#no elain pov

[the-darkestminds]

Personally, I don’t like the idea of Nuala and Cerridwen being Elain’s best friends because at the start of Elain’s time in Velaris it was their job to attend to her, just like they did when Feyre first showed up. They answer to Rhysand and Azriel first and foremost because that is what they are paid to do. Elain deserves the opportunity to make friends of her own, just like Nesta did. I still feel bad for Feyre that she never got the chance to do that because as we saw in ACOSF, all of her friends are loyal to Rhysand first and her second. Not to mention the fact that if Elain is best friends with the twins, it has happened 100% off page and we didn’t get to read any of it as it developed. 🥱

#people be like ‘Elain is already happy! she has besties! she will never leave Feyre’s house!’ bro what #then why does she need a mf book??? #people talk about them like the three of them are bffs #I do not see that #and that is just a theory cuz we haven’t had her POV yet #also how boring if she’s already made super close friends and we don’t get to read about the growth?? #sarah j maas #acomaf #acotar #elucien #acowar #a court of wings and ruin #a court of mist and fury #a court of thorns and roses #a court of frost and starlight #a court of silver flames #acosf #acofas #nuala and cerridwen #pro Elain #Elain #elain acotar #elain archeron #azriel #pro elucien #anti elriel #anti e/riel #antielriel #pro gwynriel #gwynriel

[clockwork-ashes]

All You Have Is Your Fire - Part IV

Find Part I here :)

Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.

Note: A huge, huge thank you to the lovely @bettdraws who literally deserves all the credit and whose post inspired me to start writing this. I could not stop thinking about this head canon, and it was so kind of you to let me try and make a story from it :) And a huge thank you to everyone reading!

Tag List: @anishake

Part V >>

The Autumn Court was on the constant verge of death, Elain knew, but it was still the loveliest place she had ever seen. Eris had winnowed them first to the border, where the trees created a canopy so thick, she couldn’t even see the sky. The richest reds, the darkest oranges, and the deepest greens had surrounded Elain. Cora had looked as equally impressed by the change of scenery, and Elain had wondered if the woman had ever left the stifling Hewn City. 

Autumn was everything Elain had imagined the lands of faerie to be like. The chill was biting, she had noticed, cold like the first kiss of winter. She had been stunned into silence, had forgotten she was upset that Eris had not even let her say a proper goodbye to her family. 

Before Elain had had a moment to catch her breath, before she could truly appreciate the wild flowers and the unfamiliar trees, Eris had not bothered to warn her or Cora as he took them directly to the Forest House. 

Eris had let go of her hand so suddenly that Elain had stumbled, and had grabbed onto the woman who would act as her lady’s maid. Cora had gently supported her, shooting an angry glare at the Autumn heir’s turned back. 

Eris had led them through winding halls, windows dark at the late hour, torches their only light. Elain had realised that she much preferred the flickering flames of Autumn to the faelights ever-present in the Night Court.  

Eris had given them a moment to look at the guest suite, all wood and stone and comfortable carpets, before he had told Elain they would be going straight to Beron.

Elain understood that Lucien was in a great deal of danger, but the quick pace at which everything was happening was enough to make her light-headed, unsteady. 

“The High Lord is expecting you,” Eris offered her his arm, but when Elain hesitated, he added, “and it’s best not to keep him waiting.” 

Elain did not reach for Eris, instead she asked, “Because I’m Lucien’s mate?” She very nearly spat the last word at Eris in distaste. Saying Lucien’s name out loud was like a vicious blow, especially since she so often refused to allow herself the liberty. On the other side of the wall it was improper, Lucien wasn’t Elain’s husband, and the familiarity with which his name fell from her lips was enough to rattle her. 

Eris shook his head, the firelight from the torches reflecting off his golden jewellery. “Because he received your letter.” His answering smile was ruthless, that of a wolf. The expression didn’t reach his amber eyes. 

Elain only frowned in confusion, she glanced at Cora. “I never–” 

Elain did not get the chance to finish her statement, not as Eris waved his hand elegantly and a letter floated gently past her face. She snatched the paper from the air, her eyes scanning its contents with growing disbelief. 

The Night Court’s wax seal was still intact and the letter was simply worded, respectful. 

Lord Eris Vanserra, it is with great urgency that I write to you, so that I might request an audience with the High Lord of the Autumn Court…

Elain continued to skim what was clearly a plea for help. Cora moved closer to peek over Elain’s shoulder and she made a low sound of displeasure. 

What surprised Elain the most was not what was written in the letter, but rather the elegant, looping scrawl, exactly like her own. Even the signed name, Lady Elain Archeron, was identical. Her lips parted slightly in surprise at the perfect forgery. 

Before Elain could say anything, Eris spoke, a hidden warning in the tone of his voice. “I received your letter just in time, Lady, my father was growing tired of waiting for someone to notice Lucien’s absence.” His words were careful, so much so that Elain wondered if Eris was worried about someone listening in on their conversation. He offered her his arm once more, a flawless gentleman. 

This time, Elain was quick to loop her arm through his, nodding in understanding. Briefly Elain wondered how Eris had managed to forge the letter so well, but she pushed those thoughts aside, vowing to bring it up again at a later time. The light blue fabric of her sleeve was an ugly contrast to the deep green colour of Eris’s velvet jacket. “I am glad, then,” Elain said softly, “that I sent my letter to you when I did.” 

Elain saw as Eris’s shoulders dropped ever so slightly in relief, although he said nothing in response. The thick oak doors of the guest room opened silently, the long hallway beyond was menacing, shadows dancing as the torches flickered. 

Elain took a deep breath to calm herself, her posture perfect, just like her mother had taught her a lifetime ago. Elain wondered if the steady heartbeat she could hear was her own or Lucien’s, now that distance no longer separated them.   

Eris stepped forward, and Elain followed, Cora just a few steps behind. Elain was grateful for her strong and silent presence, but before all three of them could walk past the stone entrance of the room and into the hallway, Eris paused. 

Auburn brow raised, he glared at Cora with flames in his eyes. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

“I’ve come with the Lady, shouldn’t I stay by her side?” Cora snapped, her words sharp and lacking any of the respect one would have expected her to show a prince. Elain liked her instantly. 

“It’ll only annoy my father,” Eris replied, glancing at Elain before he faced Cora once more. 

Cora looked like a queen, Elain thought, her braid as good as any gold crown. “And leave the High Lady’s sister alone with you?” The last word was a snarl.

“You’re her lady’s maid, not her personal guard,” Eris responded, not taking his eyes off Cora. She continued to glare, and Eris smiled mockingly, daring her to argue. 

Elain felt as though the tension between them could be cut with a knife, locked as they were in their silent battle of wills. 

“Besides,” Eris drawled, “what use will you be against the wrath of a High Lord?” 

A blush stained Cora’s brown cheeks, the fingers of her one hand curling into a fist. Elain wondered if she would have hit Eris, but she did not wait any longer to find out if that would have been the case. 

“Thank you, Cora,” Elain interjected. “I’ll be fine.” Her words were confident, even though Elain herself was anything but. 

Cora did not seem satisfied with the way the night seemed to be unfolding, but all she did was sigh in frustration. “Good luck, then,” she said quietly. “I’ll be here when Lucien is freed.” 

Cora’s words were enough to spark an ember of hope within Elain, but as she walked arm-in-arm with Eris to the throne room, panic was beginning to send unwelcome shivers down her spine. 

“Don’t be afraid,” Eris murmured, not looking at Elain. He continued to walk at an unhurried pace, the sound of his boots hitting the stone in a steady rhythm. The carved double-doors of the throne room towered just a few more steps ahead of them. “No harm will come to you, Elain, I swear it on my life.”  

Elain did not know why she believed Eris’s words, but she tightened her grip on his arm, grateful. The doors opened, the hinges groaning with the weight of the wood, and the throne room was revealed, so unlike the one Rhysand and Feyre had in the Hewn City. 

Beron Vanserra sat on a throne of ancient maple, leaves carved into the thick wood with a steady hand. Elain’s first thought was that he looked nothing like Lucien, but there was a ghost of Eris in the turned down corners of his full lips. 

Elain fought not to shrink into herself, to keep her head high, at his assessing gaze. He was frightening, and Elain could almost feel his power within the space. Beron was the oldest High Lord, Feyre had warned her, and Elain wondered if that made him the most dangerous. 

The Lady of Autumn was a striking figure in a gown the colour of fresh blood. Her throne was just as lovely as her husband’s, although it was smaller. Elain caught the way the lady straightened her back, how she brought herself forward to look at Eris. Her husband did not see the desperation in her eyes as she looked at her eldest son, but Elain recognized the emotion, had seen it before on countless women hoping for miracles. 

Eris stopped right before the pair of rulers, dropping his hold on Elain’s arm. Elain elegantly curtsied, her face downturned, the movements practised, and she was grateful for the lessons she had suffered as a young girl. Elain was surprised momentarily as Eris bowed slightly at the waist beside her, the respectful gesture clearly deference to his High Lord and not the comfortable greeting of a parent.   

“Lady Elain Archeron of the Night Court,” Beron’s voice was harsh like the slash of a knife. “You have requested this meeting, and while I am pleased by your arrival to my court, I can offer you very little of my time.”    

Elain raised her head, smiling pleasantly. “High Lord, Lady” she greeted as her eyes flicked between them, “thank you for welcoming me to your lovely home.” 

“You were most troubled in the letter we received,” Beron stated, raising a dark eyebrow as he silently asked her to make her case. 

“I am troubled still,” Elain responded, trying her best to twist her words together just as faeries did. It came unnaturally to her, but her time in Velaris had allowed her to become familiar with the specific patterns of the High fae. “I’ve asked only for a moment of your time to make a most significant request.”

Beron’s answering smile was cruel, embers flared in his dark eyes. “Then make your request, child.” 

It was intended to be an insult, Elain was sure, calling her a child. Elain was not bothered by it, and she looked straight at the ancient being before her, chin held high. “I have come to request that my mate, Lucien Vanserra, seventh son of Autumn, be allowed a safe return to the Night Court.”

Elain’s words rang clear in the near-empty throne room. The Lady of Autumn’s sharp breath was like the shattering of glass as they all waited for the High Lord’s response. 

“The bond has not yet been accepted, everyone knows this.” Beron waved a hand dismissively. “You have no claim to him.”

“High Lord,” Elain began, and Eris reached for her elbow, tension in the set of his mouth. “We were to be married,” she continued, ignoring his silent warning. 

“When?” Beron Vanserra questioned, casting a devastating glare in his eldest son’s direction. It was clear that the High Lord doubted Elain’s words. 

Panic gripped Elain so suddenly she could barely breathe. “In two weeks' time, on the first day of Spring.” Elain hoped she sounded certain, confident. Eris looked ready to shove her behind him, his body angled in a way that suggested he was ready for a violent confrontation. 

Beron’s lips curled into a vicious smile. “I believe you, Lady Elain, and take no offence, but I still must confirm the truth of your claims with my son.” 

No sooner had the High Lord finished his sentence and the throne room’s doors opened with a groan. Elain couldn’t help but turn around, drawn to her mate. 

You are mine. 

The thought crashed through her mind like a wave against the shore, shocking and unwanted. Elain could finally sigh in relief, though, at seeing Lucien bruised and bloody, but knowing that he was relatively unharmed. 

Lucien looked proud, arrogant, as he was shoved further into the throne room by a careless guard. He did not notice Elain at first, not until she tugged on the golden thread that tied them together. Beron watched them like a predator watched prey, hungry for a slip in their demeanour. 

Elain’s brown eyes met Lucien’s, and all the fire he had possessed a moment before quickly went out. Like the first rays of the sun going over the horizon, horror dawned daybright on the lovely features of Lucien’s face. 

Elain looked at Lucien, the smell of burning wood and dying leaves thick in the air, and she wondered if perhaps she had made a terrible mistake coming to the Autumn Court.

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #elucien #elain x lucien #elain archeron x lucien vanserra #elain archeron #eris vanserra #the lady of the autumn #lady of autumn #beron vanserra #lucien vanserra #this was a bit longer than i thought it would be #i love writing elain but lucien pov in the next part #ashes writes sometimes #all you have is your fire

[acourtofthought]

2021 - Lucien sets his sights on Koschei

2024 - Az sets his sights on threats that exist outside the world of Prythian

In the airport taxiing line, Lucien's plane would have been positioned before Az's.

#elucien #pro elucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #pro lucien vanserra #elain x lucien #lucien and elain #pro elain archeron #elain and lucien #anti azriel #I don't actually hate him but I don't think he's more special than characters who were set up long before him #Lucien had a pov in the actual book in ACOWAR and has waited on the resolution of his bond for two years #Az still doesn't know he has a mate #She even talked about writing an acotar book set in the past before she started talking about Az getting a book

[duskandcobalt]

Strawberry Kisses

While searching the River House for her sisters, Nesta accidentally stumbles upon Elain sharing an intimate moment in the garden with a certain Spymaster.

Please note, that while this is technically a bonus chapter to my series, Echoes in the Hallway, it can be read as a stand alone one-shot xx

No warnings, pure fluff. 1.4k words.

ENJOY XX

Read on AO3

The skirts of Nesta’s pale blue gown, one of many gifted to her from Rhysand, fluttered around her ankles as she traipsed through the bright hallways of the River House, poking her head in and out of various rooms in search of her sisters and nephew. They hadn’t been in either of the libraries, the nursery was empty. Even the kitchen, usually the epicenter of bustling activity, had been suspiciously quiet when she’d breezed past it earlier before making her way upstairs. 

Cassian was away on a business trip with Rhysand for the past few days and Nesta had been left to her own devices for just a little too long.  She’d done fine on her own for the first day and a half but she’d slowly been losing her mind without her mate’s company ever since, even if she loathed to admit it. It’s why she’d practically begged Azriel to drop her off in town this morning, hoping that the promise of bookstores, patisseries, and maybe even a leisurely stroll along the glittering Sidra would be enough to ease her gloomy mood. 

It worked for a couple hours but even then she had still felt the need to seek the company of her sisters. Something that had once been rare, but had slowly become a recurring urge ever since she’d found some semblance of inner peace.

Nesta huffed, cursing under her breath as she bounded down the stairs and back into the kitchen to take another peek around. She spotted a covered dish sitting to the left of the kitchen window. She lifted the plate off the top to find a tempting lemon tart, two small slices already missing. Abandoning the search for her siblings, Nesta took a fork from the cupboard and plated herself a slice, humming happily at the delicious tang of the lemon curd that she guessed Elain had made either this morning or the night before. She was halfway through her third bite when a bit of movement outside of the kitchen window caught her eye.

Nesta had always thought that Elain looked like Spring, like the very essence of life, itself - but never more so than when she was in her garden, surrounded by various plants and flowers. She wore a plain linen dress, the butter yellow fabric pooled around her, reflecting the sunshine in a way that set her face and bare arms aglow. Her long hair was unbound, the length of it falling in soft waves down her back. Elain had tied a sage coloured scarf around the crown of her head to keep the golden strands from getting into her eyes as she knelt in front of a flourishing patch of berries, one that she’d been lovingly tending to ever since the weather had started to warm a couple months ago. 

Nesta was just about to turn to make her way outside to say hello to her sister as well as enquire about the whereabouts of Feyre and Nyx but she stopped, eyebrows furrowing, when she realised that Elain wasn’t out in the garden by herself. 

Azriel came into view, his tall frame clad in the same black leathers he’d been wearing this morning when he’d dropped off Nesta in town. He’d told her he was headed Under the Mountain for the day yet here he was - more relaxed than she’d ever seen him - those enormous wings of his were flared out wide, the sunlight beautifully filtering through the delicate membrane as he approached Elain with a dozing Nyx cradled carefully against his chest.

Nesta watched, lips parted in disbelief, as he knelt down next to her sister. The Shadowsinger, usually so reserved and sullen, had a soft smile on his lips. His shadows were nowhere to be seen and there was a certain look in his eyes as he spoke to Elain that Nesta recognised but couldn’t quite comprehend.

She couldn’t hear the words they exchanged due to the wards Rhys had placed on every inch of this house but the manner in which Azriel conversed so freely and the carefree way Elain laughed in response to whatever he had said, was enough to pique her interest. 

She continued to stand frozen in place, afraid the slightest movement would alert them to her presence, as Elain picked out a strawberry from the wicker basket she’d been collecting them in. She quickly wiped the berry off on her skirt, ensuring any lingering dirt fell away before she lifted the fruit to her lips. Nesta’s attention shifted to Azriel’s face as Elain bit into the bright red strawberry. The expression she found there should’ve been enough to make her look away but she couldn’t bring herself to do so. 

