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ann-writes-universes · 1 year

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Cassiopeia (AzrielxReader) Angst

A/N: I feel like my blog is slowly being overcome by Az angst and I am HERE for it. This also turned into a bit of a reverse roles thing for “Memento Mori”

Warnings: Angstish

W/C: 2.3

It was quiet here, blissfully so.

Snow had begun to fall weeks prior and the ground you laid on was packed hard with powder and ice alike. The wind caressed the fir branches above you and urged them to dance and sway in the moon’s soft glow. The only light in your little spot was created by the night sky and the shadows of the night enveloped you, effectively keeping you hidden from any prying eyes.

It was unnaturally clear for a night so deep in the throes of winter, and miles below you could spot the city lights of Velaris. You were too far removed from the city to hear it, but her phantom song still lulled your mind and calmed your nerves. After the mourning of the war was over, and the reconstruction finished this had become your routine. The week would slip by with work and meetings, and the weekend would be wasted away on the mountainside- far from the life of your home. You’d lay on the mountainside and point out shapes in the bright copses of stars,

Cassiopeia, Andromeda, Perseus… You had them memorized, found comfort in the way their shine broke up the snow capped canopy above your head.

You drug your gloved hands through the snow at your sides, relished in the cold seeping through the leather covering your hands. The tips of your ears and the points of your face had long since turned red and numb- your lashes sporting a soft coating of ice. The biting cold had not been a bother since your nights spent in war camps and training grounds designed to rip away any sensitivity you had been born with. Now, it served as a stark reminder that you were in fact alive, and not a war torn corpse rotting in the mass graves that had been left in wake of the carnage Hybern had created.

“Its past midnight.” A voice called from the trees behind you. You had not heard him approach, but had felt that tingling thrum from his side of the bond when he had winnowed here from the city below.

“I know.”

“Are you coming home soon?”

“I dont know.”

Azriel’s question was not chidding, nor was it judgemental in any way. He had been so patient with you, so gentle. He had sat through the outbursts with sealed lips, let the blows fall on his own skin when you were sobbing so violently you found comfort in beating your pillows to a pulp, and had not questioned your late night visits to the mountainside.

“Mor made dinner, she saved you a plate.” He spoke, opting to sit behind you, a good distance away. You laid still, staring at the moon through the branches above. It was waning, that strange phase where the light was dying from its full glow. Your eyes narrowed to slits so you could focus on it, though you weren't sure you were really seeing anything as you listened to the male behind you.

“It would be beneficial if you ate something.”

“I ate earlier.”

“Twelve hours ago does not count, (y/n).”

“I know.” Your voice was a whisper against the winter winds breaking through the woods. He had flared his wings to protect your frame from it, that much made clear by the way snow was avoiding your body entirely. “I’ll be home soon, promise.”

You heard his leathers shifting and felt the cold as he tucked his wings and stood. “I’ll wait up for you.” He stated hopefully, tucking his hands behind his back as you turned your head to glance at him.

Your mouth was drawn in a tight line and you took him in, standing there as if you would decide to get up and leave with him. “You dont need to, Az. I’ll probably stay in town tonight anyhow.”

You had been doing that a lot. Avoiding your shared home outside of Velaris and opting for the dusty shelves of your own room at the river house.

Azriel’s eyes shuddered, and his breath caught momentarily before he nodded sternly and disappeared in a puff of shadow and snow. You watched his empty place for a moment, felt a crack of pain down the bond before shutting it off completely. You laid your upper half back into the snow and sucked in a frigid breath.

Cassiopeia, Andromeda, Perseus…

⤧

“How was she?” Mor piped up from her spot on the couch as Azriel slunk through the door of the river house. The rest of the inner circle were splayed on chairs and couches in the living room, sipping wine or talking quietly.

Azriel cut his gaze to the blonde and shrugged, slumping into a free seat by the blazing hearth, “The usual.”

Mor slouched back into the couch, watching the fire with saddened eyes. From beside her, Feyre patted her leg and frowned. “This is not normal behavior.” Feyre spoke to no one in particular as her gaze found the flames as well. They were licking warm tones onto the walls of the darkened room and left hard shadows falling across Azriel’s downturned features.

“I dont think normal exists anymore Fey.” Cassian spoke, shifting carefully as not to wake Nesta who had fallen asleep with her head in his lap. Feyre nodded at his words and relaxed into Mor’s side. The women held each other, lost in deep thought as the room fell quiet.

Azriel sat in his own silence, mulling over your words and that distant look in your eyes. This happened every week. You would stay with him in your shared home, eat with him, share a bed, hell you would even joke around. But when the hustle and bustle of the week faded away into the slowness of the weekend you would disappear to that cropping of trees in the mountains and lay there until the sun was threatening to break over the peaks and beg you to come home itself.

Time passed slowly, and no one moved. At some point Amren bid her goodnights and headed off to her own apartment- but there was some silent understanding that tonight, they would wait for you to come home.

They had all, of course, heard you entering in the early hours of the morning only to trudge to your room and remain there until the following afternoon. They had watched you waste the weekends away without Azriel. And yet it had been months and none of them had stayed up long enough to see you enter, to see that glistening tears on frosty lashes, or the hunch in your shoulders that would right itself the following day.

A key sounded in the lock.

Tired eyes turned towards the door and hunched postures righted themselves as you kicked your boots off by the door and made your way to the stairs. You paused by the archway leading to the living room, not entirely different from the image of an animal caught in a hunter’s sight.

“(Y/N)?” Azriel spoke first, leaning towards you in his seat.

Slowly, you turned to face them all, paling at the wideness of their eyes.

“You guys are up late.” You whispered in reply, starkly aware of the wetness on your cheeks. Willing the tears to stop you leaned against the archway, crossing your arms over your chest.

“We wanted to make a pillow fort but Nes told us that was a stupid idea.” Rhysand jested, a lazy smile curling the corner of his lip. Despite yourself you chuckled at his words and relaxed a bit.

“Why are you really up?”

Your question was pointed at Azriel who merely shrugged and patted the arm of his chair. Slinking over you sat, allowing his arm to curl around your waist and pull you into his lap.

Nesta was awake now, leaning into Cassian and she was staring at you. Her head was cocked to the side and her fingers were wringing themselves milky white. No one spoke.

“Well if no one else is gonna fucking say it I will.” The words tumbled from her mouth messily, panicked. You stiffened in Azriel’s lap and his arm tightened. Rhysand sighed and rested his head in his hand, the others mimicking the noise almost painfully.

“Say what?” You questioned, looking between them all but finding no one able to look you in the eyes. You made to get up but Azriel pulled you back down, a worried crease in his brow.

“(Y/N)-”

“You're freaking us out.” Nesta stated plainly, wiggling out of Cassian’s grasp to brace herself on her elbows and stare at you with unnervingly calm eyes. “You act normal and then you dont. You speak to us and then night comes and you're on that damn mountain until the sun comes up. What’s up there?”

You stared at her, nerves steeling. She was worried, they all were. But damn her for trying to make you feel bad about escaping for a while. “Nothing, Nesta. Nothing is up there.”

“Then why spend hours there?”

“Because there is nothing there.”

Azriel shifted beneath you, suddenly uncomfortable with how the Archeron was staring at you. He curved his other arm around you and pulled you further into his chest.

“I think what Nes is trying to say is- we are concerned with how you're feeling.” Feyre added cautiously, gently pushing her sister back into the couch by her shoulder. Nesta huffed and relented, training her gaze on the fire before her. You scoffed and writhed free of Azriel’s grasp. Standing before them you crossed your arms over your chest and watched as they beheld you with bated breaths.

“I feel how we all feel.” You began, warding off the tears that threatened to spill, “And just like you guys Im not going to talk about it. I sit on the mountain to clear my head. Its no different than Feyre painting alone, Rhysand holing up in his office, or Cassian drinking himself to death.” The wounded look in Cassian’s eyes and the far off stare Rhysand held almost made you feel bad, but it had to be said.

“Maybe we should talk about it.” It was timid Elain, who had yet to speak that added her thoughts from her chair in the corner opposite of you. You cut your gaze to her and you were almost certain she cowered in her seat, terrified she had said the wrong thing. Everyone looked to her, even Nesta as pissed as she was softened at her sister’s demeanor.

“Maybe we should.” Rhysand spoke then, voice strong and smooth as ever.

Everyone began to nod in agreement, but you just watched them. When they turned your way you began to shake your head, lips thinning into a tight line, “No.” You whispered.

“No?” Azriel questioned softly.

“No.” You added once more, firmly this time. That crevice in your chest you had kept so tightly sealed began to crack open and you gripped your chest as though you could hold it closed from the outside. You stepped backwards towards the stairs, and let your hand find the bannister as they watched you.

“Im sorry- but I cant.” You whispered, turning to trudge up the stairs. Their voices became muddled as you climbed the flight and the tears began to spill when you heard Azriel’s voice break in a gruff sound of anguish.

You weren't ready to be touchy feely about the war, weren’t ready to stop feeling the bite of guilt and pain when you thought about the things you had done. They were. They had been ready to lay it out on the living room floor if it just meant that you would feel seen. And somehow, you realized as you rounded the corner to your room, that made it so much worse. Worse because you didn't want to be open like that with them, with your family. Worse because they were offering you a glimpse into how they had been feeling - so you wouldnt feel alone - and you couldn't bring yourself to light that candle.

You slammed the door on their voices below.

⤧

He entered your room an hour later, after you had already crawled into the sheets and found yourself in a fitful sleep. Silently, he sat on the edge of the bed and watched you. He had always found your sleeping face so serene. He would lay awake for hours at night when you first mated to watch the steady rise and fall of your chest, you were so beautiful, yet so unaware of the world around you.

You stirred as he slipped into bed beside you, sharing the space of your room in the river house for the first time in years.

“Az?” You whispered sleepily, allowing his arms to lock around you and pull you into his strong chest. He stroked your hair away from your face and rested his chin atop your head. He felt bad- guilty almost- for the bombardment you had come home to. He hadn't facilitated it, and yet he had let it happen as you sat there on the verge of tears.

“Im here.” He replied, “You don't have to talk to me, but I'm here.”

And you curled a fist around his tshirt, sunk into his chest and laid there. He had always been close, always watchful and ready to listen. Even when you shut him out he stayed, waiting patiently for you to be ready.

He knew, better than anyone, how you felt. He had lived through two wars, had felt that guilt and pain so many times that it had become second nature. He knew it was new for you- fresh in a way that had the anguish ripping at your skin until you threatened to disappear completely. And so he laid there, letting you grip his shirt until it was nearly shredded, and held you as your body shook and you began to cry.

You cried for the family downstairs you didn't know how to talk to, for the friends you had buried, and the people (innocent in their own right) you had slaughtered.

And he laid there, stroking your hair and staring out the window of your bedroom into the fading night beyond, and watched the stars you loved so fondly.

Cassiopeia, Andromeda, Perseus…

TAGS:

@brekkershadowsinger @piceous21 @younxii @momlo @morelovemorepeacemoretattoo-blog @highladyofillyria @crimsonandwhiteprincess @purplevitagen @isthataknuck

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nikethestatue · 7 months

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So we eriels hate elain because azriel would destroy her. I mean I laugh when I read it. They said if eriel happens azriel will always be insecure of their bond…… azriel who said Lucien doesn’t deserve her and that he would win the blood rite with little effort.

She is not perfect for lucien everytime he is near she shows to be uncomfortable but people refuse to see it. There is so much hate towards elain that I wonder if I am the one reading it wrong.

