ALDBooks (Tiggertink08)

Elain shivered. The stairs were cold. 

She turned back to look at her room and recalled the warmth of her bed behind the closed door. It would be easy to go back, to appease this fleeting desire that in the early morning seemed consuming. She needed only to pretend she had not woken. The wraiths would understand. 

At the bottom steps, early light had started to pool, and struck a wine glass left from last night's party. The carpet under her feet could not dull the ache of winter, which had started yesterday and would go on forever. That was what she thought, at least. How far Autumn had already seemed. Her peripheral caught a door beside hers; she began to descend. This would be easy too, but in a different way. To give them something to take with them, and to be of some help and comfort, to do this kind thing. 

She grabbed the glass on her way down. Mor had sat there the night before, drinking, her gifts beside her, talking to Azriel as the party was ending. He had watched Elain ascend the stairs then, saying nothing. She had sensed what he had wanted from her, what she in turn wanted from him, and that shared need of it, the small things they must do to get there, and how in that moment she felt it was precariously about to happen. The excitement, she recalled it. Purposefully, she thought of nothing after that point. Instead, turning the corner, walking the long hall, she thought of other things, of what she would make the Wraiths before they left, what they liked, of the painting Feyre had given her, the diligent, precise strokes and colors of the garden on the roof, of the tulips near the front, of the person waiting there at the stove. 

“Oh,” she said. 

The word had left so quietly it almost need not be heard. But he had heard, turning toward her in his graceful way, unsurprised, though saying nothing. That, the most normal part of it all, how Lucien said nothing to her. 

She had known he was there. 

Known, that is, that he was in the townhouse. But awake, that had startled her. The whole house so quiet from bed when she had woken that nothing had at first seemed out of place. Everything was as she had left and expected it. But maybe, if she thought about it, she could hear the strangeness—how the thud from his chest had seemed further away than normal. In the moments just after sleep, she had missed it, so used to it being there, used to that distance between them that they would not go and which remained always constant. Never any closer, never until this morning. 

In the kitchen, Elain was aware of this nearness and how the sound was different when not coming through the wall. Though something else now was between them. Not a wall, not a barrier at all, no. Her father had explained once, there was a word, undertow—in the kitchen, she felt an undertow. 

If it could be avoided, she did not know; before she could consider trying, she was pulled by it like a river—into a place that, for that moment, existed and was more real to her than the kitchen where she stood. Hadn’t that been what she was meant to do? No fighting, she remembered this lesson from childhood, that it was better not to fight and let it take you. So she let it. Staring at the place just below the collar of his jacket, she listened to his heartbeat.

So sturdy it was, and real. Pressing up against him, at his ribs, his broad chest, it was real. She did not in that moment know what she had once thought, that he lived in stagnation, unmoved, that around him everything had stopped, but it was not true. His heart was going,  going on, she soon realized, in time with her own. Her hand meeting her chest, Elain could find no separation. Between them, without anyone's doing, there was an overlap, a total convergence that she could not stop or change. 

She waited for something, a wrinkle of discomfort, some displeasure at what she had learned, but nothing came. Instead, a long time must have passed, because suddenly she hears Lucien’s voice, and it drew her back. 

Elain swallowed. She did not know what he had said and so did not know what to say in return. After a moment, however, she realized the room held no new tension. He was not waiting for her to reply at all. Rather, he just stared at her, but not in the pained way he did sometimes, a look which she could not bear and avoided. To be the cause of something like that, yes, it was better not to see it. Then, despite what she felt and knew most clearly, she could pretend it was not her doing. Instead, now, in the kitchen, she was a relief somehow to him. She understood that easily. A breath left his chest, and his eyes were watching her with a clarity that was tangible, and he was feeling something immense, though it bore no weight upon her. When other men had looked at her, she knew they wanted her to become something else, all those expectations she felt against her, what she needed to be. Now nothing, here she need only be what she already was.

Swallowing again, she turned away from him and placed the wine glass in the sink. She began to do what she would do if she were alone. It was easy; every gesture she made she’d done before, but a foolish false feeling overcame her actions anyway. Like she were pretending to be herself but exaggerated because she did not know how to be something that was wanted. At least not this way, without a place she was going, without the gap she would have to close. 

If he watched her, she did not feel it, so she knew he must not be. 

Sprinkling flour on the counter she wished there were ingredients to chop, some noise she could make to fill where words would go. But there was nothing, as there was always nothing when he was near. And no one would intervene, she thought; there was no one else here to step between them or take his place in her line of vision. She would have to meet at last what silence they shared alone.

Again, there was a kind of undertow in the landscape between them. Something that yanked and grabbed. She wanted to turn her head but she did not. Frustration lined her stomach and though she had not eaten yet, she wanted to heave. There was such a wrongness in the action, in the going against what she found her body asking of her, that she had to beg reprieve. Turning over her shoulder she glanced at him from across the room. 

Not looking had seemed difficult, but this was difficult too. The long scar on his face crossed his eye, connected with cruel efficiency his brow and cheek. Shame, or some other more complicated emotion, one she did not recognize from life before, found her. Then nameless feeling filled her body and made her aware of places that her humanity had not reached. To feel so much and have no remedy for it, nothing she could do, the intensity without end, no, she did not like looking at him for that reason. 

And yet. 

Her eyes turned over the sharp ridge of his nose. The gap between his top lip and bottom, the fullness of them, the strong hold of his brow, what dawn there was gathered upon his skin with life. And it bled out of him, brushed against her, all that this light made her aware of. Their hearts again, the glass in the sink and the lip print of it, last night's laughter, the garland on the window across the room, it all rushed inside her in a way such things had not in a long time. 

Having ignored it, now she had to acknowledge the space he took up in the world, the way he collected warmth like a gutter collects rainwater, which was only to say there was so much of it pooling there. Glowing and real, and she thought touchable. That old desire she felt before the river at winter, of wanting to go in even though she knew it would hurt. The almost constant way her desire wanted for something that hurt. 

