Eluciey

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.