What they all fail to recognise is that Elain is like 10x more powerful than Azriel. She survived the fucking Cauldron. She is going to be destroyed by him?? That's laughable. This is the chick who spent hours in Hybern's camp, sitting NEXT TO THE CAULDRON, where Feyre could barely be next to it for seconds, and Elain was all 'oh, hi, you came for me? that's nice. No, I am not particularly uncomfortable'.

This is what the antis don't get. Elain and Nesta aren't normal. They aren't just Fae. They aren't just powerful. These are the gals who can negotiate with the Cauldron, make It fall in love with them, converse with the Mother, and get shit done. They can find Trove objects, they can predict the future, they can peer over worlds, they aren't scared of Bryaxis, they can slay Death Gods, they can find Death Gods, and they can stop and reverse time.

Azriel is going to destroy Elain? Really? I think not. It's so laughable. This chick gets handed a sharp instrument and she is off killing evil kings.

Azriel is gonna pee his pants with excitement when he gets CHOSEN over any silly bond. Also, I can totally see Elain be like 'Cauldrony, baby, can you do me a solid? I'd like a nice sexy bond with this one--yeah, the one with the scarred hands. Yes? Thank you, sweetie. You are so good to me!"

Nesta and Elain had to save these Illyrian dudes so many times by now, it's like a second job. 'Azriel is going to destroy Elain' -- Elain, who has immense Cauldron-gifted powers and can literally change the future--is actually hilarious.

The antis don't understand the extent of the sisters' powers at all.

Amren, a goddamn angel who is 15K years old is kind of scared of the sisters. Wouldn't eat anything Nesta cooked. Warns everyone that Elain could take care of herself.

Amren.

Think about it.

Lucien isn't even in the same bracket as Elain, power-wise. Elain is doing him a favour by refusing him. A. She probably already knows what's gonna happen with him and her and B. She is gonna eat him for supper, if she wants to.

#elain archeron #elain #pro elain archeron

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vulpes-fennec · 10 months

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Love on Water Lilies 🪷 (Ch 1)

Summary: Prince Lucien Vanserra of the Autumn Kingdom is all play, no work. Elain Archeron, a waitress and aspiring restaurant owner in the city of Colibri, is all work, no play. Caught in a larger scheme of politics and war, Lucien and Elain are turned into frogs. Will Elain get her restaurant back? Will Lucien ever become Fae again?

Read on AO3

An Princess and the Frog inspired story for @elucienweekofficial Day 5: Nature 🍃

“Fried plantains and fresh fruit salad! Two vanilla golden toasts with honey syrup! Banana pudding!” The line cooks’ voices rang out from the sizzling kitchen.

“Coming right on up!” Elain Archeron plastered on a bright smile and cheerful voice as she dished out plate after plate of breakfast at Roy’s Cafe. The heavenly smell of fresh coffee was barely enough to keep Elain awake—she was exhausted. Elain glanced at the clock. Five more minutes…

Her shift at the Purple Flamingo Cabaret last night had certainly taken its toll, for the Summer Kingdom’s Mardi Gras festivities had begun. The swamp city of Colibri, known for good food and even better music, drew thousands of visitors every Mardi Gras. And this year, a special celebrity was in their midst: Prince Lucien Vanserra of the Autumn Kingdom, who had arrived just yesterday.

Although Elain hadn’t seen this prince yet, she heard plenty about him last night at the Purple Flamingo. The fourth and youngest son of King Beron Vanserra, Lucien was young, rich, handsome…and most importantly, single. He would probably remain that way, too, for word on the street was that Lucien was a total flirt. Gallivanting his way across Prythian’s kingdoms, taking on new lovers each week, partying all night long…

Elain grabbed a beignet to-go when she finally clocked out. Gulls squawked in the distance, green-painted trolleys clanged as they rolled by. Mardi Gras revelers walked by, decked out in chic outfits of green, purple, and yellow. With her food-stained yellow apron, worn ballet flats, and frazzled honey-brown hair, Elain felt a pinch of resentment.

Must be nice to never have to work a day in your life. Every year, the promise of generous tips during Mardi Gras dangled before food service workers like a carrot, tricking them into taking extra shifts.

It wasn’t always this way. Elain remembered the Mardi Gras celebrations of her childhood, the way she and her sisters danced to lively jazz and ate their way through delicacies all night long. The Archeron home used to be in the Marigold District, where all the wealthy Fae lived. But then Elain’s mother passed away, leaving her father depressed. Reginald Archeron rallied himself enough to fight in the Hybern War seven years ago, but lost his leg during one of the early battles.

Elain loved her father dearly, but it was plain fact that he had practically given up on life after becoming handicapped. The familial roles had reversed: instead of their father ensuring his daughters’ needs were met, Elain, Feyre, and Nesta were forced to take odd jobs in order to survive. Nesta delivered and occasionally edited for The Colibri Tribune. Feyre cleaned the art studios and landed the occasional art commission. Elain juggled multiple shifts between Roy’s Cafe, the Purple Flamingo Cabaret, and Emile’s Seafood Bar.

Though her shifts were grueling, Elain tried to view them in a positive light. It was career training of sorts: she paid attention to different management styles, brushed up her conversational skills with all sorts of Fae as a waitress, and improved her culinary skills as a cook. Ever since she was a little girl, a riverfront cafe to call her own had been Elain’s dream. When her family fell from wealth seven years ago, that dream was almost lost.

But now, Elain was closer to achieving that dream than ever. She was fairly confident in her capabilities as a cook and waitress. She had strong accounting skills, enough to ensure her restaurant wouldn’t go bankrupt. And more importantly, she had been in serious talks with realtors for a decrepit riverfront pavilion. The pavilion was a little run-down, but it was perfect in Elain’s heart. She juussttt needed a little more money…which was where the Mardi Gras cooking contest would come into play.

Because in addition to the multiple parades, balls, concerts, and parties, Mardi Gras featured local cuisines in a series of cooking concerts.

Today was the jambalaya cooking contest, which was taking place at Firefly Square. Tomorrow, Elain was slated for the baking contest, where she planned to wow the judges with her peach cobbler. The day after, she would participate in the fry contest, having perfected her fried chicken spice rub.

Elain stopped home to briefly freshen up. It was a tiny, cramped space—an utter downgrade from their old home. She and her sisters had squeezed three narrow beds into a room, the sole closet overflowing with clothes. The living room wasn’t much better: Feyre’s art supplies were strewn across every available surface, and Nesta’s second-hand books tilted in precarious stacks. Only the kitchen, Elain’s domain, remained spotlessly clean and organized.

Elain powdered her face, brushed her curls, dabbed a bit of lipstick, and donned a new dress. She needed to look fresh and proper, and a cute face never hurt.

She then hurried to Firefly Square, wheeling a little wagon full of ingredients and her trusty steel pot. Savory dishes were not her specialty, so Elain needed all the luck she could get. However, she was fairly confident that her jambalaya would at least place in the top three. Her best friend, Vassa La Bouff, and her sisters had helped refine the recipe over the last year, and the ladies could be trusted to give their honest opinion.

“Name?” The event attendant held a clipboard at the check-in table.

“Elain Archeron,” Elain replied cheerfully. The event attendant wrote her name on a wooden placard and placed it on the scoring rack. The five judges, a mix of renowned cooks and locals, were seated under a rich purple tent. Onlookers had gathered on the sidelines of Firefly Square to watch the judges sample each entry and announce their points.

Several other participants were already present, busying away at their own cooking stations. While there was no set “start” time due to the participants’ varying culinary skills and recipes, the judges would begin tasting at one o’clock in the afternoon. So Elain got to work.

First, she braided up her honey-brown hair and donned a flowery pink apron. Then, she began expertly mincing: peppers, celery, onion, garlic, and tomatoes. The heated oil sizzled the chicken and sausage, bringing fragrant notes of paprika, bay leaf, and thyme into the air. The meat was taken out, the vegetables added in. Elain cleaned the rice, poured in homemade chicken stock, and added more salt, pepper, and herbs.

Elain stirred the bubbling mixture, using the time to observe the other participants. There were ten competitors total. Some appeared to be seasoned chefs, others looked like novices. Regardless, everybody was making good progress on their jambalaya. And more importantly, everyone looked like they were having fun.

Elain’s mouth watered from the scents wafting from her pot alone. The consistency of her jambalaya was thick, but not mushy—it was all coming together nicely. Elain did a final taste test and smiled. Spicy, savory, and tangy…it was her best pot of jambalaya yet.

The judges seemed to think so, too, when they sampled her dish.

“Wonderful aromas.”

“The chicken is the right amount of tender, Miss Archeron.”

“Tastes just like my grandmother’s home-style jambalaya!”

This—this was exactly why Elain loved to cook: seeing people enjoy her food made her happiest. She was the last contestant up for tasting, which meant the score the judges awarded would be her final placement for the contest. Elain’s breath caught when she tallied up the judges’ marks. Third place…third place! Oh, she was going to walk away with prize money! Elain ducked her head and tried to squash her victorious beam. One step closer to—

“Excuse me! Excuse me!”

The most beautiful male Elain had ever seen strode into the courtyard, lugging a steaming pot with bare hands. His skin was a burnished brown, his long red hair tied up in a haphazard bun. She found herself eyeing his corded forearms, exposed thanks to the rolled-up sleeves of his white linen shirt. The male’s straight-legged olive green pants accented his muscled thighs, and his shiny black shoes with their gold details indicated expensive taste.

An entire entourage of Fae, mostly female, had followed the male into Ironwood Square, inevitably shoving Elain to the back.

“It’s Prince Lucien,” the crowd murmured to each other. “What is he doing here?”

Prince Lucien? Well…that explained how he could hold such a hot pot without any oven mitts. The Autumn Kingdom’s royal family possessed fire magic, which meant they could manipulate flame and were essentially immune to burns. Elain even overheard at The Purple Flamingo last night that Autumn males—especially the royal princes—fucked with an intensity that matched the fire in their veins.

Elain had practically snorted upon hearing such words last night, though looking at Prince Lucien now, it was certainly believable. But the delighted giggling of several females when the prince stepped up to the podium snapped Elain out of her reverie. Ugh! Prince Lucien was a playboy at best, a heartbreaker at worst, she reminded herself. No, she would not encourage the fantasies that had been surely planted in her mind thanks to his impromptu appearance, lest she turn into a tittering female over a male like him.

“Good afternoon, honorable judges.” Prince Lucien’s voice was rich and buttery, with a slight accent. For some reason, it reminded Elain of sunlight. He turned towards the crowd, and Elain stifled a gasp upon seeing the scar that ran down his face and cut through his left eye, which had been replaced by a mechanical gold eye. Such a brutal injury, yet the prince was made more handsome even with the scar.

“Welcome, Prince Lucien!” The lead judge leapt to her feet, a wide smile on her face. The crowd cheered again. Some females even screamed hysterically.

Prince Lucien gestured grandly to the entourage that followed him, gold earrings twinkling off the tips of his pointed ears. “I am here to enter the jambalaya competition. As there was no kitchen in my hotel suite, I had to borrow the kitchen at Restaurante Genevieve. Chef Michel and these citizens can attest that I made the jambalaya all on my own.”

The prince peered intently at the scoreboard, already stacked with ten other names and numbers. Elain could have sworn his brows raised in subtle surprise.

“Though I see now that I was tardy…” Prince Lucien trailed off as his eyes swept the crowd, as if he were looking for someone.

