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(Uh, fair warning, this is going to be long and spoiler-y as shit, so strap in and don't blame me when you see things that cannot be unseen; you've been warned)
I know what I'm supposed to say.
It didn't need to be this long.
The action scenes were too short.
There wasn't enough interaction between characters outside of Nesta and Cassian.
Why can't SJM say the word, clitoris?
Why bother giving Nesta a SERIOUSLY EPIC FUCKING POWER, make a big deal about it for two decently long books, and then just take it away?
The Blood Rite, after all that hype from Rhys, Cassian and Az seemed pretty easy to be honest; I've bled more on my period.
Why did SJM make Rhys and Feyre so piously annoying? They're my original ship, I love them dearly, what the actual fuck?
Amren should never be made a side note in any piece of SJM's fae fiction.
Uh, Mor? Where art thou, Mor?
Was there really much of a plot to this or was it a set-up book for the next three, and does that bug me?
I know these are the things I should be writing about in this review, because they are bothersome.
Some downright infuriating, but... I just... don't... give a fuck?
Do you know how long I've waited for this book?
How long I've been pining for Nessian to become canon?
For them to bicker, and hate-flirt, and eye-fuck, and brawl, and smile, and laugh, and JUST ADMIT THEY'VE BEEN MATES SINCE THE GODDAMN BEGINNING?!
I've been on my knees waiting for Nesta, my feral queen, who I've adored since her opening snarl, to finally be un-fucking-leashed?
For all that trauma she's caged in by to finally be talked about, embraced, acknowledged?
For Cassian to finally, finally, get that little bit of happy he's been craving since his first look at her?
I have waited so. fucking. long and it's finally here and it might not be perfect, it might not be the book I expected but, sorry to all the haters (I'll never be sorry; come at me, I don't give a shit), I'm so deliriously happy right now, I could upchuck fae-blessed sparkles.
I loved this.
Lovvvvvvved it.
Why?
Many reasons.
The first being:
This book was domestic as fuck.
If there's one thing I know about myself and character shipping it's that I crave stories where they simply spend time together.
Reading, doing the dishes, squabbling over who's couch commander that night, grocery shopping, and so on.
All that boring, mundane shit we take for granted in real life is my catnip in fiction.
But it only works when I'm invested in the couple, and I mean really invested
You can't get more invested than I am in Nessian.
I've got fanart on my wall(by the epically talented Charlie Bowater; the woman who first gave us Cassian with a man-bun. Thank you, Your Artful Highness), I've been imagining the way their story would go since their first verbal sparring match, I've avoided reading any fanfiction prior to Silver Flames' release because I wanted to be completely untainted for whatever direction Maas decided to go with them, and of course there's that cursed box that's been taunting me for three years - there's been a lot of David Mills-ing over that one, let me tell you.
I think about them.
A lot.
To say I've been waiting with baited breath for their story would be putting it fucking lightly.
I didn't even mean to read it this early; I was going to wait at least a few more months so the distance between this and the next book wouldn't be so vast (it's totally logical, I can bend time and lie to myself if I want to), but I caved only five months after its release because I'm weak. So weak for these two idiots.
But what I wasn't expecting when my willpower so pitifully collapsed like Nesta doing her first body plank, was to crack open this book and be given one of my greatest desires when it comes to every last one of my ships.
To spend time with them.
To have dinners with them, go on perilous day trips with them (honestly, these two can't go anywhere without getting into trouble), argue with them, make up with them (ohhhh the making up was good), grieve and heal, have confronting conversations, playful conversations, sit in silence with them and be soothed by their internal monologues focused entirely on each other.
This book was a gift to those of us who are soft idiots for our ships.
Soft idiots who would happily sack off the outside drama and just hang out.
🎵 Nesta and Cassian sitting in a treemountaintop palace, K-I-S-S-I-N-GF-U-C-K-I-N-G.
Well, that and depression, rehabilitation, forgiveness, patience, kindness, trauma, self-loathing, friendship, PTSD, endurance, self-harm, weakness, and love.
It's a lot to pack into 700 odd pages but personally, and I've read other people's reviews so I know this isn't a common standpoint, for me it was just the right amount, if a little unbalanced at times.
You need those 700 pages to unpack a person like Nesta, who, if I'm being fair, even after the time we've spent in her company before this book, we know very little about.
At a first glance she's an ice queen.
Cold, ill-mannered, fork-tongued and unfeeling.
Not exactly the most attractive of characters.
(Unless you're me, frosty ladies are my siren song)
...
From the outside.
Even with what little we're given at the beginning, those of us willing to look can see a woman in a paralysing amount of pain.
Nesta lowered her eyes to the desk. Forced herself to release a breath. But with its escape past her lips, that familiar weight swept in.
I am worthless and I am nothing, Nesta nearly said. She wasn't sure why the words bubbled up, pressing on her lips to voice them. I hate everything that I am. And I am so, so tired. I am tired of wanting to be anywhere but in my own head.
Her coldness her armour, her sharp tongue her sword, her callousness her shield.
Nesta is a person entirely constructed of walls, nay, fortresses to keep people out. Even those she holds dearest - especially them.
She'd never explained to Feyre―had never found the words to explain―why she'd put such distance between them all. Elain had been stolen by the Cauldron and saved by Azriel and Feyre. Yet the terror still gripped Nesta, waking and asleep: the memory of how it had felt in those moments after hearing the Cauldron's seductive call and realizing it had been for Elain, not for her or Feyre. How it had felt to find Elain's tent empty, to see that blue cloak discarded.
Things had only gotten worse from there.
You have your lives, and I have mine, she'd said to Elain last Winter Solstice. She'd known how deeply it would wound her sister. But she couldn't bear it―the bone-deep horror that lingered. The flashes of that discarded cloak or the Cauldron's chill waters or Cassian crawling toward her or her father's neck snapping―
Because to let them in is to give them permission to walk away from her, which they will most certainly do because if she loathes herself so damn much, why would they possibly want to stay?
"Don't touch me. Don't―don't be kind to me." The words were a sobbing, rippling jumble.
"Why?"
The list of reasons surged, fighting to get out, to voice themselves, and she let them decide. Let them flow through her, as she whispered, "I let him die."
He went quiet.
Through her hands on her face, she continued to whisper. "He came to save me, and fought for me, and I let him die with hate in my heart. Hate for him. He died because I didn't stop it." Her voice broke, she wept harder. "And I was so horrid to him, until the very end. I was so, so horrid to him all my life―and still he somehow loved me. I didn't deserve it, but he did. And I let him die."
She bowed over her knees, saying into her palms, "I can't undo it. I can't fix it. I can't fix that he is dead, I can't fix what I said to Feyre, I can't fix any of the horrible things I've done. I can't fix me."
She sobbed so hard she thought her body would break with it. Wanted her body to come apart like a cracked egg, wanted what was left of her soul to drift away on the mountain wind.
She whispered, "I can't bear it."
That's what depression does to a person.
That's what depression did to me.
Which is possibly why I can forgive this book so much and others can't - because I've been where Nesta is, not the same circumstances (clearly and unfortunately I don't live in a fairy realm with ethereally hot men and magical houses that bring me books if I ask for them/if it feels like I need them/just to be friendly. ... Okay, now I'm sad and bitter. Real life sucks) but the same emotional hell.
