Chapter Text
"Inescapable. I'm not even gonna try. And if I get burned, at least we were electrified." - Taylor Swift
There were many things in Velaris that Elain had taken a while to become accustomed to.
The way the food tasted too delicious. The way colors and lights seemed too bright. The mere thought that she would never see the day that wrinkles would adorn her hands and silver would weave through her hair too unbelievable.
But Spring?
It had taken her less than an hour when the season rolled through during her first year in the city's borders for her to fall in love with the gardens.
And every year, she still did.
A tiny smile crept onto Elain's face as she stepped through the River House's front gates and slowly made her way up towards the house.
Tiny buds had finally appeared in the bushes lining either side of the cobblestone walkway. Flower stems–ones that she recognized preferred the warmer months–crept up from beneath the wilting leaves of those that favored the touch of snow. A breeze brushed against thin vines weaving along the pots that had remained untouched during the winter season. But they were always the first to be filled with fresh soil when the days grew longer and the sun finally kissed her cheeks with something other than the cold.
Spring hung temptingly in the air.
Hands mindlessly clasped behind her back, she lapped the walkway. Elain ticked off a short list in her head, marking each of the spots where a few weeds had already made an appearance.
Her smile only grew, though. The more, the merrier she would be with something to do.
Elain rounded off of the main path, skirts in hand, and climbed the steps to the terrace wrapped along the side of the house.
The Sidra gently lapped against its walls, shimmering beneath the morning sun. Spots reflected across its surface that could have rivaled the diamond necklace Amren had worn the night before as a parting gift from Varian. His return to Summer had earned whatever unlucky member of the Inner Circle (save for Nyx) looked her way at dinner a scowl or a scoff.
But even she had eventually succumbed to the pleasant weather, and a few glasses of wine in the back gardens eased most of her annoyance for the evening.
Elain could see it.
The season of life was coming again.
The season that she had never been able to put a feeling to other than the time that she felt alive.
Under the sun again, basking in the warmth, lying amidst her creations and her hard work at the River and Town Houses.
It was–
"And there's absolutely no way around it?"
Elain stopped short.
Rhysand's voice seemed to echo in the still quiet. Nothing but the river and the distant brush of the flowers to break the silence.
She carefully looked from one end of the terrace to the other, and waited for a moment.
No sign of her brother-in-law.
Pure instinct tugged her eyes up.
A large window, nearly touching the corner of the house on the second floor, had been thrown open. Gauze curtains fluttered in the breeze, but apparently did nothing to stifle the conversation within.
Elain's shoulders eased, and she lightly shook her head. Whatever plans Cassian needed to discuss for the Illyrian camps, or whatever pleas Mor tried to pass along for the High Lord and Lady to host some magnificent party for Velaris, she knew she didn't need to be privy to (not that they ever really sought out her opinion anyways).
Elain took all but two steps.
"Not unless you'd like to receive a letter in a month on the number of families starving in the villages."
And froze again.
A warm voice–rich and timbered–was suddenly strained.
Her head whipped back.
Elain knew she had heard the steady thump of his heartbeat when he had first arrived. Had glanced at the kitchen door when a warmth suddenly bled from the center of her chest; slow and soothing.
A gentle hello she knew he hadn't sent on purpose, but one that had threaded a golden string between her ribs the moment his boots had entered through the front door.
Lucien.
She had half-expected him to follow the scent of fresh scones and herbal tea as a sleepy Feyre had an hour before. Her sister had wandered into the kitchen rubbing her eyes, sunk down onto a stool by the counter, and nearly drooled into the sugar (had Elain not been there to gently poke her cheek and nudge her to actually sit up and eat before her High Lady duties sped her off for the day).
But by the time she had gotten Feyre to perk up and check on her nephew–who had discovered the tiny wings on his back weren't for decoration–and Elain had finally been able to excuse herself to make her rounds, the front hall and sitting room were vacant.
The lingering scent of pine, sandalwood, and a light cinnamon had already trailed up the stairs to the High Lord's study.
Elain had frantically pushed away the disappointment that had settled over her.
Now, it curled into something deeper.
A small knot, steadily growing by the moment.
Because she had never heard the warmth in his voice dip so low, to something almost grave. Almost drastic.
