itsybitsybluesy

[itsybitsybluesy]

Energy runs high as the warmest time of the Year slowly comes to pass. This is a celebration which begins with the rise of the Sun. Time has come again for the longest day of the year. The night is short and forgiving. As the sun shines at its peak and the emotions run high, it becomes apparent that Midsummer is a celebration of fertility and love. Fairies of Autumn may venture into the plentiful forests of the Court in search of the legendary blooming ferns. Those elusive flowers are rumored to appear only for a single night of the Year, and it is now upon us. This is the time for fairies young and old to let loose the inhibitions and struggles of their existence and choose instead to surrender themselves to the depths of magic which surrounds the Court.

day 3: exploration @elucienweekofficial 🌾

[itsybitsybluesy]

crash the party like a record scratch as i scream (1/2)

Summary: A canon-divergent AU in which the mating bond snaps for Elain instead of Lucien. Unaware he has a mate, Lucien allows himself to be pressured into a marriage to Ianthe after the confrontation in Hybern's throne room. And with Rhysand's help, Elain makes crashing Spring Court weddings a new family tradition. Pairing: Elucien Chapter Word Count: ~5.5k

I have chosen not to use archive warnings for this work; please read with care. Additionally, some text is lifted directly from A Court of Mist and Fury.

But most importantly, happy Elucien Week and thank you to the hosts of @elucienweekofficial for putting together such a wonderful event!

You can read the first chapter under the cut or Here On AO3.

For years, even before her family had moved to the cabin, Elain dreamed of him. Always the same vision—a rakish, redheaded faerie with a mechanical eye smiled at her adoringly as she rocked their baby to sleep.

She thought nothing of it. Plenty of people had recurring dreams, and fortunately, Elain's mind conjured up a pleasant imaginary future instead of replaying something horrific night after night.

The dreams helped, too. Elain's days were full of cold and hunger, Nesta's anger and her father's indifference. Even if it was just in her mind, the pure warmth and adoration radiating from the faerie was something golden and beautiful that was hers and hers alone.

Elain never told a soul about them—there was no point in sharing a mere wistful, girlish fantasy. But they were painfully vivid; she could see every last jagged edge of his scar and hear each click and whirr of his eye, even in her waking hours.

And that sense of pure love and utter, single-minded devotion…it ran too deep to be anything but real.

One day, Feyre was taken and eventually, she came back again, and perhaps everything would have turned out differently if her younger sister had mentioned that the Lucien in her stories had red hair, a scar, and a mechanical eye.

Perhaps if she'd known the faerie from her dreams was on the other side of the Wall, Elain would have agreed to go to Prythian.

Instead, she was dragged from her bed and found her way there kicking and screaming.

When the King of Hybern's men brought her into the throne room, Elain's eyes were so overfull of tears that, at first, all she saw of the male was a blur of red. The king was saying something she probably should have paid attention to, but all Elain could hear was a quiet mechanical whirring from her dreams.

It was him.

The heartbreak was strong enough to cut through Elain's panic. Perhaps she'd been stupid and naive for not recognizing a faerie's attempt at luring her over the Wall. If Feyre's mate could bend wills and crush minds without breaking a sweat…who knew what this one was capable of?

There was more conversation, but Elain's mind was reeling too much to follow any of it. But there—the sound of his voice as he said, "She sold out—she sold out Feyre’s family. To you."

She'd never heard him speak before.

Just the sound of it heated her blood. And for some reason Elain didn't understand, a monstrous part of her railed at the sound of the word "she" on his lips. Elain was bound and gagged because he'd probably betrayed her, yet the thought of him even speaking about another woman was enough to send her into a rage.

Maybe she'd finally lost touch with reality.

A flash of light, more fighting, and all she could do was kick uselessly at the air and shriek and shriek and shriek—

Cold water hit her like a slap to the face.

Elain tried to inhale, but there was only watery darkness. And power. She stopped trying to fight it, just let the swirling eddies of the Cauldron do what they wanted with her. She was so tired; there was no fight left in her, and as she sank deeper into the endless sea, the entity around her seemed to purr with satisfaction, pleased to feel her complacent.

She had no idea how long she was under before the Cauldron tipped over and dumped her unceremoniously onto the floor. She hit the flagstones hard enough to bruise, and she shivered and tried to suck in a breath around the now-soaked gag.

The faerie from her dreams was snarling, "Don't just leave her on the damned floor—"

Another flash of light, and he was stalking towards her. Elain tried to scramble back, but it was impossible to get any sort of purchase on the wet floor. She didn't know him, had no idea what he might want with her…

He knelt. Elain whimpered.

She cringed away from him, but all he did was remove his jacket and place it around her shoulders. His fingers hardly brushed her, and she was half-numb from the freezing water anyway. But perhaps that brief touch was enough.

Something inside Elain snapped. He was her mate, her mate, her mate.

She would have thought it was more faerie trickery if her world hadn't rearranged itself to spin with this male as its axis. But no, some piece of her had snapped off and tied itself to him with a golden thread. The other end knotted around her rib.

Overwhelmed by all of it, Elain didn't notice the guards drop Nesta into the Cauldron. All she could do was stare at her mate as her thoughts and heartbeat raced. She needed to touch him, smell him, taste him, but her wrists were still bound, and she could hardly scramble to her feet.

Fast as a shooting star, Nesta slammed into him. Elain growled, suddenly furious that anyone would dare put their hands on him, but the sound was blocked by the gag still in her mouth. Her damned bare feet were still sliding on the floor, and it was impossible to find her balance with her new strangely long limbs.

Nesta was sobbing, crying her name, pulling the bonds off her wrists, inspecting her for injury. But all Elain could do was stare over her sister's shoulder at the redheaded male.

Mate.

Mate.

Matematemate.

Another flash of light; somewhere in the distance, Feyre was sobbing, spasming. But still, Elain's focus on her mate did not waver. It should have; she was dimly aware that the conversation the others were having around her would decide her fate. But her mate wasn't even looking at her.

He didn't know—couldn't know. He wouldn't be paying so much attention to Tamlin and Feyre and the king if he was feeling everything she was. Elain wanted to cry out for him, but the only sounds she could manage were sobs. Her throat burned, raw from all the screaming she'd done against the gag.

Morrigan winnowed towards them, grabbing both Elain and Nesta by the arms, and they disappeared into darkness. The thread tied to Elain's rib unspooled, stretching longer and longer, straining painfully taut. Wherever they were going, it was far away from her mate.

The distance hurt, each new mile between them cracking Elain open and filling her insides with a howling void. She wanted nothing more than to grab onto the string and let it guide her to him, even if she had to walk across continents or swim seas to find him again.

They landed somewhere on a red stone balcony, and the first thing Elain did was try to push Mor off it. Elain didn't care that Mor was her sister's friend, someone who'd doubtlessly been instructed to bring her to safety. Elain didn't want safety if it meant being separated from her mate.

The growl that ripped out of her was utterly inhuman. A bestial, faerie sound from the nightmares of a now-dead human girl. Elain charged, hands out to shove.

But Mor, a trained warrior, merely batted her away like an irritating fly. In one smooth movement, she grabbed Elain's wrists and pinned them to her sides. Mor jerked her chin, and a crackle of magic dried the water soaking Nesta and Elain.

Gently, as if Elain were a frightened animal, Mor said, "You're safe now. This is the House of Wind in Velaris. It's alright."

"Where is he?" Elain said, her voice so rough it had nearly become unrecognizable. "My mate. Where is he?"

Mor and Nesta both froze; in less than an hour, Elain's elder sister had already mastered the preternatural stillness of the fae. For a long moment, the two of them just stared at Elain. Shivering, she pulled the jacket tighter around her.

"The faerie with the red hair and the gold eye. He's my mate," Elain said. Saying it aloud—claiming him—settled something within her. The urge to sob faded.

"He is no such thing to you," Nesta snapped.

Mor ignored it, her attention only on Elain. "How do you know?"

She might as well have asked how Elain knew objects fell down and not up—a basic fact, something that was now fundamental to her understanding of the world.

But the dreams…those were private.

"I felt something snap. It happened when he first touched me, and I just….knew," Elain said.

"Do you want to keep it a secret?" Mor said.

Nesta didn't bother giving Elain a chance to respond. "Yes."

"Nesta, I—" Elain said.

"He could seek some sort of claim over you. Don't you understand that, Elain? I won't have another faerie banging down our doors."

Mor sighed, shoulders slumping with the sort of exhaustion that could only be settling into the bones of a centuries-old immortal. Elain couldn't help but look to her and silently plead for help. She needed an ally against Nesta when her sister got like this. Normally, that would be Feyre, but…

Oh, gods. Feyre.

Their third sister hadn't returned with them, and Elain had been too caught up thinking of her mate to realize it. Her younger sister, the one she'd let hunt every day for years, in danger again. Elain wanted to vomit.

But Mor wasn't aware of any of Elain's racing thoughts. "That question wasn't for you," she snapped, directing the words at Nesta.

"What secret is there to tell? I don't even know his name," Elain said. "I'm not hiding it."

Mor's expression softened into something that might have been pity—for her or the male she was now tied to, Elain didn't know. "Lucien," she said softly. "His name is Lucien Vanserra."

The name clanged through Elain like a bell, though whether it rang out in celebration or warning, she couldn't say. But she'd heard the name once—a lifetime ago, really—when Feyre had first returned from Prythian and told her everything before venturing back across the Wall to rescue her High Lord.

He'd been her sister's friend once. But…something hadn't worked out.

The thread in her ribs might very well tie her to a snake who'd betrayed their family. Someone who'd turned a blind eye to abuse Feyre suffered, at the very least, and possibly someone who'd had a hand in hurting her, too.

When Feyre spoke of her time in the Spring Court, she'd looked…haunted. It seemed cruel to press for details. Now Elain wished she had.

She prayed the day never came that she'd have to choose between her sister and her mate. Perhaps Elain would always be a wretched sister, selfish to the end, even when it tore Feyre to shreds. But she'd burn the world down for Lucien.

They'd never even spoken, but that was nothing in comparison to the enormity of a mating bond. If it came down to it, Elain would choose him every time.

The knowledge made her feel rotten to the core. Damaged goods—that Cauldron had turned her into a monster, something that Greysen would never—

He'd hate her. She'd deserve it.

Mor winnowed away, and the soft gust of wind in her wake pulled Elain from her thoughts. Nesta had been demanding something of her, but Elain hadn't heard any of it. Whatever it was, it left her sister seething.

When Nesta was like this, it was best to keep quiet. Unlike Feyre, who fought back, Elain hunkered down and let Nesta's anger run its course. That strategy had never failed her.

It did, perhaps, make her a coward, though.

Elain let Nesta usher her though halls of red stone, past richly appointed sitting rooms and crackling fireplaces. A castle, then. Elain hadn't thought much about where Feyre lived—Prythian had seemed too mythical and faraway to consider specifics—but her sister must have been lady of this house.

When Nesta disappeared into her own bedroom to change, Elain couldn't help but feel a wave of relief, followed by a stab of guilt for wanting to be rid of her sister. They might have just lost Feyre, and here she was, resenting Nesta's fierce protectiveness.

Ungrateful as ever.

But Elain needed the quiet. Overwhelmed by the mating bond, she hadn't even realized just how many sounds she was hearing. Distant footsteps—servants probably, a household this big needed a veritable army of them—every last rustle of curtains in the wind, doors opening and closing, muffled conversation, even the waves crashing on the shore a mile away.

