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separatist-apologist · 2 years

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I Can Go Anywhere I Want, Just Not Home

Summary: Elain Archeron is choosing for herself, even if makes everyone else angry. What she wants is Azriel, and she'll break the Cauldron-blessed mating bond to have it. Determined to have things her way, Elain doesn't consider what might happen when Azriel finds his own mate. Or who he might choose in return.

Forced on a new path, Elain will have to confront the destiny the Cauldron laid out for her and decide if love isn't just something you choose for yourself.

OR: Elain breaks the mating bond for Azriel, who leaves her for Gwyn and the chaos that ensues.

AO3

Lucien:

2 years earlier:

He knew why she’d called him back to Velaris. Knew what she wanted. Four miserable years of pretending he didn’t know, of acting as if he was unaware of how she spent her time, of who she spent it with. He’d stopped coming to Solstice two years before, stopped sending gifts, had closed his end of the bond entirely if only to keep her out. It didn’t stop her from infesting his dreams, from tugging to see if he was still alive. She offered up hope only to yank it away at the very last moment.

It was all over now. He’d heard the rumor from the contacts he had in the city. Engaged. She’d gotten engaged to one of Rhysand’s brothers, the shadowy bat always lurking in the corner of every room he’d ever been in. Watching. Waiting. Lucien could have said no to coming, could have forced her to come to him and say it to his face.

He expected nothing but cowardice out of her. It was sheer pettiness that drove him back to Velaris, to answer her letter with no expectations at all. He wondered how she’d justify it—she hadn’t said a word to him in half a decade, could hardly act as if she’d tried.

It was Feyre who met him at the front of the River House, her eyes tight. “You didn’t have to do this,” she murmured, her regret plain. Behind her, Rhysand held a snoozing, winged baby with the same soft anger burning on his wifes face.

“She asked me to,” he reminded Feyre, misreading her frustration. Feyre shook her head.

“She should have…don’t do this to yourself.”

“It’s too late now,” he muttered, stepping from the porch to the foyer. A new fear gripped him. “Is she alone?” Rhysand’s eyes drifted towards the stairs. “Yes.”

No. Elain was alone in the foyer but Azriel was upstairs listening to the entire thing, making sure Lucien wasn’t too mean to his soon-to-be wife. Lucien was spoiling for a fight. He took one step towards the stairs, blocked by Rhysand’s body. Rhys shook his head back and forth, eyes flashing a warning.

“Not where my son sleeps.”

Lucien was about to argue when he heard his name, felt that tug on the bond. He swiveled, catching sight of his mate in the hall. Elain, dressed in the ugliest mauve dress he’d ever seen, stared at him with a trembling lip. This was how it would be, he supposed. She’d walk away the victim of him despite everything he’d done to try and make her comfortable. He resented how she tugged, how she used their bond to get what she wanted.

Lucien walked towards her, flinching when she skittered backwards, ducking like he might grab her. He stayed inside the doorframe, leaning against the heavy wood instead of joining her in the parlor. The twisted silver ring with a little rose shaped gem sat on her finger where the human male’s engagement ring had once been. He stared at it while she sat, smoothing out that frilly gown of hers. She’d laid out refreshments like some kind of servant.

“Will you sit?” “No,” he replied, meeting her eye. “I’ll stand.”

It was clear she’d rehearsed this in some fashion. Her petal pink lips dipped into a frown. “Not…not even for tea?”

“Do you want to have polite conversation like we’re friends?” he scoffed, his voice filled with scorn. “It would be the first conversation we’d ever had, if memory serves.”

“I…” her voice trailed off like the timid little mouse she pretended to be. Lucien had always thought fire lurked beneath her skin, same as him. Perhaps he’d guessed wrong. “I’m trying to be polite.”

“You’re wearing an engagement ring,” he told her pointedly. “You’re asking me to bow and scrape one last time before you break the bond. Just do it.”

Lucien braced himself, ignoring the smell of her fear mingled with the salt of her tears. His fingers gripped the wood so hard it splintered into his fingers. He didn’t let himself look at her, deciding he preferred the memory of the first time he’d met her. He’d had such hope then. Maybe there was a chance for him. Maybe the Mother had seen something worth redeeming, wanted his happiness.

It was all a cruel cosmic joke.

“I’m sorry,” she said. He ignored the apology, not bothering to placate her at all. “I want to break the bond.”

He’d expected some sort of fraying, some rusting in his chest. There was only stark emptiness. The bond was still there, dimmed like a like turned nearly off. Lucien swallowed, resisting the urge to give in to his base instincts and snatch her anyway. He didn’t want her, he reminded himself. They were a bad match. In time, the feeling would fade and he’d forget her, move on somewhere else.

“Enjoy your life,” he spat, pushing from the broken doorframe without a look back. He heard her soft sob, apparently hurt he couldn’t be grateful she’d smashed his heart into a million disgusting pieces beneath her pristine shoe. She ought to be grateful he’d done nothing at all. He turned, furious to see Azriel descending the steps, his face burning with cold rage.

“Apologize,” he demanded.

“Go fuck yourself,” Lucien retorted, shoving past Feyre for the door. He was too angry to make rational choices in that moment but knew one thing for sure. Feyre and Rhys would stand by Elain and Azriel, even if they didn’t like what was happening. Elain was still Feyre’s sister, Azriel Rhys’s closest friend. He would never be welcome again, would likely never see Feyre, either. That thought hurt almost as bad as losing Elain. Feyre had been the first real friend he’d ever had.

“Lucien,” she protested, clearly aware of his thoughts. He shook his head, reaching for the door handle.

“I don’t work for you anymore,” he told Rhys. Rhys’s eyes flashed but Lucien wasn’t cowed. He’d go somewhere else, somewhere Rhys and his toxic, terrible court couldn’t touch him. Everything Lucien knew, all the secrets in his head could be sold for the right price. It couldn’t just be anywhere. “Lucien!” Feyre yelled, spilling out onto the street with him. She caught him before he managed to winnow away, holding his wrist tight.

“I begged her not to,” Feyre pleaded. “Begged her to give you a chance. Please…don’t…don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

“Why not?” he spat angrily. “You have your friends, your family…what use am I to you?”

“Use? You aren’t required to have one! You’re my friend!” she said, tears sparkling in her pretty blue eyes. He shook his head, staggering back a step.

“I tried,” he told her hoarsely. “I’ve tried so hard.”

“I know you have,” she agreed, coming after him, hands outstretched. “Don’t go. I know what you’re thinking, Lucien…this will fall apart in a year, if that. She’s convinced herself—”

“I don’t want to wait on her. Not anymore. I’ve had true, real love and Elain…she’s…” she wasn’t Jesminda. No one ever would be. If Jesminda had been alive it wouldn’t have been a contest. He’d have gone to Elain and begged her to break the bond the very first day. Would have gladly lived out his life with her, pretending they were mates. Happy and in love with someone who loved him, too.

“She’s just young,” Feyre tried to explain, as if Elain wasn’t two years older than her. “She’s figuring out what this all means.”

Lucien was so close to giving in, to believing Feyre and letting her take him somewhere where she could keep him like a little pet. “She can figure it out without me. I should never have come here.”

