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i-eat-worlds · 4 months

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Stab O’clock

Phoenix gets stabbed, whump ensues.

Thanks to @snaillamp and @whumpy-daydreams for helping with the medical stuff in this! Aaron and Phoenix belong to @pigeonwhumps

cw: medical whump, dubcon medical care, past medical abuse, graphic depiction of medical procedures (tube thoracostomy), needles, blood, implied current abuse, fear of punishment, wound fingering, immortal whumpee, wishing for death, past death, comfort believe it or not

“Firebird!”

Phoenix rolled away from the voice calling their name, trying to drag themselves deeper into the alleyway. If they were discovered like this, it wouldn’t end well. You couldn’t fight if you could barely breathe.

“Firebird!”

A black, blue, and orange uniformed hero rounded the corner, and Phoenix shrunk back further. Absurdly, they wished they could bleed out and die quicker, so they could heal. Being found like this was sure to end badly. Injured heroes were useless heroes, and useless heroes got punished. The hero called out for them again, moving towards the alley way.

They held their breath, hoping the hero would walk by and ignore them.

They didn’t.

Instead, the hero turned into the alley, dropping to their knees in front of them. He mumbled something into his coms before he looked at them. “Hey Firebird, I’m Exhale, I’m a medic.” He gestured to the patch on his left arm. “I’m here to help you, yeah?”

Medics? Who had sent medics out for them? That was a gross waste of resources. Phoenix shook their head. “ ‘m immortal.”

Talking was hard. Every word stole precious, precious air that was getting harder to take in by the second.

Exhale nodded. “Good to know, thanks for telling me.” He quickly located the wound on their chest and started quickly cutting the fabric away.

“No, ‘m immortal.” Phoenix whispered, pushing his hands away. “You don’ need to do that.”

“Not how that works. Let me help.” Exhale pressed a clear, sticky bandage over their chest. It was clear he wasn’t planning on arguing.

His hands wrapped around them, checking their backside for another wound. “ ‘m sorry,” they wheezed.

“It’s alright.” His hands pulled away. “I need you to lay down. I’ll help, yeah?” Phoenix let him gently set them down on the ground. This moved them out of the shadows, casting streetlight over their upper body.

Their chest still felt heavy and tight, even though the weird bandages he’d put on helped a little bit. It did nothing for the pain, every movement of their rib cage extending the burning ache. In the distance, they could hear sirens. Stupidly, Phoenix wondered if the sirens were for them.

That was silly, though. Why would they need an ambulance? It wasn’t like they were going to die.

“I’m gonna need to decompress your chest,” he said. He was holding something in his gloved hand, but Phoenix couldn’t really see what it was. “It’ll probably hurt, but it’ll also make it easier to breathe.”

They whimpered as Exhale pressed his fingers next to their sternum, only a few inches away from the wound, then slid them across their chest. In the corner of their vision, they saw light glint of of a very long needle.

They didn’t have time to really process what it was until after it was driven through their chest.

Shocked, they gasped, breathing hitching and head popping off the ground. Exhale didn’t seem so surprised, pressing his hand onto their shoulder to keep them from moving too much. “You’re alright, you’re going great.”

It certainly didn’t feel like that.

“The ambulance is on its way, they’re a few minutes out.” For some reason, he was still gently squeezing their shoulder. It wasn’t that they minded, it was just odd.

It was easy to tell that the ambulance was coming, sirens screaming through the night. Phoenix closed their eyes to try and get away from bright flashing lights as it parked. It was so easy to keep them like that.

“Phoenix, can you open your eyes for me?” He shook their shoulder a bit, but when they didn’t respond, he switched to grinding his knuckles into their sternum.

Their eyes popped open, and they raised the arm on their uninjured side to try and push his hand away. “I need you to try and stay awake, for me, yeah?”

The ambulance ride passed in a blur. So much was going on. While Exhale was starting an IV, another paramedic was attaching them to a monitor. An oxygen mask was looped over their face and then they were covered by a blanket. They felt a strange coolth running up their arm, and they realized that they’d been given painkillers.

It was too much, really. All the care and attention would've been better spent on someone who wouldn’t live anyway. The thought of having to pay for this made them nauseous. Hopefully Kai will believe that they tried to say no, because Abbie wouldn’t care.

Phoenix heard the arrival alarm go off as they were rolled into HAL’s medbay. Aaron, along with a cache of other nurses met them by the door. They clumped around the stretcher, and Exhale started rattling off a long list of words and numbers that they didn’t understand at Aaron.

“ ‘m sorry,” they mumbled to them, but he was too busy talking to hear them. “I promise ‘m sorry, sir.”

Nobody responded. Of course they didn’t. They were being annoying, and they needed to shut up.

“Three, two, one, lift!” Somebody called, and they were hoisted off the stretcher and set back down on the table. The movement caused pain to flare in their chest, and they groaned loudly. The assault of hands returned as they were attached to the medbay’s monitor, nurses swarming around them.

“You with me, Phoenix?” Aaron was standing at their head. His face looked weird upside down.

They nodded, feeling the tears starting to build. “Yes, sir.”

“Good, good.” Aaron’s eyes flickered up, watching as their blood pressure cycled. “We’re gonna take an x-ray, okay. Just lie still for us.”

Someone pulled an x-ray machine over the bed, and Aaron backed away. There was an awkward moment of quiet as the machine hummed and wirred, and then everyone briey stared at the radiograph that Phoenix could neither see nor interpret. Aaron rattled o a list of stuff he needed done, and the room descended back into organized chaos.

“I’m gonna need to place a chest tube. You’ve got blood in your chest, so we're going to put a tube in and drain it out so you can breathe better,” he explained as he rubbed cleaning gel on his hands.

Phoenix swallowed nervously, giving up on holding back tears. They could feel the pain of the scalpel slicing through their chest, of cold metal pushing their ribs apart, of hands digging around inside them as they died and resurrected and died again.

“You’re lucky someone is willing to help you at all. You know you don’t deserve it.”

A nurse pulled the blanket all the way to their belly button, revealing the myriad scars that covered their body. Burns, several GSWs, an old wound from a spear, and the long, thick, almost keloid scar from the thoracotomy.

“If you stopped fucking moving I wouldn’t need to paralyze you. It’s not like you need to breathe.”

Their attention was drawn by Aaron’s voice. “Phoenix, I need you to keep breathing for me. In and out, in and out.” He looped a mask around his face, then plunged his arms into the sleeves of a waiting gown. While he spoke, the nurse wiped the skin around their chest and up their arm with a stinky orange solution.

“Please, ‘m sorry, sir,” they gasped. The monitors screeched as their heart rate spiked. “I promise, sir, ‘m sorry for getting hurt.”

Aaron’s eyebrows furrowed. “I’m not mad at you for getting hurt, Phoenix. I’ll never be.” Cold flared in their arms, but they were too scared to recognize it as pain medication. Latex snapped as he donned a pair of sterile gloves.

The squelching of viscera echoed in their brain.

“If you don’t stop screaming I’m going to cut it. I can literally see your aorta. Don’t test me.”

He started to unfold a drape on their chest, looking up at a nurse on the other side of the table. “Can you get Joseph in here? They need more support than I can provide while I’m doing this.”

Phoenix whimpered, tears rolling down freely down their cheeks. They’d known that Aaron’s kindness wouldn’t last forever, that it was too good to be true, but it still hurt. And Joseph as well? Was he going to hold them down while Aaron cut them open? Or would they just slit their throat and be done with it?

“I told you I wasn’t fucking around. You could’ve prevented this if you would’ve just kept still.”

“I‘m sorry, please, I promise, I’m sorry, sir.” They tried again, desperately. “I didn’t mean to get hurt. I know I don’t deserve it, sir. I know. I promise, sir, I know.”

They gasped for air, hand clawing at the tide of the table.

“Can someone gag them please? I don’t want to hear them breathing like that. It’s annoying.”

Joseph appeared in the entryway to the room, quickly crossing on the side away from Aaron. He was wearing his full INSUPA uniform, med patches and all, same second in command stripes as the person in the alley had. Was Joseph Exhale?

It didn’t really matter now. He was going to hurt them anyway.

“Can someone hold them down? They move too much when they resurrect.”

“Hey Phoenix, can you look at me?” He was smiling at them, but he still looked terrifying.

They tore their eyes from the needle in Aaron’s hand to look at him. “That’s good. Eyes on me, eyes on me.”

“Don’t look at me like that. You know it's your own fault.”

Joseph kept talking to them, voice low and calm. “Is it okay if I hold your hand?” They nodded, knowing their answer didn’t really matter anyway.

“We’re gonna take care of you. I know it’s scary.” His hands were calloused and hard, and he gently started to massage the top of their hand with his thumb.

Why hadn’t he killed them yet? What was he waiting for?

“Stop crying. It’s distracting me.”

Aaron touched their chest. Fear exploded in their gut, along with boiling waves of nausea. Even though they knew they’d come back, they didn’t want to die.

“Aaron’s starting the local now.” Joseph said, squeezing their hand a little.

“I don’t care that it hurts. Just keep still.”

The needle punctured their skin, and they did their best to not wiggle away. There was an acidic burn in their chest as the medication took hold.

“I know it burns, but it’s nearly over,” Aaron said, grabbing another syringe. “That’s the first round of local anesthetic in, you’re doing great.”

Joseph smiled at them again, and Phoenix wondered what the point of the medication was. Weren’t anesthetics supposed to make things hurt less? That couldn’t be right.

They were supposed to be dying.

“Pain meds? That would be wasted on you. I don’t think it’d even work.”

Aaron swamped out the syringe for a scalpel, and their eyes went wide with fear. This was how he was going to kill them then.

“Eyes on me, remember?” Joseph’s voice was commanding, and their eyes snapped back to his face.

“I’m sorry sir,” they said, voice filled with fear.

“I didn’t know you were too stupid to follow even simple instructions. Stop. Squirming.”

They prepared themselves for the pain of being sliced open, waiting for the agony to spread along their ribs.

“Tell me if it starts to hurt,” Aaron said. There was a strange pressure on the side of their chest, and the metallic smell of blood filled the air.

It was strange, but it didn’t hurt. It was supposed to hurt.

“It’ll go faster if you don’t cause problems.”

There was an uncomfortable tugging and pulling sensation, and then Aaron’s finger slid inside their chest. They suppressed the urge to cringe away.

“They need more local.” Joseph said, his tone switching from soft to business when he talked to Aaron.

“ ‘m okay,” they insisted. They didn’t need any more superfluous medication wasted on them. It already wasn’t as bad as they’d thought it’d be.

“I wouldn’t have had to do this if you’d just behaved.”

Joseph kept holding their hand as Aaron reached for another syringe. “You’re doing great, keep it up,” he assured them.

The burning sensation returned, and then they were being spread open again. A rush of blood splattered onto the floor, splashing on Aaron’s gown.

“What, are you afraid of a little blood?

He stuck his finger into their chest again, rotating it around inside them. “Any pain, Phoenix?”

“No, sir.” They were crying more now than before.

He snatched the tube off the tray. “Give them another point-two of Eropental.”

“If you complain that it hurts one more time, I’m going to just leave the rest of the shrapnel inside.”

Joseph let go of their hand to administer the medication, and for some reason, Phoenix didn’t like it.

Meanwhile, Aaron was deep in concentration. He carefully threaded the hard, plastic tube into their chest, then quickly connected them up to the strange looking drainage machine and opened up the clamp. “Tube’s in.”

It was quickly filled with blood. “Now all we gotta suture it in place. You’re nearly done, Phoenix.

“It’s kinda useless to stitch them, since they'll heal up anyway.”

This, at least, they were familiar with. Aaron had stitched them up way more times than was justied for any one person.

Joseph was back to holding their hand now. If they’d made it this far, the punishment would probably come later. “You did great, Phoenix.”

They didn’t believe him, but they weren’t going to argue.

“Just catch up after you heal. We don’t have the time to carry you back. You have to pull your own weight.”

Aaron dosed the wound liberally with another round of anesthetic before he covered it with several layers of gauze and tape.

The blood was practically flowing out of them, out of the tube and into the pump. “We’re gonna get you scanned next,” he said as he tore off his blood flecked gown and gloves. “Hopefully your healing is doing a good job of patching it up.”

Joseph squeezed their shoulder. “We gotcha.”

For a brief moment, Phoenix let themselves entertain the thought that they weren’t going to be killed at all. If Aaron was expecting them to heal, then maybe they’d be okay. But the anxiety settled in there chest again.

Now they had to do was survive what Abbie would dole out to them.

Aaron and Joseph had let them off easy.

Abbie wouldn’t.

Taglist: @/pigeonwhumps @rainydaywhump

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fieldofdaisiies · 1 year

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Vassa x Jurian | Safe With Me

type: drabble warning(s): vomiting I guess, talk about harmful past, nightmare word count: 880 words summary: Vassa wakes form a nightmare, Jurian is there for her.

this is for @velidewrites. You are such a wonderful human bean (yes bean) and I love you a lot and I am very grateful that we have become mutuals. I know you had a bit of a not so easy time recently, so this will hopefully brighten your days a little.💛💛💛

“Sssh, it is fine.” Jurian’s voice is soft, soothing when it caresses the side of his wife’s head. His hand fists her hair tighter, the firebird still bent over the toilet. Jurian has crouched down behind her, his thighs caging her, steading her.

“Will this ever get better?" Vassa bubbles and empties the rest of her stomach into the toilet, cringing over the fact that Jurian has to witness this all.

Her whole body shudders when her stomach cramps. She is so cold, so robbed of energy and happiness in this moment. All memories have come crashing in on her in a nightmare. She has shrieked up and run to the bathroom in the next moment.

“They will, my love. I promise it will get better,” Jurian assures her. Her pain is so acute it draws tears to the former general’s eyes. His heart squeezes, beating sadly in his chest when the back of his throat starts to ache.