And the smells. Salt tinged the air, and the rock of the mountain gave the whole castle a peculiar earthy odor. Something sharp like steel and winter mornings still lingered in the room, and for the life of her Elain didn't know how she managed to recognize that as belonging to Nesta.

Beneath it all, the warm, heady scent of her mate, like mulled wine and apples. Elain brought the fabric of his jacket up to her nose and breathed it in. The smell of fear—acrid, sour—was streaked through it, but she focused on the scent of him.

She needed to change, but that required taking his jacket off, which Elain refused to do. An armchair sat by the window, but one glance outside turned her stomach. Humans had fortresses, but this impossibly dizzying height was pure faerie.

Someone had lit a fire for her. Elain curled up next to it, sitting on the floor so she could be as close to the flames as possible. She pulled Lucien's jacket tighter around her middle, tipping her head to the side so she could bury her nose in the fabric.

Proof he wasn't a dream, that the thread tying her to him wasn't a product of her imagination.

Elain waited for tears to fall, but they never did. Numb, hollow, empty—she couldn't quite bring herself to cry over missingness. No grief. At least, not yet.

Instead, she stared into the flames and thought of long, auburn hair. Feyre had alluded to Autumn fire once, when she'd been explaining how a piece of each High Lord's magic had revived her. Perhaps Lucien possessed some sort of fire magic.

Or perhaps, she was just grasping for something that made her feel connected to him.

Elain didn't know how much time passed before there was a knock at the door. Her single-minded focus on the flames and the jacket around her shoulders hadn't wavered enough to look for a clock.

"Come in," she called, voice flat.

She'd expected Nesta, here to check on her and fuss. Or perhaps a servant bringing a tray. But Rhysand entered, closing the door softly behind him.

The dullness in his eyes mirrored Elain's own. And for him to come here alone… Elain's heart leapt to her throat.

"Feyre is alive," he said.

"Is she…" Elain said, then swallowed thickly, unable to get the rest of the words out.

"She's unharmed and returned to the Spring Court as a spy."

"With Lucien."

Rhysand merely nodded. Mor must have told him, and Elain didn't mind, though Nesta surely would. Elain didn't have the words to make Nesta understand, anyway. But Rhysand…Rhysand had a mate, too.

Elain had barely exchanged more than a handful of words with her brother-in-law—if that was what your sister's mate was even called—and they'd never been alone together. She'd have to change that. If Elain wanted the slightest hope of understanding the place the Cauldron had thrust her into, she needed understanding from someone else who'd experienced the same world-altering snap.

She moved to the side, patting the empty space on the floor next to her. Perhaps she should have moved to a chair and offered him the other, but Elain didn't have it in her to play hostess. She just wanted the fire.

Rhysand dropped to the floor next to her without a word, resting his elbows on his knees. Elain caught a faint whiff of blood clinging to his scent—he must have been checking on someone who'd been injured.

"Can you tell me about Lucien?" she said eventually.

"I don't trust him," Rhysand said, "though I did respect him as an emissary once. But he acted like a coward after we all returned from Under the Mountain, and Feyre suffered for it."

A humorless laugh caught in the back of Elain's throat. Mates were equals, and apparently, she and Lucien had both been weak and failed her sister.

No wonder the Cauldron had declared them a match.

"Does— Does he know about the bond?"

"Feyre said it doesn't appear to have snapped for him."

Elain's whole world had shifted to revolve around Lucien, but nothing had changed for him—she could hardly wrap her mind around that. Their bond ran soul-deep, and yet…he thought of her as nothing more than Feyre's sister. A stranger. "How did you stand it?" she whispered.

"She was supposed to be happy, and I refused to ruin that for her."

Elain wished she could say the same, but she smelled too much fear embedded in the fibers of Lucien's jacket. After sitting and scenting it for so long, some new faerie instinct in her hindbrain had catalogued the old, faded layers of Lucien's anxiety underneath the horror from the last hour in Hybern's throne room.

Beyond a shadow of a doubt, Elain knew someone in the Spring Court made Lucien afraid. Constantly.

It made Elain want to snarl and tear out throats, but without knowing where to direct her rage, she merely sat in front of the fire and ground her teeth. Keen fae hearing, she discovered, picked up the sound of her molars crunching.

If she couldn't snap her teeth at someone, Elain resolved to be productive. Useful. "Would he ever be welcome here?"

"Last night, I swore Feyre in as High Lady of the Night Court. My co-ruler. I'd leave it up to her."

"But she's not here to decide."

Rhys squeezed his eyes shut, just for a moment, as if he were bracing himself against a wave of pain. But when he spoke, his voice was all command—the High Lord of the Night Court brooked no argument. "She will be."

"I need to know where you stand," Elain said quietly.

"I'd consider it. Lucien has secrets I'm willing to bargain for, and if he betrayed Tamlin to us, I'd offer sanctuary in the Night Court in exchange."

Elain loosed a breath—she could consider Rhysand her ally, then. "And Feyre isn't telling him about me?"

"They'd only dismiss it as Night Court trickery, I'm afraid."

Elain understood in vague terms that the inhabitants of the Night Court were hated beyond their borders, but she'd never expected that to affect her directly. But her sister ruled this place now. Elain couldn't be free of it if she wanted to.

She'd become one of the wicked faeries the bedtime stories warned about. Strange—no one had ever feared Elain before. Or hated her. She didn't know what to make of it.

When she said nothing, Rhysand stood. "When I said my home is your home, I meant it. If there's anything you or Nesta require, just say the word. No one will harm you here."

"Thank you."

Elain continued staring into the fire as Rhysand's footsteps faded, then paused. With his hand on the doorknob, he added, "My apologies, but I couldn't help but overhear your thoughts. Call me Rhys, please. I don't stand on ceremony with family."

Not for the first time, Elain wondered how Feyre had ended up married to someone so capable of manners. She'd never appreciated it more. The last several hours had set her adrift, and the courtesy was a comforting lifeline to cling to.

She forced a small smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Goodnight, Rhys."

Rhys bid her goodnight, and when Elain was alone again, a heavy wave of exhaustion crashed over her. Since her abduction, her heart hadn't stopped pounding. Even this new immortal body couldn't weather the strain of terror forever, and just the thought of standing up and finding a change of clothes seemed overwhelming.

Too tired to even crawl into bed, Elain drifted off to sleep on the floor.

When she dreamed above the Wall, Elain could smell the babe in her arms. Lucien smiled as she tipped her head forward and buried her nose in their daughter's hair, inhaling the delicate, slightly milky scent of the newborn she rocked.

A daughter—Elain had never noticed the pink blanket before.

Elain understood now that the the feeling of pure love bordering on obsession was crossing the mating bond that tied her to Lucien. It warmed her from the inside out. In the dream, the thread felt stronger, thicker, more substantial. She was positive he felt it, too.

The baby's scent still filled her nose when Elain woke. She sat up, squinting at the bright light streaming through the window, and a strange sort of grief settled into a hollow space in her chest as the dream faded.

She was still on the floor, with no blanket or anything covering her beyond the nightgown that she'd been wearing for a full day now. No one had come to check on her during the night.

Not even Nesta.

Elain stood, expecting to feel soreness or pain from the awkward position she'd been in for hours. But this strange new body felt…refreshed. As if she'd become more durable.

She'd hoped she'd feel more herself after a bath and a change of clothes, not even more aware of her too-long limbs and pointed ears. It took some digging through the wardrobe to find anything that wasn't revealing—did the fae always bare their midriffs, even in the winter?—and even the one long-sleeved gown felt finer than even the most expensive cloth in the mortal lands.

The fire had gone out, too. For some reason, Elain found herself missing it.

Though Elain would never admit it aloud, she was relieved that she'd woken before Nesta. If they'd live in this castle in the sky for the foreseeable future, Elain wanted to meet the servants without her older sister glaring at them. She'd need more allies here than just Rhys.

But when Elain ventured out of the bedroom, she found no servants. Perhaps faeries had no need—magic might have sufficed. But unsure what else to do with herself, she paced the red stone halls and tried to ignore the thread in her chest.

For now, she'd kept to the wing where Mor had placed her and Nesta. In between her room and her sister's, there was a sitting area with plush sofas and a bookshelf. Elain found the small dining area down the hall next. No kitchens in sight, and she wasn't brave enough to go searching for them.

And perhaps she should have because when a dark-haired, half-corporeal woman turned the corner, Elain shrieked.

The woman went wide-eyed, dropped the tray she'd been carrying onto the table, and disappeared into the shadows. Nesta's door slammed open.

"I'm alright," Elain said.

Something seemed to crackle in the air when Nesta appeared. Elain had been too overwhelmed to notice it the night before, but something otherworldly burned within her sister. If Elain had gone into the Cauldron and come out with a mate, Nesta had gained something else entirely.

She let her sister grab her by the upper arms and inspect her for injuries. There were none. Under her breath, Nesta muttered a litany of ways she'd kill Rhysand if a single one of his servants had harmed even a single hair on her sister's head.

Normally, Elain would have ignored it. But she needed information, answers, if she had any hope of reuniting with her mate. The skittish servant in the shadows seemed just as good a source as any.

"If you're quite finished," Elain said, casting a reproving glance at Nesta, "I was just about to introduce myself to the woman who was kind enough to bring us our breakfast."

Her words were mild enough, but Nesta still recoiled as if Elain had slapped her. It was, perhaps, more backbone than Nesta expected her to show after a long, traumatic night. But the snap of the mating bond had left Elain with a renewed sense of purpose—there was no room to sob or mourn her old life when the need for her mate overwhelmed everything else.

She could cry when she had Lucien with her.

Nesta fell silent, and by some miracle, the servant hadn't fled from the room. Nuala, as Elain learned she was called, let her know where to find anything they needed in the House of Wind. If she thought it was strange that Elain asked where she could find books on the politics of Prythian, she didn't let on.

Nesta, however, gaped at Elain like a fish.

It took several rounds of reassurances from Nuala that the faerie food wouldn't harm them before Nesta allowed Elain to take a bite. For that, Elain couldn't blame her. After so many years of poverty, it seemed impossible to find themselves in a castle—Feyre's castle—with such flavorful food and a well-stocked kitchen staffed all day and night.

The last time they'd had such good fortune, the price had been their youngest sister's kidnapping. And now she was in danger again.

Once they finished eating, Elain murmured something about needing rest and slipped back to her room. Thankfully, Nesta let her go without much fuss. Once her sister was out of the way, Elain made her way downstairs, to the library that the shadow-wraith had mentioned.

One of the blue-robbed priestesses had been more than happy to direct her to a shelf of books detailing the history of the Vanserra family.

Elain felt something akin to peace in an armchair near a crackling fire, a large tome about the Autumn Court open in her lap. It soothed something inside her to understand more about the male fate had bound her to, and she inhaled every last scrap of information on mating bonds, fire magic, and the backroom political dealings of faerie emissaries that she could get her hands on.

Entire days passed like that. Elain rarely saw Rhysand or any of the members of his Inner Circle, some of whom, she learned, were recovering from grave injuries they'd sustained in Hybern. There was no news of Feyre, either. At meals, Nesta grumbled about it, irritated their brother-in-law had apparently forgotten about them, but Elain didn't mind. They were fed, clothed, and out of danger.

And really, that was all Elain needed to slowly put together a plan.

There was no use in attempting to escape the Night Court and cross Prythian in search of her mate. Elain knew perfectly well she wouldn't survive the journey. And even if, by some miracle, she made it all the way to Spring, its proximity to the court that wanted Lucien dead gave her pause.

No, the best option for them all would be to bring him to Night.

