Nesta stared into the mirror, resisting the urge to curl her lip at her own reflection. She hadn't always hated her own appearance. There was a time where mirrors had been her friend, but now Nesta spent her days trying to avoid them. She tried to avoid gazing at her slender ears with their pointed tips, at her brighter eyes and sharpened visage, carved with the magic of an ancient cauldron.
The cauldron had not only changed her, it had changed her younger sister. Elain. Like Nesta, Elain now possessed otherworldly attributes. But like Nesta, Elain's changes were not only physical. While Nesta struggled to accustom herself to her heightened senses and connection to the dead, Elain had become a shell. She hardly spoke and appeared to be unaware of her surroundings a lot of the time. It was all that Nesta could do to get her to eat and drink, most days.
She blamed Rhysand. If it weren't for the fae lords and their stupid wars, Nesta's sisters would be at home. They would be safe and human, Feyre wouldn't be missing and Elain would be happily tending to her garden while prepping for her wedding. The fae had taken so much from her family. Every time Nesta glanced into a mirror, her reflection was a stark reminder of all they had lost.
She wished she could tear her skin off. She wished her magic would go away, that her hair would return to being dull and straw like and that her skin would become freckled and blotchy once more. She longed for her scars and stretch marks, for her tummy fat and pudgy limbs. Nesta was sick of appearing ethereal and graceful. She wanted her family to be safe again, and she wanted to be human. Nothing mattered to her more than that.
But she knew that her desires were unobtainable, and so Nesta resorted to stewing in silent, bitter rage. She couldn't have what she wanted, but she could damn well ensure that she got revenge. The fae owed her family that much.