“The entry period closed thirty minutes ago but ah…we can make an exception, can we not?” The lead judge said quickly, and the audience clapped in agreement. The other judges nodded eagerly, clearly delighted at the presence of royalty. “Well, Your Highness, we would be honored to sample your jambalaya!”

Elain’s jaw slackened. A prince, participating in a jambalaya contest? She had never heard of such a thing. Royals had their own chefs. They probably wouldn’t even know how to boil an egg.

The prince’s russet and gold eyes were still scanning the square with unusual interest. Elain eyed him skeptically from the back, observing the confident smile on Lucien’s face and the swaggering cut of his broad shoulders. There was the off chance that Prince Lucien possessed culinary skills…but he was from the Autumn Kingdom. He wouldn’t know a thing about authentic jambalaya, Elain told herself. Elain relaxed, knowing she was safe and secure in third place as the judges sampled Lucien’s entree.

“Cauldron, this is absolutely divine!”

“Look at the colors on the spoon! So vibrant, so fresh!”

“I could eat this for the rest of my life and die happy.”

“Last call to score…and…first place! We have a winner!” The crowd cheered raucously.

Elain’s mouth completely fell open when the score attendant placed Prince Lucien Vanserra’s name placard on the top of the board, shifting everybody else down. Which meant…which meant she had been knocked off third place.

Elain was in shock. She wasn’t going to make it to the podium, and she wasn’t going to earn any prize money. Prince Lucien bowed, and then turned to the crowd that had gathered.

“Good food is meant to be shared! Please, feel free to finish the pot!” he announced, voice dripping with pride. More cheers and claps rang out as Elain was jostled out of the way in the mad stampede for the winning jambalaya.

This was not possible. This could not be happening.

Elain’s face grew hot with embarrassment, as she hurriedly packed up her wagon. It was time to go; she could not bear to spend another minute in the square with knowledge of her loss. Elain half-wondered if she should join the crowd and really try Prince Lucien’s jambalaya for herself. It couldn’t be that good. But the notion of a rich, playboy prince edging her off the podium in a cooking contest he had no stakes in was too shameful to consider. She could’ve done better. Should’ve done better.

Elain didn’t look back as she wheeled her wagon home, the rusty wheels click-clacking over the cobblestoned streets. Her half-full pot of jambalaya would become leftovers for her sister and father. At least they didn’t have to spend more money on groceries this week.

Some humility would do her good, Elain knew, as she was not a “professional” chef yet, but gods…would she ever be? If a prince could beat her in a cooking contest? If she couldn’t even win a couple judges’ favor, how was she going to draw the Colibri Fae to her restaurant?

—Later that evening—

After a fitful afternoon nap, Elain decided to stop by her cafe before heading to Vassa’s house. Well, it wasn’t hers yet, but Elain had recently begun treating it as such. She sat on a bench, listening to the lapping of the Mayhaven River, watching the steamboats chugging by.

“I’m almost there,” she whispered to herself. “People are going to come here from everywhere, I’m almost there.” The riverfront pavilion was a shabby brick building that had been a mess hall for dock workers in its previous life. The interior’s open layout would be the perfect place to install a stage for local musicians. Each table would have fresh flowers, the walls would be painted a creamy tan, the big windows would offer river views and plenty of natural light… oh, it was all coming together.

The door swung open. Hudson Jennings, Elain’s realtor, walked out with a folder tucked under his arm. Elain leapt up from her bench, ready to bid him hello. But she froze when a head of red hair ducked through the doorway. No…it couldn’t be…

“Pleasure doing business with you, Your Highness,” Hudson said, shaking Lucien Vanserra’s hand firmly. Even without his entourage of fans, Lucien held himself with a regal grace and winning smile.

“Of course,” Elain could hear the prince respond smoothly. “I look forward to establishing a second residence in Colibri.” Elain could only watch in horror as the realtor handed Lucien a set of keys before parting ways. Keys to her riverfront cafe!

“Mr. Jennings!” Elain ran as fast as her little feet could carry her as soon as Lucien had walked away. Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. This must be a bad dream.

“Oh! Miss Archeron!” Hudson blinked his cat-like eyes in surprise. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here!”

“Mr. Jennings, did you just sell the property to Lucien?” Elain was breathless. Please say no, please say no, she begged silently.

“Ah, yes I’m afraid I just did.” Hudson patted the folder of papers. “I know, I know…you have been eyeing that property for some time, Miss Archeron, but the prince showed up with ample cash! We have several other properties available in town for your cafe, though. Let us talk more next week.”

“But—” Elain tried to say, then deflated. Her realtor was already walking away. There was no use. Unless she somehow managed to alter Hudson’s memory, rip up the sale papers, and steal the keys from Lucien, the property was gone. And so were her dreams of owning a riverfront cafe.

It seemed the prince was hell-bent on ruining her life. Lucien had fame and fortune, and got everything Elain wanted because of his name. Perhaps Elain had angered the Mother, somehow. For how else could so much go wrong in less than 24 hours?

Elain tried very hard not to cry as she rode the trolley to Vassa’s house. One, she was in public, and ladies did not cry in public. Two, the La Bouff Mardi Gras ball was starting in a few hours. Elain had been looking forward to the event all month, and crying right now would make her eyes puffy.

The La Bouffs resided in the Dorado District, the richest district in all of Colibri. Vassa’s “house” was actually a grand, three-story mansion of pale white marble, elegant columns, iron lace accents, and sweeping gabled roofs. When Elain arrived, the bustle of the musicians tuning their instruments and the servants, the gurgling fountain, and the beautiful lanterns of green, yellow, and purple faelight made her smile. A good party always made her feel more alive, even though she attended very few of them in recent years.

Vassa’s parents were one of the Mardi Gras royalty this year, and had invited Elain to the La Bouff Mardi Gras ball. Vassa was a true friend: she didn’t shun Elain after the Archerons fell into poverty, and for that Elain was eternally grateful. The footmen, used to her comings and goings, offered Elain warm greetings when she entered the mansion via the servants’ gate.

While Elain spent her days working, Vassa spent her days studying. The young La Bouff was finishing her last year at the prestigious Colibri Academy for Witchcraft, and was determined to be the top of her class. The only thing in Vassa’s way? Briallyn, a rival witch from the Continent. During the unfortunate occasions Elain had to interact with Briallyn, Elain felt the witch resembled a beady-eyed lizard.

Elain made her way down the spacious hallway and knocked on Vassa’s bedroom door.

“Elain! I’m so glad you’re here!” Vassa threw her arms around Elain. Her best friend’s orange hair was styled into loose waves, her bright blue eyes already lined with gold shadow. “Come, let us get ready together!”

“Vassa, it’s so good to see you,” Elain sighed, her voice still thick with emotion from earlier.

“What’s wrong?” Vassa asked, her brow creasing with concern. “Was it the jambalaya contest? Did you not get first place? I mean, second place is also fine, and so is third.”

Elain sat down on Vassa’s bed, hugging her knees to her chest. “The jambalaya concert was fine, until Prince Lucien Vanserra showed up at the last minute,” she said bitterly. “I had placed third, but that was before the judges awarded him first place. I got bumped down and I didn’t get any prize money.”

“Oh no,” Vassa rubbed Elain’s back sympathetically. “I’m so sorry, Elain.”

“It’s just not fair!” Elain complained, her face heated with anger. “The judges gave him special treatment, letting him enter the contest even though the judging window had closed! Lucien was cooking off-site, how could anybody truly tell he was the primary chef? And perhaps they didn’t want to upset a prince, so they put him first even though he didn’t deserve it!”

“I see what you mean,” Vassa hummed. “Did you end up tasting his jambalaya? Surely it couldn’t be as good as yours. Those judges must not have working tastebuds.”

“No, but that’s not even the end of it. I found out he bought the riverfront property from Hudson Jennings this afternoon. Vassa, you know how long I’ve been saving up for my cafe! To think the perfect location would be gone, just like that…”

“Cauldron boil and fry him,” Vassa muttered darkly, shaking her head.

“I’m sorry, Vassa. I know you’ve been looking forward to meeting Prince Lucien, that you want him to court you.” Elain sighed. “I shouldn’t be bad-mouthing him.”

“No, no, no,” Vassa shook her head. “Of course, I want Prince Lucien to court me, have you seen how handsome he is? But, your restaurant is something that I’ve been waiting for ever since we were little girls, Elain…when I see him tonight I will convince him to rescind the purchase.”

“Thanks, Vassa,” Elain smiled, feeling better. What Vassa set her mind to, Vassa achieved. She had no doubt her friend’s beauty and persistence would get the prince to change his mind. “He did say he wanted the property as a second residence.”

“Well! It wouldn’t be too hard to convince him to buy property in other Colibri districts!” Vassa raised her brows excitedly. “He could move in with me.” Vassa jumped to her feet, trying to inject some more life into Elain’s forlorn posture. “Now I know today hasn’t been the best day, Elain. But this ball will turn it all around! I have just the perfect dress for you, and I know you’ll have plenty of males to dance the night away with. It’s in the closet, come see!”

***Lucien***

“Just look at all of this, Jurian,” Lucien said to his best friend when they regrouped after the dance ended. “One of the best parties I’ve been to in a while.”

He had left his entourage of pretty females at the La Bouff mansion gate. Not that it really mattered, since there were even more females inside the ball. The musicians played lively tunes, inviting attendees to kick up their feet and whirl across the marbled outdoor dance floor. The La Bouff Mardi Gras decorations were simply exquisite, from the soft faelight lanterns hanging off trees to the flower arrangements on tables. Fae wine and cocktails flowed freely, wait staff walked around with platters of delicious food.

“Don’t tell Tarquin, but I’m enjoying myself far more here than the Mardi Gras balls in Adriata,” Jurian slurred slightly. The male lifted a pair of deviled eggs off a waiter’s tray and handed one to Lucien. “Though it is positively boiling in Colibri.”

“Of course, we’re near the Bog of Oorid,” Lucien remarked. He had donned an emerald green jacket with embroidered gold leaves at the cuffs, a freshly pressed white shirt, and black pants. The layers made him sweat profusely, though Lucien wicked away the excess moisture with a slight release on the damper of his magic. He looked good, and that was what mattered at the end of the night.

“Gods, I’m so hungry,” Jurian muttered as he inhaled a fried catfish filet within seconds. “They ate all your jambalaya before I could eat some.”

Lucien laughed. “Better clean up those crumbs and drink some mint julep before the next dance, Jurian. The females won’t appreciate fish breath.” Jurian only rolled his eyes as he turned his attention to a slice of Mardi Gras king cake.

Lucien scanned the rows of vendors, looking for the baked goods. But none of the vendors’ name tags read “Elain Archeron”. He sighed inwardly. He had no idea what Elain Archeron looked like, but had been hoping to try some of her famed treats. Tarquin, Prince of Adriata, could not stop talking about the hummingbird cake, peach cobblers, and powdered sugar beignets Elain made when she catered his Mardi Gras event in Adriata last year.

“If you’re visiting Colibri, you must try Elain Archeron’s food,” Tarquin had told him. “Elain’s cafe should be open by now. She is a very kind female as well, and please tell her I said hello.”

Elain Archeron had been one of the jambalaya contestants earlier in the afternoon, but the female did not bother introducing herself to him. Odd.

“Looking for Vassa?” Jurian inquired. Lucien was supposed to meet the Mardi Gras princess and ask her for the first dance, but her parents claimed Vassa was running late for the ball.

“I suppose,” Lucien murmured, even though that was not the case. Jurian knocked back another glass of Fae wine beside him. “Cauldron, Jurian. Save some space for the mint juleps before you get too drunk.”