Elain doubted Lucien would agree to that. It was obvious enough from everything she'd learned that he'd likely balk at setting down roots in a court he'd once told Feyre was full of sadistic killers. He'd adjust, though. If Elain could get used to immortality and a new body, then Lucien could find his footing in the Night Court if it meant being with his mate.

It was a peaceful enough existence, learning all she could and biding her time, until a new sort of dream began to plague her.

The soothing visions of an adoring Lucien looking on as Elain rocked their baby ended. Instead, Elain began to dream of hands—decidedly not her own—raking down his chest, smearing whorls of blue paint.

Each time it happened, she woke in a cold sweat and ran for the toilet.

The dreams left her with the scent of Lucien's fear in her nose—exactly what she'd smelled on his jacket. It lingered well after Elain emptied the contents of her stomach. More than ever, she was certain that someone was violating her mate in the Spring Court. Repeatedly.

Over time, more details in the dream emerged. The sound of drums, a lock of blonde hair, the cold rock of a cave wall. It took a few tries to find the information she needed, but eventually, an acolyte in the library handed her a book on the Great Rite and shared a bit of gossip about the High Priestesses.

And then Elain knew exactly who she needed to kill.

Finished with biding her time, she made her way straight to the High Lord's office. Though she'd never set foot inside, she'd heard from Cerridwen that Rhys spent more time than ever at his desk, pouring over reports and writing out new orders in an anxious frenzy.

Elain knew the feeling.

Even though the sun wouldn't rise for several more hours, Rhys was sitting at his desk, papers strewn about, and raking his hands through his blue-black hair. When she entered, he didn't look up.

"Did someone tell you the news?" he said.

"Not in so many words," Elain said.

She closed the door softly, and he slid a piece of paper towards her. As Elain approached the desk, an ugly feeling began to knot her insides, even before she was close enough to read any of the words. A mate's intuition, perhaps. Or a seer's.

The cream colored paper hardly seemed like a threat. Thick and expensive, with text in swirling calligraphy written in forest green ink and a letterhead emblazoned with gold foil. The colors of the Spring Court.

You are cordially invited to the wedding of Lord Lucien Vanserra and High Priestess Ianthe—

Elain couldn't bring herself to read the rest. Her vision went white anyway, a foreign fiery anger coursing through her veins, her pulse pounding in her ears. If the stench of blood hadn't hit her nose, she wouldn't have noticed that her nails dug into her palms hard enough to break her skin.

When she came back to herself, night-kissed magic was already knitting the wound back together. And gods, what had sent the tomes flying off the bookcase behind him?

Rhys was regarding her with a heartbreakingly deep well of understanding.

Oh.

"Feyre sent this," he said. "Ianthe is with child, and apparently Lucien is doing the honorable thing."

The wood groaned as Elain gripped the desk to steady herself. Another wave of anger washed over her, and she loosed a growl, snarling with her lips pulled back from her teeth like an animal. Or rather, like a faerie.

"Take me there," she said. "Now. Before she can touch him any more than she already has."

"It's too soon. There are still some loose threads Feyre is tying up before she's ready to return home."

Elain could have clawed out those stupid violet eyes with her bare hands. "My mate is—"

"So is mine. But not for much longer, and I'll need your cooperation to bring them both to Velaris safely."

That, at least, tempered the flames of Elain's rage. Getting Rhys to agree to bring Lucien to the Night Court wouldn't be a hurdle she'd have to climb, at least. And he was a powerful ally to have her in corner.

"What are you planning?"

The High Lord of the Night Court merely smiled. "I believe it's time for ruining Spring Court weddings to become a family tradition."

After that, Rhys chose to train Elain himself. With the threat of war on the horizon, he had little time for anything but preparing his lands and armies for the possibility of an invasion. But if Elain was going to assist in bringing Feyre back home, Rhys wouldn't delegate the task to anyone else.

Despite the constant, urgent need to reunite with Lucien, Elain's heart made room for a sliver of sisterly approval that Feyre's mate prioritized her sister's safety above all else.

Elain didn't expect to become a warrior in a few short weeks, nor did Rhys attempt to train her as one. He did, however, manage to teach her to winnow and the very basics of using a dagger for self-defense. It would have to be enough.

What Elain did expect, however, was that Nesta took every moment she spent in Rhys's company as a personal betrayal. She sulked through meals, retreated into her books, and snapped insults about Elain being their brother-in-law's new lapdog.

Before the Cauldron, Elain wouldn't have been able to bear it. Now, she didn't care. Couldn't care, not when Lucien was still in danger.

Elain traveled longer distances through the shadows, gut more than one practice dummy with a single stroke of a blade, and mastered an array of basic spells. Healing minor wounds, illuminating faelights, casting small illusions with a glamour—the sorts of things the fae learned as younglings. It all made this new body feel a little less foreign.

With each new skill, Elain clawed back the sense of control that had been ripped from her when Hybern's soldiers had stolen her from her bed.

When she'd cast the image of a shadow with an easy flick of her wrist, Rhys's eyes had twinkled with an affectionate sort of eldest-brother pride. "Well done," he'd said. "Perfect execution, as befits a Princess of Nightmares."

That, Elain had learned, was her title now. And Nesta's as well. According to one of the books on Prythian's courtly etiquette that Elain had devoured in the library, it had once been the proper form address for his younger sister, too. It was the first time she'd heard Rhys use it.

"I think that means time to get our mates back," she said.

Rhys cast his gaze southward, as if he could see all the way to the court where Lucien and Feyre were doubtlessly preparing for the upcoming ceremony. The longing in his eyes, Elain knew, was the same feeling that had become her constant companion these last few weeks.

"Agreed. Let's bring them home."

[itsybitsybluesy]

heaven and hell were words to me

no grave could hold my body down, i'll crawl home to her

Summary: When Elain finds herself unexpectedly divorced, she makes a spontaneous decision to buy a run down farm house outside the city. Elain expects to find the pieces of herself among the rubble- she doesn't expect love in the form of her next door neighbor and his eight year old son.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Read on AO3 | @elucienweekofficial

Wallpaper shouldn’t have felt as exciting as it was.

Maybe it was the opportunity to do a little shopping and get out of the miserable heat for the day. Or maybe she’d just entered a period in her life where wallpaper had become exciting. Gone were the days of drinking and clubbing—not that she’d ever been terribly interested in either—replaced with paint swatches and cabinet hardware. 

She’d never thought about everything that went into creating a home, but now Elain was entranced. Beside her, Arina was clearly losing patience. “Elain, I’m begging you.” “What else do you have going on?” Elain replied without malice. They’d left early from Lucien’s so the HVAC guy could install new ducting through the house, and Lucien and a few of his brothers could put in insulation behind the walls. There was nothing she could do to help, so Elain had decided to focus on the things she was most excited about.

Like a fancy refrigerator. 

Anything to keep her mind off of Lucien and the date they were supposed to have later that night. She’d almost told him no—she’d come so close to it. He’d been standing there beneath the hot sun, shirtless, while his son had looked up at her with such hopeful eyes and Elain simply couldn’t remember what Graysen’s face looked like.

She could now, but right then, she couldn’t. Elain had tried, certain it would feel like cheating, but all she felt was excitement mingled with the softness of hope. Like her life might turn out alright, even if Lucien and Rowan didn’t end up a part of it. She’d been so certain, back in that law office, that her life was effectively over.

But maybe it was merely starting over. Maybe it wasn’t how she’d imagined her life going—but that life was dead. Graysen was likely still out partying and sleeping around and doing all the things he’d wanted to do, and their divorce, while painful, wasn’t the worst thing to happen to her. 

After all, what would have happened if they’d had children? Would she have ended up raising them alone, a married single mother like so many of the women she saw crying on the internet? Technically married, but her husband was always prioritizing his own wants, needs, and life over those of his family?

She liked that Lucien clearly put his son above everything else. He wasn’t likely to ditch her so he could sleep with nineteen year olds on yachts. He still immortalized his wife, and Elain doubted her presence would change that. Maybe, one day, he’d merely add a photo of her beside the one of Jess, completing the family.

Or maybe she was getting ahead of herself. Elain needed to get through the date in one piece, first, before she started thinking about the future. 

Arina ordered Elain to pick something, and Elain did—choosing a pretty white and pink floral print she intended to put in her bedroom. Elain was daydreaming about the day she could sleep in that house rather than in Lucien’s bed, which would make dating feel a little less awkward. At the end of the night, he could walk her to her porch and kiss her goodnight rather than walk her down the hall where she’d feel obligated to let him in.

“Who are you texting?” Elain demanded as they made their way toward light fixtures. Arina had been glued to her phone all morning, frowning at the screen as if it had committed some horrible offense against her.

“No one,” she said, quickly pocketing the device. 

“Don’t make me ground you,” Elain joked, poking her friend in the side. “Is it Eris Vanserra?”

“Why would you think that?” Arina demanded a little too quickly. That was a yes, which was hilarious given how Arina had spent the evening with Elain, Lucien, and Rowan talking about how much she loathed Eris Vanserra. 

“How did you even get his number?”

“He stole it out of Lucien’s phone,” Arina grumbled. “He’s been sending me memes all morning.”

“That’s not so bad,” Elain offered, smothering her smile.

“He’s making them himself,” she added, pulling her phone back out to show Elain a meme clearly edited by hand, making fun of Arina. 

“He knows you so well,” Elain said with a chuckle. “You do this to me constantly.”

“Well, it’s funny when I do it. It’s annoying when he does it,” Arina argued, but Elain could see where this was going. Eris was under Arina’s skin. She’d sleep with him once—maybe more if he was any good at it—and then, once she’d worked him out of her system, moved on, while he spent the rest of his life wondering what might have been.

It had been like that since the two of them met. 

Elain didn’t care if Arina slept with Lucien’s brother or not. It had nothing to do with her, and honestly gave her and Lucien something to laugh about even if they only ever remained friends. 

Remember the time my brother and your best friend hooked up? 

Or, maybe that was a weird thing to talk about given that Eris was Lucien’s brother. It was funny for Elain, at any rate, who liked Eris for all the reasons she liked Arina. She decided to take pity on her friend.

“Lucien asked me on a date,” she said casually, fingering the price tag of a rather ugly glass chandelier. 

“What did you say?” Arina asked breathlessly beside her.

“What do you think about this?” Elain questioned, tormenting Arina ever so slightly. Arina’s gaze found the chandelier, lips parting at first in indignation before twisting with disgust.

“Don’t tease me.”

“I said yes. He was shirtless, and he looked like a romantic hero from some smutty book,” she admitted. “He glistened.”

“Graysen never glistened,” Arina reminded her. Elain didn’t feel the usual prick of longing the way she would have if her friend would have made that quip two weeks earlier, even. 

“Well, he never would put himself in a situation where he had to do manual labor,” she replied unkindly.

It was reminding her of something else—something that suddenly felt important. “What do you think about turning that downstairs bedroom into a library?”

It had been a dream of Elain’s—ever since she’d been a little girl and she’d watched Beauty and the Beast. Her and Graysen had the space for it in their own home, and Elain had asked him a hundred times to help her install shelves so she could make that dream a reality. He’d never once agreed.

What do you need a whole room for? You have bookshelves already.

It wasn’t the same, though. Elain wanted the sliding ladder, she wanted the wall to ceiling shelves and comfortable chairs and a space that was dedicated to nothing but books. 

“Say less,” Arina demanded, turning on her heel. “Let’s go to Ikea.”