Instead, her eyes stayed glued to the scene in front of her. Her gaze followed Elain’s hand as she reached out and extended that same strawberry to Azriel. She watched as he wrapped his lips around the fruit, directly over where Elain’s own lips had just been. His hazel eyes remained on Elain’s face through it all. Elain raised up on her knees when Azriel pulled back, watching the movement of his throat as he swallowed. She inched closer to him, one small hand landing on his shoulder for balance while the other came to rest on his chest. 

Nesta’s breath caught in her chest when Elain, with no hesitation whatsoever, gently pressed her lips to Azriel’s. 

The kiss they shared was chaste, as if they were being mindful of the babe between their bodies. Still, Nesta found herself blushing at the intimacy of it. The way their lips brushed together in a series of pretty, innocent kisses. The sweet way Elain held his face, her thumb stroking along his strong jaw. The firm grasp of Azriel’s free hand low on the swell of her hip, the linen of her dress scrunched up under his long fingers.

There was an ease, a natural familiarity between them that made it clear that this wasn’t anything new. It was immediately evident to Nesta, just from this singular moment, that this kiss wasn’t the first that they’d exchanged. It wasn’t even one of the first few. She’d go as far as to say that they’d done far more than simply kiss, if the comfort with which they touched each other was anything to go by. 

She’d picked up on some form of tension between them once. Last Solstice. She and Elain had passed by Azriel and they’d exchanged a certain look that made Nesta think that perhaps there was something between them. She’d let it go, had convinced herself that she’d imagined it because the two of them had seemingly stopped spending any sort of time together after that night. 

But now, seeing them here - together - it was clear that Nesta hadn’t imagined the yearning and desire in those shared glances. She felt a little thrill of self satisfaction zip up the length of her spine at the knowledge that she’d been right all along. 

She continued to shamelessly watch until Elain finally pulled away from him, a coy smile on her lips and a pretty blush on her cheeks that matched the Shadowsinger’s own pleased expression. Elain bent down to peer at Nyx - still asleep against Azriel’s chest, completely oblivious to the secret relationship that his Aunt and Uncle were cultivating that only he had witnessed. 

Until now.  

Nesta finally turned away from the window, unable to keep the smile from her face as she quickly and quietly made her way out of the house, miraculously undetected by the two lovers. 

She couldn’t stop thinking about it - about how much sense it made. How much sense they made. Azriel, who she was well aware believed he wasn’t deserving of love, and Elain, who loved so easily that it was like second nature to her. They were two sides of the same coin - sun and moon, day and night - perfectly balanced, the perfect complement to each other. 

Nesta knew why they’d kept this quiet, why those secret looks had transpired into this secret relationship. Elain’s situation would certainly complicate things even if Nesta firmly believed her sister shouldn’t have to comply with some predetermined destiny that she seemingly wanted no part of. 

Regardless, Nesta would keep this to herself until they chose to come forward, if they ever chose to come forward. She wouldn’t mention it to anyone. Not to Feyre. Not to Azriel or Elain. Not even to Cassian. Much like what she’d seen on Solstice, she knew that this was their secret to tell. Never hers.

🍓🍓🍓🍓

Thank you for reading! If you're interested, you can find the rest of my writing in my masterlist xx

#elriel #elriel fic #elriel fanfiction #listen ive had inexplicable crippling anxiety about posting anything ive written for the past three weeks #so as queen taylor would say #this is me trying #elain x azriel #azriel x elain #nesta archeron #nesta pov #acotar #elriel fluff #my writing #fic rec #ao3 fanfic

[antipinkkitten]

I’m so close to the end of my fic and I had to change comments to “Registered Users only” due to some of the feedback. I’m not saying I can’t handle negative feedback, because I definitely can… but I find the fandom is a bit too aggressive on some things and it was distracting me from finishing my planned story.

I get it, a love triangle trope with two different ships doesn’t meet everyone’s criteria. That’s why I’m writing it. I hope others enjoy it once it’s done, but it definitely got taxing after a bit.

#acotar #elucien #romance #elain archeron #multiple povs #gwynriel #love triangle

[romanticatheartt]

The most beautiful thing

Feyre: "Standing before me was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen"~acotar, ch.20

Rhysand: “You are,” he said. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I thought that from the first moment I saw you on Calanmai." ~acomaf, ch.55

Lucien: "She was the most beautiful female he’d ever seen."~acowar, ch.24

Cassian: "In the moonlight, before the silvered lake, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen."~acosf, ch.50

Nesta: "The music was no longer the most beautiful thing in existence. He was." ~acosf, ch.57

Hunt: "She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen."~hoeab, ch.69

Ruhn: "Ruhn found himself faced with the most beautiful female he’d ever seen."~hosab, ch.31 (and so many times in hofas! 4 times to be exact)

Aelin: "He was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen." ~EoS, ch.38

Rowan: "The most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Aelin." ~KoA, ch.5

Dorian: "It’d be a shame to lose the most beautiful woman in the world so soon into her immortal, wicked life." ~EoS, ch.42

Chaol: "The most beautiful he’d ever seen." (About Yrene's eyes) ~ToD, ch.39

Chaol: "Chaol thought it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard." (About Yrene's laugh) ~ToD, ch.43

Elide: "and his smile was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen." ~KoA, ch.117

First of all, I still haven't read TOG but my sister has, so I asked her.

Second, idk if anyone has noticed this… but Feyre and Rhysand both thought they were the most beautiful thing they laid their eyes on when it was night and under the stars. Cassian while she was under the moonlight and Nesta when they were at Court of Nightmare. But Lucien… he Thought Elain was the most beautiful female he'd ever seen when it was daytime and sunlight was streaming from the window! maybe it's a consequence but I love the detail nonetheless.

Third, 7.5 couples -expect for Manon and Dorian which their story ended with a cliffhanger- out of 9 are endgame... I don't see how Elucien is any different. (This might not seems a very strong reason but it's one of the many pattern sjm has for her endgames) Even when Chaol and Yrene are human, they have a very deep connection. (my sister's words hehe)

And last, I read somewhere that in the books we normally have the MCs to call the LI the most beautiful because in their eyes, they are. And I agree with that so much! Because they're in love, they're their person so that's why they're the most beautiful thing they've ever seen<3 and I think maybe that's why sjm keep using this phrase specifically.

Yeah anyway… I love how sjm copy+paste her mating bond (aka endgame) language.

#feysand #elucien #nessian #ruhnlidia #pro elucien #I can't wait for Azriel or Gwyn to say something similar<3 #I can't wait for Elain to say something like this!! #I need Elain pov so bad... #I need to know what's going on inside her head

[stargirlfeyre]

“The entire series does not revolve around Feyre.” People literally stopped reading when they found out that the next books weren’t going to be about her.

#feyre archeron #y’all just need to accept that she’s the one who made this series popular and people still haven’t read acosf because it’s not from her pov #casual readers do NOT fuck with her sisters at all #nesta archeron #elain archeron

[nocasdatsgay]

From the Ashes, The Wildflowers Grow

Chapter 1: Family

Word Count: 2675

CW: IDK a baby? None

Chapter Summary: Eris and his wife, Celeste, hold a family get-together to introduce their new child.

Also read it on A03 Here

MasterPost and full fic summary here

First time posting chapters on tumblr AND ao3 so comments, likes, etc are welcome and appreciated.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Waiting in his chambers with his mother, Eris felt the wards break. He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and watched the magic simmer. He then watched as they immediately repaired themselves. 

“Your son is here,” he said, with a sigh to his mother. He stood from his chair. “Dramatic as ever.”

Not even a moment later, the doors to the chambers opened. No knock; his brother never knocked. There was a squeal of a female and golden blonde hair rushing to him. 

“Eris,” Elain said, hugging him. Eris took a moment to realize what happened and hug her back. She pulled away and looked towards his mother. She gasped. “Is that the baby?”

“Good to see you Elain,” he said with a slight chuckle. 

She left him quickly with her lilac dress twirling around her feet, and went to the couch his mother occupied. She murmured her greetings and his mother handed her the babe swaddled in a green blanket. Elain sat beside her and he could hear his daughter’s little grunts from being shuffled around.

“Oh Eris, she’s beautiful.”

Eris felt another presence beside him. “Where’s your wife?” 

He looked toward his brother. Eris was surprised to see him in a tunic and trousers, and not in day court attire. Coupled with Elain’s dress that meant they must have come from Spring. 

“She’s napping. I’d rather not wake her. She refuses to rest. So when she does, I don’t disturb her.”

“Sounds like Celeste.” Lucien walked over to his mate. 

“You know you can't keep breaking the wards, Lucien.” Eris crossed his arms. “You’ll start a war because you’re too lazy to walk in.”

“I keep telling him that,” Elain said. “But he doesn’t listen.”

Lucien himself replied by dismissively waving a hand and giving his mother a hug. He then peered down at the bundle in Elain’s arms. “Oh thank the cauldron, she looks like her mother.”

“Careful,” Eris frowned. His mother didn’t suppress her laugh. 

Lucien only smiled at him. “Have you named her yet?” 

Eris didn’t answer him. He heard familiar footsteps to his right and tried not to scowl as his wife rounded the corner. She had changed into a red knit sweater and brown trousers. He was at least happy she didn’t feel the need to put on something more formal. Her brown hair looked hurriedly put into a bun, loose strands framing her face. The dark rings were still under her eyes. He wanted to tell her to go back to bed but he knew not to argue in front of family. She gave them all a smile and Lucien walked over to her to hug her. 

“I was just telling your husband what a blessing your child looks just like you,” he teased. 

“I heard,” she replied with a little yawn. “But she does have his hair.” 

“She’s beautiful, Celeste.” Elain told her with a smile. 

Celeste said her thanks while Lucien stepped back and looked her over. Eris glared but didn’t say anything. He knew it was ridiculous, but he refused to feel guilty for being jealous and protective. Even if they’d been married for nearly a century. 

Lucien frowned, “Eris was right, you still need rest. You look absolutely terrible.”

“Lucien,”  his mother hissed from the couch. 

Eris didn’t bother to cut his eyes to his brother. Celeste smacked him on the arm for the both of them. Eris chuckled when he saw Elain, still holding the babe, glared over for a brief moment before schooling her features. 

“Elain, come get your mate,” she laughed. “It’s been over a week. I’m fine.”

“She refuses to let me help,” Eris interjected. Celeste rolled her eyes. “It’s the truth. I practically have to steal my own child to bond with her.” 

“Now that is a lie if I ever heard one,” Celeste came over and took his hand. “If I’m not holding her, he is. Edith said it would spoiler her.”

“Nonsense,” his mother replied. “She’s always said that. What she didn’t tell you is when she was my healer, she coddled every single one of my boys.” 

Celeste grinned. “I think she says it mostly because Eris also takes her to all his meetings even if she’s sleeping.” 

He brought her hand up and kissed the tops of her knuckles. He held her gaze tightly. “How can I not? I love to show off your work.”

Lucien made a gagging noise. “Please get a room.” 

“These are our rooms,” Celeste replied. 

Eris pulled her to him and kissed her cheek, then her lips. He was very pleased with the way she hummed in response, kissing him back. 

“Disgusting,” Lucien grumbled. 

Elain, ever the polite one, changed the topic. “Did you name her?” 

Celeste pulled away, and turned towards her. “We have.” She looked back at Eris. 

She asked him a silent question and he nodded. He saw the brief sadness in her eyes and he gripped her hand tight. He knew it would be hard for her, especially with Lucien present, but he stood by her decision when she asked before the baby was born. 

He watched her look over to Lucien. Her voice cracked a little when she said, “Her name is Andrea.” 

Realization washed over Lucien and his eyes widened. He looked to Eris but Eris only shrugged. Their mother, who had been watching quietly, stood and went to Lucien, squeezing his arm. Elain looked confused. 

“That’s a lovely name,” their mother replied. 

Celeste let go of Eris’s hand and she went to Elain to retrieve their child. “She’s named after Andras,” she said softly to her. “He was a dear friend,” she turned to Lucien. “A very dear friend to the both of us back in Spring. He gave his life for us to be free. I wanted to honor him.” 

Lucien was still eyeing Eris. “And you’re fine with that?” 

Eris glowered. “She could have named her Tamlin and I would be fine with it. Truly Lucien, that’s the first comment you want to make?” 

Celeste thankfully took no offense and laughed. “Would you let me name your child after my former high lord?” 

Eris bristled a little at the reminder. “You labored for two days, as long as it wasn’t Morrigan I was fine with anything.” He swore he heard Elain snort at that remark. 

Lucien nodded and looked him over with a grin. “Just checking. You are the jealous type. But I should have guessed Celeste gets whatever she wants.”

Eris only looked to his beautiful wife again, holding their child. He didn’t bother to change his expression into something other than the adoration he felt. “You say that as if it’s a terrible problem to have.” 

Another knock came to the door. His other brothers, Piran, Asher, and Cillian filed into the room; followed by Celeste’s mother. 

“These three were loitering in the halls,” she stated with great humor before curtsying towards Lucien, Elain, and his mother. “Something about how my daughter’s husband would murder them if they woke her.” 

Eris didn’t hide his grin. “I can’t fathom where they heard such an outlandish story.”

“Eris,” Celeste shuffled the babe in her arms so she could smack his arm gently. 

“It was kinder for me to kill them if they woke you than to let them suffer your wrath.” Eris retorted. “Everyone in this room knows you’re a monster to wake up.” 

Celeste scoffed, dramatically looked very offended. “You wound me deeply.”

Piran stepped around them to greet Lucien and Elain. “Good to see you both.” He turned his head to Lucien. “You keep breaking the wards, Lucien and I’m going to have you banned from Autumn again.”

“I repaired them, didn’t I?” Lucien replied. 

“Boys,” their mother said with a tone of warning. “Lucien, promise to your brothers you will stop breaking the wards.” 

“You treat me as if I’m a youngling.” He rolled his eyes. 

Asher spoke up from near the door. “That’s because you act like one.” 

Everyone laughed, including Elain, which made Lucien scowl. She finally cut him a look and he replied. “Fine, I promise I won’t break the wards again.” 

Cillian said from beside Asher, “this room is a bit crowded. We came to fetch you all.” 

They all filed out the chamber and Eris took Andrea from his wife. He still wasn’t used to it; holding the little being the cauldron blessed them with. She was still so new to the world, for any stark features to truly stand out other than the red hair, pale skin, and her blue eyes. Her little face scrunched as she settled in his arms while he walked down the hall. He smiled down at her for a moment and glanced at his wife walking beside him. He’d probably never understand what he’d done to earn this kind of happiness. 

They all reached the conference room that was refurbished as a sitting lounge several decades ago. Once Andrea was placed in the cradle, he sat with his brothers to continue talking. Even Lucien joined them. Eris would never admit how much that meant to him. His mother and Celeste’s mother were off to one side chatting. They offered to sit close to the cradle to keep an eye on the baby. Elain and Celeste went to the far side of the room. Eris could hear his wife talking, catching bits of gossip from Spring and how Elain was bullying the Tamlin into letting her redo the flowerbeds during her visits. He did catch the shift in Elain’s tone that had him worried for only a moment. 

“I started that book you sent me. You are just as terrible as my sister,” Elain said. He could see the blush on her face from his seat. “You did not warn me about chapter 33. You told me it wasn’t that bad.”

Celeste laughed loudly. “It’s not! But if that made you blush, then skip 40. It’s nothing but-” 

He instantly knew exactly what they were discussing and immediately blocked them out. His wife’s reading habits was something he decided a long time ago was none of his business. He glanced over and his gaze caught Lucien’s. Apparently he was doing the same thing, from the look he shared. Eris bit back his laugh and focused on what his other brothers were saying. It wasn’t long before a knock came to the door, stifling the conversations in the room.

Rowen, the captain of the guard, poked his head in. “Lord Helion is here. Shall I escort him in?”

Eris looked at his brothers. Unspoken words were exchanged between them with a look and Eris stood. 

“I’ll go.” When he got to the door, he looked at Rowen and nodded to the room. “Go in and visit.” 

Rowen looked at him skeptically. He ran a nervous hand through his dark hair. “Are you sure?” 

“You’re family, aren’t you?” He patted his friend’s shoulder. “Go meet the baby. You haven’t even seen her yet.” 

Eris understood his hesitation. Rowen was a good leader but very reserved. Asher was always the more outgoing one and Rowen gladly let his husband take on those responsibilities. He watched Rowen stare into the room for a moment. He then gave Eris a nod and went through the door. He took a shortcut to the main hall and found Helion waiting near the front entrance.

“Afternoon Helion.” His greeting was short. Even after all the time that passed, their relationship was still complicated. 