“Aha! That reminds me…I’ll find those mint juleps while you’re looking for your princess. All this heat has me parched. Be right back.” Jurian clapped Lucien on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

Lucien lingered on the side, trying to assess which pretty female he would dance with next, when he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. A pale-faced female, with onyx black hair and equally dark eyes, was standing behind him. There was something cunning in her face, something odd Lucien could not quite place. Nevertheless, the female was dressed as one of the wait staff and innocuously offered him a platter of powdered beignets.

“Beignet, Your Highness?” she asked, her voice peppy. “I heard the prince has a sweet tooth.”

“Thank you.” Lucien picked one up with a napkin and absentmindedly brought it to his mouth. It was only when Lucien swallowed his first bite that he realized something was wrong. The beignet was slightly bitter, the powdered sugar chalky on his tongue. Suddenly, everything seemed bigger. Everything was bigger.

Lucien blinked, feeling like his eyes had doubled in size based on how long it took for him to fully blink. The grass…it was eye-level, the blades of green sharp and extra vibrant. His body was hunched over on all fours. He was…a frog?

Oh gods. What the hell just happened?

A looming shadow darkened the space around him. Lucien looked up just in time to see the waitress, monstrously tall with a wicked glint in her eyes, poised to slam a bowl over his head.

Act first, think later.

Booiingg! Lucien moved on instinct, his frog legs launching him into the air like a spring. He dove straight into the crowd of Fae party-goers, stalling the waitress from pursuing him any further.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. That was new. Fear seized Lucien like a vise, the adrenaline sending him into flight mode. Where the hell did Jurian go? Everything was so damn big…the distance he normally crossed in three quick strides now required multiple leaps.

There! Jurian was near the tree line, mint juleps in hand. Lucien hopped towards his friend, gaining more mastery over his new limbs with each leap.

“Jurian!” Lucien blinked, surprised that he still retained the ability to speak. “Jurian! Down here!” he called out, louder this time.

The Fae male above him glanced down and promptly dropped the drinks in shock. Lucien flinched reflexively when minty sweet alcohol rained down, but it didn’t matter any more. As a frog, he had no clothes to protect from spilled drinks.

“Fuck, I must be more drunk than I thought.” Jurian blinked twice and chuckled. “I could have sworn that a frog with Lucien’s voice just spoke to me.”

“That’s because it is me!” Lucien hissed, hopping up and down insistently. “Jurian!”

“Holy shit.” Jurian knelt on the ground, scooping him up in his hands. “Lucien, is that you?”

“How many times do I have to say it’s me?” Lucien grumbled. Jurian’s green-brown eyes peered down.

“Cauldron, you still have your scar and your gold eye. Well, it’s not made of metal anymore, but…fuck.” Jurian lifted Lucien up to perch on his shoulder. Lucien brought a webbed hand to his face, feeling at his left eye. Sure enough, he could see out of both eyes—truly see, without relying on a metal contraption. “Fuck, I probably look like I’ve gone mad, talking to a frog.”

The male took some deep breaths, pacing back and forth. Lucien clung onto Jurian’s purple jacket for dear life. “Jurian, can you stop moving?”

“Sorry. We need another drink.” Jurian swiped two goblets of wine off a passing tray and ducked behind a drooping willow tree. Lucien hopped down, sitting on all fours on top of Jurian’s thigh. “Okay, Lucien. What the fuck happened?”

“I ate a beignet from this waitress, and then I turn into a frog and she’s trying to trap me under a bowl!” Lucien glanced furtively at their surroundings, but did not see the wretched female’s face.

“What did the waitress look like?”

“High Fae. Pale, with black hair and black eyes. She was wearing the La Bouff servant’s uniform.” Jurian’s gaze darkened with protective instinct.

“Why would she put a curse on you?”

Lucien shrugged. “Not sure. She knew who I was, though, so that’s strange. I’m Beron’s youngest son, with a slim path to the throne. What good would come out of cursing me?”

“Perhaps she wanted money. Ransom a prince, you know.”

“As if Beron would pay more than a couple coppers to get me back,” Lucien said bitterly.

“You’re right, your father is a bastard.” Jurian frowned. “Could you undo the curse yourself?”

“I can try.” Now that he had Jurian to keep watch, Lucien closed his eyes and tried to tunnel deep down into his well of magic. He had always had a knack for spells and curses. It wasn’t like that of witches, who required specific ingredients, tools, and conditions to generate any effect. Rather, it was pure magic—power that stemmed from being the son of a High Lord.

He found the dark stain of the curse, but despite all his efforts to extract it, the stain remained stubbornly present. It was as if it was interwoven into his very essence. Lucien yanked and prodded and threw wave after wave of magic against it, but to no avail.

“It’s not working,” he announced glumly.

“We should find the La Bouffs…tell them that one of their staff, or the food they served, turned the visiting Autumn Prince into a frog,” Jurian proposed, his fists clenching with concern. “If they cannot resolve this, then they should be held liable.”

“Isn’t that a little harsh?” Lucien replied dryly. “Lord and Lady La Bouff can only do so much. But Vassa…she’s studying to be a witch. I heard she’s the top of her class…perhaps she could assist with undoing the curse.”

“Perhaps,” Jurian mused doubtfully.

Lucien hopped onto the rim of the wine goblet and stuck his tongue into the chilled liquor. The sweet and tangy notes were far more sensational thanks to his new taste buds. Unfortunately, his added weight was an imbalance to the delicate stem, and Lucien promptly tipped backwards. Red wine poured over his entire underside, drenching him.

Jurian began to laugh.

“You know frogs absorb liquid from their underbelly skin, right? You’ll be drunk in no time.” Lucien stuck his tongue out at Jurian and rolled around the grass for a bit, trying to clean himself off. “I suppose Vassa would be glad to help a prince for fame, or fortune.”

“Also, we have the old tale of princesses kissing frog princes,” Lucien reminded Jurian. “With the laws governing witch magic, it’s very likely that this curse follows the same path of resolution.”

Jurian snorted. “Good luck trying to convince a princess—even if it’s a Mardi Gras princess—to kiss a frog. We are better off pleading directly.”

Lucien tried to grin, but it felt strange with a new mouth and new facial muscles. “You seem to underestimate me, Jurian.”

“Let’s bet on it: if you can get the princess to kiss you, I’ll walk Eris’s dogs for the next month.”

“I do enjoy a challenge. I offer you this, just for fun. If the princess kisses you, Jurian, then I’ll buy you a new sword. Out of Illyrian steel.” Lucien stood on his hind legs, straightening his back and tilting his chin up with the regal air of a prince. Jurian rolled his eyes.

“As if a princess would want to kiss a lowly Autumn Kingdom foot soldier over its prince.”

“I beg to differ, Jurian. I’m a frog this time…I think that evens the playing field.” Lucien winked. “Besides, stop discrediting yourself. You’re one of our most skilled warriors. Anyways…best of luck, I’m off to find the princess!”

“You bastard,” Jurian muttered darkly, shaking his head with amusement. He finished his wine in two large gulps, holding the empty glass up in a mock toast. “I would say I hope you lose, but life would also be boring if you were stuck in frog form.”

With that, Lucien hopped off towards the La Bouff mansion. There was a slim chance Vassa was still getting ready for the party—truly, females needed all the time possible plus more for these elaborate events.

Most of the ball’s festivities were taking place in the garden and first floor, and Lucien could hear Lord and Lady La Bouff—the Dorado Mardi Gras King and Queen—chatting with guests. That meant the light emanating from the window on the second floor was none other than Vassa La Bouff’s.

Clinging to small nooks in the marble, scaling up vine to vine—which was made harder thanks to his slippery frog mucus, Lucien made his way to the golden window.

Princess Vassa was standing on the balcony, and simply put, she was the most beautiful female Lucien had ever seen.

The female’s wide eyes were cast towards the heavens, her expression a mixture of hope and despair. Honey-brown hair was swept up into an artful bun studded with luminous pearls. A tiara of rose gold rested on her brow, glittering in the moonlight. Her soft curves and elegant shoulders were accented by a strapless lavender gown with a heart-shaped neckline.

“Please, please, please,” the ethereal princess whispered, clasping her gloved hands to her chest. “Please.”

Lucien hopped closer, the world spinning out of view. Ah, damn it. The alcohol was kicking in faster than he’d anticipated. Princely charm now had to be mobilized in full force if he wanted to receive a kiss.

He cleared his throat, but only a ribbet came out. The princess glanced down, spotting him. Gods, she was beautiful. Those doe brown eyes, that golden skin still warm under the silver moon, and those pretty rosebud lips that hooked Lucien in like a moth to a flame.

“If you wanted a kiss, all you had to do was ask.”

#elucien #elucienweek2023 #elain archeron #lucien vanserra

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the-lonelybarricade · 1 year

Text

A Court of Faded Dreams: Chapter 50

Chapter title: Always Changing, Always Flowing

Fic summary: In her grief after Rhys sacrifices himself to restore the Cauldron, Feyre accidentally sends herself back in time. Back in her human body, in her early days in the Spring Court, Feyre must be careful how she alters the timeline as she tries to save Rhys and Prythian from Under the Mountain.

Surprise!!! All my love and gratitutde to @noirshadow for being my beta and staying so patient and supportive <33 Thank you for all of your help!

Read on AO3 ⟡ A Court of Faded Dreams Masterlist

Her sisters did not come up.

Feyre stared at the flat surface of that black, inky water, willing their heads to surface. Searching for even a bubble to rise over the too still waterline, if only to let her know that they were still under there. That the Cauldron hadn’t swallowed them whole and left nothing to mourn.

She surged towards the Cauldron, prepared to wade through the liquid herself if it meant finding her sisters. But a strong hand caught Feyre around the wrist and tugged, reversing her momentum with little effort. Feyre stumbled into a warm, broad chest, and her knees finally collapsed, buckling beneath the weight of everything she had carried. Everything she had worked so hard to avoid, crumbling to pieces before her eyes.

Rhysand held her close, half-carrying Feyre as she sobbed into his chest.

“What’s going to happen to them?” His cold, hard question was directed towards Jurian.

“I don’t know,” the human general answered, sounding shell-shocked himself. “I don’t…”

“Get away from her,” Mor hissed. Feyre raised her head from Rhysand’s chest to see that Jurian had stepped towards Miryam, dark eyes fixed on the blood that still trickled from her nose. Alive, at least for now.

Rage twisted his otherwise handsome face. “Are you planning to leave her on the floor, then?”

“If you let us go, we can take her to a healer,” Mor said, sword raised as she stood protectively between Miryam and Jurian.

“He’s already worked his spell,” Jurian spat. “You can’t leave this castle unless the King wills it.”

Azriel crouched into a fighting stance, prepared to slaughter the human—ally or not—if he made so much as a move against Mor.

“And even if I could let you leave,” Jurian went on, that rage turning sharper. He tipped his chin towards the Cauldron, where Nesta and Elain had been under far longer than any human could hold their breath. “Would you choose to leave them behind?”

Those footsteps were louder, now, nearly to the chamber. Jurian bared his teeth. “Think quickly, Morrigan. He’ll be here any minute.”

“Feyre darling.” Rhys tucked his lips against her temple in a gesture that mimicked soothing, so that no one would notice as he whispered, “The second your sisters come out of the Cauldron, you’re going to cleave the wards, and we’re going to winnow everyone out. Just like you told me you did last time. Okay?”