The same destruction to yourself even in the smallest of ways.
From oblivion to a harsh thought.
Been there, done that, still fighting the good fucking fight every day, just trying to find some balance.
It's hard and there isn't some magical key to "fixing" yourself but you can, not necessarily change, but progress, adapt, in some ways improve yourself.
Which is the approach Sarah J. Maas applied to Nesta's, for want of a better word, rehabilitation.
She didn't try and change her, make her less fearsome; she didn't undermine her issues or, my least favourite phrase in known fucking universe when it comes to mental health, pull her socks up.
Instead, and for the better, she gave her an initial kick up the arse and then gifted her space and time to breathe and figure some shit out.
She stared up at him, this male who had walked with her for five days in near-silence, waiting, she knew, for this moment.
She blurted, "All the things I've done before―"
"Leave them in the past. Apologize to who you feel the need to, but leave those things behind."
"Forgiveness is not that easy."
"Forgiveness is something we also grant ourselves. And I can talk to you until these mountains crumble around us, but if you don't wish to be forgiven, if you don't want to stop feeling this way . . . it won't happen." He cupped her cheek, calluses scraping across her overheated skin. "You don't need to become some impossible ideal. You don't need to become sweet and simpering. You can give everyone that I Will Slay My Enemies look―which is my favourite look, by the way. You can keep that sharpness I like so much, that boldness and fearlessness. I don't want you to ever lose those things, to cage yourself."
"But I still don't know how to fix myself."
"There's nothing broken to be fixed," he said fiercely. "You are helping yourself. Healing the parts of you that hurt too much―and perhaps hurt others, too. [...] I'll be with you every step of the way," he whispered into her palm.
Admittedly, there was the bonus of an obscenely attractive Fae warrior at her side; making her smile when she didn't want to, goading her into arguments to vent her fury, making her sweat in all manner of ways, and romancing her without her even realising it.
I mean, that shit's only for fiction but hell if I'm going to snub my nose at it.
Everyone deserves a Cassian, but Nesta most of all.
Jesus, I'd throw myself over hot coals for this woman.
I've always been a Feyre fan, to my very bones I love her but I can't say I've ever felt a complete connection with her character. She's so... good. Even when she's angry, she's never cruel or pointedly vicious. Always thinking of others and unwilling to be selfish for just a minute.
There isn't much manoeuvrability in that. No cracks to slither into.
With Nesta, she's practically a mosaic.
Lined with sharp, fissured edges, the full picture of her never entirely at peace with itself.
That, I can relate to.
Self-loathing, bitterness and the desperate urge to push people away to protect yourself.
Those are the things that make Nesta the character I wasn't expecting to see myself in but did and it was kind of cathartic to punch and kick my way through her metamorphosis, right alongside her.
Metamorphosis being the operative word.
With being banished to the House of Wind (that mountaintop palace with the magical book giving abilities I was singing about earlier) by Feyre and Rhys (not my favourite moment from those two, but we'll get to that) to "get her shit together" after boozing and fucking her way through Velaris on Rhys and Feyre's dime, her sulk-fest was to be expected.
Who wants their baby sister essentially grounding them for bad behaviour?
I am a baby sister and I know for a fact both my sisters would resent my ass if I did this to them. No question about it. Just like I'd resent theirs.
But when it comes to depression, sometimes the cycle needs shattered and a new something to take its place.
The moment Nesta's destructive patterns are halted, she starts to change, metamorphose.
Exercise, reading, diet, fresh air, quiet, time.
They sound like clichés because they are but all clichés stem from truth.
Exercise, hobbies and nature are tried and tested methods of improving mental health.
Not fixing it but providing healthier forms of escape.
The biggest form of diversion for Nesta in this story comes from exercise, warrior training to be exact.
I know this pissed a lot of people off because it's such a "male" way of attacking an internal problem: punch your way through it, get angry, "toughen up".
And that isn't for everyone. Some need CBT(Cognitive Behavioural Therapy), others need antidepressants, a complete change of scenery can work, delving into hobbies which bring them a little joy or peace (crafting, art, sports, gaming, hiking, reading, and so on), and yeah, exercising (from yoga to kickboxing to dancing; whatever takes your fancy, there are no rules for this).
There's no one one way for someone to wade their way through depression, it depends on who you are and what feels right.
For someone like Nesta, learning how to protect herself, get stronger and work as a team with others is maybe not the only option but it felt like the right one.
This isn't a woman who's going to bare her soul and talk through her feelings, she's far more likely to make a dent the size of her fist in a punching bag to exorcise some of her fury and her fears.
Nesta threw another series of punches, and Cassian knew she was leading up to the knockout blow. Two left jabs and a right hook that slammed into the wood so hard it splintered.
And then she stopped, her fist pressed against the wood.
Her panting breath swirled from her mouth in the frigid rain.
Slowly, she straightened, fist lowering, steam rippling through her teeth as she turned. He caught a flicker of silver fire in her eyes, then it vanished. Lucien had gone still.
Nesta stalked toward the two males. She met Lucien's stare as she approached the archways, and said nothing before continuing into the House. As if words were beyond her.
Only when her footsteps vanished did Lucien said, "Mother spare you all."
Cassian was already walking to the wooden beam.
A small disc of impact lay in its center, through the padding, all the way to the wood itself. It glowed. Cassian raised shaking fingers to it.
To the burn mark, still sparking like an ember.
The entire wood block was smoldering from within. He touched his palm to it. The wood was cold as ice.
The block dissolved into a pile of cinders.
Cassian stared in stunned silence, the smoking wood hissing in the rain.
Lucien came up beside him. He only said again, voice solemn, "Mother spare you all."
I loved the training scenes (who doesn't love a good drawn out training montage?) because, out of all the time we spend with Nesta in the book, they strangely felt like some of her most vulnerable moments.
Yes, she spends a good portion of it snarling at Cassian because body planks are fucking impossible at first (speaking from personal sticks-and-candyfloss-arms experience) and being forced to do exercise is the demand of organised sadists (I'm looking at you, P.E. teachers).
But amidst the glaring and the cursing, the rolled ankles and the inability to not move like a geriatric cowboy after ten million squats, Nesta starts to appear.
Her arm was a distant ache, secondary to that building song in her blood.
It felt good. It felt so good.
Cassian threw out different combinations, and she obeyed, let them flow through her.
Every hated enemy, every moment she'd been powerless against them simmered to the surface. And with each movement of the sword, each breath, a thought formed. It echoed with every inhale, every thrust and block.
Never again.
Never again would she be weak.
Never again would she be at someone's mercy.
Never again would she fall.
Never again, never again, never again.
Not banish who she is but reveal more.
It's her becoming.
It's never been unclear how strong her character is, both in what she shows and what she doesn't (you don't throw yourself over the body of a man you hardly know to protect and die with him if you lack basic human emotion) but as I said, she's fractured and without being let into her head, you can't ever really know her.
Through her sweat, and at times her tears, those fractures start to take on some clarity: the true depths of her PTSD after watching her father die, her guilt for failing to save him, her self-loathing for putting Elain in danger, letting Feyre hunt for them when they were destitute instead of doing it herself because her rage consumed her, her fear of how much she feels for Cassian, whether being turned Fae will ever truly sit right with her.
