? Why does it have to be these?”

“Because she has to have the best! Those are the rules.”

Nesta huffed softly at the sight of the two of them bickering. It was something she and Feyre could have fought over, once upon a time, had things been different. 

“Don’t you remember the poem?” The girl asked. “It’s in her honor.”

There was a voice in the distance, likely their mother calling.

“Who is she anyway?” The boy asked as they walked away. “Why do we care about some witch on a mountain?”

“She’s not just any witch,” the girl replied, as if it were obvious. “She’s Lady Death.”

Nesta blinked, straightened, and took a moment to process the words.

Lady Death.

At once, the magic in her chest jolted – as if called.

The witch in the mountain.

The witch in the mountain was… her?

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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Tag List: @c-e-d-dreamer @podemechamardek @talkfantasytome @moodymelanist @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @eerievixen @sweet-pea1 @thewayshedreamed @agents-assemble @jsmelodies @aelinchocolatelover @unlikelypersonalknight1 @bri-loves-sunflowers @misswonderflower @acourtofladydeath @natasharomxnov @unhealthyfanobsession @fiction-loving-person @daddyduncan69 @bobanna81 @a-trifling-matter

[simpingfornestaarcheron]

A lil Nesta centric one shot with no title because I can’t choose one.

Listen I was in an angsty mood, okay? But not too angsty. Just the right amount of angst, ya know? To all the nessian whores of tumblr: this fic doesn’t feature our favorite bat boi. I am deeply sorry.

anyways as always English isn’t my mother tongue yadda yadda yadda

@sirendeepity my lovely beta

clicks ‘post’ and walks away. (look at me walking instead of running)

When Nesta was young, her mother had her take ballet classes. “Ballet is the foundation of dance”, she said. “If you want to be the best dancer in a ballroom and catch the attention of a potential suitor, you need to be better than the other ladies. Remember Nesta, you’re not dancing for fun, your goal is always to captivate and seduce a wealthy man. And to do so, your movements need to be graceful, elegant, flawless. And mastering ballet allows you to learn all this.” Nesta wasn’t particularly happy about having yet another portion of her free time taken away from her, but she had once heard some of the older girls who lived nearby talk about their ballet classes, and she was excited to finally have the chance to join them. Despite having two younger sisters, Nesta was a very lonely child. Her literature, history, science, music, and embroidery classes were private, and on top of that she also spent an hour a day with her mother to learn how to ‘be a proper lady’, which meant learning how to walk, talk, eat, dress, and a bunch of other things that doing wrong could apparently cause a scandal. Nesta’s favorite thing was learning how to braid her hair, mostly because her mother would sometimes brush it for her and run her hands through the strands. It was one of the rare times when she was allowed to simply be a child enjoying the attentions of her mum, and not a lady in training. But little Nesta wasn’t allowed to take classes with the other girls. Her mother had judged the ballet school they attended beneath her, and she’d hired a private teacher. “Only the best for my little queen.”

And so 7-year-old Nesta resigned herself to wear gloves and long-sleeved gowns even in the summer to hide the angry red lines that her new teacher would inevitably leave on her skin. After all, physical pain was the only way for her to learn, or at least that’s what her grandmother said. Surprisingly, her new teacher was nothing like her grandmother. She was still strict and almost never smiled, but she hadn’t hit her once. It’s only a matter of time, Nesta thought. One day I’m going to mess up a combination and she’ll pull out her wooden stick. But she never did, and Nesta kept holding her breath and wait for the day the storm would inevitably hit. And when it did, Nesta would know what to do. It had taken her a while to master this particular skill, but she had learned to split herself in two: the Nesta who was experiencing the pain and holding back her tears, and the Nesta who was far, far away, dancing in a ballroom where she was completely alone, no one to observe her, judge her, examine her pro and cons as if she was an inanimate object, a pretty doll with no thoughts and feelings of her own. And once her grandmother’s lesson was over, the two Nestas would slowly become one again. The pain was still there, she couldn’t avoid it completely, but it was easier this way. More bearable. Years had passed, her teacher still hadn’t pull out the wooden stick, and Nesta had started to believe that maybe the reason why the woman had never hit her was that she didn’t deserve punishment, that she was good at ballet. And as time passed, she started to think of these classes not as a mean to an end, but as a way to express herself. There were still rules and limits, of course, but she found that without the impending threat of physical pain those rules didn’t cage her. Moreover, since ballet wasn’t for ballrooms, she was never going to perform a variation in front of other people, no one was ever going to say I’m not marrying this girl because her turnout isn’t good or because she didn’t lift her leg high enough.  Somehow, Nesta had started dancing not for other people, but for herself. Because she liked it and she wanted to keep doing it. Her choice. Each class started with 45 minutes of barre, then centre. Since barre required staying in the same spot, only switching between left and right, Nesta initially thought that she was going to find it boring, but once she’d managed the basic steps she realized that she actually quite liked it. There was a certain comfort in knowing the sequence of the exercises, first plies, then tendues, jettées… It became a sort of ritual, during which she focused less on her body and more on her breathing. And then there was centre, where she learned the longer, more complex combinations. That was when the real dancing started, when she became one with the music and everything around her faded away, when she wasn’t Nesta Archeron, the prince of merchant’s firstborn, but Nesta, the girl who secretly hoped to live and travel and experience all the things she read about in her dear books. Each time, she hoped the music would never end. But it always did. Then one day, her mother decided to come and watch her dance. Nesta was excited to show her everything she’d learned, and she was already imagining the woman’s proud expression when she would realize that her daughter had mastered the art of ballet. But when the last notes of the song faded away and she lifted her eyes to her mother’s, all she was met with was disappointment and something else that she couldn’t quite read. The next day, when Nesta walked into the room where her lessons usually took place, she found it empty. She sat on the floor and began doing some stretches while she waited. In the distance, she heard footsteps coming towards her. Nesta remained sitting on the floor with her legs stretched in front of her, feet flexed, forehead on her knees, eyes closed. The footsteps grew closer and closer until they stopped right next to her. Nesta knew exactly who they belonged to, so she took a deep breath before slowly lifting her head. And when she did, her grandmother was staring at her. The music had stopped. It always did.    

