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exquisitley-obsessed · 3 years

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Fiancés, Firebirds, Foxes and Fawns: 1

Author: @exquisitley-obsessed

Summary: A few weeks after Briallyn's attempt at uniting with Koschei, Lucien opens the door of Lockhart Manor to find Elain, cold from the rain and holding a note from the High Lady of the Night Court demanding her to assist Lucien in building alliances with the human councils. Forced to work together by their exhausted High Lord and Lady, Elain is able to convince anyone to do anything, while Lucien has the acquaintances to go anywhere he likes. Together, they attempt to unite the fae and mortal lands and unravel the deal made between Koschei and Vassa, while Lucien remains haunted by his own promise to Elain's father. ELUCIEN, POST-ACOSF

Pairings: Elain x Lucien, Elucien

Warnings: None.

A/N: This is going to be a long, slow burn fic (hopefully)

MY MASTERLIST

THIS FIC’S MASTERLIST

AO3

Chapter One: Moonlight Messages

Soon, the flowers wouldn’t be enough. No, Elain corrected herself as she glared at the vase, they weren’t enough already. They had never been enough.

The house slept while Elain perched on her window ledge at the River Manor. Despite her cotton nightgown, she had not yet been able to find sleep herself, as so often she did these days. And so, Elain had risen to sit in the silver light of her window ledge and watch the impossibly beautiful night sky of the Night Court wink down at her tauntingly.

The revelation had occurred to Elain a few nights ago, but it hadn’t seemed important then and, along with most of Elain’s life experience thus far, had been brushed under the proverbial carpet. Her education in the etiquette of balls, the correct way one must curtsey in the presence of lady’s and dames, even the novels she’d read on the history of cutlery; it was all useless. She should be upset; she should care that the values that had been instilled in her by her terrifying mother had all but evaporated. But Elain felt nothing.

She was afraid of the flowers, though, because once they’d gone she’d really have nothing left. No mother, no father, no mortal etiquette, in fact, no mortality at all. After being reborn in a world that didn’t make sense to her, after being abandoned by everything she held dear, her father, her fiancé, gardening truly was the only common factor between her life then, and her life now.

And that was useful, to begin with. Gardening was a lifeline to pull her out of the fog that was those first months out of the Cauldron. It should’ve been a steppingstone in her road to recovery, the first step into her new life. Instead, it had consumed her.

As Feyre continued to prove that she’d always meant to be the High Lady of the Night Court, and especially when Nesta – Nesta – found her footing with the Valkyries and began to make a life for herself in Prythian, Elain was left to her flowers. There was nothing else for her, no purpose. No one knew how to talk to her; too afraid she might break if they ask anything more of her than a new pot of petunias.

But if flowers were all the universe could give her, whilst her sisters got married and began to spew out their beautiful children, then she would be grateful. But the flowers weren’t enough, and she was a fool to ever think otherwise.

She’d read every book, familiarised herself with the climates of the different courts and the different shrubbery that grow there. The information was running out, and so, her purpose was running out. Maybe this wouldn’t have threatened her when she was a human, when she only had a good 80 years, if she were lucky, before she’d be taken in the arms of oblivion. But it was eternity that now stretched before her. Eternity of being her sister’s gardener.

Death gives life meaning, petal – so live. It’s what Elain’s father had told her when Graysen had asked for her hand in marriage. Elain had kneeled at her father’s feet, giggling as she gripped his knees and begged him to say yes. In all her life, she’d never been so happy. She was to be married, she was to have her own estate, her own gardens! Imagine that. It would be a little life, nothing of the prince her mother had sworn she was pretty enough to marry. But Elain would’ve gone with Graysen even if he had only a cottage and a ring made of straw.

Her mother, rest her soul, had told Elain that she was a fool, because she believed in romance the way children of the night believed in the fae. Elain devoted her life to romance, her holy books were the novels her father had brought her from the continent, full of dangerous escapades and rising tension, love confessions and secret weddings. Where Nesta had wished to marry rich, Elain had wished to fall in love.

Silly girl, infatuated with infatuation. Her mother’s voice echoed around her head. Just wait, Elain. Wait until a man breaks your heart, it’s all they know to do, then you’ll realise that you and I, well, we aren’t so different after all.

Elain hated her mother for a multitude of reasons, but most of all because she was right. Now her engagement ring was sitting at the bottom of her beside drawers, her heart was broken, her body something else entirely, and her mind…Her mind was torture. It was a labyrinth, and it was complicated. Where Elain used to have silence, she now had noise, endless undisturbed chatter of visions that had not yet taken form. And above it all, beating like a drum of justice – his heartbeat.

At that moment, it was steady and satiated, and Elain knew that meant he was asleep. Lucien, her mate, safe and asleep on the other side of Prythian, and though she could never admit it to herself, the thought did bring her some comfort. At least Lucien was stagnant and reliable, even if he was only reliable in his ability to avoid her at all costs.

It felt like rejection.

All this time Feyre and Nesta, even Rhysand, had talked to her about Lucien in terms of everything being her choice. It would be her choice if she wanted to accept the bond with Lucien, and no matter her decision, Lucien was a good enough male to accept that choice and move on. But it didn’t much feel like her choice mattered, not when her supposed soulmate spent his days at the other end of the lands, as far away from her as possible. Maybe he was hoping she’d reject the bond, but that didn’t explain his behaviour when he visited, all racing heartbeats and flushed cheeks.

Lucien was a hypocrite, Elain couldn’t help but think as she sighed into the crook of her elbow, feeling a surge of emotion batter through her. Damn her human heart. Lucien was a hypocrite because in leaving her, he’d left her with no choice at all.

He may as well have rejected her. As Graysen had rejected her. As Azriel had rejected her.

All Elain wanted was to love, and to be loved, and yet she was loveless, alone – drowning, all over again. Most of the time Elain could keep the ocean of agony at bay, the one that had almost killed her when she’d first come out of the Cauldron. But then there were moments like these, in the dead of night, when she could not sleep. In these moments, the pain had nowhere to go, and it rose up in her life a black wave, before taking her under.

Sinking her teeth into the crook of her elbow until she tasted her fae blood, Elain battled through the wave of emotion. Her tears coming hot and quick as she curled into herself and lay, paralyzed in the depth of her aloneness, till the clouds smothered the moon and turned the world dark.

***

On the other side of Prythian, Lucien found himself tumbling into consciousness. He was sprawled on his back in his bedroom of the Lockhart manor, the residence of Vassa and Lucien, and he supposed, his own home too. Supposedly. The pale sheets were crumpled around his waist and his bare chest was rising steadily in the moonlight.

Unable to stay still, and forever thinking the worst after a childhood of running and hiding, Lucien sprung from his bed and unsheathed his sword from where it hung on a nearby armchair. Breathing through his nose, Lucien turned back to the dark room, his eyes, one fae, one machine, roved over the room, checking for any threat.

But the moment he was up and moving, his body showed him his cause for waking. A sharp, agonising tug from in between his ribs on his left side caused Lucien to surge forwards with a gasp, his sword cluttering to the floor. Just when he recovered from that first tug of the mating bond, a second followed, throwing Lucien onto his hands and knees as a wave of pure, agonising, hopelessness washed over him.

“What…” Lucien gasped into the silence, his hand running over his ribs, trying to ease the bond that was so fervently demanding his attention. The bond had pulled on him, not Elain – at least he could tell that by now. But the way in which the bond had demanded his attention, it was haunting. It felt as though it had reached the end of a limit, like an elastic band stretched to far only for it to snap right back.

With his mating bond being tugged on so viscerally the base mate desires that Lucien had spent two years putting a damper on, raged into fiery life. Go to her. Find her. Comfort. Keep her safe. Protect her. Comfort…She’s hurting. Kill the threat. Growling into the silence, Lucien scrunched his eyes shut and threw himself against those urges, shoving them deep down. As he did so he repeated his mantra to himself – ‘She doesn’t need me. She doesn’t want me. I will not demand anything of her. She’s fine.’

The last one didn’t really help, not if the overwhelming sadness was any indication of how his mate was faring. She’s upset. The bond seemed to whisper in his ear and Lucien felt his guts turn. Elain was supposed to be happy, that’s why he was doing all of this. He was keeping himself on the other side of the world so she could find herself, so she could be happy. But she wasn’t. If that spout of emotion was enough of an indication, Elain was miserable.

Sighing, Lucien rocked back onto his knees and ran a hand down his face, only for his hand to come away wet. Touching his cheek again, Lucien smelt the brine of tears in his room. But they weren’t his tears. No, a lady, his lady, was weeping on the other side of the world, hard enough for her tears to roll down his cheeks.

Again, Lucien felt his guts turn and thought for a moment he might be sick. Throwing himself to his feet Lucien sat back on his bed, glaring out his window to the moon, the same moon she might be looking at, at that very instant.

Lucien didn’t have anything going for him. He was a traitor, a coward, a seventh son, an outsider; when the world reforged itself around the Archeron sisters, Lucien had got left behind. No, not left behind, stuck. He was neither here nor there. Neither friend nor foe. Nothing was solid in his life, nothing constant, except that golden thread wrapped around his ribcage, tugging him north to…her.

She was enigmatic and good, supposedly. The same way he was supposedly cunning. He wanted to…well, he wanted to do everything. But in this moment, and over the past few months, he just wished to know her. A minute of her time, each day, would that be so much. But she was beyond him, in every sense of the word.

She was still broken and still healing, and he couldn’t impose himself into her new world. Right?

Lucien groaned and turned away from the moonlight, burying his head into his pillow. All Lucien seemed to be able to think was that somewhere, on the other side of Prythian was Elain. Elain, alive and well. His mate. His mate. Mother, he’d never get over saying those two little, impossible words.

She was his soulmate, did that mean she was awake now, thinking of him the way he thought of her? Obsessively, incandescently, without remorse or restraint. Rolling on his back, Lucien looked again at the moon.

“Are you thinking of me?” He whispered into the silence, only the moonlight and the mother to hear the tremble in his voice, “…because I’m thinking of you…I’m always thinking of you.”

#acotar #elucien #elucien fic #Elain #elain acotar #elain x lucien #elain archeron #elain and lucien #lucien #lucien vanserra #lucien x elain #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acosf #fffaf

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flowerflamestars · 3 years

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Let's ask the hard questions here, baby. What do you think the series would have been like had it been Nesta Archeron under the mountain?

BABE this is it-this is the best question I’ve ever been asked.

For one thing, chaotic. For another: I think the simple substitution reframes the whole structure of the narrative. It’s not about a journey to power that fights Evil Tyranny (abused Human to Hero to High Lady).

It’s a story about the people working around, beside, under the powerful Lords- and the difficult choices they make. Less Hero’s Journey more, Look, These Are the Real Heroes.

Let’s start with Spring. We know now that the whole you killed a faery now you have to come to faeryland thing was an insanely shitty ruse. So maybe Andras is still alive. Maybe Feyre killed him and Nesta successfully protected her sisters. Maybe Tamlin is just a twat and went that one is pretty. ANYWAY-

Nesta gets to Spring. Lucien doesn’t immediately despise her, for, you know, murdering and skinning his only friend (a handy sublimation of the anger he can’t express against his High Lord). Nesta was raised in the fucking gentry and Nesta can play the game- it’s a question of willingness.

Feyre is a lot more willing to roll with weird circumstances for caution. Nesta is, to her bones, an aggressor. Empty manor doesn’t add up? She’s going to say something so cutting, and so infuriating to Tamtam she ends up seeing all the faeries. She steels herself, refuses to be afraid of Alis, and asks questions. (See, Nesta’s first IC dinner, zeroing in on the scariest faery and refusing to flinch)

At some point, there’s a confrontation.

But it’s not between Nesta and Tamlin. Now, in canon Tamtams is extremely willing to drag his feet on the curse. In this version, that is so much worse- sure, he’s into Nesta (Nesta, recall, just looks like sharper Feyre), but Nesta takes one look at this fragile immortal man child and roasts the shit out of him. What’s he going to do? Kill her? Negates all the stupid trouble he went to. Punish her? He clearly needs her for something.

Tamlin cannot handle that. There are no Romantic Moments. Nes spends calanmai watching faeries do weird shit out her window. She sure as fuck doesn’t drink faery wine and dance for Tamlin at the solstice. It is not happening.

So Nesta spends a lot of time alone, wandering around. Talking to Lucien, Alis, random-ass faeries out of sheer reckless ego, reading every book in the ugly manor.

Nesta confronts Lucien. I’m going to go with after the wingless dead faerie and the head in the garden. The stupid blight conversation.

This works differently and better than Feyre’s attempts to get more information for I think, two important reasons. 1) Lucien and Nesta speak the same language in acotar. It’s all anger babes- sharp edged, sexy, bullshit. There’s no cycle of forgiveness then softening- they are the same, too the same, tired and self-hating survivalists bored out of their minds in a gilded death trap.

and 2) Nesta and Feyre are quintessentially perceived differently. Feyre is hopeful- tenacious, young, free. She shakes up things for these old ass faeries and gives them something to believe in. It’s youth for the eternally young.

Nesta...is not that. She gets under your skin, forever. Multiple faeries meet her throughout the books and have very extreme reactions to that- but what matters at this point, as a mortal- Nesta reads as an adult. She’s immune to glamour. Her strength isn’t kindness or an open heart, it’s fucking steel that might take your last breathe.

And look, Lucien would respond to that. Tamlin...isn’t even talking to the girl his people died to get him. The curse is almost over and they’re all going to get tortured. Nesta, has, from day one, known something is wrong- she’s so angry, and it makes it easier for Lucien to be angry.

It’s not hunting bros who become Real Friends, it’s fire and gasoline. Empowerment.

So, I haven’t read acotar in ages- but I’m pretty sure they literally couldn’t tell her about Tamlin’s curse. But Lucien can communicate around the magical fuckery- there’s a great evil. The kids in Winter are all dead because of another High Lord.

And look, Nesta cares about dead kids. She even, begrudgingly, cares about Lucien. She does not give a single flying fuck about the High Lords.

But Lucien, in this world, is the first one to say it: Hybern.

Amarantha is Hybern’s general, and Hybern wants all of Prythian. All of it.

Nesta is absolutely going to walk into the fire to keep the humans- and by extent, her sisters- safe from faeries.

Tamlin- because he does not love Nesta- doesn’t send her away. Doesn’t crush any savage hope Lucien harbored, doesn’t do shit. He gives up.

And so Spring is dragged beneath the Mountain.

Nesta has exactly two advantages on her side: she can see through glamour, so she’s not 100% disoriented and vulnerable (just..you know, terrified), and sheer force of will.

Amarantha likes will. She likes to break it, and there are so few real contenders left after her victory.

Nesta doesn’t bargain- Nesta doesn’t beg for Tamlin’s life and love- she asks to win her own.

Amarantha wants to crush her like a bug. Insignificant little human- but wouldn’t it be more fun to watch each little crack form?

So she gets the riddle. Tamlin’s power is thrown in like the boring chekovs gun that it is. Lucien (probably) gets beat up because Lucien always gets beat up under the Mountain.

Nesta has two choices: she can answer the (stupidly cliched, easy) riddle right there, and try to walk out. (Nesta knows she’s not making it out alive). Or she can wait, and play the game. (She’ll be damned if she doesn’t take that insane bitch and maybe Tamlin down with her. Her only ally is Lucien and he’s being hauled off with a bleeding headwound soo..)

Nesta lets herself be dragged away. She doesn’t fight.

Let us remember again, that the Archeron sisters are built like a triptych. A presumable almost mother maiden crone. They look alike, especially Nesta and Feyre. If Rhysie boy thinks Feyre is hot at first glance, guess what he also thinks about Nesta?

So, yes, of course he goes to offer a deal. And let’s be clear on something- when Feyre hated Rhysands guts, what did he like about her? That she was beautiful, absolutely didn’t give a fuck, and what’s that? Fought with him.

She lets him heal her, but then- Nesta won’t even talk to him. Nothing he does works. They come to agreement (which Rhysand finds fascinating, a human with loyalty, that human heart) that Nesta will listen to Rhysand’s offer if and when, he delivers to her a whole, safe, Lucien Vanserra.

Rhys frames this as emotional torture. Incentive. He doesn’t need to play evil as well- Nesta hates fucking faeries. And she knows he killed a bunch of children.

So Lucien gets thrown in the cell. Minimally healed. About to embark on the misery train, self-deprecating laughter at the fact he’s healed, now, because of Nesta.

Lucien: so nice of you to make sure we’re all pretty before we die, Archeron. Final night spent huddling for warmth together?

Nesta: Shut up. Shut up- tell me why the fuck Rhysand would be trying to make a deal with me.

They come to the conclusion that, while Rhysand is a monster, he also has no control of his own. He’s completely under Amarantha’s thumb, and apparently, wants out.

Nesta, because she always goes for the jugular, has another thought: Are you really going to go back to Spring after this? He gave up. He gave up and you were rotting in a cell.

Lucien, to whom Nesta is both gasoline and mean friend catnip, but who is also a Sad Boi: where else can I go?

So they make a plan. Rhysand thinks Nesta is the key to killing Amarantha? Cool, Amarantha needs to die. Tamlin is the only High Lord who has access to his power more readily? Tamlin needs to do the killing.

What does Nesta want? There to be no Hybern coming to burn the land where her sisters live. To go back, to go home- but Nesta doesn’t think, even for a second, she’s really going to make it out alive. And if she does, as she thinks late at night, of Feyre’s laugh, or Elain’s quiet humor- how will it ever be safe? They live on the Wall.

Nesta is known to faeries now- Nesta is infamous, and there’s nothing to stop anyone, should her presence lead them back to her home.

Nesta privately decides Tamlin should die too.

So when the time comes, and Rhysand is like, I’ll protect you, you’ll be mine and you’ll be healed- Nesta says no. Nesta, because she really has never learned to back down- looks dead in the eye of the High Lord of Night, the monster who sleeps beside Amarantha and says: safe passage.

She’ll do what Rhys wants, for this: Lucien Vanserra’s safe passage to a safe place, and for Rhysand to promise not to get in her way when she answers the riddle.

Rhys still wants her to come to the Night Court- for whatever nebulous reasons he wanted Feyre to...which only make sense AFTER she’s changed by the High Lords...which Rhysie couldn’t have known, BUT ANYWAY- Nesta says yes. She doesn’t expect she’ll be alive to pay.

Lucien sulks back to Tamlin’s side, and spends a few weeks between challenges laying it on thick. A quiet whisper that grows, a perfect stroke to Tamlin’s volatile ego. How dare Amarantha, how dare Nesta- Tamlin is a Lord, Tamlin is Spring- Tamlin, who has suffered so much more than the other Lords, deserves his power back.

Nesta is dragged out for the final challenge.

In one of the long, dangerous hallways, her guards look the other way for just a moment- for a visitor. The High Lady of Autumn knows her son is safe because of this girl.

She hands Nesta a knife. A small gift- all she can. Steel, not ash, small enough it will go unnoticed.

Nesta is dragged before the throne, before the High Lords, Tamlin and Amarantha, Rhysand.

Nesta answers the riddle.

And when Amarantha refuses to abide the rules- Tamlin, carefully manipulated without coordinating by both Rhys and Lucien, goes apeshit.

This does not stop Amarantha from hurting Nesta. The opposite- she’s trapped in the fight between them. When Amarantha does give Tamlin over the power, it doesn’t stop- unloved by even a human, and now she’d take any chance he’d had to win her as he really was.

Nesta doesn’t stab Amarantha. Nesta lays there, bleeding to death, biding her time.

Tamlin murders Amarantha. Rhysand doesn’t beg, but he’s there, getting growled at by Lucien as he tried to staunch Nesta’s wounds.