Jassa’s knees hurt from how hard she presses them into the cool, hard floor, her legs feeling wobbly and whole body like jelly. She has managed a few nights without nightmares, until tonight. Tonight the memories came in tidal waves, washed over her, drowned her. Memories of being trapped, of Koschei, the war…

Soft lips brush over her temple, Jurian’s scent of pine, fresh apples and something woodsy, filling her nostrils when she allows herself to lean into him. “You shouldn’t see this. You shouldn’t be here,” the firebird huffs and brings one hand up to wipe it over her mouth. She feels Jurian curl one arm around her, his other hand reaching up to the sink from where he gathers a cup of water.

The former general kisses Vassa’s hair and brings the glass to her lips. Tipping it up and Vassa parting her lips, Jurian says, “I should be exactly here. Right here, with you, holding you. I belong at your side. Always."

Vassa lets one hand drop, squeezing her husband’s thigh when taking another sip from the cool water. It is like balm to her soul, so is Jurian’s voice, his warmth, his presence. He is here — here for her. He is her anchor, her rock against which the wave crashes. Her lover, her husband, her home. And he his here, here with her, holding her, protecting her.

“Let’s get you back to bed, hm?”

Her lips pursed, Vassa slowly nods her head. She hears Jurian place the glass on the sink again and before she knows what happens she is scooped up in his strong arms, perfectly fitting against his chest. She revels in his warmth, having felt so cold in the past minutes, dressed just in this thin nightgown, sitting on the cold bathroom floor.

When climbing into bed, Jurian does not let go of her, holding her close to her body until both of them under the sheets, tightly cuddled together. He wedges his leg between Vassa’s thighs, both his arms curled around her, holding her as tightly as possible, pampering her skin with soft kisses while whispering sweet nothings.

No one would have expected the former general to have such a soft side, but the firebird brings out the best in him. He can let his true self show and that for the first time. There is no hiding when he is with Vassa, he can be fully himself.

“You are safe with me, V,” Jurian whispers against the shell of his wife’s ear. “You are always safe with me. In this house, this bed, in my arms. I will never let anything happen to you, you know that, right?” A silent sob leaves Vassa and she even moves an inch closer to her husband, fisting his night shirt and burring her face in his chest. “I know. That is why I love you so much.”

“I love you so much more, my lovely firebird,” Jurian coos and kisses the top of Vassa’s head.

“Not possible. I love you endlessly.” “And still I love you a little more.” This makes Vassa giggle, easing some of her former tension. She finds so much peace in Jurian’s presence, in his love and knows that he is the only reason she will be able to find rest that night. Vassa feels her lids get heavy, her hand moving over Jurian’s chest, right above where his heart his. His heartbeat is a calming melody, luring her into a peaceful slumber. “And you are safe with me, J,” she says and it is the last thing Jurian hears before darkness wraps around him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

tags: @aayo-whatt @moonlightazriel @brekkershadowsinger @ladyelain

#jurian and vassa #vassa acotar #jurian acotar #vassa and jurian #jassa #acotar #acosf

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i-did-not-mean-to · 1 day

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Exploration, New Lands - Firebird

Let's continue with the rarepair of my heart! <3

To Eönwë, herald of Manwë, owner of my blackened, petrified heart and soul.

My sweet bird,

Please accept my apologies for the soot and the ashes staining my haphazard confession—I must burn this letter as soon as I’m done writing, as I have no way of getting it to you safely and I can’t let it fall into the hands of any who’d wish you harm.

Isn’t it funny that there should be no trustworthy messenger for an irreproachable herald such as you and no dutiful foot soldier willing to accomplish in my name the humble service I fulfil so unerringly every day? Don’t we deserve better?

Despite all that has happened lately, I still remember how fond you ever were of new, exciting sights and novel experiences, so I yearn to tell you about the paradise of exile.

No doubt, your Master speaks of flight and cowardice—exaggerating the squalor and misery in which he surmises we must be duly writhing—and you’ll flinch violently in a valiant effort to dissimulate the instinctive reaction of your generous essence.

Worry not, my dove, for Endórë is beautiful. Wild, churning, alive, it is blooming with potential and progress!

I know that you’ve always been frightened of anything boundless—be that the land or the extent of my affection for you—but you must believe me when I swear that I’m happy here.

There are warm springs like pools of precious tears, shed by an unseen power deep within the belly of this foreign land, and I often visit them and think of you.

Also, I have a favourite spot—high upon the jagged cliffs, overlooking the seemingly endlessly vast terrain—in which I like to sit, imagining you tumbling through the crisp, cool air in unbridled joy.

After an eternity of stale mediocrity within the golden cage of the Blessed Realm, I revel in the sharpness of this unconquered world which bends and bows to my will like nought I’ve ever known before except your pliable, sensuous flesh.

Of course, you’d probably scoff at the asseverations of a deserter and traitor, but, Eönwë, my love, I truly am convinced that you could love this savage realm of prospects and perils—it was made for you, and I sorely regret that you can’t be here with me.

It would be despicably wrong of me to now claim that I miss you, wouldn’t it?

Irrevocable and grievous choices have been made, and we both need to accept the consequences. Were those not your parting words?

You shan’t ever receive this missive, written in the blood of one who’s paid his morally dubious or even reprehensible freedom by sacrificing his true love, and so I don’t hesitate to confess that I have hope still.

Brighter than the flame within Arda, more enduring and endless than the Void, my faith expands to caress your soft face once more.

Maybe, one day, we shall be reunited again. Until then, I’ll see you in every starlit night sky and feel you in every stormy breeze.

I’ve lied, my sweet, righteous beloved, for my felicity shall never be anywhere near complete or satisfying in your absence.

Thus, I’ll work harder in the ruthless, selfish pursuit of my most intimate wish: getting you here, by any means necessary.

Link on Ao3

#og post #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #Epistolary Week 2024 #Interactive event #write me a letter #silmarillion epistolary #Firebird #Eönwë #Gothmog #Exploration #New lands

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foundtherightwords · 16 days

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The Firebird - Chapter 14

Pairing: Prince Paul (Catherine the Great) x OFC, Fairytale AU

Summary: When Paul, a spoiled young prince, spots a strange bird in the forest near his palace, he impulsively chases after it, hoping to both escape from and prove himself to his disapproving mother. Thus he is plunged into an exhilarating adventure across a magical realm populated by enchanted princesses, dangerous monsters, and powerful wizards, an adventure that may change him more than he can ever imagine.

Chapter warning: violence, fire, gore

Chapter word count: 3.8k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13

Chapter 14 - Deathless

After everything he'd heard of Zhara's brother, after witnessing every act of cruelty Illarion was capable of, Paul was expecting a villain, someone who exuded power and wickedness. What he saw instead was a boy, looking no older than sixteen, of the same tall, slender build as Zhara, with the same red hair, though it was a shade darker, almost auburn, and the same freckles. There was even something of Zhara's impishness in the turn of his mouth as well. Only the eyes were different. When Paul looked into those eyes, his heart sank, and all his doubt about the boy's true nature vanished. They were the same glittering green as the medallions, hard and cold. Zhara's eyes were always human even when she was transformed into a bird. This boy's eyes didn't even seem alive; the only hint of life in them was a glare of hate.

But Paul didn't spend too long contemplating those lifeless eyes. His attention was riveted on a large mesh cage at the window. Zhara was fluttering in it, while the setting sun cast its light on her plumage, turning her into a fireball, just like the first time Paul had seen her in the forest of Tsarskoye Selo.

Underneath the cage, laid out on the table, were an array of strange items and instruments—a gold chest, a hare, a duck, and an egg. The animals each had an angry red slash on its chest. It seemed Illarion had everything he needed for the Deathless ritual, except for the most important one—the needle containing his death. This the boy was twirling between his thin fingers while he leaned casually against the throne, watching Paul with a curious, almost fascinated expression. Under the disconcerting gaze of those flat green eyes, Paul became too aware that he was no knight in shining armor, with his torn and bloody shirt and mismatched weapons. He could only hope that appearances may be misleading.

"For a mere mortal from Rus', he did quite well, did he not, Zharissa?" Illarion said conversationally. "Much better than those bumbling bogatyrs of yours. I wonder what other surprise he may have in store."

To Paul's shock, Zhara spoke. "Paul," she said. "You shouldn't be here. Go! Save yourself!" He stared at the bird. It was Zhara's voice, desperate and full of tears, coming out of her beak. What trick was this?

"Oh, now she talks," Illarion said, sounding annoyed. "I gave you the power of speech so we could have a chat and make the waiting a little less tedious, and you refused to talk to me, but the moment he showed up, you started chattering away?"

"If you don't want to wait until I'm human again to perform the ritual," Zhara said, "why not undo the curse and just kill me now?"

"I would if I could!" Illarion shouted. "Do you think I want to wait? But they are very imprecise, curses. I never meant to curse you, you know. This avian form greatly diminishes your power. If you would only agree to wear that medallion—"

Why, he doesn't know how to undo the curse, Paul realized. He's nothing but a boy, in over his head. He wondered if Zhara had realized this as well and was stalling for time.

"You didn't have to control me," Zhara said to Illarion, spreading her wings in an imploring gesture. "I would've gladly let you rule—"

"What, so you could go behind my back and gather the support of the boyars?" Illarion hissed, baring his teeth in anger. "So you could play the victim and undermine my rule? I know you too well, sister."

They sounded like siblings bickering over a game rather than discussing matters of life and death. Paul took a tentative step forward, reaching for the skull in his knapsack, the only weapon that might stand a chance against Illarion's magic. "Let her go," he said. At least his voice was steady.

"Or what?" Illarion snickered. "Are you going to throw that skull at me?"

In reply, Paul raised the skull. Fire shot out of its eye socket. He meant to aim it at Illarion, but the flame hit a corner of the velvet curtain instead, setting it ablaze. Illarion shrugged, looking almost bored. "I never like those curtains anyway," he said. "You're going to have to do better than that."

"How's this for better?" Paul aimed the skull at Illarion's robe. There was a flash, and the robe caught fire. Illarion didn't even flinch. He beat out the fire with his bare hand, as casually as blowing out a candle. Refusing to be intimidated, Paul advanced upon the boy, the skull held in front of him like a musket. He shot another bolt of fire; Illarion dodged it, and the flame hit the corner of the throne in a shower of sparks.

"Enough of this," Illarion growled. He pinned the needle to the shoulder of his robe before slipping something out of his belt and throwing it at Paul.

Belatedly, Paul saw that it was a medallion.

He threw up his arms, but the medallion hit his chest, burned through his shirt like a cattle brand, and adhered itself to his skin.

The pain was unbearable. He'd thought being pinned under an iron-and-copper dragon was bad, but it was nothing compared to this, this red-hot agony, this hellfire that seared his very bone, that reached all the way to his heart, that spread through his blood. Was this how it had been for Afron when he foolishly cast in his lot with Illarion? Was this how it had been for poor Alyosha Popovich?

Paul collapsed, clutching at his chest. The last thing he heard was Zhara's panicked voice, calling out his name, as the white-and-gold room around him faded to black.

***

When the darkness cleared from his eyes, Paul found himself on a bed, a large bed, with the silk cover of a pillow under his cheek. There were blue velvet drapes with gold fringes around the bed. The room around him was blue and gold as well, and strangely familiar. It took him a moment to realize this was his bed. His room, the one at the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg. An untrimmed candle still flickered on the bedside table, but the morning sun was pouring in through the curtains being swept back by a servant. The door opened, and his mother walked in.

"What, still abed at this hour?" she said, though she didn't sound quite as harsh as usual. "And on such a big day?"

Paul sat up, blinking stupidly. His hand flew up to his chest. The pain was gone. Had there been a pain there at all, or had he dreamed it?

"A big day?" he repeated.

"Your coronation, of course!" his mother said, laughing and clapping her hands together.

Paul stared at her, too stunned to speak. His mother seemed almost giddy, quite unlike herself. "Are you—are you abdicating?" finally he asked.

"That was always the plan, wasn't it?" She briskly walked over to an array of frock coats and robes being laid out by the servants, pointing to several. "That one, that one... no, that one. Yes." Turning back to Paul, she said, "It was agreed that I would only rule until you reached your majority. Now that you have, it is time for me to step down."

Something was not right, but Paul couldn't quite put his finger on it. He felt dazed, half-asleep, as though he'd just come out of a nightmare and was not quite awake. Yet he vaguely remembered that it was true, the council had finally convinced his mother to pass the throne to him. He let himself be dragged out of bed, washed and dressed in full ceremonial regalia, and before he knew it, he was standing in the cathedral in front of a crowd, while priests chanted over him and the crown, the crown he'd seen on his mother's head hundreds of times and coveted each time he saw it, glittered on a velvet cushion before him.

Could it be? Could it be that he had finally achieved what he desired the most?

He looked at the crowd, at their adoring faces all turned toward him. Yes, this was what he wanted, to be seen and respected and appreciated. But he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else he wanted, something missing. He noticed a young lady standing by his mother, doll-like with her porcelain face and tiny rosebud mouth, eyes cast down demurely. Paul didn't remember having seen her before.

"Panin," he said to his old governor, who was standing by his side, "who is that young woman?"

"Why, that is your betrothed, Your Excellency."

Startled, Paul wracked his brain. Again, he had some vague recollection of having chosen one of the princesses from all the miniatures given to him, but try as he might, he couldn't remember her name. Why couldn't he remember her name? It would be terribly embarrassing to ask Panin her name, wouldn't it?

The young lady lifted her eyes to look at him, and Paul suddenly found himself expecting her eyes to be a warm, golden color, honey held up to sunlight. How strange. Her eyes were blue, perfectly pretty, but for some reason, he kept thinking of those amber eyes. Where had he seen such eyes?

And then, to his shock, the young lady's face began to change. Her eyes turned golden just as he'd imagined; her powdered wigs became a long, red braid, and freckles splattered across her skin. If he looked closely, he could see seven freckles curve around the corner of her mouth... he remembered kissing them... he remembered running his hand over that hair, having those eyes look into his in the moonlight...