She turned back to her dough. 

He looked handsome. She could admit it, she could say this to herself, and what would it matter? To say a thing that is true, factual, like the weather. But it surprised her nonetheless. She was used to seeing him at night; it was different at dawn, when there was sunlight. The almost natural way it seemed to her then, that daylight cut toward him. To see his beauty, to see it and not even lie about it, it was a surprise. 

She looked at him again to be sure, and he turned to meet her gaze. 

A sharp, striking feeling rippled through her. “What are you doing?” She asked quietly, though she did not know how. Some faint part of her was aware of the sleeping house, of them two awake and alone.

At first, he said nothing. Maybe he did not know. Or perhaps he did not know how to say it to her. So rare it was that words passed between them, Elain could not recall, aside from this moring, the last time they had. Not even a thank you, or the polite way she had once dealt with men she had not cared for. The memory and realization flooded her with a thick sort of dread. What had been his crime other than that he lingered? Even that had been at a distance of her choosing, one he never breached or closed. And what had she become that she could not even offer him what she was so capable of, what she gave elsewhere and with abundance, those small and easy manners? 

He bowed gracefully, “I will take my leave.” 

“You do not need to,” she said, a strain in her throat that she cleared. 

“I don’t want to intrude on your kitchen.”

“Is it not yours as well?” she said, thinking it true, thinking it almost funny, that he should see it as hers instead of theirs when he was here.   

Lucien shifted uncomfortably, and pain wracked through her. Was this how he had felt each time she avoided his presence? The discomfort she showed, did not hide, or even try—was it so painful as this was now? And she had only spoken to him, had said only what seemed to her obvious. 

She wiped her hands on her clothes, forgetting she had not put on an apron. “It was rude of me not to let you finish.”

Lucien shook his head, “Not at all.”

They were at an impasse. Turning to face him fully, there was a feeling that was both tremendous and relieving. As if she had accepted something in her mind that her body had already known, and was now doing what, for a long time, had been waiting to be done. Somehow she’d been moving against and with this action, only now to end up here, with her and his body mirroring, obstructed by only a counter. It all felt good and confusing. 

A cloud that must’ve been before the sun moved and the brightness grabbed at Lucien. For a moment, she was caught on it, content even, to watch it happen.“Please,” he said, extending a hand, gesturing toward her work. 

“The space is not so small,” Elain said, “We can share it.”

Reluctance marred him, and his mouth opened slightly, and she had to turn away. Either he would join her or he would not. She had made it clear that he did not have to leave, that it was not what she was saying. That was what he thought of her, that no matter what she said, she must, in some way, be rejecting him, be asking him to go. He was right. And there was nothing she could turn to and forget this, no distraction that gave her reprieve from what he made her see. 

Was this what it was like for her sisters, did they always run into themselves when they faced their other?

The floorboard creaked, and without even looking, she was aware he was coming up beside her. The space that had been between them since the beginning became smaller, and the kitchen grew warm in a way she had never felt. Not in summer or with the fires running, or with any other person crowding it. Tenderness found her muscles with the sudden relief. She did not know why she needed it so badly, to show him that she was not like her sisters, she did not prefer being cold. And she needed to know this too from him, that her invitation could be enough. 

His hand grabbed for something beside her. Elain’s chest rose then sank, and yet it was not her conscious doing. With him close, she had no choice but to continue living. It was all her body wished to do. 

Emptying a tin of herbs, he spread a bundle too of stems before him. Dough settled against her skin as she stopped rolling. 

“From the garden?”

His movement faltered momentarily, but he spoke evenly. “Market.”

The fresh ones he’d bought, but the tin was theirs. Hers, actually. She had dried everything herself.

She heard him swallow, almost felt the bob of his throat as if it were her own. “I didn’t know what I could take. If you were planning or it was needed.”

Sentences that were not quite whole thoughts left their mouths and met the other's mind complete. He could’ve taken some. Like the kitchen, that garden was for him as well, but for whatever reason, this was more difficult to say than the initial thing from before, so she reverted again to what they did more often, which was say nothing. 

For a short while, Elain mixed the dough with vegetables, and Lucien worked the herbs between his fingers diligently, bruising, but not hard enough to leave anything bitter. The crisp scent of mint filled the immediate space instantly. He’d rolled his sleeves up so as not to catch any of the flour. She would hate for her mess to find him. The fine fabrics of his clothes, she noted, the color of them bright against the winter morning, the faint light. Even were it so simple to wipe away, she did not wish to leave a trace. 

“What are you making?” She asked when he set the mint aside. She did not think he was sick, had not felt it or heard it in his voice. 

He did not seem surprised she had asked. “Tea.”

Yes, obvious now, she saw the pot on the stove, the water simmering and waiting, working against the icy constraints of winter. And he had a practiced way about him, about the work. Such grace, a refined kind of way to him that made him easy to look at. She had spent years of her early life trying for such a presence in the world, and here he was, in abundant possession of it. Had his parents taught him, as she had once learned, to serve a cup of tea? The skill which had seemed so tedious to Nesta, but had been, to Elain, the careful steps of beginning. To make something for someone, the warmth and remedy, this initial act of kindness, which had always seemed to her so crucial and needed, had he learned it too when he was young? Was it possible that two people who had once been so apart could be, all along, so closely linked? This she wondered. And she turned back again to what she must do before it was too late. 

“What are you making?” He asked.

She was not surprised either, the premonition of the question lingering in the silence. 

“Bread. The wraiths will be going to see their family today.” 

She did not want to say that it was a gift, did not wish to point out the good deed. Both because it seemed rude to do so, and because she did not want him to see the dedication she possessed so readily for others, but found lacking for himself. 

Pain came anyway, but it was different and in a moment gone completely. 

“The tea will be good,” She said, knowing she wanted to speak but having no words to say. Nothing that was not the conversation of two people who did not know one another. The strange sensation of it, of feeling that is not true, and knowing that it was. “It seems very cold today. I woke frozen.”