What had already started out as an expensive day became a lot more expensive. Elain had called Lucien to beg a favor—one he did gladly. She’d asked him to measure the downstairs room they’d tentatively planned to turn into an office, and one text later with the dimensions found her and Arina gleefully piling bookcases into a flatbed cart. Elain had forced Arina to swipe her card, unable to look at the total, before they awkwardly loaded it all into the back of her car. It just barely fit.

“He’s going to kill me,” Elain panted once she was back behind the steering wheel, cold air blasting against her overheated face.

“He just asked you on a date—he’ll be delighted to spend more time with you,” Arina countered. “Besides, how hard is it really to mount a couple shelves?”

“We could build them for him?” Elain asked. Arina wasn’t exactly handy, which was why she’d nominated herself as the project manager for Elain’s house. She ordered everyone around and ensured things were done both correctly, timely, and affordably. Nothing escaped her gaze. 

Arina sighed. “The things I do for you.”

“It’ll be fun,” Elain protested.

“It’ll be hell, and test our friendship in ways even that semester we spent in that sorority managed,” Arina shot back.

“Oh, god, I forgot about that. You got us kicked out—”

“Yeah, well, how was I supposed to know they were that obsessed with underage drinking?” Arina grumbled. “God forbid a girl post a drunk selfie to instagram.”

“It probably saved us a fortune,” Elain acknowledged with a laugh as she pulled out of the parking lot. “We got that really nice apartment right after, remember?”

“I thought I’d make so many friends. Sisters for life. Yeah right,” she complained, stretching out her sun-tanned legs. “I still wonder which one of those bitches ratted me out.”

“You’ll have to die wondering.”

“I’m going to find out eventually, and then—oh, then. I’ll have my revenge.”

Elain didn’t doubt Arina on that. She’d never let it go, calling it betrayal of womankind, even if in the end, it had hardly mattered. They’d become sisters for life, at any rate, so in a way, Arina had gotten what she’d wanted. There was no point arguing with Arina. It made her happy to imagine how she’d punish that college girl that had ratted her out and humiliated her in front of the entire house as she’d angrily moved all her things out.

Arina didn’t have to leave. She could have paid the fine and sat out of the rest of the social events for the season. Elain, also, didn’t have to leave with her. They’d barely known each other up to that point. Sometimes, Elain wondered what might have happened if Arina hadn’t stomped out, refusing to give in, and Elain hadn’t gone with her out of solidarity. 

Would they be as close as they are now?

Elain couldn’t imagine a future in which they weren’t best friends, and decided that no matter what, they would have become close. Arina was the best thing that had come out of her early twenties even before Graysen asked for the divorce. 

They chatted about everything and nothing on their way back to Elain’s new house, and when they arrived, Elain clocked the glossy sports car parked in her gravel driveway. Arina’s whole demeanor changed, her expression darkening when Eris stepped outside to look at them.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Arina called, snapping her fingers. 

Elain couldn’t believe that Eris came forward like some kind of dog, a grin spreading over his handsome face.

“Miss me?” he asked.

“Hi, Eris,” Elain said, not certain he’d even noticed her there. He nodded, eyes following Arina as she moved toward the trunk.

“Take these inside,” Arina ordered, stepping back so Eris could see the shelves. He wasn’t going to do it. There was no way.

Eris did it.

LUCIEN:

It was strange to get ready for a date when the woman in question was just down the hall. Standing in a towel in his bathroom, Lucien wondered how he’d come to this moment. If he’d been smarter, he would have asked her to reschedule given Lucien was exhausted. His shoulders ached. His back ached. Hell, everything ached. 

She’d come back from the store with twelve bookshelves that needed to be built and mounted—a task Arina had assigned to Eris. That, of course, had immediately devolved into bickering between the pair and while it had been amusing at first, Lucien found their squabbling grating in the heat. 

At least tomorrow there would be central air. Windows were being put in, too, which would keep it all inside. He was looking forward to that, at least. He was also well aware that he didn’t need to continue to help her when it was clear she had the money to pay people to do it. Hell, she’d offered to pay him earlier that day and Lucien had rejected it outright.

Just like he knew he’d be there tomorrow, putting off yet more work because this was the best he’d felt since before Jess died. If he could, he would have quit his job entirely. 

Eris would kill him if he tried, and Lucien would need a job if he wanted to continue his current lifestyle. Jess had left behind a life insurance policy, but Lucien had set nearly all of it aside for Rowan’s future. He didn’t want his son to have to worry about paying for college, to have to struggle while working a job or three to afford tuition and rent, or have to spend years saving up to buy a house.

It’s what Jess wanted, too—one of her final requests, made on her death bed to Lucien. To take care of each other, to remember she loved him, and to think about Rowan’s future. Lucien had taken those words to heart, honoring each of them just as Jess had wanted. He would have done it even if she hadn’t asked, but knowing he was making Jess happy, wherever she was, made things a little sweeter.

And he liked his job, for the most part. Even if it meant answering to Eris, who was just as obnoxious as a supervisor as he was as an older brother. No use having to start over when Eris didn’t care when he worked or what he did, so long as everything eventually got done. Lucien didn’t have anything terribly pressing either—and the paralegals handled the bulk of it, besides. 

Raking his fingers through his hair, he wondered if he should do something nice with it. He’d gotten quite good at braiding it, something Jess had done for him when she’d been alive. He considered it before ultimately blow drying it and tying it back in a neat bun at the nape of his neck.

There was nothing to be done about the scars on his face—the result of a dog attack when he’d been a boy. His brother Eris had always wanted a dog, and his father had gone out and found something ugly and cruel. Even after it had nearly taken Lucien’s whole face, his father had insisted they keep it, fighting the county tooth and nail until they relented. That dog remained for another six years in the house, keeping everyone on edge. It only loved Beron. When the dog had died, it was like Lucien could breathe again.

Had Beron known the entire time, Lucien wondered? Did he realize that Lucien wasn’t his son and hoped that dog would do what he couldn’t? Lucien ran his fingers over the scars, the wounds still fresh despite the distance between who he was now and the boy he’d once been. 

He’d been trying so hard not to think about his mothers revelation—another day, he told himself sternly. Which was easier said than done, of course, given Rowan’s fists banged on the door.

“Dad, grandma is here! She brought a friend!”

Lucien groaned silently, pulling open the door before remembering he was still in a towel. He didn’t need to greet his mother naked. He was quick to throw on a pair of nice slacks and a shirt before heading out where Elain was already waiting, standing in the small kitchen awkwardly while Lucien’s mother shook her hand with so much enthusiasm, Lucien thought he might take her arm off entirely.

“Lucien, I didn’t realize you were having a guest over,” his mother said, but Lucien was only half paying attention. Behind her stood a tall man with dark, shoulder length onyx hair. His eyes were more gold than green or brown, his skin tawney—a few shades darker than Lucien’s. And his face…

Lucien turned to his mother, his anger burning in his throat. “Who is this?” he asked, his tone very much demanding to know why his mother would spring this on him without warning. And did it need to be tonight? Lucien wanted to die. Elain was never going to spend another second with him again.

“This is…”

“Helion,” he finally said, eyes bouncing from Elain, to Rowan, to Lucien. 

Lucien didn’t want Elain to see him lose his temper, especially when Rowan was bouncing around her, eyes big and wide as though she’d hung the moon.

“Could we do this another day?” Lucien managed, the words forced from behind his teeth.

“They can stay,” Elain said sweetly, unaware of the minefield laid before them. “I would love to meet your family. Is this your mother and father?”

Lucien’s eyes closed briefly before he turned to her. She was too sweet, he decided, and he was an asshole because she deserved so much better. He had a roast in the crockpot that he was going to have to share with his estranged father while Rowan complained he didn’t like meat or vegetables or gravy.

Things he’d eat by themselves, with the exception of vegetables—unless, of course, they were deep fried and covered in ranch. Lucien still remembered the night Rowan had sat stubbornly at the table, refusing to eat cheese. Cheese.

“That’s not necessary,” Lucien tried to say, but Elain, ever mannered, shook her head as she slipped around him for two more table settings.

“Really, I don’t mind. I’m the one intruding, after all.”

Lucien looked upward at the ceiling, wishing he’d be struck down by lightning. Following behind her, Lucien whispered, “I thought this was a date.”

“It is,” she replied, flashing him a smile that made his heart race. “Let’s just get meeting the family out of the way early.”

“There will be so many red flags,” Lucien hissed, grabbing the plates from behind her, if only to give himself an excuse to lightly brush his body against hers. “I didn’t know that man was my father until two weeks ago.”

Elain’s brown eyes widened. “Oh,” she whispered, rising up on her tiptoes. Lucien thought she meant to look over his shoulder, but instead she pressed a swift kiss to his cheek. “Does that help?”

He blinked. “Uh…yeah. I think?” He honestly wasn’t sure. Lucien’s mind had utterly stopped, skin burning from where her lips met his. If his mom and son weren’t in the room, he might have grabbed her and hauled her up on the counter where he could kiss her again, just to see if the feeling held.

Elain, for her part, had already moved back into the dining room to set two more table settings just as the front door opened. Eris, the devil himself, sauntered into the room. “I heard it’s date night—” he stopped, eyes bouncing from his mother to Helion and back again. “What’s this about?”

“Eris,” his mother warned, holding up a finger much like Arina had done the day before. Lucien decided not to read much into that, though he filed it away for later just in case he needed to torment his brother.

“We agreed,” Eris hissed, his voice low and venomous. 

“Not in front of Rowan,” Lucien ordered, unwilling to put his son in the middle of a family fight. “Everyone sit down or get out.”

Lucien’s frustration was borne from his wrecked and ruined date. He’d intentionally told no one to avoid his family descending like a pack of vultures, and they’d managed to interrupt anyway. Now they’d all know about Elain, and if things didn’t work out he’d have to field questions about it for months. “Is anyone else coming?”

Not a word was spoken. Elain looked up at him, hands folded in front of her. “I could invite Arina, if you like.”

“Eris probably would,” Lucien grumbled, earning a scowl from his elder brother who was seated between Elain and Rowan. That was perfect, though it left the only open chair between his son and his biological father. “I’m not sure I have enough food.”

“I can go…” Helion began awkwardly, but his mother grabbed Helion’s hand.

“Stay,” she murmured, thumb stroking his skin. Oh Christ. Was that what this was all about? Beron had been dead long enough that it was respectable if his mom started dating again, and she wanted to let her sons know she’d be dating Lucien’s actual dad. It was the epitome of a meeting that could have been an email.

Or a text message. Five words or less, ideally. 

The room was intolerably silent as Lucien set dishes in front of everyone. Rowan was the first to break the silence. “I don’t like carrots.”

“They’re good for your eyes,” Elain chimed in. Could she not feel the tension, or was she simply ignoring it? Lucien had to believe she’d simply decided to pretend the strange family dynamics were not happening and make the best of this insane situation, which made him like her a lot more.

It reminded him of Jess, if he was honest. She would have done the same, and later made a thousand jokes about it until Lucien was breathless with laughter, his frustration and anger forgotten. He supposed he had a type. 

“That’s a lie,” Rowan told Elain, blissfully unaware of what was happening around him. “I looked it up.”

“You can read?” Eris teased, causing Rowan to stick out his tongue. 

“Better than you,” Rowan retorted quickly, ever sharp with that Vanserra tongue. Or…Lucien supposed it wasn’t technically a Vanserra quality since he wasn’t one, and neither was his son. That should have offered him relief, but instead it just made him sad. 

“Excuse me,” he said, rising from his seat as people began to serve him. “I’ve realized I forgot…my…thing…just outside.”