“Eris.” Helion gave a little nod. “Apologies for running late. Congratulations. I know your mother is excited to have a new youngling around.”

As if summoned, footsteps echoed in the hall. Eris turned to see his mother and wife walking towards them, his wife holding their daughter.

“You look well.” Helion said to Celeste as they approached. 

Celeste scoffed. “Don’t flatter me, Helion. Lucien’s already told me I look worse for wear.” 

He frowned. “Did he?” 

Eris replied with a little pride, “she handled it.” 

Helion cut his eyes to Eris’s mother, who nodded. He looked back to Celeste. “You look like you have a new babe keeping you up at night, but that’s expected. All that considered, you do look well.”

“Eris helps.” Celeste readjusted the baby resting in her arms. “Would you like to hold her? Her name is Andrea.” 

Helion nodded and Celeste handed her over to him. He grinned as he took her, part of the blanket falling to the side as she squirmed in his hands. She seemed more awake, her legs shuffling under the white gown they’d dressed her in. Helion cooed a greeting to her and Eris could see her yawn. 

“Isn’t she beautiful?” His mother sighed and leaned onto Helion’s arm. 

Watching them awe over his child made Eris wonder if somehow, in another life, that would have been how they looked at their own babe. Would that have been how they looked at Lucien? How they would have looked at him? He must have let his emotions show. Celeste slipped her arm around his and took his hand. She weaved her fingers around his own and she squeezed gently. With a blink, he squeezed back. 

The moment didn’t last for long, however. Eris knew instantly by the quick little movements his daughter was making that she was about to start screaming. As if on cue, her face scrunched up. Celeste moved first, holding out her arms as Andrea let out a little cry. Helion thankfully wasn’t offended, letting out a soft chuckle. 

“And she’s hungry,” Celeste quickly took the wailing babe. She held her close and looked at Eris.  “I’m going to feed her and drag out Elain. I left her alone talking with my mother and she was trying to needle out of Elain her cinnamon bread recipe,” she added, making a face. 

“I’ll go with you.” His mother told Celeste and stood on her toes to kiss Helion on the cheek. 

Eris caught her gaze for a brief moment. He knew she was leaving them alone on purpose. He didn’t hide annoyance on his face. His mother flashed her eyes in a way that told him to behave. Eris crossed his arms. He and Helion turned to watch them retreat for a moment. Eris could taste the awkward silence hanging between them. 

Helion finally turned to Eris. “You know you’re welcome at my court, Eris.” Eris could only nod. “I do mean that. Next time Celeste visits, you should join her. I know your mother wants to see more of you. Especially with the baby-“ 

“I am aware.” Eris finally snapped back. He said it more harsher than he intended to. Helion frowned and Eris continued. “What I mean is, when Andrea is old enough to handle winnowing, I will send notice.”

That softened the Day High Lord’s demeanor. “There is a lot of bad blood between us. I’m not asking for a miracle; I’m merely asking to start making amends. We are family.” 

Eris nodded again. He knew he needed to try harder. It had been over a century. He was at least trying. Even if it pained him. 

Helion didn’t let the silence lapse for long. “I spoke with your mother and we both agreed there will be Pegasus waiting for her when she’s old enough.” 

“That’s hardly necessary,” Eris replied, taken aback. 

Helion shrugged, wearing a smirk eerily similar to Lucien’s. “So was giving us two smoke hounds as a mating present.” 

Eris rolled his eyes. “Again, hardly. Aspen and Jora missed my mother dearly.” 

Helion didn’t seem to buy it but also didn’t further argue. “Shall we?” He asked, looking toward the hall. 

“Of course,” Eris nodded. 

He told himself one day he would be used to the family he made and acquired, just like he had gotten used to the peace. For the time being, he would try to enjoy it for what it was and accept the happiness the cauldron and Mother granted him.

#erisweek2023 #day 1: family #eris/OC #from the ashes wildflowers grow #family gathering #Vanserra brothers #lucien vanserra #eris vanserra #lady of autumn #helion spell cleaver #elain archeron #Minor Elucien #Minor Helion/LOA #OC: Celeste #Eris/Celeste #I just want my boy to be happy #and have a cute little family #Celeste is no Arina but we can’t have all lmao #jk it’s just been a while since i made an OC from scratch #Eris POV #Eris is a girl dad fight me #set in the future #eris week 2023

[vikingmagic33]

A little meet-cute in the garden leads Elain to visit Gwyn in the library. Here is the first installment for a Gwynlain fic for the ACOTAR Writing Circle 3. @azrielshadowssing which happens to coincide beautifully with @gwynweekofficial and pride.

Read on AO3 here!

~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~

Gwyn raced up the darkened stairwell, before spilling out of the doorway and into the rooftop’s blistering sun. She squinted up at Rhysand. He chucked down affectionately at her disheveled appearance. “You’re late,” Rhys stated with mock annoyance.

The sun was making its descent and baked the clay roof in a crackling glow. Gwyn caught sight of steam and her vision of the horizon beyond blurred through pockets of sweltering air. She gulped it down and savored freedom on her tongue.  

“Let me guess.” Rhys continued. “Merrill has concocted some new form of torture?” 

“Nothing new about it.” Gwyn smoothed the folds of her robes and gave him an impertinent stare. 

“But still torture.” He looked immediately concerned. “I can speak to...”

“I’m fine, Rhys.” Gwyn blurted. “I’ve told you that a million times already. I’m fine. I can deal with Merrill. Shall we?” 

She reached for his arm without waiting for his response. Rhys reached down to gather her to his side, as wings appeared, and he pushed up once in a massive boost just beyond the wards. The force of the push caused her sandals to slip. She heard them drop against the roof mere seconds before he’d winnowed them away. 

The first thing Gwyn noticed was the feel of a slightly damp lawn under her feet. The River House was close enough to the water that even on a hot day, spray from the river kept the gardens dewy and fresh. She drew up her hem only slightly to peer down as her toes wiggled. Emerie had painted them a perfect robin’s egg blue at a book club sleepover the night before and Gwyn relished the look against the green and soaked the silkiness through the soles of her feet.  

Rhys had asked that she give regular reports on life within the library. Clotho was technically the correct chain of command, but Rhys had expressed an interest in speaking informally on morale and their general quality of life. Gwyn had been happy to oblige. She had a list tucked into a pocket of her robes and she respected his concern. They had been meeting regularly for months, but that was the first meeting since Rhys had suggested they move them to the River House and expand their discussion to include the new Valkyrie training program. 

“You’re getting positively tan, Gwynnie.” Cassian’s bark boomed from the back steps and Gwyn’s gaze lifted from her feet to her friend’s face. “I think you’ve got twice as many freckles as you did when I first met you.” He chuckled before reaching up to tweak the end of her nose. Nesta swatted his hand and Gwyn rubbed her palm over the spot dramatically, but still managed to stick out her tongue when nobody was looking. 

She hadn’t seen the pair on the roof, so they must have arrived sometime earlier. From the state of Nesta’s hair, they could have been flying. Then again, there was no telling what else could have tangled it so much. Gwyn eyed her friend’s appearance and lifted a brow. Nesta just shrugged. Not flying then. Gwyn grinned. She was happy for Nesta. 

“I could give you a hat.” Gwyn spun at the sound of a feminine voice behind her in the flowers and found Elain kneeling in the garden. Elain set aside a pair of shears and slowly rose to her feet, careful not to touch her dress with her filthy gloves. “Not to say that freckles aren’t very pretty. Just… if you wanted a hat, I do have plenty. I could spare a few for you. If you’d like.” 

Gwyn’s gaze traveled up to Elain’s wide-brimmed, straw hat. It had an elaborate ribbon tied just beneath her chin. The absurdity of the offer was simply adorable. Gwyn couldn’t train in a floppy garden hat, but sincerity and perhaps nerves were clear in Elain’s voice, so Gwyn did not scoff.  

“Thank you, Elain,” Gwyn replied gently. “But I can’t see that I would have any use for such a thing in the library or in the training ring.” She noticed Rhys and Cassian disappearing through the kitchen door, but Nesta waited for Gwyn. 

“But surely elsewhere...” Elain studied Gwyn’s face as though she was being asked to state the obvious. 

Gwyn’s heart lurched and her face must have fallen. She saw confusion bloom in Elain’s eyes and again her heart softened. Elain wasn’t criticizing her. To hear Nesta tell it, Elain didn’t travel very far herself, but at least she could venture into Velaris unaccompanied. Nesta stepped forward and started to speak, but Gwyn stepped between the two. 

“We don’t get much light in the library.” Gwyn chided herself for her choice of words. She felt heat creep up her neck. She sounded like a moron or some sort of neglected houseplant. 

Elain was positively glowing, standing there, in her immaculate garden and she wasn’t actually wrong. Gwyn should be going more places. Gwyn should have need of a hat. 

“None at all?” Elain stepped forward and wiped at her brow with the back of one delicate wrist. All she managed to accomplish was to trap one dark blond curl into the dampness at her temple and Gwyn hid a smile. “How can anything hope to thrive in utter darkness?” Elain sounded ready to picket. 

“They do have candles, Elain.” Nesta sounded cross and Gwyn waved her off. She didn’t want to be the source of strife between the sisters. There had been plenty of that in the past and things were just starting to settle. 

“Not everything needs to be baked in the sun, Elain. We are the Night Court, are we not? Night can be beautiful too.” Gwyn practically purred. She was shocked by the tone in her own voice. Where had that come from? 

“I guess so.” Elain huffed a breath distractedly at that pesky curl, but it did not budge. 

“Here. Let me help you out.” Gwyn reached over and tugged the curl free. “Better?” 

“Thank you, Gwyneth.” Elain breathed her laughter. “I’m a mess.” 

“Nothing wrong with a bit of sweat,” Gwyn added, froze, and tried to pivot. “You’ve been hard at work.” Gwyn pointed awkwardly to an impressive pile of rose branches discarded near Elain’s very organized workstation. It was a folded towel for her knees and a bucket of what appeared to be bonemeal. Gwyn had been impressed to hear she recycled them from kitchen scraps. “We should let you get back to it.” 

Elain nodded. “Always nice to see you, Gwyneth.”

“You too, Elain.” Gwyn took Nesta’s arm and aimed for the house. Nesta narrowed her eyes.

“What was that?” Nesta hissed. 

“I have no idea.” Gwyn lied. She did have an idea. In fact, she had several. 

“You were flirting with my sister.” Nesta accused with a hungry smile. 

“I was doing no such thing!” Gwyn denied with a pout. “I was just being nice. Can’t I be nice?” 

“Liar,” Nesta growled under her breath. “You’re never that nice to me.”

“Well. You’ve never offered me a hat.” Gwyn hid her blush by rushing forward into the house. 

~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~

Elain made her way quietly down the dimly lit hall. She wasn’t sure why she’d felt the need to sneak, assuming that was even a fair description of her behavior. But it always felt like she was sneaking around the River House or the grounds or even into Valeris. The last, she liked to consider more exploration, even if she would bet all of her allowance that her sisters would scoff at that characterization. 

Rhys could be counted upon to be visiting Feyre’s art studio in the Rainbow on most afternoons and she’d timed her trek upstairs accordingly. Elain had no interest in dealing with the High Lord. Honestly, she had no interest in interacting with anyone, save perhaps the twins. 

It wasn’t that she disliked her sisters. She didn’t even dislike the families that both had chosen for themselves, not objectively at least. But the twins didn’t avert their gazes too quickly, nor did they let them linger with confusion, when Elain’s comments or behaviors were inevitably deemed uncouth or to be based on some outdated human mindset that Elain had yet to identify and sufficiently weed out. Worse were the moments when time skipped and snagged when a vision nudged or whispered and Elain simply fell behind in conversations or trailed off in the middle of speaking. 

Elain was not some shy or shrinking violet, nor was she a masochist. Solitude was just simpler and she found she liked people more when they said less and when she didn’t have to see them. 

She didn’t usually find herself in his library. Libraries in general were foreign and unknown. Visits were not something that her late mother encouraged and familiarity hadn’t been possible in their new lives after her death. 

Elain needed information though, so she tapped lightly on the door. She sighed happily at the lack of response and turned the ornate knob. Elain pressed her shoulder against his heavy door as it swung gently into the darkness of the room beyond. Need was perhaps a strong word. Elain wanted information. The idea of a gift had bloomed in her mind and she couldn’t seem to shake it. She didn’t want to shake it. 

Ultimately, the library trip had been an utter waste of her time. It had actually taken three trips into Velaris, a visit with a local botanist, and the aid of a rather talented glass blower. Finally, she found herself standing with an awkwardly large box in her arms, asking Rhys for transport to the House of Wind and his permission to visit the library below. 

“Sure.” He dusted toast crumbs from the corner of his mouth. “I’m going up there anyway. I will take the box for you.” Rhys responded absently. Had he even noticed that it wasn’t what she’d requested from him at all? 

“I’d rather deliver them myself. Thank you though.” Elain responded as Feyre peeked over the edge of the box at the greenery within. “There are care instructions and all.” Elain shrugged and adjusted the box in her arms with the help of one knee. “If you could just let this Clotho person know that I will be visiting within the library today, you can just drop me at the entrance. I believe there is one somewhere on the roof?” 

Feyre’s head shot up before she offered with a glint of curiosity in her eye, “I can take you.”

No way. Not a chance. Elain shook her head.  

“Rhys just said he was going anyway. Did he not?” 

There was some comfort in knowing that Rhysand didn’t understand her and had no interest in figuring her out. It was neglect masquerading as privacy and she offered back resentment passing for respect. 

“It is done.” Rhys tapped his temple with one finger as he took one last bite of toast and rose from the table. He bent to plant a kiss on his son’s head and one on his mate’s cheek before heading for the door. 

Clotho had been polite and accommodating and Gwyn turned out to be fairly easy to find. 

“This one is called Bird's Nest.” Elain pointed to the first plant. “They call this one a snake plant, but I’m not sure why. The spider plant makes a little more sense when you see the little baby plants that sort of shoot off as it grows.”

“That sounds like quite the kerfuffle.” Gwyn beamed and her laughter washed over Elain. She was happy. The gift had been a good idea after all. “I’d better keep my eye on these and make sure they all stay in line.”

“Yes. Well.” Elain blushed. “And this one, it’s a bromeliad. No silly name. It even blooms without any sun. None need sun. Although they will thank you for these little bauble lights I got in town. The shop owner assured me that they mimic low sunlight.”

“Are these for light too?” Gwyn peered from across the box and reached a hand underneath for support. Their fingers brushed slightly and Elain’s pulse raced. 

“Oh, no. Those are for water.” Elain tried again to adjust her hold on the box and the whole thing nearly toppled despite being trapped between their chests. Elain managed to grab hold of a colorful orb on a long glass stem. “You fill these with water and then stick them into the dirt. They will help with watering.” 

“Thank you.” Gwyn smiled and Elain was nervous at the sheen in Gwyn’s eyes. 

“This one is poisonous to cats.” Elain blurted. “You don’t have a cat do you?”

“Sometimes I think we might, but if he’s going to prowl around here nibbling on my plants, then he deserves a bit of mischief. Don’t you think?”  

“He? If you’re not sure that there is a cat, how do you know it is male?” Elain asked, genuinely amused. 

“A girl cat would know better than to eat strange plants and probably would’ve made some friends by now. At least, with the kitchen staff.” They were talking nonsense and Elain was blissfully happy. 

“So.” Elain had no idea what to say next. “I’ll just give these to you.” Elain aimed for subtle, but managed to shove the box at Gwyn. 

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Gwyn stepped away, hands raised. “You can carry them down and help me place them around my reading nook.” She turned toward the stairs. “And I hope you mean to visit them.”

“Pardon?” Elain squeaked. 

“You can’t just give a girl a basket of living things and some vague instructions and expect them to survive.” Gwyn chided and Elain was fairly sure she was teasing her. 

“Box,” Elain mumbled. 

“Pardon?” There was definite teasing in Gwyn’s voice as she mimicked Elain’s earlier nerves. Elain blushed, though not unpleasantly, she noticed. 

“It’s a box, not a basket.” Elain clarified and Gwyn chuckled. Warmth bloomed in Elain’s chest. 

“If any of the other priestesses should want...”

“They can keep their mitts off my ferns.” Gwyn yanked the box possessively to her chest then.  

“Bromeliad.” Elain corrected. 

“See,” Gwyn called over her shoulder as she continued down the stairs. “I’m in over my head already. You simply must save me, Elain.” Perhaps they were both in over their heads, but for the first time that she could remember, Elain didn’t mind at all. 