Amarantha dies, and Tamlin, glowing with power, makes his way to Nesta. They think he’s going to heal her- to try, but Tamlin is Tamlin, so he pulls her into his arms.

Nesta, who knows she’s going to die- Nesta, who was taken from her home, her family, deprived of her life by the choices of this man- Nesta lets Tamlin embrace her, the arrogant, stupid bastard, and stabs him in the throat.

It is the golden, desperate words of Lucien Vanserra that convince the High Lords to heal her. It is Rhysand who tries first, who gives the most. After all- Tamlin had been too selfish to try, and they’d all suffered for it. Faery justice: swift and bloody.

Nesta had died victorious. Nesta died with a bloody autumn court dagger in one hand and the grip of her only real friend in the other- but death was chaos. Skies and stars and howling wind, love and blood and war.

A thousand miles away, Cassian awoke screaming, clawing at his own chest.

She climbed through blood and battle, dreams and hope, floated to an infinite sky: and found herself alive.

Breathing, whole, an immortal monster. On her way to the Court of Night with Lucien by her side.

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unhealthyfanobsession · 3 years

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New Drabble added to my A03 Series: Guilty Canvas.

Full drabble posted below but here’s the A03 link if you’d rather read it there: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30357864/chapters/75097899

Summary: Feyre shows Cassian something she painted a long time ago and the two reflect on the lives they’ve built with the person they love.

Feyre shuffled on her feet, still unsure if this was a good idea. Three decades had passed since she’d completed this painting and no one had ever seen it. She couldn't imagine why anyone depicted would want to. She knew even Rhys wouldn't care to relive the realities of that day yet. But Cassian was different, more like her in that way. And Cassian knew that not all of her art was… happy. He had seen her painting her own hollow rib cage, had caught glimpses of canvases depicting fae drowning on dry land, blood-smeared battlefields and he never looked away. Only stood in the door, weight on his toes, happy to turn and leave if she wanted privacy. Then he caught her a few days ago in the act of painting Azriel dragging him off of the battlefield.

She thought that would be the one that finally sent him reeling. Cassian would never get upset in front of her, but she expected to hear thing break in his wake. She wasn't prepared for the utterly still, calm look on his face as he watched her immortalize his vulnerability. When she finished he only swallowed and asked her what the title was.

Blood Brothers

He’d swallowed again and nodded, staring at the painting before telling her thank you and I never want to see it again in the same breath. She saw it in his eyes though, once the cold shudder left there was a soft sort of acceptance, as if seeing how she saw it helped him. Perhaps allayed a bit of his guilt. And then she knew that she had to show him this as well. She waited a few days, but she knew. Because if she was to think about Cassian and guilt… she knew that there was a day he would never forget.

A day she had already painted.

No matter that everything turned out well in the end. No matter that he and her sister were happier than anyone could imagine. She knew that they all still had scenes in their heads that sent them lurching out of bed at night. Haunted them. And this was Cassian’s greatest regret.

Maybe one day she would show it to Nesta as well, but… Feyre knew that her sister might never be ready to face this. This reminder. This pain. Even if Nesta had smirked at the war-time painting Feyre showed her a few years ago- Nesta, blood-splattered in Illyrian leathers, holding the King of Hybern’s head like a trophy.

That was a moment of victory though. This… this was Nesta’s ultimate moment of weakness. And Cassian’s.

Cassian stood entirely still beside her. Still in a way he only ever seemed to be while he watched her paint, or when he was listening to Nesta down their bond in the least subtle way imaginable. The fae tended to be still creatures, but that trait somehow never rubbed off on Cassian. He was restless. Constantly shuffling to expel extra energy, power that begged to be released. Feyre took a step back, letting him have this moment, but not leaving. She simply stood by the door, there if he wanted to talk but easily dismissed if he would rather be alone.

And then the Lord of bloodshed fell to his knees in front of a 3-foot square of canvas, hand brushing against the careful strokes, making contact with the tiny recreation of the woman that he couldn’t reach that day.

Because Feyre had painted that moment exactly as she saw it. A throne blurred in the chaotic background; Elain just visible at the edge with Lucien’s cloak draped around her. A green and blonde blob angrily scratched into oblivion, and her sister knee-deep in the dark, frozen waters of infinity. One finger pointed towards the blurred-out king, blue-gray eyes sparking silver in molten rage.

On the other side of the canvas, Azriel, Mor, and Rhys blurred into a tangle of limbs and blood with Cassian himself sharp and clear. Wings ripped to shreds. Feyre swore she saw the Illyrian General rustle his wings just to make sure they really had healed from that day. As if he hadn’t realized how bad the damage was. Had never seen it.

But Feyre knew that wasn’t really what he was looking at. He was looking at his hand, soaked in Azriel’s blood, one dim siphon nearly extinguished at the top of his palm, reaching out. His eyes were closed, his power failing, his spirit broken, but his hand lifted, towards her. Always towards her.

Nesta’s hand was flung out in a death promise and Cassian’s was desperately reaching to keep a life promise.

A promise he made her.

Cassian turned away from the painting, tears streaming down his face, and asked Feyre the same question he always did when he saw one of her paintings. He was one of the only people who truly appreciated the importance of the answer. Who knew that she saw and titled every image in her mind long before she actually set brush to canvas.

“What is it called?” His voice shook, as if her answer would condemn or redeem him in and of itself.

“It doesn’t matter” Feyre said quietly, it was not her place to deliver his condemnation or redemption. There was nothing to be redeemed, and no reason to be condemned. She only wished he knew that. Might finally be able to see it. “all that matters is that once you pull yourself together, you’ll fly back to the House of Wind, where she is waiting for you” a nod of her head towards the Nesta in the painting “where you daughter is waiting for you. Where the life you built out of this is waiting.”

Cassian breathed in “What. Is. It. Called.”

Feyre stepped forward, pulling a strip of tape off of the bottom of the frame.

The Next Life

Cassian sagged and Feyre put a hand on his shoulder. “I know you think that you failed that day. But I think everything happened exactly as it had to for us to build everything we have now. Because without that day… Rhys, Nyx, and I would all be dead.” They both shuddered “Alaya would never have been born.” Cassian’s mouth twitched up as he could never stop it from doing when his daughter was mentioned.

“Thank you” Cassian said quietly.

“And you never want to see it again?” Feyre guessed.

Cassian shook his head “keep it. When she’s old enough… I want Alaya to see it. To see how strong her mother was, even as a human.”

“And to know that she deserves someone who loves her as much as you have always loved her mother.”

“From the second I saw her.” Cassian grinned “hate and love all wrapped up in one raging human” he chuckled “maybe we’ll keep that part from her.”

“Please” Feyre scoffed “there’s no way she grows up in this city without hearing the legend of her parents'… tumultuous courtship.” She smirked “Amren certainly filled Nyx in on Rhys and I’s… complicated beginnings.”

“We’ve really all gotten far too comfortable with each other.”

Feyre grinned and Cassian returned the smile. Cassian seemed lighter as an unspoken truth settled between them. Neither of them would change a second of what brought them here, to this moment, cloaked in love and family and knowing exactly where, who, their home was.

#nessian #cassian #feyre archeron #nesta archeron #acosf #a court of silver flames #nessian fanfiction #cassian and nesta #nesta and cassian #acotar #acomaf #acowar #a court of wings and embers #a court of thorns and roses #a court of mist and fury #a court of wings and ruin #sarah j maas

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mmvalentine · 3 years

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Of Mermaids and Men pt 1 | Feysand

I got a lovely ask from an anonymous sender requesting a Feysand fic in a mermaids and pirates AU. This is something I would not have thought of myself in a million years, so whoever you are, thank you for this prompt!! Might be a sort of two-shot deal, we'll see how we go.

Feyre had been in this tank for 63 days. She knew this not because the lamps ever turned off or gave her a sense of day or night, not because there was any natural light to indicate what hour of day it might be, not because there was anything at all to mark the passing of time. But because the head scientist walked in every morning and dictated notes to his assistant: "The date is the 22nd of March, in the year of our lord 1705. This is day 63. Subject 104 seen resting on floor of the tank, appears to have eaten the fish we fed it. Mermaid diet apparently indiscriminate."

Feyre hissed at this. She hadn't wanted to eat anything they had given her, but they only fed her every three days and the hunger took over. The scientist raised an eyebrow. "Subject 104 baring teeth, does not seem to be adjusting to new social environment."

What social environment? Feyre thought. She was alone in the tank, and the scientist never addressed her directly.

Once, when she was first caught, the scientist's red headed assistant attempted to communicate with her. He had put a hand up to the glass, and said "Hello mermaid. My name is Lucien, and this is Tamlin."

Feyre had been so scared, and so disoriented that all she could do was swim in circles, looking for an exit.

"Come away from there," the head scientist had said. "Don't bother the subjects, they can't understand you. And besides, you'll ruin the integrity of the experiments."

So Lucien had shot her a sad and sorry glance, and walked away. And no one had spoken to her since.

Of course, Feyre had tried to talk to them. But they didn't understand her, didn't have ears that could hear under water. She gave up eventually, and now spent her days sitting on the floor of the tank and hoping they'd either release her or kill her quickly.

So when the pirates appeared hours after the scientists had left that day, Feyre was more shocked than anyone.

It had started with a grinning face over the top of the tank. Feyre didn't notice at first, but then the head cast a shadow and it was so rare for changes in the light that Feyre looked up. And saw a smiling face, dark hair falling into his eyes and cheekbones as sharp as knives. The face disappeared as fast as it had come, and then before Feyre could wonder who that was, the tank lurched violently to the left.

Feyre put her hands out to catch herself against the glass, and then she was being tipped the other way. She scanned the room, and could now see two very large men, a tall blonde woman, and a short dark haired lady who was standing back and seemed to be directing the whole operation.

They were rocking the tank so they could slide a wooden platform under her, which had small wheels attached to each corner. Then ropes were being thrown around the tank to lash it to the board, and finally the two big men were hauling the ropes over their shoulders. Feyre startled when the first grinning man hopped up onto the platform with her, and braced his arms on the glass.

"Hello darling," he said. "My name is Rhys. What's yours?" Feyre stared into his violet eyes, ringed with dark kohl. He had several gold loops threaded through his ears, and numerous silver rings on his fingers. His loose linen shirt was rolled up at the sleeves to reveal black and orange tattoos up his forearms. "Feyre," she answered him, before she could remember that human ears could not hear her under water.

But Rhys just smiled wider. "Nice to meet you Feyre. We're breaking you out, if that's okay with you." Feyre just gaped at him, and Rhys' eyes turned soft.

"You've been in here a long time, I think. I'm sorry it took us so long to get to you. Tamlin's got more fae in here than we realised." "There are more? I haven't seen anyone." "Yeah everyone's in individual tanks so they can't interact." Rhys looked angry now. "I'd go after him myself, but we have to get you all to safety first. You were the one furthest back, so unfortunately we got to you last."

The wooden board was rolling now, bumpy and uneven. Rhys looked up at the top of the tank, where water was sloshing out from under the lid.

"Where are we going?" Feyre asked. "Well, first we have to get you out of this place. We've drugged the guards so that should be no problem, they haven't bothered us with any of the others. Then we'll split up, Mor and Cassian will take a number of fae back to the forest, some will just fly away, and you we will have to get back to the ocean.

The ocean. The big, wide open space where Feyre could actually move around. She swallowed. Rhys caught the moment, and gave her a small smile.

"Don't worry, Feyre darling. We'll get you home soon." "Who are you all?" Feyre asked. Rhys grinned again. "Pirates," was all he said. And then he had to be quiet as they rounded a corner where there were indeed, guards slumped over in their chairs. Now that they had left the lab, Feyre noticed it was dark, and there were stars out.

"It's a little way out," he said more quietly. "We got horses and a wagon but I'm afraid it's not going to be a particularly comfortable journey for you." "It took two days coming in," Feyre said. Rhys nodded. "We're pretty far from the ocean. I've been tracking Tamlin for a while now, we first noticed him out on the water but we couldn't attack at the time. We're just one measly pirate ship, he was part of a whole fleet. And then we lost him for a bit, when there was a bad storm. Figured he'd headed back to land, but where exactly that was we didn't know. Finally got wind of his laboratory set-up two weeks ago, and have been slowly putting plans together and infiltrating his space ever since."

Feyre wondered how many fae they had rescued. She was just about to ask, when the platform stopped moving. The short haired woman came up to Rhys. "Trouble ahead," she said. "Five new guards, panic is starting because the lab's empty." "Take Mor and Azriel," Rhys said. "Keep them away from us. Cassian and I will get Feyre back to the wagon." Amren nodded once, and then disappeared.

"Sorry dear," Rhys said. "Looks like I'm on hauling duty. I'll keep an eye on you but if you feel the tank slipping you give me a shout okay?" Feyre nodded. Rhys hopped down and took up the rope that the man he called Azriel had abandoned, and they continued pulling the platform away. Behind them, shouts and ringing steel rose up like smoke in the night.

There didn't seem to be any more trouble by the time Cassian and Rhys reached the horses. They let down a ramp and wheeled the platform and tank into the wagon, and covered the whole thing with a sheet of canvas. Feyre had been in a windowless room with the lamps on for two months, and the sudden dark was both a relief, and very frightening.

"Are you okay in there?" Rhys called. "Yes," Feyre said, but her voice shook. "I won't leave you alone," Rhys promised. "We're just waiting for the others to get back."

Sure enough, running footsteps rang out minutes later, and there was hurried movement as they all hauled onto horses and took off at speed. A minute later, the canvas lifted, and Rhys reappeared. The sight of him, even thought Feyre had only just met him, made her heart stop racing quite so painfully fast. Then he slid down into the water with her, and she moved backward in surprise.

Rhys grinned his white grin. "Surprise," he said. His voice was crystal clear underwater, and now she noticed gills flare around his neck. "You..?" "Oh yes, we're all part fae," he said. "We mostly live like humans, and then we found each other and took to the sea instead. Hungry for horizons."

Feyre barely registered what he was saying. Just threw her arms around his neck, and finally let herself cry into his chest. The past two months of being trapped in a tank alone came crashing into her, now that she was finally able to talk to and touch another being. Rhys' arms came up around her, and he stroked her hair as she shook. "It's alright now," he murmured. "It's over. You're going home."

Feyre fell asleep in his embrace.

****

Oooh that was fun! I'll finish up this one once I figure out how to do mermaid sex?!! Prompts are such a good game, more please 😍

TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-babies @tillyrubes10 @ratabrasileira @live-the-fangirl-life @maybekindasortaace @annejulianneh111 @thebonecarver @rowaelinismyotp @loosingdreams @whythefuckdoiexist

MASTERLIST

#feysand #feysand fics #acotar #prompt fills #mine

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novacomette · 2 years

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You can also read it on Fanfiction Press or AO3

Check the Masterlist

Bonus Chapter

Description: Cassian sends a little surprise to Elain and the Band of Exiles.

Original Description: Cassian managed to convince his friends, including once of the Valkyries to play an interesting game or Truth or Dare. Only problem is that most of the questions and dares will target Azriel and Gwyn. Talk about interesting.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

A few months later, just as the month of winter was starting to begin, the human lands were not in good conditions. Elain had convinced her sister to help and deliver supplies, with the condition to keep Lucien to her side while doing so. Elain didn't complain as she knew that wandering into the human lands as a Fae was equally dangerous as wandering through Prythian as a human.

She shook the thought away as she walked next to Lucien while returning to the manor, finishing with the supplies for the day. One of the servants walked to Lucien with a rather large box in her hands. “Excuse me M’lord, but you've received this a while after you've left.” She said a bit shyly, and for some reason Elain had to bite back a growl. Lucien took the box and the servant quickly left before he could say something.

Lucien peered down at the box and pulled a piece of paper, reading the message. Elain peered over his shoulder to see. “What does it say?”

“It seems that Cassian sent us a game to play to ease up the stress.” Lucien said before almost cringing and slightly pacing a fist over his nose. Elain knitted her brows together in slight confusion before catching wind of what had made him react like that. She covered her mouth in shock as she realized that it was a mixture of the arousal of multiple people.

“Is that what I think I smell?!” She nearly squaked. He cleared his voice while he shifted uncomfortably.

“Let's get inside and get this over with.” Lucien said, and Elain didn't do much as nod and enter the manor.

That night, Lucien and Elain intended to check the contents of the box alone but Jurian and Vassa joined them to discover what the Night Court had given them. Jurian looked at the note inside the box and read it out loud. “A Truth or Dare game?”

“Seems so.” Vassa said while inspecting the empty bottle and the two colored bowls. Elain went through the rules while Lucien set the Questions and Dares on their respective bowls. Once having the rules clear, Jurian rushed out of the room to get something stronger than vodka. When he returned, he set the bottle down as Lucien shot him a glare.

“Scotch!?”

“Yes.” Jurian gave a wicked grin as he sat down. “Alright! Let's see who will spin the bottle first.” Knowing neither he or Elain would go first, he figured Vassa and Lucien would want to either go first for the heck of it or for the heck of starting first. He pulled a coin from his pocket, holding it between his pointer finger and his thumb before he flicked it to the air.

“Heads!” Vassa shouted as the coin hit the floor. Bouncing once, twice, as it laid flat. Tails. “Darn it.”

“Lucien goes first.” Jurian chuckled. Lucien rolled his eyes and whirled the bottle. Elain watched it go round and round and round until it pointed to her. “Oop. Someone got lucky.” This made her shrink a little.

Before Lucien could ask, she blurted. “Truth!”

Lucien stilled for a moment, giving her a slight glance before pulling the first note from the blue bowl. He cleared his throat a little before asking. “What do you appreciate more? Love or Riches?” Elain didn't have to think twice.

“Easy. Love.” She said as she could feel Lucien stiffen a little with her answer. She then whirled the bottle, going round and round and round until it almost pointed at Vassa. Good enough for her. “Vassa, truth or dare?”

“Gimme a dare.” Vassa smiled widely as Elain scrambled for a moment and pulled the note.

She read it a few times before speaking. “Um… Lick the cheek of the player to your right.”

Vassa looked to her right before groaning. “No way in-”

“The shot is right there.” Jurian cut her off with a devious smirk as he pointed to the skotch. Vassa growled as she yanked his vest and pulled him to her, licking his cheek in the process before shoving him away. She spat her tongue multiple times, making Jurian gasp dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “I don't taste that horrible, my queen!”

“You’re salty as shit, when was the last time you bathed!?” Vassa hissed. Elain and Lucien Just rolled their eyes at these two at their throats again.

“Vassa, it's your turn.” Elain said. Vassa snapped out of whatever rage she was in before whirling the bottle. Round and round and round it went as it pointed to Lucien.

“Truth or Dare, Lucien?” Vassa asked as Lucien took his time to think through it.

“Truth.” He said and Elain braced herself for what the question would be. Her head flooded with what kind of questions he will be given and what will he answer them with. She didn't know why she was caring so much until Vassa’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

“Do you like to read for fun? If so, what's your favorite book?” Vassa asked. Elain almost sighed in relief.

“Sometimes I do.” Lucien said with a nod. “And I don't have a favorite but I am currently reading the book you suggested to me, Vassa.”

“Promises and Pixie Dust?” She asked and Elain shot him a surprised look. She wasn't expecting him to read something like that. “How is it so far, now that you mention it?”

“Ask the question when is your turn again, Vass.” Jurian snorted, making the fire queen scoff in annoyance. Lucian shook his head and whirled the bottle. Round and round and round it went until it pointed to Jurian. “Imma go with dare.”