No one was paying attention, besides. His mother had joined in with Rowan, teasing Eris for his illiteracy as she told stories of how long it had taken Eris to learn as a boy. This delighted Rowan, and, he suspected, Elain too. It made it easy to slip away for a moment and get some air.

Everything was going wrong. Lucien had spent his whole life chasing peace, and it seemed like fate was determined to give him anything but. 

Lucien sat on the porch, trying to compose himself. He needed to go back inside, put on a brave face, and get through the dinner. He wasn’t even angry—not really. What was that man supposed to do against Beron Vanserra? He had money, he had means, and he had will. He owned all of them, and they never once were allowed to forget that. Lucien, who’d been tormented alongside his mother and brothers, didn’t think he would have escaped his childhood if another man had been fighting for him.

And he didn’t think his mother would have, either.

That didn’t make the wounds feel easier. There was an unfairness to it all. When he really stopped to think about it, he was forced to reconcile that he would never again be a little boy. He’d never get to be truly carefree and happy, would never really feel loved by both his parents, would never know the safety so many of his peers had. It made him angry, and it made him sad.

Lucien was dedicated to doing better for his own son, and while it did soothe over the ache, it didn’t quite fill the yawning cavern in his chest that wanted more for himself, too.

Lucien was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of the front porch door swinging open and closing softly. The sound of feet on wood, and then the smell of jasmine greeted him. It wasn’t his mother, but Elain who came and sat down next to him.

“Are you okay?” she asked gently, slipping her hand beneath his arm to draw him just a little closer. The touch was comforting.

“Yeah,” he lied. Lucien wasn’t, but he would be. “I just needed a little air.”

“It’s overwhelming in there,” she admitted with a smile. “Your mom convinced Rowan to eat one carrot, though.”

Lucien returned her smile. “She’s got a way with him.”

“I’m sorry the night isn’t going the way you hoped,” Elain continued. Lucien turned to look at her, surprised to find her face far closer than he’d expected. He could practically count the freckles dusting her nose. He wanted to kiss her, he realized. 

He didn’t. “I haven’t been on a date since…”

She looked down. “Me either. It’s scary, but this is kind of nice. It’s a disaster, don’t get me wrong, but your family took away all my anxiety.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, unable to believe she’d managed to find something positive in the situation. “So if I asked you out again…somewhere where it was just the two of us, would you—”

Elain pressed her mouth to his before he could finish, answering his question before he ever finished asking it. It was sweet—chaste—for about two seconds. Lucien couldn’t help himself, pushing his luck as he parted his lips so he could taste her, if only just a little. 

He’d been right in the kitchen, at least. Kissing her again felt better than that first one, and the second one threatened to unmake him. He needed to stop before he couldn’t go back inside without giving everyone a show. 

Lucien pulled back, cupping her cheek. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted to him, her eyes impossibly dark.

“Neither do I,” he replied, thumb tracing the curve of her mouth. “We’ll figure it out, though.”

She smiled, rising to her feet gracefully. Elain extended her hand and Lucien took it like a lifeline. “Want to try this dinner again?”

Suddenly, it didn’t seem so bad.

[itsybitsybluesy]

Sign of the Times - Chapter 3

Summary: As the Chosen Hero, the wielder of the Sword that Seals the Darkness, Lucien would be responsible for standing between Prythian and ruin. No pressure. But even that responsibility would come second to his new, primary objective: To live and die in the service of the Princess.

For @elucienweekofficial Day 4!

Read on AO3・Masterlist・Previous Chapter

-

As far as Lucien could tell, his mishap of allowing the princess to sneak out from under his nose was never reported back to the High King. He was fortunate to have been caught by a priestess. Anyone else would have gone to the High King right away, but a priestess would always defer to the princess first.

And clearly, Elain didn't want her father to know she'd snuck out.

Even so, it was a mistake Lucien would not be replicating. When he relieved her guards the next morning, he made a point of knocking on her door until she answered. The castle grounds were still shrouded in the lingering shadows of dawn, but if she wanted to sleep in, then she would need to regain his trust.

Elain pulled open the door, looking surprisingly alert for the early hour, and placed her hands on her hips. "How can someone who refuses to speak be so pushy?"

Her hair was already styled, pulled back from her face using two neat braids that joined at the back of her head like a crown. The rest of it came free over her back and shoulders. He felt the strange, ill-advised urge to tug on one of the curls and test its bounce.

She would likely slap him if he tried. Funny how that didn't put him off the thought.

"Well?" Elain prompted. "Are you here to check under my bed for intruders? If you don't find any there, perhaps you can check my flower pots next."

A facetious invitation was an invitation all the same. With a smirk, Lucien placed his palm on the door—and, granted, maybe he didn't need to place it quite so close to her face—and pushed it wider, granting himself entry to her room. She scoffed, scrambling out of his way like she feared his presence would taint the air she breathed.

He made a point of striding to her bed and crouching to examine the space beneath.

"Really?" She asked flatly.

Lucien frowned, scrutinizing the dust-riddled floorboards. Then, with a grunt of surprise, he removed the sword from his back and lowered his body flush with the ground, extending an arm into the darkness.

Soft, curious footsteps sounded behind him. "What is it?"

In his peripheral vision, he could see her leaning over, angling her head to try and see what caught his attention. Curious little thing. She was so unguarded in her fixation that when Lucien cried out and thrashed his body forwards, as if he were being dragged under by some malicious creature, she shrieked and staggered back.

"What's wrong?"

She yelped as the struggle continued, hovering nervously as though she wasn't certain if she should intervene. When Lucien finally yanked his arm out, flopping onto his back as though driven by the momentum of a great force, it finally dawned on her what was happening.

"You're mocking me, aren't you?" She asked behind an accusing stare, which narrowed on his decidedly uninjured arm.

With a grin, Lucien produced the stuffed rabbit he'd found beneath her bed. "I caught the intruder."

Her eyes widened, numbly repeating his words back to him. "I caught the—" With a hiss, she snatched the rabbit from his hands and began using its ear to propel a succession of cotton-padded strikes upon his chest. One after the other. "I'm sure you think you're very funny!"

Lucien did think it was quite funny, but he didn't admit to it lest she decide to upgrade to a sharper object. The Master Sword was only a foot away, and the princess would surely enjoy the poetry of stabbing him with it.

"I can't believe that's the first thing you've said to me!" She seethed, the words emphasized by a rhythmic thwack, thwack, thwack.

Lucien could easily stop her, or simply roll out of the way, but she seemed to be working something out. And he couldn't begrudge his view of the princess leaning over him in her nightgown, the fabric thin and pink and tied in a cute bow just below her bust. It was modest sleepingwear, all things considered, but the lace-hemmed neckline did sit low on the swell of her breasts, and at this angle… He didn't let his eyes stray, or she really would stab him with his sword.

"And you've made me brutalize poor Nelly, which wasn't the least deserved!"

"Nelly?" He repeated, not following.

"The rabbit!" She exclaimed, launching Nelly into his face in one grand, final blow. Lucien made a show of sputtering around the fake fur that landed in his mouth.

And then it happened. She laughed.

He was grateful the rabbit was covering his face, or she would have seen the stupid grin that came over him, unreasonably proud that he'd made the princess who was determined to hate him actually laugh. Given, it his at his expense, but it proved she was capable of finding him amusing in some capacity.

From its scabbard, the Master Sword began singing beneath her laughter, joining like a heralding angel expressing its approval at his one, mediocre accomplishment.

Giddy, he couldn't resist asking, "Should I check the flower pots next?"

"Get out."

-

Fortunately, after Lucien was kicked out of the room (having declared it free of any intruders), it didn't take long for Elain to emerge. Her nightgown had been unfortunately swapped for a plain white frock, one which was remarkably unremarkable for a crown princess.

At his look, she explained, "I must wear this dress during my devotions. It's meant to be unassuming. There's no place for vanity in the Sanctuary."

When it was clear she was expecting a response, Lucien hesitated, uncertain what to say. In his opinion, dressing her in rags was a fruitless exercise. Elain could wear a tablecloth and would still be the loveliest in the room, regardless of who was present.

He shrugged, which caused her to sigh.

"Back to the silence, then?"

It wasn't that he wanted to be silent. It was just… he didn't know where to find the balance yet. It was supposed to be black and white, a knight and his charge. There wasn't hatred or friendship, only duty and loyalty. With Elain, the crystaline waters of that codex became murky at best, and he was still learning to navigate them.

Footsteps sounded down the hall at the same moment he opened his mouth, prepared to say something, at least. They both turned as one of the High King's guards bowed low to Elain and announced they were being summoned.

They entered the Inner Sanctum together, the Princess three paces ahead. He stopped at the outskirts of the room, bent at the knee in a position of fealty—one arm clasping a fist to his heart while the other was braced on his knee. He could feel the Master Sword writhing uncomfortably in the scabbard at his back.

"Princess Elain. Sir Lucien," the High King rumbled in greeting.

Lucien kept his head bowed, parallel with the floor. He would stay that way until the King dismissed him.

The High King was the first to speak.

"Your tutor has informed me you missed yesterday's morning prayer."

"I was up early," Elain explained, head still bowed. "I couldn't sleep. I offered my prayers before dawn, then continued my studies in the library."

The High King was silent for a moment. Lucien couldn't see his expression, but he could feel the Sword's apprehension.

"Sir Lucien," the King said. "Can you confirm my daughter's tale?"

Lucien wondered if the High King had discovered he'd lost the princess yesterday, and this was a test of some kind. He didn't know if Elain had truly offered her prayers before he found her in the library, and it felt slightly as if he was being asked to betray Elain or betray the King.

He surprised himself when he answered, "Yes, Your Highness."

"You don't believe your own daughter?" Elain accused, outraged. "You need your loyal spy to validate my words now?"

"Curb your tongue, child. I must validate your claims because I'm inclined to believe you aren't taking your duties to heart. Your tutor tells me you've made no further progress in unlocking your power."

"I—" Elain sounded flustered. "I'm trying my best, father—"

"Your best leaves much to be desired. The scholars at the library have also informed me you're still reading those fanciful novels. That's time you could be dedicating to your studies."

Elain reeled back. "You even have the scholars spying for you?"

"As usual, your focus strays towards the unimportant," the High King grumbled. "I am their King. They are beholden to my word, the same as everyone else in Prythian. Including yourself. And as your King, I forbid you from wasting any more of your time on outside pursuits. No more reading, no more gardening, no more of these childish liberties I've humoured for much too long."

"But, Father—"

"Enough, Elain!" He barked. His voice rang through the antechamber, echoing off the walls in a refrain no less harsh than the first—enough, enough, enough. The King cleared his throat and said in a lower voice, "Now that the chosen hero has been discovered, you must master your ability. If you were hoping to shirk your responsibility off to the next generation—" Elain scoffed in protest— "I'm afraid that's no longer an option. Time is a luxury we cannot afford."

For a moment, the room fell into a silence so dense that it sucked all the air from the chamber, leaving Lucien's lungs burning as he fought to hold to his last swallow, not to let it pass his lips.

Elain's came out in one long, trembling exhale. She sounded close to tears when she stuttered, "I-I haven't been evading my responsibilities, Father. I spend hours in the Sanctuary every day, attempting to commune with the Goddess. She won't hear my prayers—"

"Then perhaps you are doing something wrong," the King suggested. "Maybe you have become too reliant on performing your devotions in the comfort of the castle. You've yet to make a pilgrimage to any of the sacred springs. With the Chosen Hero at your side, perhaps it is finally time."

Lucien waited for her protest. If she could hardly stand to be in the same room with him, he couldn't imagine her opinion would be improved at the prospect of spending days together travelling.