“It is. Colder still in the human lands. I had to find a sweater to sleep. Normally I sleep—“ 

Lucien stopped abruptly, and she grabbed for oil near him. Her mouth, unexpectedly, rose at the corner and it could not be stopped. She knew what he had not said, had not needed to be fae to know what he was just about to tell her. Men or males, vying for any reason to take their clothes off. 

“That cold then.”

“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. 

“Does the…fire not help?”

She turned her gaze expectantly to him, and Lucien blushed. Feyre had said once of him, when she’d come back, Elain recalled, that he had been arrogant and rakish, but she could not see this now, never really had this been apparent to her. Plenty of men had gone to balls and danced with her, and they held to their charm, but he seemed easily disarmed of his. As if it had been amputated.

He cleared his throat. “It does.”

She did not know what to do with it—the relief she felt to know this, to know this small thing of him. Her hands squeezing the dough too hard, some need to expend what had become abundant in her, the feeling rising in her and running out of room. She moved gently to correct blemishes she made. 

“It must be freezing then in your room.”

“Yes. Perhaps your sister thinks I’m immune to winter. My windows seem the draftiest.”

She frowned slightly. Would Feyre would do that? She hoped not.

“I’m kidding,” he said, shifting. “I just woke needing something warm before I go.”

“So early,” She said, turning her head up toward him unthinking. The words having already left her mouth could not be replaced with anything else. He was going. Without goodbye too, sneaking away in the morning. Feyre had asked him to stay another day, to come to the rainbow, walk along the sidra, visit the house of wind. Anything. And yet, he was leaving. And there was a part of her that knew it was because of her.

Replying, he said only, “I prefer waking early.”

She did not know if this had been a kindness, the willful denial of what he must know she had really meant, or if he simply could not truly see it. The lopsided half-sense that was made by his answer, how clearly it did not fit, and yet, maybe this was the most he could understand. She had, for so long, been with him only the one way. 

“As do I,” She found herself saying. And it was easy to say it, to tell him this for some reason. Easier, she realized than not saying at all.

Returning to their work, they said nothing else. 

His fingers moved to collect what he had mixed; their tasks worked side by side at the counter but at a distance. And now a greater distance as he went to the stove. 

What could they be, together, she wondered? Not even as Feyre and Rhysand or Cassian and Nesta are, but just them in a room like this. It might’ve been nice. To talk aloud to him, to know what to say, to ask a question. But she had already made a choice. Sometimes she wondered if she had done the right thing, if the distance between them had been needed, or simply wanted. If, perhaps, there was something else that might’ve been done, if she could’ve done something else. 

Then she could ask him about her father, about the human lands, about things she wanted to know. And then maybe there would be the things he’d say, answers he’d give, that also revealed about himself. Or when Feyre spoke of him, she would not leave the room to do it, hush quietly, signal in that obvious way she does, that only made Elain curious and ashamed. The look Feyre would give her if she told her she need not leave the room, that she did not have to work around her. Returning from the market to find Lucien’s scent accosting her in the hall. Going to her room silently to lie in bed, and the sick feeling that she had just missed him, even though she was relieved not to have been there. There was a different sort of sickness from that, from seeing him, not quite more intense, but made with something different. 

 It would be embarrassing now to take it all back.  

To admit she had been wrong, that she wanted to know about him. To do the other, kinder, thing. What she wished now to have done from the beginning. She did not like to be cold, the shadow it left in her wake, to behave this way. But she had not known what to do, how to manage the suddenly large life she had been given, the way it had thrust itself upon her, to feel him there at her chest; it had been then too much. 

She opened her mouth as if she would say something, but closed it again. Pain lanced. Both options were painful. Better, though, to make no choice, to stay with what was familiar and used to. 

Water began to pour. This time, whatever it was, was ending. Warmth seeped from her world, and she knew she could not get it back, that once he was gone, it was gone as well. Her disappointment did not surprise her. Elain waited with her back turned, for him to move from the stove so she could warm the oven, bake the bread, to continue the life she had been given, that would forever remain, the only one she had.

His footsteps were receding slightly, and she went on as if nothing had happened. Nothing had, had it. Once he was gone, no one was here. They would not know what they had shared, that anything had been shared. 

He was watching her. 

She knew this. 

Now that the space between them had gotten smaller, she wondered if he would close it again. He never went where she had not allowed. But it had happened and maybe he would do it.

Mint came to mind, the smell, and his hands delicate; perhaps he would make what distance there was left even smaller. Curiosity and wanting returned and she wanted to cry but she was not in her room where she could.

“Be well,” was all he said, and Elain’s stomach hurt in a way that she knew it would all day. 

“I shall try.” It was the polite thing to say, and she found it slipping from her with ease. But it was different, she knew, and he probably knew too. The way the words were quiet, how difficult they were to say, not just to him but at all. And the realization of what he must know of her feelings warmed her cheeks, shifted something that she wanted to put back, so she added, “Two sets of mates in one house though, so who knows.”

There was a laugh. She made him laugh. 

It was a nothing laugh, air from his nose, a huff of his throat, but she had caused it. And it stung Elain’s eyes, knowing this, the sudden overwhelming rightness of having done it. She turned. “I—“

But he was gone. 

The door shut at the other end of the townhouse, and on the counter, steam wafted from a cup. He had made it for her. He did not know how she liked it. But he had thought of her, left this for her, this kindness. After nothing, long years without any kindness from her at all. What did it mean for him to be capable of this, she wondered. What did he possess that she had seemingly discarded, within that heart. The one she heard beating. 

Light fell through the windows brighter now. She reminded herself that the days were already getting longer. The light was already returning. 

She took the cup in her hands, and was warm.

***

Outside the house, Lucien stared at the empty street. 