“He’ll kill you, Lucien please—!” Feyre screamed but it was too late. He winnowed before she could stop him, his feet leaving the neatly paved cobblestone of Velaris for the cool, grassy ground of Autumn. For a moment, Lucien merely inhaled a scent he’d all but forgotten. Home. This place was home. If Beron killed him, he would die with Jesminda. He was certain his mother would bury him beside her if nothing else.

The thought made his chest ache. A knot formed in his throat as he turned in a circle, surveying the bright red and orange treetops of the forest. His land, by blood and law. Even now, the wind ruffled his hair, singing a song of welcome. It was almost a relief to be back.

Boots crunching against strewn leaves drew his attention to his eldest brother. There was no mocking smile, no teasing eyes on Eris Vanserra’s face. He was flanked by his guards, a smoke gray dog taut at his feet.

“You should leave,” Eris warned, amber eyes flashing. To return meant almost certain death.

“Tell father I have Rhysand’s secrets,” he replied, staring up at his brother. Eris didn’t flinch, didn’t betray an ounce of panic though Lucien could certainly send them both to their graves if he wanted.”

“He will demand you bow and pay him fealty,” Eris warned. “And you will be subjected to his…whims…once more.”

“I remember well,” Lucien replied, leeching all desperation from his voice. To be here was to be cold, unfeeling as the rot slithering beneath their feet. Only cruelty reigned in Autumn. Lucien had hated it once, had bucked against those chains, determined kindness might win out. How foolish of him.

Eris didn’t betray any of his thoughts, assuming he had them. He merely gestured for Lucien to follow him towards the sprawling complex that was the Forest House. Lucien felt nothing at all, stepping back into the wood and ivory structure. The cedar and pine scent slammed into his chest, nearly overwhelming him. It had been two centuries since he’d last been here and yet nothing had changed at all. The same courtiers lurked around the halls, sneering and staring in equal measure. The same painted portraits hung on the wall, the same embroidered tapestries in the halls. He wiped his boots on a ornate red and gold runner just outside the carved throne room doors.

Inside, Beron Vanserra sat on his twisted brown thrown, one leg casually draped over his knee, both hands gripping the arms. Beside him, Lucien’s mother rose to her feet, hand clapped over her mouth, He didn’t dare acknowledge her until Beron passed his judgment, ignoring the inner most circle of Beron’s court and the curious faces of his brothers. He dropped to one knee, head bowed just as he’d learned to do as a toddler. He might have been bowing before he ever walked.

“So,” Beron’s voice rippled down his spine, settling at the base of it. “Tamlin and Rhysand didn’t work out, hm?”

“I was foolish to doubt your wisdom, father,” Lucien replied, forcing his voice to match Beron’s coldness.

“And you’re here to beg my forgiveness?” Beron asked.

“Yes.”

“Well. Go on then. Beg.”

Lucien swallowed the shreds of his pride. “Please allow me to return home. I will do anything you ask.”

“You will tell me everything you gleaned in Night?” Beron pressed.

“I will,” Lucien agreed.

“Even if it means that mate of yours dies?”

“Even then,” Lucien agreed, swallowing his revulsion at the thought. Some things he supposed would never go away. The urge to protect her flared in his chest, sparking bright for only a moment, squashing it before Beron ever caught a whiff of it.

“And you will, of course, be punished for your defiance.”

That was to be expected. Lucien nodded, wondering which of Beron’s tortures he might endure. Beron extended his hand, the one that held the marigold gem marking him High Lord. Lucien didn’t flinch, kissing the ring just as Beron demanded. Beside Beron, his mother sobbed a soft sound of relief.

“Welcome home…son.”

Elain:

One year earlier:

Three days. Azriel had returned from his latest missions three days ago and had yet to come home. The first day she could understand–he’d wanted to unwind somewhere quiet, somewhere he wouldn’t have to explain himself or the things he’d been asked to do. The second was less so, though Elain endeavored. Perhaps whatever he’d seen had taken its toll. The wedding was inching closer, a mere week away and there were things still left to be decided. She wondered if it wasn’t nerves keeping him.

By that third day, Elain couldn’t pretend everything was fine anymore. He wasn’t avoiding work. He was avoiding her. She could feel the wrongness in her bones, that seeping dread that the end had somehow snuck up on her and she hadn’t noticed. She wracked her brain, turning over ever interaction over the past few months, looking for what she might have done or said to push him away.

Elain worked hard to be what he needed. He liked quiet, liked solitude. She’d carved out the basement, painting it in shades of deep gray and decorating it exactly how he liked so he had somewhere he could retreat. She kept heavy curtains on the windows, allowing for sunlight only when he was gone. Weapons were stashed in every hiding place conceivable despite how she hated their presence.

Beyond that, she’d kept herself quiet, asking the bare minimum of him while he asked for nearly nothing at all in return. She cooked and kept the house clean and tended to her little garden outside the townhouse Feyre had begrudgingly loaned them. She didn’t bring her plants indoors, noting how he hated the little bugs that were attracted to the leaves or how much sunlight they seemed to require.

She’d let him do whatever he liked to her, which wasn’t much at all. She got on her knees when he was in a particular cold mood without being asked and when he touched her at night, Elain didn’t say a word of protest even when she was too tired. He was what she needed—this life was what she wanted.

Somewhere along the way, Azriel had changed his mind. She didn’t know what to make of it, and when night began to creep towards day four, she threw her apron to the floor of the kitchen. She didn’t even like baking. It was merely something to pass the time, to fill the screaming in her head. If she was still for too long, the voice of the Cauldron took up space, tugging her down, down, down into the dark.

She marched to the River House, to the sister who secretly loathed her for forcing Lucien to leave. Elain refused to feel bad about that, given how he’d immediately run back home to Autumn, had spilled every secret Rhysand had ever entrusted him with. She would have explained to Lucien, after all, if he’d bothered to sit down and listen to her. No one ever did. He was so busy consumed by his own anger he couldn’t hear her say she didn’t expect him to keep his distance or stop being friends with Feyre. Elain had tried to explain to Feyre, but Feyre never really heard her. She’d rejected a mate, the thing Feyre revered above all else.

Still, Feyre was the one who answered the door, eyes wary when she saw Elain. “What are you doing here?”

“Is Azriel here?” she asked, biting her bottom lip nervously. Feyre glanced over her shoulder.

“He’s up at the House of Wind.”

With Nesta. That made Elain feel a little better. “Will you take me?”

Feyre hesitated before stepping onto the porch, shifting so those terrifying, black wings unfurled behind her. “Are you sure?”

Elain’s stomach dropped at Feyre’s ask. Her body felt drenched with ice, her throat dryer than sand. She nodded all the same, even as her hands trembled, wrapping around her sisters neck. Feyre launched them skywards and Elain buried her face in Feyre’s neck, not daring to look down. Even after all these years, she’d never gotten used to heights.

Feyre dropped her off just inside the long stretch of indoor balcony, slipping between two marble pillars with ease. Her wings vanished in a cloud of mist just in time for Nesta to stride towards them. Nesta’s eyes were wide, devoid of their usual scorn. “Elain is here,” she said, looking from Elain to Feyre. “Now?”

“Now,” Feyre agreed, weariness creeping into her voice. “Three days is long enough.”

Elain felt like she might be sick. It was a different sort of magic that kept her standing, kept that strange, saccharine smile plastered to her face. She went on autopilot, her body moving mechanically after Nesta through the winding halls of the House of Wind. Nesta took her upstairs to the room that had once been Azriels, knocking softly.