"You are good, Cassian. And you are brave, and brilliant, and kind. I could kill anyone who has ever made you feel less than that―less than what you are. And I know I'm a part of that group, and I hate it." Her eyes burned, but she fought past it. "You are everything I have never been, and will never be good enough for. You friends know it, and I have carried it around with me all this time―that I do not deserve you."
The fury slid from his face.
Nesta didn't stop the tears that flowed, or the words that tumbled out. "I didn't deserve you before the war, or afterward, and I certainly don't now." She let out a low, broken laugh. "Why do you think I shoved you away? Why do you think I wouldn't speak to you?" She put a hand on her aching chest. "After my father died, after I failed in so many ways―denying myself of you . . ." She sobbed. "It was my punishment. Don't you understand that?" She could barely see him through her tears. "From the moment I met you, I wanted you more than reason. From the moment I say you in my house, you were all I could think about. And it terrified me. No one had ever held such power over me. And I am still terrified that if I let myself have you . . . it will be taken away. Someone will take it away, and if you're dead . . ." She buried her face in her hands. "It doesn't matter," she whispered. "I do not deserve you, and I never, ever will."
These awful, inescapable things that we could have only guessed at before start to come to the fore.
And it's insanely satisfying to be a part of; to watch a character untether themselves.
Every balance, every punch, kick, fall, slash, and breath took her one step closer to allowing herself to feel and be felt for.
By Cassian, by her sisters, Azriel, and even Rhys, who pissed me off a fair amount in this book (again, what's with the character assassination, Maas? Leave my Illyrian baby alone).
But more importantly, herself.
And her Valkyries.
Ohhhhhhh yeah, it's time to talk of my ladies.
My loves.
My kickass wunderkinds.
The female friendships in SJM's books never fail to make me immeasurably happy.
They're honest and loving, silly and fierce.
I can't imagine Feyre without Mor or Amren; they were so integral to Feyre gaining her life back and enjoying things again.
And cauldron boil me, no one more than Nesta needed some of the same healing goodness of women to reel her back from the brink.
They worked in music-filled companionship, idle chatter bouncing between them, Emerie and Gwyn occasionally laughing at Nesta's awful workmanship. "Now," Gwyn said when they were halfway through, "we make wishes for each other." She reached for one of the tiny coins. "I'll just hold this in my hand, think of something for Emerie, and―"
"Wait," Nesta said, catching Gwyn's hand before it could touch the charm. "Let me."
Her friends regarded her curiously, and Nesta swallowed. "Let me make a wish for all of us," she explained, gathering three charms. A small gift―for the friends who had become like sisters.
A chosen family. Like the one Feyre had found for herself.
Nesta squeezed the charms in her palm, closing her eyes, and said: "I wish for us to have the courage to go out into the world when we are ready, but to always be able to find our way back to each other. No matter what."
Gwyn and Emerie cheered at that. And when Nesta opened her eyes, palm unfurling, she could have sworn the coins glowed faintly.
Hers came in the form of a scarred librarian and a mutilated Illyrian; two titles that are far too simple for characters such as Gwyn and Emerie.
It's seems almost predictable to have two traumatised women be the ones Nesta befriends, but is it?
Who better to understand being endlessly haunted than those haunted themselves?
I know from experience that you can explain what fucks you up to your core to neurotypicals and they'll nod and do their best to understand but they can't ever truly grasp how you feel because they haven't experienced it.
She had been born wrong. Had been born with claws and fangs and had never been able to keep from using them, never been able to quell the part of her that roared at betrayal, that could hate and love more violently than anyone ever understood. Elain had been the only one who perhaps grasped it, but now her sister loathed her.
She didn't know how to fix it. How to make any of it right. How to stop being this way.
She didn't remember a time when she hadn't been angry. Maybe before her mother had died, but even then her mother herself had been bitter, disdainful of their father, and her mother's disdain had become her own.
She couldn't quell that relentless, churning angry. Couldn't stop herself from lashing out before she could be wounded.
She was no better than a rabid dog. She had been a rabid dog with Amren and Feyre. A beast, exactly like Tamlin. She hadn't even cared that she'd made it down the House stairs at last―did it count, when it was driven by fury?
Did she count―was she worth being counted?
It was the question that sent everything crumpling inside her.
[...]
She knew the answer. Had always known it. [...] she buried her face in her hands and wept.
Just like I don't know the pain of a broken leg (crossing my fingers so hard that doesn't change), they couldn't possibly fathom being paralysed by your own negative thought patterns.
I know, because I used to be on the other side.
And I remain there for many other things I either can't or won't experience.
But mental health I understand.
I can empathise with Nesta's destructive behaviours and I know that Gwyn and Emerie are possibly two of the only people who could comprehend her despair and break through her ice queen persona.
Nesta made it two steps into Emerie's shop before she collapsed and cried.
She barely noticed what happened. How Emerie helped her into a chair, how the words tumbled out, explaining what she and Cassian had said, what she'd done to him.
A knock sounded on the door an hour later, and Nesta stopped crying when she saw who stood there.
Gwyn threw her arms around Nesta. "I heard you might need us." Nesta was so stunned to see the priestess that she returned the hug.
Mor, a step behind, gave her a concerned nod, and then winnowed away.
Emerie was the one to say to Gwyn, "I can't believe you left the library."
Gwyn stroked Nesta's head. "Some things are more important than fear."
It helps that they're despicably lovable and badasses in their own right.
Once these two are introduced into the story it broadens the perspective of who we think Nesta is and how she interacts with women.
Up until this point, it's mostly been with disdain, grudging respect, and fierce protectiveness.
At first I didn't understand why; her sisters love her no matter how many times she's viciously pushed them away, Mor and Amren tried to offer her friendship but were rebuffed at every turn, Amren did her best to help Nesta understand her stolen power.
She's been shown kindness even when her behaviour didn't warrant it and spat on it every time.
Which is her right, she doesn't have to welcome people in if she doesn't want to, especially people she's had no choice but to be involved with.
But I've always sensed a longing in Nesta to belong. With her sisters, with Amren, with Cassian, but for some reason she couldn't allow herself.
Before, there was no other feasible answer as to why she felt this way other than she resented and disliked such offerings, specifically from women because she didn't act so venomously with the men in the series (except perhaps Rhys and Lucien; Rhys because he's an antagonistic prick at the best of times and Lucien because, well, Elain).
Finally, finally this makes sense.
Matriarchal issues.
Her mother did this to her.
Her mother, who raised her to be a beautiful, regal weapon at court; to exist solely to marry up and marry well but do it calculatingly, without love or friendship.
She trained Nesta to hold herself higher than everyone else, even when she had no right and withheld the sort of love she keeps from herself now.
No wonder she can't stand the politics of the Fae and how they parade themselves around, flaunting themselves like gods.
No wonder she found solace in two women who have been abused in different ways but with no less damage to their bodies and their psyches.
It wasn't the training that gave Nesta the strength, nor the permission to unleash herself, it was her Valkyries.
The women who see her pain, her anger, her pettiness, her loathed vulnerability; who see it, recognise it and respect it.
They don't try and change her but they do attempt to grow alongside her, which is exactly what she needs.