"Your Excellency," Panin said in his ears, but it wasn't Panin's voice, it was a strange voice, oily and cold, a voice he'd heard once before in a dark forest. "This is what you want, isn't it?" the voice continued. "You can have all that, and more. As long as you obey me."

Paul turned to his old governor in horror. Panin was looking at him with eyes the color of malachite.

"If you want her," Panin said, still in that spine-chilling voice, "well, I cannot give you the real thing, you understand, but I can give you something very similar." And he nodded at the young lady who looked like someone Paul both did and didn't know.

There was a weight on his chest. He couldn't breathe.

The young lady opened her mouth. She was standing not five feet from him, yet her voice seemed to be coming to him from far, far away. "Fight it, Paul!" she was screaming. He knew that voice. He knew her.

The crowd around him faded, leaving only her eyes and her voice. Holding on to them as an anchor, he clasped a hand to the base of his throat. His fingers closed around a hard disc, something like a pendant or a medallion that was stuck to his skin. It burned. He pulled it out, screaming as it took some of his skin and flesh along with it, and flung it as far away as he could.

The cathedral vanished. Paul found himself on the floor of the throne room, the marble cool under his cheek. The burning sensation on his chest had gone, but the pain lingered, weakening his limbs. Lifting his head with difficulty, he saw that Illarion stood over him, nostrils flared in fury, while the cage stood empty, with a gaping hole in its side—fragments of the medallion scattered nearby told Paul that he must have hit the cage with the medallion by accident and broken it open. Where was Zhara?

The thought of Zhara finally cleared the cloud in his head. She had saved him. She had pulled him out of that—that vision or hallucination or whatever it was that Illarion had used to tempt him, and brought him back to reality.

This, this was real. Not his mother's palace, not his coronation, not his nameless betrothed. This was real. Zhara was real. And he must save her.

And there she was, a spot of red circling close to the ceiling, out of Illarion's reach. Illarion was flinging his hand at her with his fingers outstretched, launching all sorts of things at her—lightning bolts, stones, even sharp icicles—anything he could conjure out of thin air, it seemed. Strike after magical strike hit the ceiling and the walls, and bits of marble rained down. Zhara flew on agile wings, narrowly avoiding the missiles and the debris that flew off the ceiling and the walls. But she could not hold out for long, not when the sun was getting lower and lower by the minute. Why wasn't she fighting back? Her power may be weaker, but she could still throw a few fireballs, surely? Or did she hesitate because she still thought of this crazed boy as her little brother? Well, if she refused to fight him, then Paul would.

As Illarion twisted and turned like he was battling a particularly pesky fly, Paul struggled to his feet and pulled out his broken sword, holding it ready. At one point, Illarion turned fully toward Paul, arms wide open as he tried to hit Zhara with a whirlwind. This was Paul's chance. He ran at the boy at full tilt and stabbed the sword through Illarion's chest.

Staggering back, Illarion stared at the sword's handle sticking out of his chest in astonishment.

Then he started to laugh.

"You fool!" he said, still laughing. He pulled the sword out and threw it to the floor. There wasn't even any blood on it. If it wasn't for the torn patch on his robe, nobody would know he'd been stabbed.

He truly was Deathless.

With a flick of his hand, Illarion threw an invisible force at Paul, sending him sprawling.

Paul's eyes caught a glint on Illarion's robe. It was the needle, reflecting the red rays of the sun.

The needle! Of course! To defeat Koschei, one had to destroy the needle. Paul picked himself up on trembling limbs and aimed the skull at it. If he could at least damage it somehow, that would distract Illarion long enough to give them a chance...

Illarion spun around. Another unseen hand slammed into Paul. This time the force knocked the air out of his lungs and hurled him across the room. The back of his head hit the wall. Stars burst in front of his eyes. Golden ropes sprung out of the floor like tree roots, binding his wrists and ankles. He strained against them, but they only tightened, threatening to slice off his hands and foot. The skull clattered away, rolling to the foot of the throne. Illarion's boot came down, smashing it into bits.

Paul was still staring at the smashed skull, his last hope, when Illarion came to stand in front of him.

"Stupid mortal!" he spat at Paul. "How dare you defy me! Now you shall pay!"

He pointed his hand at Paul and curled his fingers into a fist. Paul gasped. It felt as though there was a claw inside him, squeezing his heart, cutting off the flow of blood in his veins. Incredible, indescribable pain radiated from his heart to his ribs, his neck, his arms and shoulders, and the rest of his body, choking him, paralyzing him. He could feel his life force draining away, but he was helpless to stop it.

From the ceiling, Zhara came barreling down like a golden arrow. She dashed past Illarion, who made a grab for her but missed her by just a hair's breadth. The pressure around Paul's heart loosened, and he collapsed to the floor, coughing. Zhara shot back to the ceiling, and Illarion clasped a hand to his shoulder, the first hint of fear creeping to his face—the needle was gone.

"Please, Lariosha, stop this," Zhara said, the needle tightly grasped between her talons.

"Do not call me that!"

"The magic is killing you! If you go through with the ritual, you'll be dead! Baba Yaga told me—the same thing happened to Koschei—"

So Baba Yaga had told Zhara the truth after all. Was that why she wasn't fighting Illarion? Was she still trying to save him?

"See, that's where you're wrong, sister," Illarion said, though he indeed did not look well. The boy's face was pale, as pale as the marble walls around them, his hands shook, and he was breathing hard, spittle spraying from his lips. Only his green eyes burned feverishly. "Koschei was an old fool. He put his death into an ordinary needle. But I am cleverer than that. This needle will be indestructible once I temper it in your fire. Don't try anything stupid. Whatever you do to it will only make it stronger."

"I'm sorry," Zhara said. "I can't let you go through with this." Turning to Paul, she said, "Hold on to Baba Yaga's handkerchief. It will protect you."

"Protect me—from what?" Paul gasped. He still hadn't quite regained his breath after Illarion's attack.

"From me."

With that, she pointed the needle at herself and plunged it into her chest.

"No!" Paul and Illarion both screamed.

Blood spurted from Zhara's breast, dying her red feathers a darker shade. Blood dripped to the floor below her, and wherever the blood fell, fire sprang up and spread around the room as though the floor was made of the oldest, driest wood and not cold, hard marble. Flames surrounded Zhara, turning her whole body into a fireball, burning the needle white-hot. Flames swallowed up the table with its instruments of magic. Flames licked around Paul, but he strained his bound hand to find Baba Yaga's handkerchief in his knapsack, and the fire never touched him, though he felt its heat on his skin.

"You think you can stop me by killing yourself?!" Illarion hissed. "No, no, dear sister, you will live—at least long enough to serve me!"

He raised his hand. Zhara was pulled toward him on an invisible string, her wings flailing uselessly against his force.

"I have taken Koschei's powers," Illarion said, "and now I'm going to take yours!"

Just as he had done to Paul, Illarion curled his fingers into a fist. Paul knew now that the gesture meant Illarion was draining his victim's life force. And there was Zhara's life force—flames rolled along the string of air between them, flowing from sister into brother, until they were connected by a rope of fire. Paul could only watch, powerless, while Zhara's eyes rolled to the back of her head, and she made a strangled sound. Her plumage started losing its color and luster. The paler she got, the stronger Illarion seemed to be—his face was no longer deathly white, his hair became redder than the fire itself, and his eyes burned more brightly.

The fire was almost gone from around Zhara's body now, her feathers a dim, dark shade of purplish brown, like old blood. She was limp, only held up in midair by the force of Illarion's magic. The needle was lifted from her chest by that same force and flew into Illarion's hand. He caught it, laughing, paying no heed to the incandescent metal.

"Yes, yes!" he shouted. "Why didn't I think to do this sooner? This is so much better! Now I can temper the needle with my own fire! I shall be truly invinci—"

He didn't finish the sentence. The smug smile vanished from his face. The fire continued to blaze around his body as it blazed around the room, sucking out all the air, turning the whole place into an inferno. Despite the protection of Baba Yaga's handkerchief, Paul could still feel the heat blasting him in the face and scorching his lungs.

"No, this is enough—" Illarion was saying. "The tempering is done—I want it to stop—Zhara! How do I get the fire to stop? Help! Help me, please! "

Zhara, who was suspended lifeless in the air with her head lolling back and her wings drooping, gave no answer.

"It burns—oh gods, it burns!" Illarion moaned. He tried to throw the needle away, but it had melted into a puddle of liquid metal in his palm. Still the fire raged on. "You witch!" Illarion screamed at Zhara, his face twisted with rage. "You've tricked me! But you won't get away with it! If I die, you shall die too!"

He clenched his fist again, and some of the fire flowed back to Zhara, searing her feathers. She remained unconscious. Soon, the fire would consume both brother and sister...

Paul took his hand out of the knapsack and dropped the handkerchief to the floor. The moment it left his fingers, flames roared up around him. He angled his body toward it, letting the fire burn the ropes around his wrists and ankles to ashes, biting back a scream as it scorched his skin. As soon as he was free of the ropes, he got to his feet.

Illarion saw the handkerchief, and his eyes went wide. They both dove for it. Paul—perhaps by sheer luck—was a fraction of a second quicker. He scooped the handkerchief up, jumped at Zhara, and snatched her out of the air, wrapping her in the square of fabric.

"No!!!" Illarion, now nothing more than a pillar of fire with a vaguely human shape in its middle, charged at Paul. Paul leaped aside, and Illarion crashed through the window, plummeting down the sheer cliff, burning like a falling star.

A long while later, a blast from the sea below told Paul that the boy had met his end.

The flames rose all the way to the ceiling in one last furious eruption, and then, with a rushing sound of air being sucked inward, they vanished, leaving behind only a few scorched patches and an acrid smell.

Paul looked down, not quite believing what he was seeing. Zhara was lying there, in his arms—Zhara, as he'd seen her that first night in the woods of Lukomorye, freckles standing out on her skin, her hair covering her body like a cape, her eyes closed, the wound on her chest still bleeding. Outside the broken window, the sun was taking its plunge into the sea, turning the water into molten gold for a moment before winking out, and darkness descended on everything.

Chapter 15

Taglist: @ali-r3n

#prince paul #tsarevich paul #catherine the great #prince paul fic #prince paul x ofc #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic

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theragamuffininitiative · 3 months

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Okay tell me ALL about your fairy tale retelling WIP, I am most curious!!

hi hi hi!

Brief lil disclaimer here: I wrote this story as my nanowrimo project back in erm 2021 and have barely looked at it since. (working on that!) Everything I am about to say is based on my memory of how the story was working at the time and a couple glances at my documents tonight - and if I say something in this post that I like better than what I originally had, I will run with it. XD

Right then!

Tsarevitch Ivan, the Firebird, and the Gray Wolf is a Russian fairytale classified as a 550 on the ATU folklore index (a fact I sprinkle in not to be pretentious but bc I recently discovered the index and it is fascinating). This basically means the story revolves around catching a mystical bird, sometimes a phoenix, and involves a princess, usually a horse, and some supernatural animal helper. In my retelling, I also take from the Grimm Brothers' The Golden Bird version.

As you know, I fell into the intrigue of this tale when visiting an art museum displaying Vasnetsov's A Knight at the Crossroads, which is a reference to this tale. Now, Vasnetsov also painted Tsarevitch Ivan on a Gray Wolf:

And it's just so????!

In my retelling of this fairytale, our hero is a bit of a simple boy. He is content with simple things and a simple life after his near-death at a young age to a mysterious wasting disease spreading across the land - a madness that robs the infected of sleep and appetite until they go insane. The only cure is the fruit of an equally mysterious tree. Ivan fears his healing may have not been complete, for he has not felt the need for sleep or food the way he ought to ever since.

When fruit begins to disappear from the closely protected tree, the threat of losing the cure drives Ivan into action. An enchantment of sleep shields the thief from being captured. Here, Ivan's curse is a boon, as he alone sees a great golden bird steal the fruit. Although a great company set out to capture the bird, Ivan becomes separated from them and lost. At an ancient crossroads that promises death in every direction, he meets the Wolf, the instrument of the crossroads' doom. When the Wolf unexpectedly takes Ivan to find his missing companions, they discover the whole company has fallen to the madness - Ivan's brother among them.

It is no disease, but a curse.

Ivan, now with the Wolf, seeks aid from his best friend, the Princess Evolett, who was to be wed to the prince of the neighboring country and seal a treaty of peace between them. But all is not as it seems in these foreign lands, and Ivan must work with the Wolf to capture the golden bird, protect the fruit tree, rescue Evolett, heal the madness, prevent war between the two kingdoms, and defeat a dark enchantment for good - if the Wolf, the madness, or a multitude of other enemies don't kill him first... [ramble continued below the cut]

I love, love, love playing around with the fairytale motifs in this story.

For example, the original fairytale has a very episodic, repetitive sort of scavenger hunt that Ivan is forced into. I messed with it a lot to give the different elements their own, interconnected importance: the tree is a magical cure, the bird has magical elements of its own, the golden cage from some versions of the tale is a metaphor for the princess's imprisonment, the inns are not merely symbolism for laziness but traps laid by a powerful enemy to serve a dark purpose, and nothing is as it would seem - least of all Ivan or the Wolf.

The characteristics for Ivan specifically came to me while watching Mal in the first season of Netflix's Shadow and Bone.

I really love Mal's stubborn tenacity, fierce loyalty, and simplistic personal goals in the face of all the complexity and conniving of everything around him. Since this fairytale showcases a "simpleton" character, I wanted to show that character at their very best.