Lucien pulled the first note and read it a few times. “I’m gonna kill Cassian for this. Unhook the nearest woman’s bra-”

“The question is which one.” Jurian glanced between Elain and Vassa. Elain was about to stand up and slap him before she heard a low growl. When she turned, Lucien was glaring at him, growling lowly and with that raging fire in his russet and gold eyes. Jurien got the message. “Vassa then.”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” She protested.

Neither Lucien or Elain watched him struggling to even get his hands on her, which was gonna take a while. Instead, Elain looked at him and asked. “So… Promises and Pixie Dust?”

“Yes.. So far, the story is intriguing.” Lucien shrugged as he dodged one of Vassa’s flying shoes. Elain bit her lower lip before saying.

“You mind if I read it once you're done?” She asked, kinda surprising herself. It surprised Lucien as well before nodding.

“Of course. I’ll lend it to you once I finish.”

“AHA!” The sudden shout startled them as they shot a look at Jurian, who held a white bra and whirled it around. Vassa had her arms crossed, covering her exposed breasts as she glared at him, cheeks flushed red. “I finally took something from the fire queen!” He shouted, still whirling the bra. At this, Elain covered Lucien’s eyes without thinking, her expression annoyed. Lucien couldn't help but laugh at this sudden reaction, causing Elain’s body to shiver a little. His laugh was beautiful, if not more than beautiful. “Alright then.” Jurian placed the bra in his vest, much to Vassa’s grumbling while she fixed her dress, and whirled the bottle. It turned once, twice, before pointing to Elain.

“I don't know what to choose this time.” She admits, hand pulling away from Lucien’s eyes. Jurian then snatched the first note from the dare bowl and Elain began to regret it.

“Sit on your partner’s lap for the next three rounds.” Jurian said.

“Yep, I'm going to kill Cass-” Lucien mumbled but was cut off when Elain sat on his lap, back resting on his chest. He stiffened, body still, and he didn't know he was even breathing. “E-Elain?”

“My turn.” She simply said and whirled the bottle. For the next two rounds, Lucien had to endure Elain’s shifting. The first round, Vassa was dared to do a little funny dance for the whole group. The second round, Jurian asked Lucien how he was handling the situation. The bastard knew what to ask since he didn't even pull a note from the question bowl. It took all his self control to not get hard while she was sitting on him but every time she shifted, it was starting to get even harder. For the third round, it was Elain’s turn again. “Truth. And please take a question from the bowl.” She said. Jurian pouted but obliged, pulling a note from the bowl.

“How feisty do you like it?” Jurian smirked when Elan’s face went red and her eyes went wide. Lucien’s reaction was similar but more shocking. Juran continued. “Spanking? Scratching? Biting? Hitting?” Elain did not answer. Instead she took the shot of scotch, feeling the burn going down her throat. She stood up and quickly went to her room in the manor. “Guess we wont know.” Lucien stood up as well and went to his own room. “Ok? Game’s over?”

“Seems so..” Vassa then slowly glared at Jurian before throwing herself at him. “Gimme back my bra!”

“Hell, no! This goes to my shelf of victories!” Jurian said.

In the bedrooms, Lucien was just finishing taking a cold shower and putting one his clothes when a note appeared under his door. He reached for it, he could smell the jasmine and honey for Elain as he read it.

I'm only telling this to you and I'm expecting your response so don't tell anybody. I like Biting. - Elain

Lucien could feel his cheeks flush but he quickly took pen and paper as he began to write down his response. In Elain’s room, she was waiting on the floor, watching the small crack under her door. She waited for about five minutes before pushing herself up and onto her bed. Just as she said that, the familiar scent of cinnamon and crackling flames flooded her nose as she sat up, eying the door before glancing down. His note was there. She walked up to it and read it.

Kinda surprised me if I'm being honest. And don't worry, I won't tell anyone. - Lucien

Elain sighed in relief but then another note slid under her door. She took it and carefully read it before flushing red.

Also, did you know I'm into Scratching?~ - Lucien

At this Elain squealed, falling on her back on the floor. She couldn't stop the embarrassment and slight excitement, she swore she could hear Lucien chuckling from his room.

#acotar #acosf #romance #comedy #party games #cassian x nesta #feyre x rhysand #gwyneth x azriel #shenanigans #truth or dare #elain x lucien

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r3almellow · 4 years

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MLQC Boys With Angry F!S/o Who Denies Them Touch/Sex

Thanks @dafnew for the request!!! I know it took me a while, but I hope you enjoy it! I apologize if there are any typos!

Slightly NSFW!

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Kiro

All he did was accidentally eat the meal you were looking forward to all day long. Was that really the reason you were currently upset with him.

This wasn’t the first time Kiro has done this and you knew it wouldn’t be the last, so you decided to teach the little glutton a lesson.

Since he loved touching your food, how would he feel not being able to touch his precious Miss Chips?

“No sex.”

Huh?! You’re not serious are you?

To test to see if this was really a “threat,” he’ll try to give you a quick kiss on the lips, but you skillfully turn your head causing his lips to land on your cheek.

DID YOU JUST DODGE ONE OF HIS KISSES?!!

That man is heartbroken, with a capital BROKEN.

Will apologize nonstop and mope when you don’t accept it.

Will give the biggest puppy dog eyes in history. It almost breaks you...ALMOST.

You turn your nose up at his antics and casually go about your business.

He will whine like there’s no tomorrow.

If the two of you are sleeping in the same bed, you will find yourself sleeping on the opposite side of the bed with your back facing him.

Kiro will have none of that and will make his way over to your side and wrap his arms around you.

If you’re really tired you’ll let it slide because you’re a sucker for cuddles; until you feel something hard poking your ass.

Cheeky man...

You’ll be tempted to press your ass against him, but REMEMBER the mission.

Just before he can even sneak a hand up your shirt or press a few kisses against your neck, Kiro will be hit with a barrage of pillows and forced back to his side of the bed.

You’ll start placing pillows in between the two of you.

Savin figures out whats happening the minute you’re in Kiro’s eyesight and the blonde isn’t hovering around you like a lovesick puppy.

Savin feels for him, but will most likely poke fun.

Kiro will try to eat himself into a coma to battle his cravings for you, but his agent will be on his ass.

This will go on for about two days.

When you finally let up, be prepared for him to jump your bones.

LIKE HE’S ABOUT TO POUNCE ON YOU THE MINUTE YOU GIVE THE OKAY.

It’ll be even worse if he’s been out of the country and didn’t have sex with you prior to leaving.

He doesn’t even care where it happens at this point.

Apartment? Dressing room? Storage closet? IT DOESN’T MATTER.

Needs to feel your body against his.

Just know that, if left up to Kiro you’re not going to be able to leave your bed for a while.

Gavin

It was extremely rare for you to get angry at Gavin. Like its almost impossible for you to be upset with him since that man will bend over backwards to make you happy.

There is, however, one thing that sets you off.

Whenever he gets hurt on the job and doesn’t tell you about it.

You know Gavin doesn’t like to worry you, but you deserve to know when the love of your life almost comes face to face with death.

So this time around, he omits telling you that he was hospitalized due to a stab wound.

You are LIVID.

First off, why wouldn’t he tell you he was in the hospital?!

Second, why did you have to hear the news from Eli?!

Gavin tries to ease your frustration with a hug, but you back away instantly.

“No, amount of hugs is going to fix this. In fact, no touching until you’re 100% healed!”

Gavin won’t argue, but he will be sulking! He’ll just have to accept his fate if he wants to be back in your good graces again.

Then it dawned on him...does that mean..?

He had to ask. He had to know!

“Yup! No sex, Mister.”

Looks like that right hand about to work overtime.

Gavin has gone through training to withstand torturous circumstances, so the idea of you not having sex with him didn’t sound so bad.

He waited years just have you in his arms and it wasn’t like all the two of you did was have sex.

However, Gavin didn’t factor in one thing.

His need to worship you.

Gavin loves worshiping you in so many ways from using his words to his body.

His favorite thing to do was to make you feel loved in every way possible.

So when you graciously refuse to sleep in the same bad as him or deny him any ounce of affection, he’s so hurt.

Will try to keep his distance, if he feels like he’s really hurt you.

If you two live together, he’ll make sure to stay out of your way and even sleep on the couch.

Gavin will still keep a watchful eye on you.

He notices all!

Like when you’re wearing his t-shirt without a bra and your nipples involuntarily protrude through the shirt for him to see.

Or when you walk out of the shower with only a towel around your torso. One little tug and you’d be baring all for him to see.

Like I said before, that right hand about to work double shifts if he’s going to make it through a long work week. Gavin is only human and has needs!

His hands got nothing on your mouth or the warmth of your pus- NOPE! NOT DOING THIS.

This doesn’t just impact your relationship with Gavin, but his relationship with others.

And by others, its mostly Minor.

“Boss, can I be totally unprofessional for two seconds?”

“Minor you haven’t been professional a day in your life, but sure...”

“Gavin, hasn’t been himself lately. Like, he’s been sulking and doesn’t even want to shoot hoops anymore. He just sits on a bench and watches birds! And he hasn’t threatened to kick my ass in days! He’s like a sad ass puppy!”

“I don’t control Gavin, Minor. What do you expect me to do?”

“I expect you to....SUCK YO MAN’S DI-” Bless Willow and Kiki for pulling the idiot away.

You do notice he’s more sullen these past few days and has barely spoken to you.

You’ll feel so guilty, but you know you had every right to put him through this!

Not being able to see your precious Bird Cop look like someone killed his dog for much longer, you cave in.

When Gavin hears the good news his eyes light up and without hesitation he pulls you in for a bone crushing hug.

“I’m sorry for making you worry...” He’ll say.

The minute you nuzzle his cheek and accept his apology, its like a weight has lifted off of him.

You’ll stay wrapped in his embrace for a while, but will toss out an invitation.

“If you’re all healed up we could....” You don’t even have to finish your sentence.

SAY

Your boy is touch starved and desperate to make it up to you!

Get ready for the most mind-blowing yet passionate sex you’ll ever have to date!

Victor

Victor is a prideful man, who refuses to let other’s see him sweat.

So, when he makes a rude remark in regards to your cooking skills after you generously made him dinner, you decide to put his resolve to the test.

“Well you can suck your own dick since I clearly can’t do anything right!” And you meant it. No sex of any kind!

For how long? Well…until he apologizes.

CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!

It takes a lot for Victor to admit he’s wrong, so Victor is more than willing to go toe to toe with you.

What Victor doesn’t realize is that this is going to be the hardest thing he’s ever had to commit to.

If you live together, you would sleep in the guest room just to punish him. However, you also didn’t want to be tempted. Resisting him was a challenge, but you refuse to let him know that.

If you don’t live together, your frequent sleepovers will cease until he apologizes. No more of his home cooked meals… A sacrifice you were willing to make just to stick it to him.

Either way, Victor will be sleeping alone for the next few nights!

Victor is pretty good with keeping his composure, but by the third day of this ridiculous sex ban everything around him became an irritation.

From Goldman’s voice to the sound of a pen tapping obnoxiously on a desk. It was all so insufferable!

“If you want to keep your job, I suggest you stop that tapping.”

“Uh, sir, you’re the one that’s tapping.” Oh.

After a week, you realize that this man was not going to cave on his own.

He needed a little....incentive.

When the eighth day rolls in you show up for your one-on-one meeting with the CEO to go over some future plans.

Your plan was to indirectly seduce him, you know....to nudge him a bit.

Show just enough cleavage.

Wear a short skirt that may or may not reveal the lack of underwear.

He’ll be eating out of the palm of your hands. Or in this case he’ll be eating out that pussy.

That was the plan, however....

HE DIDN’T EVEN FLINCH AT THE SIGHT OF YOU.

Little do you know, that man is a raging ball of horniness.

It took everything he had to keep his cool once he saw you.

BUT IT WAS DIFFICULT!

He noticed everything.

To the smallest DETAIL.

The outfit you wore perfectly hugged your body in ways that had him outlining your curves with his eyes.

Your lips were painted in a soft pink gloss that made your lips shine and seem fuller.

The air is filled with the scent of the perfume he had bought you for your birthday last year and…was that a faint hickey on the base of your neck?!

Victor could feel his cock painfully press against his tailored pants.

He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.

The meeting went on without any problems.

MUCH TO YOUR DISMAY!

You flirted a bit, but he wasn’t taking the bait!

Have you met your match?!

Once the meeting concluded you turned to leave.

You’re never aware of this, but he LOVES watching you leave his office so he could get a look at your ass.

Feels like eternity since he’s had the chance to squeeze it with his bare hands.

Wait...

That skirt.

He knew that skirt all too well. He was the one who bought it after all.

It was just tight enough to show the outline of your panties. The main reason he bought it for you.

But.....there was no outline this...time...

OH HELL....

The next thing you know you’ll be pinned to the door with the a frowning man towering over you.

“I can’t believe I let a dummy get the best of me…”

“That doesn’t sound like an apology...”

Don’t worry, he’ll apologize to you and then he’ll fuck you on every hard surface he can find in his office.

Lucien

It takes a lot for you to be upset with Lucien.

But if you do ever get upset it’ll be because he’s never forthcoming with information and likes strategically misleading you.

When you become fed up with that you refuse to be in his presence until further notice or until you have to work together again.

This won’t last long. Like a few hours....

Lucien is just too good at turning things in his favor.

Lucien is pretty good at keeping his horny levels in check, but....

He doesn’t sleep well without you by his side.

Sometimes the sex is what helps him sleep.

So you ignoring him will simply not do.

Lucien will find some loophole in your plans.

Like he’ll pitch interesting ideas to you that will leave you with no choice but to work with him.

One minute you’re going over notes for an upcoming project and the next...

You’re gripping the sheets beneath you, clothes tossed to the ground, back arched, and heavy pants passing through your lips.

Where’s Lucien?

Between your legs of course!

How did this happen?!

This man is definitely made of magic or something!

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Done!!! I had to rewrite this one like twice because I had too many scenarios going through my head! I hope you all enjoyed it!

Be sure to check out my other MLQC stuff here!

#mlqc #mlqc kiro #mlqc gavin #mlqc victor #mlqc lucien #victor #kiro #gavin #lucien

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redqueen-hypothesis · 3 years

Text

eternal winter ➳ shaw (mlqc)

➳ PAIRING: reader x shaw (mlqc)

➳ WORD COUNT: 3939

➳ GENRE: heavy angst, mentions of death, “reincarnation” au

➳ SYNOPSIS: in the winter world, you’re completely alone: except for one man who remembers your name

➳ REMARKS: written to this louder than bombs (bts) x lost in the dream (monsta x) mashup by jem.

Everything burns.

Fire billows all about you, scorching hot and tinting your vision red at the edges as flames lick at the walls, tearing them down slowly and methodically before your eyes. Your skin blisters and cracks, every last bit of moisture swallowed by the fire and you bang desperately at the door, screaming for help with a voice that’s long gone raw with fear.

It’s hot, it hurts.

You hear frenzied, crazed laughter outside the door, a mob cheering, screaming their victory into the night air. This isn’t the first time that something like this has happened, and it certainly isn’t going to be the last. All you’re certain of is one fact.

You know that no one is going to come to save you.

Still, you pound as hard as you can at the door, choking on the burning air, shouting for someone, anyone, until you hear an awful, ominous creaking sound from above you. You glance up, and for a single moment, a flaming beam falls - it fills your vision whole.

Flames and blood. Debris and death.

>>>

You wake up in a dark room with a gasp, cold sweat pouring down the back of your neck. The fire is still fresh in your mind, and when you blink you see crimson flames consuming the room at the corners of your vision. You can still feel the heat, taste the ash on your tongue. Feel your throat burning inside out as you breathe in the fire and brimstone.

Yanking off the covers, you stumble into the kitchen in the dark, grabbing a cup and filling it up with water. You chug it down as fast as you can, almost choking, but the cold water does its job of soothing the phantom burn in your throat.

Slowly, you turn over your hands. No burns, no blisters. Your heart won’t stop pounding wildly in your chest, like a rattle drum without a rhythm. You’re still trapped in that burning room, you aren’t. Every instinct in you is telling you to fight, to flee, to do something so you get out of there alive.

But there isn’t a fire for you to run from. What lies before you is a still, silent apartment. Gardy’s leaves are drooping a little, like you’ve forgotten to water her for a couple of days. You splash the remnants of your cup into the flowerpot and eye the clock on the wall. Same time, same date.

You’re here. You’re alive.

That realization hits you, a punch to the gut, and you sag onto the couch, legs weak. One of your hands run through your hair, damp and matted with sweat. You look like a mess, but there’s no one to see you fall apart.

You’re alive. Your arms curl up around your body, trying to hold the shattered pieces of yourself together. That’s the only consolation you have in this lonely, lonely world.

Sleep eludes you for the rest of the night.

>>>

He’s late.

Glancing down the street, you fiddle with ginkgo charm on your bracelet and adjust the fur lined parka tighter around your body - it’s freezing. The streets are almost completely bare except for the odd person here and there hurriedly trudging home, face tucked into scarves or mufflers against the biting winds. They’re smart. No sane person would want to be out on the streets in this weather.

You must not be very sane, then.

Turning on your favourite news station on the radio, you plug your earbuds in and close your eyes, head tipping back. A familiar excerpt of a press conference is playing, almost like white noise in your ears in place of the howling winter wind.

“The progress of science is one of constant sacrifice, and deaths and injury along the way due to mistakes are inevitable. So whether or not we want to face it, survival of the fittest is an eternal principle of existence - it is what keeps humanity goin-”

Before Lucien’s calm, indifferent voice can finish playing in your ears, someone yanks your left earbud out, plopping down onto the seat next to you carelessly. You know who it is even before you open your eyes. “You’re late.”

“Not by your watch.” Shaw’s voice is a teasing lilt, and when you open your eyes, the first thing you see are lavender silver strands falling into your line of vision. He looks the same as he always does, familiar amber eyes lit with a mischievous fire hovering dangerously close to yours.

You lean back, closing your eyes as he kicks his skateboard into his hand, fingernails drumming against hard plastic. “My watch is broken.”

“I thought I’d keep things interesting for you. Keep you on your toes, you know?” Shaw hums, unrepentant. He glances over at you when you don’t respond. “The weather forecast said it’s going to snow today and I think I’m about to freeze my ass off on this park bench.”

“So all those claims of you having a hot ass must have been false, then.” You reply matter-of-factly, getting to your feet and dusting off your pants. Shaw shoots you a roguish glare, amusement dancing in that bright gaze at your words.

“I’m not sure if you picking up on the way I speak is a good thing.” He cracks a smile as he gets to his feet, stretching like a large cat in the cold. When he’s done popping his knuckles, he holds a hand out to you with a grin. “Let’s go get some hotpot to eat? Your treat.”

You take it. His hand is warm in yours. “Yeah.”

>>>

Few dining outlets are open at this abysmal time, but the Meetery Eatery never ceases to amaze you with its tenacity. The two of you are the only customers in the small store and the single waiter there can’t be happier to finally have something to do - he personally ushers the two of you to your seats, takes your parka, and waits on your orders like he’s serving a king.

You watch him scurry away with your orders, mildly amused. “I didn’t know there was a discount on beef today. We should eat more.”

Shaw raises an eyebrow, already making steady progress through the appetizer: a plate of roasted ground nuts on the table. “I think you’re forgetting that today’s meal is on you?”

“Well, I have to pay you back since the last time it was your treat.” You answer, propping your chin up on the table as you look out the window. It’s started snowing, you realise, white drifting down from the dark sky outside, frost creeping up the sides of the glass. It’s a perfect winter world, you muse to yourself silently, watching the snow gradually building up on the streets and the pavements outside. A snow globe trapped in time.