Her protest didn't come. Instead, she uttered two simple words in a voice so small he had to strain to hear them.

"Yes, father."

"Sir Lucien," the King called.

He tensed, not expecting to be addressed.

"Prepare a unit to accompany yourself and the princess to the sacred springs. You'll set off at dawn."

"Yes, Your Majesty," he breathed.

"You're dismissed."

With a solemn nod, Lucien withdrew from the throne room, intending to follow out the King's orders. The Princess remained, not yet dismissed, and for a moment, he felt such conflict over the idea of leaving her. Was he not meant to stay by her side at all times? An order was an order, but which one took precedence?

He knew the answer, even if he didn't like it. Even if he caught a glimpse of Elain's teary face as he was leaving, and felt it strike him harder than any blow she'd managed thus far. Like the sword at his back had come free from its scabbard and lodged into his spine.

It didn't take long to relay the King's orders at the gatehouse. By the time he returned, the throne room was empty and the princess had returned to her bedroom.

Having learned his lesson about assuming the princess was where she should be, Lucien pressed his ear to the door, listening for sounds of movement. What he heard instead was sobbing.

Lucien raised his knuckles to the door, then lowered them. He repeated the movement again and again, each time talking himself into knocking before his ambition was diffused at the thought of the princess slamming the door in his face. She wouldn't want to be comforted by him. He knew that.

But he thought he might have the capacity to comfort her, and that therefore he should at least try. Because he didn't see anyone else in line to do it.

The next time he gathered up the courage to knock, he didn't let himself think about it. His knuckles rapped against the wood, the sound reverberating with so much more certainty than he felt.

Elain's sobbing quieted. He heard a shuffle, followed by the sound of footsteps that carried to the other side of the door. She didn't open it, but he could sense she was just there, within breathing distance.

"What do you want?"

She was trying to sound petulant, he could tell. It came across far more defeated, like she imagined he was only there to rub her misery in her face.

It occurred to Lucien that after all that time spent warring over whether or not he should knock on her door, he hadn't considered what he would say to her once he succeeded.

"Go away," she said. "Or at least allow me to pretend you're not there."

There was no pretending. That was the problem. He was there, and her whole life had changed because of it. None of this pressure would be on her shoulders if he weren't standing on the other side of her door, trying to think of something to say in the face of all her displaced ire.

Dumbly, he asked, "What kind of books do you like?"

Her voice sharpened. "Are you serious?"

Lucien felt like an idiot the second he'd asked. At this rate, she really would believe he didn't know how to speak.

He said nothing, because wasn't that what she asked? To pretend like he doesn't exist? Although if he was being honest, he was refraining from speaking as much for his own benefit, since he didn't trust that he would be able to say something intelligent in that moment.

Eventually, Elain sighed. "I like romance novels. Not that it matters. Didn't you hear? I'm forbidden from reading about anything except how to unlock my sealing powers. We shouldn't even be having this conversation since it's not in pursuit of that goal. It's the only thing I exist for, after all."

Her voice was ripe with bitterness. Lucien could understand it, given the sword at his back that he was destined to fall upon.

His next words were as much a surprise to him as they were to Elain.

"Wait here."

Her answering huh? was undignified of a royal, and it filled him with a strange pang of affection.

"You're leaving?" She asked. He heard a shuffle, as if she was moving closer to the door.

"Just for a minute. To grab something from my room."

"What if I sneak out while you're gone?"

He huffed an amused breath through his nose. "I'll find you."

In her answering silence, he thought she was tempted to try, if only so she could prove him wrong. He shouldn't challenge her like that; it was only adding fuel to her temper. But part of him wanted to see if she would try, if she would rise to the challenge—if she would challenge him. So few people ever did.

Rather than wait for a response, Lucien crossed the short distance down the hall to his own bedchamber. Having lived in the barracks for so many years, he wasn't used to having private quarters, and therefore didn't have much in the way of possessions. But he did have the leatherbound novel his mother had gifted him when he left to train at the barracks at just eight years old.

It was worn with love and time and the countless years of being shoved into a rucksack without a proper shelf to rest upon. A shabby thing to lend a princess, but it did have romance, and it didn't seem she was in a position to be picky.

When he returned, book in hand, the hallway outside the princess's chamber was silent. He slowed, listening for any sound of movement behind the wooden door. Did Elain decide to test her luck and slip away while he was gone? He was shaping up to be a pretty terrible guard, if so.

"Well?" The princess demanded through the closed door.

The corners of Lucien's mouth twitched. "I brought a book for you."

"So you can go run and tell my father that I'm not focusing on my studies?"

"Tell him that I helped you break his rules?" Lucien countered. "Why would I do that?"

"Because maybe it's a test."

Lucien didn't dignify that with a response. If she was curious—and he knew that she was—he liked to think that his silence would spur her into action. And sure enough, before long, she was grumbling something he couldn't make out that sounded suspiciously like resignation.

The door cracked open, just enough for her dainty hand to slip through. She spread her fingers in silent demand. He considered withholding the book until he heard a please or a thank you or any semblance of the manners a princess was rumoured to have.

He felt the world expected too much from her already, though. So he placed the book in her hand without expecting anything in return, even her kindness.

As soon as the book was in her grasp, Elain retreated back into the safety of her bedchamber, the door sealed shut between them. He waited as she observed the gift, imagining those slender fingers running over the worn cover, the damaged pages, the inscription from his mother, the same way his had a hundred times before.

Elain sniffled. Lucien paused, thinking she might say something—anything. Then she sniffled again, and he realized her tears had returned. He pressed an ear to the door and was met with soft, hiccuping breaths that splintered through him.

There was nothing else to say, no other comfort he could offer. So Lucien sat with his back against her door, listening to the princess cry until someone came to relieve him for the night watch.

[itsybitsybluesy]

how you've haunted me so stunningly

Elucien, 6K, SMUT

It's Guilty as Sin? Elucien, y'all!

for @elucienweekofficial.

Read on AO3.

am I bad? or mad? or wise?

Elain's always had vivid dreams, but she can't understand why she's suddenly dreaming of a gorgeous redheaded fae man. As her dreams about him get more intense and intimate, she wonders if she's dreaming so outside of her humdrum life because she's grappling with change...or if there's something more to her dreams.

Thanks to @bibliophiliaxvignette and @itsybitsybluesy for betaing!

This has structural similarities to @whatishowedyouinthedark's "I've been lost to you, sunlight (flew like a moth to you, sunlight)"—if you haven't read it before, you NEED to, and if you have, it's time for a reread.

[itsybitsybluesy]

hi everyone!! i'm very happy you've all enjoyed my elucien pregame this year! i loved doing this and it truly was the most fun i've had in a while, so let's finish it off in style today!!

i present the final boss of sketch-a-day, or day #1 mates: 🌈 rainbow elucien 🌈

[itsybitsybluesy]

tomorrow is christmas(elucien week)🌷🦊🌞🌸!!

[itsybitsybluesy]

Every year we highlight our wonderful writers who absolutely deserve the spotlight- but what about our wonderful artists who keep us well fed!

Today, we're celebrating @jadedbugart / jadedbugart!

@jadedbugart is an artist for the community, creating collaborative pieces with other artists, as well as giving back her time and talent to the people and characters she loves. Her art has a dream-like quality, with vibrant colors and soft scenes that make you feel as though you've stepped into a romantic fairy tale.

Check out some of their work below!

Holding you in my arms

First day of spring

A Lady and her Knight

Jadedbugart commission sheet!

[itsybitsybluesy]

elucien sketch-a-day #7

she would chew on this man like he’s a doggy doy

[itsybitsybluesy]

commission for amandapearls_ on insta

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ok i’m done being crazy lol

[itsybitsybluesy]

With you I am home 🩷

You can support the art here on Instagram

@amandapearls , @lulufoxlainfawn , and I have been holding onto this commission for so long we’ve been dying to share it. We’re so excited to share this GORGEOUS artwork of Elain and Lucien. We wanted to show Elain and Lucien happily mated and just having a nice peace day together. Plus sometimes a girl just wants to be carried by her mate 🥹🥹

Paola Pieretti.art blew us away with this beautiful art! Seriously we screeched with happiness when we saw this art. Thank you so much Paola Pieretti.art for creating this amazing artwork. It’s always a pleasure to work with you! The way you portray emotion so well in your artwork is exceptional!

All characters belong to Sarah J Maas and Bloomsbury Publishing

[itsybitsybluesy]

[itsybitsybluesy]

what if my productivity is really really really really really down

[itsybitsybluesy]

A Blaze in the Dark - (13/15)

Summary: On the eve of her wedding, knowing nothing about her husband besides his apparent disinterest in his soon-to-be wife, Elain uses a spell to meet her true love in her dreams.

Dedicated to my darling @wilde-knight 💕🦋

Read on AO3 ・Series Masterlist・Previous Chapter

-

When one received an invitation to a ball celebrating their sister’s marriage, it was difficult to decline. That didn’t mean Nesta wasn’t tempted to.

If Elain had married the dashing Lord Graysen she'd danced with at the solstice ball, Nesta would have been overjoyed by the occasion. She would have received the invitation without any hint of scrutiny or dread, and would have arranged their family's carriage to arrive a week early so she could assist with preparations.

Nesta could muster no such enthusiasm for the letter she received. Search as she might for the sound of her sister's voice between the neatly ordered lines and looping letters, she could find only cold, impersonal formalities. It was Elain's handwriting, certainly, but not her words.

It didn't help Nesta's apprehension that the invitation was followed by a letter from Eris Vanserra, informing Nesta that there was no need for travel preparations; he would be sending a carriage to fetch the Archeron party himself. 

Her resulting correspondence, in which she instructed precisely where he could send his carriage, went ignored. And as for her insistence that she had no interest in attending this ball to further his own agenda, he’d simply written back:

I’m delighted to read of your enthusiasm for our betrothal. Stay home if that’s what you desire; you won’t be missing much. I assure you, the ball celebrating our own nuptials will be far grander. 

Nesta hadn’t responded to his letter, and three days later he’d called her bluff in the form of a gilded carriage rolling through the gates of the Archeron manor. Its blood red doors were embossed in the Vanserra Royal crest—a winged serpent coiling up the trunk of a great oak, its sharp fangs bared in a snarl. 

She didn’t know the cultural significance of the coat of arms, but she felt a kinship in the Oak tree as she sat inside the carriage, feeling it bump and lurch through the autumn forest. Once, she’d been steady, too. Patient. The walls of the Archeron manor had never threatened her—she knew, as surely as she knew the number of steps between her bedroom and the Archeron library, that the towering stone couldn’t contain her forever. One day, she would grow up and out and seize the world their father tried so hard to suppress.

Nesta never anticipated the world would seize her first. She was never given a chance to step out of her leading strings, they'd merely been exchanged from one hand to another.

When she exited the carriage, Nesta swore she could feel the tail of that fanged serpent slinking over her ankles as she met the assessing eyes of Prince Eris Vanserra. Besides the servants rushing to heave her trunks from the luggage boot, no one else had emerged from the estate to greet her. Lucien was the steward of the estate, surely he and Elain should be present to receive their guests?

After a moment’s hesitation, she curtsied the way she’d been taught. Eris looked pleasantly surprised by the obedience, and Nesta wrangled the urge to snap at him. She was acutely aware of the servants sneaking curious glances when they thought she wasn’t looking. These servants lived with and answered to Elain. Everything Nesta did while she was here would reflect on her sister and her quality of life. It was better to play by their rules for now, until she had a better understanding of the playing field. 

“I trust you had a pleasant journey?” Eris asked once Nesta drew back to her full height.