He did not know that she could bear it, that kind of closeness to him. When he had heard her, he had thought about making a noise so she would know he was there, but could not bring himself to. Wanted to see her, just a moment, and he didn’t see the harm, would not make her stay, did not think he could make her stay. The opposite really, how naturally she moved away from him when he was near. 

And yet. 

She did not go.

He closed his eyes, recalling this, and it settled over him. Perhaps there was room there, between them, for something else. It didn’t have to be too big, what they were; this, he could live with this. Maybe they could manage something like this—to be in the same room together, for them to be looking at each other, speaking, sometimes smiling, but not always. If they could do this once, maybe they could have it again, or more. Or perhaps not. 

But it was nice, had been nice, in ways that things had not been nice before or encountered in a long time. 

A breeze blew up the street, and he reached for his sleeve to roll down. He took the bunched fabric in his fingers, and a strange patch of it caught the light. 

Flour. 

He had gotten some on his sleeve, below his elbow. 

He stared at it, for what must have been a long time, because he began to hear someone, a voice, a few streets over, grow closer until it was there before him, the syllables of conversation clear and easily heard. But he did not look. Brushing his fingers lightly against the border of the stain, he pressed the delicate powder into the fabric. The color was fainter than before, so he dropped his hand. 

It would go soon. He knew that he could not make such a thing stay in place; wind and other fabrics would brush the flour away, but for now he had it. And he would know it had happened, this morning with her, that there was a time when they were not so far away from one another. 

Light broke. 

The city turned. 

And in the house she was. 

He had learned it for most of his life, could not remember a time where he had not carried the weight of loss within him as if it walked side by side with him, following him around like one of his brother's smokehounds.

The memory of it potent as if it were a rotten fruit on his tongue. He could not stop thinking of those that he had lost , if he had ever had them at all.

His mother...his brothers of both blood and choice..his lover...

A sharp pang coursed through his chest at the memory, the death of a lover was not something ones mind could forget.

Even now, centuries later, he still saw flashes of that night in the forefront of his memory, could still feel the deep, pulsating bruises forming underneath his flesh as his brothers held him down to bare witness to the slaughtering of the one person, besides his mother, who had loved him without question. who had fought for him, even if it was at her own detriment.

He could still see the malice and resentment in their gazes when they looked upon him, still remembered the wicked gleam in their eyes. as they forced him to watch, still felt the ravaging of his throat as his screams reverberated through that cursed forest house as his father butchered the female he loved, forcing Lucien to watch every depraved, despicable moment of it, making sure that he would never forget such a sight.

He could still hear her terrified screams ringing through his ears, forever etching themselves throughout his memory as the sound of her heartbeat, the one that had once been so joyous and free that Lucien had felt it as fiercely as his own, ceased to exist.

He had wished at that moment that his own would stop ...could still hear the snickers of his brothers as they released him, their duties fulfilled as Lucien ran to her, kneeling in the pool of her blood to get to her as he pumped his hands against her heart as if he could get it to beat again. As if by some miracle his touch would bring her back to life.

He remembered when he had gathered her lifeless body into his arms as he prayed to The Mother to bring her back, to take him instead...for what world could ever exist for him if she were not in it?

But his heart had not stopped beating in time with her own. No, the heart that had once belonged solely to her, still beat, and ever since then he had tried to find the reason why it had done so.

He thought he had found his reason as an invisible string tugged at him, his gaze flickering up to the balcony of The House of Wind as he saw her glance up at the moon.

Her golden brown hair flowing in the wind, still gazing at the beauty that the full moon had to offer as he retracted his own gaze. Perhaps it had been instinctual and she had not noticed that she had tugged on her end of the bond. He never knew when it came to Elain Archeron,

He held no delusion that Elain ever thought about him, had long since shrugged them off since he had felt her during solstice night. She had made her point loud and clear, had it not been for the male beside him, and Feyre's desire to see him, then he would have not come at all.

He averted his eyes, focusing instead on the golden threads of his burgundy jacket as he smoothed the fabric down, a second nature to him, and one lesson that his father had bothered to instill in him. To look the part even when your own life was falling apart.

He clenched his jaw at the thought of it, knowing that the male had not bothered to teach him this lesson because he cared for Lucien, but because of the fear of what Lucien could do to his own reputation.

It had always been that way between them, To Beron Vanserra, Lucien had always been his errant son, the disgrace to his family's name, and the stain in his life that he could never remove. And he had always made sure that Lucien knew that. Had felt every ounce of his hatred from the moment Lucien had first drew breath.

He knew why, knew what the male saw when he gazed upon Lucien. A reminder of the male that he detested above all else. Lucien's face a mirror of his very own, The High Lord of the Day Court.

It did not matter if he had inherited his mother's fire, her gaze, even the redness of her hair, for all Beron saw when he gazed at Lucien was reminders of him, and the shame that it had brought on Beron's line for Lucien to even exist. The scars on his flesh firm reminders of how far Beron had gone to suppress any part of the male that sired Lucien. Lucien's nails imbedded in his skin at the reminder of it as the wind ruffled the tendrils of his wine red hair.

Rhys had given him the heads up that the male who sired him would be here tonight. Had been shocked when Feyre and him had come to him with the information only to find out that Lucien already knew. Had kept this part of himself buried for so long until it boiled to the surface.

Even now he could feel the power that he had inherited from that male licking up his spine, caressing his flames, beckoning them to merge, to dip further into his power reserves as Lucien clenched his teeth at the thought.

He did not hate The High Lord of the Day Court, not truly. Understood his decisions deep down, but it did not mean that his choices had not left their mark. Knew deep down that his father's decisions, both his fathers had been part of the reason why he hadn't minded Elain keeping him, at arms length on top of his own.

"Is everything alright?" Rhys inquired drawling him from his thoughts.

His gaze flickered to Rhysand, still waiting patiently for Lucien to walk through that threshold. To take those first steps into the house, and see what awaited them.

"Why wouldn't it be?" He asked, his gaze flickering back up to the balcony where he had last seen Elain, realizing that she had now vanished. His heart straining at that before he turned his full attention back on Rhys.

