“I can feel you overthinking this,” Gwyn murmured. “Close your eyes and keep breathing. Take five breaths.”
Nesta did. Without anything to visually distract her, she figured her breathing would be easier to track.
It wasn’t. Somehow, her mind just wanted to wander off. She told herself to focus on the count, on timing each breath and keeping a tally of how many she’d taken, and yet she found herself thinking of the couch cushions, her cooling tea, her still-damp hair—
How many breaths had it been? “I think I’m losing my mind,” Nesta muttered.
Gwyn shushed her. “Now let your breathing steady, and focus on the sounds around you. Acknowledge them, then let them fade away.”
Nesta did. To her left, she could make out shuffling feet and whispering robes. Who was walking through the stacks? What book were they—
Focus. Let the sounds go. Someone was walking nearby. She marked it, and with an exhale, sent the thought floating away. To her right, Gwyn’s breathing remained steady.
Gwyn was probably good at this. Gwyn was good at everything, actually. It didn’t irk her, though. For whatever reason, Nesta wanted to crow about her friend to anyone who’d listen.
Her friend. That was what Gwyn was. It had been—
Focus. Let go. Nesta noted Gwyn’s breathing, released the thought, and moved on to the next sound. Then the next.
“Now survey your body,” Gwyn said softly. “Starting at your head, slowly working down to your toes, assess how you’re feeling. If there are sore spots—”
“Everything is sore after that sword lesson,” Nesta hissed.
Gwyn choked on another laugh. “I mean it. Note if there are sore spots, if there are spots that feel good …” Papers rustled. “Oh, and the instructions also say that when you’re done, you should assess how you are feeling. Don’t dwell on it, but just acknowledge it.”
Nesta didn’t particularly like the sound of the last bit, but she obeyed. Every part of her body ached, from a stiffness in her neck to a soreness along her left foot. She hadn’t realized how many little pieces of herself existed, all constantly blaring their pains or status. How much noise it produced in her head. But she acknowledged each of those things. Let them drift away.
Assessing her emotions, however … How was she feeling? Right now, tired yet … content to be here with Gwyn. Laughing. Doing this. If she went deeper …
“Now we’re going to work on focused breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Do ten of them, then start over. If a thought pops up, acknowledge it, then send it on its way. Tell yourself, I am the rock against which the surf crashes. Your thoughts are the surf. Let them crash over you.”
Easy enough.
It wasn’t. The first few times Nesta counted ten breaths, no thoughts plagued her at all. But when she began the next set …
What would Elain think, to see Nesta here with a friend? The thought bubbled up from nowhere. As if in opening her mind, it had rushed toward her. Would Elain be pleased, or would she feel the need to warn Gwyn about Nesta’s true self?
She’d been on breath five. No, six. Wait—maybe it had only been three.
“Start over if you lose count,” Gwyn said, as if she’d heard the halt of Nesta’s steady breathing.
Nesta did so, focusing on the breaths and not Elain. I acknowledge this thought about my sister, and I am letting it go.
She was on her seventh breath when her sister appeared again. And yet somehow all you think of is what my trauma did to you.
Had Elain been right? Feyre had admitted she was guilty of it, too, but—Feyre hadn’t known Elain as Nesta did. Or, it hadn’t been that way before. Before Elain had chosen Feyre.
Before Amren had chosen Feyre.
Before—
I acknowledge these thoughts and I am letting them go.
Nesta inhaled an eighth time. I am focusing on my breathing. These thoughts exist, and I am letting them pass me by.
Nesta took another breath. Forced her mind to think only of her breathing.
“When you finish your next set of ten,” Gwyn said, near and yet far away, “stop counting your breaths and just let your mind do as it wishes. We’ll do that for a few heartbeats, then stop. The goal is to work up to longer and longer periods of this.”
Nesta did so, counting each of the ten remaining breaths. Feeling that moment of halting like a looming wave. She finished the tenth breath.
Do as you want, mind. Go drift into those dark, horrible places.
It didn’t, though. Her mind lingered. Didn’t wander. It just … sat there. Contented. Resting. Like a cat curled at her feet.
Stilled.
Only a few moments passed before Gwyn whispered, “Begin to sink back into your body. Mark the sounds around us. Mark the feeling in your fingers, your toes.”
Strange—so strange to find her body suddenly … calmed. Distant. Like she’d somehow indeed been able to step back. Let it rest. And her mind …
“Open your eyes,” Gwyn breathed.
Nesta did. And for the first time in her life, she felt utterly settled into her own skin.
CHAPTER
40
The rain kept falling for two days, the temperatures plummeting with it. Leaves lay scattered around Velaris, and the Sidra was now a silver snake, sometimes hidden by the drifting mists. The females showed up every damn day without fail.
But only Nesta stood at his side as he knocked on the door of the small blacksmith’s shop on the western outskirts of Velaris.
The gray-stoned, thatched-roof shop hadn’t changed in the five centuries he’d been patronizing it—he bought all his non-Illyrian weapons there. He’d have taken her to an Illyrian blacksmith, but they were mostly backward, superstitious males who wanted females nowhere near their shops. The ruddy-skinned High Fae male who opened the door for them was skilled and kind, if gruff.
“General,” the male said, wiping his sooty hands on his stained leather apron. He opened the door wider, delicious heat blasting out to meet them in the chilled rain. The blacksmith’s dark eyes swept over Nesta, noting her soaked hair and leathers, the calm intensity of her features despite the awful weather.
She’d had that same look on her face, in every line of her body, while training this morning. And when Cassian had issued the invitation to join him here during the lunch hour. He’d invited all of the females, but Emerie had to return to Windhaven, and the priestesses had been unwilling to leave the mountain. So only Nesta had come with him to the small village, with the city looming on its eastern side and broad, flat plains stretching away toward the sea to the west.
“How can I assist you?”
Cassian nudged Nesta forward with a hand to the small of her back, and grinned at the male. “I want Lady Nesta to learn how a blade is made. Before she picks up a real one.”
The blacksmith surveyed her again. “I don’t need an apprentice, I’m afraid.”
“Just a quick demonstration,” Cassian said, keeping his smile in place as he glanced to Nesta, who was staring over the blacksmith’s broad shoulder into the workshop behind him. The blacksmith frowned deeply, so Cassian added, “I want her to learn how much work and skill goes into the process. To show her that a blade is not merely a tool for killing, but a piece of art as well.” Flattery always helped smooth the way. Rhys had taught him that.