#and if Nesta says something vicious in response he like swallows

[vidalinav]

I have this headcanon that Eris grumbles every time he sees Nesta do something that reminds him he’s lost out on marrying her. He’ll be like shaking his head, rolling his eyes, calling Cassian a bastard or something, when she’s just generally doing something badass like defeating someone, or outsmarting or intimidating someone. He’s so bitter that he doesn’t get to marry her. 

[flowerflamestars]

Effloresce: Secrets and Silence

I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI

Elain had fallen asleep just as the sun began to rise.

 No true excuse to have stayed awake- but, for the first time, Lucien had drifted off first. His head propped against hers, the arm extended along the back of their shared seat toppling to catch her waist. 

The glow of victory, settled to something softer. He was a furnace, shifting with every hour. Tangling their limbs together like in sleep, in this utter, foreign vulnerability, all Lucien sought was closeness. It kept Elain awake: a little too warm, her grin hidden against a shapely muscled shoulder.   Even High Fae as powerful as Lucien slept.   She known it, but it was another thing to see.   There were a hundred lies they’d told together. And this, her youngest, foolish sister, insisted was one of them. That Elain, because Feyre had a High Lord at her back, didn’t need the safety of a marriage.   A High Lord, blood bound in fact, not that Feyre could know it, to deliver on promises to safeguard the people of the whole ancestral Archeron lands.   A fact, that Feyre failed to see: that she’d doomed them so thoroughly that the entire damning list of lies for humans would cease to matter, that Elain and Nesta would lose their mortal lives no matter what came next. Respectability wouldn’t matter, not the gentry, not the arbitrary, entrapping rules.   It was too late.   That there was no guaranteed safety in the war to come, in the ancient feud coming to swallow the Archeron sisters whole.   They could lie all they wanted, would fight every way they knew how, but in the end, there was only this- Elain didn’t know how long she had to live.   She’d never known how long she had, what decades would come.   She didn’t know what would be safe, in the choices she and Nesta and Lucien were making.   But there was a safety she wanted, and it was this. Lucien’s arms around her. His sly voice and teasing smile, the burr of an accent in tiredness, telling her of faery knowledge. Joking with Nesta, who he loved too. Sharp teeth and hungry flames, ferocious loyalty- the family they’d made.   Elain wanted the ring on her finger, wanted it to be real.   So Elain was ready when sleep came. When she rose, untangled, to find her sister.

***

Nesta wasn’t in the library.   Her office, the kitchens, her secret, glorious armory beneath the ground. Not even her bedroom, the location of which Cassian had shamefully memorized by sheer scent.   She wasn’t anywhere, and the last time he’d seen her she’d been covered in blood.  Azriel had seen her, come back and laughed in Cassian’s face, in fact, a drink in hand. Promised that not only was Nesta Archeron alright, she was extraordinary. That Cassian was in trouble. Just enough assurance that Cassian was a twitchy wreck by morning, trying desperately to pretend he wasn’t stalking the palatial halls chasing the scent of fire. Ash wood. Anything of her- too densely laid in this place she lived to get a clear trace.   He couldn’t find her.   So it was with typical dramatic timing that Rhys found him. His High Lord- his friend, his brother, even when Cassian felt like pummeling him into the floor- Nesta, in the snow, in the storm, bleeding- who clapped him on the back like absolutely nothing was wrong.   Like nothing had changed.   “Breakfast with the allies,” Rhys had purred and led the way, Cassian helpless not to follow.   It could not have been clearer, as he pushed open the doors with a billow of darkness, that the comfortable little nook of a room where the eldest Archeron’s where cloistered, was private.   That Rhysand was absolutely not invited.   Warded in fact, Cassian would bet on it, magic a faint shudder in the air as Rhys strong-armed them both past the threshold. He sat down. Cassian, eyes on Nesta’s stilled, wrathful face, head still inclined toward Elains over a little table holding tea, stayed exactly where he was.   “Wards,” Rhysand drawled, legs kicked out, hands in his pockets as he leant back. “I thought we were all friends now, bloodshed settled. No need to hide, little Archerons.”   Crisp, clear as the fact Rhys was taking being thwarted as a call to be an absolute ass, Nesta made obvious effort to slowly set down her cup. “Do you misunderstand the concept of privacy as much as you clearly do friendship, Rhysand?”   Braced, Cassian still had to swallow a little flinch at the light laugh that followed.   Rhys hated her- but Nesta was going to slaughter him. High Lord, Feyre’s, promise bound or no, Cassian didn’t want to imagine what exactly retribution would entail from the eldest of the Archerons.   “Have you spoken to your sister today?”   It was Elain who answered, sipping her tea like nothing was wrong. “We’ll see her at breakfast.”   “Ah,” Rhys sighed, laying it on thick. “No.” Nesta’s lips had pulled back from her teeth, a low hiss echoing. “We’re going to head out to the woods to train. I think she could use the distraction. She has nightmares, you know. Being here, in the human world where she grew up. That she might lose another parent”-   “Feyre,” Nesta all but snarled, near faery- savage and utterly vicious, “Doesn’t even remember our life before. She doesn’t remember our mother. She has no idea what our father was like, who he was before the world punished him.”   Rhys had frozen at the horrible twist of Feyre’s name from her elder sister’s lips. Quick heartbeat fading out of his ears like a battle oncoming, Cassian fought the urge to get in between them as Nesta rose to her feet.   “You don’t know anything,” She said, devastating, a pillar of rage. Not for the first time, Cassian looked and thought, lllyrian.  “And I don’t owe you answers, High Lord.”   The title was an insult, sneered before she walked away, head held high.   An ugly twist had taken over Rhy’s face in response. Cassian sank down onto one of the comically plush purple chairs, the sigh that escaped him as he ran a hand through his hair buried in the sound of a distant door slamming.   He ignored the impulse to pull on it, and groan.   When Cassian looked up, he found Elain watching him. Still perfectly composed, for the first time he saw some of Nesta’s exact steel in the set of her shoulders.   If he hadn’t been startled into looking back he would have missed the breathe of a nod as she inclined her head- as though Elain Archeron, like her dream, nightmare, perfect sister also saw exactly what he was thinking across his Cauldron-damned face.   He also saw the moment that resemblance became even truer.   “Feyre told me your mother died fourteen years ago,” Rhys had reined himself in enough to speak softly to this sister, a less visible threat, “Her family name was Seren, yes?”   Elain’s face went colder than Cassian had imagined it could become, light draining from dark eyes. With perfect human manners, she sipped her tea and set it back on the saucer, before standing to smooth her skirts. “We do not say that name in this house.”   And she curtsied her goodbye.   But unlike her sister, she paused before sweeping out the door. The face Elain eventually turned back to Rhys was utterly level- frightfully so, Cassian had seen that look on High Fae courtiers.   Control, the equalizer: what made ageless High Fae a horror, what gave Illyrian’s a hold over killing power.   Elain’s was absolute, a slate wiped clean.   “Feyre doesn’t remember,” She said, calmly, “And she’s lucky not to."

