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vulpes-fennec · 10 months

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Love on Water Lilies 🪷 (Ch 1)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wonderful aromas.”

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

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

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

“Excuse me! Excuse me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cauldron, this is absolutely divine!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was not possible. This could not be happening.

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

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

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

—Later that evening—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***Lucien***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh gods. What the hell just happened?

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

Act first, think later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did the waitress look like?”

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

“Why would she put a curse on you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps,” Jurian mused doubtfully.

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

Jurian began to laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#elucien #elucienweek2023 #elain archeron #lucien vanserra

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sjhanny2000 · 8 months

Text

Hidden Within the Arrangement (10/?)

Summary: The old saying of time is of the essence never rang more true as the Leaf's top shinobi flight to save Tobirama's life grows more dire by the second.

A/N: Welcome back homies! Sorry for the long wait and little activity, life has yet again kicked my butt and my will to write. This chapter will bounce between Hashirama, Touka, and Mito's perspective. The next one is solely dedicated to our spiky porcupine, Madara 😈

Warning(s): mention/reference to child abuse/neglect/death

Word Count: 3.5k+

~~~~

The feather soft splashes of the Naka were the only thing Hashirama and Madara could hear from their spots on the river’s edge, the two thirteen year old boys settled beside one another in quiet with their eyes searching the sky’s endless landscape in content. It had been one of those rare days that neither boy had the will nor interest to train with one another, being content with simply being in the other’s presence on the cool fall day that had come to be in the Land of Fire. They had spent countless hours splashing about and skipping rocks to pass the time, laughter and playful jabs (at least from Hashirama) echoing fluidly across the rocky riverbank they had come to call their meeting place. This very place had become a sanctuary of sorts with the passage of time, somewhere they could escape the harsh realities that came with being not only shinobi but clan heirs that never seemed to quite meet their respective fathers’ lofty expectations.

Family was a topic rarely broached between the two young teenagers, simply due to the fact that speaking of such things would inevitably lead to identities being revealed and their already precarious arrangement tarnished beyond saving. The rare moments where either of them even dared to mention their blood relatives was when they found themselves dreaming of a time without war, of shinobi fighting alongside one another under one banner within the Land of Fire regardless of their clan or allies, for one common cause. Dreaming of a childhood where they would no longer be molded into child soldiers but to solely be children that played, daydreamed, and explored the world around them. Both teenagers pondered what their lives would be like in a time of peace subconsciously, thoughts focusing almost solely on the ones they had lost far too soon, particularly their fallen siblings. Even outside their rendezvous at the riverfront, Madara yearned to hear his three youngest brothers’ laughter just once more, to see his mother smother her five children with attention and affection. Hashirama simply wanted the chance to hug Kawarama and Itama once more, to have someone to hold on the dark nights with even darker thoughts. Tobirama was never one for physical contact, being the clear opposite of Hashirama who thrived off of hugs and touches, and Izuna was abhorrent to Madara’s overprotectiveness due to how adamant he was to prove himself, often stating with great indignancy that he was fully capable of handling himself. Each elder brother couldn’t help but question that if in another world, would their brothers be the way they are or would they be more alike?

“What lengths would you go to protect your younger brother?”

Hashirama promptly turned his head just enough to face his friend, Madara gazing up at the sky with thoughtful and serious pools of charcoal, caution-fueled curiosity pumping through his veins. He would later feel a meager flicker of shame of how hesitant he had been when it came to answering Madara’s question, envy and bitter emotion crawling up his throat. From the moment he laid his eyes on Tobirama, uncertainty and excitement in his veins, Hashirama had wanted to protect his younger brother, his otouto and at some point, unbeknownst to him, such a mindset had changed. The thought of losing Tobirama was paralyzing, yes, but not for the fact that the white haired boy was his brother; no, the mere thought of being left as the lone survivor and forced to face the world alone was far more grievous. Was such reasoning appropriate? No, probably not, in fact mother would have scolded him for such thoughts if she was still alive. Yet, he still thought those blood-riddled, desperate thoughts, his field of vision steadily growing more tint with envious viridian, the years of pent up jealousy threatening to suffocate his lungs. All Hashirama wanted to do was scream, yet, for some reason, he still answered.