Gwyn [...] handed out two rectangular parcels, each roughly the size of a large, thin book. "One for each of you."
Nesta opened the brown paper and beheld a stack of pages filled with writing. At the top of the first page, it merely said, Chapter Twenty-One. She read the first few lines beneath it, then nearly dropped the pages. "This―this is about us."
Gwyn beamed. "I convinced Merrill to add us into the penultimate chapter. She even let me write it―with her own annotations, of course. But it's about the rebirth of the Valkyries. About what we're doing."
Nesta had no words. Emerie's hands were once more shaking as she leafed through the pages. "You had this much to say about us?" Emerie said, choking on a laugh.
Gwyn rubbed her hands together. "With more to come."
Nesta read a line at random on the fifth page. Whether the sun beat hot on their brows or freezing rain turned their bones to ice, Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyneth arrived at practice each morning, ready to . . .
The back of her throat ached; her eyes stung. "We're in a book."
Gwyn's fingers slid into hers, squeezing tight. Nesta looked up to find her holding Emerie's free hand as well. Gwyn smiled again, her eyes bright. "Our stories are worth telling."
Cassian might be the overgrown puppy she deserves to trust her heart with but it's these women she needs to let herself feel everything out loud instead of sequestering it away and masking it with vitriol.
I hate to say it but there's no way in hell she would have survived The Blood Rite with her sisters.
There's a fragile bond between siblings where you love each other, you'd walk over hot coals for each other (I can be a shit to my sisters but anyone else tries and they will be eviscerated) but even with the love you feel for them, resentment can creep in.
This was why Elain had chosen Feyre. This.
Feyre had rescued Elain time and again. But Nesta had sat by, armed only with her viper's tongue. Sat by while they starved. Sat by when Hybern stole them away and shoved them into the Cauldron. Sat by when Elain had been kidnapped. And when their father had been in Hybern's grip, she had done nothing, nothing to save him, either. Fear had frozen her, blanketing her mind, and she'd let it do so, let it master her, so that by the time her father's neck had snapped, it had been too late. And entirely her fault.
Why wouldn't Elain choose Feyre?
You can start to hold yourself back, despise them at times, say things you don't mean, but forgiveness can be as easy as a fuck you and a laugh.
Elain sighed, glancing over Nesta's shoulder to the open doorway across the entry. The party within, only for their small inner circle. "Please don't upset Feyre. It's her birthday, first of all. And in her state―"
"Oh, fuck you," Nesta snapped, and then choked.
Elain blinked. Nesta blinked back, horror lurching through her.
And then Elain burst out laughing.
Howling, half-sobbing laughs that sent her bending over at the waist, gasping for breath. Nesta just stared, torn between questions and wanting to throw herself into the icy Sidra. "I'm―I'm so sorry―"
Elain held up a hand, wiping her eyes with the other. "I think that's a good sign, isn't it?"
Trust me, I've experienced it firsthand.
Many, many times.
But they aren't always who can unleash you because they know too much and they'll always know it, they'll always be there.
Friendship is different. It's not superior or more wanted, but it's chosen.
Nesta chose Emerie and Gwyn and they chose her right back. It's a heady thing to feel belonging to someone who doesn't have to reciprocate but does.
The minute these women wake up in the woods, unwilling participants in a barbaric, patriarchal death trial to prove themselves warriors, you know they'll find each other, protect and fight alongside one another because they're their people.
Four more days. They had to last four more days.
Gwyn said hoarsely as they moved into the wilderness, the snow mercifully lightening, "You two came looking for me."
"Of course we did," Emerie said, interlacing her hand with Gwyn's, then Nesta's, and squeezing tightly, "It's what sisters do."
You can see it in the way they fight, as one entity, predicting each other's movements before they occur.
She altered the trajectory abruptly, and Emerie and Gwyn moved with her as one. The males aiming for the bridge seemed to realize their enemy was now coming right at them. They slowed, reaching for their weapons.
Nesta found her target, a male with a good foot on her, and swiped with her dagger as she careened into him. He'd been running fast enough that he lost his balance and went down as he dodged her blow. Precisely where she wanted him: right in front of Emerie. Nesta pivoted to the next male as her friend drove her sword into the first male's chest.
The next male Nesta attacked was ready, swiping with a short sword. She ducked, twirling away―allowing him to land the blow on Gwyn's shield. Just as Gwyn ducked, slashing across his shins with a dagger.
The four others―
Nesta weaved and bobbed against another male, dagger to dagger. Each movement sang in perfect harmony with her breath; each pivot of her body, her limbs, was part of a symphony.
The male swung broadly at Nesta, and she glimpsed her opening. She let his blow go wide before slamming her elbow into his nose. Bone met bone with a crunch that rang through her.
He went down with a grunt and Nesta's blade slashed silver and red across his throat. She didn't let herself feel the warm slickness of his blood.
Another male already charged at her, and Gwyn shouted Nesta's name―grabbing her attention just before the priestess chucked a shield to her.
Nesta caught it, spinning in the snow on one knee as she absorbed the impact of its weight. Expelling her breath in a mighty exhale, she lifted the shield high as the male brought down a sword meant for her head. Nesta met the blow, thrusting the shield upward and knocking the male off balance. She slammed her knife into his boot.
He screamed, falling backward, and Nesta leaped to her feet, swinging the shield so hard it dented as it slammed into his head. The reverberations bit into her hand and forearm, but she kept her grip on the shield.
Nesta whirled to the next opponent, but her friends had halted. The males around them were down.
Utter silence filled the snowy forest. Even the birds in the pines had stopped chirping.
"Valkyries," Emerie said, eyes blazing bright.
Nesta grinned through the blood she knew was splattered on her face. "Hell yes."
You can see it in their determination to either go on together or go out as one.
One of them's hurt? They take turns carrying them.
One of them needs a moment? They rest, the others watch.
They're a team, a family.
They're Valkyries.
And that is never more clear than when Nesta, without any shred of doubt or selfishness, sends them ahead so they can escape and she hold the line.
Valkyrie, she whispered to herself. You are a Valkyrie, and once again, you are holding the pass. If you fall, it will to be save the friends who saved you, even when they didn't know they were doing so.
The pride I felt in that moment was astronomical.
Nesta Archeron, unthawable ice queen, amoral lush, curse-maker, bitch, accepted her own death and fought 'til the end so those she loves could live.
Nesta Archeron, leader of armies, a queen of her own making, Valkyrie.
Nesta stood under the Pass of Enalius for a long minute.
She took out her canteen. Drank the last of the water. Chucked it to the side.
She tucked the dagger into her belt. Picked up the sword. And drew a line in the dirt in front of the archway.
Her final stand. Her last line of defense.
Nesta gathered the shield. Peered over her shoulder to where Emerie had cleared the last cluster of boulders and now struggled up the long, straight path to the peak.
A small, quiet smile passed over Nesta's face.
Then she hefted her shield. Angled her sword.
And stepped beyond the line she'd drawn to meet her enemy.
...
Nesta Archeron, sister, friend, mate.
Can I scream a little bit now about howI KNEW THEY WERE MATES FROM THE VERY START AND IT WAS INFURIATING AND BLOODY DIVINE WATCHING THEM KNOW IT, FIGHT IT, AND THEN ACCEPT IT WHILST SHOUTING AT EACH OTHER BECAUSE OF COURSE THAT'S HOW THEY'D DO IT?