"I would understand-we both would if you would rather be somewhere else tonight. I know this isn't the holiday you would typically be celebrating tonight, but-well, we're glad that you came, Lucien."

Lucien averted his gaze again, Tamlin's words still fresh in his mind as he had told Lucien that he did not want to share in this holiday together. It was one thing to let him into his lands-another for them to spend Nynsar together as they once had. The wound those words had made still pressing against his flesh. Lucien didn't know why he had expected anything different. Why he even still bothered at all.

"I had no prior engagements." He answered, a courtier's answer, but he had no doubt Rhys could read the pain in his gaze regardless.

"Shall we then?" Rhys offered, offering an olive branch of the sorts.

Lucien accepted, nodding his answer as he made it through the threshold and into the house beyond.

The party was in full swing, save for a few people, almost everyone was gathered here tonight as his eyes swept across the room, an invisible thread tugging at him, as his gaze firmly snagged on her.

He found it a difficulty to breathe as he beheld her, She was resplendent in her sage green gown, appearing as a goddess forged from the earth itself as he forced himself to look away.

No matter what the universe says, she is not mine. He reminded himself.

Tonight he would not be as starry eyed as a lover...Tonight he would play the role she set for him, and try to do so with ease, no matter how much it hurt his own soul to do so.

"I need a drink." He called to Rhys, not bothering to hear the male's response as he strode for the bar, prepared to eddy the sorrows and tribulations of his mind with the power of drink, grasping one of the many glasses of wine displayed there before familiar fingers brushed against his own. Her touch damn near scolding as if he had been licked by his own flame before he pulled his hand back, the golden thread that bound them both, tugging at his side, yearning for him touch her, to close the distance between them and-

"Apologies, Lady." He told her, swiping the wine glass beside the one that their hands had almost touched and weaving his way through the room before he could hear her response. He couldn't play this game of theirs, at least not tonight.

Rhys's brow lifted as Lucien rejoined him, taking a generous pull of his wine as the mulberries exploded on his tongue. The taste of the wine a welcome distraction that deterred his mind from its wandering to how sweet she would taste upon his tongue.

Rhys gave him a knowing look, his eyes sparkling in amusement as Lucien fought the growl that formed in his throat. He needed air, and he needed it fast.

"Lucien." Feyre greeted him, sweeping him into a hug before he could protest, as he wrapped his arms around her, careful to assess Rhys's mood as he did so.

He relaxed some as Feyre pulled away, her hand going to the swell of her abdomen as Lucien inquired,

"How is the little one doing?"

Feyre beamed,

"He's running out of room in there." She stated, wincing slightly.

Rhysand stiffened by her side as she gave him a quick glance of assurance, his own hand engulfing hers, still pressed firmly to her abdomen. A thousand words passing between them as Lucien glanced away, his throat bobbing at the sight.

He did not begrudge his friend of her happiness, especially after what had transpired between the two of them, but he couldn't help the hollowness he felt in his chest, the envy that was there when he beheld what she had built for herself here. A life that he had always hoped he would have for himself. A place where he truly belonged. A home built from his own hands, and a family of his own. He wondered if he would ever find that place. If he was still capable of having those dreams.

He stole another glance, searching the room for her, knowing full well that he probably should have stopped himself, should have spared himself from that pain, but as he found her in the room, he couldn't help how his spine stiffened at the sight.

For his ma-Elain was talking to none other than to the male who had sired Lucien himself. Helion, The High Lord of the Day Court, listened to Elain as they exchanged pleasantries, leaning in close to her as an inferno welled up inside of him. Not of jealousy, but of-

Amber eyes flickered to his own, as if they had felt his scrutiny from across the room, could see the flames flickering in Lucien's gaze as Elain turned to see what had caught Helion's attention, her mouth pressing in a tight line as disapproval flickered across her gaze. She didn't understand, no one really could.

He felt Feyre's assessing gaze, her hand squeezing his arm, returning his attention back to her, a sympathetic look in her blue gray eyes that he wanted to shrink away from. He didn't need anyone's pity.

"I need air." He told them, excusing himself.

Feyre did not argue, did not move a muscle to stop him, as he made his way to the balcony above, hoping that no one followed to watch him fall apart.

**************************************************************************

The chill of the cold spring night air battled for dominance against the fire blazing through his very core .

Lucien hoping to assist that chill, adjusted his collar, willing his fire to settle as he shrugged off his burgundy jacket, hoping to smother some of the infallible heat surfacing up inside of him.

Even though he had been born an Autumn Court male, he was still burning hotter these days, as if he had been touched by the sun itself. As if his powers were fighting for dominance against the powers Lucien had been trained to wield ever since childhood.

His jaw clenched at the thought of his sire’s powers being stronger, for most of his life, they hadn’t been, until he had come back from Under the Mountain, until his father became High Lord, Until he had gained the full force of his powers back. his status now cemented, forever tying Lucien’s fate to his. His son by blood and his heir by birthright.

Lucien grasped the wine glass, the cold touch of it helping ground him some as he leaned against the balcony taking another sip of his drink as he glanced at the stars that had thrusted this fate upon him.

His eye clicked, focusing on them as he tracked their movements, as if he could read the decisions within them. As if it were that easy.

Footsteps fell as something tugged at his middle. Not the bond, that one felt different. Was different. Lucien’s mood soured as he fought the clench of his jaw, taking another generous swallow of his wine before stating boldly,

“You shouldn’t be here. Isn’t being near me against your and mother’s-“ He tried to find the words. “Tentative arrangement.” He answered waving a hand between him and The High Lord of the Day Court, who had shut the balcony doors behind him to allow them some privacy. The stars themselves already knew his most dangerous secret. There was nothing to hide from them.

Lucien didn’t turn to face the male, not giving a singular shit if Helion was a High Lord or not. It was in poor taste for a courtier and emissary to do so, but for the heir that Helion had willingly left behind….Lucien saw it as justification enough.