“To the ends of the earth.”

The near silent splash of their sandals’ respective bottoms hitting and thrusting off the Naka’s surface was damn near deafening to Hashirama’s ears, the long haired brunette dutifully following his group in tense silence. All four of them were dressed for war, their small squad moved into the forest without a moment’s hesitation, killing intent tumbling off the three shinobi moving alongside him, each one bearing a face of disgruntled focus. Mito, foregoing her traditional Uzumaki garb, had chosen to fit herself in Senju armor quite similar to Touka’s own, although hers happened to be a sheening violet that contrasted violently with her scarlet locks. The Uzumaki woman had taken the role of squad leader within seconds of Hashirama’s appearance at the northeastern entrance, Madara and Touka having already arrived at the predetermined location with their gear and themselves at the ready, and the Senju clan head could do nothing but follow behind like a lost duckling. Momentarily shifting his gaze to the left, the hokage was met with Touka’s determined form, the kunoichi an explosive tag just waiting to be set off and Hashirama knew better than to address his cousin when she was in such a mood.

“Touka is much like a yellowjacket, anija.” Tobirama’s pupil-less pools of endless merlot messily met Hashirama’s earth-rich ones, the albino pausing in his task of sharpening the length of his katana to do so. “Docile until provoked.”

Bile curdled dangerously within the back of his throat at the memory made the mokuton user inwardly and outwardly cringe, his stomach feeling as if he had eaten a hefty stone. A complicated mixture of emotions toiled about within him, his heart and mind at war over the reality that he may have been the one to send his brother, perfect Tobi, to his potential death. A part of his heart rejoiced greedily at the thought of Tobirama no longer existing, relishing in the mere possibility that they would be too late, that Hashirama would no longer be burdened with the truth of being the lesser, unintelligent son. Not surprisingly, the voice within him clashed madly against his beating organ, his heart aggressively snarling with its canines bared whilst it worked to rid his poor excuse of a soul of its poisonous envy. Tobirama was his brother, the one he had pledged to protect, love, and cherish from the day the young boy was brought into this accursed world, and he knew that a world without his otouto wasn’t one worth living in. That didn’t stop the feelings of past resentment from bubbling up to the surface however, oozing sleepily from invisible emotional wounds that never have seemed to heal no matter what either he or Tobirama did.

With a slight shake of his head, Hashirama purged his already brimming mind of those poisonous thoughts, trying to set his focus back on the task at hand, on pushing himself forward into the unknown set before them. There was no time to be wasted if they were going to reach Tobirama in time, a great if not impossible feat in itself. His otouto had come to create a jutsu, the Flying Raijin as Tobirama had proudly named it, to best the Uchiha’s sharingan and in turn became the fastest shinobi in the Land of Fire if not further and the likelihood of them reaching him before he met his intended doom was slim if second to none.

Such a heavy thought bore significant weight on all four shinobi’s minds as they ventured further from the village into the dense forests of the Land of Fire, not a word spoken between them. Truly, what could be said to mitigate the situation at hand?

Touka grimaced at the thought, grinding her teeth in raging opposition because they shouldn’t be in such a predicament in the first place. Oh how she wished she hadn’t paid mind to Tobirama’s requests, that she not defend him from his dolt of an older brother and his abusive excuse for a future husband. The urge to beat the ever living shit out of not only Madara and Hashirama but Izuna as well boiled dangerously beneath her skin, clenched fists tense and ready to strike either man in their party if they so much as utter a sound. They honestly had no business, no , no fucking right to be a part of this retrieval mission; those bastards were why her precious cousin was not only injured but on this suicide mission in the first place! Both men (if she could even call them that with how childish they acted) were absolute idiots with their own selfish goals and incentives and Tobirama had been their unwilling victim, years of abuse and conditioning from Butsuma and other Senju having warped his sense of self-worth to the near point of non-existence. Hashirama, bearing his own trauma and self-induced jealousy, ripped into his younger brother with conditioned purpose and Madara, once an avid enemy rapidly turned intended spouse in the span of just months, was crafted to be a bringer of war just as Hashirama was and taught from birth to bear hatred for the Uchiha’s eternal rival. While Touka could only postulate the troubling events and behaviors Madara and Izuna had both experienced, seeing as how she hadn’t been present in their lives aside o from the battlefield, but she knew without a fact that it gave neither of them the excuse to treat Tobirama the way they had. Madara had struck her cousin in a moment of emotional and physical vulnerability, having only been in such an unstable state because of the Uchiha and her damn older cousin in the first place, and kami how she wished she had been there in the moment to stab her naginata through the fool’s foul spewing throat-!