Can I?
Oh shit, looks like I just did.
Nesta's fingers curled into claws at her side. She took a step toward him. Cassian held his ground. So she took another step. Another.
Until they were close enough that a heaving breath would have had her chest brushing his. Until she was baring her teeth at his still-smirking face.
Cassian surveyed her. Gazed into her eyes and breathed, "Beautiful."
He didn't halt the hand she laid on his muscled chest. Or when she pushed against that chest, backing him into the wall, his wings splaying on impact. He just stared and stared at her, marveling―hungry.
Nesta didn't, couldn't, move as Cassian leaned to whisper in her ear, "The first time I saw that look on your face, you were still human, Still human, and I nearly went to my knees before you." His breath caressed the shell of her ear and she couldn't stop her eyes from fluttering shut. His smile brushed against her temple. "Your power is a song, and one I've waited a very, very long time to hear, Nesta."
If you went into this series expecting not to be waterboarded with copious squishy, romantic feels then, no offence, but what kind of dummy are you?
This whole series is about love.
Various forms, as I pointed out above, but mostly of the romantic kind.
This book was so us thirsty, shipping deviants could enjoy some prime Fae smut.
Well, as smutty as SJM gets. Her sex scenes don't enrage me the way they do others but if I see the words apex of her thighs one more time, I might break down and laugh my ass off.
It's hilarious just how much she cannot write this word and I get distracted every single time but it doesn't and didn't detract from the connection she managed to convey between Nesta and Cassian.
Hooooooly shi-it.
I knew these two would be fingertip singeing to read but SJM really brought her A-game this time around.
Gone were the flowery, glittering similes and in their stead, genuine, unfiltered connection.
A connection which flowed throughout their entire courtship, their friendship.
If you erased the sex entirely from their story, I wouldn't mind. I really wouldn't because every moment they were together on page was a gift.
These two just get each other.
Cassian recognises her pain and doesn't punish her for it (except from that little hiking interlude; real shitty, reactive behaviour, Cas); long before anyone else even notices the effects life so far has had on her, he senses it instinctively.
"I went into her nightmare." [...] [Rhys'] throat worked, as if he'd heave, but he held it down. "She was dreaming of the Cauldron. Of . . . of when she went in." Cassian had never seen Rhys at such a loss for words.
"I saw it," Rhys whispered. "Felt it. Everything that happened within the Cauldron. Saw her take its power with her teeth and claws and rage. And I saw . . . felt . . . what it took from her."
Rhys rubbed his face, and slowly straightened. He met Cassian's stare unflinchingly, his eyes full of remorse and agony. "Her trauma is . . ." Rhys's throat bobbed.
"I know," Cassian whispered.
And goes out of his way to be there for her even if it's simply to argue with.
In the same way, Nesta sees herself in Cassian: two people who exude confidence but inside are tortured with insecurities and imposter syndrome. Nesta has never felt comfortable anywhere, never found the people that make her feel comfortable.
"Nesta is a wolf who has been locked in a cage her whole life."
"I know," Cassian said. She was a wolf who had never learned how to be a wolf, thanks to that cage humans called propriety and society. And like any maltreated animal, she bit anyone who came near. Good thing he liked being bitten.
Not humans, not the fae, not even her sisters. Just like Cassian, who believes he's a bastard-born nobody, all muscles and not much else (we all know he's wrong, pipe down). He doesn't possess Rhys sharp-mind or Az's innate, heightened otherness; he's just Cassian and that never feels quite like enough. Just like Nesta never feels quite like enough.
They're both entirely wrong and blinded by their own securities but that's why their so good for each other.
It's the classic trope: the Sunshine One and the Grumpy One.
The Sweater Boy and the Absolute Nightmare.
They're a perfect match and SJM didn't shy away from showing it.
Or showing their mutual appreciation.
Accepting each other for how they are, exactly as they are.
His eyes blazed. "There will be no one else. For either of us."
"Yes," she whispered.
"Ever," he promised.
Nesta laid a hand on his muscled chest, letting the thunderous beating of the heart beneath echo into her palm. Let it travel down her arm, into her own heart. "Ever," she swore.
It was all he needed. All she needed.
I've seen countless reviewers crying out over the change Nesta goes through during this story, that Maas watered her down to some over-feeling crybaby, snatched away her integral snarliness that we all love so much and left her soft.
To a degree I'm right there with them.
Nesta isn't the woman we start with, she is softer, she is more open, she is different.
But she's still Nesta; a glance from her could still flay a man alive.
The difference now is that it's her choice, not something she's controlled by.
She can be a cauldron-made hell-bitch and an adoring sister, friend, mate all at once.
She can just be herself, unreservedly.
The problem, perhaps, is that we need another book to see this. By the final chapter, there's no time left for the new juxtaposition of the old and new Nesta to really be seen or put into play. It just kinda ends. And I wanted more. SO much more. I think Nessian deserved more.
So perhaps, even though I adored it beyond reason, Silver Flames was possibly a little too domestic?
Maybe training should have been shorter? The Blood Rite longer? The new Nesta more present from maybe halfway through the book instead of barely at all?
Such a significant amount of time is spent soul-searching and learning to fight that the drama their story needed wasn't focused on enough.
Not that is wasn't present; the few times they ventured beyond the House of Wind's walls they invariably got into huge amount of trouble.
One word for you:
Kelpie.
Nesta stumbled away so fast she landed on her backside, the mossy ground cushioning the impact. A face broke through the black water where her reflection had been.
It was whiter than bone and humanoid. Male. Bit by bit, inch by inch, the head rose above the black water, obsidian hair drifting in the water around the creature, so silken it might as well have been the surface.
His black eyes were enormous―no whites to be seen―his cheekbones so sharp they could have sliced air. His nose was narrow and long, like a blade, and water dripped from its tip over a mouth . . . a mouth . . .
It was too large, that mouth. Sensuous lips, but too wide.
Then his arms slid from the water.
In stiff, jolting movements they jerked onto the moss, white and thin, ending in fingers as long as her forearm. Fingers that dug into the grass, revealing four joints and dagger-sharp nails. They cracked and popped as he stretched and dug them into the grass, grappling for purchase.
Nesta's breath sawed out of her, terror a roaring in her mind as she crawled backward.
He heaved himself out of the water, revealing a bony torso, his black hair dragging behind him like a net.
She lurched back again as he slowly lifted his head.
That too-wide mouth parted. Twin rows of rotted teeth, jagged as shards of glass, filled his mouth as he smiled.
Her bladder loosened, her lap becoming wet and warm.
He scented it, saw it, and that mouth widened further, fingers twitching as they hauled more and more of him from the water. His narrow, bare hips―
He pushed himself onto his arms as he slid a long, white leg from the blackness. Another. And then he knelt on all fours, smiling at her.
She couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but stare into that white face, the black eyes as dark as the bog, the twitching, too-long fingers and that mouth, those eel's teeth―
He spoke then, and it was not a language she recognized. His voice rasped, deep and hoarse, full of terrible hunger and cruel amusement.
The gentle female voice in her head pleaded, Run, run, run.