"Believe me, Rhys," Lucien sighed. "If there was a way out of it, I would've taken it already."
"I don't doubt you."
There was a pause between the two.
Elain carefully looked to her left and right again, and even stretched her neck to see around the corners of the terrace.
But, considering the hour of the morning, and the number of drinks that had been passed around the table the night before, there wasn't so much as a glimpse of wings or even Nesta's sharp stare.
Elain craned her head back, and watched as the curtains brushed against the walls before they were sucked back into Rhys' study. Her teeth lightly gnawed on her bottom lip, and she kneaded her fingers in front of her.
It was improper. No matter how many times her mother had nudged her to the edge of the circles with twittering mothers or the girls her age that leaned over one another's shoulders to whisper about who was wearing the most hideous dress in the room, Elain had always paused in hurrying back to her to spill whatever gossip she was after. One harsh glare and a scolding about her necessary observance had normally loosened her tongue, but not without leaving a bitter taste down her throat.
But she wouldn't be saying anything–technically.
It was the best and only excuse she could muster before Elain stepped to the side and flattened her back against the wall.
She stared out across the river, and took a slow breath.
Every ripple in the Sidra. Every bird that twittered. Every soft flutter of the gauzy curtains above her head. Elain strained her ears, digging back into those first few months in Velaris when she had thought she was going to drive herself insane with every little sound.
She pushed past it all. It was only then that she finally heard Rhys sigh.
"There's still no sign of him?"
"None," Lucien replied. "The last I actually saw of him was a little over three months ago. He's still roaming the forests."
Boots shifted on the wood floors.
Elain forced herself to keep her eyes from falling shut as the image of Lucien standing before the High Lord barrelled to the front of her mind. Shoulders tall, posture stiff, a crisp shirt beneath a finely pressed jacket. There was a quiet rustle, and she could practically see the moment he ran a hand through his hair, loosening the strands before snatching his hand back to his side.
He hated the habit. Had told her as much after she had laughed and pestered him about what his fidget possibly could have been that wouldn't have compromised the "mask of the emissary". She hadn't dared to mention that she watched every time he did it now, and had caught herself wondering on more than one occasion if it was truly as soft as it looked…
Elain shook her head.
"More often than not, he keeps to himself." It was Lucien that released a heavy sigh. "A week ago, he apparently scared the soul out of one of the nymphs that lives closer to the border of the Human Lands. Her brother used to be one of his sentinels, but he returned home after everything that…happened."
Even she couldn't miss the way his voice dropped, like something bitter hung in the pause.
Rhys didn't either. "Careful, Vanserra."
"I didn't say anything."
"Maybe not aloud."
Elain could feel the magic that crackled in the room above her. It was the low warning she knew came in any sharp glance or long stare when anything even remotely related to the status of the Spring Court came up during the Inner Circle's gatherings–especially when a certain russet-eyed emissary was present. And, more often than not, said nothing. Only took a sip from his wine, or passed a fleeting glance at Feyre before looking away again.
It was enough to make Elain swallow, and she sank further against the wall, nearly going onto her toes to keep from being seen.
The knot in her stomach went taut.
And for the first time, she suddenly wondered if the feeling was even hers.
"The nymph's brother was the one that came by the manor. He told me that she had stumbled upon Tamlin in the middle of one of his hunts." Lucien stopped for a moment. Longer than needed, and only continued after he lightly cleared his throat. "She hadn't even known it was him. The brother even thought it was something from the Middle by the way she described him."
Elain blinked.
She knew what Tamlin was. From that very first day he had burst into their cabin to the stories Feyre recounted to her and Nesta. In one respect or another, she knew it wasn't all so wrong to call the High Lord of Spring a beast.
But a tiny, almost imperceptible emotion brushed against her ribs. The kind she felt when Lucien never meant to use the bond, and rushed to apologize when she curiously glanced at him when he did.
A fleeting nostalgia, and sadness. For a different time, in a different world, when Tamlin wasn't a monster…but a friend.
She pressed her lips into a thin line, and kept herself from letting anything on her end bleed through.
Rhys tapped a glass or a pen to his desk. "Meaning he's unavailable."
Lucien huffed. "Meaning he wouldn't go anywhere near that cave or so much as come within the borders of the manor that night."
Her brows slowly drew together, and Elain stared at the curtains.