Now, she was fully aware that Tobirama was nowhere near perfect, no matter how hard he had tried over his seventeen years of life, but Touka knew without a shred of doubt that he deserved far more in life than what he had been given. He deserved a spouse that not only loved but respected, cherished, and worshiped him as if he was the greatest thing on this cursed earth; it was the least the Kami could do for him after experiencing the brutal childhood of sneers, broken bones, sickness, and abuse Tobirama seemed to endlessly endure. Right?

Mito, not oblivious to the internal war her husband and cousin-in-law were warring against their emotions, continued to flare the tendrils of her sensory field outward as she led the way towards the border, focused on finding any inkling of Tobirama’s soothingly cool chakra whilst continuously kneading more chakra to sustain her efforts. She herself was struggling to maintain her emotional composure, though one could not sense her plight just by looking at her person; no, the mask of emotional indifference she had come to craft over the span of her childhood in Uzushiogakure was one of her greatest masterpieces and one she relied on heavily in moments like these. Born as the second eldest child to the Uzumaki throne, Mito had to be epitome of perfection if she wished to be regarded, let alone be gifted with an ounce of attention and consideration, seeing as how she was forever stuck in her nee-san’s massive shadow. Countless hours of her childhood had been spent working on her fuinjutsu craft and training herself into an excellent kunoichi, Mito striving to be the one who just might catch her subjects attention for longer than just a moment. She refused to be the extra, the spare heir if the worst happened and her nee-san perished, and such a mentality needed a face of fearlessness and invulnerability to make her demands a reality. If Mito wished to be regarded seriously by those around her, she had to craft a persona of grace and perfection, one that spoke without a stumble of the tongue and stood tall with the confidence of a Kami.

“Those of the court are much like the sharks of the ocean, my beloved Mito.” Father’s tender hand cupped Mito’s cheek with reverence, her seven year old self gazing up at the man that was the epitome of dignity and grace whilst he gave her a bittersweet, knowing smile. “The second a drop of your blood hits the water’s surface, they will be upon you without mercy.”

So, with that knowledge in mind, even as a young child, Mito set about eradicating every shred of external weakness she could find within herself and in doing so became the revered Crimson Tide, one of the most powerful fuinjutsu masters of the Uzumaki clan. She reveled in her status with perfectly veiled pride by the age of twelve years old, bearing a selfless front as her heart relished in the spoils of her success, at hearing her people and the rare foreigner murmur their intimidated approval whilst she walked the streets conducting various acts of charity. Mito had been content with her life, each day full of learning and exploring every inch of the island and the waters beyond it, whilst scouring each and every millimeter of the royal library in search of new information to progress her research and studies. All had been well and then, on a stormy, summer’s day shortly after her fourteenth birthday, a gangly boy with skin pale as the moon and curls as white as a dove’s feathers appeared on Uzushiogakure’s shores.

To say the boy piqued her interest almost immediately was putting it mildly; Mito found herself unable to pull her deep violet gaze away from the mainlander who had crossed the ocean’s rugged landscape as if it were smooth as freshly woven silk. The boy’s features, while offsetting to many of her people due to factless superstitions that cankerous elders and fire and brimstone religious preached to stray the population from the unknown, were a marveling mystery that Mito desperately wished to dissect and consume. She studiously studied such features whilst the boy, Senju Tobirama as he had come to introduce himself as before her father and the council members present at the time, taking notes of his high cheekbones and scar littered skin, many of the marks a rosy pink which testified that he had acquired them recently. Mito listened on with vigor as Tobirama eloquently explained his reasoning for weathering the high seas to reach their island, bearing a scroll from his father, Senju Butsuma, who wished for his eldest son to marry one of Uzumaki Akaneo’s daughters in hopes of strengthening their ties both politically and economically. Her father, ever the studious and ruminative man, gave Tobirama no instantaneous action, expressing with great seriousness that he would need time to mull over the Senjus proposal and in doing so, promptly offered Mito as the boy’s guide until said decision had been made.

That very decision would change Mito’s life forever. As her father pondered on with his advisors, Mito found herself engrossed in the boy who would potentially become her brother-in-law. With a tongue sharp as silver and a mind fit as a freshly tuned biwa, Tobirama proved himself to be the epitome of a genius over the coming weeks, stumping Mito in matters of science and ninjutsu development, the twelve year old boy having already created a jutsu in which he could create multiple tangible copies of himself. Such a jutsu was astronomical in terms of advancement and difficulty but Mito found herself enraptured in Tobirama’s thorough explanation of his scientific process, to which he informed her that only were these copies capable of performing their own jutsu, they were autonomous yet interconnected with one another subconsciously at the same time! What proved to be even more impressive was Tobirama’s wealth of knowledge on fuinjutsu, with such knowledge having been attained and mastered through self-taught lessons from the meager age of four years old.