***

Elain had taken a second over their now routinely fraught breakfast to tap the back of Lucien’s hand with her pinky, their standing signal to escape. It usually meant she wanted a break from the suffocating gentry, or to speak privately.   So he barely blinked when she walked into the library wrapped in a white fur cloak, and announced much to the benefit of the General glaring at him beside Nesta that the sleigh was waiting.   Without so much as a breath, Nesta stole the pen from Lucien’s hand and pulled the rest of the documents to her side of the desk. “Lady Isabeau hates to be kept waiting.”   There was no Lady Isabeau.   Nesta was saying get out- get away. Escape.  Concern, spooled tightly beneath Lucien’s ribs since he’d overheard Elain get in the last word with Rhysand from a room away, became a sickening weight when he sprang to his feet. Elain didn’t wait for him to offer his arm, her hand landing familiarly against his bicep, grip iron.   Automatically, Lucien curved toward her. Courtesy from the outside perhaps, but the closeness of his body also screened her white knuckles from Cassian’s view.   The Illyrian treated Feyre like a little sister. Fascinated by Nesta yes, protective of Elain perhaps, helpful- Lucien suspected of all this inner circle, Court of Dreams, Cassian was the one he might trust one day.   But not today, with Elain’s unhappiness sending him careening to the edge so fast Lucien could barely control his voice.   “Maybe if we’re late she’ll have run out of that wretched tea,” He carefully joked.   “Yes,” Replied Elain, dark eyes strange in her utterly contained, utterly cheerful face. Her grip would have left bruises on a human. “It does always taste of roses.” Roses. To Lucien roses were love- were home, not just a long lost mother- but the deepest red blossoms he’d ever found that he’d woven into Elain’s hair for midsummer. The smell had lingered on Lucien’s skin for days- roses and honeysuckle, embers and warmth.   It tasted like her laugh.   On that same night, Nesta putting white blooms in her own hair. A declaration of intent to the community that she planned never to marry at all. Together, the three of them had made that option safe for her.   Freed her and them both from the prison of human expectation, the rules they had to play by to survive.   Elain was telling him this was important.   Like they had a hundred times before, they swept from the room together, continuing the easy rhythm of meaningless chatter. A clean exit, a smokescreen- courtly grace and charm.   In their wake, Lucien could hear the shifting rustle of Cassian’s wings moving and re-settling, a near sure sign that Nesta had begun to smile.

***

Out in the frozen day, the newly fallen snow as even and thick as any Winter Court vista, Lucien guided draft horses in a steady clip down the road that led as easily to the Archeron’s forest as it did to the nearby estates.   Luckily, it had recently become fashionable for noble human men to drive their own curricles and sleighs.   Elain didn’t look at him until they’d cleared the house grounds. Onward, toward tenant farms and the warm stone buildings where cloth was woven, the smell of fires burning strong in the air. The whole world was dazzling whiteness, and her silence.   They were utterly alone in the still winter’s day.   Finally, Elain sighed. “Feyre,” She started and stopped, biting her lip.   Lucien directed the horses into a glade of trees, coming to a smooth halt hidden from the road. He’d thought it might be this. The complications of family that didn’t want to outright stab you were new to Lucien, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see the betrayal on Elain’s face every time Feyre mentioned their parents. Their father, who Nesta and Elain both so clearly despised.   That, Lucien knew very much about.   The reciprocal action the three of them banded together to accomplish: the entrapment of Feyre’s High Lord, a secret she would absolutely treat like vengeance. Selfishness. Feyre, who saw so very little, who believed absolutely that Rhys could and would, keep them all safe.   That there could be a difference between alive and alright under the authority of a High Lord had already, it seemed, melted from her memory.   “You don’t have to agree with Feyre,” Lucien said softly, “To make up for everything that’s happened.”   Surprise, warmer than any fire burning in his blood to protect him from this day, bloomed as Elain smiled.   She shook her head, curls slipping from beneath her hood. “That’s not it,” She said, cheeks dimpled, like somehow, Lucien had said the right thing.   He could charm and he could lie and he would do both for her- but this dance, this endless reel he no longer understood the tempo of- Lucien had lost track of where the story ended and his own enormous wanting began.   Friendship, affection, family, but-  He dreamt of her scent.   Bloodmoons nights across her skin, the impossible, deadly danger of Autumn’s might bound to this one mortal woman.   Of that damning scar on her wrist, hidden from their faery incursion only by the season. He knew exactly how she acquired it- but that didn’t stop his sleeping mind from conjuring much better, impossibly different circumstances.   Rumor had always been that Rhysand was of mixed blood, had been raised away from the High Fae gentry. Lucien had to hope it was true.   Not for his sake, but for Elain’s.   “What does Lady Ingrid say about our grandmother?” She asked him, throwing Lucien back into this snowy day with her.   Drawing him in.   Those nearly faery black eyes said, secrets. Clever, careful Elain. Said that there was one more Archeron mystery to join their covenant, the value of which Lucien would burn and burn for.     Lucien leaned against the padded sleigh seat to face her. “She mostly talks about how beautiful she was,” He said, gaze steady on Elain’s face, “She says you have her eyes, like your mother."   The amused breath Elain let out painted the air white. “I have Archeron eyes, actually.”   Here, where no one could see, Lucien gave into the urge to tilt his head like a predator. It wasn’t just human manners Elain and Nesta had mercilessly drilled into him- until Lucien could take them on and off like any garment- but body language that hid the extra flexibility and strength, utter stillness and instinct that said other.   He never hid the otherness from them.   Nor did they, his small, precious family, hide from him.   “Have you ever heard anyone mention our mother?” She asked him, those eyes- Acheron eyes- that he couldn’t imagine on the face of anyone else bright. 