“Hey Az,” Nesta murmured, her apologetic tone a new betrayal. Everyone knew, she realized. They’d known for days. Humiliation burned through her when Azriel murmured his agreement. Nesta stepped aside so Elain could push open the door, knowing full well Azriel wouldn’t. She couldn’t stand to look at her sisters so instead she looked down the hall, towards the unreadable face of one of Nesta’s friends. Elain couldn’t remember her name to save her life, only knew the pretty, red haired priestess wore something around her neck that was all-too familiar to Elain. She’d worn that same rose gemmed necklace. Azriel had told her he lost it, had replaced it with the engagement ring still on her finger. Elain held woman’s teal gaze, catching the way curiosity shifted into guilt.

Elain blinked, opening his bedroom door, closing it softly behind her. Azriel still at the curtained window, fae lights illuminating the spartan space. His shadows skittered away at the sight of her just as the always did. Wherever they went, she didn’t know. She looked at the rumpled bed, unmade without her to clean up after him.

“Is this where you’ve been sleeping?” she asked, wishing she could make herself impassive and cold. Her voice was a sad squeak, betraying her hurt just as sure as anything.

“Yes.” Hazel eyes bore into hers, willing her to understand. Elain didn’t know what he was thinking, never had.

“Why?”

He sucked in a breath and she realized he’d counted on her sisters to tell her. She’d broken a mating bond for him, had let him convince her it was better to break the news in person and yet he couldn’t extend the same courtesy. She felt petty, angry even, as she stood there waiting. Was it foolish to force him to break her heart?

“I have a mate,” he finally told her, his voice edged with a strange sort of desperation. The teal eyes of the priestess flashed in her mind, watching Elain with that mixture of curiosity and pity. Elain only shrugged.

“Okay.”

He ran his tongue over his teeth, perhaps recalling the vow he’d made to her when he got on one knee and swore to love her until I died. She asked him then, what if he met his mate? What if the bond snapped for him?

I’ll break it. You’re all that matters to me. There will never be anyone else.

“A mate, Elain,” he said again, reverence replacing his desperation.

“Break it,” she demanded angrily, willing herself not to cry. Azriel’s wings flared furiously behind him, giving him the appearance of a vengeful God. She yielded a step, heart hammering in her chest.

“I won’t,” he said flatly.

“You swore,” she reminded him, holding up her hand so he could see the ring on her finger. “We’re supposed to get married.”

It was Graysen all over again. She was being left at the altar all over again by a man who, at the last minute, realized he didn’t want her. That hurt worse than anything, this cruel, thoughtless rejection. As if she were something easily tossed to the side, a throwaway no one could love.

“I didn’t think I had one,” Azriel told her by way of apology. He could make his promises of forever to her because he’d believed she was the best he’d ever get. If he’d believed for even a second there was anyone else, he would never have asked. Where would she be, then? What might she have done had she not wasted the last year on him, the last three years letting him woo her, court her, of their secretive romance and now this wedding.

“You call it off,” she told him dully, pulling the ring off her finger and tossing it angrily to the floor. “You tell everyone why we’re not getting married.”

His face became unmovable stone. “I don’t care to do that, Elain,” he replied, his words icy.

“I know you don’t. That’s the problem, Azriel. I was merely a place holder while you looked for something better.”

He opened his mouth to protest, to insist that wasn’t true before snapping his mouth closed again. None of it was worth the effort to him, she supposed. Not her, not their relationship, not anything. She flung the door open, grateful the priestess had vanished. Both Nesta and Feyre waited, their faces etched with that same sickening pity.

“Take me home,” she told them dully, unsure where that even was anymore. Feyre complied, taking her back to the bright city lights of Velaris. Feyre walked her back to the townhouse, hesitating at the door.

“Do you want me—”

“No.” Elain slammed the door in her face without another word, sliding down the wood to bury her face in her knees. Tears came fast and hot, streaming silently down her face. She might have slept.

Elain didn’t know.

Didn’t care.

LUCIEN:

6 months earlier:

Blood coated every visible space of the throne room, drenching the furniture, washing the wood. They’d never get it out if they lived a thousand more years. Lucien lifted a hand, sucking flame from the vaulted wood ceiling overhead while Eris emerged from the gore, a phoenix rising from the ashes. At his feet lay the shredded, mutilated body of Beron Vanserra. It had taken only eighteen months from Lucien walking through the door to stage this coup. His other brothers—Tanwen, Conall, and Cadmus, paced the room, stepping over the bodies of Beron’s favored courtiers with disgust. Eris was their new, undisputed High Lord and though he could not have achieved it without them, Eris might still make them bow just to show them who wielded power.

Instead, Eris staggered for their trembling mother, pulling her bloodied body into his own. He pressed a hand against her hair, tucking her head beneath her chin. “It’s over.” Eris’s voice rang loudly through the room, reassuring to the remnants of Beron’s family. “He can’t hurt us anymore.”

They’d never acknowledge that Beron hurt them at all. To hear Eris say it was confirmation they’d suffered in some way. Lucien swallowed, holding his ground. It was fine to comfort their mother but they were still uneasy allies, pitted against each other from birth. It would take more than this moment to truly unite them.

“Clean up,” Eris ordered, his first act as High Lord. “Go to the cities and cull anyone you think might be sympathetic…and you, baby brother. Send word to the other High Lords on my behalf…emissary of Autumn once more.”

Lucien only nodded, plodding to his room with heavy feet. Every step trailed droplets of blood in his wake, until he finally found his room. It was the bedroom he’d grown up in, the same room overlooking the forest he’d once loved so much. For eighteen months it had been little more than a prison, trapping him in his memories. He was tempted to walk to the bay window, to sit on the pillowed seat and overlook the ghosts of himself chasing after Jesminda. Falling in love with her among those very trees.

Would he finally put them to rest now that Beron was dead. Jesminda felt settled in his chest, her death avenged. Though it hadn’t been him who’d ripped off Beron’s head, he had held one of his arms, pinning him just as Beron had ordered Lucien held centuries before. It was almost poetry.

Lucien had to fill the tub four times before he managed to scrub every speck of blood off his body, draining the water when it turned red each time and standing, dripping, on a matching red towel. He slept better than he had in years that night, knowing that whatever he woke up to would be better than the chaos and uncertainty of his father.

Somehow, the metallic stink of blood had vanished, the throne room scrubbed clean. Whoever had done it had worked a potent kind of magic, one Lucien never wanted to know too much about. His brothers were gone, scattering to the cities they oversaw just as Eris demanded. It left Lucien to visit the courts. He saw Tamlin and Tarquin in the same day, staying in Spring for mere minutes while wasting a full day in Summer before making his way to Winter. We wound to Dawn next before telling a rather bored looking Day Court emissary to pass his message along to the never present Helion. Only then did he suck in a breath and finally go to Night. A week had passed by them and word likely spread. Rhysand and Feyre would already know, would be waiting for someone to formally declare Eris High Lord of Autumn. Their deal, whatever it was, had come to fruition. Lucien hoped whatever Eris had offered in exchange was worth the pitiful help Night Court had offered.

It was deja vu, watching Feyre open the front of the River House as he approached. She watched him apprehensively, her expression guarded. It was well-deserved, he reflected. She’d begged him to stay, after all. She would have tried her best to give him a home, to make him feel wanted. His betrayal of her was his only real regret. He wondered if she knew.