Also! I love writing Ivan and the Wolf. Ivan's plucky, irreverent sense of humor set against the Wolf's stoic, utterly dry and cold attitude is so much fun to play with. 👏

(tried to credit the images by link, not sure if that worked)

Excerpt from Ivan meeting the Wolf:

Then the wolf made a guttural, whining sound from the back of its throat, a sound which rolled forward out of its mouth and formed into four distinct words. "Will you kill me?" Ivan stared at it. Having never met a wolf before, he couldn’t say with absolute authority that they did not speak, but he also thought that if they had, someone might have mentioned it to him once upon a time. This one, however, most assuredly had spoken. He supposed he should have asked it to repeat itself, or even agreed with the sentiment and at once lifted his weapon. Instead, he considered the question posed to him. "I don't think so," he said in the end. "Not unless I have to.” He didn’t add that this was because he didn’t think he could beat the wolf if he tried. There was something else at work here, as he had feared, and he needed to find out what the game was. In his head, he noted that this creature was not merely a wolf, but the Wolf. The wolf made another noise, and this sounded like a quiet, “Ah, then.” “What will you do if I come down?” Ivan ventured to ask. The Wolf blinked lazily. “I have deprived you of your mount,” it stated. “I have come to take you where you must go.” That didn’t sound promising, although slightly better than admitting it wanted to gobble him up. “Are you fae?” Ivan called to it. He felt he remembered something from his father’s stories that the fae had to answer truthfully the questions you asked them directly. “I am not.” Enchanted or a liar, then. A wolf given the tongue of man. It also seemed to think something like a man, though its tone was distant and cold. “How can I trust you?” he asked it. The Wolf stared at him, not responding, and cocked its head. So maybe not the thinking of a man. Maybe the concept of trust was foreign to it still. He tried something less abstract. “Are you going to attack me?” “That is not my purpose,” said the Wolf. “There is an inn, a long distance from here. You have strayed from the path and it took me some time to find you, but I can lead you there, through ways horse hooves cannot tread, before the Wood grows dark.” “Is leading me to the inn your purpose?” “It is.” “Why?” The Wolf had to think about this, and Ivan thought again that it didn’t seem to be comfortable with questions that involved reasoning beyond cold facts. “The crossroads demand a price from everyone who passes through them. The price is set by your choice and you have chosen. Now I will take you where your path leads.”

Yes, I'll take "uneasy partnerships founded on enmity but sealed in friendship" for $500, thank you.

A messy music playlist I haven't touched since NaNo writing: here It's a story of family, loyalty, honor, and simple truths more powerful than any deep enchantment. 🥺😭

Excited to write Evolett more, she is a spitfire and impressed by no one (even when probably she should be, for her own good lol). Ivan's father was an adventurer in his own day, and I love writing little nods to his offstage capers - there's an invisibility cloak!

Ivan's brother is kind of a jerk. 🙈 But hey, still family. And he's less of a jerk than the guys in the old fairytale ok. 😅 Probably.

Ok, I feel like that's a pretty boring ramble, but I have tried to type this up about five different times so here we are! I have shed tears over Ivan and the Wolf, and lived in the nonsense from the random old woman running the dilapidated inn next to the one that breathes enchantment, and sketched out the borderlines between kingdoms and the unseen shadowy arm reaching across borders to ensnare them all, and written a lot of dog jokes. I love this one, I can't wait to get back into it. 😊

Thank you for asking and letting me ramble! 💛

#i have tried to type this up like five times #and it's been one of those weeks where i'm just constantly falling asleep #so we compromise and i stayed up so i will be falling asleep all day tomorrow at work instead lol #thanks for the ask!#kanerallels #wip: the madness and the golden bird

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moregraceful · 1 year

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As someone who has seen dreigs play in person, I agree. He’s pretty hot. 🥵 (and don’t get me started on when he took off his mask and ran his hand through his hair…I might have been 30 rows up, but oh boy, it was an experience 🫠)

yooo SO REAL ANON i'm the barracuda-firebirds game featuring the man himself in goal and oh my god. oh my god. i'm out here holding @lovethygoalie's driedger kraken jersey against the glass during warm ups and he makes direct eye contact and gives me the hot guy nod?? thought i might die on the spot

#he is currently being given no defense back up #his whole defense corps took one look at his beautiful eyes and melted #fair and real and relatable #i might be a cuda fan but i'm no fool. he's hot af #firebirds lb #cage replies #anon

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stromuprisahat · 1 year

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- Tell me what you know of the third [amplifier]. Please.

The big baddie’s holding his traitorous abusive mother captive in a cage, but he still has manners.

~ I know nothing of the Firebird. But I do know that if the girl locates it before you do, she'll be a force to be reckoned with. If she offers protection, Grisha will follow her, fear her. You want them to fear you.

- Fear is a powerful ally.

“And loyal.” That’s how the quote ends. It wasn’t about the Darkling enjoying fear, it was about him appreciating it’s harder to stab in the back someone you’re scared of.

~ You're the one who's afraid, Aleksander. Same as you were as a boy.

- I don't need you to burn villages for me anymore, Mother.

Yes, he used to be afraid of darkness. That’s why you made sure he wouldn’t know how to make fire as a teenager and kept leaving him alone without other sources of light. Anyone else just loves it, when an abuser reminds his victim about those jolly good times they used to have?

They make it sound like she burned the village, because he was afraid...

~ In fact, there's only one more thing I do need from you...

- What?

~ Your bones. *snip*

Shouldn’t she be dead for it to work?

- Morozova used finger bones as amplifiers. Do something with that. *throws a finger ati David’s table*

Yes, to create amplifiers. David had the diaries only for a while and as far as we know, you cannot amplify an amplifier, so why would the Darkling want one anyway?

#Shadow and Bone #02×03: Like Calls to Like #The Darkling #General Kirigan #Baghra Morozova #Grisha amplifiers #S&S Chapter 3 #grishanalyticritical #V #anti Baghra #anti S&B writers

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jacksmusesdrv3 · 3 months

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youtube

If someday I were to escape You should pray that I'm alone With the salt that moves in the midsummer sea Will this face still be my own?

This is another song that stuck around in my head for the mask motifs as well as… ‘cage’. The trees forming a cage, like the certain cage in the End Wall.

The song feels like it would fit my version of Kokichi Ouma- the Monokuma, the ‘firebird’. Someone who was effectively trapped in a cage and never left since, decides to lead around his ‘once beloved’ (Shuichi), a small part of him hoping he'll see through his mask to the other side of him- break the lock and free him from his hell. Alas, part of what Shuichi needs to break the lock is... information.

‘Will the face still be my own’, that would be him in the fog of memories he is steadily losing (like Monotaro forgetting his own sister), and his twin (the Ouma we know) who for far too long, bore his identity as a mask.

As for ‘midsummer’, that would be the day they were born.

#dr insp: audio #shukichi conundrum #king horse twins #this has been sitting in Drive for #absurdly long for some reason #anyways I love this song to death So #i have to vibe it out #it's just that sorta day i guess

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ojacksonscohen · 23 days

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HAIII :333 im so sorry ive asked so many things but i rewatched man in an orange shirt and i sobbed but what do think of his character???

talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique, completely not ever been done before, unafraid to reference or not reference, put it in a blender, shit on it, vomit on it, eat it, give birth to it.

real ones will remember when i had my jamesmcardle url ✊ one of my top 5 favourite performances of his. i know it's THEE typical wwii gay love story (also pretty much beat for beat firebird (2021)) but i really appreciate the earnestness that he brings to the role! james is the scene stealer to me but oli just oozes a level of self loathing that is completely unmatched.

the real question is: in a cage match between michael berryman and luke crain who emerges as the ultimate sad boy?????

#asked/answered #also don't kill me but i don't usually watch the second episode!! 🤪

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shirohige-pirates · 5 months

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Birds of a Feather

CisFem Reader x Marco

CW: Violence, blood, language, adult themes and scenes. 18+ only

Summary: Life has not been kind to you. After a string of bad relationships, you're a little jaded and a little depressed in all honestly. The worst day of your life seems to be the turning point, but the roller coaster ride that follows could either throw you soaring free, or have you caged forever?

Chapter 12: The Firebird

Getting out of the car, you already saw Kid leaning against one of the bay door frames. The day was barely started and he was already covered in grease, shop uniform giving way. Knowing him he’d been working all night and hadn’t slept yet, versus having gotten up early enough to be in that state.

“Usopp here yet?” You call out, heading up to the shop proper, Marco coming up behind you.

“Yep,” Kid answers, squinting against the morning light as he cleans his hand up a little with a rag that’s seen brighter days. “Only just got here though, so you haven’t kept ‘im waiting much, Mouse.”

You roll your eyes and jerk your thumb toward Marco. “Eustass Kid, Newgate Marco,” you step aside as Marco steps up. “Marco, Kid.” You say, finishing your lazy introduction.

“Pleasure.” Marco says, taking Kid’s mostly de-grimed hand and giving it a shake.

“Sure thing.” Kid tilts his head toward the parking lot. “That yours?”

Marco looks back at his car and smiles as he looks back at Kid. “It is.”

“… Lemme put her up on a rack so I can get a good look at ‘er and I got a hood arm for you, no other charge.” Kid offers, still squinting against the light. Looking back and forth between the two of them you realize Marco’s the only person you know who could look Kid in the eye, damn giants.

Somehow Marco looks smaller than Kid, but probably because he’s not nearly as broad.

Marco looks to you and you smile. “I’m not gonna lie, I’ll be under the rack getting my fill too, if you’re okay with it.”

Marco chuckles. “Alright, it’s a solid deal, yoi.” He admits. “I’ll bring the car up. That bay?” He asks, pointing to one that looks like it has a lift in it.

“Yup.” Kid answers, his tone a little more friendly and a little less business.

“I’ll go talk to Usopp while you do that, and get things rolling.” You state, heading into the shop proper to find your car and Usopp.

The young artist is setting up his gear near your car. You start to say something to him, but the sight of your car catches your attention. In several pieces to make it easier for the paint job, everything has been reworked. If it wasn’t for the distinct body style and design of the interior, you’d almost wonder if it was your car.

“We either replaced or refurbished just about everything.” A familiar voice says from behind you. Looking over you see the wild blonde hair of Kid’s childhood friend Killer, one of the co-owners of the shop, poking out from behind the frame of a van with flames down the side of it. He turns to get a better look at you, lifting up his welding mask and giving you a smile.

“We kept what we could, but strictly original parts barely make up 10% of her now.”

“Did you guys redo the entire frame then?” You question, giving a wave to Usopp as Killer comes over to walk you through what they did to the car.

“Just about. You didn’t have near as much rust as we expected to find. Kid might not say so, but you took care of her really well, honestly. The engine had to be scrapped. There wasn’t enough machining to save it, and truthfully, the newer engines are just far too efficient.” Killer starts pointing at a few places while he explains. “Replaced all the clips and lines, new brake assemblies and tires. You got that sky blue base color, so we went with white for the interior. You had that dingy 70s silver before, so Kid didn’t think it was too different to bother saying something before hand.”

“Nah, white’s fine. It’ll be a challenge to keep clean, but y’all do detail jobs, right?”

“A-yup. Heat an’ Wire mostly, but I don’t think you’d hear a single complaint if this was the car they were cleaning.” Killer continues on. “Left the manual windows, and there’s an emergency release for the seat, but we did add fully adjustable controls to the seats.”

“Oh, programmable?” You prompt and Killer tilts his head.

“Here Kid was worried you’d be irritated by technology invading your precious time-capsule.” Killer grunts and you wave him off. “Yeah, you can put things were you want and save three different settings, so have fun with that. It’s still good old fashioned key-bound entry,” he continues on. “Kid says since you won’t have to worry about jumping her with the new, well, everything, that we could set you up with one of those magnetic keys for extra security if you wanted?”

“Hmm, I’ll have to think about it. Restored like this I’m going to have to get a new coverage policy, that’s for sure. It’d be cheaper on my end with the added security of a fancy key like that. Any chance I could have three for this car?”

“Three keys?”

You nod. “For now, one for me, one for the shop, and one for my house, in case I lose the one I keep with me.”

Killer tilts his head a little, and then nods. “I don’t see why not. I think we can order up to four for a single ignition without raising any concerns.”

“Perfect.”

“Whaddya think of her now, Mouse?” Kid asks, coming over to where you are with Marco not far behind.

“I think I’m going to go kick Victoria’s tires if you don’t stop calling me that.” You grumble.

Kid snorts. “Yeah, well, don’t kick Vicky’s tires, or your new car’s tires.” He warns. “Steel-belted, you might actually break a toe.”

“Hells Kid, are the windows bullet proof too? The security on this is already high enough as it is.” You tease, and Kid seems to consider.

“I mean, they could be.” He muses.

“No, no, that’s -,” you pinch the bridge of your nose and shake your head. “Thanks Kid, you guys did a great job.”

“Of which you had no doubt.” Kid retorts. It’d be arrogant, but he and the guys have the skills to back up his statement.

You smile and sigh, seeing no reason to give him an actual response. You turn to Usopp and give him a smile. He’s the only person in the entire shop that isn’t towering over you, it’s refreshing.

“Let’s talk design, Usopp.” You begin cheerfully. “The faster we get on the same page the faster I can look under Marco’s car’s skirt.” You hear Marco cough as Usopp laughs. Pulling a paper out of your pocket you unfold it and hand it off to Usopp. “I was thinking this kind of design.”

Usopp looks at it, looks to your car, and looks back at it. “That’s the original insignia design for the most part, isn’t it?”

You nod. “The expansion of the tail feathers would be unique, and I was thinking, one chain could go down each side of the car, and the third could come down through the headlight assembly?”

He tilts his head and looks back and forth again. “Yeah, I can see it. Do you know what colors you want to go with?”

“I think so. So if we do the outline of the wings in a kind of teal, with a metallic gold accent? I was thinking maybe a less metallic gold and more of a… hmm… dandelion gold for the chains.”

“Hm… rimmed in the metallic gold would be a nice touch.” He offers.

“Ooooh, yeah, that would. If the clear coat was a gloss finish too and not matte that would add to it.” You agree.

You’re too distracted with Usopp to notice, as Marco covers his face with a hand, listening to the two of you talk. Kid notices, looking over at him for a second before looking back at you. He keeps his voice low.

“You alright?”

“Huh? Oh - yeah, yeah. I’m good.”

“Wait, what if we invert the gold and yellow on the chain?” You prompt, and Marco makes a strange pained sound only Kid hears.