“What are you thinking about?”

You snap out of your thoughts to see that Shaw has absolutely demolished all the appetizers on the table, including the chopped chili and garlic cloves. He pats his belly with a leather clad hand in satisfaction, before looking in the direction you had been staring at. “Fuck, it’s snowing already. Getting home in all that snow is going to be a pain in the ass.”

“There seem to be a lot of problems with your ass today.” You say, sipping on your glass of water. Shaw lets out a snort, but it turns into something more subdued and serious - an expression that doesn’t suit him. “What was it this time?”

You tap the rim of your glass with disinterested eyes. Tap, tap, tap. There’s a fire extinguisher at the pillar next to you and the kitchen is far from the exit, things you’d noticed that the second you stepped into the eatery. Crimson curls at the edges of your vision, devouring the walls, the wooden tables, Shaw’s serious expression becomes clouded over with black smoke. You blink once, exhale. “A fire.”

Your voice comes out steady, but it’s when Shaw wraps a single hand around yours that you realise your hands are trembling. He grips your hand painfully tight, almost enough to bruise. He hesitates for a second before speaking. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“The connection was down. Something must have happened to the land wires.”

There’s a tight set to his jaw, his amber eyes darkening. He looks like he’s ready to punch somebody, and you know what question he’s going to ask next from the look on his face. “Wh-”

“Our beef hotpot special, sir, ma’am! I hope you enjoy!” The waiter interrupts with a pot of broth and a few plates of beef stacked on each arm. When he sees the two of you with fingers entwined, the dark expression on Shaw’s face, he pauses, looking a little lost. “Should I... have waited?”

“Good food shouldn’t have to wait.” You say lightly, pulling your hand away from Shaw’s. His lips are pulled into a harsh line, eyebrows pulled into a scowl. “Come on, now. You’re going to put out the hotpot fire with such a frigid expression.” The waiter quickly sets everything out before the two of you and beats a hasty escape without another word. The poor man must be quite terrified by the stormy look on Shaw’s face. You don’t blame him.

“Still, you could have found some other way to contact me, I would have-” You hold a hand over Shaw’s mouth, cutting his words off mid-sentence. It’s bad enough that you can’t sleep at night, and you don’t need him blaming himself for it, silly as it may be. “Let’s talk about this after dinner. Help me turn on the gas?”

With a heavy sigh that you feel against the palm of your hand, Shaw reaches over to turn the knob, sees the way you flinch at the sound of gas catching alight. His mouth tightens, but he relents. “Fine. Let’s eat.”

>>>

Dinner is a more lighthearted affair, with Shaw bragging loudly about the scores he’s gotten on his archaeology project while you reminisce about your times as a stressed out university student. You manage a laugh or two when he tells you about one of his rare skateboard fails, and by the time Shaw calls for some alcohol, the mood is warm and quiet.

“Are you even at drinking age? I could get into trouble for this.” You ask as you watch Shaw down a cup of rice wine as easily as it were plain drinking water. Shaw lets out a snort.

“If I can kill a man, I think I can hold a drink. ‘s not like we’re going to get into trouble for this, anyway. Who’s going to be able to arrest me?” He raises another glass with a cocky smirk and knocks it down his throat.

You know who could. Amber eyes burn into the back of your mind, almost too similar to the ones looking back at you right now. A white policeman’s jacket, golden ginkgo leaves, and strong, calloused hands. A tender smile whose memory is starting to fray at the edges, fading to white.

“No one.” You answer, and take your own glass. “No one anymore.”

At your words, Shaw falls silent. He doesn’t look at you, and instead focuses on the bottle between the two of you instead.

The sky has fallen dark outside the window, a blanket of white covering the streets and pavements. The world beyond the window is buried in stark white, clean, pure and most of all, cold.

“Stay over at my house tonight.”

You look up from pulling your parka over your shoulders for a moment, a little surprised. “You must be quite drunk, aren’t you?”

Shaw rolls his eyes. “I’m completely sober. As if that diluted stuff would be able to make me tipsy.” You’re pinned in place by that sharp gaze. “I mean it. Stay over at my place. You won’t be able to get home in all this snow, and my apartment is closer. Also,” he fishes about in the lining of his black leather jacket, “I have an umbrella.”

He proudly presents to you a black, compact umbrella. It looks brand new.

You stare down at the umbrella in his hands for a second before you start to laugh, shoulders shaking. “Alright.”

The umbrella is too small for either one of you. Shaw holds it between the two of you and you make your way back to his house together, boots crunching in the snow.

>>>

Shaw has thirteen umbrellas in his house. Ten of them are black.

“I just need one at the ready all the time, that’s all.” Shaw grumbles as he steps out of the shower, toweling his damp hair dry. You turn from where you’d found the last umbrella, tossed behind the television screen. You ignore the stray pair of boxers that you’d found there as well.

“You’re supposed to re-use them.” You tell him, moving to slump onto the couch. Shaw joins you on it, drying his hair in the comfortable silence that follows as you scroll through your phone.

He passes a cursory glance over you, you’re wearing one of his old shirts but it’s still far too large on you, the collar slipping off one of your shoulders. That shirt has never looked as good on him as it does on you, and he has half a mind to ask you to keep it. His usual hard amber eyes soften marginally. “You’re taking the couch.”

“I wouldn’t want to sleep in your bed. Who knows what kind of weird stuff you get up to there with your girlfriends? The sheets must be filthy.”

Shaw makes a face at your words. “I’m not dating anyone.” He feels like he needs to emphasize this fact.

“Ah, wrong word. I meant, colorful friends.”

He throws his hands up in the air and turns to the bedroom. “You’re insufferable. I’m going to go get a pillow and blanket for you. There’s no need to thank me for my generosity.” Your laughter follows after his footsteps.

>>>

In the middle of the night, your scream has Shaw scrambling out of bed.

He’s stumbling over his own feet in the dark, nearly tripping over the sheets as he bursts out of the room. You’re a thrashing, dark shape on the couch, twisting in the blanket he’d covered you with, and he feels his heart plunge into the pit of his stomach.

“Hey!” Shaw calls your name sharply, grabbing you by the wrists before you can hurt yourself. His fingers can encircle them whole, and he’s almost worried you might snap in his grip. “Oi, wake up! It’s just a nightmare!”

He doesn’t think he’s ever been so relieved when your eyes fly open, wild gaze darting every direction in terror. You look like you’ve been chased within an inch of your life, trembling under his touch, skin deathly cold with fear. “Everything’s burning!” You shake your head frantically, gripping Shaw’s forearms so tight he can feel ten crescents digging into his skin. “The fire, it’s spreading and they locked me in, I can’t get out-”

Not knowing what else to do, he grabs you by the cheeks, forcing you to focus on his eyes. He can feel every one of your unsteady, shallow breaths on his lips.

“I’m here.” Seems to be the only thing he can say, stroking fingers calloused from playing the bass over your cheeks, awkward and clumsy in their comfort. It’s alright now. “You’re good. You’re here. With me.”

“The fire.” You mumble, now sounding dazed. “There was a fire, and I died again. I...” Your voice becomes raw, choking over your own tears. “I burned to death and it was so hot. I feel like I’m still burning.” He doesn’t think you even realise that he’s there, holding you as you tremble in his grasp.

“It’s over.” Shaw tries to make his voice as steady as possible. His dear estranged brother would be so much better at this, Gavin was the rock while he was the flighty one, had always been, but Gavin doesn’t remember you.

Not in this world. Not anymore.

Shaw knows better than anyone else that he isn’t a smidgen good at comforting someone. His fists itch to break a few jaws, preferably of those of the anti-EVOL extremists that had no doubt trapped you in that burning room and left you for dead. That’s what he’s good for: fighting, beating people up. Not this emotional I’ll-be-your-rock kind of stuff, because Shaw is about as unreliable as unreliable can get.

“I’ll get some water for you.” He manages, trying to rise to his feet. But before he can stand, you’re gripping his hand with a strength he didn’t know you had, eyes wide and terrified. Your palms are clammy against his skin.

“Shaw, don’t go. Please.”

Your eyes are screaming at him in the dark, raw with pain and fear, your hand latched tight onto his as if he’s your anchor in the storm - and he doesn’t know whether to feel proud or feel terrified.

He thinks it’s the latter.

>>>

He should have never gotten involved with you. It’d been fun at first, watching you stumble around the cold, lonesome winter world alone like a baby fawn taking its clumsy first step. He’d taken you by the hand with a teasing grin, pulled you into his silly whims, played with you like a child with a new favourite toy. That open eyed innocence would be your undoing, he knew, and he’d wondered how you were going to survive. It would be a perfect show to entertain him, he thought.

It wasn’t.

The first time you died, Shaw had not known. He woke up like he always did, and it had been the same day, same routine. Shrug on that black jacket and slip an umbrella onto his person before grabbing his skateboard and making his way to Loveland University to collect his grades for a project. He had a good feeling about it.

That was until he’d crashed into you, déjà vu hitting him like a punch in the gut. You had been trembling, shaking, white with fear, spilling out the strangest things. A bridge had exploded while you were on it, trying to get people to safety, and you had plunged down into the waters below-

Same date. Same time. A broken watch on your wrist.

Shaw had managed a grin at your frazzled state. You were still that baby fawn with too wide eyes, trying to make things right in the world on your own. You would definitely survive this time - and win - because that’s what good people did. He had continued to watch the play unfolding before him.

Under his watch, it happened again.

Again, again, again, spiraling into a dark and twisted night, where waking up from one nightmare only meant being thrust into another. He watched as the four people he’d once laughed at for being at your every beck and call fade from your life and forget you, sinking seamlessly into the black abyss of this winter daydream. He watched as you died again and again, from car crashes to riots to sheer natural phenomenon, only to come back to where it had begun all over again, like a never ending cycle.

And suddenly, one day, it really wasn’t fun anymore.

For the first time, you had called the number on his phone, gasping. He’d been asleep in his bed in nothing but a pair of boxers, a nameless girl curled up naked next to him. Shaw had been annoyed at the late night call, understandably so, but he had told you to give him a call whenever you found yourself in a tight spot - it’d be more fun to watch the action up close. What he hadn’t expected, however, was for you to gasp out those two tiny words, voice raw and strangled with agony.

“I’m dying.”

He’d shot out of the bed, ignoring the calls from the girl he’d left alone in the bedroom (bad manners, he knew, but couldn’t give a shit) as he yanked on his jeans and shirt, already halfway out of the door. He remembered shouting your name into his phone, demanding you to give him your location or better yet, call an ambulance.

You didn’t.

“It’s too late, I know what dying feels like.” You had croaked weakly into the phone. A hate attack launched against Evolvers by anti-EVOL extremists, you had told him the next time you had seen him, eyes hollow and empty. A masked man, a knife in the gut and that had left you bleeding out in a dirty alleyway, dead in a pool of your own blood.

Then why call me? He had wanted to scream into the phone. Why tell me you’re dying when I can’t do a damn thing, just like always?

It had felt like mockery. Shaw wanted to die at that moment.

“I just... didn’t want to die alone.” You had apologised, each breath weaker than the last. You were dying and he couldn’t do a thing, goddammit. “I wanted to call to someone, anyone, but no one remembered me. Shaw... I’m alone. You’re the only one who does.”

Shaw’s breath had caught in the back of his throat. Fuck.

Don’t expect anything from me, he wanted to shout at you. Even if I’m the only person left in the world, I’ll fail you just like I failed my family all those years ago. Find someone else to rely on - just not on me.

But the truth had been terrifyingly simple, laid bare in that stark, white winter world. He was the only one you had left.

“Thanks for being here, Shaw. ”

You had died on the other side of the phone that night. Shaw had been left at the side of an empty street, fist clutching his own phone tightly to his ear even as nothing but silence filled his mind. And as world began to shift once more, collapsing into a new state of reality, he had sworn one thing.

He’d be there for you.

>>>

In the darkness of his living room, Shaw can barely make out your features, but he knows they’re twisted with the pain of nightmares, from the lives you’ve lived and deaths you’ve died. He grunts, rubbing at his temples and makes up his mind.

“Scoot over.”

He presses into the couch next to you and it creaks under his added weight, clearly too small to fit the two of you onto it. It’s ridiculously cramped, but Shaw pulls you onto him and tosses the blanket over both of you, drawing you close. “I’m here.” He grips your hand tight in his. If anyone had told him he’d end up saying words like these, ever, he’d laughed and punched them in the face for good measure. “We’ll fix this damn world together.”

You’re silent, and for a moment, Shaw wonders if you’ve fallen asleep, exhausted by your nightmares. Then he feels warmth land on his cheek, his nose, his eyelids, and can’t bring himself to move, frozen with shock.

“It would kill me if you forgot me too, Shaw.” Your voice is a broken whisper, and Shaw wants nothing more than to hide from you - it’s like your raw honesty has dragged out the innermost depths of who he is before you, taking him your willing prisoner. “So don’t make me fall in love with you, okay?”

“Okay.” He promises, with a single breath.

He knows it’s already too late for him.

#mlqc #mlqc fanfic #mlqc shaw #shaw #ling xiao #mr love queen's choice #mr love queen's choice shaw

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alexfangirlwritestoo · 3 years

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Comfort for Two - a Lucien (MLQC) ff

This is a piece I wrote some time ago but I still quite like it. Again, it is from an idea that has developed wayyyy beyond this short scene but yeah. Have this as a taster if you like. ;)

Lucien bit back the pain he felt as the glass shards tore at the skin around his left eye. Instead he hastily plastered a cold grin on his features. No one was about to watch him cry and suffer ever again - he was stronger than he was before! So even as ribbons of blood slid down his face like tears, he smiled into the wall of darkness.

Yet the man remained unimpressed. "Do I sense hesitation, Ares?"

"Never," Lucien said, injecting as much venom into the word as he could muster. Lucien would never hesitate again. But even as the thought crossed his mind, the shadow over his heart faltered. There was something different this time, something that both scared Lucien and excited him.

Maybe if it came down to it, he would hesitate.

No! No, he couldn't. The hierarchy of the Black Swan initiative was too unstable - particularly now. And if he was kicked from their ranks... Where would he go? He would be alone with this tangle of threads that wove themselves into the fabric of Lucien's being at this point - there was no escaping this web any longer. He needed Black Swan just as much as they needed him.

And once again, Lucien's heart went dark.

A silence settled over the room while neither of the men moved. The man in the darkness spoke slowly: "I had high hopes for you, Ares. But something seems to be clouding your judgment these days."

Alexa. Lucien's blood ran cold for a moment. This man knew about her, there was no denying that now - not with the way his menacing grin glowed in the moonlight as he looked up and down Lucien's tense body. Lucien tried to breathe but the air kept catching in his throat.

"I can't work alongside someone who is not committed to the cause."

Lucien's heart turned black as his mind raced. Was this it? Would the man in the darkness throw him to the streets? Would he never see the contents of the Black Cabin - never see the fruits of his life's work? And what would it all mean for Alexa? Would she be safe within the ranks of Black Swan? Probably not - Lucien would have to find a way to get her out as well. Maybe they could live together - find a way to survive this together somehow! Could Lucien do that? Could he learn to trust another? Would he be able to open his heart to her if it meant untangling the threads of his tattered mind-

Suddenly, the man in the darkness crumpled to the ground. "Sir?" Lucien called out but, before a reply could come, the door swung open behind him. To Lucien's surprise it was Alexa who stormed in. Immediately, she grabbed his arm and hauled him out of the room.

"Alexa?" Lucien asked, his mind reeling from the last few minutes. She didn't look at him, her eyes focused on looking into the window of each room they passed. Lucien allowed her to drag him along until she finally opened the door to one room - an empty medical office - and shoved Lucien inside. She quickly shut the door behind her and finally looked him in the eye.

For several moments, they simply held each other's gaze, neither daring to break the silence. Lucien couldn't detect a single trace of anger or upset or affection in her features. She looked instead aggressively indifferent. Cold.

"You're an idiot, you know that right?" she finally said and Lucien didn't feel all too surprised to hear it. Alexa began moving, gathering equipment from around the room. Lucien kept his eyes trained on her; the black dress that floated around her as she glided from one side of the room to another made her look like a wisp of smoke. Her pale skin seemed to shine like pearls under the fluorescent lights.

Finally, she stood before him, her hazel eyes resting on the wound near Lucien's left eye that he had all but forgotten about until now. It stung from the heat that was beginning to flood his body. Alexa held a pair of tweezers up to the cut and began to pick out small shards of glass that had wedged themselves into the layers of his skin.

"What are you doing?" he asked her.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" she said, her voice unusually flat.

"Why did you put him to sleep?" Lucien asked - assuming that all she did was put the man to sleep temporarily - and Alexa pulled back slightly to look at him.

"Because while you were in La La Land for a moment, he was pulling out a knife," her words were harsh for a moment but then her tone softened to a hush. "I couldn't let him kill you."

She continued to work the shards from his skin, her movements gentle but thorough. After she was satisfied that all of the glass was gone, she began to wrap some soft, white bandages around his head.

Impetuously, Lucien reached out and grabbed the girl's wrist. He wasn't exactly sure why he did - it wasn't that she was hurting him or anything. Maybe he was worried that once she had finished tending to his wound, she would leave him again.

"Please tend to my wounds," Lucien spurted out. He felt desperate all of a sudden like he was child again. He felt hurt and lonely and cold and he had never felt like that with Alexa before. He desperately needed to see the sympathy that she had offered in her eyes before - like she would be there for him no matter what he said or did. He needed her words, her touch, her wisdom now more than ever - more than anything else in the world.

He just needed someone to tell him that he would be okay.

Though she was young and inexperienced, she was strong and fearless and kind to a fault. Recognition flashed in her eyes and Lucien knew that she understood what he was saying. She could heal all of his physical wounds but the pain went much deeper than that. She brushed aside some of his fringe and lay a sweet, gentle kiss on his forehead. It was feather-light, like a brush of a butterfly's wing across his skin, but it cleared some of the clouds that had settled over his heart. Lucien felt warmer - like cracks of sunlight were filtering through his chest and he smiled the first genuine smile he had shown the world since she had left him.

But then she moved away and it was like the rain had returned to Lucien's soul. Her eyes looked sad as she unclasped his fingers that were still clinging to her wrist. "You can say what you want about me 'tending to your wounds' or whatever - but you still haven't explained any of this to me - and I do believe you are the one that got me into this mess in the first place."

Suddenly, it was like Lucien's mind was splintering painfully. "It was never my intention-"

"Never your intention? Lucien - you told me yourself that 'sacrifices were necessary for the evolution of humanity'! And while you were sat here, fawning over your beloved Queen, I was being injected with every chemical under the sun, waking up to searing pain every few hours, my sleep plagued with nightmares - and not once did you visit me or help me or... Anything. I don't think you thought about me at all. In the end, all I was to you was a 'necessary sacrifice.'"

Lucien's heart was beginning to collapse in on itself under the gravity of his guilt. It was like a black hole, sucking his life, his conviction, his entire belief system down into a place he almost hoped they would never return from. He himself had heard the screams from the labs; he himself had been under those kinds of experiments. When did his empathy become so hollow?

He opened his mouth to speak but Alexa cut him off before he could say anything. "So you can say what you want about me caring for you like I did before but I am no longer that same person. This place, these people - you!... You've broken me." Her voice was softer than a weak, summer's breeze and for the first time Lucien saw tears dance in her eyes - though she refused to let them drop to her cheeks. "And, truth be told, Lucien - I'm scared."

She took several steps away from him, like she could no longer bear being so close to him and Lucien felt hollow. It was as if someone had dug out his insides and replaced all his organs with air. He felt light-headed.