“Emissary once again,” she murmured when she saw him, taking a good, appraising look at him. “Come to tell us the good news.” “Beron is dead,” Lucien said flatly. “Eris is High Lord.”

It was the same words he’d said to a mute Tamlin. He turned to leave, grateful to have completed this first job without being torn to ribbons. Feyre lunged, grabbing his hand. “You won’t stay?” she asked plaintively. “Or do you want me to beg?”

“I…no,” he finally said, eyes shifting behind her. “Just you?”

Feyre nodded tightly. “She doesn’t come here anymore.”

Lucien had gotten her shitty, passive aggressive invitation almost a year ago, had incinerated it on sight. He supposed she wanted to dig in that knife one last time, to make him feel like an asshole while she crowed to whoever would listen that she’d tried to be magnanimous, the bigger person while he was so a pig rolling around in his own shit. Had she not been his mate, he might have found the entire thing funny.

Relieved he wouldn’t run into the newly married couple, Lucien nodded curtly and followed after Feyre. She led him back to the same drawing room that was the scene of his nightmares, gesturing for him to sit with an inelegant, unladlylike gesture. Lucien smiled a little, sitting on the dark couch while she took the chair beside the fireplace. One of the wraiths brought tea and cookies, sweeping from the room like shadow before he had a proper chance to thank her.

Feyre assessed him for a moment as he leaned forward to pour tea, well aware she wouldn’t. He remembered how she liked it—drowning in milk and sugar—offering her a delicate china cup and saucer.

“You spent a week in Winter but would only spend five minutes with me?” she finally accused. Lucien shrugged, taking a sip of his own drink.

“Winter has some of the most beautiful females in Prythian and I am still a male, Feyre.” That was only half true. He’d been stalling, dreading going to the solar courts. Feyre’s eyes narrowed.

“Back to your old ways, then?”

He couldn’t hide his bitterness. “Should I wait for your sister to realize her marriage was a mistake?”

Feyre laughed, the sound strangely mirthful. “I think she’s well past that, Lucien. I’m surprised no one told you.”

“Told me what?”

“You must swear you won’t rub it in her face.”

Glee spread warmly through her body. “Fine,” he lied. “Now tell me.” “Azriel has a mate. A priestess from the library…one of Nesta’s friends. It snapped, I suppose, on a mission. He called off the wedding. Elain wrote letters explaining…but since she didn’t invite you, she wouldn’t bother to explain, either. He’s engaged now and she…” Feyre’s amusement shifted to guilt. “She’s hiding. She only comes out to see Helion.”

Lucien almost choked. “Helion?”

Feyre nodded. “They’ve struck up an odd friendship. I think he’s attracted to her though he swears it’s just pity. She’ll let him sit in the house with her for hours and you know, Helion could talk to a wall. He's so chatty…so bright.”

Lucien said nothing at all, digesting this information carefully. “It doesn’t matter,” he finally said. If Helion wanted her, let him take her. Let all of Prythian have a turn. Lucien didn’t intend to touch Elain if she was the last female left alive. Feyre pressed her lips into a thin line.

“I’d hoped you might be the bigger person—”

“She knows how to find me,” Lucien said flatly. “She invited me to her wedding, after all. She broke the bond. I’m not going to crawl back, begging for scraps.”

Feyre thought him a liar, if the irritated expression on her face was any indication. Lucien didn’t care. He rose again, setting his cup too roughly back to the coffee table. “I don’t want to know a thing about her life.”

“Lucien—” Feyre tried, her protest weak. He’d already burned that bridge. She’d never chase after him again, pleading on the grounds of their friendship. He’d not just burned the remnants, but salted the earth behind him, making it impossible for anything new to grow. Feyre would try, maybe for decades, but eventually she’d realize there was nothing worth salvaging.

Rhysand caught him on the way out, his body blocking the path through the garden. “I get you’re miserable but do you need to be a dick to Feyre about it?” he asked, lip curling with disgust.

Lucien offered a mocking bow. “Beron is dead, Eris High Lord. Long live the king of what the fuck ever.”

“Charming to the last,” Rhys commented snidely. “What were the secrets of my court worth?”

“Nothing. Beron is dead, I just said that,” Lucien deadpanned. “I don’t see him marching his military into Velaris but I’m getting old. Maybe my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

Rhys looked murderous, his wings flaring darkly behind him. “No. Sometimes I wonder how much he really knew.” “Mm,” Lucien murmured noncommittally. “I suppose you’ll never know. Good day, High Lord.” He stepped around Rhysand, making it nearly to the edge of the yard before Rhys’s booming voice stopped him.

“You never told him.”

It wasn’t a question. Lucien didn’t turn, didn’t dare let Rhysand see the truth. Some things were worth silence and Velaris was surely one of them. It was more than that, if he were honest. It was the miserable, aching fear that Beron would march on Night Court and harm the people living there. That he might hurt her. And Lucien, for all his promises of hatred, could not be the kind of male who offered his defenseless mate up on a platter no matter how little she wanted him.

So he’d lied, swearing Night was nothing but rocky mountains and craggy valleys filled with the most vile, winged brutes known to Prythian. He told of Rhysands court beneath the mountain and how it made Amarantha look like Summer Court by comparison. Beron ate it all up in part because it was exactly what he wanted to hear. He was reassured knowing he and his were more civilized, more refined, more lovely. Rhysand may have power but his court was made of monsters. It was only magic that gave Rhys his handsome face and refined manners, nothing more.

Lucien winnowed away silently, unwilling to admit this piece of shame.

Back to Autumn where he belonged.

ELAIN:

4 months earlier:

She didn’t have to ask who opened the front door without knocking. Only one person was so bold around her anymore. Only one person came to talk with her. She knew nothing of what happened in Velaris, of her sister or friends…or him. Elain kept herself purposefully ignorant. It was better that way, to know nothing. To be nothing. She went about her life as she always had, just without Azriel in it.

Helion Spell-Cleaver stepped into her spotless townhouse, glancing at the curtains pulled open. “You’re letting in the sunlight,” he appraised, running a long, tawny hand over one of the plants she’d brought inside. Winter was approaching and if she wanted to save the things she’d grown, they’d need to be repotted and hung by the windows.

Letting the light in was the first time she’d felt good since before she’d been shoved in the Cauldron. Maybe that was why Helion’s presence didn’t bother her. His dark brown skin poured golden light everywhere he went, gleaming even in the dark. She was jealous of that.

He sat on her couch, his white toga riding up his thighs. Helion was everything the Night Court was not. Brazen, unabashed, laid-back and perhaps most importantly, honest. Something about him put Elain at ease. She sat opposite of him, not bothering to serve him. Helion hated when she acted like the help, preferring to coax conversation out of her.

It had gotten easier over the months.

He crossed an ankle over his knee, tapping the golden sandal against the air. “How are you feeling today?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “The same,” she replied. His arched a dark brow, amber eyes boring into her skull and Elain was forced to admit, “I feel better that you’re here.” Helion smiled, lighting up his handsome features. Elain would have rather died than ever admit she thought Helion the best looking High Lord in Prythian. He was muscular and broad, taller than every male she’d known, with gleaming bronzed skin and teasing, dark eyes. His cheekbones and carved out jaw made him look like some sort of sun-kissed God. It wasn’t lust she felt when she looked at him, but admiration and perhaps a healthy dose of appreciation.