“You sure?” Kid presses a little. “If you’re going to hurl in my shop, step outside first.”

“No, I’m fine, yoi.”

Kid’s eyes narrow for a moment, and he seems about to say something when his eyes go wide.

“Oi, Mouse, I’m borrowin’ your boy toy for a minute.” He barks, grabbing Marco’s collar and pulling him away from everyone else.

“Hey, hey, don’t you-!”

“It’s alright.” Marco says, waving you off and giving you a smile as he and Kid go to the other side of the shop.

Your face twists a little, but Killer pats your shoulder. “I’ll keep an eye on ‘im, stay focused with Usopp for a bit.”

“Yeah, thanks Killer.” You murmur, turning back toward Usopp after giving Kid and Marco one more glance. Kid didn’t look happy, but Marco didn’t look bothered, so you did your best to pull your attention back to Usopp.

“The phoenix?!” Kid hisses, caught between disbelief and anger. “You’re Marco the gods-damned phoenix?!”

“Was.” Marco answers flatly. “Twenty years ago. Been a vet for over a decade.”

“The Whitebeard pirates were legendary.” Kid states. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, unsure of what to say. Caught between admiration and disbelief, he finally settles on the only thing that’s coming to mind for him. “Is she in danger?”

“No one’s been safe since Roger tried to right the world.” Marco answers a little more sourly than he means to. “But in danger because of me? No, not so far as I know. We stopped being pirates and the government stopped being a problem. Less trouble to just leave us be, yoi.”

“… Are you really immortal?” Killer asks, looking over his shoulder and giving a thumbs up before turning his attention back to the other two.

“I age,” Marco replies, tilting his head a little. “Past that, I don’t know. Nothing’s even so much as left a scar on me, yoi. But I’m not exactly testing the limits of things by taking care of cats and dogs.” He’s quiet for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “I haven’t talked with her about this yet, so I’d prefer-.”

“I’m not going to snitch,” Kid grumbles. “Talking about that stuff’s gotten fuckin’ touchy over the years, and considering mine keeps the shop running smooth I ain’t so stupid as to go around yappin’ about someone else’s business.”

“Happy to have your understanding.” Marco says quietly.

Having finished with Usopp, you came over to the other three, looking a little tentative until Kid waved you over directly.

“We all good?” You prompt, looking from one set of eyes to the next.

Marco smiles. “Exceptionally.”

You narrow your eyes a little and Marco looks taken aback for a second before you turn on Kid. “You didn’t go and do that whole big brother routine, did you?”

Kid rolls his eyes. “The hells would I go and do that? Yer doc’s alright.” He grumbles. “Let’s look under this car before Usopp paint’s the whole damn shop teal an’ gold.”

He pauses for a second, and turns and looks at you. “What made you pick those colors anyway?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, looking back over your shoulder at your car. “Just seemed right.”

#Birds of a Feather #Marco x reader #x reader #reader insert #marco the phoenix #marco the pinepple #modern au

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separatist-apologist · 2 years

Text

Last Young Renegade

Summary: A war on the continent is looming. A Death God approaches, his curse slowly unravelling. A firebird screams through the night.

And Elain Archeron can see it all.

Read More: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | AO3

Chapter Summary: Hands, like secrets, are the hardest thing to keep from you

“Don’t. Move,” Lucien ordered, his body pressing her into the ground. Elain squirmed, trying desperately to free herself from the frigid snow and failing miserably. Lucien caged her against him, head pointed through the trees at some danger she couldn’t see.

“Lucien,” she breathed, clawing at his tunic. “Lucien, please—”

His hand came to her mouth roughly, silencing her plea. She’d seen this all before. When? Remember! Her mind screamed desperately, writhing to keep him from doing what fate demanded. She bit at skin, tears sliding down her cheek to pool against his gloved hand.

Don’t do this, please don’t do this—

Light flooded the dark, pouring from Lucien’s body like he’d become a living God, the sun itself. Writhing darkness demanded this sacrifice, that he unravel this spell. In the distance, a man's voice screamed for Lucien to stop. She didn’t recognize it, didn’t know who called for him. Elain broke free of his hand on her face.

“Lucien, stop—”

Power radiated around them, erupting like a volcanic blast. It was too much—Lucien was only one man.

“Run,” he gasped, fingers curling in the dirt. The small part of him that wasn’t living sun was composed of dying flame. Elain reached for his face, fingers burning when they touched.

“I won’t leave you.”

“Go,” he shoved, his body shuddering. The wind picked up, swirling around the pair of them.

“You’ll die.”

Lucien’s face shifted and morphed, back into the shadowed, fanged darkness she’d seen before. He laughed, the sound high pitched and cruel. “You better run, Elain. He’s coming for you—”

“ELAIN!”

Elain jerked, not of her own accord. This time, instead of standing at the top of a terrifying drop she’d been attempting to crawl into the fireplace. Her nightgown had caught fire for the briefest of moments before Lucien shuttered it, holding her tight against his chest.

“What are you dreaming about?” he demanded.

“Nothing.”

“Liar,” he snarled, dragging her back to bed, arms still firm around her. She didn’t protest or pull away, not when he all but dumped her back to bed, his body close enough to touch. “Are they dreams or are they visions, Elain?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “Nightmares, I think.” After all, that same face had appeared twice now. “Visions feel like memories…” and her dreams felt real, as if they were happening while she was in them.

Lucien reached for her face, sighing softly. She let him tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, comforted by the gesture. Hold me.

“Do you need anything?”

“A glass of water?” she asked, hating how small her voice sounded. Lucien nodded, rising from the bed to track it down. By the time he returned, glass in hand, Elain had settled just enough to not beg him to wrap her back up in his arms.

“Were you having nightmares at home?”

“Sometimes,” she murmured. Not like this. It pacified him enough to lay back against the bed.

“I’m thinking I should tie you to me,” he mumbled. “Before you hurt yourself.”

“That’s not necessary,” she whispered, turning her back to him, but who knew. Maybe it was. Lucien had killed the fireplace, leaving the room to be warmed solely by him and his magic. How long could he sustain that, she wondered?

As it turned out, Lucien couldn’t the moment he fell into a deep sleep, a fact Elain learned when she woke up with her head buried in his shirted chest and his arms wrapped around her so tightly there was no possible escape. She didn’t want to. His scent enveloped her, lulling her back to sleep. She nuzzled closer and wondered if they couldn’t just have this while maintaining their polite, occasionally combative distance during the day.

“Elain,” Lucien whispered, his voice rough from sleep. “Do you intend to stay in bed all day?”

“Can I?” she asked without thinking about what she was asking. After all, he was still holding her against his body, hadn’t moved an inch despite being awake. There was no pretending they weren’t laying together like this.

“I’m supposed to go hunting with Gunnar.”

Right.

Carefully, Elain rolled out of his grasp, certain she felt his own hesitation. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Did you have any more nightmares?” he asked, stretching his body now that he was free of their embrace.

“No.”

“Interesting,” was all Lucien said before he rose from the bed and vanished into the bathroom. He was in there long enough Elain abandoned her own plan to bathe, deciding she’d just wait for night to fall.

Dressed and up for the day, Elain skipped the dining hall, still exhausted and a little raw from the night before. Let Lucien work a little of his magic on the hunting trip. She was certain he’d come back victorious and handsome and all the women would fawn all over him until—

“Elain?”

Arina poked her head from the library door, beckoning Elain to join her. “Gunnar is prowling this morning. Don’t let him catch you alone.” It was the first words Arina had spoken to her since she’d arrived. Elain closed the door softly to the library, surprised to find they were the only ones inside. Unlike the rest of the palace, with its bright, open windows and glimmering surfaces, the library was dark and filled with very old, very polished wood. Arina was the brightest light in the room, her dress a vibrant green despite the otherwise dim surroundings.

“He’s grabby,” Arina added with irritation.

“He asked for someone pretty,” Elain told her. Arina rolled her eyes.

“He should look at his own wife, then. She would be back home.”

“This whole court makes no sense to me,” Elain admitted. “Everyone is constantly fighting or…”

“Or fucking,” Arina supplied with amusement. “Yes, I’ve noticed that too. Not that Day Court doesn’t have its moments, but it’s not encouraged with quite so much quiet cruelty as it is between Hilda and Gunnar.”

“You’re not tempted?”

Arina scoffed. “I’ve slept with Helion,” she said, clearly proud of that accomplishment. “Have you seen him?”

Elain frowned. “Once, I think?”

“You should come by and look again. Not one male here can measure up with their clothes on.”

“Maybe they have some hidden talent,” Elain dismissed, trying to recall how they’d gotten on this topic to begin with. Arina’s eyes sparkled, her body swaying as she walked through the stacks to her little workstation far in the back.

“Is that what Lucien has? Hidden talent? He is all the females speak of. Just this morning at breakfast I heard a play by play of how good he looked sparring yesterday. Shirtless,” Arina added.

When had he done that? Elain sighed.

“And they’ll never know.”

“Yes, the famous mated pair. How they hate you.”

“They don’t hate me. They just wish they were me,” Elain replied, her feelings hurt only a little. “And they’ll get over it.”

Arina nodded. “True…do you suppose they’ll be over it before or after the festival in Volta this weekend?”

“Festival?”

“Yes. It’s the perfect place to dig up a little dirt…not that you’re trying to do that, of course. Curious, how you, a total stranger, have made yourself indispensable to the queen so easily.”

Elain shrugged. “I’m friendly.”

Arina looked down at her book. “Of course. I wasn’t saying otherwise.”

Elain turned her back, intending to warn Lucien if anyone accosted him with their mouth at the end of the week it certainly wasn’t her. She’d almost forgotten Arina’s casual suspicion when Arina called, “Helion warned me about you.”

Elain froze. “Warned you?”

“The Seer,” she whispered softly. “With her Vanserra mate. What the pair, you two are. Lucien, with his fox-like reputation and you, a female gifted magic by the Cauldron herself.”

Elain turned, hiding her panic. “What are you talking about?”

Arina smiled, reclining in her chair behind a sack of books. “You aren’t the only one looking for things, Elain. I could help you, if you trusted me.”

“I’m just here to get to know Rask.”

“Of course. And I’m only here to study this ancient curse. Just two females from Prythian doing exactly what their High Lords asked of them.”

Elain leveled a stare. “And what, exactly, did Helion ask you to do?”

Arina only grinned. “What, indeed?”

LUCIEN:

Was it wrong to look forward to the evening specifically to pull Elain into his arms and unpack his stupid fucking day? Lucien suspected the answer was yes and yet, when Elain crawled into bed looking exhausted and clean from the bath she’d just taken, Lucien lunged, dragging her against him.

“I figured you’d tie a string around my wrist or something,” she grumbled, though she didn’t pull away.

“This is easier…and is less of a choking hazard,” he added, thinking of how she might try and hang herself if she had another of her nightmares. The thought was sobering. Elain sighed, eyes focused on the ceiling overhead.

“I’m starting to think you were right.”

Lucien, distracted by her hair spilled across his chest, nearly missed what she said. “Oh?”

“I’m so out of my depth here. They split us up and I don’t know who I can trust. And it doesn’t help that all I hear about his how much the other women–”

“Females. People are starting to wonder where you come from. I am a male, you are a female—”

“Well, where I come from that's a degrading way to talk about people,” she hissed, twisting in his arms. “Like we’re dogs or something.”

Lucien smothered a smile. “Yes. Humans and their civility.”

“So, you’re, what, an animal, then?”

“Yes,” he agreed with no small amount of satisfaction. He was tempted to offer to show her just how much of an animal he could be but didn’t dare push his luck. Not when they were almost friends. Lucien didn’t dare give her a whiff of wanting to court her lest he be rejected. Again. Elain was figuring herself out, figuring this world out. If all he ever was was this—the male who kept her from killing herself while she worked through her nightmares—maybe it was enough. Having her in some capacity felt infinitely better than not having her at all.

“Did you learn anything?”

Lucien’s face darkened. Gunnar had all but demanded he let Lucien take a shot at Elain all in good fun. “Nothing I didn’t already know.”

“Do you think Gunnar really wants to ally with Koschei?” she whispered, as if Gunnar might spring from beneath the bed and hear them.

“No,” Lucien murmured after a moment. “I think he is weighing the safety of his own people against the future of our world. What I do think is he wants to take Montessere and wants to be sure we won’t step in with the Cauldron and obliterate him off the map.”

“Something is off,” Elain told him, snuggling just a little closer though he didn’t think she was even aware she did it.

“How much of the future can you see?”

“Don’t ask me that,” she said quickly, eyes finding his. He was tempted to ask what she knew—what she was hiding. He could feel her tension rolling off her in waves.

“I thought we agreed to no secrets?” His words were light, almost teasing for all the good it did him. Elain closed her eyes, drawing a soft breath.

“We barely know each other, Lucien.”

Her words were a slap in the face. For one, she was laying in his arms, tucked against his body. He wanted to remind her that he was the only thing standing between her and a literal king strolling in on her while she bathed each morning and had, on two occasions now, stopped her from injuring if not accidentally throwing herself off a mountainside.

“Right,” he agreed, swallowing all his hurt and resentment. Part of him wanted to pull away, to let her deal with this on her own. She would have deserved it, he thought. Maybe even wanted it. Why was he supposed to be her emotional punching bag?

Lucien kept her pulled against him, face smothered in her hair. “Not going anywhere.”

She reached for his wrist, brushing her thumb over the skin.

“I know.”

He had the sense something wasn’t quite right somewhere in his dream. Right before the bond winked out and the usual glow in his chest went dark, Lucien’s eyes opened of their own accord, the hair on his arm standing at attention. Lucien turned his head, eyes scanning the dark room for the intruder. He almost expected to find a rogue male creeping in hoping Elain was alone.

A soft wind blew through the room, curious given all the windows were closed. He began to untangle Elain from his arms to walk through the room, just to be certain they were alone.

The bond faded to nothing and Elain twisted in his grip, her eyes devoid of life again. They were blown out, near black where even the whites should have been.