He was dumb-founded, speechless. In that moment, he just wanted to hold her - comfort for two. But, in that moment, Alexa looked disgusted by him.

And Lucien couldn't find anything within himself to blame her.

#mr love #mr love queen's choice #mlqc #lucien #angst #comfort for two #halp #i made myself sad writing this

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houseofhurricane · 3 years

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ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (16/32) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

Summary: Elain lies about a vision and winds up as the Night Court’s emissary to the Spring Court, trying to prevent the Dread Trove from falling into the wrong hands and wrestling with the gifts the Cauldron imparted when she was Made. Lucien, asked to join her, must contend with secrets about his mating bond. Meanwhile, Tamlin struggles to lead the Spring Court in the aftermath of the war with Hybern. And Vassa, the human queen in their midst, wrestles with the enchantment that turns her into a firebird by day, robbing her of the power of speech and human thought. Looming over all of them is uniquet peace in Prythian and the threat of Koschei, the death-god with unimaginable power. With powers both magical and monstrous, the quartet at the Spring Court will have to wrestle with their own natures and the evil that surrounds them. Will the struggle save their world, or doom it?

A/N: The High Lords' meeting! After this chapter, Bloom & Bone will be going on hiatus until August 19th. My goal is to be able to post straight through to the finish after that. In the meantime, I'll be launching a giveaway tomorrow on my Instagram, so follow @house.of.hurricane to find out more. You can find all previous chapters here, or read Bloom & Bone on AO3. Thank you for reading! ❤️

Lucien has been over every word of Tamlin’s speech, has brilliantly strategized his way through each potential question and argument, every terrible scenario and rousing win. Still, despite the ocean breeze wafting through the window, the scent of ripened fruit, it’s all he can do to keep from pacing as he waits for the rest of the High Lords to arrive.

Tarquin and his retinue are stationed near the door, ready to welcome their guests as they enter. Tamlin stands at the window, watching the waves, his hands clasped behind his back, and Lucien can tell, in his posture, that each muscle is coiled to spring. He wants to walk over, remind Tamlin that he cannot look desperate, that he should be the commander he’s already proved to be over centuries, the High Lord who killed Amarantha, who defied Hybern, not the beast lurking in the woods, but if Tarquin hears, if there is gossip that the High Lord of Spring requires constant reassurance, equivalent damage will be done. Instead he walks to the table set at the side of the room, laden with fruit that glisten in the summer sunlight.

Elain comes to stand next to him, the beading on her dress giving away her trajectory. Melis had completed the intricate embroidery on the golden yellow silk late yesterday, the only activity she’d been allowed in her makeshift prison cell. And seeing Elain in the dress before they winnowed here, Lucien understands her insistence on Melis’ abilities. The golden embroidery, beaded with hundreds of pearls and tiny diamonds, the scattered gemstones which make her golden brown hair look like something crafted by a master jeweler, all combine to give Elain a glowing presence. She has always been beautiful, even as a scared human girl, but now she could easily be mistaken for a goddess. Or a female anticipating her mating ceremony, which is exactly the tale she’s helped him weave.

“He knows the speeches,” she murmurs, spearing a slice of starfruit.

“Tam always likes a mission,” he says, forcing himself to sound confident, the mask of the courtier slipping into place, confident and not a little awful. “If only today’s involved a sword.”

Before she can respond, the delegation from the Dawn Court enters, Thesan and his mate leading a group of High Fae and Peregryns, all bland courtly smiles that make Lucien aware of the small size of his own party, only the three of them with so many favors to ask. He manages to greet them with a real smile. He knows Thesan’s court well enough, likes them well enough, this court of tinkerers and inventors and alchemists, but knows they eye him now with real suspicion, aware of his shifting alliances. They all watched Tamlin’s outburst at the last meeting of the High Lords, likely wonder why he stands at the side of this High Lord. He steels his spine, introduces Elain with a deference that is mostly fictional and makes her blush.

The skepticism does not fade from the eyes of the new entrants, the denizens of the Winter Court and the Day Court arriving together, Helion and Kallias making stilted conversation, the High Lord of Day slipping on the haughty mask he prefers for inter-court business. Lucien presents Elain to Helion as a stranger, and her mask of shy amusement does not falter even with Helion’s dismissive greeting. Helion had warned her, two nights ago in his private library, after Lucien and Elain had recounted their visit to Koschei’s world, the sensation of the magic, which Lucien had spent hours afterwards diagramming.

The greetings continue, all eyes on the glittering, golden female in their midst. Met with Kallias’ ill regard, Viviane’s curiosity, Elain’s expression does not falter. Lucien thinks, even as he tries to focus himself on the task at hand, that Vassa would be so proud of her in this moment, the way Elain has learned to use her quiet loveliness as a diplomatic asset.

As the room fills, Tamlin still stands alone in the window. Even when the Night Court enters, the largest group and the loudest, too affectionate for the formality court technically requires, Tamlin continues in his contemplation. Elain shifts from foot to foot under the eyes of her sisters, glances that give nothing away, not fear or sympathy, love or hate.

“They love you,” Lucien mutters to her, as he detects the looming breakdown in her facade.

“But what if I’m the monster?”

There is a question beneath her question, but the room has filled with all the expected guests. Beron, as they’d anticipated, had never sent a response to their invitation.

“For now,” he tells Elain, extending his hand, to lead them to their spot in the assembly, “you are soon to be the Lady of Spring. Or else they’ll think we’re secretly lovers.”

He can tell from the brief flare of her nose that if the eyes of the room weren’t on them, she would try to level a blow at him, too confident from the training Tamlin has provided. In return, he shoots a smirk her way, offers the expression to everyone who watches, who might doubt their small group, its sincerity and affection. As he leads Elain to her chair, she follows his lead by offering her own bright smile, winking at her as she settles her skirts. A bride whose joyous anticipation overflows onto every interaction.

Lucien had warned Tamlin that Tarquin might conveniently forget to make an introduction, and sure enough, the High Lord of Summer lounges in a position of honor as befits his status as host, and despite the expectancy that rises in the room, he does not speak, only watches.

Now, Lucien thinks, crossing his ankle over his knee, trying to look artfully bored, start speaking now.

He has never known himself to be a daemati, but this is exactly the moment when Tamlin turns from the window and begins his address.

“I have asked you to come here because I discovered an army from the Autumn Court, led by their High Lord, marching through my lands on their way to the human realms. If our goal in this realm is peace between the fae and humans, this army must be contained, or there soon will be no human lands in Prythian, only more Autumn Court.”

Tamlin pauses, as Lucien had suggested, and in his chair, Lucien tries not to slump in his seat from relief. He’d spoken confidently but had never crossed the line into arrogance, his warrior’s posture working in his favor, as if he would strike Beron at any moment if only the rest of the room would agree.

But the silence in the room drags on. Lucien had anticipated an interruption, confusion or indignation, the tone of this meeting to be revealed at the outset. He had been so sure of this that he’d mapped the rest of Tamlin’s speech according to the tone of whatever comment punctuated his opening salvo. But the High Lords and their chosen courtiers only wait for Tamlin to continue.

He clears his throat.

“My army has been severely depleted. I acknowledge my own contributions into its small numbers, but I am asking that you--”

“All of our armies were hit hard during the war with Hybern,” Kallias says, the winter wind in his voice, cold and biting, “but we have been hard at work restoring our lands. All the while, you have been in the forest.”

Tamlin’s face goes pale, then his cheeks are red, blotchy even against his tanned skin. Be honest, Lucien had told him, but now he finds himself clutching the seat of his chair, knowing that Tamlin will explode in a rage.

And then he looks at Elain, meets her eyes for a few long seconds. His demeanor changes, calms, and then Tamlin heaves a sigh so deep the whole room can hear it.

“You are correct, Kallias,” he says, raising his gaze so that he addresses the High Lord of Winter. “I failed my people. And I -- I will tell you what the stories do not. Why I hid. I believed that any invading army, any territory bent on expansion, would rule them better than I could. Because I had failed them over and over. I failed to protect them from Amarantha, sacrificed them for love of a female who rightly knew she needed to leave me, left them to the whims of Hybern because I thought only I could know what was best. These are not the actions of a worthy High Lord. But they were my actions. You are right to judge me. I have no great explanation which will transform me in your eyes. Only recently have I begun to seek out the citizens of my court, to listen to them. I have canceled the ancient tithe which my ancestors instated millennia ago. I am visiting the villages every day so that I may learn in time how to rule them well. Still, these are farmers and weavers, blacksmiths and seamstresses and poets. It is possible that they will go to war for a noble cause. They may still have that much faith in me. But it is unlikely that they will prevail against an army.”

Kallias has no rebuttal to that rush of words, and Lucien wonders if maybe this silence is appreciative. He tries to meet Tamlin’s eyes, but that green gaze goes out over the crowd, meeting each face in its turn. He has just spoken of his failure, let the horror of it rise in his voice, and still, on his face he wears the look a ruler has, when addressing beloved subjects.

“And how can we be sure this isn’t an attempt to impress your mate?” Feyre’s voice is gentle and angry and devastated. Tamlin winces at the sound of it, retreating back into himself. They had discussed Feyre, what she might say, but the reality of her, that deep kindness that undergirds her every action, is unsettling when it turns to fury.

“I treated you horribly, High Lady,” he says, his voice scraping, raw in his throat. “I know that -- I deserve your scorn, always. I am sorry for how I treated you.”

“How can we be assured that this isn’t an act?” Feyre’s voice has not changed in pitch or tone, and still it is clear in the room as a ringing bell.

“Have you ever known me to have an abundance of self-control? The kind required for that level of deception?” The laugh in his words is ragged.

“Elain is my sister,” Feyre says.

“I swear on my life that I will not harm her.”

“And she is free to leave your court whenever she chooses?”

“Always, High Lady.”

In the quiet that follows, Lucien hazards a glance at Elain. Her face is drawn and pale, her brown eyes a whirlwind. I am tired of being an ornament, she’d said, although she’d also agreed this was the best play, her relationship to Tamlin a better lure than even the candid admission of his failures. That, mute and glittering among the rulers of Prythian, she would be more effective. Still, he understands the toll even a well-intentioned role requires, especially beneath the gaze of her sisters, the rest of the Night Court.

“You were speaking of the army you require, Tamlin?” Feyre asks into the quiet, her voice a little gentler. In response, the room seems to breathe a sigh of relief.

“The Autumn Court army has at least a thousand troops, from what I can tell. They are currently stationed within my borders. I am not sure if the plan was to provoke me into an ill-fated attack, or join with another force on the coast. I have not been able to make a close enough approach. I have also not been able to discern whether any of Beron’s sons have been involved, the sole exception being Lucien, of course.”

“Azriel can assist you,” Rhysand drawls, studying Feyre’s hand as he entwines their fingers. “Nobody notices a few rogue shadows.”

The tone in the room shifts at this remark, and whatever he might feel about Rhys personally, Lucien is grateful. The problem was never going to be the action taken. Beron has invaded another High Lord’s lands and threatens to undo their tentative peace, and fighting against any of this is right and proper, even honorable, for the other High Lords. The problem was always going to be Tamlin himself. Even with every note hit beautifully, the way he’s spoken and carried himself today, his history, his failures, his isolation would make any potential ally tentative. But an offer of help from a nominal enemy shows everyone else that they can ally with Tamlin without fear of reprisal.

“But regarding your forces, while I am happy to offer you an army of volunteers, I will not force the citizens of the Day Court to fight simply because it’s taken you years to recognize your mistakes.” Helion’s arms are crossed over his chest. There’s a murmur in the room which suggests this sentiment is not unwelcome. Tamlin’s face clouds. Control yourself, Lucien thinks at Tamlin, keeping his expression a careful blank. Beron might not be present, but there are still too many eyes to safely acknowledge the High Lord who fathered him, to show any disappointment. Perhaps later Helion will offer additional forces.

“The Valkyries will make up the gap,” Nesta Archeron says, from the back of the Night Court retinue, a death-queen in her black gown. “I still remember what it was like to be human.”

“The Winter Court will send volunteers,” offers Kallias, his fingers tented.

“We will put out the call in our court as well,” Thesan says, his mate nodding along, which could mean Peregryn support, particularly valuable given Beron’s lack of aerial forces.

“As will the Night Court. But I do not think we cannot offer the Illyrians.” Cassian, looking grim, nods his agreement with Rhysand. Lucien had thought the talk of rebellion had been put down, but apparently the losses against Hybern have caused a more permanent rift.

Now, everyone turns to Tarquin, awaiting his answer. But the young High Lord does not betray nerves. Instead, the serene smile on his face is a mirror of Elain’s.

“I will offer you my army on one condition,” he begins, and somehow Lucien knows that Tamlin will be able to meet it, that the threat from the Autumn Court will be put down, that they can go back to saving Vassa, and he almost allows himself to smile when the door bangs open, nearly thrown off its hinges.

Beron stands in the doorway, alone. Despite the wards in place, Lucien would have thought the position dangerous, except for the power which ripples off the High Lord of Autumn, more than he has ever known this male to possess, not in all the years Lucien lived under his roof, or in the years Beron did his best to be a terror at any social or diplomatic gathering.

Elain turns toward him, her eyes wide with concern. When she begins to mouth at him, he thinks she’s asking if he’s all right and he waves her off. She plucks at his sleeve, keeps moving her lips until she realizes she’s mouthing Koschei.

The magic is depthless and flashing, lightning in a howling storm. He’s encountered it before, run towards it with a sword in hand, and suddenly the sound of Vassa’s screams fills his mind.

“I see you decided to begin without me,” Beron says, and even his voice has changed. Gone is that jealous, brittle anger. Now he’s practically smirking, knowing what he holds over them. The immense power he wields, now greater than that of anybody in the room.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Rhys shoots back, positioning himself so that Feyre is behind him. “You must have known you could not cross into the Spring Court without at least informing Tamlin.”

“And you must have thought you were quite the politician, conspiring with Eris. You’ll notice that my firstborn isn’t here with me today.”

Murmurs in the room at that secret revealed. Lucien feels himself begin to rise from his chair, wants to charge at the male who raised him, this curse of a father. Elain’s hand is on his arm, pulling him back.

“How does your tethering spell work?” she asks, and at first he thinks she is only trying to distract him, keep him from doing something foolish, and then he sees the determined set of her jaw, realizes she’s formulating a plan.

“It won’t be enough to carry all these people,” he says, shame welling up inside him. His magic has never been a well of raw power, but a matter of finesse, quickness, a well-placed strike. “And who knows what Beron would do if we left this court without defense.”

Near the door, Nesta, Cassian, and Azriel have stood to block off Beron from the rest of the group, the Peregryns flanking them, though their expressions are noticeably reluctant. Rhys’ covert politicking will not be well received. No matter how disagreeable Beron might be, the rule of the High Lord is absolute in his own territory.

While Lucien considers this, tries to map out the next step, the declarations his father will make, Elain darts forward, grabs Rhys’ sleeve, and whispers something into his ear. He disappears, and when Elain dips her head to convey the message to Feyre, the High Lord of the Night Court quickly vanishes. She turns around then, nods at Tamlin, who unsheathes his sword in a fluid motion, strides toward the High Lord of Autumn without hesitation.

“What are you doing here, Beron?”

“I’ve come to watch you attempt to convince these bleeding hearts that you’re a competent ruler. You think I didn’t spot you in the woods? My army is better trained than that.”

One moment, Beron is blocked by a dozen trained warriors, and the next, he simply appears in the middle of the circle where the High Lords are clustered. There is no trace of magic, not even the lightning that betrays Koschei’s involvement in this tableau. He feels Elain stiffen in her seat.

“You will always be too weak to achieve the peace you desire,” Beron says, looking on each High Lord in turn, smirks when he notes Rhys’ absence. “Has it occurred to any of you, how the Night Court hoards its power? Do you ever wonder what it will do, how it will strike, as soon as you step one toe out of line? Why Tamlin invites you as a courtesy to this meeting, when all he needs is Rhysand’s approval in order for the rest of you to beg?”

“You are becoming boring,” Helion drawls through the developing monologue, though Lucien knows his mind is working quickly, laying out all the ways this meeting could develop, the course of action. Wondering if there’s a kernel of truth in Beron’s ranting. “What are you doing in Tamlin’s territory?”

“You think I’d tell you in the name of peace and cooperation?”

“There are only so many options,” Helion shoots back, and Lucien knows on instinct alone that he’s basking in this moment, when he can trounce Beron with his mind alone. “Invading the Spring Court, invading the human lands of Prythian, invading the human lands on the continent. I don’t think even you would be stupid enough to invade Rask or Valhallan, and there’s no reason they’d ally with a single High Lord. Unless Koschei has made you a substantial promise.”

Beron’s face curls into a snarl.

“I’m sure you and your son have spent hours speculating,” he says, and then he turns to the small group from the Spring Court. To Elain. But first his eyes rest on Lucien, suggestive and damning and enraged.

Tamlin strides forward, his sword in one hand and his power gathering in the other, and on instinct, Lucien opens his hand and builds a wall of flame and light around them, so bright he knows it’s blinding to everyone on the outside. He’s always had to hold in half his power to avoid some catastrophic discovery, but now that Beron has decided to officially reveal his parentage, he can ensure that the HIgh Lord of Autumn cannot land a blow.

“You will not harm my friends,” he says, willing the hurt and anger from his voice. This male cannot torture him any more. He is no longer alone in this world.

“What if I proposed a trade? Your so-called mate for the human queen you think you love?”

Despite the light he’s conjured, the world goes dim around Lucien.

For years, it was an act of will not to think of Jesminda, her smile, her expression in repose, the sounds she made at the back of her throat when he kissed her. The color of her eyes and hair, the way her hands had sliced through the air when she’d spoken. Because though all of these memories on their own would have been painful, each memory was intermingled with the sights and sounds of Beron’s torture and killing. Her screaming and her blood, her skin lifted from her like a garment, his horrible relief when she’d finally gone still, saved from torment at last.

All along, he has told himself that there is no way that Koschei is subjecting Vassa to the same treatment. He has been determined to keep her alive. But if Beron is involved, then it is possible that Vassa’s life hangs by a thread. Already he can hear her screams when Koschei grabbed her, rising to drown out every other sound in the room. It is likely that if he hands Elain over, that in moments those will be her screams, instead.

“You need to give me up,” Elain murmurs to him, barely audible over the crackle of the wall of sunlit flames.

He is about to argue with her, offer up an alternate plan, when he sees the expression on her face. He’s seen it on Tamlin’s face dozens of times, the warrior ready to lead their troops into battle.

As he gives her the barest nod, he watches her mouth one word to him, in the same motion as she reaches back to squeeze Tamlin’s wrist.

Once Lucien drops his shield, Beron does not wait for Lucien’s assent. He lunges forward and grabs Elain by the back of her neck. Her startled cry, the scrambling from Nesta on the other side of the room, is drowned out by a sound of a dozen tapestries being torn in half.

When the sound dissipates, the world around Lucien is barren and gray, robbed of color. It’s saturated with Koschei’s magic. Beron’s now seems like a poor echo.

And that same High Lord now whirls on him, flinging Elain’s body in front of his own, a shield.

“Take me back to Prythian or I’ll destroy her,” he growls. But Beron’s eyes dart around at the world, the wide open plains and stubby dried grass which offer no cover, no protection. He does not have Lucien’s talent for the analysis of magic, but even he must sense the air clotted with unsettled magic, thicker and more terrifying than anything in Prythian.

“I think you’ll find that will only strand yourself,” Lucien says, dropping the tethering spell between himself and Elain as a precaution, schooling his face blank as Tamlin approaches, then presses a dagger to Beron’s neck.