#ACOTAR writing circle 3 #gwyneth berdara #elain archeron #gwynlain #dual pov #pro gwyn #pro elain #my kind of why pick #crush #lesbian pride #best friend’s sister #sister’s best friend #idiots to lovers #two versions of rhys #acosf #ACOTAR #acotarwritingcircle #acotar writing circle

[flowerflamestars]

Another alternative Effloresce pov. Azriel, as the slow moving shitshow train wreck his life is is quickly becoming a fast moving shit show train wreck.

I cannot tell you how much I love this one!

So, I would say across all my fics Azriel is a character who is the most consistent? Especially since almost all of them were written before acosf TERRIBLY let us in his actually creepy little headspace, and I've additionally chosen to keep my made up shadowman as he is.

Effloresce Az is basically Starlight Az but SADDER. He's Daylight Az without a kiddo and husband, Shoreless Sea Az without the absolutely beneficial retirement, and man is he TIRED.

You're Azriel, and your job sucks. Your inborn skillset leaves you zero other options, and you know this. It's better to be the left hand of power than in a cell for life, but you know what? Sometimes you can only do so goddamn much.

You're Azriel and that's kind of all you've got. You're one of a kind, literally. Alone forever in that. But you love Cassian. You play the little games with Mor for harmony. You respect- alien, ancient, different, probably what you'll feel like in a thousand goddamn years if you live that long- Amren.

You see the good in Rhysand, limited as it is to personal things, but you also see the vast potential for failure.

You see him listening to this CHILD OF A GIRL- who seems nice, yeah. You're worried about her, frankly. The Courts of Prythian revived her and will not just let that go- but that doesn't mean you think she has, shall we say, good ideas.

You watch Cassian spend days arguing against this.

You rock up over the wall and realize these two mortal, innocent women have probably been taken captive by Spring. Your orders are a mistake, you have a war to fight that has nothing to do with these people, but you're here, and you might as well do some good.

You move to neutralize the threat.

Lucien Vanserra does not act like a vassal of Spring. No, not even at Autumn prince. You can drown fire in the dark, but you can't swallow the sun or an ocean of flame without end.

That doesn't matter either, because this determined little slip of blond sunshine just fucking stabbed you. And for the first time in maybe decades, you just want to laugh. You've fucked up, clearly, but you're okay. (You can live through so much worse than letting a human woman stab you to feel safe.)

You hear Cassian coming, and you know.

It doesn't matter what Feyre is saying. Has said. You're Azriel and you can't not know or not hear- she's wrong or she lied. You have a High Lord sweating blood to protect a stunningly, dangerously charming woman and you have her sister, who feels less like delight and more like a dream.

You're a shadowsinger, whose providence is secrets and these two woman are shrouded.

You're fucked, essentially.

You know they're not really human.

You know they're hiding, and Feyre is going to break that right open if Rhysand has his way, no matter how many times you point out that the Queens want nothing to do with Prythian's fae.

You're Azriel, and you've always been smart enough to stay quiet when you have no orders forcing you to do otherwise. You're polite. You're frankly, horrified. You have no idea what to do with the Archeron sisters acting like you're nothing to be afraid of.

You know, before Cassian knows, that every wind that has ever carried him had lead him right here.

(You remember what that felt like. The fear, the euphoria. You were young and stupid enough to consider it simple rightness, your extra senses on your side, pulling you toward the correct choice in fealty. You didn't know what it was until too late. You didn't know and you never even got to know or got to mourn. You didn't have the right to mourn a girl dead too soon, who would have never been anything but your queen had she grown old enough to wear a crown.)

(Dead before the start, just like you.)

You decide, immediately, you cannot let what happened to you happen to Cassian. Nesta Archeron might be a compelling power, might be a fighter with ash in her hair and a cunning mind, but Shahar was a High Lady born. Not even that could save her.

You understand the instant way you like Elain is magic, whether she knows it or not. (She does not). Real affection follows quickly, you are, despite all magic to the contrary, as Illyrian as Cassian. You cannot not know. You like Nesta too- if only for her ferocity. Her bleeding, present fury.

They treat you like a person.

Fearlessly.

Easily.

You watch as their sister breaks their hearts, cracks already laid. You watch Rhysand act more and more territorial, and of course you know why too. You watch Lucien Vanserra safeguard the lives and livelihoods of hundreds of humans and you understand this, here, is a Court too.

A better one.

You quietly, a secret, kill their father.

You bind yourself in blood to a favor, and use it to unshackle the Archeron bloodline and their vassals from the Queens.

You watch Nesta Archeron kneel in the snow, watch Elain Archeron pull a knife on a High Lord of Prythian over human lives, and think, with dread and barren exhaustion, you're making the right choice.

The hard choice.

(How many noncombatants died in Sangravah? In every city Amarantha occupied? How many servants in the Hewn City every year? How many Illyrian children in the starving north? How many deaths were Azriel's fault, because Rhysand didn't care?)

(The Archerons would rather die with their people than live. Were educating their maids. Sending their kitchen boys to university. Taking in the orphans of other estates, having never forgotten what it was to be forgotten, hungry and alone.)

You're Azriel, and you can't not know how badly this is going to hurt.

#FAST MOVING TRAIN WRECK AHOY #I only covered what's posted because the next chapter is truly #THE BONES OF MY SOUL IN MY HANDS THE WORLD ON FIRE AND I HAVE NOTHING LEFT TO GIVE BUT MORE DEATH #from Az's POV #he takes finding Shahars remains NOT WELL #plus you know #the war kickstarts #Cassian continues to act basically insane in a good way #And Nesta and Elain just keep raising the goddamn bar he was trying to ignore even existed #The Shahar stuff is actually really important #he does not tell Rhys #EVER! #Bones are literally he closest he's ever going to come #they weren't in love #they didn't even know each other #HE DIDN'T KNOW UNTIL SHE DIED #and of course #Rhys made that entirely about himself #Az just. I think he likes Feyre in this impish way canon always wants Cassian to (but then Cassian put her on such a high altar it failed) #but also? is too deep in the shit of it all #not to be like: she's a really powerful symbol #but she shouldn't be in charge????

[thefangirlofhp]

sing, stars (at dawn, I win)

in which Feyre thinks, perhaps her family is the begrudging set that she did not choose for herself, and perhaps it is the people she fought with over threadbare blankets and the last sip of tea.

True that she believes much of her fate is in her hands and forged with her will—answered dreams and listening stars, and all that—yet when confronted with the inevitable travesty of her demise, Feyre cannot think of anything much beyond the life of her baby. Nesta hisses that the boy will kill her, and perish himself, and Feyre’s only cohesive thought is how to ensure his survival.

A female becomes a mother the second she is made aware of her carrying, maternal instincts in a hurry to bloom, or so Feyre’s been informed—true that, she can now testify despite her initial skepticism and worry (Will I be a good mother? Will I be everything he deserves?) that now seems to have been entirely unnecessary regardless of her friends’ reassurance (Elain understood, though, and so had Nesta—a wordless similar worry in both her sisters’ eyes, a fear of something genetic far worse than small pelvises and wings. A disease of a worse kind, the kind blood doesn’t bear but young minds and mishandled childhoods do) and how many times Rhys softly promised her no one else could do this better.

Easy for him: fathers became so when they beheld their birthed children. He wasn’t the one pouring away his blood and making room in his abdomen for a creature to grow. But Feyre did not begrudge him his hope; with the ticking timer of a deadline coming ever so closer, hope was all they had. When he tore his study apart in a fit of rage after yet another failure of Madja’s, of their Inner Circle—too inner, she now reflects—to save his mate and son, to save him, and millennia’s worth of High Lords’ effort, hope was the only thing she could offer him: it’s going to be okay she’d say, entirely convinced of her upcoming demise and still masking it seamlessly. And he’d believe her.

Feyre’s first sense of self comes back to her like this: she’s put Nyx down for bed—finally, after a hassling fit of ear-piercing screams that had made Azriel flee the estate quicker than if she’d asked him for breastfeeding advice—and a rush of relief knocks her off her senses when her baby accepted the crib’s comfort without a peep, and she drops down in an armchair limp as a rag doll. The dark, quiet nursery feels thick, and the crack of faint light through the door is an invitation that she doesn’t want to accept yet she stares at.

She tucks her feet beneath her, rests her throbbing head in the palm of her hand while relishing in the ceased crying. Maybe it’s a shortage of sleep mourning the comfort and ease with her own body that she misses since finding out she’s expecting, or the aforementioned sense of waking up coming to claim her but for whatever reason, Feyre cannot stand to be in this room any longer, or this house. This body, neither, but that is a thread to be left alone for time to wither and burn.

So, at risk of waking Nyx up, she bundles him up in adequate layers and a blue blanket stitched with gleaming stars that Elain had made for him, shoulders his bag picks him up. The subtle movement of the outline of a shadow at the open window catches her eye, and reassures her enough to leave, knowing that they will not be raising alarms so long as Azriel has an eye on them. It’s what allows her to say nothing, neither in person nor through the bond to Rhys—a nameless shadow of a feeling, something she cannot yet articulate into words and needs the space to do so.

Feyre hurries through the quite estate, paying no mind to how hallow it recently seems: it’s only her, Rhys and Nyx nowadays. A few months ago, the house was bustling with never-ending visitors and friends: someone was always being entertained, refreshments were always being provided. Now, it’s a quiet two-person dinner every night, with a mate she is realizing that she has little to actually say to.

Out in the quiet winter night, Feyre steps with her son against her chest. Cold air bites her skin instantly; she is a human girl once more; leaving behind a warm stifling home of people she loves but cannot stand; her arms heavy with responsibility she has no clue how to manage, but still she does.

⁂

One day out of the blue, once Nyx and Feyre had settled and their family found a routine, Elain packed up her meagre belongings, told them she’d be checking in on them from time to time, and lugged her small trunk out the front door without glancing back. Feyre stood there, watched her leave her garden and bedroom behind like one would put down a book they’d enjoyed but wouldn’t recommend, and a part of Feyre wondered how it would feel like: to drift from one version of herself to the next as if picking out a new dress for the day, reinventing herself with every cycle of the sun.

Elain moved to a quaint apartment on the outskirts of the city, nearby to the shore and the amphitheater but far enough for her residential area to not be frequented and crowded by tourists and beach-goers. Feyre hadn’t been to visit her once, and felt a little embarrassed to be showing up on her sister’s doorstep like this suddenly but her feet did not care for her awkwardness, and took her up the stairs to Elain’s emerald green door, marked a golden 8.

When she knocks, quiet but urgent, the door swings open almost immediately and Elain appears in the hallway.

“Feyre?” her soft voice carries in the dark hall, still awake. “Come inside. Oh, baby, I missed him.”

“Hi,” Feyre rushes through the syllable with a fleeting smile, handing off her sleeping boy to his aunt while she steps inside and takes off her shoes. “I didn’t know if you’d be awake. You’re an early riser.”

Elain’s large doe-eyes meet hers, and offer her a beautiful smile that instantly warms Feyre’s heart. She cannot help how being in Elain’s presence makes her reflexively melt into a warm reassured mush of lazy smiles and dismissed worries, and maybe it’s part of the reason Feyre had sought her out of all of Velaris.

That, and Azriel’s shadows never dared reach her. Whatever Feyre said or did here was entirely confidential. And sometimes, that is all anyone ever needs.

“I am, but I’m an owl as well, I suppose. I was about to make a pot of tea—would you like some?”

“Yes, please,” Feyre drops Nyx’s bag in the short entrance hallway and follows Elain into the apartment. They’re greeted with a large living space where an arched doorway leads to the kitchen, a closed balcony previews the dark night outside, and another doorway covered with sheer chiffon leading to what Feyre presumes to be the bedrooms.

“Have a look around,” Elain invites as she puts Nyx down on one of the lush sofas, and smiles to herself as she fixes his blanket around him. “Make yourself at home.”

Feyre intends to, shrugs off her fleece-lined jacket and tugs the sleeves of her sweater down her thumbs. Elain has a small fire crackling in the fireplace, warming the apartment and the heart but not enough to forego layers. Elain has few memorabilia on the mantlepiece; a snow globe, discarded scraps of papers and housekeys, a framed pencil sketch of them that Nesta agreed to sit in for. Her couches ample with criminally soft blankets and throw pillows, and reminding Feyre of quicksand when she sinks into it.

A few paperbacks here and there scattered around the room, a closed journal with an ink-bleeding quill in, and potted plants that dominate the balcony edge. Aside from that, sentimentality is a rare commodity to find in Elain’s home. Perhaps she keeps them away for safekeeping, or maybe this Elain is not a sentimental person much, uninterested in the past.

“Have you eaten?” Elain’s dreamy voice floats in through the open door from the kitchen the way Feyre imagines steam escaping a pot does, bright light streaming into the dimly lit room.

Internally debating between indulging in Elain’s expanded skills in cookery and being a respectable guest, Feyre remains quiet but for a too-late “Yes” that she hesitates in voicing.

“Oh, well, I haven’t yet,” Feyre can hear her smile. She comes out with a tray of tea serving and—Feyre’s mouth waters—a plate of pastries and tarts. Elain clears a spot on her busy coffee table, and sits next to Feyre.

Hot tea sounds different when it’s poured, and though Feyre is not much of a tea enthusiast the smell and sound alone make her accept it and eagerly take a sip. Elain places a custard cream biscuit in Feyre’s saucer and settles back, tucks her feet beneath her and balances her teacup and saucer on the arm of her couch.

“How are you?” she asks, with the quality of care that only Elain possesses. Feyre takes a sip of scalding hot tea, and focuses on the steam across her face.

“Good,” she replies. “You look well—how are you doing?”

Elain’s eyes drift over her shoulder. She truly does; her eyes are clearer than Feyre’s ever seen them, and her hair’s let down in their streaming neat waves. Her shimmering turquoise night-clothes are creaseless, in custom with the Nigh-Court’s fashion and a notable difference from her usual nightgowns.

“Good,” she replies similarly.  

Sometimes, Feyre wonders if Rhys was maybe too correct about Elain keeping up appearances with their expectations to avoid their disappointment. Looking at her now, comfortable in her own home like a second body, Feyre hurts a little for her that it seems to be the case. Wonders if she’s played a part in furthering this expectation of Elain, and realizes slowly that maybe she has—willingly or not.

But Elain blinks, and meets Feyre’s gaze again. “How are you?” she repeats. Softer. Feyre instinctively curls herself over, hunches her shoulders as she stares down into the depths of her black tea. She nods wordlessly.

Elain, of course, gets it.

Needlessly, Feyre adds: “I needed the company, and my own thoughts.”

“Well,” Elain sips her tea. “I’ve been told I am a remarkably quiet companion. Closer to a cat than human.”

Feyre doesn’t comment on her slip, and Elain doesn’t stutter, which raises an interest of Feyre that she tags for future pondering; if she’d nominate either of her sisters for the fastest person to adapt to fundamental transformation of body and soul, Elain would be the one to claim the title with no competition.

Still her sister is true to her word. She sits by Feyre, pours them tea, and scribbles away in her journal, buries her nose in a paperback for a while and clears up her apartment as if Feyre is not an intruder. Better yet, a part of her night-routine. Feyre likes this feeling, of being made to feel as if her existence cannot be, under any circumstance of mind, an imposition.

Nyx sleeps through it all, and Feyre’s eyes begin to feel heavy as she monitors the crackling fire of comfort, wrapped in a soft blanket and curled next to Elain. When Nyx wakes, inevitably, a few hours later just as her eyes have rested for a moment, Feyre doesn’t move. Stares at his short arms and legs waving in the air as he cranks his cries and her eyes, for some unforeseeable reason, sting and well up.

“It’s okay, I’ve got him,” Elain’s hand squeezes her shoulder with the arm she’s had slung around her. She gathers him with soft smiles and a gentle coo as she settles him against her chest and Nyx quiets at the familiarity of his aunt. Elain, whom Feyre’s known for a fact has wanted motherhood since she could begin to want things, curls back in her spot, rocking Nyx gently.

Feyre blinks her emotionally stumped tears away, her throat clogged in the way her mind sometimes gets the better of her. She sniffs.

“It’s all-right,” Elain glances at her. “Get some sleep.”

“’m okay,” she denies her exhaustion. But her head slumping against the couch says otherwise. “…Lain?”

“Mhm?” her sister traces Nyx’s plump cheeks.

“Why’re you still alone?”

Elain’s brows rise, in surprise or polite condemnation of Feyre’s nosy and sleepy inquiry she cannot tell.

“Why don’t you want anyone?”