“Elain–”

She scrambled for him, all but screaming as she lunged and toppled him to the ground. She was so little, hardly a match for him at all were it not for the glinting silver and green dagger in her hand. Lucien hadn’t realized she was armed when he fell to the floor but when her blade pierced his stomach, he was more than aware.

“Cauldron, Elain,” he groaned, catching her arm roughly when she made to bring it back over him. He could see the blood lust on her otherwise empty face. “Elain, it’s me—”But maybe she knew. Maybe that was the point, maybe she’d hidden that dagger on purpose.

Despite the blood leaking from his body, Lucien managed to pin her beneath him. It was not how he’d imagined this moment—Elain had been writhing from pleasure and not the urge to see him dead.

Lucien ripped at the bond, hands holding her wrists, his thighs clenched painfully around her torso. “Wake up,” he ordered, letting the magic lace his every word. He hadn’t expected it to work so well and yet all at once, Elain went limp. Lucien pried the dagger from her hand, throwing it across the room with a clatter. “What the fuck was that?” he demanded when she began to push against his grip.

“Nothing, just a dream–” she gasped when she saw him, blood still pooling from his wound.

“Of course, it’s just your run of the mill nightmare, you know, up until you stabbed me,” he retorted, trying very hard not to shout. Elain burst into tears, arms wrapped around her blood stained nightdress and though he was the one with the punctured body, Lucien felt as if he’d done something unforgivably wrong.

“Elain, please. Let me help you.”

“You can’t,” she whispered, going to the bathroom for some towels. He’d need more than that. Lucien managed to get to his feet, ignoring the white hot streak of pain that lanced through him.

He used his magic to suck up the puddle of blood on the floor, sparing them both from an awkward conversation in the morning, though it did little to stop the dripping trail behind him as he made his way for the tub.

Hauling off his shirt, Lucien thought it looked worse than it was. “Where did you get the blade, Elain?”

He needed to know if she’d intentionally hurt him. If Elain had brought the dagger into the bed, Lucien had every intention of sending her back home in the morning with a warning that she needed to be better guarded while he worked. He wasn’t going to entertain her if she was trying to harm him. He couldn’t deal with the implication that his mate had tried to kill him on purpose, that she’d waited until he fell asleep…that she hated him so much she’d rather see him dead. It made Lucien’s chest ache, not from his wound but the realization she would never accept the bond.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, tears pouring down her cheeks. She couldn’t take her eyes off his stomach, off the smeared blood still sliding off his skin. “In my dream I…”

Ignoring the fact that he still wore pants, Lucien reached for the tap and turned on the water. “Yes?”

“I was stabbing Hybern again,” she said, shoulders shaking. “I was trying to keep him away from Nesta and Feyre, I…I didn’t mean…”

Lucien exhaled. “So, just so I understand. Your nightmares compel you to hurt someone. Yourself…and now me, the only person keeping you from hurting yourself?”

Elain nodded her head.

“And you don’t see a problem with that?”

She wept harder. “I do, I just—”

“Tell me what you’re dreaming, Elain,” he ordered again, pouring every ounce of magic available to him into the command. She was his mate. Lucien thought she’d have to obey, or at least, would buckle beneath the weight of his command. He was still bleeding, half naked in a tub of pink water while Elain stood in a ruined night dress that was coated in his blood. His instincts were running a river, demanding he kill something to protect her and it was with disappointment that he realized she did not feel the same.

He watched her struggle against the command, her legs shaking until she collapsed to the floor. Only then, knees drawn to her chest, did Elain begin explaining the dreams. Lucien tried to pretend her nearly launching herself into oblivion for Graysen didn’t hurt every last feeling in his body, worse than anything a knife could have done.

Her next dream was worse than the first because it implied she was lying, in some respects, because she worried he might die. It was the first time Elain dared to make eye contact with him.

“It’s only a dream,” he said, uncomfortable as fuck in his sopping wet pants and his still aching wound. “My magic is hot but it’s not light—”

“I’ve seen it,” she interrupted with a miserable whisper. “In Hybern…you used that same power.”

Lucien shook his head. “That was just the mate instinct.”

She didn’t look convinced and to be fair, neither was he. Not when Elain just knew things she shouldn’t. It was too much for one night.

“And this last one?”

“I told you. It was like I was there again. I only realized it was you...or, I guess, not Hybern when I saw that awful face.”

Elain gulped down air between sobs, letting herself absorb the full weight of what was happening. Lucien couldn’t bear it. “Hey,” he murmured. Elain buried her face in her knees, shaking so hard he thought she might break apart. It was with a pained grunt he managed to haul himself out of the tub and raise her chin. “No harm done. Look, I’m already healing,” he added, rising up on his knees so she could see the wound knitting up before their very eyes.

“I could have killed you.”

“No, Elain, you could not,” he replied frankly. “Not unless you get a lot better at aiming and a lot stronger.”

She sniffed. “Really?”

“Yes,” he agreed solemnly. “Please don’t cry. I’m not angry, just worried. I want to help you and I can’t when you keep secrets. You can trust me.”

She nodded, letting him wipe at her eyes. “Maybe I should sleep in the closet—”

“No,” he said too quickly. “You’ll stay where I can keep tabs on you. Whatever magic this is, I’d rather you stab me every night than hurt yourself because I can’t get to you in time. Swear it,

Elain. Swear on the bond between us—no more secrets.”She pressed her lips together in a maddening line and Lucien, sopping wet and bleeding, felt his heart crack.

“Okay.”

She looked at him, eyes wide with true fear. “Okay?”

“You’ll go home tomorrow,” he groaned, hauling himself to his feet.

“But you’ll stay?” she asked, clambering up with him, hand on his elbow to steady him. “How is that fair—”

“YOU STABBED ME!” he snarled furiously, yanking his arm from her grasp. “And want to sit there and say you can’t trust me! So yes, Elain. You’ll go home and that’s where you’ll stay. I’m done.”

“You’re done?” she squeaked from behind him, so very small and sad and miserable. Lucien’s rotten heart shattered a little more, demanding he turn even as he hobbled back to the bedroom for a clean shirt and a dry set of pants.

“What else can I do, Elain? How else can I prove myself? I’ve stayed away, I’ve given you time and space. I’ve tried to learn about you, tried to prove myself and at every turn you throw up wall after wall, shut every possible door in my face. How can you ask me to let you stay when there is a very real possibility you will one day throw yourself off a ledge—” his voice cracked, betraying his very real feelings. “And I won’t get there in time?”

More tears slid down her face and Lucien very much wished he’d never told her he was done with her. He wished he’d just kept his mouth shut and made her get into the bath with him, had washed his blood off her skin and tucked her back into bed.

“I said I was sorry–”

“It’s not enough, Elain. You’re going home.”

“I’ll tell you!” she gasped, as if the words were physically painful to her. “No secrets,” she added when he turned. “Please don’t send me back.”

He sighed. “Elain–”

“Please,” she begged, her tears dripping down her chin to mingle with his blood on the cold floor. “I’m trying, Lucien. I can try harder.”

He couldn’t stop himself then, crossing the distance between them to pull her against him. Elain’s whole body shook, weeping soft against his aching, bleeding chest. “I’m trying so hard,” she sobbed, arms folded between them. “My whole life was stolen from me.”

He pressed his face into her hair, blinking back his own urge to cry. “I know.”

“Everyone acts as if it was fine, like I should be grateful. Of course Nesta and Feyre figured it out—they were miserable when we were human, but Lucien? I was so happy.”

For just a moment, he tried to really imagine it without letting his own jealousy get in the way. He could remember how he’d felt, making his own plans with Jesminda. How he’d proposed, the dreams he’d had, the plans he’d made. Stolen in one horrible moment, changing the entire trajectory of his entire life. He felt haunted, even then, by the ache of it all. The what might have been.

“I’m sorry.”

Elain didn’t acknowledge his words but she did uncurl her arms to hold him, her grip so tight his ribs protested. It wasn’t a declaration of undying love or even a real promise of friendship. But in that ugly, terrifying moment, something shifted between them.

And Lucien thought even the Gods themselves noticed.

ELAIN:

A new emissary had arrived. Elain was avoiding the commotion, grateful for new blood to distract people from Lucien. If she had to field one more question about his penis, she thought she might scream. Surely there were more fascinating ways to spend a persons time than sex? Only, in Rask’s court, all the females had was their scheming. The fun seemed to be getting the male beneath them and not the actual act itself. Hardly a feat given how none of the males respected the females they’d married enough to pose a true challenge.

Elain was avoiding them all. No one knew what had gone on between her and Lucien two nights before. She’d caught him in the bathroom, shirtless, peering at his stomach in the mirror for any sign of the wound but just as he’d promised it would. It didn’t stop the guilt she felt from beginning to fester beneath her skin. She wasn’t sleeping, terrified of what else she might be capable of. Lucien kept her tight against him but what good was that when she could materialize weapons from nothing? What stopped her next nightmare from offering up an ash arrow and plunging it into his heart. Elain understood why Lucien had to go.

He was keeping her from finishing what the dreams were trying to start. It would have been better to let him take her home and at the same time, far worse. She knew Feyre would overreact and Rhysand would give her the Nesta treatment—locking her up somewhere she couldn’t be hurt, watched every moment of every day by one of the members of his court while he tried to figure out what to do with her.

At least Lucien didn’t care if she walked away from him. At least Lucien offered her space and understanding. She was starting to suspect he was a good man—male. She didn’t know what to do about that.

“There you are,” Arina’s voice fluttered through Elain’s thoughts, dragging her back to the present. Elain was hiding in one of the spires, tucked into a window ledge with her book. “I’ve been looking everywhere. Lucien is, too. He’s worried,” Arina added without her usual mischief. Elain sighed, closing her book gently in her lap.

“No need. I’m just avoiding the new emissary.”

“You and me both. Beron is so absurd,” Arina grumbled, helping Elain back to the slippery opal beneath their feet.

“Beron is here?”

Arina scoffed. “He wouldn’t dare. Helion is practically breathing down his neck. There’s some old feud between the two of them and Helion is just looking for a reason to start a war with him. No, he sent one of his obnoxious sons, likely to torment Lucien.”

“Which one?” Elain asked, well aware she had no idea who any of them were outside of Eris. Arina shrugged delicate shoulders, tugging on the golden chain around her neck. “I didn’t stick around to see. Lucien asked if I’d seen you and then Zosia started touching the buttons on his jacket and—”

“Right. I get it.” And then Arina had come to Lucien’s rescue and the two had teamed up to find Elain. Elain ignored the way her stomach clenched at the thought of Zosia's fingers on Lucien's clothes. “We should go and check him out, just to see.”

“He’s almost certainly here to spy on us,” Arina grumbled.

“All the more reason to see what we’re up against. I think I can handle one more Vanserra.”

“You have the only decent one,” Arina murmured, nodding her head without looking at several passing courtiers, all eyeing her with hungry interest.

“None of them appeal to you?”

“If I’m setting down, it’s with some High Lord’s heir,” Arina said with a wrinkled nose. “Maybe Tarquin.”

“He’s not heir. He is High Lord.”

“Even better,” Arina agreed. “I met him on his pleasure barge, you know. Elain, you would have died. Imagine—”

“Elain Archeron.” A smooth, masculine voice slid over Elain’s skin, drawing her steps to a total halt. She knew without looking who was just behind, listening to their conversation with amused fascination. Elain turned first, gazing into the handsome, angular face of Eris Vanserra. He might have been utterly bored were it not for the interest in his amber eyes. He stood like the first born son—heir apparent, for all it mattered—might. Dressed immaculately in a buttoned jacket of green, his black pants tailored perfectly. He’d cut his auburn hair since she’d last seen him, the short sides and longer, pushed back top making him seem more handsome and regal. Golden earrings adorned his pointed lobes and several heavy rings on his broad, fair hands made them seem bigger—more powerful.

“I didn’t think you were allowed out of the basement,” Eris continued, eyes flicking towards Arina’s still turned back for only a moment. “Something, something, keep the princess from the evil Vanserra, something something. Am I right? Isn’t that how the story goes?”

Arina turned then, green eyes narrowed to slits. Eris looked again, shifting ever so slightly before his eyes came back to Elain. She supposed that was all the acknowledgement he’d offer the beautiful female from Day Court. “Imagine my wonder and surprise when we learned not only had they freed you from your prison but they allowed you to wed.”

His lips curled over his teeth. He knew they were liars, had been in Hewn City not six months earlier dancing with her sister.

“Right after Cassian wed Nesta,” Elain replied, careful to keep her voice easy and soft. “You remember my elder sister?”

Eris didn’t react to the barb. “Barely.”

“What brings you to Rask? Are you going to join us in the tulip fields?” Elain asked, inching just a little closer. Eris looked down at her, his expression utterly unreadable. “It would be so nice getting to know someone in Lucien’s family.”

“I’ll bet they eat you up over here, don’t they?” he sneered. “You’re such a sweet little thing.”

Elain made her eyes big and round. “Yes.”

“I’m not so easily manipulated, Elain Archeron,” Eris all but whispered, stepping into her personal space.

“It’s Elain Vanserra,” she replied just as softly, daring to meet his leveled stare. True surprise flickered in his gaze, just enough for Elain to know she’d gained the upper hand, if only for a moment.

“Lady Vanserra,” he murmured, glancing towards Arina as he said it. “That sounds nice, don’t you think?”

“You should go back home,” Arina said instead, ignoring his words. “You have no business here.”

Eris looked down at Elain. “And leave my baby sister to the wolves? I think not. Tell Lucien I said hi.”

Eris turned heel, leaving the two standing just outside the Great Hall to watch him go. Arina seemed to exhale a shaking breath Elain hadn’t even known she’d been holding. “He’s such a bastard,” she whispered.

“He can’t find out what we’re doing,” Elain agreed, crossing her arms over her chest.

“How do you plan to keep him from poking his nose into everyone's business? They’ll take one look at him and…” And spill their guts just to get him out of his clothes. Elain thought Eris didn’t seem the type. There was something lifeless about his face despite his sneering countenance. As if he wore a mask and if she peeled it away, she’d find a trembling little bird just behind.