What night?
"That leaves us with few alternatives." She could almost hear the moment Rhys' eyes shot back to Lucien. "Unless there is someone willing to take his place."
Elain prayed to whatever gods or Mother watched from above that Lucien's words still held true a few years later. That he couldn't hear the way her heart sped up, and the blood creeping into her ears matched every wave that hit against the terrace.
"Lucien."
Rhys' voice had dropped low on his name, the gravity hanging off of it enough to sink that knot writhing in her gut like a stone.
Her frown deepened, and she fisted a hand over her heart, begging it to slow down.
Propriety, and her mother's scoldings of looking like some gossiping school girl, be damned.
Something was wrong.
"From the beginning, I think you've been as much aware as I have that there have been strings pulled and situations that were beyond your control that initially brought you into my Court. Should circumstances have been different…am I wrong to assume that your position as the Night Court's emissary is the last place you would have ever found yourself?"
Lucien released a sound from the back of his throat–somewhere between a scoff and a snort. "I can't say it was ever very high on my list."
"Exactly." Rhys' chuckle was light, but it was the sudden scrape of a chair that made Elain jump.
Footsteps drew close to the window.
"But that being the case, you are still a member of this Court. There are conditions, obligations…responsibilities. You know this. You knew it under Tamlin, too."
The High Lord finally stopped, and Elain had never wanted Nuala or Cerridwen's abilities more. Even Azriel's, if only to just slink away into the shadows without having to hide from a pair of violet eyes that roamed over the Sidra and the city beyond.
"But this…"
Rhys trailed off. A step, and Elain knew he had turned to face his emissary again.
"Lucien, I am leaving you to this decision."
She didn't dare breathe.
"W-What?"'
But nothing could have prepared her for the breathless shock in that one word.
It wasn't a furious demand. It wasn't a witty surprise. It carried none of that sarcastic, charismatic, or even rakish warmth that normally earned him a glare and a light swat on the arm.
"As your High Lord, I can urge you to take whatever measures are necessary," he said slowly. Almost cautiously. "I will urge you to find the means or a replacement for the ceremony. It's not exactly a secret that the Spring Court and my family aren't on…good terms."
She forced herself to believe that the shiver that ran down her spine was nothing but the breeze.
"But they are still a Court of Prythian." Smooth fabric rustled, and she could imagine him sliding his hands into his pockets. "I know that there are innocent faeries there. Innocent families. And when their High Lord refuses to act like one…"
Elain's eyes darted between the window and the sky as a long pause drew out between them, only broken by Rhys' offer again.
"I'm leaving this to you. It's your choice."
"Is it?" Lucien's demand was quiet.
And she couldn't help but wonder the same.
"You are welcome to find someone else in his stead," Rhys replied. "But the magic of Calanmai is picky as it is powerful."
Silken fabric rustled again, and she heard him swallow. "Please know that I see where your reservations come from, though. This burden shouldn't have to fall to you. Especially as a…mated male."
Utter guilt dripped from that one word, and Elain swallowed a gasp.
Teetering on the edge of the bond, as if he were holding onto the edge of a net with every last strand of willpower he had, she could sense Lucien's emotions again. They pounded against the door of the bond, and threatened to reveal her below. She was only saved by the grip on that net she knew he wouldn't break–not if it meant she drowned in the storm that he was holding at bay.
Of Anger.
Of Shame.
Frustration.
Resentment.
Fury.
Most terrifying of all, and the one that tugged Elain's brows together in a deeper frown, was something heavy. Begrudging, and sinking into the depths of his heart the longer he stayed silent, like he couldn't keep it from happening.
Acceptance.
"Anything else?" Lucien asked quietly. Elain didn't need to feel the light tug on her heart to hear the strain in his voice.
Had she suspected it to be any other High Lord than Rhys, she would never have bothered to consider the idea that one of them might bother to "bow" to someone of a lesser standing. But there was so much weight–so much guilt–behind the violet eyes that slowly flicked from Lucien, to the Sidra, and to the floor.
"No," he said gently. She imagined him shaking his head once. "You're dismissed."
No sooner had the words left him, boots turned and quickly strode for the door. It opened, and slammed shut with just as much force.
Elain's breath shuttered from her chest. Her breast stung when she finally pulled back her nails from where they had clung to her heart.