If they came out of the Cauldron, she wanted to say. But she didn’t let herself give merit to that voice.

They had to come out. They had to.

So instead she nodded, stifling another sob against her mate’s chest, pulling strength from him as she began to thrash against the ancient chains that coiled around her magic.

“The tides have certainly changed for you, Rhysand,” Jurian called. “A mated male. Last I saw you, Amar—”

“Finish that sentence, and you’ll lose your tongue,” Azriel warned, voice whetted with quiet, lethal rage.

Jurian gave a hollow laugh. “Just as perky as I remember, Azriel.”

Heavy, strolling steps echoed down the chamber. Feyre didn’t dare turn her face towards the entrance, already knowing who those steps belonged to from the way Rhysand tensed. The cruel, hateful face of the King of Hybern was one already etched into her nightmares.

“Treating our guests well, Jurian?” The King asked in place of announcing his arrival. “And—oh? What’s this?”

The stone beneath them began to tremble. Rhys tugged Feyre closer, prepared to use his own physical body as a shield to protect her. That thought made her push harder against the spell that bound their magic, desperately clawing her way towards its source.

Then—it was as though the entire room erupted.

If not for Rhys holding her steady, Feyre would have stumbled from the burst of wind that fled the chamber, the accompanying boom so deafening that she could not discern when it had faded. Was it still reverberating off the walls, or was that just the trembling of her bones? Was it still echoing off the stone, or was that ringing a silent song only for her ears?

Numbly, she whipped her head to see that the Cauldron had been tipped over by some invisible force. Water came pouring out in a cascade, spilling over the chamber floor. Black, smoke-coated water.

Elain and Nesta, as though they’d been thrown by a wave, washed onto the stones facedown. They were soaking wet, what little of their skin revealed by the Illyrian leathers they bore had turned a deathly pale color. But Elain sucked in a breath, and Nesta began coughing up air and water as she pushed onto her elbows. Alive, alive, alive—and… as they raised their faces, the faelight caught on their soft glowing skin and their delicately pointed ears. Fae.

“Incredible,” the King of Hybern murmured.

Knowing they were alive—that was all Feyre needed for her power to finally explode. She pushed past those hands that were clamped down on her power, unleashing it into the room in a flash of pure white light, all that could escape with the damper from the King’s spell.

It burst into the chamber, sending the King and Jurian hissing as they shielded their faces away. And Rhysand was instantly moving, darting towards her sisters as Feyre reached deep within Day’s light until she found that purifying, clear power. She used that light to wipe through every physical trapping, let it show her the snarls of spells and glamorous, guiding her through the King’s spell as she burned brighter, looking, looking—

And there, buried deep inside the bone-walls of the castle, were the tightly woven wards. Feyre sent that blinding light flaring once more, blinding the room as she severed the wards at their ancient arteries.

She shouted, and as the light died she could see Rhysand and her sisters had disappeared. The King began snapping orders, and Feyre could feel his magic already scrambling to reseal the wards. There was a blur of movement in the corner of her eye, and Feyre turned to see Azriel moving protectively in front of Mor as she gathered Miryam into her arms. With a flick of his wrist, a knife sliced through the air, headed straight towards the King as Mor and Miryam vanished into smoke. Feyre willed the world to fold around herself, trusting Azriel to use his momentary distraction to do the same.

Those hazel eyes found hers. Go, they screamed, his lips curled back into a snarl. Feyre knew he wouldn’t leave until she was safe. On the vow that he had made to Rhysand this morning, but also on the vow that he had made to Feyre on the night she had been sworn in as High Lady. I will serve and protect.

Shadows closed around her, and just as the world had nearly slipped away entirely, Jurian fired an ashbolt straight through Azriel’s chest.

Wind and shadow carried Feyre only as far as her magic could withstand. She estimated she must have covered half the distance between Hybern and Velaris before she stumbled out of the sky somewhere in the middle of the Western sea. Too drained to summon anything that could slow her descent, she hurdled through the air and crashed into the dark, awaiting ocean.

Deep, deep below the surface, the world was quieter. She could still hear the ringing in her ears, but it was subdued beneath layers of ocean water and the rush of air bubbles surfacing around her. Feyre drifted, unconvinced she would even have the strength to kick herself up let alone swim to land. This was how it would end, she thought miserably. Not by Hybern, not by War, or Fate, or Time. But by slowly sinking into the quiet abyss that grew deeper and darker beneath her.

Feyre, Rhys called desperately through the bond. Feyre, where are you? Did you make it out?

Those mental talons brushed against her mental walls, begging to be let in. As she continued to sink down, she felt Rhysand tug at the bond, gently at first and then with increasing vigor. Feyre, he whispered, yanking so hard that more air bubbles fled her lips. Feyre, please.

She opened her eyes and angled her head up towards that dying, ever distant light. It was like being back Under the Mountain, she thought distantly. Feeling that tug toward the light, knowing if she let herself drift towards that darkness there would be peace at last.

But not for Rhysand. Not for her mate, who would have lost Feyre and Azriel in the same failed mission. Not for her sisters, who would have traded their humanity in vain. Not for Azriel, who sacrificed himself so she could escape.

Sometimes it’s just about having resilience after you’ve been beaten down.

For them, Feyre willed her feet to kick. Again and again, even as her lungs blistered with need, even as her vision went spotty and every motion in her body became agonizing, Feyre kept clawing towards that light.

Just as she was about to break the surface, something heavy slammed into her. Whatever precious air she was conserving punched out of her lungs, replaced instead with a flood of seawater that had her choking. The last thing she registered was a hand wrapping around her shoulders before everything went dark.

She awoke to a burning heat on her face. Feyre blinked against the too-bright light, raising a stiff arm over her face in an attempt to spare herself from its intensity. She was laying on top of sun-bathed wooden boards, below a cloudless blue sky. She was on a ship—if the sound of the crashing ocean waves and cawing seabirds were anything to go by.

Slowly, Feyre sat up, wincing against her throbbing headache and aching bones to search her surroundings, looking for Rhys. Had he found her? Taken her aboard a ship and…

“Oh, good! You’re awake,” chirped a lovely, lilted voice. A female walked across the deck, holding a canteen that Feyre prayed was full of water. Her throat felt like she had swallowed sandpaper.

But more importantly—Rhys. Feyre couldn’t feel their bond. And if he was on board, he would have been here. Especially after the way he had been reaching for her, begging for her.

“Rhysand,” Feyre rasped, feeling nothing as she reached inside for that familiar golden thread that interwove their souls. “Where is he?”

“Not here,” the faerie said sympathetically.

And it wasn’t just the bond that refused to answer. The well of power, once as deep and vast as the ocean they rocked over, was gone. Sealed behind a pane of glass she couldn’t break, no matter how she banged against its surface. “My magic—Why can’t I feel my magic?”

“We had our healer look at you, but we were limited in supplies. She said the biggest thing you needed was rest, and faebane is an effective sedative in a pinch—we’d just stolen a cache off one of Hybern’s ships.”

All Feyre could think of was Rhysand, feeling their bond go mute and fearing the worst.

“How long have I been asleep?” she rasped.

“Over an entire day,” the female answered. She plopped onto the deck beside Feyre and handed her the canteen. Feyre began drinking greedily as the female continued, “We’re almost to the harbor now. Normally we don’t patrol that far North, but the Captain said he had a ‘feeling’. Then low and behold, as close to Hybern as the High Lord would sanction, we saw Feyre Cursebreaker fall out of the sky.”

With the canteen emptied, Feyre screwed the cap on and handed it back to the female. “Which High Lord?”

“Tarquin,” she answered proudly, and Feyre was instantly flooded with relief. “We’ll be returning to the War Camp on the border of Winter and Summer.”

The one that Cassian was likely stationed at. Did he know what had happened, or would she be the one to deliver the news? Feyre turned, prepared to ask if it was the very same War Camp Cassian was leading, but she looked at the female and, for the first time, properly registered her face.

Warm bronze eyes were staring at her, crinkled with a happiness that made Feyre feel as though she were choking on seawater once more. Her gold-brown hair was braided back off her round face—A face that had once been pale and sallow. Feyre remembered staring into those warm eyes as the light drained from them. And now that faerie was sitting next to her beneath a warm, sun-lit sky, head tipped with gratitude as though Feyre hadn’t once driven a blade through her heart.

“Were you the one that jumped into the water?” Feyre whispered.

The female shrugged. “You fell in pretty deep. We were all trying to find where you had landed. I just happened to be the first one to see you.”

“What’s your name?”

“Oriana,” she said pleasantly.

Feyre swallowed. “Thank you, Oriana.”

Oriana’s eyes turned solemn. “No, Cursebreaker. The debt was mine to pay. In your third task—“

“Don’t.” The word was little more than a garbled syllable in the back of her throat. Feyre tore her eyes away from Oriana’s face, blinking at the crashing waves over the starboard in an attempt to banish her lingering ghost. “I wasn’t motivated by debt, or incurring favor.” Nor goodness, she wanted to add. Instead, she whispered as a confession to the sea, “Who’s to say in different circumstances, I would have chosen the same path?”

“Circumstances inform all our choices,” Oriana said, following Feyre’s gaze toward the open sea—where it stretched for miles and miles in every direction. “The winds and currents of the water are always changing, and the quickest route to shore today may not be the same tomorrow.” Her brown eyes were so wide, the entire horizon reflected in their light. “All we can do is brave the tides as they come, and act accordingly.”

It sounded so similar to the lesson Azriel had been trying to impart. Azriel, who had taken a bolt to his chest… who might still be in that castle in Hybern. Who might be dead.

Feyre’s eyes began to sting, but she told herself it was only the seawater.

“What matters to me, Cursebreaker, is what you chose on this path. Whatever your motivations, because of you I was able to return home to my mate.”

“Your… mate?”

Oriana’s lower lip trembled, but she kept her chin tilted towards the sea. “The grief you spared her… for that alone, I will always feel indebted to you.”

The boat rocked over a wave, jostling Feyre as the nose tipped up then back down, cutting through every opponent that challenged the ship. But even once the deck had righted, Feyre still felt off balance.

In another life, Oriana’s mate had felt that same soul-ripping grief that haunted the High Lord and Lady of the Night. And in this life, in this time… Oriana’s mate had never touched that pain at all.

“Are you… crying, my Lady?”

Feyre quickly wiped at the rogue tears that had escaped. “I’m just relieved that I was able to make a positive difference.”

“More than you could understand, Lady.” Oriana reached for her hand, and Feyre might have been startled at the sudden forwardness if not for the conviction on the female’s face. “Look around the crew. You have not been fae for long, so it may not be obvious to you, but there are sailors from nearly every court stationed on this ship. Prythian hasn’t been united like this in… perhaps since its inception.”

“Prythian would have banded together regardless—”

“Not without its savior,” Oriana interrupted fiercely. “Spring and Night in alliance? Any faerie would be laughed out of the room for suggesting it was possible.”

Oriana stood up, stretching her arms above her head as though this were all casual conversation to her. “I suppose I can understand why the leaders, with their eyes turned towards the carnage, might miss what’s been happening. But I’ve been in the taverns, drinking with the soldiers of every court in the alliance. And hope is so thick in the air you can taste it. Maybe have a drink while you’re in the harbor, see if you can feel it too.”

The crew let Feyre be for the short remainder of the journey. Oriana had vanished in the commotion of the ship preparing for land. Feyre felt the strangest mixture of relief and despair tangle in her chest as she watched the Summer Court climb in the horizon. It meant that soon, she would be able to reunite with her mate and assure him that she was safe. Alive. But if Azriel hadn’t made it out… she would have to look Rhys and Cassian in the eyes to tell them that she had left their brother behind.