Over-bright.   The part of himself that Elain made all the louder wanted to burn to the ground whatever had upset her. Ash and bone wasn’t enough. Whoever- Lucien suspect the dark couldn’t put out flames, anymore than he could burn it away. But Mother embrace him if he wouldn’t have tried.   Instead, he answered her. “Yes,” Lucien said, “There’s a story people tell, about her getting roses to bloom in winter. I assumed your greenhouses were built on the bones of hers, like the rest of the house.”   Again, Elain smiled, but finally, Lucien saw the sadness.   “No,” She murmured, “She made them bloom right up out of the snow.”   Lucien’s heart seemed to stop. Shuddering, to resettle somewhere around his throat.   “Lady Ingrid never knew your grandmother,” He heard himself say.   It was starting to snow again. Soft as a dream, flakes smaller than a fingertip made their slow, slow way onto Elain’s delicate shoulders.   “No, she didn’t,” Elain agreed. White billowing briefly in the air as she took a deep breath. “We didn’t realize until we rejoined noble society,” She began quietly, “But everyone seems to remember her strangely.”   Lucien didn’t have to ask to know she wasn’t speaking about her grandmother now.   “Everyone describes her just a little differently. Off. Or remembers the same events like they didn’t experience them at the same time or the same way.” She sketched a glance over his face. “Someone remembers the snow and drinking too much, someone else remembers a greenhouse- but everyone remembers the roses.”   Taking his own deep breath, Lucien reached out to brush some of the snow from the velvet and fur of her cloak. At her slightest lean, he settled one hand between Elain’s shoulder blades, buried in softness.   Her heart hammered beneath his palm.    “Glamour,” Lucien whispered.   The gift of all faeries, a natural toxin they could seep into the human world. Memories differed to the shape whoever remembering wanted most, magic safe in plain sight.   Roses, conjured alive out of ice.   Elain nodded. “I imagine it’s been fading since she died.” Her mouth twisted ruefully, lips bright as the flush of cold on her pale cheeks. “We just assumed it was safe, because Feyre still doesn’t remember.” Faery blood.   He’d dreamt of Elain, glowing with immortality, on full moon nights. Had the forest tried to tell him? Had wondered if maybe Nesta had some of the latent capabilities of a human witch- with the ease which her blood mixed with warding.  How much?   He remembered, all at once, Elain asking him if all magic smelled like fire after encountering some of his power.  How many years?   She could smell that- she could-   “Wait,” Lucien said, more to himself than Elain, “Feyre was glamoured? When you told Rhysand she was lucky not to remember- someone made her forget your childhood.”   Absently enough that Lucien would feel it again and again, Elain flicked snow from the front of his coat. Not a returned gesture- her comfort so great between them that Elain touched him like it was nothing.   Finally, the flakes temporarily cleared and her damp fingertips leaving lines down the deep grey of his coat, Elain met his eyes again. “Our mother made her forget.”

***

Nesta stayed in the library all afternoon, through dinner and into the cold evening.   For reasons Cassian wouldn’t quite let himself name, he stayed as well. Her usually stormy scent was awash with lightening now- anxiety coiled tight and controlled, but so much of it that it was nearly making him sick.   Nesta watched Elain and Lucien return through the wide windows, in silence.   Cleared what seemed like more correspondence than any Night Court official Cassian had ever met received. Not a word, only the weight of her eyes in acknowledgement as he slid beside her without invitation, melting wax for each missive before the press of the Archeron seal.   Wings, stars, a sextant- in bloody, beautiful red.   The hours passed in Nesta’s ceaseless steady motion, not a single outward sign of the tension that had begun to grown teeth as night fell.   Four chimes of the clock past sunset, Cassian, stupidly, found himself speaking. It felt like shedding skin. “I know something about the worst possible fathers.”   Straight-spined and so graceful she called to mind a wraith, drifting- but wraiths didn’t have so much steel- Nesta stood and crossed the room to one of the tall windows that made up the easternmost wall. Stopped there, deep cushioned seat before her ignored to stand.   Cassian honestly thought she wasn’t going to bother to answer. Braced himself for another silent nighttime hour, watching that relentlessly gorgeous, exhausted face grow pale, before her voice cut through the stillness.   “I imagine you would,” Nesta said, eyes on the falling snow.  “You don’t introduce yourself with any family name.” Slowly, like coming a long way back, Nesta turned to catch his eyes. “Because you don’t have one?” Bastard. That she didn’t say the word was the only thing that surprised Cassian- of course Nesta Archeron remembered every detail.   Joints locked, Cassian braced himself. For the word from her perfect mouth, maybe. For dismissal, for what had always been coming.   Instead, wavy hair, luminous in lamplight, fell across the sharp line of her jaw as Nesta tilted her head thoughtfully. Looked at him, leaning, wings tucked anxious tight, against the soaring shelves behind her slab of a desk.

“I’ve read about your people in books,” She said, after a long while. “There’s not a damn thing known about the Night Court. But Illyrians are a legend, as far away as the Weeping City.”   He wanted to memorize the sound of her saying Illyrian- had heard it a thousand times from the mouths of others, spit like any curse. The blood that ran so strong in Cassian’s veins it could never be denied- a burden. Lesser faeries. Savages. Something to be feared, above all else.