“I’ll occupy Eris,” she said, recognizing something about herself in the eldest Vanserra. It was in his eyes, though Elain didn’t know what, exactly, that thing was. “At least long enough for you to work on that curse.”

“I could work on it for a century,” Arina grumbled. “And still, I’d be staring at gibberish.”

“I’m starting to think it was a mistake coming here,” Elain murmured, staring at the empty space Eris had once been. Arina, her eyes vacant, nodded her head.

“I think so, too.”

LUCIEN:

Eris’s voice was like being doused in frigid water. “I hear congratulations are in order. Mother is going to be so put out when she learns you didn’t even send an invitation. Wedded, little brother. And here I was thinking you’d never get over—”

“Don’t you dare say her name,” Lucien warned, facing off with his eldest brother in a stairwell while he looked for Elain. Eris clicked his teeth, shaking his head.

“Well. Elain is far lovelier than I remember. I suppose that’s the glow of newly mated love, though. When did you find the time?”

Lucien knew Eris didn’t need to sniff through the lie—his brother had gone to visit Vassa and Jurian merely a week before Rhysand had offered up the mission. Lucien had strolled from his bedroom to find Eris toying with a dagger at the breakfast table, filled with endless questions about Koschei’s fortress.

“Why are you so worried about what I do and don’t do with Elain? Disappointed she couldn’t reject you, too?”

“We have that in common, I suppose,” Eris grinned, following behind Lucien as he began to jog down the stairs. “Given Elain didn’t accept shit and we both know it.”

Lucien spun, slamming his elder brother against the tower wall as hard as he could. Pressing his forearm against Eris’s windpipe, Lucien growled, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Eris shoved, knocking Lucien back a step. Adjusting his jacket, cheeks flushed, he said, “I’ve been around too many mated pairs. I know the scent well enough. You’ve got these dumbfucks fooled because they’re too ignorant to recognize what an unsatisfied female looks like.”

Lucien swallowed the urge to shove his brother down the stairs. Eris tugged at his cuffs, the picture of wounded nobility.

“I didn’t come here to fight you.”

“Why did you come?” Lucien demanded. “Tired of fathers boot on your neck? Hoping to breathe a little freely?”

Eris’s rage was a real, simmering thing. Lucien knew exactly how to get beneath his Eris’s skin, after all. Eris hadn’t always been such a piece of shit—there were moments Lucien could recall almost loving Eris. Eris had been a man when Lucien was born and as a boy, all he’d wanted was to be his older brother.

But Eris could be cruel, just like their father and Lucien loved his mother far too much to mold himself in Beron’s image. It had always been the difference between them. Eris wanted to be High Lord and, as consequence, was willing to do anything to get it. And Lucien, who watched Eris chip away at his soul in service of that goal, had learned too young he had no interest in that sort of power.

He did understand one thing, though. Lucien knew the lengths he would personally go to keep Elain safe, and killing Eris ranked very, very low. He wondered if his brother didn’t recognize the bent in Lucien’s thoughts. “I’m not going to tell anyone about your dumb fucking lie. I don’t care enough about your love life to make a spectacle of it. Although,” he added after a moment, “Mother was hurt you didn’t tell her.”

“How could I? Father opens all my letters,” Lucien snapped. “It’s not as if she would have been allowed to come. I’m dead, remember?”

“If only,” Eris mumbled. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here or will I be forced to guess? Don’t make me guess, Lucien. It’s so tedious.”

“I’m here because Elain wants to see the tulips.”

If looks could kill, Lucien thought he would have fallen dead at the bottom of the landing. “Yes, your fascinating mate said as much. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall for that conversation. She invited me to join, you know. Don’t tempt me.”

“If Elain wants you to join us, who am I to deny her?”

A strange look passed over Eris’s face, so fleeting Lucien might have imagined it had his brother not said, “Of course. She is Lady Vanserra, after all.”

Lucien halted, turning his head ever so slowly to look at the hatred burning in Eris’s eyes. “You should have kept her Archeron,” Eris whispered, hands clenched to fists. “Father will–”

“Father can get fucked,” Lucien snapped, his heart pounding in his chest. Lady Vanserra was his mother, had been the derogatory name Beron called Amera anytime she displeased him. Lucien hadn’t thought of it until it was Eris speaking that hated title, his whole body rigid. “I can call my wife whatever I like.”

“And here I was, thinking you two had true love,” Eris sneered. “Did Rhysand force her hand like mothers—”

Lucien slammed his brother back against the wall, fingers curling so tightly around Eris’s throat he could feel the furious flutter of Eris’s pulse. It was only a moment before power exploded from Eris, pushing Lucien back. They might have been boys again, squabbling angrily in the Forest House, shoving and pushing and kicking with their autumn kissed power.

Only, it wasn’t just fire pouring from Lucien’s hands. Eris noticed it too, drawing back when a pulse of bright yellow slipped from his gut, slapping Eris hard in the face. Lucien looked down at his hands, recalling what Elain had said. I’ve seen it.

Eris blinked, smoothing over his features as if nothing had happened at all. It would be useless to ask his brother what this was, not when Eris might tattle to Beron…not when the magic in autumn might be shifting, might be reconsidering which brother might inherit the throne. Lucien drew back an instinctive step. If Eris suspected he wasn’t next, he’d kill Lucien without blinking an eye.

“You should take your pretty little mate home. This is no place for her.”

Lucien turned his back to Eris. “What the fuck would you know?”

Eris didn’t respond, not that Lucien gave his brother a chance to. With Eris here, everything was more complicated. It was almost worse, in some ways, than having Beron. Lucien could maneuver around his father, could predict what Beron might do, the ways in which he might act. Eris had always been his own agent of chaos, enforcing their fathers will with his own particular brand of cruelty.

More and more, Lucien wondered if the whole mission wasn’t doomed from the start. Gunnar was more interested in chasing skirts than talking politics and Lucien and Elain were slowly unraveling. He knew she wasn’t sleeping, was barely eating. She kept up her appearances but Hilda had pulled back from Elain once Arina arrived, content to sit upon her throne and watch her court with near sullen eyes. Lucien could sense her resentment and wondered how Gunnar didn’t recognize his wife’s own anger even when it looked him so brazenly in the face.

Maybe Eris was right, in his own stupid way. Maybe it was a mistake to keep Elain somewhere like this. Lucien could still see the fear in her eyes when he’d said he meant to take her back, her soft desperation. She’d been trying too hard, in the aftermath, tiptoeing around him when he wished she’d go back to arguing with him.

He found her at the dining table picking at a cucumber salad, a vision in a sky blue confection. “There you are,” he murmured, dropping heavily into the chair beside her. Elain looked over with heavy lidded eyes and to his secret surprise, scooted her chair close enough she could rest her head on his arm.

“Can we go upstairs for a while?” she murmured, fork all but clattering to the table. “Will you watch me sleep?”

He would have crawled over hot coals if she’d asked. “Yeah,” he agreed, pleased when she all but batted her pretty little eyes at him. Elain let him keep his hand in hers, perhaps unaware he was stroking his thumb over the soft skin of her wrist.

“Eris is here.”

“I know,” Lucien grumbled, leading her towards the stairs. “I think we’ll participate in the festival and then get away to the tulips for a few days. Come back and see where we’re at and if it's even worth staying another month.”

“And if it’s not?” she whispered, tensing with every new step forward.

Lucien kept his shrug too casual. “There are other places we could visit. I am emissary, after all.”

“You’ll bring me with you?”

“Until you demand to return home,” Lucien agreed, his heart fluttering in his throat. He would do exactly as he promised even as he hoped her opinion of him might shift, might become more curious and less mistrusting.

“I don’t ever want to go back,” Elain said, her words cutting through his hopeful thoughts. “I hate Velaris.”

“You don’t hate–”

“Yes I do,” she replied, yanking her hand from his grip. Lucien had to suppress a smile, trotting after her into their shared bedroom. “I hate how everyone is always watching me, how they follow me around. I’m never alone unless I’m in my room. They just assume I must love it because they do but I don’t even like starlight,” Elain added. “And it’s never warm enough, the water is always cold, and—”

“It’s not home,” he finished, noting the way her body practically sagged with relief.

“Exactly,” she agreed, plopping onto the bed with a loud sigh. “Nothing about this life is. I’m so out of place. I don’t know where I belong or even who I am…”

Lucien’s chest ached. He couldn’t help but join her, sitting on the edge of bed, his thigh practically touching her own. “I feel the same way.”

She turned her head to look at him. “Really?”

He nodded. “Maybe we’ll just live like nomads for the next century. Bouncing from place to place, trying to figure out what feels right.”

Elain smiled. “I’d like that. I want to see more of this world. I’ve only ever seen Velaris…and now this place.”

“We can remedy that,” Lucien assured her. “You’ve got centuries, you know. You don’t need to make a decision about your life right this second.”

Her eyes settled. “Even about…this?”

“Especially about this,” Lucien lied. He wanted her to pick him so badly it made his teeth ache. “I got three centuries to be stupid and run around. If you need just as much time, take it. I’ll wait.” Elain took another breath but her eyes were light again. Warm. Happy, even. He’d done that. It bolstered him. “I thought you wanted to nap?”

“I do,” she said with the sweetest sigh. “Tell me about Eris, first.”

Lucien flopped back onto the bed, head tilted to look at her. “What do you want to know?”

Elain grinned. “Everything.”

ELAIN:

Life at court had settled into a routine, strange as it was. Elain woke each morning for breakfast before the ladies decided on what games they wanted to play. Lunch inevitably broke up a near faight between two females who were almost certainly arguing over a male that did not deserve their attention and by the time the afternoon rolled around, everyone was a little drunk and back in good spirits.

Everyone but Hilda. Hilda presided over them all, indulging in their games and soothing squabbles but underneath it all, Elain recognized the near dead eyed dread she stared into. Elain knew that feeling too well. It was what kept prompting Elain to sit beside Hilda, to include her in the gossip, even when Hilda hardly seemed interested.

Not until Eris arrived, anyway. Elain had seen the way Hilda watched the Autumn court heir stroll through court, murmuring to her husband as they left. “Eris Vanserra,” she murmured, her words soft. “I met his father once.” Elain turned to look. “Oh?”

“He’s not half as handsome as his sons,” she said, not for the first time. “He was very married when I met him…for all that it mattered.”

Well. That was disturbing. Elain looked over, suppressing the urge to gag. “I hear he’s terribly unkind.”

“Oh, that he is,” Hilda murmured, examining her nails. “You know how those Vanserra’s are. I wonder what his eldest son is like.”

Elain cleared her throat. “Do you want me to ask?”

She laughed. “Oh, no. He is a pretty diversion, though. Unmated?”

Elain almost choked. “Eris? I doubt he has a mate anywhere in the world.”

“He needs someone powerful,” she mused and Elain, so utterly disturbed to hear anyone speak about Eris that way, could only nod her head.

“You know what we should do?” Hilda announced, silencing the ladies in the drawing room they were all lounging in. “A dance. Tonight,” she added pointedly as if the room hadn’t erupted into squealing giggles. Any excuse to get dressed up and drink was well worth the revelry. Elain would have been delighted, too, had she not known the true purpose of the dance. All that effort over Eris Vanserra?

Elain was dying by the time she found a bewildered Lucien wandering towards their bedroom. “Did you hear the queen has ordered a ball?”

Elain nodded so exuberantly that Lucien’s eyes narrowed instantly. “What do you know?”

Elain shoved him into their bedroom before breathlessly declaring, “Hilda slept with your father.”

Lucien blanched. “How awful.”

“She liked it. She said—”

Lucien held up a hand. “Do not tell me what she said. He’s been married to my mother for six centuries. Hilda is barely older than six decades. When did she find the time?”

Oh. Elain hadn’t thought to ask. “She didn’t say.”

“A mercy, I suppose. What does that have to do with tonight?”

“She’s interested in your brother.”

“Ugh,” Lucien grumbled. “I have to dress up so she has an excuse to seduce Eris? Lets stay in—”

“You stay in,” Elain interrupted blithely, walking to their shared closet for a dress. “I want to see if she’s successful.”

Lucien cringed. “You like Eris, now?”

“When did I say that? I only said I wanted to see if this seduction is successful. Hilda is so…” She didn’t know how to finish that. Hilda was so strange. Icy and cold one minute, open and warm the next. She’d told Elain about her task for Arina saying she wanted Elain’s opinion…and then never spoke of it again. It was almost like having a friend, almost the illusion of trust. Elain frowned.

“There is a festival in Volta this weekend, too.”

“Yes,” his voice grumbled from behind the closet door. “We have a full social calendar, don’t we?”

“When were you thinking of going to see tulips?” That was what Elain really wanted. A chance to escape court, to spend a day or two in nature. Perhaps they could sleep in another inn, if only to get away from the headache inducing atmosphere Hilda and Gunnar had created.

“I don’t know,” came his muffled reply. Elain’s fingers hesitated over the dresses. Lucien was busy, she reminded herself. He hadn’t come here to show her a good time, he’d come here to do a job. Now Eris had arrived and Helion was meddling and their jobs were more difficult than before. She tried not to let her disappointment overwhelm her but if Elain was being honest, she knew part of what she wanted was to be alone with him. No females constantly touching, laughing, lurking.

It was a foolish thing to want.

Elain emerged with a deep hunter green gown, laying it across the neatly made bed. “Well. I still want to go.” Lucien glanced up from his chair, the letter in his hand slipping for a moment. “We will. I just don’t know when. Or how. When I brought it up, Gunnar wanted to make a whole trip out of it–”

“No,” she breathed, heart pounding. “They can’t come.”

“And then, of course, you invited Eris.”

“I wasn’t being serious,” Elain protested. Lucien went back to his letter, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

“I’m sure you weren’t.”