“Let go of my mate,” he growls, his power filling the plain, “or I swear I will drop this shield and leave you for the monsters of this world to feast on.”

For years, Lucien thought that this High Lord was his father, and for this reason only he wonders at the lack of sympathy or remorse at the blood that wells at the edge of Tamlin’s blade, the rage and horror on Beron’s face as he sees the green-gold shield formed by Tamlin’s magic, the creature on the outside, a giant winged snake, circling and looping, its prey so close and yet untouchable.

“And you will not defend the male who raised you?” Beron’s eyes are on Lucien now, which is when Lucien realizes the true extent of the High Lord’s fear. In all his life, Beron has never thought he had anything to give.

“Let go of Elain first,” he says, calm as he’s never been before with Beron. He holds his composure when Beron’s fingers loosen, when the knife falls from her neck and Tamlin pulls her behind him.

Then, before the High Lord of Autumn can lash out with a power that is more formidable than Lucien’s, he summons the light and fire of his magic and drives it in a bolt through Beron’s heart.

For a moment, Beron looks stunned, and then there is a horrible gurgle in his throat. The grass crackles with the weight of his collapsing body.

Lucien doesn’t realize Tamlin has moved until he hears his friend’s voice in his ear.

“He would have killed us all without a second thought,” Tamlin is saying, extending his sword toward Lucien, in case he’d like to bring down a final blow. Lucien waves it away. The male he called father for far too long is dead now, his blood soaking into the dirt of this barren world.

“The Autumn Court will be in chaos,” he says, his eyes still on Beron’s body. Even knowing that Beron is dead, he still expects it to rise, to attack Elain and Tamlin, to summon Vassa from Koschei’s side and destroy her.

He cannot believe that after three centuries, he is finally free.

Minutes pass, or maybe days, and he watches the world grow dark outside Tamlin’s shield, the monsters outside circling. He does not know what happens next, in this new world, in any other. He can do anything he wants, and yet those possibilities all overwhelm him, are mixed with all the sneers and beatings Beron delivered over the years, the punishments because he was not like his brothers, was not cruel enough.

“We need to return soon, Lucien,” Elain says eventually, her voice as gentle as a Spring Court breeze. “Do you think that we should bring his body?”

“My brothers will know he’s died. The power will rest on one of them.”

“The funeral rites?”

He wants to tell Elain that she does not understand what it is to have a father who doesn’t just misunderstand you, but spends your trying to unmake and destroy you, who was never your father at all, but her eyes on his are so earnest, so instead he says, “I gave Beron a kinder death than he deserved. My brothers can retrieve his body if they feel so inclined.”

Elain gives a little nod, and Tamlin’s hand is on his shoulder, hard and solid, and so Lucien takes one last look at the corpse he once knew as his father, winds the tethering spell around their three living bodies, and watches this world fade into the one he knows.

The High Fae male appears at the lake a few hours before sunset, and though Vassa cannot quite comprehend what she sees, she studies him, the red of his hair, the arch of his ears, the elegant jacket which is torn and bloodied, the rich fabrics giving way to the pale skin below. He is a study in the colors of autumn, the gold of his eyes and the greens and browns of his clothing, embroidered to match his glinting gaze. The red hair that is so familiar that Vassa gasps, the sound subsumed by the body of the firebird.

This male is not Lucien but so much like him. He paces the lake, his hands tearing at his chest and shoulders, the places where Koschei’s spell weighed down on her hardest in Prythian. Another captive, then. The only one she’s ever seen. Whom Koschei has ever allowed her to see.

Her brain tries to put together the forces that have brought this not-quite-Lucien as a captive to her lake, but the firebird was made for seeing the world too deeply without the mind to comprehend that vision. Once again, for the thousandth time since Koschei took her captive again, Vassa is forced to bide her time.

As the sun makes its way to the horizon, Vassa formulates her questions for this male, bubbling inside her skin as she circles the waters. They are mostly stupid questions, but they will form a ladder toward the information she needs.

Not for the first time, she wishes that she could fly, get a better sense of her surroundings, understand whether this male is one of many or if he has been deposited here alone. But lately Koschei has taken the strength from her wings, made her too weak to fly.

Instead, Vassa waits until the sky darkens, glides to the edge of the lake, and becomes herself again. With her human eyes, she recognizes Eris Vanserra instantly.

Only, he is not looking at her. His gaze is off in the middle distance, and his body glows, the power thick and sulfurous around him, the center of a flame.

Finally, his gaze snags on her.

“My father is dead,” he says by way of greeting. “Our agreement to Koschei is broken. So if you’d like to leave the death-lord, Queen Vassa of Scythia, I suggest you start running now.”

She does not bother with so much as a nod, only hitches up her skirts and starts running for the woods, away from Koschei’s home.

Behind her, she hears Eris footsteps, hears the crackle of the trees she’s passed, now set aflame.

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exquisitley-obsessed · 3 years

Text

Fiancés, Firebirds, Foxes and Fawns: 10

Author: @exquisitley-obsessed

Summary: A few weeks after Briallyn’s attempt at uniting with Koschei, Lucien opens the door of Lockhart Manor to find Elain, cold from the rain and holding a note from the High Lady of the Night Court demanding her to assist Lucien in building alliances with the human councils. Forced to work together by their exhausted High Lord and Lady, Elain is able to convince anyone to do anything, while Lucien has the acquaintances to go anywhere he likes. Together, they attempt to unite the fae and mortal lands and unravel the deal made between Koschei and Vassa, while Lucien remains haunted by his own promise to Elain’s father. ELUCIEN, POST-ACOSF

Pairings: Elain x Lucien, Elucien

Warnings: Nine

A/N: I’ve added a tag list for those who wish to stay updated with this story! Just message me if you wish to be added <3

MY MASTERLIST

THIS FIC’S MASTERLIST

AO3

Chapter Ten: Human not Humane

Huckleberry Hall was thriving with life. Lucien had apparated at the bottom of the pathway leading up to the external arches and courtyard placed before the hall – and there were people everywhere.

Elain saw all walks of life, from noblemen to peasants crowded on the lawns and paths. It was like looking directly into a memory. In another life, Elain would walk among these people with her sisters and parents. Nesta would trot directly behind their mother as she sneered down her nose at the farmers and tanners, Feyre would drift a little further behind, looking up at the clouds in the sky. Their father would walk at the back holding little Elain’s hand, pointing out the flowers and the trees and showing her how to make a trumpet from a leaf.

That was another life and what Elain had always assumed was a happier one.

Mother knows what she thought now.

Lucien and Elain were hidden from sight down the pathway, and it looked as though they were the last to arrive. Looking around, Elain saw stableboys managing a small army of horses, farmers sitting next to wagons full of seeds, grain and fruit, there were even Lords and Ladies, perched under umbrellas in fine chairs, tutting to themselves at the display.

It was so…human.

The rowdy chatter, the children playing hopscotch, the delicacy of these little lives and how they were interwoven with one another. Another way in it being so human was that Elain knew she didn’t fit.

Years ago the sight of all these people would have simply washed over Elain, now it threatened to drown her. Looking around all she could see were people, people and more people. People she didn’t know in a situation she couldn’t control. How long had it been since Elain had spoken to anyone outside the Inner Circle or the Band of Exiles? She hadn’t been taken to any of the meetings with other Courts or any trips abroad – her family hadn’t even told her. They’d just left her alone and hoped she’d be fine.

Breathing started to become a little difficult.

“Are you okay?” Lucien’s voice husked in her ear.

Elain just stared blankly up at him; she wasn’t sure. His own eyes were assessing her carefully.

“If you don’t want to do this just say the word and I’ll take us home.”

Home…

“I’m fine,” Elain said, though a little breathily, “It’s just…I haven’t been around a crowd in a long time.”

She flinched then as a carriage thundered through the woods on a path far to their left, the noise scaring the birds who began a loud chorus of squawking. All of the uproar felt as though it were washing over Elain, dragging her down, suffocating her.

“Hey, Elain, breathe,” Lucien’s hands came up to rest on her shoulders as he pulled himself in front of her, blocking her view of the Hall and all the people surrounding it. Now, her attention was on him.

“Breathe,” he commanded once more before he joined her in taking deep, long breaths. In, out. In, out.

Slowly, the roaring noise and itching anxiety began to fade away as she became encased in the sensation of Lucien. The smell of him surrounding her, his hands on her shoulders, his eyes concerned as they roved over her face.

She wondered if this is how he often felt – like his entire universe sometimes shifted so that she was at the centre.

Once Elain’s breathing had returned to a steady pace for several moments, she felt something tugging from within. Without thinking, Elain brushed up against the bond and was surprised to feel a wave of emotions – Lucien’s emotions – washing over her. She was even more surprised at what those emotions were.

“You’re angry,” Elain whispered after a moment. Lucien shook his head but, he was. His eyes were burning, his jaw set, his brows furrowed – he looked as though he were furiously trying to stop himself from talking. “You are,” Elain prodded because, well, it was a good distraction.

Lucien sighed before looking warily down at her, almost as though he were contemplating telling her whatever it was that had set him off.

“I told Feyre a long time ago that she should’ve been taking you out to see the ocean or sunlight. Instead she…” Lucien trailed off. Elain wished he didn’t, she wished he just said what he so clearly itched to get off his chest.

“I like the indoors,” Elain shrugged.

“Do you?” Lucien cocked his head, “I thought you used to spend all your time in gardens and your greatest wish was to see the continent.”

Elain paused. How did he know about the continent…

Her father. When Lucien had come for Vassa he’d met Elain’s father and he must’ve tried to inconspicuously pick up as much information about her as he could. Maybe once Elain would’ve thought the notion strange but, she couldn’t stop herself from smiling shyly.

“Okay…” Elain tilted her head, “But I needed the indoors.”

“You needed both,” Lucien said as his eyes softened, “Fresh air, new places, new people – they remind us that the world is bigger than the rooms we lock ourselves in.”

The hands on her shoulders began to rub soothingly along her upper arms, and once more Elain’s entire focus zoned in on that point of contact.

“Did you used to lock yourself away?” Lucien grinned.

“Elain, I’m a 400-year-old fae, I’ve spent my fair share moping indoors. Tamlin was the one who eventually had enough, he threw me out into the woods of Spring one day and said if I couldn’t catch anything, I wasn’t eating dinner.”

“That sounds mean,” Elain half-laughed.

“Maybe,” Lucien shrugged, “But it got me out. He was a bastard though, I spent all day in a river collecting enough bass to feed a small army only to come back to the Manor and find an entire spread waiting for me: potatoes, honeyed-ham, even Tipiati – it’s a delicacy from Dawn. It’s this little bird and you cut it open and eat the heart raw-”

“Oh, ugh!” Elain giggled as she scrunched her nose.

“What’s wrong petal? Raw bird heart not sounding good? Wait until I tell you what they do with the eyes-”

“Okay, okay! Feeling better! Ready to seize the day just please, stop talking about those poor birds!” Elain laughed, feeling for the first time in forever the weight on her shoulders disappear.

“I’m going to get you to try it one day,” Lucien grinned, looking rather smug with himself at having made her laugh.

“Oh, in your dreams,” Elain looped her arm through his as they made their way up the path and into the view of the humans.

“Just you wait, if we’re ever in Summer I’m making you try Calamari.”

“I don’t even want to know,” Elain smiled, and for a moment, she forgot where she was.

Because her arm was in Lucien’s and he was smiling down at her as though she were a forest nymph bedecked in moon-flowers and in this moment, everything felt alright.

It was only when they were halfway down the path to the Hall, that Elain began to remember where she was, and she felt the eyes of the humans – humans she once knew – boring into her. She simply kept her own stare ahead at the open doors of the Hall in which she could see the fiery glint of Vassa’s hair and golden dress.

But her fae hearing picked up on everything. She heard the whisperings of the peasants, both enchanted and disgusted by her beauty, she heard the Ladies muttering to one another about her dress and how disgustingly uncivilised it was.

She heard the Lords grinning to one another about how they knew Elain when she was a little girl. About how they had first dibs…

If she wasn’t mistaken Lucien had gone somewhat rigid next to her and he was once more pulling himself to his full height, looming over everyone in the courtyard. One glance up at him told her that he was wearing his fiercest scowl, his entire being practically thrumming with magic that she knew was hot under the surface of his skin.

Then, Lucien was leaning low, his lips coming close to her ear as he whispered three little words. And then, his voice was the only one that mattered.

“I’ve got you.”

***

Time started to move quickly after their laboured walk into the Hall. Once they were in and grouped with Vassa and Jurian, Elain found herself being introduced to a plethora of Noblemen and Ladies. They shook her hand with introductions and light discussions of who they were and the role they played in the rebuilding of the mortal world. Elain was glad she had spent so much time looking over the documents and contracts as she found herself maintaining elaborate, detailed questions with everyone she came into contact with – and as each successful conversation passed, so did her anxiety, and she truly began to believe she could do this.

She often found herself using the same techniques her mother had taught her when attending balls. Except now, instead of conversations about dowries and marital prospects, she was speaking of trade routes and contractual obligations.

On more than one occasion she came into contact with someone whom she once knew. Some people, such as older, less wealthy men were kind and joyful, telling Elain how they were glad to see she was at least healthy and alive following the Battle against Hybern. With others, Elain could read the quite plain apprehension and slight disgust in the eyes of those she’d once known – particularly of father’s whose sons she’d once been a contender for marrying.

The Hall was busy with chatter as this was also the first meeting in which Queen Vassa was in attendance, and with the two new, unusual arrivals, there were many mortal civilities that needed to pass before everyone was to take their seats in the main hall at the southern end of the building.

Lucien never left her side, but not in a way that felt claustrophobic or hovering, but merely in a way that told her that he had her back. Whenever she tuned into his conversations she found that most mortals responded somewhat well to Lucien. At least, as well as they could given the circumstances. Many mortal Lords were interested in Lucien’s weaponry and experience in battle, there appeared to be an endless amount of questions regarding his sword of choice.

There was only one time in which Elain overheard her name in his discussions.

“Are you and the Lady Elain married then?” Lord McAdams, an old man who owned the human libraries inquired over a glass of port.

“We’re acquaintances, and while she is here she is under my protection,” Lucien replied smoothly. He was the image of relaxation, an easy smile that lit up the room playing on his features.

“Ah, I see,” McAdams winked at Lucien, who merely tilted his head in response.

“Pardon?”

“I won’t tell anyone, of course, you see, it is highly unusual for an unmarried woman to…well to…though it does happen.” McAdams was old enough that he wheezed as he talked.

“I’m quite lost Lord McAdams, though I’m sure you mean well.”

“Of course, of course, my boy. Of course, I mean well,” McAdams chortled, “Besides, I can’t blame you can I? You know I knew Elain when she was a little girl, her father used to take all three of them round to my house so they could have their pick from my libraries. She was the prettiest of them all, even then, and it’s always interesting to see how they…turn out.”

Elain was nodding along as a young Lord who owned the rice fields out West continued to chat extensively about himself. Though at that moment, she felt a pair of eyes searing into her back, particularly her behind. At that moment she didn’t need to reach for the bond to feel the protective fury that was radiating from her mate.

It was strange, but for some reason, she liked it. Some guilty, deep down part of her shuddered in agreement at the idea of Lucien being protective over her in the face of these men. It was almost a nice idea, belonging to him…

“Elain!” A saccharine voice pulled Elain from her internal tribulations and Lucien and McAdams faded away as a silver blur appeared in front of her. “Oh Elain it’s so good to see you again, you look…well!”

Delilah Darlington exploded into the conversation, nudging into the side of the young Lord who grumbled in response. She was bundled in a rather ridiculous silver gown which was bedecked in frills of lace that hung off the fabric like cobwebs. Delilah was beautiful, though, and a sweet kind girl.

She did not deserve the cruelty of someone such as Graysen.

“Delilah, I’m so glad you’re well! Congratulations on your engagement,” Elain said with as much earnest kindness she could muster as she pulled Delilah into a brief embrace.

They’d been friends, once, along with a small gaggle of girls. Nesta couldn’t stand any of them, she saw them as competition at balls and discouraged Elain from forming any kind of relationship with them. Elain had anyways, of course. It was something to look forward to at those balls, something to distract her from the wandering hands and unwanted touches.

“Oh, well, yes I-I uh, I didn’t know you were coming back.” Delilah looked strangely guilty for a moment, and Elain felt something in her chest squeeze. Graysen wasn’t deserving of this girl, and he wasn’t worth coming between them.

“Well I’m only here until some political goals are accomplished, then I’ll probably be heading back over the border.”

“How exciting, you always wanted to travel.”

“Yes,” Elain grinned shyly, touched that Delilah remembered such a trivial detail. Looking around Elain realised that the young Lord had disappeared, and she felt herself relaxing from the forced courtly act she’d been playing.

“It’s wonderful Delilah it really is. Being turned fae has been difficult, more than difficult it’s been…well, it’s been hard, but it’s almost worth it for the beauty of Prythian.”

Delilah, unlike the other mortals who changed the conversation once anything beyond the wall was mentioned, grinned widely and rubbed her hands together.

“I read a book after you were taken over the wall, it was a forbidden scripture from McAdams library that I managed to steal when I was over there. It detailed all things about Prythian, is it true there are Seasonal Courts?”

“Oh yes,” Elain grinned, allowing her courtier’s exterior to crumble, “Lucien hails from the Autumn Court.”

Elain shifted so that she was now standing next to Delilah against the wall and pointed out to Lucien, though there was no need, he stood head and shoulders above everyone, currently nodding along to something a small gaggle of women were chatting about.

“Oh of course, I can see it now,” Delilah muttered with a smile, but Elain was fixated and the now growing group of women that were trying to gain her mate’s attention. Delilah, seeing Elain’s line of sight, smiled wider. “They do that every week. They’re all eligible brides, see there’s Isobel and Lottie…not that they would ever admit it, but I think some of them want him to propose.”

“Propose?” Elain couldn’t stop herself from spluttering, feeling a protective fiery anger move through her at the thought. The idea that these women had gathered week after week trying to sway Lucien into offering them his hand in marriage for two years, it made her feel feral.

Lucien was hers.

The thought was like a stone to the head and suddenly the protective rage was cleared, leaving behind her internal shock and confusion had having had such an audacious thought. But by the way Lucien was now grinning slyly at the women before him, his confidence having tripled within the minute, Elain was pretty certain she’d accidentally sent that thought down the bond.

“Is he really your mate?” Delilah asked, her eyes twinkling slightly. Elain stayed quiet for a moment, and then.

“Yes. He is. We’re bound together by fate and the Mother herself.”

“That sounds very beautiful,” Delilah said softly, but Elain could not take her eyes away from her Autumn Male. It was like the thought had just truly dawned on Elain, the reality of their situation.

Lucien was her mate. In that way, he was hers.

And she was his.

“It is…”

“The meeting shall begin in ten minutes, please, may you all take your seats!” A loud, brash voice called from the looming doors of the main hall and the crowd began to move in the direction, the babbling only increasing as wives got left behind and Lords could engage in the locker room talk before the politics – Elain didn’t miss the several glances thrown her way as the men’s rowdy chatty began to fill the building.

“I must go but, I’ll see you soon,” Delilah hopped out away from her, giving Elain a quick embrace and a kiss on the cheek before she was waving and disappearing into the crowd. The crowd where her fiancé no doubt was hidden.

She had not yet seen him.

Just as she was about to lose herself in the throng, Lucien was in front of her, pushing through the men as though they were no more than butterflies to swat at. Before she could say anything, he was holding out his arm with a slight bow.

“Lady.”