As time passed and the summer grew long, Mito came to accept that she had finally met not only her intellectual but physical match in no one other than Senju Tobirama. Her fourteen year old self relished in finding someone who not only possessed a brilliant mind and impressive sensory abilities, but an individual who could be quiet as a sunny day at sea one moment yet destructive as a hurricane the next. Tobirama’s incline to suiton nature happened to garner the attention of many as well, elders and young alike mystified that a mainlander could possess such a strong tie to water, and they would avidly watch on in interest whilst he and Mito sparred one another at the training grounds. In time, Tobirama had become one with the Uzumaki, assisting in staving off the harshest of storms when need be and teaching the young ones basic taijutsu and ninjutsu, a duty in which many of the elders loathed to undertake due to the rowdiness of the children. Oh many a nights did Mito find herself gazing at the constellations twinkling above in the night sky with Tobirama and her sisters at her side, the four of them listening on with wonder and stars in their eyes. Tobirama had become the brother the princesses had also wanted, one that provided comfort yet tough lessons, a confidant and an anchor amongst the brisk waves of life's ocean. How mortified Mito would feel upon learning that Tobirama had become such an astute individual and sibling due to being one of the sole caretakers for his and her future husband’s younger brothers, both of which she never had the pleasure of meeting due to them having been killed early on into their childhoods.

It was because of Tobirama that Mito would meet the man she would come to call her husband, her new friend assuring her that only was Hashirama strong, he was kind and a thoughtful individual who was dedicated to protecting his loved ones. It was because of Tobirama that she would venture from her home, the only place she had ever known, and settle in the Land of Fire, far from her family and deep into the mainland. It was because of him that she would gain not only a brother but a cousin as well, Touka swiftly becoming one of her dearest friends and closest confidants upon her arrival in the Senju compound. It was because of him that Mito would be spared from Butsuma’s cruel demands for her to consummate her marriage with Hashirama at the mere age of fourteen, to produce the next clan heir as if Tobirama himself had not been standing right there. It was because of Tobirama that Mito began to notice just how cruel Hashirama could be to a brother that he claimed to love with all his heart, how her eversweet husband could be so bitter to another human without batting an eye.

Mito couldn’t help the curling of her fists just at the mere thought of Hashirama’s kunai sharp words, of Madara’s ignorant and foolish actions, of knowing her precious otouto was in danger because of their arrogance. Her temper flared and her heart screamed for retribution, but she knew that now was not the time nor the place, no matter how much she craved for penance. Flaring the tendrils of her sensory field outwards once more, Mito steadied her internal self whilst taking the leap over the dense tree line that acted as the unofficial border line between the Lands of Lightning and Fire, focusing on the task at hand. She wasted no time waiting to see if her party was following her, Hashirama’s hefty and earthy chakra clashing deftly with Madara’s own fiery and ash-riddled signature acting as blinding beacons amidst the mainly empty forest. The kunoichi shifted her body just enough to dodge a poorly placed tripwire, her party members thankfully doing the same; they had no time to waste on trivial bomb tags that were clearly placed by a genin or an idiot of a higher ranking shinobi.

With a silent cry of her missing brother’s name, Mito sent her sensory field outwards in growing desperation, and just as she expected to be met empty handed as she had been every time before, chakra of frigid mint and fresh fallen rain flickered across the far edges to the northwest. In any other case, she would have felt relief at sensing her otouto’s precious chakra, but such relief evaporated the very moment she felt it fluctuate in and out of existence, which could only mean-.

“I sense him, 20 miles northwest of here,” Her words jarred the others from their internal dialogues, the three shinobi snapping to attention. “We won’t reach him in time if you wait on Touka and I! Go!”

“Mito-!” Hashirama, the damn fool, dared to argue, concern ringing true in his voice, and she didn’t hesitate to rip into the mokuton used without restraint. “Do you wish to see your brother alive or not, husband?! GO!”

“Listen to your wife, you imbecile! MOVE IT!”

Madara was gone in a flash of crimson and obsidian, the Uchiha racing towards Tobirama’s estimated location without abandonment, leaving the remaining three shinobi in the dust. The hokage, effectively silenced by her question and his best friend’s jarring shout, launched himself after the man without another word, leaving Mito and Touka to follow after them.

All they could do now was pray to the gods that Hashirama and Madara reached the teenager before it was too late.