But from Nesta? Curiosity. Maybe he was imagining it- hoping it- but wonder?   Not the first time, Cassian imagined flying through the skies with her.   “You’ve been to the Weeping City?” Beneath the largest waterfall the world over, surrounded on all sides by three more. It was a continent away, the crown jewel of an old faery kingdom whose people believed their great stone monuments were carved by the hand of a mourning goddess- a beautiful place, where her tears would forever touch her people.   Nesta’s mouth twisted.   “No. But as you can see, faery gold buys lots of books."   Something in the bitterness- rage surely, but Cassian was learning that all of Nesta’s emotions wore the shape of rage, no matter what they were- made him ask. “What Rhys called you, Banfhlaith,” He repeated careful- as careful with her words as she’d been with Illyrian, “That’s your title?”   Nesta turned back to the window in a snap of movement.

“No,” She said, low, “I can never be Banfhlaith, Lady of the Archeron lands.” When he didn’t reply, Nesta laughed, an equally quiet, terrible sound. “Do Illyrian lords allow their daughters to inherit?” And Cassian couldn’t stand it.

“You and Elain take care of all those people,” The words burst out from where they’d had been sitting in his chest since that first time he’d argued with her.   Fought her- asininely unable to stay away, equally lacking the ability to resist challenging her- and flown away glamoured, deeper into Archeron lands. It didn’t calm him down, but eventually Cassian had landed on a snowy roof, so tangled in his thoughts he didn’t immediately realize he was surrounded by the noise of happy children.   Dozens of them, and women of all ages too, but more young ones than there could have been mothers.   Something molten in his bones, growing every minute, hadn’t let him leave.   So Cassian listened and watched. Found that Nesta Archeron- pillar of rage, warrior of a woman- had started a home for orphans. For women who didn’t have families- or did and needed to escape them. That the sister’s paid for doctors and teachers, clothes, and a sprawling home.   The building he was perched on was a weavers hall- Nesta had allotted the home fields. Fallow and covered in snow now, but in spring they’d grow flax, the woman would tend the trees he found now that he was looking that would feed silkworms.   Later, Elain would tell him the adults here kept the profit of their labors, the cloth they could produce and trade, without paying tax to the estate.   But the children. They spoke about Lady Nesta constantly- excited for the winter holidays, dinner at the estate, gifts from the Lady. Not in the distant way of a benefactor- but like the  fond favorite aunt Cassian might imagine existed in some happy distant world to ask about childhood studies and bring treats. They knew her personally, not as a lady above them.   He’d flown back, not to her side, but to find Azriel. And Az started listening for more than threats.   Together, they learned that no matter that any humans with power looked to Lucien Vanserra hiding behind a false human face for authority, the people loved the Archeron sisters. That by retaking the fiefdom of their great- great grandfathers they hadn’t gained a profit.   They might in a year, or two, if things continued as they were.   What they had done was take a half of what their closest fellow landowners took from their people’s yields. Rotated the crops and changed the largest tenant farms to more profitable growth. Abolished the law the banned villagers from hunting on their land. Built a free school with teachers paid and brought over from human continental cities to teach the village children more than just their letters.   Nesta herself, under the name of her fathers judgement, granting divorces and never turning away a single person in need.   Plans and schemes and shipments of poison, turning the tide of a war that wasn’t hers to keep her people safe, endangered for every act.   She was gods damned impossible, a miracle. Cassian couldn’t understand it.   “You take care of all those people, and Vanserra takes the credit to keep you safe.” Cassian snarled, angry even to his own ears. “Feyre told me you going to marry some Lord twice your age to protect Elain. The title should be yours.”   Lack of recognition was something Cassian had felt his entire life- had told himself didn’t matter again and again. Hadn’t allowed to matter when he brought back legions safely, kept the fragile peace in the Steppes no matter what it cost him.   But this- like so much of Nesta- crawled right under his skin and burned.

Couldn’t be called poison, just sparks catching on so much ready kindling.   Not agreeing- not acknowledging the cauldron damned ocean that filled him at the thought of Nesta Acheron, saving everyone she could find as it bled into his tone- Nesta looked at him with those dawn blue eyes.   “I’m going to tell you a secret,” She announced.   It was so far from what he’d expected her to say that Cassian froze, words on the tip of his tongue to tell her no. Not because he didn’t want to know- Cassian would have lit himself on fire to know- but because she was in a house with a Shadowsinger.   And something told Cassian Nesta’s confidence was the rarest of possible gifts.   A gift he wanted-  her faith, her trust, a real reason to stand at her side and belong.   A smile, so fast he might have imagined it, flickered over her face. No less sharp, but lovely.   “The room is warded,” She told him. Looked up and up, leveling him from across the room. “Do you want to know why I hate my father?”   She waited for him to nod.   Cassian was afraid that answering aloud would break this moment. Behind her, the sky glowed with the captured light of a heavy snow, framing her in the surreally lit night. Grey eyes, white, white skin, pale sky- no matter the golden lamplight.   Somehow all the more real, fragile, than Nesta asking his help to plan for the battles to come. Be careful, Cassian. Like he’d ever lacked care, like Cassian would have ever survived this long without his eyes open.   As though Cassian, his whole life wrought in blood, inked in promise marks for the whole open, glorious sky, had ever taken a single disloyal breath.

Before the words ever came Cassian’s heart had clenched with a phantom pain, a sword straight through.   “It's not the title. Or the business, or the fact that he’s never, ever coming home.” Nesta’s eyes moved over his face. “My father killed our mother.”   Cassian was across the room and at her side before another breath could be taken.