Unable to help herself, Elain grinned at her mate as she looped her arm through his and was rewarded with an equally bright grin back. Lucien led them through the crowd into the hall, people parting for them as though they were a plague to be avoided. Elain didn’t mind, especially if it meant no one would stand on her train.

“They can’t take their eyes off you.” Lucien didn’t move as he spoke, he merely muttered the words under his breath and had he been talking to any mortal, they would’ve been lost on the wind. But Elain’s fae-hearing picked them up, and she felt a shiver run the length of her spine at the secret conversation in plain sight.

“Feeling territorial?” Elain surprised herself by husking back.

“It would seem I’m not the only one.” She didn’t need to look at him to know he was smirking coyly.

“I don’t like the way they talk about me,” Elain moved on before her cheeks could start burning, “The men who watched me grow up.”

“It’s repulsive.” All humour left her mate’s tone. “If it soothes your mind know that I won’t let them lay a finger on you.”

“I don’t know if touching is the problem so much as the looking.”

“That dress isn’t doing us favours I’m afraid.”

“Oh, do you wish for me to get rid of -”

“Don’t,” Lucien said too quickly, his arm going rigid from where it was interlinked with hers. Elain smirked. “It’s…it’s a fine dress.” Lucien tried to concede.

“I think so.”

“It reminds me of home.” Elain stole a glance at him then.

“Because of the fabric?”

“Well yes,” Lucien’s brows furrowed as his eyes met hers, “But…that dress was my mothers.” Elain felt her shock roll through her. His mother’s? But this was a gift from Mor – right?

“You didn’t know,” Lucien mused, now seemingly unable to take his eyes off of her. Elain shook her head. “Ah, of course, I gave it to Nuala the other day, she wouldn’t take it until I said it was from Mor.”

“I’ll…have to ask her about it. Why do you have your mother’s dress?”

“Eris delivered it months ago, apparently she’d heard of our bond and wished to gift it to you as a mating present.”

“Oh-”

“I don’t intend to – I’m not giving it to you for that reason I just, I explained to Nuala my thinking about how the fabric and style is perfect for setting intention.” Elain just drifted next to him, turning his words over in her head.

“Is this why you are always dressed so finely, because it is a political motive?” Lucien, to her surprise, grinned wickedly.

“Nothing is coincidental, Elain, from the clothes we wear to the way we talk.”

“Whose we?” Lucien shrugged.

“I would’ve said Autumn Court Males but, I believe it is only Eris whom I share that trait with. Ah, here we are.”

The hall was set up like a Courtroom, with certain families, estates, and job sectors, sectioned off into small groups. Elain and Lucien, being the representatives for The Fae were somewhat isolated from everyone else. They were near enough to Vassa and Jurian who were bickering quietly from where they were seated to their right. The room was still squabbling and rowdy with chatter, and there were only men besides Elain and Vassa. The other mortal queens were not even present.

Elain’s eyes unwittingly began to search for Graysen. For some reason, not having seen him yet was making her nervous, it felt as though the longer she waited, the worse it was going to be. She just didn’t want to have anything sprung upon her.

Perhaps with the bond having been in more use the past few days, it seemed that Lucien was somehow easily able to gleam that Elain’s attention had returned to her ex-fiancé. Elain knew because he’d gone rigid next to her.

“What?” Elain prodded, turning to him. With the hall still full of chatter, she wasn’t worried about anyone overhearing their conversation. She’d thought she and Lucien had been good on the Graysen topic following their conversation in the kitchen doorway. Lucien didn’t look at her, instead, he appeared to be assessing the Darlington’s as they made themselves comfortable. “Lucien,” Elain stressed.

“I um, I felt you the other night, when you found out Graysen was engaged,” he began slowly, still not meeting her eye. Elain tugged on his sleeve forcing him to look down at her, she raised her brows questioningly to show she didn’t understand. Lucien breathed deeply, his eyes closing momentarily before he looked deep ahead, avoiding her pleading look. “I could feel what you were feeling.”

The way Lucien looked ahead, his jaw set and his eyes unfeeling, it was as though that little sentence had explained everything. But she was just more confused.

He’d felt her? Her emotions? What had she been feeling? She’d found out that Graysen was engaged, and she felt…She had felt tired, relieved, pitiful even. It was like some door had finally jammed shut after it had been fluttering between open and closed. It was a final sever in their bond and as she had fallen asleep that night, she’d welcomed the end of her time with Graysen. Her dream that night was a reminder that her relief was earned.

How could any of that upset Lucien?

Then Elain realised that Lucien had felt it. That longing, and by the way Lucien was now glaring at his hands, curled into fists in his lap, she’d realised that he may have misunderstood what, exactly, she was longing for.

She didn’t want Graysen. She wanted what he had. Not in terms of Delilah but, she wanted his ignorance, his ability to simply move on and find a new wife. She wanted his strength to not change, to still be who he was, to still have the world the way he wanted it with him at the centre.

She longed for the bliss Graysen had found, simply because that bliss made her agony so much more tender.

Lucien had misread her. She almost sighed with relief. She could fix this; she could simply explain to him why, and the small waves of hurt currently rocking through her would disappear.

Lucien wasn’t Graysen, he wasn’t going to leave her side in an instant just because of a misunderstanding. But even as Elain repeated this to herself as the room quietened and the meeting began, some part of her refused to believe it – some part of her refused to trust.

***

The meeting was rather boring. After all her research and all her note-taking, the first two hours involved discussions Elain had no interest in. It was about internal disputes, farmers angry with one another over borders, fisherman demanding wage rises, etcetera, etcetera. Elain was forced to watch as the Lords and Noblemen sneered down at the lower class, working men and had to bite her tongue the entire time.

It seemed that Lucien shared her disgust, as he regularly whispered quips in her ear about how mortal and fae weren’t so different after all. That the High Fae and these Noblemen had more terrible things in common, such as their treatment of working families and Lesser Fae.

Elain had tried to watch with an assessing eye, categorising the figures she needed to remember for later discussions. But by the time the lunchtime break came about, she was practically falling asleep on Lucien’s shoulder. It was after lunch that the room seemed to clear slightly, the farmers and peasants going home to their families as the topic of the Fae and Queen Vassa was brought up.

Queen Vassa made her introduction to the room, her voice full and powerful as she stood, Jurian watching with an all-knowing smile at her side. There were some small talks about property and Vassa was able to confirm her signature on several contracts.

Lucien got involved in discussions several times, and Elain was more than happy to sit quietly and watch as he worked the room. He was perfect. The way he eased into conversations, the easy-going smiles, the unconfrontational comments on trade routes and Fae resources.

Elain was surprised to notice that several Noblemen had taken a shining to Lucien and seemed to actively pursue his voice in discussions. She could tell a lot of it was fake, the way Lucien grinned at men whom he’d whispered insults about in Elain’s ear but, his courtier’s mask was perfect.

Elain was beginning to think that she might make it through the meeting without having to stand and utter a single word, until Lucien interjected a conversation about wrapping up for the week.

“We must speak of the matter that is Koschei.”

This seemed to be the first thing Lucien had said which the Noblemen did not instantly grin and nod along to. Instead, Elain saw heavy sighs and the rolling of eyes. It would seem that these Lords did not mind discussing with the Fae so long as it was about mortal matters. But talk of Death-Gods and magical firebirds, seemed to rather put them off.

“We have spoken of it. Weeks ago.” Elain heard Lord Nolan’s tired voice swim into the room. He appeared humoured by Lucien’s statement while Lucien simply remained passive. Stoic. They were sitting far to their left, and Elain had already glimpsed Graysen perched next to his father, leaning back in his chair. It was almost like he was trying, and failing, to impersonate Lucien’s image of confident boredom.

“May I remind you, Lord Nolan, that fae resources are only open to you so long as you stick to your word.”

“My word-”

“-yes,” a shimmer of anger was seen in Lucien’s eye, but beyond that his courtier's mask was flawless. “Your word that you would assist both Queen Vassa and her fae acquaintances in disposing of the Death-Lord, whose residence is not far from this very hall.”

“The agreement was to help you reverse the so-called curse placed on the Queen, and as we can all see, Queen Vassa has joined us today and therefore one might consider that vow fulfilled.”

“I am here on bought time,” Vassa now stood, her voice dripping in authority and power as she asserted herself amongst the men, “I shall not explain the means, as the explanation shall no doubt be lost on a room of mortals, but what you see before you is merely a temporary solution to the problem.”

“It would do you well, Queen Vassa, to remember that you too are mortal,” Lord Darlington now husked, his eyes predatory, “Or at least you were…once.”

“Oh don’t worry, Darlington, she’s just as mortal as I am,” Jurian grinned, though the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Darlington merely sneered in disgust.

“The point is Koschei is still at large-” Lucien tried again, the picture of relaxation from where he stood, looming over the room.

“And what do you expect us to do?” Elain felt her heart shudder as Graysen’s voice finally joined the others. It was only a matter of time.

Even though he was speaking to someone else - to Lucien - Elain felt her fight or flight instinct kick in. The last time she had heard that gravelly, low voice, had been when it had broken her heart.

“You fae clearly see us humans as inadequate, as proven by your Queen forgoing explaining her sudden appearance. No doubt caused by some dark magic, the same magic that threatens to infiltrate our lands and poison our people.” Graysen rose to his feet, his voice growing louder, and Elain noticed how much he had aged since she’d last seen him.

It had only been two years but the stress of rebuilding the mortal world without a wall had taken its toll: thinning hair, lines around his mouth, he’d also put on quite a bit of weight. He was no longer the young boy Elain had fallen in love with, a dreamer who wished to rid the world of evil beings. He was a man with a heart full of hate.

“Two things,” Lucien’s own voice didn’t waver as he turned to address Elain’s ex-fiancé, and she wondered how much they’d had to see of each other over the past two years. “One, Vassa is not my Queen. Two, it is somewhat hilarious to watch you whine like a pup over Queen Vassa not explaining to you her magic, when you are already so prejudiced to not comprehend the difference between the fae and Koschei. There is no magic seeking to infiltrate your lands apart from the work of the latter.”

“Koschei is fae-”

“-Koschei is a Death-God.” Lucien’s tone turned cold, and at that moment the sun dipped behind the clouds. “A survivor from the time of Old Gods. He is not fae, he is a threat to us as much as he is a threat to you.”

“The threat to humans are all fae and everything that comes with them.”

“The fae of Prythian have no interest in humans-”

“Oh please, one must only look to my ex-fiancé for proof of their machinations.”

The room went cold. The sun having now truly disappeared from sight, leaving behind a world of blue and grey shadows.

“Look at her, look at her unnatural beauty. Many of us knew Elain, the true Elain Archeron, the human one. She was beautiful but plain of the mind but set to live a normal, human life. Now look at her, she’s no better than a siren or a nymph, her beauty is of a freak nature and it’s only purpose is to lure you in, to cover the ugly truth underneath. Her and her two sisters were turned, stolen from their beds in the middle of the night and taken across the wall. I’m surprised to see you here Elain,” Graysen had been talking theatrically to the room, but that last sentence was personal, intimate. And when he caught Elain’s eye, she could only think one thing.

She hated him.

“Surprised but I suppose that’s my own fault, you always had a small fortune of ugly secrets you liked to keep hidden - and to think I almost fell into a marriage with you. You see, this is another reason the fae wish to infiltrate our lands, they wish to take our wives. Elain was stolen and turned only to be given to the male we see before us,” Graysen held his arm out to where Lucien was standing, still as stone at Elain’s side.

“This male was able to lay a claim on Elain the second she was turned. We’ve all heard of the mating bond.” A ripple of disgusted murmurs went around the room. “At that moment Elain, my soon to be wife, belonged to a fae male. Mother knows what atrocities occurred in the time between their mating and the moment Elain finally remembered her fiancé and came back home.”

Outrage and disgust were expressed around the room, and Graysen looked almost gleeful as he assessed the crowd.

“These two, this harlot and her owner-“

Elain shot out a hand and gripped the fabric of Lucien’s trousers if only to stop him from burning the boy to a crisp from where he stood.

“-have come here to mock us! They have come as a warning, to show us what will happen to our people - our women - if we allow this alliance with the fae to continue!” There were shouts of encouragement swelling from the crowd. “If we continue on this path then our women will look like her, horrid in their beauty. And worse, our women will belong to him as Elain belongs to him, as little more than a personal prostitute!”

There was something feral in Lucien’s eye as he glared at Graysen across the room. But while her mate was focused on her ex-fiancé, Elain was drowning in the leering coming from the crowd. People she had just introduced herself to a few hours earlier and had pleasant conversations were now staring at her with revulsion and disgust. She heard shouts of people calling her a ‘witch’, people telling her that she had no shame, that she was to burn in hell.

With her hand fisted in Lucien’s trouser leg, Elain drowned it out, she drowned it all out, and reached for the bond within.

Lucien was a tempest. Brushing up against the bond, Elain herself could feel the fire in his veins, could envision the rings of his powers, burning hotter and hotter all the way down to his golden core. The mating bond was taut in his skin, demanding him to defend Elain, to rip out the throat of anyone who would insult her. But there was another anger there too, a personal one. Lucien was furious on Elain’s behalf; she could read that now. He thought so highly of her and to hear lesser men insult her was turning him livid.

Sharply, Elain tugged on the bond and in an instant, his eyes snapped to hers.

There was so much emotion in that one look. Concern, fury, bitterness, doubt. It was all there for her to see; he didn’t dilute anything. With as much delicacy and care as she could muster, she slipped her hand from his pant leg into the hand that was dangling by his side.

Slowly, she rose to her feet.

“It is true,” she began, and she felt Lucien’s hand squeeze her own. “I was stolen in the middle of the night by a group of fae. They stole me across land and ocean, all the way to Hybern. It is there where I was thrown into the Cauldron, the maker of all life, and transformed into a High Fae. This is all true.

“But my transformation was an irregularity, an unfortunate yet calculated political move whereby the King of Hybern attempted to get back at my sister for her killing of Aramantha. I expect you to all remember the King of Hybern, given that your own armies joined the fae in the Battle that catalysed these meetings two years ago.

“The King of Hybern was evil. Not the fae of Prythian. The King of Hybern was your enemy and the threat to human life. Not the fae of Prythian. Those such as Lucien here fought for your freedom. Fae died on that battlefield for you to stand here today, and you repay them by villainising them.

“There needs not be any animosity between these mortal lands and the fae realms of Prythian. I grew up like you, believing the fae were evil incarnations that existed to tempt human morality. But unlike you, I have travelled Prythian, I have seen fae from all walks of life, and the reality is the cautionary tales we all heard growing up were nothing more than fiction.

“The fae have homes, wives, children. They have towns and cities, farms, libraries and schools. They wake up each morning and go to work and each evening they have dinner with their families.

“This alliance is not about turning humans into fae, nor turning fae into humans. It’s about recognising life and seeking to protect it from those who might threaten it - and Koschei threatens all of us. We know he seeks to free himself from the confines of his lakeside Manor, we know he wishes to seek vengeance for his imprisonment. But there is much we do not know.

“We do not know how Koschei was bound to the lake, how he steals women of this land and turns them into swans, why he took Vassa, nor what it will take for him to be free. That is why this alliance is paramount.

“Koschei has a fascination with the mortals, he steals mortal women and mortal Queens. His residence is only a few miles south from here, deep in the forest. It is because of this we need mortal alliances.

“You do not need to believe the fae are good, nor must you trust us. But you must understand that all we wish to do is destroy a being who threatens everyone in this room. The alliance need not be a happy one, but it is needed.”

The room had quietened, the shouting had stopped. People were listening to her, and Elain had finally found her voice.

Lucien’s hand squeezed her own and she realised they were both standing before the room of mortals. She could only have an idea of what they must’ve looked like, side by side, glistening with the beauty of the Fae. They must’ve looked united and commanding.

They must’ve looked powerful.

Then, across the room, a man got to his feet. Looking at him for a moment, Elain realised it was the young Lord she had been speaking to with Delilah who owned the rice fields out West. He looked tentative and young as the spotlight fell on him, but when he met Elain’s eye, she saw a fierceness burning there.

“What do you need?”

***

Lucien wanted to get Elain home quickly after the meeting. Today had been unusually tiring, what with Elain’s debut in that dress this morning to the crowds turning on his mate halfway through the meeting. He just wanted to go home.

Correction, he needed to get Elain home and safe and away from these horrible men and their horrible thoughts.

A few noblemen came forth following the meeting expressing their devotion to helping Elain and Lucien in tackling the problem of Koschei. Most of them were young Lords who had come into their father’s wealth unexpectedly after the war, and their hearts had not yet had a chance to become polluted with years of hatred for the fae.

That was a success. No matter how often Lucien had tried to convince the noblemen to even speak of Koschei in the meetings, it seemed that the missing element was both Elain and Queen Vassa.

But before long Lucien had had enough. He wanted Elain home and safe now, and expressing a few half-hearted apologies he looped Elain’s arm through his and guided her out down the pathway before winnowing away without a second notice.

They made their way to the house with some small talk about how well the meeting had gone (Lucien tried his hardest not to spend all his time grovelling about how amazing she was and how fierce and strong she’d looked when addressing the crowds). The maids were there waiting for them with a pot of tea whilst they began on dinner.

It seemed that the meeting had gone on well into overtime and the sun was now distinctly plummeting towards the horizon. But when Vassa and Jurian finally made it back on horseback, there was only Jurian who entered the living room with a glass of whiskey.

“Where’s Vassa?”

“She decided to get her firebird overtime out the way,” Jurian sighed, something bitter in his eye as he flopped carelessly on the couch next to Lucien.

“Does that mean she won’t be turning back tonight?”

“We assume so, we’re not sure how the ring works but if Koschei’s little note is correct then I believe we won’t be seeing Vassa for a few days.”

Lucien cursed under his breath. Jurian just looked tired and…angry.

“There was a note?” Elain asked from where she was perched on her armchair, her legs tucked up underneath her, her dress outlining every curve of her body.

“Yes,” Jurian eyed her for a moment, “You did well out there princess, Lord Cao looked practically ready to sign you his battlements.” The Lord who had spoken at the end of the meeting.

“We talked after,” Elain mused, her finger running around the lip of her glass, “His residency is the closest to Koschei’s manor and he’s invited all of us to come visit, I think if we get close enough we may be able to get a read on the magic that’s bound to the manor.”

“Oh, fun, a day trip,” Jurian sighed bitterly, something clearly having aggravated his mood. He turned his scowl to Lucien. “Are you really going to let your mate within a mile of that place?”

Something dark flickered in Lucien’s eye.

“If Elain deems it a worthy trip then of course we must go. I thought you were interested in seeing Vassa free of the curse?”

“Of course I’m interested in seeing Vassa free, why do you think I’m here?” Jurian hissed.

“To generally give the manor a feeling of unease?”

“To make rude comments about people’s sisters in an attempt to start a fight?” Elain added.

“To make indecent comments about people’s mates in an attempt to-”

“Alright, alright. Mother, you two are no fun.” Jurian rolled his eyes, but some of the tension seemed to leave his body at the teasing. “Have you already eaten?”

Elain and Lucien nodded and Jurian got up with a stretch.

“Yum, leftovers for me then,” was all he said before he headed for the door.

“Jurian,” Elain called, “That note Koschei sent with the ring, could I see it?” Jurian glanced between her and Lucien, seeming to think before he nodded.

“I’ll send it up to your room in the morning," was all he said before he left the room. And once more, Lucien and Elain were left alone with nothing but a crackling fire.

There was a tension there that hadn’t been there before, or maybe it had, maybe they’d both just been too ignorant to see it.