“It is.” Helion answered plainly, no remorse in his voice or any form of apology. He was a High Lord, he did what he wished like all the others had. “But I wanted to check to see if you were okay.”

Lucien scoffed. As if the High Lord who more or less ignored his existence for the past three hundred years could ever care about Lucien’s well being.

“Lucien-“

Lucien’s eyes turned sharply to Helion, cutting him off. He wondered what the High Lord saw in them. If Lucien’s fire still rose to the surface.

“Unfortunately for you, I have little patience for family reunions today. Best to try your luck next year, if you even deem me worthy to do so.”

He expected the High Lord’s wrath. For him to deem Lucien as little more than a petulant child that was acting out due to three hundred years of longstanding resentment. But all he saw when he gazed at Helion’s face was a flicker of remorse, which took even Lucien by surprise.

“Perhaps I deserved that.” Helion admitted, stepping up to Lucien’s side at the balcony, taking a moment to glance up at the stars that surrounded them. Lucien stiffened at the close proximity. The near contact. It was the closest his sire had ever dare go to him. Afraid of who may bear witness, who might uncover that truth.

As if it could sense his presence, that fire….the one Lucien tried so hard to tame, to suppress rose to the surface. He had tried to douse them until they were nothing more than embers, after it had reduced Lucien’s brother to mere ash and Tamlin had found Lucien trembling in the woods next to them, dried blood coating Lucien’s arms and hands as Tamlin took in Lucien’s tears stained cheeks….tasted the tang of his fear, grief, and rage in the air before he took Lucien back to his manor to clean him up.

Those same flames rose to meet Helion’s now. As if they knew his sire stood before them and yearned to break free from their carefully curated cage that Lucien had crafted for them. Lucien’s hands trembling at the thought. Something Helion took note of.

“They’re growing stronger. Aren’t they?”

Lucien’s jaw tensed, trying to wrangle in said powers, the flames welled in his eyes instead. A mix of both his mother’s and his father’s powers as potent as molten metal, forging Lucien into a weapon so dangerous others sought to destroy him. His stomach twisting at the mere thought as the chilled air of the night grew hotter.

He avoided the question, refusing to meet Helion’s gaze. He never wanted this bottomless reserve of power, the weight of it. Resorting to the power of his words and his knowledge instead to keep his dynasty at bay.

Now-Now it seemed as if he could not put it off for much longer. His hands gripped the stone of the banister at the thought.

“I can help you.” Helion offered as Lucien’s gaze snapped to the male’s in surprise. The High Lord of the Day Court drawling a sharp intake of breath as he saw the depths of power that resided in him.

“How can you help with something you can not understand?” Lucien inquired.

It wasn’t a jab, per se. Merely the truth laid out before them. Helion understood the power that Lucien inherited from him. He did not understand wielding powers from two courts and how they merged until it was damn near suffocating.

“We can start off small. If you-“

“If I what?” He asked, holding the male’s stare.

Helion swallowed. Nervous. A High Lord who had met his fair share of opponents on multiple battlefields was nervous. Did Lucien truly unnerve him?

“If you came to the Day Court-“

“Doesn’t that go against what you promised my mother?” Lucien threw back at him. Lips pursed in frustration. An arrangement the two of them made when they found out he had been conceived. An arrangement born out of fear of what others might do if they found out.

“This isn’t about your mother, it’s not even about me. This-This is about you. About giving you a chance to acquire what you’ve been denied.”

His gaze turned to Helion sharply, crossing his arms over his chest as he glared at him,

“And what is it that you think I’ve been denied?”

“A home.”

Lucien opened his mouth to argue, to say that he had already had a home, but something within Helion’s gaze made him pause.

“I know that I’m probably the farthest thing you think about when you think of a home. I know I can never be the father that I should have been, the one that you deserved. But-I want a chance to get to know you, Lucien. To get to know the male you’ve become.”

He turned his face away, emotions welling up inside of him. He wanted to push him away. Wanted to tell him that he didn’t need him.but-

“Why would you want to? I’m not your burden to bear.”

He swore he felt the world pause at the words, the admission.

“Is that what you think you are? A burden?” Helion rasped, he wondered if the male’s own emotions were getting to him .

Lucien’s gaze flickered forward, his mind churning in contemplation as he gazed at the stars above them.

“It’s what I always have been. What everyone always expects me to be.”

A firm hand landed on his shoulder, forcing Lucien’s gaze back to his.

“Listen to me. Lucien. You are many things, but a burden is not one of them.”

Lucien’s eyes stung his mind wandering in a bunch of different directions. He had spent his life resenting this male, resenting the power that had flowed throughout his veins as a constant reminder of who he truly was. And what it had costs him.

“You don’t even know me.” Lucien reminded him.

“Perhaps not in ways that others should but-I have seen glimpses of what you are like when you care for others. The lengths you are willing to go for them.”

The world paused. He had, Lucien realized. He had been there, perhaps not for everything, but for little moments here and there.

“A lot of good my loyalties did for ones I cared about.” He mused, the weight of his mistakes and miscalculations weighing heavily on his mind.

“We are not perfect beings. And the fact that you are willing to weigh the outcomes of your decisions means that you are better than most. Most fae would not care as deeply as you do. Would not give it a second thought to those they have harmed. In that, you are wise beyond your years.”

As if feeling a shift in his universe, Lucien leaned his back against the bannister. As if that invisible string tying him to her encouraged him to do so.

“You don’t have to make your choice right now. I know things are….complicated.” Helion told him, reaching into the folds of his chifron to pull a delicate gold mark out from under it. Lucien glanced at it in puzzlement. “I just want you to know that this is an option that’s open to you. If you want it.”

“What of mother?” He asked.

“Your mother knew from the moment I became High Lord that this arrangement was on burrowed time. We were young when we made it, we did not know what either of us would become, all we sought was a way to protect you. But even we can not stop what was written in the stars.”