That thought made it difficult to bask in the glory of the approaching inlet. Feyre had never seen an ocean so bright—under the glistening sun, it was almost turquoise, and so clear she could see through to the sand deep below. The bay was flush with ships, each bearing a proud sail of the six courts in the alliance. Gathered together, in one place. Oriana had told Feyre that more soldiers arrived each day, and by the sheer quantity of battleships, Feyre could believe it.

Tall buildings rose over the docks as the boat came closer. Unlike Adriata, which was marked by Tarquin’s large palace, homes and businesses laid central to the harbor, so colorful in variety it was as though a coral reef had come to life above the water. A small, dormant part of Feyre itched to paint it. She pushed that instinct down, knowing she was not here to sightsee, or drink with soldiers at the tavern. She needed to find Cassian, and get back to the Night Court. Find out how her sisters were coping with the change, and create a plan to get Azriel back.

More than anything, she needed to figure out how to get Azriel back.

That singular purpose propelled her off the ship when it docked. Filing onto land with the rest of the crew, she let the flow of the crowd carry her to the edge of the harbor. A pair of sailors was carrying a large crate between them, headed towards the outskirts of the docks. Feyre started to follow, before a hand found her arm.

“Are you looking for the Illyrians?” It was Oriana, pulling her in the opposite direction of the traffic. “They’re camped away from the city center. The General moved them after a small skirmish.” At Feyre’s expression, she laughed. “Nothing he couldn’t handle. He keeps his troops in line, your General.”

Feyre expected nothing less of Cassian. Pride flickered in her chest, a small candle against the icy dread that gripped her. She followed Oriana up the hills above the city, where a cluster of tents nestled in a small, grassy vale overlooking the harbor. On top of a hill, she could recognize Lord Devlon leading a group of soldiers through a late afternoon training session. Light caught the tips of their talons, gleaming against the sweat coating their faces—and in many cases, their naked chests. It was a sight she may have appreciated on any other occasion, but now Feyre was solemnly scanning through the faces of each of the soldiers, searching for her friend among them.

They continued to the tent that laid in the center of the camp, larger than the others. Feyre was grateful to have Oriana at her side, if only because the female was willing to brush aside the tent flaps with none of her reservations. Gravity felt heavier once they’d stepped inside, met with the makeshift war table fashioned from supply crates in the center of the room. A map laid across it with pieces strategically placed over the uneven surface, and several dark heads of hair whipped up from the map as they entered.

Her eyes immediately went to the male in the center, commanding an easy authority. When he straightened, the other soldiers did too. Despite how they may have loathed his leadership, it was clear they submitted to Cassian’s superior rank—his right by the sweat and blood he’d paid. When he bowed to Feyre, the others did too.

“High Lady,” Cassian greeted, with so much warmth and excitement in his voice that Feyre’s heart shriveled. He didn’t know. Casian flicked his eyes up, a slow smile blooming on his lips. Until he properly glimpsed her expression. He froze, then barked, “Out.”

The Illyrians disappeared with no further prompting. Even Oriana, with a small smile, squeezed Feyre’s hand and wished her farewell.

Cassian waited until the flaps of the tent fluttered shut. He took a breath, the rigidity flowing out of him on the exhale, until he was looking at her with a face full of concern. “Something went wrong on your mission in Hybern,” he said.

Not a question.

Cassian leaned back against the makeshift table, grip so tight the wood threatened to splinter beneath the force of his siphoned hands. “Did Rhys and Azriel…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, and Feyre couldn’t find it in herself to answer.

“Rhys made it out,” she said, so weak a condolence that it was barely a whisper. “So did Mor. And Nesta.”

Cassian wiped a hand across his jaw. “Nesta was there?”

Feyre winced, then nodded. “She and Mor hatched some plan together. Nesta’s fae now.”

He slumped back against the crates, pushing his hands up, across his face, to shield whatever his expression gave away. It was not the celebration she had wanted for him, or for Nesta. Not when the cost of her becoming fae was…

Cassian was shaking his head. “Just say it, Feyre.”

It was her responsibility. As High Lady. As the one Azriel had risked his life to protect.

“Azriel didn’t make it.” The words were bitter. More than any metal or blood or powdered faebane. Some foreign toxin her tongue rejected. “We were the last to winnow out. The last thing I saw…” she swallowed, forcing strength into her voice. “The last thing I saw was Jurian firing an ashbolt into his chest.”

The silence that answered her was excruciating. Cassian’s face remained buried between his hands, the air between them stagnant for a heartbeat. Then two. Then three.

At last, Cassian raised his head, schooling his features until he was the commanding General she had seen when she first walked into the tent. There was not an ounce of pain in his expression—unless she looked too closely at his eyes.

“Where’s Rhysand?”

“I don’t know. The Night Court, I’m assuming.” Feyre wrapped her arms around herself. “My magic was drained, I ended up falling into the Western sea and getting fished out of the waters by a passing ship. They took me here.”

“Shit, Feyre.” Cassian glanced towards the map, studying the open waters between Hybern and the Night Court. “He’s probably losing his mind.”

She flinched, imagining her mate scouring the oceans. Would he do something rash, if he thought the King of Hybern had both his mate and his brother? A warm hand found her shoulder, drawing Feyre’s attention from the details on the map that had suddenly become so very interesting.

“You got out,” Cassian said. His fingers tightened, and then he pulled her against his chest, banding his large arms around her shoulders in a hug that expelled the air from her lungs. “That’s what matters, Feyre. To me, to Az, to Rhys. You're our High Lady. We swore to protect, and we live and die by that oath.”

“We’re going to get him back,” Feyre swore. She grit her teeth to contain the sob building in her throat. This was not the time for wallowing in her sorrow. She was the High Lady of the Night Court. It was time to regroup. To retaliate. To get back in the ring after being beaten down. She bared her teeth, hugging Cassian back fiercely as she repeated, “We’re going to get him back.”

#A Court of Faded Dreams #ACoFD #Feysand #Feyre x Rhysand #Rhysand x Feyre #Feyre x Rhys #Rhys x Feyre #Feysand fic #Feysand fanfic #Feysand fanfiction

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rosanna-writer · 1 year

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to make them love me and make it seem effortless

Summary: When the High Lord of the Spring Court whisks her off to Prythian, it's exactly what Feyre Archeron wants. Her plan: let Tamlin romance her to break the curse and use her proximity to him to pass military secrets back to the mortals. And it works— until a certain other High Lord tries to steal documents she's after.

Pairing: Feysand

A/N: In this AU, Spring is cursed during the War, Feyre is born much earlier, and Hybern reins Amarantha in when she goes rogue.

First chapter is below, and you can also find it here on AO3 :)

When I winnow to Tamlin's manor, his guards have their ash arrows notched and trained on me, just as I expected. Tamlin himself is waiting on the steps, wearing a scowl and a formal forest green coat. Dressed for diplomacy, not battle.

Ignoring the guards, I cross the lawn and saunter up the steps. When I get closer, Tamlin's scowl just deepens.

"Is this how you greet all your guests?" I say.

"Try anything, and you're as good as dead, Rhysand," Tamlin says. With how tightly his teeth are clenched, it's a wonder he manages to get the words out.

"Yes, the saber-rattling might be necessary, but doesn't it get a bit tiresome?"

Tamlin pulls out the box he’s been holding behind his back. It’s small, unmarked. "For security, you'll wear this until you leave. Don't bother trying to remove it— the clasp only opens for me."

I expected this, too. It’s the reason my Inner Circle all protested against me coming here today and the very reason I insisted on coming alone.

My eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise. “A gift? Oh, you shouldn't have."

For once, Tamlin doesn't take the bait. He continues as if I hadn't said anything. "It won't hurt you, but the faebane it contains will bind your powers."

"And if I refuse?"

"Negotiations are off, and I order my guards to shoot."

All things considered, I don’t actually believe Tamlin’s unreasonable to demand this before we sit down to negotiate. If our roles had been reversed, I would have done the same.

But this plan requires Tamlin to believe that my court is seriously considering an alliance with his, a deal too high-stakes to delegate. And I couldn’t ask anyone else to join me in enemy territory with no magic and no way home. So I’m here alone.

"I agree."

As Tamlin opens the box, a new tattoo circles both of our left wrists, an alternating pattern of stars and flowers. The bargain is sealed.

The thin silver cuff in the box looks unremarkable. I take it, slip it over the tattoo, and close it. As soon as it touches my skin, the world goes quiet. Every single mind I'd been able to sense disappears from my consciousness, like candles snuffed out by a strong breeze.

"Come inside," Tamlin says. "I'll show you to your room, and you can freshen up before the banquet."

He turns on his heel, and I follow him inside, feeling more vulnerable than I've ever been. Perhaps my friends had been right. I shouldn't have come here.

As we walk to my room, I memorize the route, in case I need to make a swift exit on foot. Tamlin doesn't say anything else, and the few servants we encounter give us a wide berth. When we arrive, Tamlin mutters something about dinner in an hour and leaves me to it.

The suite is spacious, with the same cloying beauty as the rest of the manor, all greens and pastels and ornate designs. I get to work searching for anything potentially suspicious. The windows don't open, but I find nothing dangerous, no violations of my privacy. Tamlin must think that binding my magic is all that's required.

I'll have to ask to send a note back to the Night Court letting my Inner Circle know I'm unharmed. Not being able to handle it myself makes me feel like I'm missing a limb. The sun sets, and I kill the rest of the time until dinner pacing the suite like a caged tiger.

Tamlin doesn’t send an escort, but I remember the way to his great hall. I briefly consider “accidentally” getting "lost" to get a better look around, but think better of it. There are too many servants around, and Tamlin is still on guard. I have to bide my time.

I arrive to dinner fashionably late. I can hear the buzz of conversation as I approach, and the hall is already full of the lords of Tamlin's court. When I enter, it goes quiet. All eyes fall on me.

I plaster on the grin I usually reserve for the Court of Nightmares. It's good to know I can still have this effect on a room, even without my magic.

Tamlin stands to greet me. "Rhysand," he says. "Come sit."

The empty seat to his left must be reserved for me. I cross the room, scanning the crowd, and my eyes fall on the woman at Tamlin's right. The human woman at Tamlin's right.

I know her.

I don't know her name, or what a mortal is doing in the Spring Court, but I've seen that face in enough of my dreams that I'd recognize it anywhere. Even though the dreams had gotten more vivid a few months ago, I’d half-convinced myself that I’d made her up. But here she is.

She doesn't look at me, keeps her head bowed and her eyes on her plate. In the few seconds it takes to cross the room, I regain my composure and put on my mask. I take my seat and say, "And what do we have here?"

Tamlin moves between us, partially blocking my view of her. "My fiancée and future Lady of the Spring Court, Feyre Archeron."

"Interesting," I say, just to cover my shock. The High Lord of the Spring Court is engaged, to a human woman no less, and somehow I'm the last to know. "I can see why you've been keeping this little flower all to yourself. Congratulations."

"Rhysand…" Tamlin growls.

"What?" I say, picking an invisible piece of lint off my sleeve. "You can't be upset I didn't bring a wedding gift if you haven't let anyone know you're engaged."

"It's a recent development."

I catch a glimpse of the glittering emerald on Feyre's finger as she raises a glass of wine to her lips. It looks expensive, if far too gaudy.

"Recent development or not, it's a pleasure to meet you, Lady Feyre," I purr.