It wasn’t a pleasant journey. It was long and tiring, but she knew what the correct answer was. 

“Yes,” Nesta bit out. “Your carriage was much more spacious than I am accustomed to. Thank you for being so accommodating, your highness.”

His grin was nothing short of serpentine. “It was my pleasure, Miss Archeron. I'm sorry to hear your father won't be joining us.”

Nesta said nothing. When the doctors had warned that her father's waning health was unfit for the journey, she'd been privately relieved at the news, until he insisted their governess go in his place as her chaperone.

The stern-faced woman exited the carriage with her scowl already trained at the back of Nesta's head. She believed the Archeron sisters were all terribly ungrateful children for their frequent and vocal defiances, particularly on the matter of their betrothals. In her eyes, Nesta was already misbehaving for not batting her eyelashes at Eris and smiling prettily.

As if such vapid flirting techniques would have any influence on the crown prince towering before her. He offered his elbow with a small incline of his brow, the challenge subtle, like a pinch in her side.

Her impulse was to dismiss him. Openly. So that she could undermine him before his brother's servants and tear his ego down a few notches. But her better sense, and her governess's small cough at her back, coaxed Nesta's arm through his with a stiff smile.

At such close proximity, all it took was an errant breeze to brush past, lifting the smoke and cedar from his clothes. Her nostrils burned as his scent coiled around her, eliciting images of a roaring hearth and the slow, burning warmth of brandy. It was heady and deliberate, the same as his sharp, elegant features. They reminded her of the stories she'd read about sirens—beings of such enchanting beauty that sailors would willingly drown themselves to follow them into the depths of the sea.

Eris’s mouth brushed the curve of her ear, keeping his voice low. “Are you ready to do what’s necessary?”

She leaned as much away from him as his grip would allow and kept her voice sharp, revealing nothing of her frayed nerves.

“Will you hold up your end of the bargain?”

His lips twitched. “Of course.”

Nesta knew the most dangerous traps were the kind that enticed their victims, promising warmth and wealth and power. He’d offered all of it in exchange for what he wanted, but Nesta had only asked for two things: that her sisters were kept safe and that the moment this was finished, Eris would put her on a carriage to her childhood home by the sea, where she would live the rest of her life undisturbed. Free from betrothals and politics and the ridiculous notions of true love.

“What do I need to do?”

Eris turned his head, casting a cursory glance over her shoulder. A moment later, a servant swept by, pressing something cool into her palm as they passed. Nesta didn’t risk drawing attention by looking at the object. She merely curled her fingers over its sleek surface—a glass bottle, judging from the feel and shape. Its contents swished as she took the weight, and she quickly buried it in her skirts as they slipped past the surveillance of the guards standing watch at the front entrance. 

“It will be a few hours before the remaining guests arrive, and your sister has been tirelessly preparing for the evening ahead,” Eris said. He’d stopped whispering. “It would be kind of you to offer your assistance.”

“Of course, your highness.” Her voice carried, echoing like their footsteps against the marble floor. 

A servant looked up from where she was crouched on her hands and knees beside a wash bucket. When she caught sight of the Prince, her eyes widened, and she quickly ducked her head to begin scrubbing the floor with exaggerated fervor. She was not the only one scrambling to be caught working. Servants bustled around them in every direction, lugging chaperone chairs and trays of silverware and stacks of firewood, all diverting into various rooms. 

Nesta and Eris stepped around a pair of male servants hoisting a ladder to carefully place and light the candles in the chandelier hanging in the center of the foyer. She imagined that before long, every gilded inch of the palace would be glistening with light.

“Where should I begin?” She asked, angling her head down a corridor to find it lined with pillars sporting large bouquets of bright, draping flowers.

His eyes were gleaming. Nesta recognized that look. It was the same her father used to wear on the evenings he invited other gentlemen over for gambling. It was the unearned triumph of a man who believed he’d already won.

“I last saw her in the kitchen,” Eris jerked his chin to a set of double doors at the other end of the corridor. “It may be best to check there first.”

Nesta didn’t need further clarification to understand what Eris was asking her to do.

He offered her a hint, anyway. Murmured it so softly there was no chance of being overheard.

“Remember, Nesta. The King is always served from the finest plate and goblet.”

-

“Okay,” Elain breathed, setting the glass flute onto the preparation table beside the hundreds of other freshly polished glasses. “How many does that make?”

Vassa swept her discerning eyes over the array of glasses, counting far quicker than Elain could hope to in her frazzled state. 

“One hundred and sixty, your highness,” Vassa answered.

Elain’s shoulders slumped. “Right,” she said, unable to disguise the defeat in her voice. “Grab some more from the cupboard, we ought to begin the night with at least three hundred.”

Two servants rushed off to fulfill her request, urged by a directing look from Vassa, who pressed a hand to Elain’s shoulder once they were gone.

“Perhaps you should take a break,” Vassa suggested. There was concern shaping in the crease of her red brows. “You’ll need to conserve some of your energy for the ball.”

Through the squat window above the sink, Elain could see the sun was coming down. She’d been up at sunrise to begin preparations for the ball, and she withered at the thought that she would stay awake until the next sunrise, ushering any remaining guests into the various dining rooms for breakfast. Royal balls were a lengthy affair, beginning late at night and lasting well into the next morning. 

Guests would be arriving soon, and she knew it would be wise to take a break and begin changing into her evening wear. Vassa would manage the final preparations just fine without Elain’s interference. But as Elain regarded the open doorway leading into the kitchen, she found her feet refusing to move.

It was safe here. Overseeing food preparation was the sort of labor the Vanserras deemed themselves above. There was no risk of encountering any of them in the scullery, but the moment she stepped into the hall… She shuddered to imagine herself pinned beneath Beron Vanserra’s prying eyes the way she had been at dinner the night prior. His interest in her seemed to be growing, and Elain worried he was catching on to Lucien’s attempts at keeping his father away from his wife. 

Each day since Beron’s arrival, Lucien had given her some task that required being elsewhere—a trip into the village to select local jams to serve at breakfast, a visit to the clothier to pick out new drapes for the dining rooms, a day of plucking mugwort, rosemary, and lavender to clear the stale air in each of the guest rooms.

“How about a thimble full of brandy?” Vassa suggested, still mooring Elain to the physical world through the soft, insistent press of her palm. “To still your nerves?”

Elain shook her head. “No. No, thank you, Vassa. That won't be necessary.”

“A bath, then?”

With a soft laugh, Elain turned, clasping Vassa’s hand in each of her own. “There is no need to fuss over me. I’ll go rest, as you say.”

Vassa smiled, pleased with her influence. “We can look after things from here, your highness.”

The maids standing across the preparation table shared a look with each other. There was no malice in it—they wouldn’t dare, not with Elain present. But there was an uncertainty to their expressions that helped Elain find the courage to squeeze Vassa’s hand and make her way towards the door. Without knowing the reasons for Elain’s hovering, they likely assumed their new mistress didn’t trust them to perform these tasks to her standard. Her friend would never accuse her of doing so, but Elain understood she was undermining Vassa’s authority by being here.

“Thank you,” Elain said, taking care to meet Vassa’s eyes. “All of you,” she added, nodding to the maids on the other side of the table, who had begun polishing the next set of glass flutes. 

The ladies paused their tasks to curtsy in kind, their white mobcaps bobbing low as they dropped their chins in respect. Elain lingered a beat too long, imagining that she was gathering all of the stray threads of her courage and bundling them together.

Tonight will go fine, she assured herself, wiping her dampening palms against her skirt as she stepped into the kitchen. King Beron wouldn’t do anything unseemly in such a public setting. 

At the very least, no one would be able to accuse her of meager effort. She’d asked the staff to spare no cost, and the trays and dishes spread throughout the kitchen were testimony: exotic fruits and steaming pots of soup, roasted poultry and glazed hams, and more cakes and tarts and biscuits than a swarm of nobles could hope to indulge in. 

“Oh.”

Elain drew up when she saw the cooks had all seized working. Their hands were clasped over their aprons, heads respectfully bowed. Not towards Elain, but a woman standing on the opposite end of the kitchen, leaning over a pot to inhale the scent of its steam.

The Queen? Elain thought, studying the back of her dark red gown. Its golden brocade pattern and lace trim spoke of wealth, and Elain could think of no other noblewoman who had a reason to be in the kitchen before the ball. 

But then the woman stood up, and Elain caught sight of the golden brown hair bound in a tight coronet, the same shade as her own. The intricate braids were set with a small golden tiara, glistening with over a dozen rubies. It was one of her sisters.

Feyre, Elain would have guessed from the crown. But she had never seen Feyre wear her hair like that, not at the risk of being mistaken for…

“Nesta?”

Her sister set the lid of the pot down harshly. The metal rung through the kitchen as though someone had struck a bell, and Nesta whirled with wide eyes, her mouth popping open at being spotted.

“Elain,” she breathed, rushing to sweep Elain into a one-armed hug. 

Elain thought it was odd that her sister didn’t hug her fully. She kept one hand fisted in her skirts, bundling the fabric as if she needed to raise it to ascend a flight of stairs. But even so, Elain was so relieved by the sight of her sister that she didn’t examine the oddity further.

“I missed you,” she murmured, pressing her face against her sister’s shoulder.

Nesta didn’t say it back, but it wasn't necessary. The eldest Archeron sister wasn’t usually one for affection, and the fact that she squeezed Elain tighter said all it needed to. Elain shut her eyes, inhaling her sister’s familiar scent. It was a two day’s carriage ride from Caterhaugh, but the smell of home still clung to her. 

“Where’s father?”

With a sigh, Nesta released Elain and took a step back. “Too unwell to travel, but he is well looked after I assure you. He sends along his affections.”

That didn’t come as a surprise to Elain. It seemed their father’s health was ever-dwindling, and she doubted guilt would weigh favorably on his weakened constitution. Because surely he did feel guilt for entwining his daughters in these engagements. There was no proof of it, no apologetic letters or so much as an inquiry into her well-being since she left, but Elain needed to imagine that he was remorseful, if only so she could summon any sorrow for his condition. 

There was no sorrow on Nesta’s face. Only a pure black anger that suited the rubies in her hair. Elain could easily imagine her as a ruler of this Kingdom, though not one that was mired by any King.

“What were you doing in here?” Elain asked, remembering that they were standing in the kitchen. The servants' heads were still bowed, as if too afraid to set their eyes on Eris’s future bride.

“Looking for you,” she answered, hand still twisted in her skirt. The posture was nostalgic of their childhood, when they used to sneak into the kitchen and shove tarts behind their backs when the cooks were distracted. “Then my stomach sent me astray. The food smells divine.”

Of course. Nesta must have just come off the carriage. She mustn't have had anything to eat in hours. 

Elain smiled. “I asked the cooks to prepare duck rillettes exactly how Mother used to make. Miss Agatha," she called to one of the maids. "Would you kindly fix my sister a plate?”

Agatha bowed. “Of course, your highness.”

“Oh—” Nesta shook her head. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Nonsense,” Elain insisted. “You must be starved. Has anyone shown you to your room?"

She hoped Nesta would say no, so that Elain could take up the responsibility herself. It was easy to feel braver in proximity to Nesta, who had always taken it upon herself to be Elain's fiercest advocate. If they were to happen upon anyone with untoward intentions, a cutting glare from Nesta would be enough to thwart their plans. Or so Elain hoped.

"Oh, yes," Nesta said, waving off her concern. "I've been well taken care of. Don't let me distract you, please."