His head cocked, sodden black hair sloshing with the movement, full of what seemed to be bog weeds. As if he'd heard that female voice, too. He spoke again, and it was like rock grating on rock―his tone more demanding.
Kelpie. This was a kelpie, and he would kill her.
Run, the voice shouted. Run!
Nesta's legs had become distant, numb. She couldn't remember how to use them.
The kelpie's head twitched, fingers convulsing in the grass. His smile grew again. So wide she spied the long, black tongue writhing in his mouth, as if he could already taste her flesh.
Nesta couldn't recall how to scream as he lunged for her.
Couldn't do anything at all as those long fingers wrapped around her legs, claws ripping through her skin, and yanked her toward him.
Pain ripped Nesta from her stupor, and she fought, fingers grabbing at the grass. It came free in clumps, as if it had no roots at all. As if the bog would do nothing to help her.
The kelpie towed her along as he slithered back into the frigid water.
And dragged her under the surface.
...
No, no, nonononono.
The mythology of Kelpies has always been disturbing but fucking hell, Maas. Thanks for the nightmare fuel.
My heart nearly pounded out of my chest then and it damn near escaped with Maas' eldritch horror.
I think I can handle most creature-features, even revel in them, but water-based ones?
Nuh-uh.
Being dragged to a watery grave by a hungry, horny aquatic Sea Biscuit is not my idea of a good time!
But it did make for an awesome moment of excitement within an otherwise steady book.
As did Nesta raising an army of the dead to grind said pond-slurping shit-heel into fish food.
"Look."
Cassian gazed where Azriel pointed at the deeper water. The surface was rippling. Golden light shone beneath. Cassian splashed toward it, but Az halted him again, his Siphons flaring blue.
Then the spears broke the surface.
Like a forest rising from the water, spear after spear after spear appeared. Then the helmets, dripping water, some rusted, some shining as if freshly forged. And beneath those helmets: skulls.
"Mother save us," Azriel whispered, and it was undiluted terror, not awe, hushing his voice as the dead rose from Oorid's depths.
A line of them; a legion. Some mere collections of upright bones, jaws hanging and eyes unseeing. Some half-preserved, decaying flesh flapping over exposed ribs. Judging by their fine armor, they were warriors and kings and princes and lords.
They rose from the water, standing in the shallows near the thorny island. And as that golden light broke the surface before them, the dead knelt.
Every word emptied from Cassian's head as Nesta, too, emerged from the water, as if lifted on a pillar from beneath. A golden mask sat upon her face, primitive but embossed with whorls and patterns so ancient they'd lost all meaning.
Water sluiced down her clothes, her hair had been ripped from its braid, and in her hand, clenched there . . .
A kelpie's head dangled by its sheet of black hair, torn-up face frozen in a scream. Exactly as the King of Hybern's head had hung from her hand.
Only silver fire burned behind the eyes of the Mask.
"Holy gods," Azriel breathed. The dead stood motionless, a legion poised to strike. Her will was their will; her command their only reason for being. They had no self left―only her, only Nesta, flowing through them.
"Nesta," Cassian whispered.
Nesta released the kelpie's head. The black water at her feet swallowed it whole.
Cold power rippled toward them, and as it hit, Cassian let it surge past him, around him, yielded himself to it. Because to stand against it would be to provoke the Mask's wrath. To stand against it would be to stand against Death itself.
Death herself.
...
The same goes for her and Cassian's little trip into Velaris' prison, where the oldest, most deadly monsters of Prythian reside.
Nothing to make a girl feel more badass than decapitating a supposedly invulnerable Fae god whilst he tries to lure you with the promise of power and pleasure.
(Put your dick away and let the lady do her business, thank you very much)
These moments outside of the stable construct of the House of Wind felt like a necessary addition to the progression of the story.
As much as I say I enjoyed the domesticity of the book, I relished these moments.
Moments to really see what Nesta's capable of, what the power she stole from the cauldron either blessed or perhaps cursed her with. Maybe even both.
It's an awesome amount of power, one could say too much.
Nesta's eyes flicked open.
Silver fire burned within. Nothing Fae looked out through them.
[...]
She turned her head so slowly it was like watching a puppet move. Her eyes met his.
Death watched him.
But death had walked beside him every day of his life. So Cassian stroked his thumb along her palm and said, "Hello, Nes."
But not so much that I wanted it taken from her.
We're veering into the annoyed stage of the review.
Because I may be waxing lyrical about all the things I loved about the story but I know it's not perfect, I know it got vital things wrong and it withheld things I was expecting and needed.
Snatching away Nesta's power, for however good a reason (and it was a pretty epic reason), feels like I've been cheated.
Her identity isn't wrapped up in her power. It's not who she is, it isn't even truly compatible with her physicality or mentality. She's not meant to have it and at some point I think it would have consumed her but not yet, Maas. Not. Yet.
There were so many things we could have seen and done with her abilities; I still believe she could lead armies sans power but could you imagine Nesta, a queen of Death, riding into battle and making the masses kneel with a word or a look?
...as the sun broke over the horizon, as Cassian's knife plunged for his chest, Nesta erupted with the force of the cauldron.
☩
There was nothing in Nesta's head but screaming. Nothing in her heart but love and hatred and fury as she let go of everything inside her and the entire world exploded.
The baying of her magic was a beast with no name. Avalanches cascaded down the cliffs in seas of glittering white. Trees bent and ruptured in the wake of the power that shattered from her. Distant seas drew back from their shores, then raced in waves toward them again. Glasses shook and shattered in Velaris, books tumbled off the shelves in Helion's thousand libraries, and the remnants of a run-down cottage in the human lands crumbled into a pile of rubble.
But all Nesta saw was Briallyn. All she saw was the slack-jawed crone as Nesta leaped upon her, throwing her frail body to the rocky ground. All she knew was screaming as she clutched Briallyn's face, the Crown glowing blindingly white, and roared her fury to the mountains, to the stars, to the dark places between them.
Gnarled hands turned young. A lined face became beautiful and lovely. White hair darkened to raven black.
But Nesta bellowed and bellowed, letting her magic rage, unleashing every ember. Erasing the queen beneath her from existence.
The young hands turned to ash. The pretty face dissolved into nothing. The dark hair withered into dust.
Until all that was left of the queen was the Crown on the ground.
[...]
Cassian sat up, soothing sounds on his tongue, and took her face in his hands. "You Unmade her."
Nesta glanced to the Crown on the earth―the black stain where Briallyn had been. "She had it coming."
This would be my face, whilst I pledged eternal fucking allegiance:
(I know there were hints of something left behind and perhaps a little extra from the Mother thrown in but just don't start, okay? I'm too pissed to be reasonable right now)
The only possible reason I can fathom is that she decided Nesta and Elain were to be Fae, got so far as changing them, and then panicked because she didn't know what to do next.
That's the only reasoning I can think of and it sucks.
Don't get me all riled up and then hand me an untoasted waffle.
I wanted it warm and golden and syruped within an inch of its doughy life, served while I recline in the House of Wind and it brings me all the books I desire as I very skilfully avoid getting syrup on the pages - it's a talent.
...
Speaking of the House of Wind.
I'm going to say it:
It's my favourite character in the whole book.
Nesta, Cassian, Azriel, Gwyn, Emerie, sorry but you've been usurped by a sentient palace with wicked taste in literature.