Elain always had loved beautiful things.

“I think what you like is the sun,” Helion told her for the millionth time, leaning forward. The strip of cloth covering the sliver of his bare chest shifted, making him half naked in her home. It ought to have been scandalous. Elain, after all, had never truly looked at Azriel’s naked form. Every time they’d had sex she’d made sure the lights were fully off and she covered beneath the blankets. To have a man…a male…sitting so casually in her home, only his lower half draped in cloth…it was shocking.

And still normal. He’d told her both Feyre and Nesta thought he was seducing her. She could understand it. Helion had never made a pass at her which made sense to Elain. He’d been interested in Nesta and as far as people went, Elain and Nesta couldn’t have been more different.

“Maybe,” she agreed instead of protesting outright like she normally did. She typically said very little until it was clear he was going to leave. “I’m worried about winter…the sun leaves for months at a time.”

Velaris would be bathed in shadow, in brutal cold and slushing snow. She hated all of it, had never wanted to live this close to the mountains, to a place where even in winter it was never really warm the way she craved.

“Spend Winter in my court,” he said, eyes flashing with hope. Elain sat further back in her chair.

“I couldn’t.”

“You could,” he protested with a smile. “It’s always warm, always bright…the sun so rarely fades. Even night is just a little too bright.” “But my plants—”

“Grow new ones,” he dismissed, waving a broad hand between them. “Start over somewhere new, somewhere away from this place. You’re haunted, Elain. Anyone with eyes could see it.”

“Only you do,” she reminded him, her words a whisper.

“Because only I come to see you anymore,” he retorted without malice. “What good is immortality if you live it this way?”

“It’s a quiet life—” “For a quiet female,” he interrupted breezily. “A bland female without ambition, without passion. You’re none of those things, Elain.”

“You’re the only one who thinks so.”

Helions eyes blazed with a burning intensity. Rather than frightening her, his words excited her. The possibility of going away with him, of vanishing entirely was tempting. She knew she wouldn’t be able to avoid them forever. Eventually Feyre would march down and demand she participate in life again where Elain would be forced to see what became of Azriel. She’d have to watch his happiness, see him create the life she’d wanted without her.

Helion knew he’d hooked her. All he had to do was reel her in.

“You’ll never get to shine here, Elain. Always in your sisters shadows…with those bats looming over, watching your every move. This life you’ve cultivated…it’s small but you’re not. You’re meant for something bigger, something brighter. You could have that in my court.”

“I’m afraid,” she admitted.

“Lean into it,” Helion replied, sliding from his seat and falling to one knee in front of her. He took her hand, sandwiching it between his own. “Join me in Day, Elain. Just for the winter. If you hate it, I’ll return you in the Spring.”

His eyes betrayed him, twinkling with mischief. He didn’t think she’d ever ask to return or he wouldn’t have made the offer. Elain pulled at her fingers in her lap. “It’ll take me a day to pack.”

“Then I’ll be back for you tomorrow,” he replied, rising quickly to his feet. Elain joined him, heart fluttering when he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.

“Be waiting first thing,” he instructed. “Or I’ll be forced to help and be warned—I never learned to fold.”

“Someone ought to teach you,” she chided. Helion grinned.

“Perhaps. But not you. You’re not a servant, Elain. You won’t be treated like one in my court.”

She nodded, and with a sweeping bow, Helion vanished. He’d gotten what he wanted and yet Elain didn’t have it in her to be angry at all. She felt giddy, almost elated as she raced up the steps. She pulled a bright yellow bag from beneath the bed she once shared with Azriel, plopping it atop the dark sheets she hadn’t slept under since he’d left her. Elain slept on the couch now, close to the door. She didn’t know why it felt more comforting down there, why she couldn’t bring herself to truly face this palace.

She flung the curtains open, letting natural right stream over the dusty surfaces as she pulled clothes from her closet. Dark, cool tones greeted her, everything at odds with the bright warm colors Helion seemed to favor. She fished out the palest pink she could find, deciding to discard the rest.

Instead, Elain went to the bank Rhysand had deposited the money he’d given her for her service during the war and withdrew all of it. She wouldn’t need it here and didn’t want to forfeit it. Elain knew all too well how men liked to yank back support as a means of control, how Nesta had been denied their fathers estate despite being entitled to the entire thing. Rhysand had swore he’d deal with it, quietly pouring the remains into Feyre’s coffers because he believed she was owed it. Maybe she was…but it was a convenient means to force Cassian and Nesta together when Rhys tired of her antics.

Elain knew she could be manipulated the same, maybe not by Rhys but surely by Helion. If she fell from his good graces, if he tired of the novelty of her he might demand she make her one way, pay her own keep or worse. Marry a man of his choosing. After Azriel, Elain was done with romance. She was far too old besides at twenty-eight, though she didn’t look a day older than twenty two. She never would, though she certainly felt it. Had she still been a human, men would have turned up their noses at her, would have scorned her while wondering what was wrong with her. Why didn’t men want her?

A whole life bred for marriage and housekeeping and for what? It was all such a waste.

Elain stored all her coins at the bottom of the bag, hiding them beneath a blanket she didn’t care much for and her jewelry. She paused when she saw the gifts from Lucien—a pair of pearl earrings and enchanted gloves. She’d never had the heart to throw them away, not when they were so thoughtfully chosen, so well-suited to her tastes. Even now, holding the delicate objects over a trash bin, Elain couldn’t bring herself to do it. Maybe in a century she’d finally feel right about disposing of them. Instead, she tucked both into her white painted, wooden box and added it to her bag.

She slept on the couch one last time, her bag at her feet just in case. More than once, Elain woke to the darkness with a start, reaching for it as though it might disappear. She wasn’t convinced Helion was coming back until she heard him push open the door, unlocking it with that uncanny magic of his. He, too, didn’t seem to believe she’d come until he saw her there, bag at her feet.

“Should I say goodbye?” she asked him when he shouldered her bag of a muscular shoulder with ease.

“Do you want to?”

She could see the house, gleaming in the early morning light. It sat over the river, peering down at the city like a shining jewel. Feyre would be inside, likely waking with Nyx to feed him, to try and keep him from mischief. Rhysand would join her, his handsome face warm and smiling. Overhead in the mountains, Nesta and Cassian would still be in bed, late risers as always. Where would Azriel be? Who would he wake with? Was he even in the city at all? Her stomach twisted at the thought of seeing him, of the pity she’d find on everyone's faces.

“No,” she admitted. No one came to see her anymore. How long before they noticed she’d left at all? She imagined the relief they’d feel to be rid of her, a burden they didn’t have to shoulder anymore.

Helion offered Elain his hand, skin warm to the touch. “Then just leave. I’ll make sure they know where to find you.” Elain squeezed her thanks, letting him wrap her in the warm, bright light of his winnow.

Home to Day Court where she hoped she belonged.

LUCIEN:

Present day:

“Have you seen mother?” Eris demanded, catching Lucien on his way in from the stables. Lucien pulled his sweaty hair off his face, muscles aching from the workout he’d pushed himself through. It was punishment, though he’d never admit it. It felt good to work himself to the brink of exhaustion, to push new limits just to see how far he could go.