Some of Elain's courage dulled. "If you're sure…"

"Very." Nesta nodded toward the door. "Go on. I know you've loads to get done. I can manage myself for the time being."

"You can come with me," Elain offered, restraining the urge to take her sister's hand.

Today, more than ever, it was important she remain calm and poised. Staff and guests alike would be sniffing for any hint of weakness, circulating their findings as a currency. She couldn't very well beg Nesta to join her, like a duckling clinging to its mother's tail feathers, but she hoped her sister would understand the hidden plea.

I'm scared, and I've no one to lean on but you.

If Nesta could see the trembling girl hidden beneath Elain's composure, she did a wondrous job of hiding it.

"I'll catch up with you shortly," she said, offering a tight smile. "The promise of duck rillettes is too tempting."

"Of course." Elain didn't point out that Nesta could always bring the food along. A lady knew when to accept a polite rejection, and pressing the matter would come off obtrusive to the listening ears. "Please rest and enjoy yourself. I'll be in my room if you need me."

They both curtsied to each other in parting, which felt stilted and odd.

Elain remembered a time when Nesta and Feyre would send each other vulgar gestures whenever their governess's back was turned during lessons. On the one occasion they were caught, they were all made to wash the entire household's laundry by hand to help them think of more productive uses for their fingers. She longed for those days again, when there was no rank or formalities among them, only squabbling and mischief.

It caused her to feel a deep, foreboding sense of loneliness as she stepped into the hallway by herself. There were servants flocking to and fro absorbed in their various tasks, and they stopped to bow their heads respectively as she passed, but that did little to assuage the feeling.

When she'd first arrived in the palace, many of them had felt pity for her situation and befriended her in small kindnesses. Bringing her tea when she hadn't requested it, leaving pillows by her flowerbeds so she could lean on something soft while she gardened, curating stacks of books in the library that would fix her interest. When King Beron arrived, those kindnesses became fewer and farther between, and disappeared entirely after the incident with the boy.

Elain couldn't blame them for being jumpier and more reticent, but it ate away at her that they refused to meet her eyes any longer. This was the King's goal, she assumed, to drive a wedge through whatever loyalty they'd amassed in his absence. Now, if Beron wanted to raise a hand against her in front of all of her staff, she suspected that no one would rise to her defense.

Lucien would, of course, but he would need to be present to do so. And lately her husband was expending all of his effort on being precisely where she wasn't.

That thought slowed her steps as she rounded a corridor. Seeing it was empty, she gave herself all of a minute to wallow over the absence of her husband.

Nesta read her a tale, once, about a prince who traveled the kingdom with a shoe that fit only upon the sole of his true love. There were maidens who cut off their heels and toes to force their feet into the shoe, intending to trick him. Elain felt as if she was doing something similar, needing to slice pieces of her heart in order to fit into her role of the isolated wife.

Only her chest ached hollow from all the pieces she was missing, and it didn't feel like a ruse anymore. She missed him so fervently she couldn't breathe.

It was as she was trying to take a breath in that moment, struggling to get air past that awful, panging emptiness, that something seized her by the arm. Her breath escaped her truly, then, rushing out in a shriek as she was jerked through a doorway cracked just wide enough to fit her body.

It thudded shut the second she was inside, trapping her in the dusty, dark bedroom with her assailant, who pushed her against the door before she could suck in breath for another scream.

"Elain," Lucien hushed, slapping his palm over her mouth. "It's just me."

The curtains in the bedroom were drawn, casting the space in a rather sinister darkness. Elain had to squint to be sure it was her husband. His hair was a familiar color, long and red and a bit unruly, pieces of it falling out of the knot at the back of his head, which was a style her husband indeed liked to wear. He had the same eyes, too, the russet and gold more similar in the dark, but still distinct enough to tell apart.

It could be her husband. But the last Elain checked, her husband wasn't a maniac.

"You couldn't have, oh, I don't know, said, 'Elain, can I speak with you in private?' Like a normal person?" She pressed her palm to her chest, feeling its rapid flutter beneath her fingertips. "You scared me half to death, you brute!"

He laughed, sustaining her kitten-like blows to his arms and chest all whilst refusing to pull away.

"With all those novels you like, I thought you'd appreciate an air of mystery."

Elain very nearly pointed out that the well-mannered love interest in her latest novel wouldn't dare touch the leading lady so intimately as Lucien was doing at this moment, with his leg nudging its way between hers, his lips drawing closer…

She breathed, with no true amount of conviction, "I have a million things I need to do before the party, Lucien."

"Might you consider favoring your husband from that list?" His brushed his knuckles across her cheekbone, then lower, tracing the column of her throat.

Elain's eyes fluttered shut. They hadn't been intimate with one another since the day King Beron arrived. It had been unbearable, at first, but after weeks of suffering his absence, she'd become almost numb to her cravings for his touch.

"We don't have time," she said, aware her uneven breath was giving her interest away.

Encouraged, Lucien lowered his head towards her throat. Elain should have stopped him, but the moment those plush lips touched her skin, she arched her neck closer, moaning when she felt his tongue dart across her pulse.

"Lucien," she protested, despite how her fingers snaked through the loose pieces of his hair. "We can't—"

"I've missed you," he said, like that explained it all.

And it did. Elain could think of no other word for the weeks they've spent apart other than torture. To parade the palace in their respective masks, mimicking the distance they kept from each other at the beginning of their relationship… at times it felt too real.

So real, in fact, that Elain forwent any attempts to detach her husband from her neck. She was too busy reveling in the relief that he still wanted her. The Lucien who was cold and distant around his family was not at all the man showering her with affection at present.

"You can't leave any marks," she reminded him. "If your father sees—"

She might as well have dumped cold water on his head. He pulled away with a groan, rubbed a hand down his face, and then looked away as if he couldn't bear the sight of her.

"I thought I could keep up appearances until my father left," he admitted, expression pinched as though in pain. "But this may be the hardest thing I've ever done. And I'm convinced you're conspiring against me by wearing that dress."

Elain looked down at herself. She was still in the plain frock she'd been wearing for ease of movement during the day's chores. It certainly wasn't anything special, though a flame rose to her cheeks when Lucien had to wrench himself away to pace a full circle around the room, as if that was the only way to restrain himself from touching her. He carded his fingers through his hair, tearing more strands from the knot in the process, causing loose pieces to fall haphazardly over his forehead.

He looked like a man truly on the verge of a breakdown.

She feared she'd only worsen his state if she reached for him. Fixing her hands on her hips felt like a better option, though her fingers twitched with unfulfilled longing.

"If anyone's conspiring here, it's the man who's pulled me into an empty bedroom when I still have seating arrangements to finalize and bedrooms to prepare."

Lucien paused mid-spiral. "Why isn't Vassa handling those things?"

"Vassa's overseeing the kitchen and scullery. There's far too much tableware to polish and organize."

"What about the housekeeper?"

"She's…" Elain winced. "Doing her best. I tried to convince her to stay home until your father leaves, but she says the work helps keep her mind off things. She's delegating from the scullery to ensure all the rooms are stocked with blankets and firewood."

"Right," Lucien said, a distant look overtaking him.

They hadn't talked about what happened that night. But the staff talked, and Elain heard it all through Vassa. She'd learned that the Housekeeper, Mrs. Laurent, was a widow who lost her husband the same year Lucien became the steward of the estate. Though it was uncommon to hire married women to become housekeepers, especially those with children, Lucien had offered her the position.

And on the night he'd taken her son to the barracks, where he'd been enlisted in the Eastern Army, Lucien had stopped at Mrs. Laurent's home on his return. He'd offered her money, so that she never needed to step foot in the palace again, but she refused. And asked him to leave.

It was encouraging, Elain supposed, that Mrs. Laurent still showed up for work every morning. She kept to the scullery to avoid the risk of encountering one of the Vanserras. According to Vassa, she cried often—but silently—and otherwise carried on with her duties.

She'd always been friendly with Elain, and downright fond of Lucien, but in the sparse moments they'd been in the same room since the incident, the elder woman could hardly look in Elain's direction.

Her heart broke for Mrs. Laurent. She knew Lucien's did, too. Maybe he wished she'd taken the money, if only to alleviate some of his own guilt. But perhaps that's why Mrs. Laurent refused. Perhaps that's why she still came to work. To remind all of them what they allowed to happen.

"I've asked Vassa to look after her," Elain said. "In what ways Mrs. Laurent will allow, at least. Vassa says she's very headstrong, even in her grief."

Lucien's smile was tight. "That's what I appreciated about her when we first met."

"Will her son be okay?"

His smile dropped. She knew she shouldn't have asked. A wound like this needed time to mend before she could prod at it. But during those long, aching nights where she missed her husband so much she couldn't sleep, the sound of that little boy's cries haunted her.

"He was in a bad state when I dropped him at the barracks," Lucien answered, returning to the cold, distant mask he wore around his father. "I stopped in a nearby village on the way back and hired a healer to visit him. The barracks will have their own medic on site, but the supplies my father provides are rudimentary."

That was surprising to Elain. If King Beron was anticipating war with King Helion, she would have thought he'd invest in his military. How did they intend to outlast an invasion if they couldn't tend to their wounded?

Lucien, reading her expression or simply guessing her thoughts, shook his head and sneered, "Canon fodder. That's all my father considers them. And he's so confident in his impending negotiations with the Northern Kingdom that he's not bothering to fortify his military even on the chance that things don't go his way."

"Do you think they will?"

He loosed a long breath. "I guess we'll find out tonight. Which reminds me." Lucien reached into his pocket, retrieving a velvet box. "I got you a gift."

Elain eyed him suspiciously, but Lucien merely smiled and lifted the lid to display a string of pearls with a gold-set ruby glinting at its center.

"May I?" He asked, lifting the delicate chain from the box.

Wordlessly, Elain turned to face the door, lifting her hair out of the way so that Lucien could place the necklace over her throat. She swallowed, feeling its cool touch, its unfamiliar weight, and how it contrasted to the fingers brushing along her neck.

"It matches my dress."

"I know."

Vassa must have told him. And here she hoped that her endless source of information flowed in only one direction.

"It's beautiful," she said, glancing down to admire how it sat between her collarbones, already imagining how perfectly it would suit her decolletage. "Thank you."

"I got it for you for two reasons," he said. "The first, of course, being that you're my wife. And my wife deserves beautiful things. But the second reason is because I don't trust tonight will go as smoothly as my father hopes."

"So if everything goes poorly, you want me to have something nice to remember you by?"

"Not exactly." She could hear the smile creeping into his voice, which she counted as a victory. "If anything goes wrong and I'm not there, crush the red stone between your fingers. Its more delicate than it looks."

"What will it do?"

"It will lead me to you."

Lead him to her? Elain brushed her fingers over the stone and felt a small zap singe her fingers at the touch. She would grant the palace was big, but a spell to help him locate her seemed excessive if they were going to be in the same place all night. Unless he believed for any reason that they would be separated, and that one of them might be taken away from the palace.

Anxiety surged in her, and though she tried to push it down, she could feel it hammering like a second heartbeat in her throat.

She swallowed it back enough to demand, "What do you think is going to happen, Lucien?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "But I know I'm terrified of letting you out of my sight tonight. And at least this way, if I have no choice, then I know I'll be able to find you again. No matter what happens."

"You're scaring me," she whispered.

"Good," he said. "Be scared. Be distrustful. It's the only way to survive in this family. And I promise I will do my very best not to let you out of my sight."

[itsybitsybluesy]

Standing ovulation. Or whatever it's called

[itsybitsybluesy]

The sexiest man in the entire world is probably building a fence right now with no instagram account