“I don’t,” Elain replies simply, as if the answer is so simple. Could it be? Could someone truly desire lonesomeness, complete and utter freedom of a companion? Something seized her heart, all of a sudden, and for a horrifying moment, Feyre felt incredibly alone. The chill realization was terrifying, and unbearable and she needed it to go away instantly.

Elain glances at her again. “Oh, sweetheart, come here.”

To collapse in her sister’s embrace is a catharsis no-one speaks enough of.

⁂

When they were young and destitute, Feyre used to loathe Elain specially. She had a particular rage for Nesta, which they constantly got out and had at it, and a hallow disappointment for their father, but Elain tugged something unprecedented out of Feyre.

Perhaps it was jealousy that she was always closer to Nesta than her, and that Nesta clearly only cared for her that she had no love left for Feyre. Or maybe that Father loved her sweetly, dearly, and earnestly and she had the gift of loving him back just as easily.

Feyre never figured out the semantics of Elain’s peculiarly received hate, or why she deserved it. Perhaps it was their desolation. Whatever it was, Feyre never could explicitly dislike her the way Nesta allowed her to: Elain fought her over scraps of food and the blanket; wanted their money to pamper her needs and items that Feyre felt were needless; went out against Feyre’s will and purchased seeds for vegetables with all their money and failed. They starved for an entire week, because Feyre could find no game and they had no money left and Elain stopped trying to contribute to their wellbeing after that beyond housekeeping. She used the fur and pelts of Feyre’s game to make herself a jacket but fashioned warm gloves for Feyre to use in the cold. Bought Feyre paints and brushes when they should have used the money to eat. Replaced one of Father’s ruined tools when he should have been out there earning their keep. She did not allow Feyre to entirely loathe her, forced her to sympathize with her and even love her for her simplicity.

Elain was the one to advocate for Feyre and the first to rush to give back. But when she cut her losses after Hybern, Elain withdrew from everyone and into herself as if the only reason to be around anymore was a formality that was henceforth fulfilled and Feyre felt as if she’d lost the opportunity to have a sister. Selfishly, the way Archerons are prone to be, Feyre saw Elain’s ruined plans and lost future as a way to have her sister back, or for once: yet she was not spared feeling guilty over the relief that Elain had survived the Cauldron, and was now fae too.

Love, against her will, and hate over this fated love. Elain was selfish, Feyre hated her for it because Feyre was selfish in that she wanted her sister when her sister clearly didn’t. Elain loved her, and Feyre couldn’t fathom her own guilt for receiving it. A vicious and disorienting cycle, in which Feyre could not discern who brought about what, only that they were spinning, and that this dizziness is sisterhood and somehow the only thing Feyre knows to be true of the world.

⁂

When she opens her eyes, she’s greeted by Nyx’s large very awake blue eyes from the couch across her. Her baby smiles, entertaining himself with his coos and babbles, waving his arms around. Still hasn’t begun using his wings—Rhys isn’t worried, but she is. She worries over him every second of the day until she is physically sick.

Elain’s cranking away in the kitchen, muted morning light shying its way through the balcony door and Feyre can barely keep her bleary eyes open. But she forces herself to sit up, and crawl over the cushions to Nyx, her loose knitted socks sliding and slipping on her feet and her sweater sleeves long and twisted around her arms.

“Hi,” she murmurs in his warm cheek, earning a delighted squeal. “Morning, my boy.”

She decides to ignore the faint brush of familiar darkness against her mind. Once; almost curious like, and upon receiving neither answer nor invitation, does not come back.

“Hi,” she repeats, focusing her attention on the only thing that makes sense to her right now.

⁂

Feyre doesn’t leave Elain’s apartment for several days, and Elain doesn’t ask. Feyre is not even sure her sister is curious, or if Elain simply doesn’t care about anything that could trouble her. She isn’t sure she wants to find out, because staying in Elain’s home is a comfort she isn’t in a rush to ruin. Its quaint size surprises Feyre, who thought her sister would seek a more lavish and spacious home—finance or preference, she isn’t sure. She makes a note to ask her about it later on.

Still, the way the apartment reminds her too much of their little cottage unnerves her in that she isn’t disturbed by it. That it is making her fondly recall details of the place both terrifies and amazes her—how Elain has the ability to highlight beauty where it is not easily found is a mystery but it certainly is not a gift of the Cauldron.

(Sometimes Feyre wonders how the Cauldron chose what gifts to bestow on Elain; whether it had given her the first things it had, or if it had somehow coordinated what fell into its bowels with what it had at hand. Sometimes Feyre wonders about the extent of Elain’s powers. If Nesta is an indication—an unsettling thought—then they had not yet scratched the surface of whatever Elain had tamed and buried deep down. Sometimes, sometimes, Feyre wants to grab Azriel and shake whatever answers he has, because she is convinced he has them, or at least some of them.)

So, Feyre mulls over her thoughts, begins sorting them out while doodling lines and shapes on paper and folds herself into so small an object as if she can squeeze the unsettlement out of her. Elain comes back from her errands, laden with groceries for a dinner she begins right away without missing a beat.

Despite being friendly and pleasant to one another, Feyre has never felt she considered Elain as a friend one could pry into and offer their own thoughts to. They were pleasant companions at best. Polite and civil, but she doesn’t think they’ve ever exchanged jokes or laughed over something together that wasn’t about Nyx.

That wouldn’t do, Feyre decides.

“Hi,” she steps into Elain’s kitchen.

“Hello,” Elain smiles over her shoulder, washing vegetables in her sink.

“How was your day?”

“Good,” her hair catches the last light of the short day, and Feyre subconsciously memorizes the colors and shapes of her sister standing in her own kitchen—could she paint it, she wonders?

“What were you up to?”

If Elain is bemused with the series of questions, she doesn’t show it. “I tended some gardens.”

“What else?”

Elain pauses, her eyes fixed on her hands under the water rubbing soil from fresh produce and Feyre swears it is a quiet subtle smile that takes over her face. Feyre does wonder what it means—Elain is more perceptive than she lets on, and sometimes it takes them by utter surprise (See: a memorable solstice, their first, in which the master of shadows was thrust, unprecedented, into the public light) so she wants to ask the childish what? What? What? What is it? But barely holds her tongue as she awkwardly leans against the counter behind her.

“I met with some friends,” Elain shares, gracefully. “They gave me this produce today.”

“What friends? Who are they?”

Elain slowly turns her squeaky faucet off. “What is it, Feyre?”

So, her sister is bolder and smarter in social conversations—alright, Feyre can concede that what with Elain being the social butterfly she is. Feyre can see subtle aid when it is offered like this to bail her out of her blundering methods in favor of reaching her goals.

Feyre can take a hint. She hops on top of the counter, leaning her weight forwards on her wrists. Sometimes it is easier to detangle a mess of thoughts with someone trustworthy.

“I…” which thread to tug? There are too many. “I feel like I’ve woken up from a trance.”

“And what timeline does this trance include?” Elain dries her hands on her apron, turning and leaning likewise against the sink, her eyes expectant and inviting yet—Feyre doesn’t fail to notice—guarded.

“I don’t know. A long one. Since Mother died, I think. I don’t suppose I’ve comprehended everything that came after.”

Elain’s shoulders slump, the action bringing attention to the tightening of skin around her eyes and how she folds her arms over her middle. She nods quietly, understanding.

“You were only a little girl.”

“And I—I suppose now after having Nyx, I’ve been faced with reality and I—I feel robbed.”

Elain blinks and her face softens. “Of what, Feyre?”

That is the question that unravels everything else, is it not? The kink in her knotted wool of thoughts. Mouth dry, she hesitates.

“I—I am a High Lady now, Elain,” she says hoarsely. “And I am not even twenty-three years of age. I nearly died several times, and did once, and now I am a High Fae. Married. I am a mother. Where—Where was I all this time? It’s as if I am only now realizing this.”

She folds her arms over her middle, if only to hide their noticeable tremors.

Elain regards her openly, and it relieves Feyre to see an understanding in her sister’s eyes she doesn’t suppose anyone else could offer.

“Did…Have you ever felt like this?” Feyre quietly prods.

Elain drops her arms and crosses over to stand next to her. She stares at the wall before them and lets out a quiet sigh.

“I did,” she confesses. She looks at her. “It’s all-right, you know. It seems surreal because it is.”

“I…I died Elain.”

Her sister nods slowly.

“Can I confess something horrible?”

“Hmm?”

“I am glad you and Nesta were Made.”

Elain grasps her knee. “I became glad too, after a while. I couldn’t bear the thought of you facing eternity alone.”

Feyre’s vision blurs, and pebbles of hot tears wobble in her waterline. A hoarse, quiet confession: “Me neither.”

⁂

“I don’t think I could love him any less, I swear.”

“No-one doubts that.”

“It’s just—I feel like I—that he robbed me of…making sense of things but I would never have realized there were matters to make sense of without him.”

Elain cradles sleeping Nyx to her chest, and Feyre is too relaxed to be guilty over how relieved she is to not be tending to her son’s every need. She slumps in her chair at Elain’s two-person round table where they have dinner, belly full of her sister’s casserole and looking forward to dessert.

“I did think you’d wait a while before conceiving,” Elain admits softly.

“I was looking forward to living and exploring the years with Rhys before any children came into question,” Feyre doesn’t feel awful over spilling her thoughts: somehow they feel meaningless, and uttering them lightens her chest. Spool of yarn unravels. She scratches the teeth of her fork against her plate. “It all happened suddenly and quickly. I met the love of my life, married, and now with child—all in two years!”

Elain smiles, teasing an index in Nyx’s loosely clenched fist “That is the norm, where we come from.”

Feyre points her fork at her. “You are correct. But I never expected to conform to that norm.”

“Oh Feyre, the irony,” Elain chuckles.

“It’s hilarious, isn’t it?” Feyre cannot help spluttering a laugh. “Fucking bullshit.”

“Hey,” Elain scowls, covers an unbothered Nyx’s ears. “He spends his time around enough foul-mouthed fools.”

Feyre drops her fork. “Not really. Not recently, anyway. It’s just Azriel and he barely says a word to me, much less Nyx—how bad are things for Azriel to be our only frequent visitor?”

Elain raises her brows. “It’s just you at the house, then?”

“Correct,” Feyre sighs. “Sometimes I try to have a conversation with the twins but they’re not conversational, are they?”

“They speak plenty to me.”

“Well you’re an enchantress, it doesn’t count.”

Elain shrugs.

“I only have Rhys for company and I hate to admit that I have grown sick of him, even though I barely see him recently.”

“I didn’t think that remotely possible.”

“I am bluffing,” Feyre sighs. “But—but not really. He’s…it’s strange. He’s someone I feel as if I know everything about, as familiar to me as my own soul, yet I can’t find a single thing to say to him. And he’s—he’s not normal, either—”

“He’s a five-hundred-year-old High Lord, Feyre. He’s not a human stable-boy with the intellect of a fly. You’re intimidated by his years and rightly so.”

Feyre barks a laugh. “I am deeply offended that you seem to think I can only manage people closer to moths.”

Elain’s lips curve. “You met under dire circumstances where tomorrow was not promised. I imagine you did not have time to find out his favorite childhood games or book.”

“That’s exactly what it is. He’s—he’s still a stranger, relatively, but one I am too comfortable around.”

“And we both are aware you better know how to dissect frogs than have a normal social conversation.”

“I am not that bad.”

“Your tactic to better connecting with me was an interrogation,” Elain levels her with a knowing gaze—it is eerie, truthfully, to see Elain as someone well-established and as an older sister. It is riveting—Feyre’s never experienced this particular shade of glee before.

She sheepishly smiles, digs her toes into the hardwood floor. “Everyone I have gotten to know seems to have simply taken me under their wing without me trying.”

Elain regards her closely.

“Your only friends are your husband’s friends. You do understand that is not an example of practicing friendship?”

Feyre swallows. That particular thread, then. She opens her mouth.

“It’s why I left, really,” says Elain who swirls her apple cider in her glass before taking a sip. Feyre pauses, surprised by this volunteered information—but then again, this is what friendly conversations are like, aren’t they? Two-sided, willingly shared information.

“Because no-one was your friend?” Feyre furrows her brow.

“Everyone is my brother-in-law’s family. They are Rhys’s people first, you know. I was blurring boundaries without fully crossing them. I’d never have entertained this situation for long, normally.”

“Nothing was normal about this.”

“Exactly,” Elain concedes. “But there was no further need for it. Boundaries are crucial, you know.”

“Did something happen? That made you leave?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Elain blinks. “I suppose I too had a ‘waking’ moment.”

“Oh. You know… it does make sense that—that they’re Rhys’s people.”

Elain’s hand slowly smooths over Nyx’s soft locks, her eyes gentle and expectant. Feyre swallows.

“It—” she sharply inhales. “It was made clear to me during my pregnancy.”

Elain’s lips tighten and her eyes brighten. “Nyx robbed you, but he opened your eyes.”

Feyre clenches her teeth and nods. “It makes sense that the one to break the news to me was my sister, while they’ve all kept this secret.”

“How—how did you feel about it?”

“Honestly?” Feyre works a line into the table. “Nothing. All I could think about was him surviving while the others thought about Rhys surviving.”

“They were all worried for you. You cannot doubt that.”

“I wonder if it would have been the same if Rhys and I did not have our deal?”

Elain’s face softens, her brows falling. “I suppose we have no way of knowing.”

Feyre’s mouth trembles. “I—it made me realize how alone I am, but for you and Nesta.”

Elain’s eyes shimmer.

“My people,” Feyre whispers. “And we can’t have a decent conversation.”

⁂

The thing is, the longer Feyre and Elain talk, the more Feyre realizes that she has a lot to say to her sister. It is not all polite or lovely, but the bitterness she would find churning in her chest surprises her in that it comes out without venom, and that Elain listens with no defenses erected. Elain watches Feyre pace the length of her living room, fiercely going on and on about stupid things they’d fought over in their girlhood, and Elain does her the curtesy of sinking to her level, and returning pettiness with equal bite. Good, it makes Feyre feel so fucking good. They fight over how they perceived their shared past, different angles providing different views, and Feyre cannot put into words why it makes her feel like she’s unfolding her wings and stretching them out.   

“The nerve of you saying that!” Elain screeches, grabbing a throw-pillow with too much vehemence once Feyre let slip an old resentment of hers directed towards Elain for being the receiver of affections of many a Feyre’s crushes. “How dare you?!”

“I said it, alright?!” Feyre refuses to back down, scurrying behind the couch and putting enough furniture between her and Elain.

“When have I ever led that man on?!” Elain shouts, referring to a particularly handsome young boy Feyre spent all of ten minutes admiring the eyes of. “How dare you imply that—I was thirteen!”

“You were batting your cute long lashes at him, and you knew I had my eye on him!”

“You were a child!”

“I was heartbroken!”

“And I did not ‘bat my lashes at him’, you dimwit. Is it a crime to blink, now?!”

“You even laughed!”

“I was a thirteen-year-old girl squeezed in petticoats and drilled on the laws of society, I was terrified of being rude! No, you come here, don’t you dare run—”

“Oh, and the baker’s apprentice was you being polite, I suppose?”

Elain’s jaw drops, marginally so. “He confessed his feelings to me. I was being kind.”

“Oh sure,” Feyre snaps, bouncing back on her heels when Elain swings her cushion. “Sure, yeah, you were being considerate of his feelings.”

“Of course, I was,” Elain replies, astounded that Feyre would ever think otherwise. “He was a baker, and there was no version of reality in which Mother would have remotely blessed a match like that!”

“Oh, oh, as if that’s believable,” Feyre snaps. “If you are so kind to them, why are you torturing your own mate like this?”

“What’s that bastard got to do with anything?!” Elain shouts, throwing her cushion at Feyre, and missing.

“Everyone always fell for you, and I was jealous, all-right?! Even Nesta was! And-And now you’ve got a mate, like Lucien, and you don’t have the decency to acknowledge him! It frustrates me. I don’t understand you!”

“You’re married to the most handsome eligible male in the entire universe who worships the ground you walk, I do not think you are fit to even say something like that!”

“I’m talking about before! Even Father loved you the most!”

Elain freezes, her pretty face twisted in a scowl that Feyre relishes in seeing. She clenches her hands at her sides.

“I won’t apologize for Father’s love,” she says very quietly, and very sternly. “And I will not apologize for loving him just as much, if not more.”

“How could you?” Feyre’s voice drops, a twisted confusion that truly seeks an answer. “I cannot think of him without remembering everything he did not do for us.”

“You can love despite resentment,” Elain quietly points out. “Despite anger. It’s some of the worst qualities of love.”

Feyre clenches her teeth. “I always thought love and hate were antagonists.”

“Indifference is the death of love,” Elain says, softly, her eyes shimmering. “Mother’s indifference. Father cared, deeply.”