[simpingfornestaarcheron]

Born without a heart

Short, angsty Nesta-centric one shot set before acosf. The lyrics at the beginning of each paragraph are from the song Born without a heart by Faouzia.

notes: this morning I woke up in a bad mood and wrote this. Tw: angst (it’s not bad, but I’m putting a tw just to be safe)

I'm an angel, tell me what you mean by that

Cassian sometimes looked at her like she was a blessing, his salvation. Didn’t he know being near her was a curse? Didn’t he understand that she would only drag him down with her, sentencing him to a life of misery?

 I take it all and I will never give it back.

She was angry, so she took from it. She felt the icy cold of the Cauldron, sank her teeth into it, and welcomed it into her heart. A hollow shell filled with burning rage and vengeful thoughts.

 I don't feel sorry every time I see you cry,

Every time you start, I'm waiting for your tears to dry.

Liar. She felt it all, and crushed everything down, down, down. Eventually, the lie became easier to believe. It was better this way. Let them all think she was the villain of their story.

She wished they all gave up on her. She certainly had. You’re wasting your time, I’m not worth your tears. Pathetic. You for trying, and me for caring.

 I don't really care, and I never will

That's the way I am, such a bitter pill.

Venom rolls easily off her forked tongue. It stings, and she revels in it. The more they close in on her, the more she lashes out. It’s better for them to get hurt and recoil now, than to get too close and risk being squeezed to death. Stop trying to domesticate me.

I don't really care, how much silence kills That's the way I am.

They want her to talk, but fear her words at the same time. She can’t really blame them. Yes, she can. What do they want her to say? That she’s fine, that she doesn’t hear the sound of snapping bones every time she’s near a fireplace? No, they want her to lie, to plaster a smile on her face and pretend everything’s okay. But it’s not, and they all know it. She tried to stay away, and they forced her hand. The silence will be their punishment. And hers.

 No, I wasn't born without a heart I wasn't always like this, no

Little Nesta had a heart full of hope, impossible dreams crushed by her overbearing mother and neglectful father, childish fantasies beaten out of her by her grandmother’s cane. A small scar left on her hand, old wounds still marring her heart.

Watched you break me, no Now you blame me

No, I wasn't born with all these scars And that's what made me like this, no Can you blame me?

What was it that broke her? The bitterness and resentment she stored in her heart during the years spent in poverty? The unwanted touch of Tomas’ filthy hands? Her failed attempt at saving her youngest sister? The inability to protect Elain from those who took away her free will? The cries of the wounded soldiers, their gurgling sounds as they chocked on their own blood? Her father’s last words? The snapping of Cassian’s bones as the king of Hybern stepped on his wings? Or was it watching the man she was so desperately trying not to love take his hand away from hers, move on and exchange matching lingerie with the woman that was everything she wasn’t? Was she to blame for the mistakes of those who raised her, for the cruelty of the world? Could she blame everything on her own foolishness, worthlessness, her own stupid heart?

I'm a nightmare, I know what you mean by that

“Your sisters love you. I can’t for the life of me understand why, but they do.” The words sting true, still she wasn’t expecting them to come from his mouth. Wasn’t that what she wanted? For him to hate her and finally give up on her? She had handed him the knife, pointed at her heart. Then why did his stab hurt so much? She welcomes the pain. It’s what she deserves.

 I can't wake up from all these scary dreams I have

She screams and screams, but the water fills her lungs, and the darkness swallows her whole. Every night she’s plagued by nightmares, but when she wakes up, shivering in a pool of her own sweat, she finds out the darkness is still with her. It’s in her head, and she doesn’t have the strength to fight it.

 I wasn't born like this Hurt people, hurt people I'd rather be heartless than have my heart in pieces.

Lashing out is the easiest, safest choice, a weapon which never fails to strike true. She grew up surrounded by wolves, and eventually she became one herself. Her claws and sharp teeth scare people away. Her heart is buried underneath layers of fur and thick skin, but the traitorous bastard refuses to bend to her will. It still beats, it still feels deeply. Good thing others are easily fooled and think it’s made of stone.