Lucien glanced towards the double doors then as if he could see her through the threshold beyond. His heart straining at the thought.

“Did you love her?” He found himself asking. Feeling a weight between his ribs, a pulsating of the bond. Wondering if Helion’s own felt similar, or if he could still feel it at all.

“More than I thought was capable of loving a person.” He claimed.

“How did you do it? How did you leave?”

How did you leave her? He wondered. How did you leave us?

“I learned in life that you must love a person enough to respect the choices they made for themselves. Perhaps-Perhaps one day they’ll come back to you. Perhaps one day you’ll be reunited again but-“

He glanced at Lucien, making him wonder what he saw underneath.

“If not then you have to accept that too. I have a lot of regrets in my life, Lucien, but you and your mother will never be one of them.”

He wasn’t sure how to answer. What exactly to say? Perhaps the silence between them was answer enough as Helion stepped forward pressing the coin into his open palm.

“The choice is always open to you, Lucien. Your mother and I may have set you on this path. But it is up to you to decide if you want to walk upon it. If you-If you chose it, use this coin and it will guide you to me.”

“And if I chose to reject your offer?” He inquired.

“Then keep the coin anyway.” Helion smiled, making his way back to the balcony doors as the wind ruffled the ends of Lucien’s red hair, the male slipping back inside as Lucien glanced back at the stars, contemplating the path ahead.

****************************************************

Elain kept her gaze trained on the balcony doors beyond, to the males that laid before it. A path playing through her mind as she saw where it would take him, even if that path was away from her.

She clutched her glass, careful as she was in most things. She had saw how deep Lucien’s hurt ran. Had felt the pressing of a wound that he needed more than her to heal.

She felt that wound alleviate some, felt her mate’s mind contemplating the path before him. One she knew he had to walk if he was meant to become who he was destined to be.

The string tied to her ribs, yearned for her to go to him. To beg for him to stay by her side. To not leave her. But she knew-knew that there were some paths that they both had to walk on alone.

He would be gone by morning. She knew. A note to her would be slid through the crack underneath her door, an explanation for his sudden departure and what brought him to this decision, before he would set forth on that path ahead of him, and follow it until he found his purpose again.

She pressed a hand to her chest. A small sad smile playing over her lips as she glanced beyond those doors, swearing she could still feel the warmth of his touch, the smallest brushing of his fingers sending her burning in his wake as Elain set down the wine, the memory of his touch still firmly on her mind as she forged her own path, hoping that one day their paths would cross again, and she would feel the warmth of his smile again, as blistering as the sun upon her skin, as she tucked the thought to the back of her mind, and wove her way through the awaiting crowd, leaving a piece of her soul behind as she went.

He’d just made up his mind to get up and return another day, when he heard the door of the next compartment open. Finally.

He clasped his hands, and waited silently for the ritual to begin.

“This… is a confession box, isn’t it, Father?”

Lucien stilled. That voice…

“A place where I can admit things that I’ve done wrong, and be forgiven for them?”

The sound of it, the tone – it was a fresh breeze that parted the grey clouds of his mind. A voice that he heard so rarely, outside of his dreams.

“Father?” came Elain’s voice again, the tone pleading.

Oh gods, his mate had gone into the wrong side of the confessional. What was he meant to do?

Enormous thanks to @themadmorrigan, @frostystarlight and @chaol-apologist for reading this through for me!

And to @zenkindoflove who inadvertently started this whole thing off with a wheel-picker game back in February!

Elain looked radiant tonight. Standing out on the Spring pavilion among her circle of new found friends, dressed in gown of beautiful emerald green, jewels of various shades of green and yellow dripping from her ears and down her neck, flowers woven in her rich golden hair, moving about the crowd of guests with all the ease of a life long hostess. She’d always been beautiful, so beautiful it hurt him to look at her sometimes, but she’d never looked like…this. Not in Night Court at least. There she had been dressed up to be admired, but always more or less ignored, kept to the side, to the shadows. Something to be shown off, to be loved, like a prized possession, but not to be touched, not to be truly engaged with. 

All around her fae from every court and rank and species gather around, jostling each other for a chance to speak with her, the new Lady of Spring. Some of them, her personal inner circle, hadn’t left her side all night. He spies his old friend Poppy Runson, wearing a color that wasn’t black for the first time in one hundred years, throw her head back and laugh at something Elain had turned and muttered in her ear, her deep brown cheeks turning even darker, a first for her since her husband had died at the hands of Amarantha. On Poppy’s other side was Tamlin’s cousin Sorcha Maybloom, making her first debut into Spring’s society since her bloody divorce. The “reclusive flower” of Spring was in bloom once more. Bronn and Hart, who had never taken a single thing seriously in their entire lives, were dressed immaculately in their Spring Court livery, standing tall and proudly behind their charge, looking at her in adoration every time she turned to speak to them (which was often, as Elain seemed to think of them more as friends than her guards). 

Elain brought out the best in every one, and everything as well; he swears the flowers on the bushes that have been planted around the pavilion bloomed brighter and stood straighter today in her presence. As if all of Spring wanted to make everything dazzling for their future Lady today. 

Standing at the edge of the Pavillon, among a few of the emissaries from other courts, Lucien recalls that Feyre, when arguing with her elder sister a few months earlier, had said Elain was made for a place like Spring. At the time Lucien had been in agreement. Now however he feels he should winnow away to his High Lady immediately and inform her of her egregious mistake. Elain wasn’t made for Spring Court. Spring Court was made for Elain Archeron. 

And he most definitely was not. As evidenced by the spriggan nearby giving him a wary look, the thousandth one he’s gotten since the soiree started. The citizens of Spring tolerated him well enough, he was allowed to take up residency in Tamlin’s manor as Night’s permanently stationed emissary and Elain’s personal advisor, but he could see in their eyes that he was not forgiven for abandoning them in their time of need. The rumor that he and Feyre had eloped with each other was still a common one among the lesser folk, he shudders in revulsion at the thought. He loved Feyre, deeply, but in the same way he loved his cousin Octavia. He sighs, shoves his hands in his pockets, and wonders when he became such a wallflower at these functions. 