“You can’t seriously fucking say that.”

“He did,” Elain insists. “But he did nothing, and that is his eternal crime. But he cared, very fucking much, Feyre. You can condemn him for many things, but he cared for us.”

“Mother cared,” Feyre softly utters. Elain scoffs, turns away sharply.

“She did,” Feyre rounds the couch, approaches her sister. “Till her last breath.”

The tears that well in Elain’s doe-eyes feel like an axe to her chest. She presses her hand to the base of her throat, and her lips shudder.

“She asked me to look after you before she died,” Feyre puts an arm around Elain, her body fitting snug and exactly right with hers, their hearts pieces of the same puzzle. “She did care, in her own way.”

Elain buries her face in her palms and a small sob escapes her.

⁂

Nesta shows up at Elain’s door some days later just after dinner, taking Feyre by surprise when she answers the knock. Her sister is meant to be on holiday with Cassian in Dawn, and Feyre hasn’t realized the days have passed by so quickly. Time runs differently in Elain’s company, especially since Feyre has taken to relentlessly shadowing her on her errands and jobs. She wonders if Elain is sick of her by now.

“How was it?” she asks, who holds her in a surprising embrace after giving Elain a brisk one.

“Entertaining,” Nesta drops her hands and makes her way to the couches where she drops unceremoniously onto one, toeing off her shoes and throwing her legs up on the cushions. “But also mildly boring, to say the truth. I love my mate but he is a little lacking in conversation.”

Feyre beams wide and bright, unable to help herself. “I’d said something similar to Elain about Rhys!”

Nesta smiles, folding her arms behind her head. “Is it a mates thing or are our spouses coincidentally dim?”

“I wouldn’t say that about Rhys,” Feyre joins her on the couch, tucking her legs beneath her. “More like I am the dim one. Holding a conversation sounds too similar to reasoning with a five-year-old. He’s always explaining things to me. The way he is fascinated with me is like a higher species trying to make reason of a lower creature’s intellect.”

“Well, you are a baby,” Nesta says frankly, raising her brows. “Speaking of—hand him over.”

Elain fetches Nyx from his spot on the carpet before the fireplace, and passes him over with a kiss to his head.

“Maybe we’re just out of our depth with our spouses,” Feyre figures, watching Nesta coo and beam at her son. “Will it be different if we’re a hundred years old?”

“I think it’d be worse for me; my patience and tolerance are already thin at twenty-six. I can’t imagine being a hundred.”

“Would we age differently?” Feyre wonders, turning to Elain as their sister comes in with dessert and plates. “By a hundred still feel like thirty?”

Elain perches at the edge of the couch as she cuts into a white dessert covered in green shavings of pistachio nuts. “I don’t know,” she answers. “Different species of fae age differently. High Fae seem to mature a little later than humans. So, maybe?”

“Would explain why they’re all babies,” Feyre mutters. “The Illyrians and Mor.”

Nesta snorts.

“They are remarkably immature for their age,” Nesta admits. “Competitive, immature, needy children.”

“Age is…” Elain mulls over her words, passing them servings. “I suppose that when we grow, we are still all the ages we previously were. Feyre finishes twenty-three this year, but she is still the girl she was at nineteen, the girl she was at ten and five, and four and three. Sometimes the girls we were shine through for a moment when appropriate. I think it’s beautiful, that we still carry ourselves while we make room for new memories.”

“That’s…surprisingly comforting,” Nesta replies, and Feyre is inclined to agree. “And wise. When did you get so wise?”

Elain smiles. “You don’t think I spend time around the elderly without picking up a thing or two?”

⁂

“So,” Nesta says late that night, when gossip ran dry. “Who do we have to hunt down? I’d still take a swing at your mate.”

“Sorry?”

Nesta leans her head against the armrest, folding her arms behind her. “Well, you fled to Elain’s apartment, been hiding from your mate and everyone else, and Elain sent for me. I figured we’d need to beat someone up. I may be powerless now, but my fists still retain their force.”

Feyre scowls at Elain, who is curled in a corner of the couch in her Night-Court fashioned nightclothes beneath a blanket with her hair streaming unbound around her. “I could leave if I’m an inconvenience.”

Elain says nothing. Blinks owlishly back at her.

“Oh,” Nesta shakes her head, sliding her feet behind Feyre’s back as she stretches her legs out. “No, she sent for me weeks ago.”

“What?”

“I’ve been expecting you for a while,” Elain softly says, her lips smiling faintly.

“You Saw this?”

“Not necessarily,” the middle sister shrugs. “Call it intuition. I had a feeling you’d need us.”

“Oh,” she says with a small voice, her insides churning like warm broth. “I…thank you?”

Elain shrugs again.

“So,” Nesta gently prompts. “What’s going on?”

“I had a moment of inter-personal crises. It’s nothing.”

“Well, that’s all-right,” Nesta reassures. “We all have that.”

The logs in the fireplace pop, the fire crackles and hisses. Outside, it is snowing, building up on the balcony and Feyre wonders what Rhys is doing in the big empty house all alone. The image tugs at her heart. And so close to Solstice as well, when they’re all meant to be cheerful. Some mate she is.

“What?” Nesta pries.

“I…” she tries not to get chocked up but it’s difficult. She bites her lip and holds her breath in. “I was telling Elain about, about feeling like I’ve missed chances in my life to make some decisions. And…oh, fuck, I don’t want to cry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I suppose I’ve—I worried about Nyx, and when—when you told me about the truth, I was so fucking alone. Everyone knew, and kept me in the dark. Everyone listened to Rhys, everyone was on their last wits for Rhys, because he’s important—of course he is. The entire court would fall but I was so lonely. It felt like I had no-one, and I was just this stranger in their midst that they’d welcomed with open arms.”

Nesta’s sharp face tightens. “You have us.”

“Did I? I’ve never had a full conversation with either of you and we always ignore everything that’s happened to us like it’s not something that follows us around. You were drinking yourself to death, Elain still keeps to herself and granted—granted I never really tried, Elain, but you know I never know how. But it doesn’t stop how fucking relieved I am that I have you both, even if we never talk and are never nice to each other except by a miracle or tragedy. It doesn’t negate the fact you’re the only people I have in the world.”

Nesta ducks her head and Elain meets her watery gaze steadily.

“I’m just glad I have you, in whatever way, I don’t care. I don’t want to ever lose either of you.”

Elain presses her lips together.

“I…” Nesta’s voice cracks. “I don’t want to lose either of you, too. I’m still learning to be more comfortable with myself. I don’t like myself very much, Feyre, and I’m trying to be someone you can like as well. As for the others, you can’t blame them for choosing Rhys. He always comes first—it’s centuries of history with them.”

Feyre bites her lip.

“But, for what it’s worth, I’d choose you anytime over anyone else.”

“Yeah?”

“Definitely.”

“That—That actually means a lot to me.”

Nesta’s eyes glimmer. “I know.”

Feyre averts her eyes to her open palms in her lap. “I get jealous of them, sometimes. They’re very close to one another, and we… we’re not comfortable with each other, are we?”

Elain tilts her gaze up to the ceiling.

“They’re not exactly the ideal relationship,” Nesta reminds her with a raised brow. “There are many fucked-up tones in that Too-Inner-Of-A-Circle. Besides, we’re bound by something far simpler and eternal. We may not be friends, but we’re family. I could replace a husband, or a friend, but who could grow me a sister?”

“You’re our sister before High Lady,” Elain sits up. “A shareholder in bitter pasts and threadbare blankets. A part of us is the same. We are not similar to the Inner-Circle because what binds us first and foremost is the opposite of choice. I may not be a dedicated servant to you, Feyre, but I promise you a faithful sister—with all that the title entails.”

Silence reigns heavily upon them, for a while in which Feyre lets Elain’s simple words sink in, to mark her with the same permanence of her tattoos and bargains, the way family is. Begrudging, reluctant, dragged by the cuffs, and together still.

Her smile is a little shaky. “So, you’d help me ruin their snowball fight this year?”

Nesta grins. “Of course. They’ve had it coming. Especially that spymaster with a stick up his arse.”

⁂

Elain’s words echo in her ear, that night, when the fire’s died, and the wood is naught but red embers and the laughter’s been replaced with hushed silence and Nesta’s whistling nasal breathing next to Feyre’s ear. Elain’s arm a comfortable weight over her waist, and their shared warmth a rekindling of a mute night in a war camp, Feyre stares at the ceiling and listens to Elain mutter senseless things in her sleep.

They are sprawled on the floor, lying on thick carpet and sharing blankets that they still subconsciously tug and wrestle over in their sleep. Feyre is twenty-three years of age, her son asleep on the couch above her head, and her sisters are twenty-six and five respectively. They are fae, now, mated or settled, and their bellies are full of warm food. The fire was warm, and the blanket is thick. But they are still Nesta, Elain and Feyre, huddled together for warmth, knobby knees and pointed elbows digging into ribs and sides, and they are sisters. This has not changed, will not ever, even if the sentiment of it ever should.

Feyre falls asleep to that thought, for the first time in her life doing so completely content.

⁂

“Send for me if you need anything,” Elain rubs Feyre’s upper arms, laden with wrapped up baked goods, bottles of sauce and pickles, and items Elain bought her from the market daily—Feyre doesn’t know what her sister’s left for Solstice, or if she realizes that Feyre’s house is fully stocked up all the time and in want of nothing; much less oranges. “If you ever need a place to stay, place is yours and I keep a spare key under—”

“No need to announce it out loud,” Feyre interrupts, grinning softly over a thick green scarf Elain threw around her from her drawer.

Elain squeezes her arms gently. “See you for Solstice.”

Feyre nods.

“Are you all-right to go home, Nes?” Elain asks their eldest sister, who cradles a babbling Nyx to her chest.

“Yes, yes. I’ll bully Azriel if he’s there or fetch Cassian.”

“I could take you home,” Feyre offers as they walk the mainstreet after waving goodbye to Elain. “I’ve gotten really good at flying.”

“With your needle arms?” Nesta teases. “You wouldn’t be able to get us two feet off the ground.”

“Hey,” Feyre chuckles, but with no true objections. “It’s not my fault Azriel won’t yet teach me to carry.”

“I’m surprised he’s even agreed to resume training you so soon.”

“Oh, he hasn’t. I haven’t had a lesson since before Nyx.”

“And you want to carry me up to the House?!” Nesta shrieks loudly, a sound that’s never escaped her, drawing fleeting looks from startled passersby. Feyre reaches her front door laughing.

“Want to come in?” she asks her sister at the doorstep while the twins unload her of Elain’s over-shopping and disappear inside.

“Nah,” Nesta slides her hands in her pockets after handing her Nyx. “I want to walk around a little. Take care, Fey. Oh, you might get some mail from Cassian soon—or he’ll talk to you himself.”

“What is it?”

“In good time,” Nesta gives her a small smile and a wave, before turning around and walking away.

Nyx grabs onto a lock of hair, leans over her shoulder as he babbles senselessly. She holds him for a moment, sways a little side to side. Cold winter air kisses her face, the house is toasty and warm, and the smell of dinner being made is a perfume of wellness. She breathes in, hugs him tighter and presses a kiss to his cheek.

The door clicks shut behind her, and the moment she turns, her eyes land on Rhys, standing at the stairs in grey slacks and a black sweater.

“Hi,” she says, a little uncertain, a little shy, but if she’s learned anything, it’s to always make the effort. “I thought you’d be in a meeting.”

“I’ve had them cancelled all week,” he replies, voice rough and hoarse. His hair’s unusually tousled and messed, standing up in all sorts on his head. On second glance, she makes out creases in his pants.

“Have you been asleep?”

Her mate doesn’t answer, and doesn’t step down the stairs when she further walks in. His eyes snap to Nyx, twisting in her arms to see him as a massive toothless grin stretches his face.

“He missed you,” Feyre climbs the stairs, and hands him over. Nyx squeals when Rhys takes him.

“What’s that?” Rhys ignores her comment, eyes on the satchel her sister put on her shoulder.

“Elain gave me strawberry jam,” Feyre pulls the jar out. “She made it this spring.”

“But we have some,” he says, brow furrowed, not a hint of humor or a smile on his face.

“I know,” Feyre traces the lid, sheepishly smiling. “But she made it.”

“You’ve been away all this time for jam?”

She swallows, meets his violet eyes and is a little surprised to find them guarded. His entire frame is strung taught.

“Are you angry with me?” she quietly asks.

“Are you?” he replies softly. “You left in the middle of the night without a word. I haven’t heard from you since and all Azriel could tell me was that you were at Elain’s.” 

And it dawns on her: while she’s been dreading his response to her unexplained absence, he’s been just as worried and afraid of the reason. It is comforting, to say the least, that her knowing husband worries just as she does. Can get as insecure as she does.

“I thought—I thought I did something,” she’s never heard him hesitate with his words, or sound so unsure. “That I lost you.”

“No,” the word is barely audible, but clear. “I’m sorry. I just needed a little while to step back and clear my head.”

“It was so quiet,” Rhys’ eyes tighten. She knows what he means. “And occasionally I was hit with this mess of…I don’t know what. Something awful.”

She reaches for his hand, takes it in her own.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not angry with me?” his brows waver.

“No,” she murmurs. “No. I was feeling lonely. I wanted to talk to someone.”

He draws his hand out of hers, and wraps his arm around her shoulder. Feyre can’t help smiling into his shoulder, presses her face to the thick sweater and returns her arms around his waist.

“You could have talked to me,” he says into her hair.

“Ok, I was a little frustrated with you. I’d had enough of you for a while.”

“I’ve barely seen you for months.”

“Exactly.”

“Oh,” Rhys realizes, catching on. “I’m sorry.”

“I know we’d agreed on this. My seeing to Nyx for a while and you taking over my duties, but I’ve been so bored and you barely say anything to me.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“I know. I got jealous.”

“I have been filling my schedule for a purpose,” he reveals. “I’ve seen to all pressing matters, moved up court proceedings and affairs meant for the next two months. Azriel agreed to see to anything emergent.”

“What?”

Rhys smiles at her when she looks up. “I’m free for two months and Helion’s extended me an open invitation to his court. Now I realize we haven’t ever had any time off—war and state do that—and Cassian’s been singing praise of his time with Nesta, so what do you say to a few weeks of our own in Day’s sun?”

Feyre grins. “Really?”

He presses his forehead to hers. “Really. I want to enjoy my time with you.”

“We owe Azriel a massive favor,” she bites her smile. “He’s taken on Amren and Mor’s duties while they go on holiday, was seeing to Cassian’s during his own, and now he’s going to also step in as emergency head of state for ours? Are his days made of the same hours as everyone?”

“Well, he doesn’t run on sleep, so I’d say yes,” Rhys smiles. “I’ve compensated him for all of that, though.”

“Darling after a certain number of the account balance, a bonus means nothing. Especially Azriel who doesn’t spend it on anything.”

“I don’t have anything else to compensate him with,” Rhys shrugs. “After a few centuries of friendship, material matter holds little value.”

“How about a sincere ‘thank you’?”

“Have you seen how emotionally averse he is? He’d combust on the spot.”

-fin-

#haven't stretched that writing muscle in a while so thinks might feel a little wonky at times so please excuse that #also never really written anything feysand pov much less FEYRE so that's a nice change #cannot describe how hard it was to not word vomit ERIEL all over this but i managed #feysand #feyre acotar #archeron sisters #acotar fic #elain archeron #nesta archeron #alright i'll admit this was a little nicer/different in my head but oh well who gives a shit #(i do. very very much) #azriel #heard it's elain week as well :))

[divinemare]

you know what would be absolutely perfect? we know acotar 5 is about elain, but like, there’s another book right? i NEED it to be like tog and have multiple povs, like, to have our three sisters as the main characters, but also include other characters povs

#imagine jumping from a feyre pov to a rhys pov to an azriel pov to a nesta pov to a lucien pov to an elain pov #i would actually cry #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #acomaf #acosf #acowar

[nikethestatue]

Solstice Night (Secrets and Lies)

(Alternative Azriel’s POV of last Solstice)

(This is an alternative version of Azriel’s Bonus Chapter, and how it should’ve have been written to make sense. Thanks to @mrspettyferr for inspiring the idea!)

Azriel tucked in his wings and left without another word, stalking through the house and onto the front lawn to sit in the frigid starlight. To let the frost in his veins match the air around him.

Until he felt nothing. Was again nothing at all.

Then he flew to the House of Wind, knowing that if he slept in the Riverside manor, he’d do something he regretted. He’d been so vigilant about keeping away from Elain as much as possible, and had stayed up here to avoid her, and tonight...tonight had proved he’d been right to do so.