***

“The Archeron name is old. Royal.” Elain whispered, to the grip of Lucien’s hands where they’d come up to catch her wrists, held captive against his heart. “But our grandfather was ruined. Our father had just enough money after his death for a single trading voyage. He had nothing to lose and went along to the continent. To Hesperia.”   Lucien had been raised by monster.   Whatever doubts of his parentage that lived in his heart, whatever questions could be drawn, nothing could ever change those first decades under Beron’s monstrous eye. That Lucien was called to his ancient throne by blood and birthright and act, every bit as dangerous as Autumn could be.   The Archeron’s had grown up dangerous too, but he’d never questioned, imagined, it might be for similar reasons.   “It was a great love story,” Elain hissed, a harsh, beautiful sing-song. “An heiress, who left her country to come live beneath the Wall. Seren is the name of an extinct merchant clan- I don’t know how he convinced her to use it, to marry him in human law- any of it. But overnight, the Archeron name was saved.”   Helpless, Lucien dipped his head. Brushed his lips over the tangle of her knuckles, pressed hard to his chest.    She sighed.   Slumped, tipping forward, until her cheek rested against his shoulder. It was only after Lucien curled his body around hers in the snowy cold that Elain began speaking again.   “Nesta thinks she might have been very old. That it was something new, to try to live a human life. The thrill of a secret.” She shifted, slipping closer, words a warm breath to Lucien’s neck. “I don’t know. I imagine she was young- she must have been. That perhaps she really fell in love and was ruined by it, I don’t know.”

No, Nesta had promised, the favor she wanted a shadowsinger for was not murder. Good, Lucien thought- he wanted to be the one to skin the absent Lord Archeron for every bit of pain in Elain’s tone, every bitter drop of grief.

He wouldn’t kill him- no, Elain and Nesta deserved that privilege. Lucien would just make it possible. Ensure, if that was their choice, they never had to see their father’s face again.   “Elain,” Lucien whispered, unsure he even wanted the answer he could feel trying to burst from her, visible tension limning her entire body tucked in his arms, “What happened to your mother?”   Elain sat up. Looked at him head on. “He killed her. Poison. Worthless parasite- do you know what we found among the treasure he’d hid from the creditors? His journals. I hated him for years for not caring when she died- but he killed her. He killed her and he wrote about it.” Mist billowed around her furious face. Not mist- snowflakes melting to steam before they could reach even her hair, Lucien’s power alive in the air.   He ripped off his gloves, pulling at the fine leather with his teeth. Moved faster than could be seen to catch her face- to cup, gentle, the curve of Elain’s cheeks and catch those first, enraged tears as they fell.   Lucien said nothing, wished he could bleed the whole force of his heart into the simple touch because he knew- he knew, Elain wasn’t done speaking yet.   “Feyre’s very like her, you see. Joyful. Reckless. She loved above all beautiful things- strove to be the best, to have the brightest. After years of living among humans, of having half human children, she stopped being careful.”   “The roses,” Lucien whispered.   “The roses. Healing little scrapes and bruises whenever Feyre fell,” Elain audibly swallowed a laugh, “Fey always was the favorite. Magic- she was so magical, maybe she simply couldn’t hold it in any longer. But that drew talk. Whispers. No one marries faeries- to know them is one thing, legal if they’re from across the sea. But even the rumor that magic could have come into the nobility from over the Wall- the newly reborn Archeron name couldn’t have that.”   “She took ill in winter. Normal- we didn’t understand, but she’d never been ill before. Dead in a week. A formal funeral, but we weren’t allowed to attend- to- to say her name.”   Her black brown gaze flickered up to capture his, two burnt out suns. Elain smiled- dimples lovely, her beloved face, so damned faery as he’d thought a hundred times before- how had Lucien missed it? How did anyone? “And then, of course. The curse came manifest.”   So plain to see, so wondrous to behold, the pieces that had been missing and clicked so easily together.   The Archeron sisters- their mother’s daughters. Their history, so much more extreme than human folly.   “The curse,” Lucien breathed, “On the merchant contract with your bloodline. What allows Archeron ships into faery ports, your people into faery land.”   “No hand in violence may be raised,” Elain recited, “Against magic folk. No innocent faery blood shed, lest the seas themselves rise in revolt against mortal passage. His ships sank, his life unwound.”   Lucien stroked beneath her eye, sliding warmth into her cold-flushed skin. “You needed a man’s presence to keep you safe from other humans, but you never wanted him to return. Hated him- for the negligence, for abandonment, for that need, for existing. He deserves worse. Say the word, and I’ll weave a curse of my own.”   Every bit Autumn, his words embers burning. Flame to follow for the foolish, death all the way down, no light to lead out of the dark.   Elain wrapped her hand around his, pressed Lucien’s calloused palm harder to her cheek. “Blindness? Ill-luck? A damning wish?”   The curses of faeries in stories- lies of their own people Elain and Nesta had been deprived the truth of until Lucien crashed into their lives and found a home.   A home that wouldn’t disappear.   Not a hundred years. Not stolen decades Lucien would burn the whole damn warring world to hold unto each second of. Elain- who wasn’t afraid of him, who could smile and say such things- who might live as long as him, a crown of bone in her hair.   It was with utter honesty that Lucien murmured, “Anything.”   “Anything you’d like, Elain.”

***

When the war came, it started with a wardrobe.   Red leather, once and half over again human height and twice as wide. Landed before the great doors of the manor, a soft thump in snow that went unheard. White drifted down and down still, no eyes out in the storm to see that the flakes didn’t touch that supple surface.   Unblemished through ice and damp, red shone through the softly quiet world. Impervious, to the wards that sang strong, no warning gifted to the Lady of the estate, occupied entirely by her own white knuckled grip on the shaking Illyrian beside her, tales of mother’s lost exchanged. 

Of vengeance, offered free.

No alarm to break through the soft clink of crystal, a midnight drink shared by the lady the ground beneath that snow loved and the man who’d bled to make it safe. Only this: flaming, fire-bright magic, and awed assurance that humanity would fade.   A future that stretched forward, risk taken with assurance and this-   Brighter than the leather, than the seal of the House it had been delivered to, untouched by the weather and all the more horrifically real for it, blood began to seep out onto the snow.   Unfrozen, fresh, through the night.   A message waiting, for Archeron hands.