~~~

“What lengths would you go to protect your younger brother?”

“To the ends of the earth.”

“Listen to your wife, you imbecile! MOVE IT!”

All they could do now was pray to the gods that Hashirama and Madara reached the teenager before it was too late.

~~~

“What lengths would you go to protect your younger brother?”

“To the ends of the earth.”

Touka grimaced at the thought, grinding her teeth in raging opposition because they shouldn’t be in such a predicament in the first place. Oh how she wished she hadn’t paid mind to Tobirama’s requests, that she not defend him from his dolt of an older brother and his abusive excuse for a future husband. The urge to beat the ever living shit out of not only Madara and Hashirama but Izuna as well boiled dangerously beneath her skin, clenched fists tense and ready to strike either man in their party if they so much as utter a sound. They honestly had no business, no, no fucking right to be a part of this retrieval mission; those bastards were why her precious cousin was not only injured but on this suicide mission in the first place! Both men (if she could even call them that with how childish they acted) were absolute idiots with their own selfish goals and incentives and Tobirama had been their unwilling victim, years of abuse and conditioning from Butsuma and other Senju having warped his sense of self-worth to the near point of non-existence. Hashirama, bearing his own trauma and self-induced jealousy, ripped into his younger brother with conditioned purpose and Madara, once an avid enemy rapidly turned intended spouse in the span of just months, was crafted to be a bringer of war just as Hashirama was and taught from birth to bear hatred for the Uchiha’s eternal rival. While Touka could only postulate the troubling events and behaviors Madara and Izuna had both experienced, seeing as how she hadn’t been present in their lives aside o from the battlefield, but she knew without a fact that it gave neither of them the excuse to treat Tobirama the way they had. Madara had struck her cousin in a moment of emotional and physical vulnerability, having only been in such an unstable state because of the Uchiha and her damn older cousin in the first place, and kami how she wished she had been there in the moment to stab her naginata through the fool’s foul spewing throat-!

“Listen to your wife, you imbecile! MOVE IT!”

All they could do now was pray to the gods she no longer believed in that Hashirama and Madara reached the teenager before it was too late.

~~~

Sorry for another cliffhanger, it was just too much to resist! Kudos, comments, bookmarks and the like are always appreciated! Until next time!

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