He aimed for the training pit, giving in to the need to work off the temptation, the rage and frustration and writhing need.

He found it already occupied. His shadows had not warned him.

It was too late to bank without appearing like he was running, Azriel landed in the ring a few feet from where Mor practised in the chill night, her sword glimmering like ice in the moonlight.

She lowered her sword upon seeing him, quickly taking notice of his tenseness, the sense of deep unhappiness that came off of him like a wave of darkness, the set jaw, the balled fists.

“You are up late,” he growled instead of greeting her. 

She shrugged and sheathed the sword in the scabbard, saying, “Seems like I am not the only one. I thought you’d be staying at the River Estate overnight?”

“I thought the same of you,” he threw back.

Azriel was usually polite, though he had a dirty mouth and cursed colourfully and frequently, but it wasn’t like him to be short with her. 

After half a millennia of knowing him, Mor had learned to navigate his moods quite well. All of their moods, to be exact, because hers was a moody family. Azriel was the hardest one to understand and his inscrutable visage wasn’t exactly easy to crack, but she had some tricks and tips up her sleeve to get him to relax, or, if he couldn’t relax, then at least confide in her in some manner. This male held too many secrets and all his emotions were wrapped up so tightly inside of him, he was virtually impenetrable. 

She chose to ignore the sniping comment and sighed, curling her arm over and around his elbow, her high ponytail bouncing behind her, as she tugged him gently along. 

“What?” he mumbled. “I am going to bed…”

“We both know you aren’t going to bed,” she waved him off. “So why don’t we have a drink together?”

He grunted something under his breath, and then agreed,

“We can have a drink, but,” he warned her sternly, “don’t pry!”

“Me?” she batted her lashes at him innocently, “when have I ever?!”

“Umm, always. Absolutely always,” he reminded her and she smiled at him, and then placed a loud kiss on his cheek.

He elbowed her lightly and scowled, wiping his cheek on his shoulder, while she laughed softly. 

“Stop slobbering!” he ordered.

“I am not slobbering,” she corrected. “I am kissing. Also, you are awfully grumpy for a Solstice night…care to,”

He wrenched the door open for her, letting her inside, as he complained, “See, you are already prying,”

“I am worrying,”

“Same as prying.”

She chuckled and they descended the stairs, with Azriel walking behind her in sullen silence.

Once they were in the dimly lit hallway, Mor took a turn towards the kitchen, and he continued following her. 

There was a time when this turn of events would’ve been everything that he’d ever wanted. Dreamed of. Him and Morrigan. Together. Alone. Morrigan inviting him for a drink. The two of them, in this great big palatial house, enjoying the silence and the privacy. 

Privacy was always in short supply when their family was around–everyone picking and nagging and laughing and arguing and trying to prove something to one another. Cass trying to one up everyone. Mor drinking too much. Amren pondering and proposing ridiculous ideas, and Rhys getting entirely too excited about them. And that’s when he wasn’t actively trying to pull Feyre into his lap and have her sit just about on his dick in front of everyone. Nesta, if she was even ever present, would imbue the atmosphere with detachment and coldness and give off a generally uncomfortable vibe. And the only oasis of tranquillity and good will would be his girl. Not his. Never to be his either. 

Mor shuddered, as if from being cold, and Azriel told the House ‘more fire, please’. She cocked her brow at him, watching as the fire inside the fireplace came to life at his request and then said, as she began to unbutton her tight leather jacket,

“So it listens to you too? Not only Nesta?”

He rubbed his hands together, feeling the effects of the chill which now prickled his skin and opened his hands to the fire. He’d lied to Nesta earlier today–he didn’t give a shit about the fire, and didn’t fear it at all, and neither did his shadows. What he did suffer from was the reek of that weird Elucien bond–that’s how he began calling Lucien and Elain in his head. Elucien somehow made it easier to accept, or at least tolerate. When he dared to think of Elain and Lucien, of them being fucking mates of all things, that’s when he lost it. That’s when he needed to rush and take it to the sky and fly until exhaustion threatened to destroy him. It’s not like he lacked in muscle before, but these frequent spontaneous fly-outs caused him to bulk up even further. When before he relied on shadow-walking and winnowing, now he relied more on flying, and his whole body was covered in an armour-like layer of bulging sinew and muscles. Not that he cared. Not like his girl was ever going to admire his physique, or run her small, soft hands over his body, and not like her full lips would ever lay a kiss upon his skin, and neither would her tongue trace the lines of his tattoos or scars. All this musculature was good for one thing–wiping the floor with Cassian. The happily soon-to-be-mated Cassian (of that, Azriel had no doubt), who was going to become a husband to Nesta, a lord of a manor, and a father of many. As he deserved. As it should be.

“Yes, it listens to me,” he said at last, “if I am polite and ask nicely.”

She laughed softly, the sound of her voice light and sparkling. It used to be that he lived for the sound of that voice, the desire to solicit this type of reaction from her, a living, breathing need inside of him. Used to be that Mor’s attention, even the tiniest crumbs of it, was all that he wanted. 

Many centuries ago, when they were young and she first arrived at the camp, visiting Rhys and her aunt, it was as if Azriel was seeing life in colour for the first time in his life. Morrigan was painted in gold and light, her hair falling around her and wrapping her up in a shining mantle. He’d barely even seen women before that–for years he was locked in a cupboard like a wild animal, only seeing his mother for too brief periods here and there. When he was dropped off at Windhaven, the females that he found there were hardened by life and their lot. They toiled away, usually tucked somewhere in the barracks, and busy with hard, menial jobs, as they scrubbed clothes, weaved cloths, cooked, cleaned…Without Fae magic in their bodies, the females did everything by hand, similar to the human women out in the Human Lands, while also carrying the weight of their clipped wings around them. At least they usually didn’t breed as quickly as humans and didn’t look after a whole gaggle of younglings, though that just meant that they were forced to serve the males even more.

Princess Morrigan was not like that. She was delicate: her skin pale and rosy, her hands soft and beautiful, her nails lovely and manicured. She was tall and enticingly voluptuous, her breasts already full and temptingly soft, even though at seventeen, she was still just a girl. And he, at nineteen, was a boy. A youngling himself, who’d never even thought much about women, let alone been alone with them, or touched them. He was busy wrangling with emerging powers, the call of them overwhelming him–for not only was he a Shadowsinger, but he quickly learned that his powers far exceeded even those of the most powerful Illyrians. He matched Cassian’s immense strength, though he was more modest about the displays and therefore, was sometimes underestimated, even by his brothers. However, he was just as strong, more agile, quicker, and perhaps, more brutal too. He could fight with relentless savagery, feeling like he had nothing to lose. He was colder and more calculating too, without Cassian’s bravado, but with the desire to win and bring others to heel. He already had three siphons by then–unheard of for someone his age. Unheard of for someone with his background. Unheard of, in general. Battle scarred warriors were lucky to have had three siphons. His were there just to manage his power–he didn’t even use them when he trained, or sparred. He was capable enough to overpower any opponent, including Rhysand, simply by using his strength and ability.

Princess Morrigan was powerful too. Her beauty was a concealment which hid the vast deposits of her great powers and back in the day, Azriel only dreamed of brushing against the reservoirs of that shimmering light, thinking himself unworthy of being in the company of something so pure and magnificent. But perhaps, that was always the problem–Morrigan was too much. Too beautiful. Too powerful. Too attractive. Too funny. Too seductive. And he wasn’t like her. He wasn’t good for her. 

“What are you drinking?” Mor asked, as she began rummaging through bottles at the marble-clad bar. “Shit…” she cried out, “these are either empty or it’s…juice?!”

Azriel sat heavily on the stool by the counter and rubbed the back of his neck. He was tired. Fuck. Was he tired…

“Oh yeah…” he remembered, “no booze here. Because Nesta can’t drink. I forgot. Water. Tea. Or juice. These are your choices.”

Mor pouted, “well, that fucking sucks.”

He wanted to tell her that she was drinking too much and that Dry Winter wouldn’t be a terrible idea for her to entertain, but he held his tongue. Mor knew that she was drinking much too much. In fact, she was a grumbling functioning alcoholic under the cheery, lovely façade and it made Azriel feel sad for her. Mor drank because she was unhappy and lonely, and carried a secret that she did not share with anyone. Much like him. Who would’ve thought that five hundred years later, they would be in the same boat. He certainly had assumed that by now, Mor would’ve been happily wedded and bedded, living side by side with someone she loved, perhaps a mother, formidable in her power and influence. Not Rhys’s Third, with a dubious honour of serving as his emissary and Hewn City’s pseudo queen. 

Azriel chuckled mirthlessly and she filled the kettle and put it on the fire. He could've asked the House to make them tea, but he didn’t mind Mor taking care of him for this one instance. Gods only knew how many times he’d taken care of her and watched over her, even when she had no idea that he was near. 

“Same as usual?” she queried, as she set out two mugs for them. He nodded.

Six sugars for him, the tea extra strong. Lemon and sugar for her. 

“Are there biscuits?”

“Nesta likes the buttery ones,” he nodded toward a cupboard. “Cass pretends not to like the lemon and anise ones, but fails miserably every time.”

Mor snorted a laugh under her breath.

After the party, she’d changed into plain knit trousers, boots, a grey jumper and tied her long golden hair into a ponytail. It wasn’t often that he saw her out of her usual finery, but this was the Mor that only a few knew–not the girl in daring dresses, who favoured red, but a simpler version of her, someone who suffered from self-esteem issues, and who preferred to spar alone, so that no one could observe her. 

Once the water boiled, she brewed them both tea and then brought it to the counter and set it before Azriel, before returning with an array of biscuits on a plate. 

“You know, we just had a huge dinner,” he noted with a chuckle, but that didn’t stop him from picking up a few of the biscuits and sipping on his tea.

“What’s some tea with a good friend?” she shrugged, eyeing him over the rim of her cup.

“You look tired, Az.”

“I am tired,” he said simply.

“Why?”

“There is just a lot going on,” he said vaguely, but the look that she gave him told him that he wasn’t going to weasel out of the conversation, so he squared his shoulders and explained,

“Rhys kind of…threw a lot of my plate. I have to run my network as usual, I have to increase my presence in the Human Lands because of everything that’s happening with Koschei. I have to meet with Lucien and his little gang of misfits on the regular. I have to train the priestesses. I have to deal with Eris,”

Mor’s nose wrinkled at the mention of the male’s name.

“There is research that I’ve been doing regarding Feyre’s condition–without any success,” he sighed deeply and shook his head. “I don’t even know what we will be doing about all of that, and Rhys…”

“What?”

“He refuses…refuses…to make any contingency plans.” 

Azriel sighed again, grasping the hot mug between his hands and seemingly not noticing the burn. 

“Has he said anything to you?” 

Mor bit her lip and shook her head no. He grunted his exasperation and muttered,

“That’s not how you run a Court. I know, I am his brother, and I serve him, but I am worried. I am worried that something awful will happen and we’ll be left holding our dicks in the wind,”

At that, Morrigan barked a loud laugh. Leave it to Azriel to use colourful language when talking about serious issues. 

“He is desperately worried,” she reminded him, her voice soft and laced with concern. “I think he understands the gravity of the situation,”

“He is putting his personal life ahead of his Court,” Azriel said, his tone bitter. She glanced at him in surprise. It wasn’t like him to lose his temper, or to speak so openly about his concerns with Rhys. It wasn’t a secret that the two males often butted heads, and Rhys was not above using his High Lord Coercion to bring Azriel to heel. The inherent dominance of his persona was often the only thing that kept Azriel in check. And if she was being honest, Mor often agreed with Az, as opposed to her cousin. But Rhys was madly in love with Feyre, and on some level, Mor understood that his judgement was utterly clouded by his adoration of his mate and his worry for the future. 

“Apparently, he is exempt from acting like a High Lord right now, and thinking from a political standpoint about the future, or his Court,” Azriel concluded dryly, and Mor sensed that there was more that he wasn’t saying.

“She is his mate,” she reminded him gently. “And she might be dying,”

He snapped, 

“I know all about mates, Mor. And yet, here we are.”

She threw a sharp look at him and demanded,

“So you think I should’ve married Eris? Like a good little mate? For the sake of the Courts and politics?”

He offered her a cold, measured assessment, and then took a long sip of his tea. She glared angrily at him, her temper rising, even more so, because he was ignoring it and absolutely giving no shits.

At last, he said,

“Not for me to judge or decide. I just dealt with the aftermath of it all…”

She crossed her arms on her chest and demanded,

“What did you expect me to do?”

He scrubbed his hand over his face and his wings relaxed behind his back, like he didn’t care about the conversation and was making himself comfortable.

“Listen,” he said roughly, his mood clearly influenced by the sea of anger and resentment that was churning inside of him. “Eris might be a son of a bitch and a cold bastard, but the male has lived with an unresolved bond for 500 years.”

Mor choked on her drink, her brown eyes flaring with alarm, which turned into something very similar to fear.

“What?” she breathed.

Well, if he was going to lay all the cards out on the table, then he was going to commit.

They were due for the conversation anyway. Long overdue, actually. About five-hundred-twenty-years overdue.

So, he conjured a bottle of whiskey, because all that unusual power that he possessed did come in handy once in a while. Mor watched him with wide eyes, perhaps forgetting that he was capable of doing things like these with his magic–because his magic was on par with that of Rhys, a High Lord. But no one was ready to talk about that just yet.

With a snap of his fingers, he brought two shot glasses to the table as well, and then opened the bottle and wordlessly poured both of them a measure. 

“How…” she gasped, long fingers twisting nervously in front of her, “how…no one knows,”

“I know,” he cut her off. 

“How long? How did you,”

“I am a fucking spymaster, Morrigan,” he reminded her coldly and tipped the drink back down his throat. It burned him well, and he smacked his lips, refilling his glass immediately.

“How long?” she demanded.

“Always, I suppose,” he rubbed his temples and said, “Eris isn’t the kind of male to be kind or accommodating to strangers. He is cold, calculating, and wouldn’t be taking too kindly to be made a laughing stock of, not by a seventeen year old girl, who smeared his face in the mud by losing her precious virginity, which was promised to him, to an Illyrian bastard,”

Mor flushed, her cheeks colouring deeply and her eyes dropped to her hands, the shot glass still untouched next to her. 

Azriel drummed his fingers absently on the table, and continued, 

“You see…one starts to wonder what would compel a male like Eris–proud and haughty and cruel–to free this girl, the girl who humiliated him and made him look like a fool, from the binds of a marriage contract,”

“I wasn’t a virgin,”

“Oh yes. That was a good and believable excuse–of course Eris, the heir apparent to the Autumn Court, wouldn’t want to sully himself with a woman who went against him and her family, against her honour, and fucked a boisterous Illyrian bastard, who didn’t have a coin to his name, and just a promise of greatness,”

“Which he fulfilled,”

“Certainly,” Azriel agreed. “But it’s not about your decision to sleep with my brother, while knowing that I had feelings for you,” he threw out coldly, his gaze dark, though he didn’t sound accusatory, but rather…tired. 

To her credit, Morrigan remained in her seat, though he could see that she was itching to jump out of it and run away from the conversation. But he wasn't going to let her. 

“There is a twist to the story, you see,” he bit on a biscuit, thinking that he went from a filling holiday dinner, to tea, to biscuits, to whiskey, to more biscuits, all the while almost kissing his girl, then breaking his girl’s heart, fighting with his High Lord, threatening a Blood Duel, and now dropping some very uncomfortable truths on a woman he used to love. He was really on a roll today.

“Which is?” she wondered, watching him closely, but with a certain level of detachment, almost mesmerised by his storytelling, as if it wasn’t about her.

“Eris wouldn’t have been kind, you see. If he didn’t care, he would’ve taken you on and punished you. Much like Beron did with his wife. You see, I think that the Lady of Autumn had been unfaithful to her High Lord in her youth, or maybe even later in life, and he’d been taking revenge on her for centuries. He beats her, humiliates her, isolates her, he berates her verbally and punishes her physically, all the while using her for power–she is powerful, the Lady of Autumn–and Beron harnesses that power for his own gain,”

Mor gasped softly, whispering, “how do you know all this?”

“I am the Spymaster of the Night Court,” he said firmly, even proudly. “And Eris could’ve followed in his father’s footsteps. He could’ve taken you as his bride, and made you miserable and devastated you in every way possible for all the years of your life,”

She swallowed audibly, paling at his words, at the life she, thankfully, never lived.

“What I think happened,” he rolled his shoulders, and then threaded his fingers through his thick hair, “was that when you were betrothed and met for the first time, the bond snapped for Eris. He was taken with you immediately–still is–because he asks after you to this day, worries about you, insults you, so you’d pay attention to him, and resents you for ignoring him. But the bond did not snap for you…Couldn’t.”