@breath-of-sindragosa

@flxwer-petals

@ladyvanserra

@illyrianinterrasen

@missanniewhimsy

@tntwme

@ourbooksuniverse

@pitterpatterpot

@thestarwhowishes

@abillionlittlepieces

@my-fan-side

@the-eightofswords

@wonderland–memories

@ourbooksuniverse

@cohen-theeleven

@donnarosemary

@keshavomit   @superspiritfestival  @court-of-fandoms-and-art @sunsummoner @iwastoowildinthe70s @courtofmadness @oonjiawen @ashiok @caotica-e-quieta

[birdiethebibliophile]

{fic} Bright-Eyed and Bushy-Tailed (part 5)

Rating:  T (past abuse, domestic violence, mental health) Relationship:  Lucien/Cassian Word Count:  3,242

ahahaha the promised update is HERE Y’ALL and it is LONG

Here on AO3.

Read the rest:  Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

__________________

“Hi, Nesta.” Cassian balanced his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he piled whole-wheat lasagna noodles and canned tomatoes into the cart. “Whose phone are you calling from this time? I saved Mor’s number after last time, so I know it can’t be hers.”

It had been three and a half weeks since Lucien started working at the library, and Cassian had heard from Nesta on and off, mostly to complain – Lucien was too loud, or he was too quiet, or he didn’t line up the spines of the books how she liked. Cassian endured patiently, knowing she wasn’t saying a single one of these things to Lucien himself. If Nesta complained about you, it was because she liked you. It was only when she froze you out that you had a problem.

But this call was different.

“Cut the crap, Cass.” Nesta’s voice was sharp, annoyed, and – worried? “Have you seen Lucien? He didn’t turn up for work yesterday, and when he didn’t show up today either, I tried calling. I can’t get ahold of him.”

Cassian stomach sank. Lucien really liked his new job – wouldn’t stop talking about it, actually. Cassian heard about it from him twice as often as he heard from Nesta. Cassian couldn’t imagine him just ditching. “I’ll check in with him,” he assured Nesta. “Rhys probably took his phone or something.”

“Kick Rhys’s ass for me, will you?” Nesta said. “He needs it.”

“Will do,” Cassian said lightly. “Bye, Nesta.”

Once Nesta had hung up, Cassian headed straight for the checkout line, only pausing to grab tofu sausages. He had a sneaking suspicion as to why Lucien wasn’t showing up for work – and it didn’t have anything to do with Rhys or his phone.

*****

Half an hour later, his arms full of groceries and feeling even more concerned by the presence of Feyre’s car outside the apartment, Cassian walked up the stairs and knocked on the door.

Almost immediately, it opened to reveal a very frazzled-looking Feyre. “Thank God,” she said fervently. “I was just about to call you. I have to go, huge situation at work, Rhys needs me. Take care of it, will you?” She blew past him out the door and was pulling away from the curb in under a minute.

“…Right.” Cassian walked in, closing the door behind him. “Lu?”

There was no response.

Cassian set the groceries carefully on the counter, then went over to the couch. There was Lucien; and, as Cassian had suspected, he looked like shit. His hair was matted, which – combined with the general unkemptness of his clothes and the unwashed smell hanging around him – told Cassian he hadn’t showered in a couple days. His brown skin had the chalky hue Cassian had learned to associate with either lack of food and sleep or panic attacks, and Cassian would bet that it was both today. His closed eyes had dark circles under them.

Cassian touched Lucien’s hand as lightly as he could, but the other man still startled, eyes flickering though not opening.

“I’m here, just so you know,” Cassian said simply. “Feyre left for work.”

Lucien gave a very slight inclination of his head that might have been a nod.

Cassian stood up and headed back into the kitchen, where he started unloading his grocery bags. He hunted around Rhys’s cabinets for a few minutes to find the things he needed before getting to work.

It wasn’t until he’d closed the oven door that he stopped at a sound from the living room.

“Cass?”

Cassian tossed the towel he was using to wipe his hands onto the counter and went back into the living room. “Hey, asshole,” he said, attempting to lighten the heavy, suffocating misery that seemed to be emanating from Lucien. “Why didn’t you text me?”

“Fuck you.”

Lucien’s voice was rough and trembling, and Cassian immediately was kicking himself. This wasn’t like before the library. This was more serious, and he had to take it as such. He sighed, then went over and sat on the edge of the couch next to the prone Lucien. “Sorry, man. That was shitty of me. Wanna talk at all?”

Lucien shrugged. But one of his hands found Cassian’s and gripped it so tightly it hurt. “Fuck this,” he whispered.

“For real.” Cassian struggled for what to say. “Think you can take a shower?”

“I dunno.” Slowly, Lucien sat up. His eyes were open, but his eyelid sagged against his gold eye, as if he didn’t have the strength to keep it open, and his brown eye looked dull.

“Take your time,” Cassian said quietly. “How about I make some tea? With honey. You sound like your throat hurts.”

“No sleep,” Lucien muttered.

“Nightmares?”

He shook his head. “Just my shitty brain deciding to –” He stopped, and his voice caught in his throat like the beginning of a sob. “God. I can’t even –” He cut off again.

Cassian wanted to grab his shoulders, look him in the eyes. He wanted to beg Lucien to tell him what was wrong. But he knew none of that would do any good. “Lu?”

“I kept thinking I was back there,” Lucien choked out. “My fucking brain kept telling me I was back in Tamlin’s house. I can’t –” He gagged suddenly, and Cassian just had enough time to grab the trash can beside the couch before Lucien was throwing up into it. He must not have eaten for a while, or this wasn’t the first time he’d thrown up, because all that came up was bile.

Eventually, he sat up, shivering and wiping his mouth. “Guess I’m even more of a mess than you thought,” he said bitterly.