It couldn't be helped, I couldn't resist.
Not when it brought her tea when she was sad, shielded her from fire when it triggered her, comforted her with her greatest joy - reading, engaged with her, befriended her, tried to physically cuddle her.
The House had dinner waiting on her desk, along with a book. Apparently it had noted her request for a book the other day and deemed The Great War too dull. The title of this one was suitably smutty. "I didn't know you had dirty taste," Nesta said wryly.
The House only responded by running a bath.
"Dinner, bath, and a book," Nesta said aloud, shaking her head in something close to awe. "It's perfect. Thank you."
The House said nothing, but when she stepped into her bathroom, she found that it wasn't an ordinary bath. The House had added an assortment of oils that smelled of rosemary and lavender. She breathed in the heady, beautiful scent, and sighed.
"I think you might be my only friend," Nesta said, then groaned her way into the tub's welcoming warmth.
The House was apparently so pleased by her words that as soon as she lay back, a tray appeared across the width of the tub. Laden with a massive piece of chocolate cake.
Yeah... you guys didn't stand a chance.
I'd happily hand you over to the enemy for a night of wooing from the house atop the hill, and I would only feel slightly guilty about it.
...
IT BROUGHT HER BOOKS.
WITHOUT HER HAVING TO ASK.
...
DAILY.
...
Come on, you'd do the same, don't lie to yourself.
It's the book nerd dream to have literature at our fingertips, and I can't think of a more worthy heroine to have that impossible daydream come to life.
From personal experience, literature is the thing that saved me during the darkest periods of depression.
This series, in fact, got me through some of my hardest days.
I went from reading occasionally when it took my fancy, to reading every free moment of the day, every day.
They were escape, joy I couldn't feel in my own life, lands that were either barred to me by geography or reality, they were new friends who would never let you go and welcomed you back whenever you returned from visiting another.
She wouldn't have cared where she stayed, except for the convenience of the small, private library also on her level. Which had been the place where she'd discovered those smutty books, as Cassian called them. She'd devoured a few dozen of them during those weeks she'd first been here, desperate for any lifeline to keep her from falling apart, from bellowing at what had been done to her body, her life―to Elain.
They were my greatest solace and even though my depression is level in most ways, they remain the "thing" I reach for and love most of all, to the point of surrounding myself with them.
They encircle me every day, hundreds of stories waiting patiently next to where I sleep, slumbering until it's their turn to be read.
It's another thing I share with Nesta, that love and need for stories and the way they hold you close.
If only I'd had a sentient house and a vast palace library to read my fill from like she did.
(I had my family, who spoiled me with books because I think they knew I needed it, and I'll always be thankful)
And an Azriel to gift me the perfect light source for those nights I couldn't stop but lacked the power to make the sun remain shining.
Nesta had blinked at the gift the shadowsinger had set in her lap. "I didn't get you anything," she murmured to Az, cheeks turning rosy.
"I know," he said, smiling. "I don't mind."
Cassian tried to focus on the present in his hands [...] but his gaze snagged on Nesta's fingers as she opened the small box. She peered at what was inside, then looked at Azriel in confusion. "What is it?"
Azriel plucked up the small folded silver wand within and unfurled it. One end held a clip, the other a small glass sphere. "You can attach this to whatever book you're reading, and the little ball of faelight will shine. So you don't have to squint when you're reading at night.
Nesta touched the glass ball, no bigger than her thumbnail, and faelight flickered within, casting a bright, easy glow upon her lap. She tapped it again and it turned off. And then she jumped to her feet and flung her arms around Azriel.
The room went silent for a beat.
But Azriel chuckled and squeezed her gently. Cassian smiled to see it―to see them. "Thank you," Nesta said, quickly pulling away to marvel at the device. "It's brilliant."
Azriel blushed and stepped back, shadows swirling.
...
Honestly, that precious bat boy will be the death of me.
(I haven't been able to stop thinking about his POV chapter since I read it. I don't have any conclusive ships for him but having conformation that he does indeed want to bone Elain into the next century and the feeling being very mutual sated something inside me I didn't know needed sated. It's so not going to be canon, not with Gwyn's "music" calling to his shadows. But it's cool, at this point I'm open to anything, just as long as I get a damn Azriel book. Not like this, this was a Nesta story, not a Nesta/Cassian story. Elain's fine but I want more time inside Az's head. I demand it. Because he is precious and we must protect him at all costs. One thing, however, bat boy, you gave Elain's Winter Solstice gift to Gwyn? ... Wtf, man? Not cool. Not cool at all)
But now I'm furious because we finally found out what was in the box, Cassian's river-thrown Winter Solstice gift to Nesta, and it was perfect, I'm feral for it, and it would have gone perfectly with Az's gift... and it's gone forever.
Cassian [...] glanced to[ward] Nesta. He'd kept her present in his pocket, saving it to give to her in private later. He'd done the same last year, and the damn thing had ended up at the bottom of the Sidra. Probably swept out to sea.
He'd spent months tracking down the book, so tiny it would fit in a doll's hands, but so precious it had cost him an indecent amount of money. A miniature illuminated manuscript, crafted by the skilled hands of the smallest of the lesser Fae―one of the first printed books in existence. It hadn't been meant for reading―but he'd figured that someone who adored books as much as Nesta would savor this piece of history. Even if she resented all things Fae. He'd regretted throwing it into the river the moment it had vanished under the ice, but . . . he'd been foolish that night.
This year, he prayed it was different. It felt different.
I'm screaming.
I don't think I'll ever stop screaming.
I was at least expecting Cassian to dive into the Sidra and retrieve it.
SJM made us all feral monsters for the damn thing and we didn't even get to see it?!
(I really do love him, even though he's an arrogant shit and SJM character assassinated him in this, he's still my guy, just with a little extra salt these day)
I'm honestly really bummed over this; the Symphonia he got her for this year's celebration was gold star present giving material but come onnnnnn?
A tiny, ancient book crafted by Thumbelinas?
...
Can you say soulmate?
Eternal life partner?
Immortal husband?!
I can assuredly say, that if he'd given her that before all the shit in Silver Flames went down, they'd have been mated and sated the morning after, and from them on into eternity.
But I'm glad it didn't happened that way.
Because unlike everyone else (yes, I've been scrolling reviews again and damn, tough crowd) I enjoyed the fuck out of this.
It was exciting and triumphant and satisfying.
The romance I'd been longing for was handed to me on a platter - and then some.
They bickered and snarled to the very end.
The friendships I'd caught glimpses of in the teasers Maas was leaving on Instagram were as lovely and genuine as I'd hoped.
There was intrigue, new magic, new monsters - although, I really missed my tea-spilling Suriel.
The expansion of Prythian's history has me on tenterhooks to learn more and the introduction of The Trove was, I have no better words for it, cool as fuck and will hopefully carry on into Azriel and Mor's books.
(I'm guessing the layout's going to be the equivalent of Feysand's. Three for them, one each for Nesta/Cassian, Azriel/Elain/(Gwyn?), Mor/Emerie? I'm hoping Emerie)
BECAUSE NESSIAN IS CANON AND NOW I CAN FINALLY REST.