“No,” Lucien admitted. “Not for a few days, at least.”

Eris’s mouth pulled into a frown. “She’s not here at all.”

Lucien shrugged. “So? Maybe she’s meeting someone and doesn’t want you knowing.”

Eris’s face paled, eyes glazing over with thought. Lucien didn’t care what bothered Eris about their mothers potential liaisons. After centuries with Beron, his mother deserved to cavort about with whoever she liked as freely as she wanted. Autumn was still conservative and the courtiers would demand to see her mourn for a decade at least. Lucien hoped wherever she was, she wore a bright piece of clothing as she danced on Beron’s grave. He would be irate knowing his most tightly held possession had finally managed to slip through his grasp.

Lucien stalked off to his bedroom, sliding into the cool water of the bath in an effort to soothe his aching muscles. He might have slept there—he had more than once fallen asleep only to wake in tepid, uncomfortable water—but a feeling of anxiety was gnawing in the pit of his stomach. It was the general sense something wasn’t right, though he wasn’t sure what.

He dreaded these moments. Lucien was anxious perhaps by nature or his upbringing, but more than once Elain’s feelings slipped through his carefully crafted barrier, infecting his own mood without even noticing. She’d never learned to clamp down her own side, spoiled as she was. Why should she? He figured she didn’t care if she bothered him or not.

Lucien pushed but the feeling didn’t abate, making him jittery and restless. He washed himself carelessly, his mind flipping through hundreds of possibilities. Even dead, Beron could still infect this court, could still make him feel as if he needed to walk on eggshells. Water sloshed from his body, splattering against the tile of the bathroom. Lucien didn’t bother with a towel, padding to his empty bedroom to stare absently at the still open window. The sunlight was good though a shade too cold for his liking. He’d gotten used to summers in the human lands and the humidity that came with it. Though the weather Autumn changed—raining or bright and sunny in near equal measure—the temperature never did. It was always chilly, always on the precipice of winter. Some days were colder and others warmer but never enough for him to enjoy the outdoors the way he wanted.

He dressed once he was try enough, throwing on dark brown trousers and a white shirt held up with suspenders. His hair, long enough it fell down his back, was useless to him. He pulled it off his face absently, threw on his boots, and made for the door.

“Mother,” she said with surprise, seeing her pretty face just on the other side. “Eris is looking for you.”

“Yes,” she agreed, peering into his bedchamber. “Is now a good time?”

That anxiety in the pit of his stomach slithered up his throat, lodging just behind his mouth. “Sure,” he agreed uneasily, standing to the side so she could come in. There was nothing she shouldn’t see—Lucien had made his bed when he woke and kept his space generally tidy. She took the plus, maroon chair at the window, leaving him to occupy the window seat. His knee jiggled nervously, waiting for whatever she wanted to say.

“I don’t know where to start,” she said after a minute, her face surprisingly pale. She was already so fair, though she seemed a little sun bitten as of late. Her nose was dusted with light freckles, her cheeks just a shade rosier.

“Wherever you like,” he assured her. “You don’t have to keep secrets from me.”

She looked down at her hands twisting in her lap. “I have been, though. Keeping secrets, I mean.” “Ah, your secret lover, right?” he guessed with an easy smile. “I don’t need to know about that.”

“You do,” she all but whispered. “I wanted to tell you ages ago…I uh…Beron would have killed us both if I ever had. He only guessed, he couldn’t be certain, not with your red hair and those eyes—” “Mother,” Lucien interrupted, trying to keep his tone patient and kind despite his pounding, terrified heart. “You don’t need to say anything you don’t want to. The past is behind us. Father is dead.”

She shook her head. “Beron is dead,” she agreed, “But your father is not.”

Lucien could have died in that moment. For a long stretch of time neither of them spoke. He couldn’t swallow, his mouth drying out. He flared his nostrils, scenting her fear as she waited for him to absorb her words. He stood quickly.

“Don’t tell me,” he finally said, stomach flopping miserably to his feet.”

“I have to—” “I don’t want to know about a male who left you here to rot!” he snarled, not bothering to add the obvious. He didn’t want to make nice with male who’d left him.

“He didn’t know,” she whispered to his turned back. Lucien froze, so still he might have been made of rock.

“How is that remotely possible?” Lucien demanded, not daring to turn. He didn’t want her to see his fury and think it was directed towards her. “He must have realized once you were with child.” “We…I fell in love with him before I met your father…I…our romance spanned centuries…and six other children. He…I let him assume…I even hoped, when I realized you were coming, that you belonged to Beron.”

Lucien turned then, crossing the room to kneel in front of his mother. “Don’t tell me this,” he begged. “Autumn is my home, mother, please. I swear I don’t need to know.”

She shook her head of wine red curls sadly. “Beron learned of the affair and swore he’d kill you…but you were born with all those bright red curls.” She traced her nails along his jaw affectionately. “You looked just like me…so much like Tanwen that Beron could not deny you. I swore on your life you were his son but Lucien…”

“Mother,” he demanded, squeezing her hands. “Do not—” “Your brother and I bound you as a baby to conceal your magic, giving you only the kernel you inherited from me. Surely…you must feel it now? I can feel no spells wrapped around you.” He was going to vomit, was so close to puking all over her pristine white shoes. She was determined to tell him this.

Amera Vanserra straightened in her chair, shaking her hair off her shoulders. “I’ve told him this weekend. It is only a matter of time before you learn the truth as well. I want you to hear it from me.” “I don’t want to know,” he repeated. “Or meet him. I want to remain ignorant. Please, mother, do not tell me his name.” “It’s Helion Spell-Cleaver,” she finished, ignoring his desperate request. Lucien fell backwards as if she’d shoved him, sitting hard on his ass, ears ringing loudly. Not just any male, then. He’d imagined some Autumn courtier, a friend she’d had as a child, someone who knew her in ways Beron did not.

“Helion…” he repeated dumbly, trying to recall the High Lord's face. He’d seen him of course, in passing. They’d spent time beneath the mountain though they’d never interacted. Helion had never personally met with him as emissary, always too busy. He was too busy for Eris, too. Perhaps he was perpetually busy for any of Beron’s son, missing what lurked right beneath his nose. “How did you meet him?”

It seemed so unlikely, given how young and sheltered his mother was when she’d been married to his father.

“A Solstice ball,” she said fondly. “I convinced mother and father to bring me before my marriage since my fate was assured. They assumed I couldn’t get into any real trouble.”

“Just me?” he asked, wondering about his brothers. She nodded, her eyes soft and filled with fondness.

“Only you. Having one child is so rare, so difficult…I must have spent years trying for Eris. It would have taken a miracle to have a child accidentally and I was always so careful when I was with him…I got careless just once. I suppose it was enough.” “I guess,” he agreed. “How…what did he say?” “He…” her face fell. “He’s disappointed.” “At you?” Lucien demanded, suddenly angry. Her face betrayed her even as she very hastily assured him, “No, of course not. Just…at the situation. He regrets not being able to raise you.” He was angry with her, though, for keeping the secret. Lucien’s mother never had been much of a liar, despite the court she lived in. She wore her heart so plainly on her sleeve, was an open book in all regards. Helion had wounded her, his anger had sent her retreating to warn Lucien so there would be no surprises.

“I don’t blame you,” he told her. Lucien knew too well what Beron was like. “You had all of us to think about, not just me.”