She jumped out of her seat and wrapped her arms around her body, beginning to pace nervously the length of the kitchen. Azriel fell silent, watching her. He could almost see the beating of her heart through the thin material of her jumper, the fluttering of her pulse. She was rattled. Riled up. 

“Azriel,” she turned to him at last, her voice pleading and quiet.

He poured himself another drink, but didn’t actually drink it. His finger circled the rim of the glass and he waited for her to say something. 

“I didn’t know, Morrigan,” he confessed, his voice losing its metallic edge. “I didn’t. For a long time.”

“Know what?” her years brimmed with tears, which she blinked back, refusing to allow them to fall. 

“Come here,” he told her.

She cupped her hand over her mouth, shaking her head, refusing to move.

He watched her crumble, and there was a piece of him that enjoyed her disintegration. Did that make him cruel? He wasn’t sure. She’d hurt him though. Broke his heart. Made him hate himself. Made him doubt his worth–something that never really changed up until this day. She could’ve just told him and he would’ve accepted it. But she didn’t. And he was forced to piece half-truths, lies, conjuncture, half-lies and assumptions together for years. 

“Come here,” he repeated and extended his hand to her. 

“You’ll hate me,” she whispered.

“No,” he flexed his finger, waiting for her, for her hand. “I don’t hate you,”

“Why?”

“You probably hurt Eris more than you hurt me. And I got to live my life side by side with you, and to have you as a friend matters more to me than having some dalliance with you.”

She returned to her seat and placed her hand in his, his long thick scarred fingers closing over her own.

“Eris couldn’t hurt you,” Azriel said calmly, watching her and her tears, which dropped down her cheeks. “He couldn’t hurt his mate. He might have been angry, or embarrassed, but he couldn’t inflict pain on his mate. But you couldn’t accept the mate bond, because,”

“It wasn’t there,” she sobbed softly. “I didn’t feel anything. And he said that I only had to accept it, and then it would snap for me. But I couldn’t,” she wiped her tears with her hand. “I couldn’t…”

“I know,” he stroked her head. “I understand. You couldn’t accept it not because it was Eris, but because he was a male.”

She nodded, crying softly.

“And he did all he could do under the circumstances to protect you–it was brutal, but he had no choice. He left you there, in the forest, and did not touch you. If he did, he would’ve instantly claimed you as his, and for the Autumn Court. You would’ve become his bride, bound to him, regardless of your acceptance of the bond,”

She was nodding steadily. 

“And,” he added, telling her something he’d never told anyone else before, including Cassian, “he passed the coordinates of your whereabouts to Rhys. Rhys gave them to me. I rushed to grab you before any more damage was done to your body and before anyone else from Autumn could claim you…touch you. If you were still untouched, you were under the Night Court’s jurisdiction and time was of the essence.”

Her eyes flew wide open,

“Eris did that?”

Azriel nodded.

“He is still a piece of shit for not finding a way to help you somehow, but at least he did that.”

Her thumb brushed over his fingers and she wondered quietly,

“And you?”

He hummed and shrugged his shoulders.

“I wanted to tell you how I felt about you, which was probably a stupid idea. But I was rattled. Rattled by the idea of your ending up in Autumn. Rattled by the idea of you marrying Eris. Worried that I wouldn’t get the chance to tell you…I understood that every day is precious and we don’t know what could happen to all of us. And there were too many unspoken words as it is between all of us. So I wanted to tell you, but you walked away,”

She sucked in her breath, remembering that awful day, the decision that she had to make yet again, and turn away another male.

“I didn’t know,” he admitted. “I didn’t realise back then that you didn’t accept Eris or the bond not because it was Eris, but because,”

Mor exhaled and took the step that she always feared and refused to take. But Azriel already knew. So it was just a matter of putting it into words. Giving it life. 

“I prefer females.”

He nodded, a small smile dancing on his lips. He looked at her like he was happy for her. Proud maybe. She wasn’t sure, but he certainly didn't seem angry, or surprised.

“How long have you known?” she murmured.

“Ohhhh…for a long time,” he stretched his wings and his arms, his muscles bunching up under his tunic and she looked at him appreciatively. He really was a fine specimen. Like some ancient demigod who descended upon their land–winged and dark and usually swathed in shadows and beautiful beyond belief. He wasn’t like the rest of them and to this day, Mor wasn’t sure of what to make of him. 

“How did you find out?”

“Saw you,” he chuckled, “with that human Queen of centuries ago…I can’t recall her name, but,”

“Andromache,” Mor whispered. 

“You loved her then?” 

She nodded.

“I did. She was my first, and only, great love.”

“A human woman. A married one too. And a queen.”

She scowled and grunted, “I suppose I know how to pick them.”

“I was doing reconnaissance in the Human Lands, and Rhys ordered me to meet up with you and I figured that I’d just drop by, and you’d be happy to see me. Instead, I saw something else, which surprised me, but also, explained everything and at last, I gained clarity.”

“I am sorry,” she said again.

“You should’ve just told us–we would’ve kept it a secret, if you didn’t want your family to know,”

“I know. But at some point, I felt like it was too late. I’ve wasted so much time, and as the years went by, it seemed less and less possible. I would’ve looked absurd–so many lies and so much pretence.”

“We all look absurd at times. You think I don’t look insane,” he snorted an unhappy laugh, “when Rhys still thinks that I am in love with you! In fact, he told Feyre the same thing! Now she also thinks that I am hopelessly enamoured with you, while Cassian doesn’t know what to think at all,”

Mor couldn’t help herself, and laughed a sombre, dry laugh and then lifted her shot glass to him and announced, “to telling lies and being absurd!”

She chugged the drink and he followed her, swallowing his own at once.

She slammed the glass down and then announced loudly,

“You are in love with Elain Archeron.”

Azriel gulped the remains of his whiskey and it burned his throat in an unpleasant way, as he struggled to stifle a cough, while Mor stared at him triumphantly.

“What the fuck, Mor?” he ground out at her.

“I am no Spymaster, but,” she flicked his forehead, “I also know some things.”

He rubbed his hand over his whole face and asked, “What do you know?”

“Just what I said–you are in love. With Elain. Been in love with her even before the War.”

“I am not in love with her,” he protested feebly.

“Liar.”

“She is mated to Lucien,”

“Like you give a fuck,” she huffed. “I am surprised you haven’t just murdered him and hid the body forever,”

“I am not going to murder him,” he grumbled.

“I know,” her tone softened and she stroked his hand. “I know. You won’t even if it torments you, because you love her. And you know how painful it would be for her if he died. She’d lose her mate, and even if she doesn’t care about him and hasn’t accepted the bond, the attachment is still there,”

“That’s why you hate Eris, but care about his well-being,” he muttered.

She bit her lip and didn’t answer, but her silence was telling enough. 

She did hate Eris. Or rather, avoided him. Though she did not feel the bond, there was still a flutter of it in her subconscious. It made her worry about Eris. She hated that she worried about him, but during both Wars, she watched him on the battlefield and was terrified that he would be hurt, or worse, killed. The idea of him dead was unfathomable to her. The bond twisted everything, and all natural resentment that one would feel, turned into an inexplicable longing and pain. She’d always been empty, and unhappy, because there was a space inside of her which was never filled–a promise, unfulfilled forever. She learned to live with it, and she did not doubt her choice, and felt no regrets, but the hollowness remained, as did her concern for Eris. That’s why she could never call a Blood Duel against him, and neither could she challenge him, or conspire against him. That’s why when Azriel attacked him during the High Lords’ meeting, she lost her mind with worry, her loyalties tested and pushed to the limit–her lifelong friend and brother or her unaccepted mate. And when Rhysand betrayed her trust, and went behind her back and chose to ally with Eris, she ultimately forgave her cousin–because Eris did everything to avoid hurting her. Whatever agreement and promises he made to her father, they were powerful enough to convince Keir to remain in Hewn City and not visit Velaris. And she knew that Eris did that for her. 

“Yeah,” she nodded sadly.

“So that means I can’t fuck him up and end him?” he teased darkly.

“Shut up.”

She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, sighing deeply. It seemed to him that a heavy weight was finally lifted off her shoulders. The burden that she’s been carrying for so long, the weight of secrets and lies, finally dissolving and lightening her emotional load.

“Elain is your mate…” she stated simply, but unequivocally.

“What?” his head whipped to her, and then he grabbed her glass and moved it away from her demonstratively, murmuring, “alrighty then, I think no more drinking for you today…”

She laughed and smacked his hand.

“I am not drunk,” she assured him, and then opened her eyes and looked directly at him. “And neither am I lying to you. Listen,” she propped herself on her elbows on the table and said, her expression tense and serious, “the lines are all crossed…and I can’t make sense of them,”

“What lines?” 

“I see…” she scratched her nose, before continuing, trying to put things together for him, “lines…Truths. About people. That’s the power that I have–one of them, anyway–to see truths that no one else sees. And I know how things are connected, how people are intertwined–I saw it with Nesta and Cass, and I knew that they were going to be mates, but she’d fight it and he’d have to fight for her. And I saw the connection between Feyre and Rhys, even though he told me that she was his mate–I knew she’d accept him. Yet, the clearest connection that I saw recently has been between you and Elain. And,”

“And?”

“Someone you might not expect,”

“Who?”

“Vassa and another male,” she stated, and Azriel glanced at her hopefully. 

“Jurian? Or…?”

“I cannot say,” she stopped him. “I can’t say, just in case it would affect that connection,”

“Yet you are telling me about Elain and myself?”

“The connection is already there, and you know it and just about admitted to it.”

“I didn’t admit to anything,” he argued roughly. “It’s friendship. Like it is with you.”

The corner of Mor’s mouth rose in a smirk.

“It’s almost like you enjoy going after unavailable women…”

“Morrigan,”

“Sorry! Sorry,” she waved him off. “But we both know that it’s much more than ‘friendship’. You cried for her, when she was thrown into the Cauldron. You were almost dead, but you cried for her.”

“We've failed them. Me and Cass. We promised to shield and protect them, but we failed them,”

“Yes,” she agreed. “We all did. But that doesn’t explain you heading into the heart of the Hybern camp to save her. Or you arming her with your dagger, which she was able to handle, and rather successfully too,”

Colour bloomed on Azriel’s cheeks as he recalled everything that had passed between him and his girl.

“You hand her a dagger and she kills the King?” she raised a brow at him. 

He cleared his throat and said, somewhat reluctantly,

“We…share power. My shadows react to her, and want to protect her…they care about her, like they care for no one else. And it’s like–I can’t explain it, Mor–but her power, whatever it is, rises up to meet mine, and it’s just so complimentary.”

“So, perhaps you are power mates?” she proposed, her brow creasing with some thought. “It is interesting…”

“What is?”

“She was Made. Her power is wholly Cauldron-based. Gifted to her. But if she matches it with yours, and your power also answers hers, then,”

She paused.

“What?” he laughed. “I am Made too?”

“I don’t know,”

“Well, definitely not in the Cauldron. Probably in the depths of Hel, more like it.”

“More like it.”

He sighed and rose to his feet.

“I better go and catch some sleep. I have a snowball fight to lose in the morning.”

“So defeatist?” she teased him.

“Well, I suppose that’s my truth for tonight…that’s the connection that I see–me, snowballs and losing.”

“Happy losing then.”

She got up and then came over to him and threw her arms around his huge body.

“I am sorry, Az. For everything.”

“I am sorry, too, Mor,” he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “But I am glad that we were able to talk and get it all out in the open.”

“Me too. I wish we weren’t so stubborn and spoke to each other a lot sooner.”

“Better late than never?” 

He flicked his fingers and the bottle of whiskey disappeared.

“Happy Solstice,” she said and then gently kissed his mouth, stroking his head.

He tensed, but then forced himself to respond and said, 

“Happy Solstice, Mor. Thanks for being a good friend.”

She watched him go, and then called out just before he disappeared in the hallway,

“Keep the necklace.”

“What?” he asked in confusion.

“Keep the necklace,” she repeated, and then winnowed somewhere just like that. 

He slept as well as could be expected, but when Azriel returned to the River house to gather his presents before dawn, he found Elain’s necklace amid the pile. He pocketed it.

Spent the rest of his day, even the blasted snowball fight, with every intention of returning it to the shop in the Palace of Thread and Jewels.

But when he returned from the cabin in the mountains, he didn’t go to the market square.

Instead, he found himself following Morrigan’s advice and wrapped the necklace around his wrist, like a bracelet, before he hid it under his leather Siphon band. 

He drank the sense of power that emanated from the necklace, before pushing it down deep, where it glowed quietly.

A thing of secret, lovely beauty.

#Azriel #Morrigan #Azriel and Mor #Moriel #Azriel and Morrigan #my fanfiction #my writing #Solstice Night #secrets and lies #eris #elain archeron #elriel #pro elriel #SJM rewrite #acosf azriel pov #angsty #Moriel finally talking

[pinkrasberryfish]

Chapter 16 - "I Won't Survive" - now available for my ongoing fic, A Court of Blood & Mercy! 🖤🗡🩸

#i'm doing every week right now and so proud #wednesday fan fic #elriel #elriel fic #elriel fan fic #elriel fanfic #elriel fics #elriel fanfiction #elriel fan fiction #elain x azriel #pro elain archeron #azriel and elain #azriel POV

[antipinkkitten]

Day 10 Prompt: Theories

Chapter 41: Deals with devils

Summary: Azriel finds out about the deal, Rhys makes a plan, the wards are cleaved again as Elain finds out what to do. Plus, an ultra sweet Gwyn and Azriel scene.

A Court of Blooms and Blades (123331 words) by antipinkkitten Chapters: 42/50 Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas, Crescent City Series - Sarah J. Maas, Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Elain Archeron/Lucien Vanserra, Elain Archeron/Azriel, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Nesta Archeron/Cassian, Azriel/Gwyneth Berdara Characters: Elain Archeron, Lucien Vanserra, Azriel (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Rhysand (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Feyre Archeron, Gwyneth Berdara Additional Tags: Slow Burn, Love Triangle, Rejection, Eventual Smut, POV Multiple, Mating Bond, Heartbreak, Break Up, Healing, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapy

#gwynriel weeks 2024 #pro gwynriel #acotar #elucien #romance #elain archeron #multiple povs #pro elain #eventual happy ending #eventual smut #gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #pro gwyn #gwyn x azriel #elain x lucien #sjm books #sjm universe #sjmaas #maasverse

[athena-85]

Why it isn’t in Sarah’s best interest to write an Elain POV

I have often heard authors that have characters with powers, such as foresight or insight avoid writing point of view scene from those characters.

The reason:

When writing a novel, you must create suspense and conflict. Characters that know what will happen can sometimes make it more difficult to create a compelling novel. You have to remember and weave what they see into the plot. You have to deal with the fact that if you know the future ; does that change the outcome? You loose the suspense or you have to create it another way. 

For example, in the story line from a kingdom of the wicked, one of the main plot points that caused a lot of suspense was what the heck was going on with Emilia.🤐 The author purposely did not put us in the POV of any characters that knew the curse that was on Emilia😈, so we were also in the dark as to who Emilia was, and why Wrath behaved the way he did, and why Victoria was such a asshole for most of the book. We wouldn’t have an emotional response, the same way, if we knew the motivations behind Victoria’s actions. We wouldn’t be upset with her. Preventing us from being inside the other characters heads made it more suspenseful. If the author put the reader inside Wrath’s head, or even Victoria’s head, we would know the outcome before the end of the book. That’s Boring! And most likely would’ve ruined the book and the suspense. These young adult romance fantasy novels are not masterpieces. They are main stream blockbusters need to appeal to many different people of different backgrounds. You have to make it simple.

Has Sarah commented on this?:

I even think an interviewer with Sarah J mass has said if we were to get inside Elain‘s head we would know too much. Depending on Elain‘s story arc, and the development of her powers, Sarah may never give Elain a POV.

Sara wants us to be guessing what is going to happen. We knew exactly what was gonna happen at the end of A court of silver flames. We knew that Nesta was going to end up with Cassian, it actually diminishes the angst in the book.

For example: A court of mist and fury;We did not know that Feyre was Rhysand’s mate until much later. We did not know if they were going to end up together. It made the angst better, and I think we lacked this suspense in A court of silver flames.

Imgaine if we get inside Elain’s head through a POV, and we see a vision of Lucien with Vassa that totally gets rid of the will She won’t she plot line.

Just some thoughts 🤔

#elain archeron #sarah j maas #acotar 5 #Elain’s POV #cc3