"You as well, my lord," Feyre says softly. She looks at me for the first time, but I don't see even the smallest flicker of recognition in her eyes. Either whatever connection I have with her is entirely one-sided, or she's the best actress I've ever met.

Tamlin's knife scrapes loudly against his plate as he pushes it just a little too hard. Feyre drops her gaze again but winces at the sound.

I grab my own knife and start to butter a roll. "So do tell, Tamlin. How did you meet? I wouldn’t have taken you as the type to slum it with the mortals."

Tamlin's hand tightens around his wine glass, and I brace myself for it to shatter. "Alliance or not, you have no right to come into my home and insult my fiancée—"

Feyre strokes his arm and whispers something. It's too soft for me to hear exactly what, but Tamlin seems to force himself to relax, kissing her on the cheek. The sight of it turns my stomach.

"You'll forgive me for my curiosity," I say, "But at the very least, Lady Feyre must have been far from home for the two of you to even cross paths."

"Feyre came to Prythian after killing one of my sentries," Tamlin says.

I freeze with the dinner roll halfway to my face. "So she's your captive?" I say.

"Of course not," Feyre blurts out. With how demure she's been acting, it's a bit of a shock to hear the sharpness in her voice.

"She was hunting and thought Andras was a wolf. But I couldn't let his death go unanswered," Tamlin adds.

She still sounds like a captive to me. But there's information I must be missing— I don't see why Tamlin didn't just kill her immediately. He must need her alive, but I can't imagine what for.

"It all sounds terribly romantic when you put it that way," I say.

"Tamlin isn't keeping me here," Feyre says, "I could go anywhere in Prythian I liked and come and go as I please. But I decided to stay, and that's how we fell in love."

She's looking at him like he hung the moon, and so I bite back a comment pointing out that it's not much of a choice when the rest of Prythian is hardly safe for a human, even if she did kill a faerie. Tamlin leans in and kisses her again, and I take another sip of wine to cover my look of disgust.

The rest of dinner is tedious. None of Tamlin’s courtiers are particularly interested in making small talk with me, which I prefer. And I can’t put my finger on why, but watching Feyre and Tamlin together makes me want to throw things. It’s ridiculous of me— his love life is none of my business.

I return to my room as early as I can without seeming suspicious or rude. Tamlin sends a message to Amren on my behalf, letting her know I'm safe and negotiations will begin in the morning. Even though it's late, I don't sleep. This is my best chance to explore the manor undetected.

Without my magic, I doubt I can get into Tamlin's study, but at the very least, it's worth getting a sense of what wards might be protecting it. Ideally, I'd find any confidential documents myself, but barring that, I may be able to relay enough information for Azriel's shadows to find them instead.

The manor is silent as I creep down corridors lined with vases of flowers. Out of habit, I reach out with my mind, trying to sense anyone else I might cross paths with. But I feel nothing, just silence, and since coming here, I've never felt my lack of powers so acutely.

The power of the protective wards radiates from Tamlin’s study— I can feel it from just outside the door. But before I can examine them further, I hear footsteps down the hall.

I yank open the next door over and slip inside. It's an empty meeting room, likely the one we'll negotiate in tomorrow. I focus on closing the door as silently as possible, not taking in my surroundings.

Which is why I don't expect the blade pressing into my back.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't scream for the guards right now," Feyre says.

I smile and turn to face her. Cauldron only knows how she hid that knife under her frilly nightgown, and I realize she's covered her scent with floral perfume. She might be wearing far too many ruffles, but there’s a hard, deadly look in her eyes that tells me she won't hesitate to bury that knife in my chest. From the way she's gripping it, I suspect I wouldn't be the first.

“Because I believe we might be on the same side, Feyre darling," I say.

The knife doesn't move. "Explain."

"A bargain, then. I'll tell you the truth about what I'm after, if you'll do the same for me. And neither one of us will hurt the other, at least until we've each told the full story."

As she considers it, the silence seems to stretch for an eternity. But eventually she sheaths the knife. "Deal."

I feel a tingle just behind my ear, and her hand comes up to rub the same spot where her own tattoo must have appeared. It's done.

“Something tells me you didn’t turn your back on your fellow mortals by coming here, did you?"

“Of course not. I came here on their behalf." I raise an eyebrow at that, prompting her to go on. She takes a deep breath and adds, "How much do you know about the curse on the Spring Court?"

"Not much," I say, doing my best to keep my face impassive. It's not a lie, but I’m not sure I want to admit outright that I’ve heard nothing about this curse at all.

"Spring will lose its magic if Tamlin cannot convince a mortal who killed a fae to fall in love with him. He has forty-nine more years."

I should be asking who cursed the Spring Court and why, but the wave of relief that she doesn't actually love Tamlin overwhelms that. It doesn't make sense— I've only known her for a few hours. Some emotion flickers across her face as well, too fast for me to read.

"The perfect weakness for a beautiful human to exploit. Brilliant."

Her face flushes so deeply that even in the dark, I can see it clearly. "It wasn't my idea. But when Nes— our spymaster, got word of the curse, we agreed I had the best chance of killing a fae."

After sneaking up on me, I could see why. It seems better not to press her for the rest of the name she almost let slip, so I ignore it.

"In that case, I'm fortunate that you chose not to kill a second one tonight."

Feyre smiles again. It's nothing short of predatory.

"Tamlin was a fool to let you come here, even without magic. There's no good reason for the Night Court to switch sides, so something told me I could trust you."

It seems too much to hope that means she's felt the same pull I do. This woman is a survivor, and she trusted her instincts— there's little that has to do with me.

"The Night Court will never ally with slavers, Feyre. And if you need to leave this court, you will have a safe haven in mine."

"Thank you," she says solemnly.

It’s all I have to offer her, and it doesn’t feel like nearly enough. But we have a job to do, so I say, “Who cursed the Spring Court and why?”

"Amarantha. Tamlin rejected her, and Hybern wasn't able to rein her in completely. I haven't been able to find out what her plans were, but I think it involved all seven courts. She only got as far as Spring, and now she’s missing."

"That explains some of the reports from my spymaster."

Azriel's shadows had ascertained that she was no longer one of Hybern's generals but not the reason for the falling out. But this fills in the missing pieces and explains why Tamlin’s been acting so desperate.

"That's all the information I have. Tamlin keeps me in the dark when it comes to decisions," she says. There's a dark undercurrent of anger there, but I don't press for details.

"I don’t have much else. As you guessed, I'm not here to negotiate. I came here for answers, and here we are."

She nods, seeming to mull that over, and I feel the tattoo disappear. That’s all the information we both have.

After another silence, she says, "So if you have everything you came for, are you leaving?"

There's a note of despair in her voice, and it takes all the willpower I have not to pull her close and reassure her that I’d never leave her. I don’t understand where this urge is coming from. I'd be a fool to think this is about me when she's been far from home and pretending to love a man happy to ally with her people's oppressors.

"You could come with me."

"No," she says, resolute and final. "Not if I can still be of use here."

She's survived enough and contributed enough, but I understand. If I were in her position, I'd do the same.

"I can't get through Tamlin's wards on my own, not without my magic. My intention had been to gather as much information as I could and pass it on to my spymaster. But with you..." I trail off and hope she can see where I’m going with this.

She shakes her head. "Tamlin will know if you're in his office. And if he figures out I let you in, he'll kill us both."

"You underestimate me, Feyre darling," I say, leaning back against the door and stuffing my hands in my pockets.

I thought that might get her to smile again, but her expression remains stony. "We can't risk it."

"If there's a way to unbind my magic, it will only take a second to winnow us to the Night Court."

Her gaze falls to the cuff on my wrist. The wheels are turning in that lovely head of hers, and it’s gorgeous. Devious is a great look on her. "There's a crystal Tamlin keeps on his desk as a paperweight."

At first, I'm not sure what that has to do with anything, but when it clicks, I laugh. "Are you really suggesting smashing the cuff open with a rock?”

"Nevermind, it was a stupid idea,” she says, blushing again and ducking her head.

"Not stupid, just brazen. I don’t think it matters that only Tamlin can open it if it’s broken."

Her head snaps up. "So you think we should?"

I nod; the plan is already forming in my head. "You go in, collect everything, and then break the cuff. I'll winnow both of us to Night. If I pass troop movements and locations to our generals immediately, the surprise attack could be enough to force a surrender."

She thinks about it, and I hope so hard that she’ll agree that I nearly forget to breathe. If she stays here, I’m sure that she’ll hold her own. But for some reason, I’m aching to see her safe in the Night Court.

Her hand curls around the handle of the knife again. “Let’s do this. It won’t be long until he wakes up and wonders where I am.”

I follow her out to the empty hallway, then stand near the door to Tamlin’s office. Without my powers or even the most rudimentary weapon, I feel exposed. But she gives me a nod, and I push aside the anxiety and give her a wink.

Feyre holds her left hand up to the door, and her ring glows. The lock clicks open. There’s a ripple of magic as she walks through the door. My heart starts to pound.

I want to watch her gather everything up, but I can’t expose my back if— no when— Tamlin or his sentries come barreling down the hall.

Compared to the silence, the sound of desk drawers opening and pages turning is deafening. I pray that she finds everything she needs soon.

Then it’s drowned out by the sound of footsteps. Someone is sprinting our way.

Tamlin turns the corner and his face twists into a beastly snarl. “What have you done with Feyre?” he roars.

I brace myself, ready for those talons to slash into me. But instead something sharp slams into my wrist from behind. She’s here.

The cuff falls to the floor, and the magic rushes back into me. I’m whole again.

Tamlin is only a few feet away, calling Feyre’s name. Just as he raises a hand to strike, I grab Feyre and winnow us away, right to the war room in the Moonstone Palace. At the same time, I reach into the minds of my Inner Circle and tell them to meet me there immediately.

Feyre's breathing hard, eyes wild, the hand holding the crystal raised as if she's preparing to strike again.

"You're safe," I say softly. "We did it."

"We did, didn't we?" she says. Her panicked look melts into the most stunning smile I've ever seen.

And that's when the bond snaps.

The force of it sends me stumbling backwards, and she grabs me and tugs me forward so I don’t fall. I’m too overwhelmed to shield, and her relief and my shock surge down the bond.

"Rhysand? What happened?" she says.

But before I can answer, the rest of the Inner Circle bursts in. They freeze at the sight of my scraped up wrist and Feyre clutching my other arm, still in her nightgown. It gives me the second I need to recover my composure.

"This is Feyre Archeron, and those files in her hand are Tamlin's own notes on the position of Spring and Hybern's armies and supply lines,” I say.

Feyre places the files on the table and spreads them out so everyone can see. I wish there were time to introduce everyone properly, but there's so much strategizing to do.

Cassian, Azriel, and I will have to return to the war-camps, and Mor and Amren will have their hands full keeping Velaris and the rest of the Night Court protected and running smoothly in my absence. Feyre just listens, occasionally cutting in with additional information from her time in the Spring Court. It's remarkable how much she's memorized from overheard conversations or brief glances at paperwork on Tamlin's desk.

I can feel her confusion and curiosity through the bond, and it doesn't take a daemati to know that the rest of the Inner Circle is itching to ask questions, too. I wish I didn't have to ignore it, but there's no time to explain.

When everyone has their marching orders, I stand and turn to Feyre. "I'll have Nuala and Cerrridwen show you to your rooms. There may be questions for you that arise regarding the Spring Court, but you should try to rest. It's going to be a long few days for all of us," I say.