Her eyes were glassy, bright with unshed tears. She nodded gratefully. “I tried so hard to keep you all safe.”

“You did,” he replied, catching how she winced. She’d buried two of her sons already. Only five had survived to adulthood, one killed by his own hands. “You did a wonderful job.” She stood, brushing a knuckle under one of her russet eyes. “It’s all going to work out,” he assured her, coming up with her to pull her into a hug.

“I hope so,” she whispered.

Lucien watched her go, counting cooly to one hundred in his mind before stalking out for his elder brother. Eris wasn’t hard to find, holed up in his office pouring over the financial health of their court with a frown. He looked up over the stack, rolling his eyes when he saw his younger brother. “You know.” It wasn’t a question. His mother had said as much.

Eris leaned back in the mahogany leather chair with a sigh. “You’d have to blind, what with your skin tone.”

Lucien could accept that. “Helion had words with mother over it.”

That made Eris sit up a little straighter. “He dared?” “Apparently,” Lucien retorted. “I think we ought to have a discussion of our own regarding how he speaks to females from our court.” Eris’s eyes glittered with excitement. “You want to confront dear old daddy already?”

“I don’t care if he’s my father,” Lucien spat, true enough for the moment. “But I care how he treats mother.”

Eris stood, hands braced against his desk. “Let’s cause a little chaos, brother.”

ELAIN:

Present day

“Want to swim today?” Arina asked Elain, sliding down the side of a wooden ladder effortlessly. Her lime green dress fluttered around her legs, making it look as if she were flying, if only for a moment. Elain set the book she’d been reading in her lap, her finger marking the page.

“Are you done in the library?” she questioned. Dragging Arina, one of Helion’s top scholars, from the library was a near impossible task. There was always something new she wanted to research, some nugget of information she didn’t know yet. Arina was a walking encyclopedia of knowledge which was a good friend for someone like Elain to have. Elain still felt woefully uneducated, not just about the world but her new life. Arina was endlessly fascinated with how Elain had been made fae, taking copious notes while Elain was just trying to vent.

“Yeah,” Arina agreed, glancing towards the long wall of glass windows. “I’m dying in here, besides. There isn’t enough cool air in the world to make today feel good.” “So you want to go outside?” she demanded, setting her book on a nearby table as she stood. Arina smiled, tossing a wavy lock of blonde hair over her shoulder. “Only long enough to get in the ocean.”

Elain smiled. “Let me go change.”

“Hurry, before Helion realizes we have too much free time and gives us another task.”

Helion had more than lived up to his promise that she could start over. For the first week, he left her to adjust in her new room, having meals sent up while Elain paced anxiously back and forth wondering if she hadn’t made a huge mistake. It was the first time since Azriel left her that she’d slept in a bed, the first time she’d woken with the sun shining directly in her face. There was no place for shadows here, nowhere for them to hide. Light penetrated every cranny, illuminating her world in a way she could only have dreamt of.

Helion didn’t have to coax her out this time. Elain went on her own, exploring tentatively until she ran into Arina. Arina had the personality of bubbling water. Like Helion, her skin seemed to shine bronze with that white inner light. Even in the dark, Elain could always find Arina. She’d taken Elain under wing without asking, making a friend of her by sheer will alone. It had been Arina who’d helped her buy her clothes, who’d introduced her to the other courtiers, and even who tried to talk her into more than one orgy. Elain wasn’t quite ready for that.

They parted ways at the wide, sweeping stairs that led upwards. Arina’s room was on the bottom floor, as close to the library as she could get. It was smaller than Elain’s suite though Arina swore she didn’t mind. Elain supposed only being a minute from her favorite place in the palace was worth the standup shower. Elain wouldn’t give up her shower for anything.

Some things had changed, but the one thing that never would was her relationship with her body. All she owned were skimpy two piece swimsuits which were perfectly fine when it was her and Arina on Helion’s private beach floating out to sea. She couldn’t bring herself to strut through the castle with her ass cheeks hanging out, and as compromise, threw on a sheer coverup. In reality, it hid nothing—the vast expanse of her stomach and legs were perfectly visible through the fabric, made worse when she was soaking wet.

Elain held it against her chest, slipping on a pair of shoes that wouldn’t track sand everywhere, and made her way back to Arina. She knocked loudly.

“Meet me at the pool!” Arina yelled, her voice breathlessly pitched higher. Elain flushed, well aware of what was happening. Like all Fae, Arina had none of her hesitation around sex or her body. Elain wondered if Arina was with the scholar from the week before or if she’d found some new male to occupy herself with.

Elain sighed. It might be an hour or more before Arina joined her, assuming she was having fun. Tempted to turn back to her bedroom, Elain squared her shoulders and marched to the courtyard where Helion’s personal saltwater pool lay. Glittering water shone brightly against the oppressive heat, unbothered even by the faint, cool breeze blowing off the ocean. Bright yellow chairs lay against the white mosaic tile, giving Elain plenty of options to dump her towel and her shoes. She looked over her shoulder towards the path that led towards the palace before untying her coverup and draping it over the back of the chair.

Elain inched closer to the edge of the pool, intending to sit on the side and dip her feet in first. A hand slammed against her back, sending her flying face first towards the water, swallowing a lung-full as she went. She spluttered, kicking back to the surface with a strangled gasp. Crouching at the edge, grinning ear to ear, was the infuriating face of Eris Vanserra. “Did you fall?” he asked, watching her swim towards the steps.

“You pushed me,” she choked, hating the way his smile widened.

“No, I’m pretty sure you fell. Very clumsy for a high fae. Must be the human in you,” he said, sneering his words. Elain hated him, hated him more when he turned towards he lawn chair to examine the objects she’d brought with her. He snatched the coverup as she darted from the water, one arm wrapped around her breasts.

“You’re a pretty little thing,” he crooned, ripping the fabric cleanly down the middle. “I’ll bet Helion’s whole court thinks so.” “Give it back,” she whispered, heart hammering in her throat. Eris balled it up in his fist, throwing the fluttering pieces to her feet.

“There you go. Put it on,” he added, grabbing her towel as she tried to dart around him. “Modest, suddenly?”

She didn’t know what he meant. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes. “Give it to me.” Eris launched it over her head, sending the clean, fluffy fabric plopping loudly to the pool. “Whoops. I guess you’re not the only one who’s clumsy.” Eris’s eyes didn’t look at her body at all, his amber eyes focused fully on her face. He was goading her into something though for the life of her, Elain couldn’t figure out what.

“This is about your brother,” she guessed, forcing herself not to cry.

Eris smirked. “Be more specific. I have a lot of brothers.” She wrapped both arms around her dripping wet body. “Lucien.”

It was humiliating to admit. Eris scoffed. “I don’t recall him giving you the time of day. You misunderstand me. I merely dislike females that fuck animals.”

Her mouth fell open, a tear gliding down her cheek despite her best efforts. “How embarrassing he dumped you. I’d think even a human could keep a rat with wings interested.”

Satisfied, Eris turned on his heel, boots glinting in the sun. Elain would never understand what prompted her to move, couldn’t put the rage she felt into words. She reached for his hair, tied off his face with a neat ponytail, and ripped so hard the pair of them went tumbling back into the water. Eris howled with rage, splashing roughly. Elain managed to keep her head above water for only a moment before he grabbed her by the ankle, dragging her beneath, his face twisted with fury. She scratched at him hard enough to draw blood, poking him sharply in the eye.