From somewhere deep inside, he feels a small tug. A question, quiet but insistent. He glances over at Elain and finds she’s looking at him. There is another small tug.

Are you okay? 

 He smiles and tugs back. A reassurance. I’m fine. 

Her smile makes his heart clench, makes the fire in his veins ignite and burn him from the inside out, a fire he’d happily die in if it meant he could bask in her attention. But it’s only for a moment. Then she’s turning back to the guard who had been speaking to her, Dalton was his name, he was distantly related to Tamlin on his father’s side, and he loved to tell everyone about it. 

The sun was finally starting to set and the fae lights that had been hung were starting to flicker to life, casting a warm glow on the pavilion and all its guests. Lucien watches as it catches Elain’s golden brown curls and sets them a light, making a halo around her head. 

Perfect. By the Mother and her Cauldron, she was perfect. There had never been anyone so beautiful, so strong, so…right, as Elain Archeron. Lucien wonders if her friends realize how honored they should be to be in her presence. To be loved by her. He would do anything for her to reach out and take his arm in hers, like she does with Bronn, or reach out and push one of his stray hairs out of his face, like she has been doing to Sorcha all night. 

To be touched by her. To be cared for by her. Was to be cared for by a goddess. 

Lucien sighs, he’s been doing that too much. He had long ago accepted that whatever existed between them, this bond that tied them together, was a fluke of nature. How could it not be? Elain was…Elain was everything, and Lucien? A whole lot of nothing. A coward. Pathetic. A worthless sop. 

It had to have been a cruel joke on Elain, this mate bond. He knew she knew it, just as surely as he did. He saw it in her eyes every time he dared to get close to her, saw it in the way she would tense up and skitter away. Azriel was right of course, as an advisor Lucien had a great deal to give to Elain, but as a mate he had nothing to offer. He was something to be tolerated, and pitied. 

Still, he would be whatever she needed of him. Gladly. 

He’d been wallowing in his misery again, he shakes his head to clear his thoughts and looks up to find Elain is moving towards him. Bronn and Hart on her heels as always. “Lu!” she trills, nodding toward a pair of brownies that have bowed to their mistress. “Lu what are you doing over here against the rose bushes?” 

Lucien sweeps a low bow himself, “Camouflage my lady. I thought my hair would blend in nicely with the roses.” 

Elain laughs, and his heart practically jumps out of his chest in joy. “I’m afraid your hair is a tad too golden for roses Lu.” she teases. “And you are of no use to me on the edges of the crowd.” 

He wonders if she can hear his heart still, like she had claimed on that first day. He wonders if she hears how fast it’s racing. “My apologies my Lady. And where may I be of use to you?” 

“We shall dance.” she tells him. “Lord Cerrdown has asked me four times now for the first dance, and the only way I can think to avoid dancing with him is to tell him that I was already engaged to dance with you.” 

“With me?” 

“Yes” she nods, “Given the connection between us, accepted or not, you have the right to have my first dance, don’t you think?” 

First dance. Lucien envies all the fae around him with goblets of wine, because his throat has gone suddenly dry. Was it his imagination, or was there something coy in Elain’s voice. Some kind of wicked humor glinted in her eyes, as she spoke. As if she was making some kind of insinuation on purpose.   

“My Lady, I would gladly be your first anything.”

Behind her Hart snorts, and even Bronn has to hide his mouth behind his hand. Elain’s cheeks color, a most delicious pink, that has Lucien wondering if anything else turned that color when she was flushed. For a moment she is silent, and he panics, thinking he may have ruined his one shot. But then she merely rolls her eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t have many firsts to give you anymore” she quips “But come I wish to dance, and anyone is preferable to Lord Cerrdown.” 

“Very well my Lady, your wish is my command.” 

She offers her dainty hand and he takes it gingerly, ignoring how the contact burned in the most delicious way, and led her onto the dancefloor in the center of the pavillon. The rest of the soiree melted away. The guests, the fae lights, the constant hum of chatter, the bushes surrounding them, the whole of Spring Court, the whole of Prythian even, all gone. All that was left for him was perfection itself, in his arms at last, for a moment at least, a song. 

The mate bond was a fluke of nature, he is sure. 

But as she smiles up at him, one of her hands resting on his upper arm, the other in his own. As the music begins and the pair find themselves swept up in a waltz, Lucien begins to wonder if perhaps it was too much to simply pretend, for now at least, that it wasn’t wrong. 

That Elain was made for him. 

Just as surely as he was made for her. 

The bond between them began to sing.

There were millions of tiny hammers raining down on Lucien’s temple. He could feel the pounding down to the base of his spine, and he wanted to groan, but the cottonmouth made it nearly impossible. He slowly opened his eyes, hands reaching blindly towards what he assumed was a nightstand.

Water. Fuck, I need water. What the hell did I drink last night?

His fingertips met a bottle of water (so the gods were merciful after all), and he wrestled the cap off to drink when his stomach roiled painfully.

Okay, as far as hangovers went, this was nearing a five-alarm fire. Sips it was.

The first taste of water was heavenly, and this time Lucien did groan, low and loud, when a small snore and the mattress shifting cut him off. He froze. The slow turn of his head was somewhere between horror and comedy as he looked down at the intruder in his bed.

Sleeping to his left, looking like an absolute dream (even with her mascara smudged and curls creating a tiny rat’s nest between her cheek and the pillow), was Elain fucking Archeron.

This is an acrostic poem. I feel like the form is underappreciated or relegated to the territory of middle school English classes. But they can be fun and require putting intention into word choice and line breaks.

The acrostic is "Peak Yearning", plus an "SH" as a sort of signature line!

See, SJM? Poetry is cool!