Feyre nods. She stands with her back straight and expression grim, as much a soldier as any Ilyrian warrior. "Anything you need," she says.

My instincts are screaming at me to kiss her goodbye, but I can't just yet. For all I know, she's never heard of a mating bond before. And as a human, I don't think she feels it. Instead, I nod, winnow to the war-camps, and hope it's not the last time I see her face.

#acotar #feysand #acotar fic #feyre archeron #rhysand #a court of thorns and roses #to make them love me and make it seem effortless

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ae-neon · 1 year

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Hybern = Ireland (the old Latin name for Ireland is Hibernia)

Prythian = the UK (Big British Island/idk what it's actually called)

is so funny cause what do you mean a random evil king from Ireland invaded Britain to enslave people? It's literally the other way around IRL

Like I don't think she does these things all that intentionally but at the same time if you could look up and tweak these places and their histories you should at least stay consistent

"what if the roles were reversed" SARAH NOOO

#acotar #sjm critical #writer problems #acotar worldbuilding

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willowwere · 2 months

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Whispers of Springtime - Chapter 3

Spring has become a fallen Court. Monsters roam the forests, greedy Lords vie for control of the land, and magic everywhere is dying. Refugees are flooding the other Courts, Night most of all. One day, Elain Archeron is kidnapped from Velaris and wakes in Spring. She is the last prayer of a desperate people- if she can find the missing Tamlin and make him fall in love with her by Calanmai, there is a chance to reverse the decay and save the Court. If she fails, Elain will die along with Spring itself.

This story holds all canon up through ACOWAR, with the alteration of Tamlin being Elain's mate.

Archive of Our Own

Chapter 3

Elain

Wandering the grounds of Roancrest Lodge, my mind struggled to reconcile Feyre’s stories with the reality of what I was seeing.

The beautiful estate she had described was long abandoned and decaying, with large swaths reduced to rubble. Haddin said that was done mainly by Hybern’s soldiers as they fled, but also the denizens of Spring in protest of Tamlin, and even the High Lord himself before vanishing. Most of the second floor windows were shattered, and whole chunks of the house were nothing but open air and crumbling stone.

I knew from the stories that there were expansive gardens- especially a grand rose garden planted by Tamlin’s father. At some point, weeds choked the life out of the flowers before they, too, succumbed to the dampness and rot. Nothing could survive in this Springtime. Nothing was budding or blooming, everything was blackened and shriveled.

Something lurked in the distant treeline, watching us. Hadden kept close beside me, occasionally stilling to stare down a shadow out of place. It would vanish with an echoing cackle that made my blood cold and my heart race, but within minutes my stomach would lurch as another shadow detached and began to track us.

“What is a dearg?” I asked him finally, for that was what Dillie had called the creature in the forest.

“A nightmare with a physical body. Probably something leftover from Amarantha’s rule. She bred them as a hobby.”

He was forthcoming with the information. At least, if I asked certain questions he was. Ones that implied curiosity with Spring or the situation in the Court. Anything he deemed frivolous earned me a snarl.

If his words could be trusted, Haddin was a few centuries old, close in age to Lucien Vanserra. He was indeed a Calanmai child, after a disguised Amarantha bribed the daughter of some vassal Lord in order to take her place in the Rite.

Again delighting in how uncomfortable it made me, Haddin explained how the High Lord would be overwhelmed with the magic and directive of the Cauldron. His blood boiling and hormones surging to the point where he would be blind with aching lust. All Amarantha had to do was don the ceremonial mask representing the Mother and make sure she was the one in the cave when he came, possessed, to do the deed.

As for Haddin himself… Tamlin had no idea. Amarantha kept her son’s identity a strategic secret, and dragged him to Prythian during her invasion. She intended to reveal him to Tamlin once the High Lord bent his knee and became her willing slave…

Since Tamlin never knew, naturally Feyre didn’t either, and he never appeared in her stories.

During her reign, Haddin had established himself in a corner of Spring as a minor lord- after the real one was killed by an attor. It didn’t take the denizens of Spring long to realize that his manor was so remote and so inconsequential that Amarantha’s minions seemed to avoid it entirely.

He became a respected member of the community, and watched over the fae who fled to his lands for sanctuary. In Hybern it was all military camps and the brutal lessons his mother taught him about power and domination. In Spring, he wasn’t feared. He wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t Amarantha’s son.

And then he found his mate, and could only offer prayers to the Mother than the High Lords would find a way to shatter her control and execute her. If she knew who his mate was, she’d likely force Haddin to kill the male himself.

“If Tamlin never knows I’m his, I will be thankful,” Haddin had said to me, the request clear. “He has the same opinion of lesser-fae as Amarantha did. Daenny and I have no interest in being part of his family, nor including him in ours.”

Dillie was apparently Daenny’s younger sister, though she’d spent Amarantha’s reign as a simple gardener. She hadn’t known her brother’s fate during those 49 years, let alone how to begin looking for him after the curse was lifted. But he’d found her in the chaos after Feyre destroyed Tamlin’s hold on Spring, and brought her to Haddin for safekeeping.

My head swam with it all. Something at the heart of me writhed at the thought that this wild male beside me was the child of my mate and another female. It was precisely why I needed to cut the fae out of my blood and bones and go back to being human. The mating bond revolted me whenever I thought about it in Night, but being in Spring…it was louder. I was aware of it in a way I’d never been before.

Was it all this talk of Tamlin? Some kind of territorial anger of Hadreddin’s very existence? The power of Spring? Or, if Tamlin were still somewhere within the boundaries of his Court, could it be that we were closer than we had been in years?

I didn’t want to know. I just wanted a way to make it stop.

Maybe there was a silver lining to all of this. I was in Spring, after all. The distance between this place and the human lands was infinitely smaller than it had been in Velaris. The only time I was closer to home was in the final battle against Hybern.

Not that it mattered.

Even if Haddin allowed me to wander off as I pleased, I’d never survive the journey to where the Wall once stood, or the days-long trek into human territory.

And even if I did, what then? My sisters or the Inner Circle would be on the lookout, and surely they’d reach out to Lucien, Jurian, and Vassa. That Band of Exiles was camped in the ruins of my estate, I’d practically be walking into their nets if I were anywhere near our village. Not to mention that I was still fae. Prythian was much more likely to have a solution to my problem than the human lands were.

I suddenly felt that I’d been wrong- I was no closer to the human lands than I’d been all the way north in Velaris.

“I want to be human again,” I said gently. I don’t know why I said it, but I’d carried the words in my soul for so long that I simply had to let them out.

It was my greatest dream, so why did it sound so hollow?

I expected Haddin to snap at me, or say something condescending in return. He sighed heavily, then caught my elbow to stop me from walking.

“As much as I hated life in Hybern- and you cannot imagine how much I hate that place- coming to Spring was another kind of hell for me. My mother spent my entire life calling me the crown prince of Prythian, and being hauled here- I hated it more than I hated Hybern. But I made a new home here. Found a single thing I loved, then more over time. Now it’s my home, and I would do anything to protect it.”

“I’ve tried,” I whispered. My chest felt too tight, and a tear slipped down my cheek. I had more that I wanted to say, but instead I pulled free of Haddin’s grip and resumed my walk, head low.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think fixing Spring will help you. Whenever Daenny’s angry or upset, I feel it too. The mating bond has a way of twisting your emotions around. I’m not empathizing with that irresponsible asshole, but if the High Lord is feeling the same disconnect as you… You both might be doing this to each other.”

All the more reason to be unhelpful, I thought.

What would it be like if my mate were someone kind and brave? If he were respected like Rhysand, beloved of his people? Would I feel less disgusted by the bond between us? Would I be more resigned to this fate?

My mate was someone who abused my own sister- neglected her and left her to mentally decay until Rhysand saved her. He manipulated her to lure her into Prythian and then didn’t have the decency to protect her as both human and fae. He was weak, he was a coward, and in the end, he was a traitor.

It was Hybern’s men who took me from my home. Even in my own terror, I saw the disgust and horror on Tamlin’s face as I was dragged out in Hybern’s castle. I know he didn’t play any role in what happened to me… but I still hated him for it. Hated him for standing there while it happened, for focusing on Feyre through it all. She wasn’t the one in pain. She wasn’t the one who drowned in that endless abyss.

Nesta and I had our lives wholly destroyed, and he only cared about whether or not Feyre liked him anymore.

I whirled on Haddin, “I can’t-”

“You will,” he cut me off, his words flat and hard. “It’s eight months to Calanmai. Even if you stomp your feet and whine the whole time, you’ll do this.”

“I don’t want to.”

“DO YOU THINK ANY OF THOSE REFUGEES IN NIGHT WANT TO BE IN THAT POSITION?” Dillie had said we had to be quiet and careful of the daerg in the woods, so it terrified me when Haddin shouted at me.

My hands flew up to cover my mouth as my knees buckled. I whimpered, suddenly very small and very afraid. Nesta and Feyre were the ones who stood up to others. Not me. I felt myself swoon, but my arm was caught roughly by Haddin. A sharp squeeze sent a flair of pain up my arm and snapped me to my senses.

“Those fae gave up their homes and everything they ever knew. And they’re the lucky ones. There are plenty who died on the journey, who have died at the claws of beasts and fae alike here in Spring.” Haddin shook me slightly, forcing me to look at him, “You have a way to stop it. Spring never got the chance to recover from Amarantha. It was already on the brink before Tamlin let the whole thing collapse. All you have to do is find one male.”

“I don’t know how,” I whimpered.

Haddin had gone from empathetic to hateful in seconds. Once my feet were steady beneath me, he removed his hand. That hate though, it remained blazing in his dark eyes.

“You don’t get to give up until this Court is dead. Save the tears,” he snapped as one slipped down my cheek. “

I swatted it away hastily, my face burning. I couldn’t raise my head. Shame made me feel sick and small and weak. More tears threatened to spill from my eyes. I don’t remember the last time anyone shouted at me. People never shouted at me. I was nice .

And now this horrible male- he was a kidnapper! And the son of an equally horrible female. What did he know? How dare someone like him make me feel like this?

“I don’t care if you’re a coward,” Haddin’s voice softened somewhat. I could hear the effort it was taking for him to pretend to care about my discomfort. “I don’t care if you want to do this or not. You’re doing it. You are mate to the High Lord of Spring. This is your duty too.”

Unbidden, a murmur escaped from my lips, “No. I have nothing to do with Spring.”

“Turn around, then say that again.” Haddin snapped, stalking off.

I did turn- weary of the daerg watching from the treeline.

A dead, ruined land. Flowers choked to death by weeds, which in turn were overrun by rot. An ever-present fog that cloaked the world in shades of gray.

No birds, no bugs, no sign of life or light or warmth in this cold, broken world.

I looked down at my feet. The slippers were caked in mud and flecks of brown.

But my skin was flecked with green. Small slivers of bright green.

I crouched down and inspected my foot, brushing dead grass aside.

Where my fingers touched, only the barest hint of color appeared. I started, then quickly ripped up a single blade of grass to stare at the subtle change in color.

The green spot grew. Over the next few minutes, the grass dried somewhat, and grew warm and shiny. The green brighter and more verdant.

My eyes lifted, now that I knew what to look for. Something pounded in my chest as I saw more green- not as bright, but undeniable here and there in the brush.

Anywhere my skin had touched, a hint of life crept back into Spring.

#elain #elain archeron #tamlin #amarantha #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #acomaf #a court of mist and fury #acowar #a court of wings and ruin #fanfiction #fanfic #canon divergence #au

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