They surfaced at the same time, coughing and gasping. “I’m going to kill you,” he snarled, swimming towards her.

“Not if I do it first!” She screamed when his strong arms wrapped around her chest, elbowing him as hard as she could in the face. Eris’s nose poured blood into the once crystal water as he dragged her back beneath the surface. It was childish, their fight. Neither truly had the upper hand despite Eris’s size. He caught her in the gut, fingers pinching her thigh moments before she kicked him as hard as she could in the genitalia.

They went flying back for the surface just in time for Helion to come storming out, his face livid with rage.

“Do not touch her!” he roared, stopping Eris in his tracks. Eris pressed the back of his hand

against his nose, his rage practically burning. “You are five hundred years old,” Helion added. Eris was going to be punished, would perhaps be banished. Eris glanced to Elain, his loathing plain on his face.

“Do you want to defend yourself, High Lord?” he demanded. “I could hang you for this.”

Elain and Eris exchanged another glance. “I started it,” she said quickly. Helion rolled his eyes but in the scheme of things, Eris was bloodied and bruised and she was merely wet. “I…” she hung her head in mock shame, recalling how the Lady of Autumn had come to visit Helion on more than one occasion. “I said something unkind about his mother and he…he accused me of sleeping with an animal.” Helion’s face sharpened in her direction. Elain took another breath, ignoring the way Eris’s eyes practically burrowed into her skin. “I shoved him into the pool.” Helion shook his head. “It’s childish,” he spat. “Of both of you. I won’t tolerate that kind of talk or behavior, do you understand?”

They nodded like children being scolded by a furious parent. “You can both go back to where I found you…and you will, if I catch another fight like this.”

“I’m sorry,” Elain whispered, pulling herself from the pool, shame pooling in her gut. He’d never been angry with her before. It made her miserable to see. Helion turned on his heel, face still burning with rage, while Eris hopped out after her. He shrugged off the navy jacket he wore and flung it hard against her stomach.

“He wouldn’t have actually hung me,” Eris told her sullenly.

Elain put the too big, too wet jacket on before rounding on him slapping him hard against the cheek. “You owe me,” she hissed angrily. “One favor, that I can call in whenever I like.”

“Or what?” Eris breathed, his white shirt clinging to his lean chest.

“I’m sure there’s something that you want here,” she replied, tugging his jacket tighter around her chest. “I can be a real problem for you.”

“You already are,” he retorted. “Why don’t you crawl back to whatever trash heap you came from? I’m sure another bat—” “Elain?” Arina’s voice called, her sandals sharp on the flagstone. Eris straightened when Arina came into view, her bright orange swimsuit barely covering anything at all. Beside her, Eris’s face slackened at the sight, the usual reaction men had when they saw her. “I heard you were hurt. What happened?”

Elain looked up at Eris, still standing at attention. Arina spared him merely a glance, her expression shifting as if he’d struck her for only a moment. “Did he hurt you?”

“I would never hurt a female,” Eris said breathlessly, taking a step towards her. Elain flung out her forearm, stopping him from getting any closer. He looked down at her, his hatred apparent, lips pressed in a thin line. He didn’t want to agree to her favor? She’d make sure Arina refused to ever touch him. Elain smiled. “He shoved me in the pool,” Elain said, bouncing toward Arina with an injured look. Arina scowled.

“Autumn Court males are brutes,” she spat. Elain nodded, letting Arina put her arm around her wet shoulders.

“He tried to drown me—” “You gave as good as you got!” Eris yelled after their retreating backs, his jacket still draped over her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Arina whispered. “I got distracted.”

“Elain shook her sopping wet head. “It’s fine. Seriously, I’m fine. He’s…” He was an ass and he could have really hurt her if he’d wanted to. He could have held her beneath the water until she blacked out, could have lied and said he’d seen her fall and went in after her. She thought, privately, Eris was more angry than anything and looking for someone to vent his rage on. Why not her? She was an easy target.

“I’m going to get dressed,” Elain told Arina. “Meet you for dinner?”

Arina nodded, glancing back towards the courtyard where, presumably, Eris still stood. While Elain trekked miserably up the stairs, Arina redoubled her steps, perhaps to give Eris a piece of her mind.

She discarded her suit in the bathtub, throwing on a breezy blue dress without much care or thought. Elain took Eris’s jacket and launched it over the side of her balcony, letting it flop wetly into the dirt overlooking the olive grove just beneath her window. The thought of him climbing through the plants to retrieve it amused her greatly.

A knock at the door drew her attention away from her petty revenge. She turned with a smile, expecting to see Arina or perhaps Helion wanting to follow up about her spat in the pool. But it was Lucien Vanserra standing in that doorway, his tanned body leaned up against the frame. Elain stilled, every inch of her going rigid.

"So," he crooned, his voice crueler than she'd ever heard it. "How's that broken bond working out for you?"

"Don't you dare," she hissed, hating the way her eyes immediately sprang with tears. The Lucien from before might have backed down, might have offered an apology. This Lucien clearly hoped to hurt her. Elain didn't move, rooted to the spot.

"Dare what?" he demanded. "You know, I heard Azriel's engaged now? That was you, wasn't it? Last year, if I recall correctly. It's hard to remember though I suppose I could look at the fucking invitation you sent me."

"I was trying to bury the hatchet," she told him angrily. Lie.

"I know what you were trying to do, Elain. It was bitchy, even for you."

“What do you want?” she asked, bottom lip quivering again. His words wounded her, the first they’d spoken in almost two years. She ignored the soft pull in her chest, begging her to go to him. The same that had always lived here, superseding her good sense in an attempt to force her into basic, biological function.

He pressed his lips together, his handsome face made ugly by the scowl. “You didn’t know?”

“I don’t keep tabs on you,” she replied hotly, noting the way he flinched, as if she’d hurt him, too.

“Helion is my father, which I suppose makes this my court,” he told her with the same sneering tone his brother liked to use. “I’m merely seeing which courtiers I’ll purge when I take over.

“You’re a liar,” she snapped. “If anyone is Beron’s son, it’s you.” He staggered backwards at that, his anger sliding into fear.

“You have no idea what you’re saying,” he told her. Elain stepped towards him.

“I’ve seen enough of your dreams,” she told him hatefully. It was a lie. Elain had only ever seen his fantasies, how he dreamt of the two of them coming together. It used to terrify her when they’d met, of the strange man who wished to press his mouth against her skin, to taste every inch of her. “I know what kind of man you are.” “You’ll be the first to go,” he snarled, regaining himself.

“I’d like to see you try.”

Lucien rose to his full height, string down at her with unbridled hatred. “Oh you will, sweet mate.”

It was her turn to flinch. Lucien, satisfied he’d gotten the last word, turned without another word.

“Your jacket is cut poorly!” she called after him, furious with him. “You look all square from behind!”

Lucien’s head whipped around angrily just in time for her to slam the door in his face.

He wanted a war?

She’d give him a war.

#elucien #elucien fic #elain x lucien #elucien fanfic #elucien pain????#look you asked for this #dont come in my ask box all up in your feelings #this is what YOU wanted #i am merely a slave to your will #i do as I am told #like a good little writing robot

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