Cassian moved the trash can away again. He waited for Lucien to continue. When he didn’t, Cassian said hesitantly, “Even though Renata – Rhys’s mom – died fifteen years ago… it was so long ago, but sometimes I wake up and I forget she’s dead. Just for a minute. Is it like that?”

“It’s like…” Lucien clenched his hands into his hair. “I don’t know.”

Cassian let them sit in the silence, but he also carefully unwound Lucien’s fingers from his hair and placed them back in his lap.

“I had this camera,” Lucien said, so quietly Cassian could barely hear him. “A nice one, with a strap and different lenses and all that shit. I bought it for myself, senior year of high school.” He swallowed convulsively. “One day… He was mad. T-tamlin.” He stumbled over the name. “I can’t remember what about. I think maybe I had tried to get one of the other CEOs to agree to something, and they hadn’t, and I said something about how he should go over there himself instead of just sending me… Anyway, I was holding the camera.”

Part of Cassian wanted to plug his ears, to tell Lucien to stop. He could tell how this story was going to go.

“He grabbed the camera out of my hands,” Lucien said, voice shaking, “and hurled it against the wall. It broke – it shattered into a million pieces. I was so mad. I yelled at him – screamed at him – he told me to shut up and I wouldn’t. So he grabbed my arm and –” He broke off. “I told everyone I fell,” he finished, voice barely more than a whisper.

Cassian could imagine it so easily. Tamlin, with his golden hair and muscles, breaking Lucien’s camera in a fit of temper. And then, as if that wasn’t enough – breaking Lucien. It wouldn’t have taken much; Tamlin could probably encircle Lucien’s entire arm with one hand. A simple twist of his wrist. And then Lucien on the ground, clutching his arm, and Tamlin knowing that everyone would believe the story. That he could hurt Lucien like that as much as he wanted, and no one would question it – or care.

Cassian was surprised Lucien hadn’t thrown up again, considering how sick he himself felt just hearing about it, but Lucien only continued. “I can hear it, over and over. The crash. And then the snap…”

Cassian nodded. They sat there together for a moment, then, slowly, Lucien leaned in and rested his head on Cassian’s shoulder. “And I still miss him,” he whispered. “How fucked up is that?”

For a moment, Cassian thought Lucien was going to start crying – sobbing, shaking, unable to stop. But Lucien’s breathing caught one last time and then grew easier, like telling Cassian what had happened had been a sort of release – a cleansing. Cassian didn’t move, as if a butterfly had landed on him and he didn’t want to disturb it. They sat like that – side by side, Lucien’s head on Cassian’s shoulder – until the sound of the oven timer going off broke the silence. Lucien stirred, sitting up. “You should probably get that.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, “What is it? It smells… good.”

“Lasagna,” Cassian said. “With vegetarian sausage. Want some?”

“Maybe later. You go get that. I’ll… shower.”

“Okay.”

*****

Lucien reappeared almost thirty minutes later, his hair still dripping and smelling much better. “How did you know to come?” he asked bluntly, sitting down at the table.

Cassian plunked a mug of chamomile tea with honey down in front of him. “Nesta called. She was worried.”

Lucien stared at the mug with blank eyes. “I… missed two days of work, didn’t I. Is she going to fire me?”

“Nah. She’s probably just going to recommend a whole bunch of books to you and give you a severe stare. Feyre, on the other hand…”

To Cassian’s surprise, Lucien’s voice took on a vicious, biting quality. “She needs to get over herself. She and Rhys.”

Cassian blinked. “Yeah?”

Lucien ran a finger over the wood of the table. “They think everyone who went through – through trauma is exactly like them.”

“What do you mean?”

Lucien let out a long, slow breath. “They’ve been… talking at me for days. Trying to – to goad me out of my ‘mood.’” He used air quotes for the last word. “Telling me to get off my ass and do something. Like that wasn’t the whole fucking problem. I heard them talking – I guess that’s what worked for Feyre. For both of them.” Lucien took a trembling breath, but this time it was clear that it was from anger, not a panic attack. “It doesn’t work for me.”

Cassian sat down next to him. “What does work for you?”

“Fuck if I know. Space. Time. Letting me work through stuff at my own pace.” Lucien took a sip from his mug and made a face. “God, Cass, what is this? It tastes like shit.”

“Chamomile tea,” Cassian said, mildly affronted. “With honey. It’s good for you. Calming, and the honey should help with your throat.”

“Do I have to?” Lucien complained – quietly, but with enough teasing that Cassian felt something ease inside of him.

Cassian rolled his eyes. “Of course not, you big baby. I can make you a smoothie instead, if you want.”

Lucien hesitated. “What about a milkshake?”

Cassian grinned. “Sure. We might need to go out and get one, though. And you have to promise it won’t spoil your dinner. You need actual food too, you know.”

Lucien’s mouth twitched into something not entirely unlike a smile. “I guess that would be okay. If I can stay in the truck.”

“Hey, they invented drive-thrus for a reason. And I’ll drink your tea instead.” Cassian swiped Lucien’s mug.

“You’re not worried about germs?” Lucien asked, quirking one eyebrow.

Cassian stare him down as he drank from the mug before setting it down with a small clunk. “Not particularly.”

“Ass.”

“If you say so.” Cassian smile. “Ice cream?”

Lucien nodded, standing up but then swaying slightly, grabbing the chair again.

In a second, Cassian was at his side, hands raised but not touching. “You okay?”

“Dizzy,” Lucien mumbled.

“That would probably be the lack of food and sleep.” Cassian carefully put an arm around Lucien as the other man leaned against him. “Have you been staying hydrated?”

“Yes, Mom,” Lucien grumbled. “I’m fine. Just need a milkshake.”

“Okay, okay. Just – you were throwing up, so –”

“Not much,” Lucien interrupted. “Earlier and then once yesterday. It only happens when…” He trailed off.

“When you’re having a panic attack?” Cassian suggested.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Cassian helped Lucien to the door and unlocked it one-handed. “Can you make it down the stairs?”