The reality was there would always be that tension between them, that intrigue and possibility. Looking at her now, curled in an armchair, the dress having turned a glittering emerald in the firelight, he felt every inch of his skin respond to her.

Not for the first time, an unplanned fantasy strolled through his mind. An image of himself getting up off this couch and walking over to her, of him placing his knee on her armchair, in between her thighs, capturing her throat in his hand and lowering his lips to hers.

One blink and the image was gone. Perhaps it was the bond showing him these things, taunting him with a possibility that at this moment seemed unachievable.

“I, um, I wanted to talk to you actually,” Elain spoke into the silence, and briefly Lucien fretted if his scent had changed.

“Oh?”

“Yes…about Graysen.” Lucien’s hope dropped like lead in his gut.

“Oh.”

“I just wanted to say that I think you misread my emotions when I found out he was engaged which, I mean that’s not your fault. This whole bond kind of disrupts communication.”

Lucien just nodded. Looking at her, he saw the strands of hair that had come loose around her face, he wondered if they were as soft as they looked.

“I’m not upset about it. I don’t want him anymore,” Elain said plainly. “I just…I guess I want what he has.”

Lucien blinked. That wasn’t what he was expecting.

“What, specifically, do you want?” The words were careful, calculated.

“I’m not sure…his happiness? His ignorance?” Elain seemed to scowl slightly and then she was standing, setting her drink on a nearby table as she turned to the fire to warm her hands. Lucien pondered for a moment, definitely not using that time to worship at the way the dress followed the swell of her behind and, Mother help him, her thighs. Then he was up, moving around the table to join her at the fire.

Elain turned and watched him approach with an enigmatic stare, the fire reflecting in her glassy eyes.

“Graysen’s life is perhaps an easier one,” Lucien eventually breathed, “But whilst yours may prove more difficult, it is certainly more worthwhile.” Elain paused as she pondered his thoughts, and Lucien once more allowed himself to drink from her ever-flowing fountain of beauty.

“I just, I think it’s all so unfair.” She wrapped her arms around herself.

“Why?”

“Because why does he get to be happy? Why does he get to continue to live his life and just find someone else to marry? Is there no such thing as justice?”

“You are free to seek retribution Elain-”

“And give the humans further reason to hate the fae?”

Lucien blinked. The timing of Graysen’s death would be unfortunate, but Lucien wanted to see the boy dead, even if that meant tomorrow an army would be at his door.

“The humans should be grateful the fae are ridding them of such vermin,” Lucien couldn’t help himself from spitting as he glared out the window. But not before he caught Elain giving a weary look and for the first time, he realised just how tired she looked. The way her shoulders hung forward and her arms curled limply around herself. Something akin to agony washed through him at the sight of his exhausted mate, followed by the overwhelming need to fix it, to take her into his arms and protect her from all the things that worried her. Lucien had to fold his arms tightly across his chest to stop himself from reaching out.

“I don’t want to have any revenge when it comes to Graysen because it’s not going to make me feel better,” Elain looked at the fire as she spoke, and Lucien hated the wobble in her voice. He hated that he didn’t know who was making her cry – him or the boy.

“It might.”

“No. It wouldn’t,” she said with such ferocity Lucien was temporarily reminded of Nesta. “You know why?” Elain scowled, her eyes tightening and her lips turning down into a cruel frown.

“Because I would’ve still loved him if he’d been the one to come back changed. I would’ve still married him, and I would’ve told him it’d be alright, and we’d figure it out together – and killing him isn’t going to change the fact that he wouldn’t do the same for me. That he would’ve never done that for me; and that means he never loved me the way I loved him. You don’t get Lucien. Killing him means nothing because there is nothing I can do to him to make him hurt even half as much as he hurt me because he simply, doesn’t, care. He will never even comprehend what he did to me. He will spend the rest of his life, even if that life ends tomorrow, in blissful ignorance of what he did and the damage he caused. Hurting him back would just be so…so pointless, and…I’m tired.” Elain curled in on herself with an exhausted, angry sigh.

“I know you think I came here because I was ready to finally deal with this…with us,” she met his eye and hunched herself into a smaller ball, her arms winding further around herself, “But that’s not it. I came here because I’m tired and there nothing left for me and, and I’m running out of-of-I’m running out of-”

She was starting to hyperventilate. Madja had warned her of this, the panic attacks that had become a side effect of her depression. She needed to breathe, she needed to calm down, she needed-

Lucien crossed the room in three strides. Some part of Elain wanted to recoil at him approaching her with such ferocity in his step and steel in his eye, but she couldn’t be scared of him. She could be afraid of the bond and what it meant to her, what he meant to her, but Lucien would never hurt her. Ever. That she knew.

He’d stilled in front of her, looking down at her enigmatically. She’d run out of words, and she didn’t know if Lucien understood what she was attempting to say. Every part of her was ready to just break down from how exhausted she was.

The silence drew on. The tension turning palpable, and when she was just about ready to fall to her knees and let the agony take over, his arms wrapped around her, and he pulled her firmly against his chest.

Elain let out a small sob as her face was pushed into the fabric of his shirt, her head resting against his upper ribs and lower chest. She’d never been so aware of how different they were in size; he was the tallest of them all and she the shortest. But it felt…good. And maybe she was touch-deprived, or maybe she was just deluded, but she found herself burrowing into him. He was so warm, and with his arms around her she felt like…like he had her. Like it didn’t matter if she let go and just crumpled because he had her and he wasn’t going to let her hit the floor.

At this point, falling was inevitable. Elain had been falling for some time, plummeting down and down after the Cauldron had tipped her out and washed her corpse on jagged stones. But with Lucien holding her she considered, for the first time, having a soft place to land.

She didn’t want him to see her cry, so she burrowed deeper. Her arms were still curled around her torso; Lucien’s curled around her back. Both of them holding onto her and keeping her together. A few seconds, minutes, hours of silence and she realised that after this, she could never forget how he smelt. Apples, warmth, musk, fresh Earth, smoke. Familiar and foreign. A stranger but…hers.

He smelt like an evening, an Autumnal evening, with a brilliant streaking sunset. The kind where it seemed like the sun had never been so alive, where the sun took the sky and turned into its masterpiece.

He was that masterpiece. The Autumnal sky. The Autumnal Sun.

Sighing, Elain waited for him to recoil. For his arms to slacken and for him to move away, for them to nod awkwardly at each and then go to bed and try to pretend that this conversation hadn’t happened. But time ticked by, and Lucien didn’t let go. If anything, his steely grip only tightened. As though with each passing second, where Elain expected him to drift away, he set out to hold on tighter. Their words had run out tonight, but Elain heard the message he was saying as he held her closer and closer. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.

Elain breathed him in, and allowed herself to stay.

***

Right then, she wanted to tell him that she didn’t know how to do this, but she knew she didn’t want to hurt him. She wanted to say that she wasn’t sure if she could love again, that she might be a lost cause because Graysen had so thoroughly ruined her trust, and she wasn’t sure how high she’d built the walls around both her heart and mind. She wanted to say that she was lonely, and that she thought he was too, and what a funny pair they were in this world full of light and dark. Where good came in the form of people who made them both feel so alone.

She wanted to say that she was at a breaking point and had been for some time. That even though the war had ended it still raged within her. That no one else seemed to care because they’d got the happy endings whilst she just…existed.

She wanted to say that she didn’t know what she wanted. That her dream of being a wife and mother had been buried when she first tried to kill herself, three days after the Cauldron. Because how could she care for anyone else, especially a child, when she couldn’t care for herself.

She wanted to say that right now, in this moment, she just wanted to know him.

She just wanted a friend.

She wanted…

She wanted to run away and never look back. She wanted to damn the world that damned her. She wanted a brain that worked. A family she felt connected to. Someone to care.

Someone to fucking care. That was all.

But for now, this was enough. Lucien pulling her into his arms before she finally collapsed was enough. And so, tonight, she’d sleep. And that was enough too.

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flowerflamestars · 3 years

Text

Nesta Under the Mountain part 3: acomaf, the later half

So while some extremely painful flirting is happening, so is plot. Azriel periodically disappears to try to infiltrate the Queens palace. Morrigan splits her time between Velaris and trying to keep Keir remotely in line. Amren and Lucien teach Nesta how to use magic, Cassian readies the legions for war.

So Nesta, unlike Feyre, has multiple sources for her most important questions: What the hell is Hybern doing? Trying to build an empire of old. Reaching for glory that isn’t there, because Prythian is wealthy.

Why Amarantha? Why was she so powerful?

It’s Rhysand who answers her, one day when they’re alone. He’s drinking on the roof- Nesta is inclined to make a comment about lordly behavior but doesn’t because she knows, she knows, from the look in his eyes, that he’s going to answer for real.

Amarantha liked to talk in bed. And Rhysand had, eventually, put the pieces together: Amarantha was the invading force alone, because Amarantha needed to earn Hyberns favor.

What did Hybern have? A kingdom crippled without its slaves. A King who’d ruled so long the world forgot his name. No heir, no other ruler. No son, only daughters.

Amarantha sought to earn her place in succession- with her father’s stolen magical secrets and a taste for vengeance.

Nesta accepts this, and has a drink.

There’s an interim of weeks, while Amren relearns a dead language and Azriel tries his last, worst plans. Nesta is so ready to tear out of her skin- Morrigan succeeds in getting Nesta to go out with her.

Morrigan pulls her over cobblestones to Ritas, and Nesta absolutely doesn’t tell her Lucien had found the place on his first city walkabout and been toasting their bitter victories there every one since.

Cassian, as he tends to wherever Nesta is, appears. They haven’t spoken since she came back with the book. Lucien trickles in with glitter in his hair, Azriel silent, offensively handsome drawing the light by his side.

And Morrigan watches. Cassian will spend the night quietly pressing fresh drinks into Nesta’s hand and glaring like absolute murder at any stranger who tries to get near. She sees how Cassian, her friend for five centuries, is contextualizing this: service, gladly rendered.

Understands he will make it small in his head and it means the opposite- the very opposite- that Nesta is letting him do either of those things for her. That she trusts him, to be near at all.

Morrigan and Nesta have a very different talk afterward than her and Feyre would have. Mor thinks it might be a good idea to make it really clear she herself doesn’t ever want Cassian, in case, that too, is standing in the way.

(Nesta also just...so clearly doesn’t have a single negative thought about Lucien doing...whatever Lucien does. They’ll get insouciant and mean and discuss the attractiveness of anyone. Nesta, unlike Feyre, reacts to queerness without even blinking)

So Mor and Nesta might not enjoy each other, exactly, but they respect one another. When Rhysand poses his insane Nesta you were mortal, let’s meet the Queens on mortal land plan, Morrigan, more than anyone, is the one who listens when Nesta explains that the Queens hate faeries.

Hate magic. Hate, even, it seems, the mortals that live along the wall for existing in proximity to Prythian.

It’s like letting go of a dream- for the chance of something real. Five centuries have passed, and that’s not much for Mor, but it’s everything, to mortals. Their bright lives are so quick, so valuable in an eyeblink- and that’s why Nesta’s here at all.

A mortal heart.

Azriel and Nesta team up- she scoffs that infiltration has fails, laughs outright at the idea she should be a diplomat, and proposes something else. They veritable army of spies, why are none of them mortal? Hundreds of humans work in Court of Queens. Voiceless, unrecognized. None of the magical protections would stop them.

So instead of Keir, or the Veritas, or her sisters- we bring back the lady mercenary. We bring in a whole bunch of lady mercenaries. A new network of information, passed from overlooked woman to overlooked woman, carried in shadows, all the way back to the Court of Night.

There’s no meeting. Because Hybern is already there.

And Nesta thinks its the most insane thing she’s ever heard- they want to live forever?

Morrigan tries to comfort her, Lucien tries to stop Morrigan, because he knows- Nesta doesn’t regret. And she tells them all that, looking over the war map, each grim face and strange shred of sympathy.

Nesta says, I know I’m a monster and I’m glad of it. I will never belong to just one Court, never go home. I cannot, because that life was taken from me and I am glad, because it will take a monster to protect the humans from other monsters.

And Rhysand says, oh so very quietly: You can belong.

But it’s lost, completely, in two things- the way Lucien has stepped around Azriel to let Nesta, not lean- Nesta, sober, leans on absolutely no one- but to be there, close, in her orbit, and Cassian standing up.

It’s the Queens Meeting promise, dark chocolate version. Cassian wipes away that one tear on her perfect face. Says to her and her alone like no one else is there, that he’d done monstrous things his entire life in the name of what was right. But he’d become something worse, unleash a whole ocean of blood, to protect the innocents who needed it. Die a monster, in defense of those mortals with her.

And Nesta just looks at him. Like she can see all the way through to his aching soul, and nods.

One commander to another. Absolute, perfect, understanding.

So what happens, if the mcguffin of the book cannot work?

Nesta says, like Cassian isn’t still staring at her, like she isn’t leaning into Lucien’s bodyheat like a refuge- the book is to control the Cauldron, but why can’t we just go after the Cauldron?

Steal it? Break it? Use it ourselves.

No ones answers particularly satisfy her- they can winnow. They can move unseen. There’s more power in this room than whole kingdoms possess, why the hell can’t they just break in, touch the Cauldron, and winnow away?

Cassian says it’s suicide. The castle is a deathtrap. Guards, wards, magic.

And, Rhysand adds, the Cauldron might not play along. It’s too powerful, too old to just treat like an object. The Cauldron itself could resist.

They’re all piling out of the townhouse, after the unsuccessful meeting, when Lucien goes white. Freezes.

And Nesta knows.

Knows that despite every precaution, the words that have never, ever escaped her lips in Prythian. Despite Tamlin dead- someone, somehow, found out that Prythian’s vengeance has two vulnerable, mortal sisters.

Nesta is grabbing onto Lucien to winnow away before anyone can ask what is wrong. Because something is wrong, so, so wrong- at the last second, Cassian snatches her hand, and ends up dragged along.

The Archeron estate is on fire.

There’s no time to ask- no time to talk. Cassian starts killing Hybernian soldiers left and right, no one here that can actually stop him.

Nesta runs straight into the fire, Lucien on her heels, keeping the flames away. Not that he needs to- Nesta is shimmering with power, every Court’s strength right on the surface, teeming to be used. She kills six men before she finds Elain, kicking and screaming in a soldiers arms.

That soldier loses his head- that man, Lucien turns to ash.

It’s Cassian who finds Feyre, hidden in the kitchen, standing on top of table having just dumped a small ocean on lye on her attackers. Despite making short work of the burnt, pissed off faeries, she’s still throwing shit at him when Nesta, screaming her name, is finally close enough to be heard.

Nesta almost stabs Cassian in the back getting to Feyre. Fey jumps off the table, straight at her sister- there’s no pause for thought, no flinch at her faery face and bloody hands, just an armload full of her taller baby sister, an easy weight to carry now.

When they make it out of the collapsing house, Azriel and Rhys are waiting.

It’s Rhys who says, in that tone of voice that makes Nesta want to beat him to death, the voice that insists, I understand, who says, you have a family?

Nesta doesn’t answer. Nesta doesn’t say a goddamn word to anyone at all except for Feyre and Elain as they take them back to Velaris. As she settles them in the roaring warmth of one of the palatial sitting rooms, wraps them in blankets. Conveys, solely with a head jerk and a glare, that Cassian should make himself useful and provide hot beverages.

Nesta doesn’t say anything until the burns are healed by Lucien, her sisters understand where they are, and what has happened.

It’s Feyre who snaps first and bodily pulls Nesta down on the couch between them. Elain who leans hard, shoulder to shoulder, and wipes the blood off Nesta’s face.

They love each other- they still love her, don’t blame her, and that is what makes Nesta’s choice.

She introduces them to Lucien, her friend. To the others without explanation, the odd bedfellows of war Nesta really is starting to like despite herself. Except Rhys. Rhys can fall in the damned ocean.

It’s a long, long evening, and they all get settled eventually- Feyre, in particular, with a shy smile and an extra mug of Cassian’s hot chocolate.

Everyone goes their separate ways, and Lucien, quietly, slips off to find Nesta in the dark.

He knows what she’s going to say. Hybern came for her family- Hybern almost killed her sisters. Nesta doesn’t give a fuck about the book, about Rhysand’s alliances, or hangup on the mortal queens- Nesta wants Hybern to pay.

Lucien sometimes looks at his life now- free, safe as he choses, the dark eyed smile of man who fears no part of him- and thinks it’s all because of Nesta Archeron’s heart. Nesta, who believed in loyalty enough to buy his safety. Nesta, who had every reason to hate Spring and still been the only person to look close enough and see, that Lucien was just as trapped.

No one in his life had ever given him that, so easily. No one had cared.

Nesta didn’t even think about it- he was in her corner and she was in his, friends. Best friends, only friends they had. Lucien would have still chosen her, every time.

Choses her now- Nesta says, I’m going tonight. I’m going alone. I’m not waiting any longer.

And Lucien squeezes her hand, and tells her, not alone.

They winnow to the castle like bone across the sea.

Lucien might not know why he can break wards, why foul enchantment can’t touch him, but he knows how to use it. How to fight and kill, and does just that. Lucien stands guard, Lucien gets Nesta to the Cauldron.

No Book, no plan, just this- Nesta’s will do what is right.

Two hands on the Cauldron- and Rhysand was right. It won’t move. It won’t be winnowed away, it pulls her in and speaks.

The story of the Cauldron is the story of a woman.

Power, power, power- endless potential, utilized to create. A thousand children, a million voices. But then her children grew- into their own power, their own politics and ways. They forgot her voice, that forget she’d made them- and they trapped her. Broke her. Imprisoned her.

Forgot she was not a cauldron- she was their Mother.

But the Mother was also once the Maiden, the Mother always becomes the Crone.

The Crones watches, as the dark night comes, and all life eventually ends.

She’d been imprisoned all over again.

Nesta Archeron, drowning in power, communicates by sheer force of screaming, raging will.

I was imprisoned, I stolen, I was remade against my will-

I was broken, and all I asked was that my family be safe- all I wanted- I am the child of every Court you made, I am the daughter of your power and i WILL NOT- I will not allow your sons to kill what is ours-

The Cauldron, seething, stills, if only for a moment.

Nesta thinks she’s won. Nesta realizes, too late, that she can smell blood. Lucien, stabbed and scrabbling, Nesta being dragged away from the Cauldron- the King had waited for her.

And how he crooned with joy- Nesta Archeron, the destroyer. Nesta Archeron, Prythian’s vengeance. Nesta Archeron you will be mine, you, you, you, finally, a worthy woman-

It’s a desperate, stupid ploy. Nesta can’t escape, Nesta can’t save Lucien, knows it from the blood dripping off his lips as he mouthes, a goodbye: love you, Archeron.

Nesta jumps into the Cauldron.

What comes out is not what went in- young as a fawn, old as the seas- Nesta doesn’t have to steal eternity. She’s already eternal, she’s already powerful in her rage-

But the Cauldron, who’d slept so long. Broken in peices, cold, welcomes her fire like the fierce magic of her first children, and gives her a gift.

Nesta’s no maiden or mother, but the Cauldron is happy to let the Crone out.

Death comes out of those waters, and mists the King of Hybern.

Scoops up her beloved companion, the fire that lights the way, and leaves the castle of the king unraveling behind her.

Nesta brings the Cauldron home.

The bloody bundle of Lucien is pulled from her arms on the floor of Rhysand’s townhouse, the Cauldron quiet behind them. It’s to Cassian who is frankly patting her down, searching for injuries, that Nesta says:

She wasn’t the only sister, and then passes out.

#this is so fun!#I am frankly overwhelmed by all the lovely things yall have said??#Nesta SHOULD be a protagnist

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