Nesta had loved Cassian since she'd first laid eyes on him. Had loved him even when she did not want to, even when she had been swallowed by despair and fear and hatred. Had loved him and destroyed herself because she didn't believe she deserved him, because he was all that was good, and brave, and kind, and she loved him, she loved him, she loved him―
...
Nesta closed her eyes, breathing in his scent. "You are my mate, Cassian," she said against his lips, and kissed him softly.
"And you're mine," he said, kissing her in return.
And then his hands slid into her hair. And the kiss . . .
It did not matter, the world around them, or the Crown at her feet, as he kissed her. A mate's kiss. One that set their souls twining, glowing.
She pulled back, letting him see the joy in her eyes, her smile. His awe, his own joy, made her throat tighten.
...
"You could have ruled the world with your power," he said carefully.
"I don't want to rule the world." Her eyes were unguarded in a way he had never seen. Mate, she had called him.
"What do you want?" Cassian managed to ask, voice rasping.
She smiled, and damn if it wasn't the loveliest thing he'd ever seen. "You. [...] I just want you."
...
Did I say rest?
Hah.
Well, maybe until the next book, which is coming when exactly, Milady Maas?
No idea?
...
Ps. I needed to buy a new packet of flags because of this book. Ridiculous. But just listen to that rustle:
I read the first book in the Southern Reachseries a few years ago and didn't get it; my brain isn't equipped for cerebral, scientific, biological apocalypses, okay?
But now I've watched the movie and I understand it a bit more?
Maybe?
Or I've just convinced myself I have.
Who knows?
It was very beautiful, though.
The pinnacle of arboreal sci-fi.
And the score was an eerie counterpoint to said beauty, yet elevated the body horror - moving intestines is not something I want to experience again, nuh uh - to something more than simply gruesome.
...
I liked it!
...
I have nothing else to say, I think I'm still pretty confused about it all, but yay for Natalie Portman being back in the horror genre.
I lovedBlack Swan- unlike just about everyone else - and I've been waiting for her to get back to her creepy, fucked up best.
Apparently sentient, symbiotic flora was the way.
(As if her eyes weren't fucking beautiful enough, they went and made them supernatural)
I didn't know this was a true story until after I'd finished it.
Which makes it both worse and better.
The fact that this isn't fiction makes it all the more disturbing, but unsurprising.
Women being taking advantage of isn't new and depressingly, it'll continue well past my lifetime.
The fact that I wasn't even that shocked by the events of Unbelievableshould tell you something.
But for once, and not just in fiction, some form of retribution and finality was given to the women of this very true story.
Unbelievable is the reality of countless women and their experiences should be shared - with their permission - in any way they can, and be done with the same level of respect the creators of this show treated it with.
This is the book that should be given to children to read in school.
This is the book that should be given to anyone who's ever felt different and doesn't know it's okay to feel that way yet, and that "different" isn't isn't a dirty word.
This is the book you read whilst wearing a fancy dress, shit-kickers, and zero fucks - preferably with someone feeding you madeleines or something equally yummy because you're that fucking fabulous.
Except Sebastian Stan, who plays the role perfectly but his character does not look like that. Atall. Charles Blackwood is not a hottie; he's an abusive, gaslighting, moon-faced prick and giving him Stan's biology romanticises a character who isn't appealing to anyone but a disillusioned Constance (the protagonist, Merricat's sister for those who haven't read or seen it), the easiest mark in the entire story.
They didn't even try and tone down his handsomeness.
He's just brazenly hot whilst being a bastard.
...
It was fun to look at him in all his wrongness, though:
However, bad physical casting aside?
Glorious and creepy and unnerving and compulsive and everything I could have ever wished for in an adaptation of my most beloved Shirley Jackson story.
I don't know what triggered the SJ resurgence but I am all for it.
COVER REVEAL TIME! This Rebel Heart is my next YA, releasing on April 5th, 2022, and it's my first YA since 2018! I am SO proud of this book. Preorder link here: https://t.co/JwsQNn17zJpic.twitter.com/4Hy9cTtP4f
They all turn to see her standing beneath the gated arch, watching them. Jett is wearing running pants and a tank top with an iPod strapped to her thin, steel-hard bicep. Her dark hair is bound in a severe ponytail and every inch of her exposed skin is flushed and glistening. She looks as if she's been out running for hours.
"Did you hear the rest?" Lena asks her.
Jett nods. "The rest of you just focus on getting our coworkers back. I'll take care of our new executive liaison."
Cindy grins at something she recognizes well in Jett's tone of voice. "How?"
"One of the most important rules of crisis communication in a corporate environment is to listen," Jett says. "That's what I'm going to do. I'm going to listen. To that bitch begging me for mercy."
For some reason, Matt Wallace decided not to show up to the party for this one.
Which sucks for two reasons:
1. The three books prior have all been either a 4 star or 5 star read.
2. This one was for the ladies and the ladies were let down.
...
I don't know what happened between book three and four but it feels slightly like Wallace just couldn't be bothered to think of an interesting plot for the fourth deadly sin.
Although, Idle is in the title so maybe it was purposeful?
Maybe I was meant to feel mildly underwhelmed?
Who knows, but either way, it didn't work.
I kept expecting something interesting to happen. Anything to happen. But it didn't.
Not a damn thing of note, even with all the kickass ladies of the series doing their best to get shit done.
We had the full clowder, and yet...
...
How does this happen?
How does Lena, terrifying I'll kick your ass then make you a gourmet sandwich Lena spend two hundred odd pages not blowing my mind with her awesomeness?
Why am I only getting three minimal chapters of Jett near silently gearing up, with meticulous organisational skills, to kick some supernatural ass?
Nikki! My beloved pastry chef's high moment is bedazzled brownies - I mean, fuck yeah but really? Really?! - and a little "hands on" male coercion.
And Cindy. Don't even get me started on how little action Cindy sees in this. Even with pining revelations and a good walloping of the embodiment of said pining, there's barely any of my cocksure, modern day warrior on page.
...
I repeat: WHAT THE FUCK?
And it's not as if the men were hogging the limelight.
They're honestly all totally useless in this; not a helpful one among them, so I can't even blame them for the slight on my Sin du Jour ladies.
The slight on me for going into this story thinking: fuck yeah, things are about to get violent.
Or maybe it was Wallace attempting to show that women can get shit done without making a Bedlam-eque mess of it all like their male counterparts.
...
I mean... yeah, but nah.
Give me bloodshed, give me fury, give me a Tiramisu reward at the end for a successful day of kicking the underworld's offspring's ass.
Don't me wrong, though, it was still fun to hang out with the Sin du Jour gang, catering to evil, getting themselves in all sorts of fucked up situations, usually involving someone covered in frosting and being chewed on by Satan's puppy, but this lacked Wallace's usual supernatural panache.
I wasn't even hungry while reading it, and I'm always hungry when I read this series - it's an occult catering company, what do you expect?
And one more thing, you can absolutely tell this was written by a guy because my ship sailed in book three and the couple interacted once in the whole of this book.
ONCE.
And it was deeply unsatisfying.
...
I'm here to eat, Wallace, don't try and starve me.
I'm not even at the point in the series of it being canon but does that stop my brain from exploding over all the fanart, memes, random quotes I see posted all over the place?
Ps. Watching Rin draw my boys (or anything, really) is akin to tipping your face to the sun.
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