“Are you mad?” she gaped. Lucien didn’t acknowledge that, though his knee began bouncing. He was. Elain huffed a loud breath, abandoning her dress and her mate—the infuriating, stupid, arrogant male—to their bedroom. She’d find Ione and Zosia and see if they wanted to play a game of bowling, one of the more favorite games at court. They might want Lucien, which annoyed her, but when he wasn’t around she found their company more than tolerable.

Elain made it all the way to the bottom of the steps before she was intercepted by a different Vanserra. He opened his mouth to offer some snide comment. Elain cut him off. “Oh, be quiet.” His eyebrows shot upwards. “Careful of your claws, kitten.” “

Remember what I just said, Eris?” she snapped. “I’m not in the mood for your word games.”

“Okay. How about a direct question? What the fuck are you and Lucien doing here?”

She stopped dead in her tracks, alone in the empty corridor though she doubted they would be for long.

“You first, big brother,” she replied with mock sweetness. Eris opened his mouth when the sound of chattering interrupted them both. Soft, serious voices prompted Eris to grab Elain around the waist, hand against her mouth, as he pressed her just behind the corner of another hall.

“Shhh,” he whispered, turning his head to listen. Elain was tempted to bite his hand, to lick his skin if only to annoy him. Why was he touching her? She didn’t like how the Vanserra’s were so comfortable putting their hands all over her body.

“And the mortals?” That was Gunnar’s whispered, soft voice.

“Dead. Easily killed,” scoffed another male. Elain’s eyes shot to Eris.

“Marcellus,” he whispered against her ear.

“All of them?” Gunnar was prompting something that eluded both Elain and Eris. Marcellus chuckled.

“Do you truly wish to know?”

Eris and Elain looked at each other. Yes.

“I suppose not,” Gunnar agreed to their combined disappointment. “So long as everything was cleaned up.”

“It is as if they never existed.”

“And what of the…”

“We’re finding it…difficult…to penetrate their borders. Several soldiers have returned with their minds addled. Confused,” Marcellus added pointedly. “It is as the Autumn Lord said.” Elain looked at Eris accusingly. He merely shook his head, a tendril of his auburn hair sliding into his eyes. Beron, he mouthed.

“Interesting. Is there no other way in?”

“No. Our ship did not make it to port. It simply vanished,” Marcellus said softly. “Prythian is hiding more secrets than their emissaries suggest.”

“I will speak with Elain Vanserra this evening. She is not as well-trained as her slippery mate,” Gunnar murmured.

Marcellus’s dark, appreciative chuckle made Eris’s lips curl over his teeth in rage. “Let me know if you want any help.”

“She might like it,” Gunnar agreed, his voice traveling further away. “If I can get him away from her.”

“He is quite rabid,” Marcellus agreed. “Leave him to me.”

Eris and Elain listened to their fading steps and their crude jokes as to what, exactly they might do if they managed to separate her from Lucien. Elain’s heart pounded in her chest, loud enough she knew Eris could likely hear it.

He dropped his hand from her mouth. “Meet him tonight,” Eris breathed, pushing away from her to run a hand through his neatly coiffed hair. “I’ll keep watch. Meet him and tell him—”

“What have you told him?”

“Nothing,” Eris gasped, his amber eyes wild with alarm. With anger. “I was sent to watch Lucien, I didn’t…this is…” it was so odd, seeing the silver-tongued Autumn heir at a loss for words. Eris pressed his fingertips against his lips. “They’re trying to get into Rhysand’s territory.”

“Yes,” Elain agreed. She knew why, of course. They believed he held the Cauldron. Eris narrowed his eyes.

“What will it take for you to trust me?”

“Centuries, I would imagine,” she replied blithely. “I don’t believe you wouldn’t let them drag me off if it suited your goals.” Elain pushed past him, intending to leave Eris standing there alone in the hall, to tell Lucien everything. Eris’s hoarse voice stopped her. “I tried to stop him—the last time.”

Elain turned slowly. She had no idea what Eris was talking about. “Why didn’t you?”

Shame flooded Eris’s expression. “Beron, I mean. I was sent away, I…I should have known it was a diversion. I truly thought Beron would let them leave. You don’t understand…” Eris trailed off for a moment. “It solved his problem when it came to Lucien. One less son to consider, one less brother vying for the throne. I was naive…I thought he’d be glad to see Lucien leave.”

Oh Gods, she thought softly. Eris was going to tell her something Lucien had never shared, something no one had ever told her. It was a violation. She ought to have stopped Eris. Elain couldn’t help herself.

“Maybe you hoped for that, too.”

“I didn’t,” Eris said, surging forward, one hand thrown out to stop her from leaving. “I wanted him to marry her, I swear—”

Elain shook her head, forcing her expression to betray nothing but condemnation. “Are you sure, Eris?”

His anguish unmasked him, made his own hollow, empty darkness so obvious. There was no amusement, no sneering nobility. Only a male who had bore centuries of horrors and was crumbling beneath his guilt. “When I learned, I wrote to Tamlin and begged him to give Lucien sanctuary.”

“Does Lucien know this?”

“No,” Eris rasped. “He believes me complicit…that I wanted to see her die.”

“And did you?”

Eris shook his head. “Beron should have killed Lucien if someone had to be punished. She…she was an innocent.”

Elain meant to turn her back on him, haughty in her judgment. Eris knew it, saw what she felt burning in her eyes. “There were six of them,” he whispered, so soft she barely heard him. “And only one of me. I lost three brothers that day and I have not forgotten it.”

Eris looked as if he might shatter, as if those words were something he’d only ever dared to think. Elain closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Tell me you’ve come to help.”

“I came to get you out,” he whispered into her neck. “Father would kill you just as easily as he’d killed her. I cannot stand it.”

Elain rose up on her tip toes and kissed Eris’s cheek. That was what she’d seen, earlier in the week. Their shared grief and guilt, the knowledge they’d failed their siblings through inaction and ignorance. Maybe it hadn’t been malicious, but someone was still hurt and someone had to carry that blame. “I’ll meet Gunnar tonight on one condition. Well, two, I suppose.”

“Name them.”

“Don’t let him take me somewhere you can’t see,” Elain said immediately. Eris nodded, smoothing his hands against his jacket when she stepped out of his embrace.

“And the other?” Just like that, his mask of nobility had slipped right back over his face.

“Forgive yourself, Eris.”

His mouth fell open, eyes filling with some emotion she couldn’t read. “I’ll keep you safe.”

Elain swallowed.

“I know you will.”

LUCIEN:

Lucien didn’t want to be at this party. He didn’t want to watch Elain and Eris, dressed in complementary shades of green, dance about the glimmering marble floors like prince and princess of Rask beneath that massive crystal chandelier. He couldn’t stand the hungry way Gunnar kept his eyes on Elain’s lithe body, eyes roving the smooth curves that her off-the-shoulder dress clung to.

“Lucien Vanserra,” breathed a familiar voice. “You owe me money.”

Lucien glanced over at Arina, Day Courts wiliest scholar. More politician than anything, her presence signaled nothing positive. Not that Lucien didn’t know he was in deep shit with the arrival of Eris. He sighed.

“You knew I wasn’t good for it.”

“Maybe I’ll pawn it off your wife,” Arina teased. “She’s surprisingly sweet. How did you convince her to marry you?”

“She took pity on me, as I’m sure you could have guessed,” Lucien agreed. “Speaking of, I think I need to steal her from my brother before he gets her so drunk she can’t stand.”

Arina waved him off, her eyes lingering on his brother. Lucien didn’t dare considering why, not when she’d have to compete with Hilda of Rask. Instead, he merely cut into the dance between his mate and Eris without preamble or apology.

“Spoil all my fun, why don’t you?” Eris grumbled while Elain grinned.

“Jealous?” she taunted, her cheeks deliciously flushed.

Was he so obvious? He opened his mouth to argue when he caught that sparkle in her eyes. Teasing. She was merely giving him a difficult time. “Hardly,” he lied. “I merely can’t stand the sight of you making Eris so happy. What are the two of you laughing about, anyway?”

“He is telling me the most delightful stories of you as a boy,” Elain replied, pulled close to his body, the scent of her exertion was maddening. The salt of her sweat combined with the usual sweetness of her skin offered the most tantalizing hint as to what her arousal might smell like. Lucien tugged her closer still, one hand on the curve of her waist, the other laced through her fingers. The steps were second nature, were as easy as breathing. Better, he thought with dizzying amazement. Elain moved with a fluid grace, like she floated in the luminescent air.

“What stories is he telling?” Lucien asked, his voice too breathless to be the mocking sneer he’d wanted her to hear. Elain looked up through those thick, dark lashes and fuck what was wrong with him? Lucien cleared his throat.

“He says you’re afraid of heights—”

“You knew that,” Lucien interrupted impatiently. Not with her or her enjoyment at his discomfort but his own reaction to her nearness. She was in his bed. Why did the sight of her obvious joy make him feel so undone, so tightly wound he might combust?

Bond, it’s just the bond, he lied, clenching his teeth so hard his jaw ached. The music slipped from one song to the other and Lucien didn’t let her go, not when other partners swapped out, just as breathless as him and Elain. Marcellus was coming towards him and Lucien knew the asshole was going to want to talk about going to the border, of showing them what had happened. Lucien swallowed the growl.

“Go,” Elain murmured, disentangling herself from his arms. “I’m sure Eris has more stories about your blanky.”Lucien spluttered a stammering non-response, noting Elain’s bright delight when she realized Eris had not made that up. Eris sauntered over, two crystal goblets of wine in hand, and offered one to Elain. He dipped his head, speaking words so quiet Lucien couldn’t hear over the playing orchestra. Elain grinned and Lucien couldn’t deny what he felt.

Burning, all-consuming, overwhelming jealousy. They were so at ease, so jovial and friendly. He’d spent five years trying to get her to relax around him and Eris could sweep in and in the span of a week had managed what Lucien never could. Elain’s easy touches, her pleased smiles…her laughter.

“Vanserra,” Marcellus snapped. “Do you have a moment?”

He really didn’t and yet could he do? Demand Elain not talk to his weasely, two-faced brother? Lucien turned his back and swallowed the ache, the hurt, the everything roiling around within him. The thought that his mate preferred his older brother made him feel wildly inadequate. She didn’t mind him because he was a Vanserra, then. She only minded it was him.

“Have you considered coming to the border with me?” Marcellus began, walking Lucien towards the far table where piles of food and wine sat, far from the dancing and the merriment.

“I have,” Lucien replied dryly, pouring himself a near full glass.

Marcellus was clearly irritated, waiting on Lucien’s response. “And?”

Lucien shrugged, practically pouring the wine down his throat like it was a shot of liquor. “You haven’t told me the purpose. I was there when our own wall fell, I am aware of the ramifications.”

“I would think you’d like to see the conditions of the mortals,” Marcellus replied casually. Testing. Lucien didn’t dare look at him as he shrugged again, instead pinning his gaze on Arina, floating towards him in a bright gown of teal.

“I don’t particularly care.”

Marcellus’s lips curled upwards. “No? And here I was thinking you didn’t want us to invade.”

“I don’t,” Lucien replied. “Another war would be costly and messy and send the wrong message to our own home which is still rebuilding. I don’t want to be drafted into another war to quell a human uprising. What I want is some fucking peace.”

“Come to the border with Gunnar,” Marcellus murmured. “Let us show Prythian what peace—and alliance—could look like.”

Lucien looked over at the blonde male. “Okay,” he agreed. “No females.”

“A wise decision,” Marcellus agreed with a smile, just in time for Arina to snag Lucien’s elbow.

“Can I steal Lord Vanserra?” she asked, her voice easy despite her tight eyes. Marcellus nodded, the picture of courtly grace.

“All yours, lady.”

Arina wrapped her arm through his. “Where is Elain?” she questioned softly, drawing him across the open ballroom like two lovers taking a leisurely stroll.

“With my…brother…” Lucien trailed off as his eyes swept the room. His fleeting victory with Marcellus was immediately dampened when he realized neither of them were dancing. There was no laughter, no touching…they’d left. Lucien’s jealousy was an out of control monster, forcing his steps to quicken as he strolled out of the ballroom.

Lucien froze at the end of the hall, pivoting to turn towards the steps that would lead him to his bedroom. Elain, eyes closed, hands gripping Gunnar’s tunic, was pressed against the wall. The King himself had one hand pressed against the papered surface just beside her, half caging her with his body. His mouth covered hers, his free hand holding her face, fingers carding through her hair. Elain wasn’t kissing him back but she wasn’t moving, either. She looked asleep.

Arina grabbed Lucien’s arm to keep him from walking in on it, hand pressed to her mouth. Lucien, mouth dry, could only watch his mate allow whatever was taking place to occur. Gunnar tilted her head, pulling his mouth back for a moment. Elain gasped as if she’d been holding her breath.

“Come upstairs with me,” Gunnar whispered. Elain blinked her eyes, lips parted. Lucien’s stomach slapped wetly at his feet. She was going to agree, was letting him take her hand–

“Elain!” Eris snapped, breathless and disheveled. “Come here.”

Elain blinked again, blowing out a breath. Gunnar’s lip curled over his teeth but Elain darted beneath his arm, all but throwing herself in Eris’s arms. “Your majesty?” she asked, as if she couldn’t quite understand what she was looking at.

“Vanserra,” Gunnar snarled. Eris, holding Elain against his chest, offered Gunnar a cool, calculating look.

“Your wife is looking for you.”

And then, without another word, Eris swept Elain away. Gunnar’s growl of frustration bounced off the high, arched ceilings. Lucien grabbed Arina, pulling her into the light, his face utterly casual as they began walking. Gunnar rounded the corner, steps halting for a moment. Lucien’s eyes slid to his face, the picture of ignorant civility.

It was Arina who stilled, who dropped into a soft bow. “Majesty,” she murmured.

He merely nodded curtly before stepping past them. Arina watched, head inclined.

“What was that?” she whispered when he left.

What, indeed?

#elucien #elucien fan fic #elain x lucien #elucien fanfiction #surprise!#i was thinking about this fic last night #plotting it out in my head #thought why not

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