For a moment, a flash of indignation crossed Lucien’s face, but it was almost immediately replaced by a look Cassian could only describe as… crafty. “Definitely not. You’ll have to carry me.”

If Lucien thought this would make Cassian uncomfortable (he didn’t think Cassian was straight, did he?) he had another think coming. Without hesitation, Cassian scooped Lucien into his arms, one arm under his back and the other under his knees. “Like that?” he said cheekily.

Lucien yelped at the sudden motion, throwing his arms around Cassian’s neck. “If I puke on you, it’s your own damn fault,” he grumbled.

“Baby,” Cassian said again, affectionately. He carried Lucien down the stairs, managed to open the door of the truck, and deposited Lucien in the passenger seat. Lucien promptly pulled his feet onto the seat, curled up, and closed his eyes.

“Seatbelt,” was all Cassian said, getting in on the driver’s side. Lucien scowled, but buckled himself in before curling up again.

They drove in silence, Cassian’s eyes firmly on the road and Lucien’s closed. Despite Lucien’s teasing, Cassian thought, it didn’t mean he was okay. He looked drawn – tired – sick. Which he was, really.

Cassian didn’t break the silence until he pulled up to the drive-thru. “What kind of milkshake?” he asked.

“Vanilla,” Lucien mumbled from the next seat. “No extra stuff.”

Cassian rolled his eyes to heaven – of course he wanted vanilla – but placed the order, paid, and passed the cup across the gear shift to Lucien, who took it after a moment. “I can pay you back now,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice. “I got my first paycheck last week.”

“Congrats,” Cassian said with a grin. “Drink your milkshake.”

Lucien dutifully sipped from the cup – carefully, as his stomach probably wasn’t really settled yet – and let out a sigh. “Fuck, that tastes good.”

“Language.” Cassian nudged Lucien with his elbow as he pulled out of the drive-thru. “You wanna get back to Feysand’s place?”

“Please,” Lucien said with a nod. Then, “Or –”

“What is it?”

“Can we just…” Lucien pointed at the parking lot. “Just for a little while?”

“’Course.” Cassian pulled into a parking spot and cut the engine. “I don’t have anything better to do.” He reached into his pocket for his phone and frowned. “Damn. Must’ve left my phone in the apartment. Good thing I remembered to grab my book this morning.” He retrieved it from the glove box and reclined his seat. “Take however long you need.”

“Thanks, Cass,” Lucien said quietly.

“No prob. I wanted an excuse to just chill for a while anyways.” He rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment. “I’m bad at that. Always feel like I should be doing something.”

That almost-smile ghosted Lucien’s face again. “Glad to be of assistance.”

*****

The sun was setting by the time they headed back. Lucien had finished the entire milkshake without throwing up, and now he was nodding off in the passenger seat, head resting gently on the window. The tightness in his face had eased a bit, and his lips were slightly parted. Cassian, glancing at him, felt something in his chest tighten.

Lucien had been through hell and back. Cassian was glad he’d been able to help him this time, but that didn’t erase his trauma. It didn’t heal him. Cassian knew Lucien would have more days like this – hopefully ever fewer, but to think he was cured would be ridiculous. All Cassian could do was –

His train of thought was abruptly derailed as he turned onto Feysand’s street.

There was a police car in front of their apartment.

No, no, no… Cassian could instantly feel blind panic threatening to envelop his mind, and forced it back. There was no reason to assume something had happened. Deep breaths. Take deep breaths. He pulled over, his head clear enough to notice Feyre’s car out in front as well, parked across the street.

It was just as he started getting out of the truck, Lucien stirring beside him, that the apartment door flew open and Feyre dashed down the stairs. Her freckles stood out starkly on her pale face. Cassian let out a long, slow breath at the sight of her. Fine. She was fine. And Rhys must’ve been fine too, or she would’ve led with that. “Is Lucien – oh, thank God,” she breathed, catching sight of him through the truck window.

“Feyre?” Cassian said uncertainly as a police officer appeared in the doorway.

“Never do that again, Cass,” Feyre said, one hand pressed to her chest. “God. One sec.” She went back up the stairs and spoke briefly to the officer, who nodded and headed back to his car.

“What’s this about, Feyre?” Cassian asked when she had rejoined him. “We were only gone a few hours. Why…”

Feyre faltered. “You guys weren’t answering your phones. I… just jumped to conclusions, I guess.” Then, before Cassian could ask her what conclusions, exactly, those were, she went on hurriedly, “How’s he doing?”

“Better, I think,” Cassian said slowly. Feyre wasn’t the type to assume the worst like that. He was the worrier. She was always the practical one who thought things through. She wouldn’t have called the police unless… she was scared. And had good reason to be. “He’s managed to keep down a milkshake, and –”

“Cass?” Lucien’s sleepy voice came from the truck. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

Cassian shot a quick glance at Feyre, who shook her head, eyes wide. “Just Feyre being a worrywart,” he said lightly.

“Thought that was your job,” Lucien mumbled without opening his eyes.

Cassian laughed a little – it sounded forced, even to his ears – and turned back to Feyre. “What’s this really about?” he asked quietly.

Her face went blank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Cassian gazed at her for a long moment, then shook his head. “Just say you can’t tell me, Feyre. Don’t lie to me.”

“Fine. I can’t tell you.”

Cassian nodded slowly. “All right. I can’t say I understand, but…” He shrugged.

“I would if I could, Cass, I swear.”

Cassian sighed. “I know. Just – keep Lucien out of it.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” Feyre said softly.

*****

Three days later, Cassian was teaching a kids’ beginning taekwondo class when he thought he caught a glimpse of red hair through the window. He didn’t want to pause the class, though, and when he looked again, it was gone.

But when he’d dismissed the class and finished closing up, he found a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the table by the door. There was a note on the top.

Thanks for everything, it said. Don’t worry. Elain baked them. Hope they’re as good as a milkshake. And then – Cassian traced the still-drying pen with his thumb – a small heart.

Cassian felt almost as dizzy as Lucien had the other day.

He was in such deep shit.