It was faster–louder–than anything she had ever felt before, and it alone peeled her away from the wall. Her feet carried her back across the terrace before she had a moment to consider if it, too, was even hers anymore.
Or if it simply matched the tune of the raging thump still within the River House that marched down the hall, and all but ran down the staircase.
Elain hurried her steps to keep up with it.
She dutifully ignored the cool brush against her mind. Violet eyes went with it, peering at the back of her head from between curtains that had probably betrayed her the moment Rhys had stepped towards the window.
But she didn't care.
Not when question after question burned her tongue, as hot as the storm of emotions lingering on the edge of the bond.
What was it that Lucien even had to stand in for? To the extent that a High Lord was supposed to be at the center of it? Why did it matter that she was his mate? That she knew him by name, by sound, and by smell without ever having to see him?
Was it a party? A festival?
Worry crept beneath a different possibility.
Was he supposed to fight? A tournament perhaps? Was it a duel of some kind, where he could be hurt?
Would she even know if he was?
Elain couldn't let herself fathom the possibility that Rhys would willingly send him off to be killed, but she gasped and nearly tripped over her skirts at the sheer possibility.
What was Calanmai?
She darted back around the front of the house, and halted when the door flew open.
Lucien–just as she had imagined him standing in Rhys' study–strode down the cobblestone path. Shoulders tense, and hands curled into fists at his sides. Moving at a speed that couldn't get him far enough from the house fast enough.
Elain rushed to the stone railing.
"Lucien!"
He froze instantly, and slowly turned over his shoulder.
Her heart, that had pounded in her chest and in her head, almost stopped.
Gone was the perfect mask of the courtier and emissary. Every emotion that she had felt through the bond was etched on his face. She could see the twitch in his jaw, and the way a russet and golden eye darted across her face, attempting to school his features again.
But he failed.
She watched, gripping the railing to keep herself from staggering at the heaviness that settled over her–over his–chest, as he released a shaky breath, shoulders slumping forward.
His eyes drifted shut, and he dipped into a low bow. Molten hair, tied at the nape of his neck, slipped over his shoulder. It might have been a glowing flame in the sunlight.
On any other day, it might have made the blood rush to her cheeks. The sight of his golden skin stretched across lean muscles, and hidden beneath a style that she could only describe as him; a perfectly pressed shirt, polished boots, fitted trousers that accentuated his legs to the point it should have been a sin for him to wear them so casually. All grace, and all poise, molded into a natural sarcasm and teasing smirk that bordered cordiality. Even when, as of late, she didn't always want him to…
But Elain blinked, and felt her blood run cold when he straightened.
Silver lined his russet eye.
"Lucien?"
Another wave of guilt and shame flooded the bond, and Elain couldn't suppress her shudder.
His head dipped forward once more, and she watched as he silently mouthed the words "My Lady". A weak smile pulled at his lips, and he just…looked at her. As if he were branding the moment into his memory.
And begging in a desperate yet silent plea for her forgiveness–of all things.
Elain stumbled back, and grabbed her skirts, preparing to run to him if she needed.
"Lucien, wait!" she cried. "Lu–"
He vanished before she could even finish his name.
Elain halted on the steps, staring at cobblestone, lips parted and eyes frantically looking past the gate for any sign of him. But the sound of his winnow lingered in the front yard instead, and echoed in her chest.
And it burned.
Scorched the edges of the bond until her ribs felt tight, and the image of actual tears in his eyes searing itself into her mind.
She sank to her knees, shoulder pressing into one of the columns.
Never had she seen him like that. Never had his exterior actually cracked in front of her. Even now, when strict and almost cold cordiality finally began to thaw just a few months before, the Lucien she knew had never cracked.
Not even that first day when, by mere coincidental and accidental fate, she had broken their almost year-long silence that had emerged after Winter Solstice. Whether it had been because he had taken her reaction to his gift (that had infuriated her for fitting her so perfectly when the male had known almost nothing about her besides her name) as the final straw, or something in the bond had finally alerted him to the reality that her mate was not the one her heart had pulled her towards (nor the one she had almost kissed), a sort of chill had settled over the bond; a cool indifference, that lingered anytime they had accidentally looked at one another when Feyre invited him for dinner, or were literally forced into conversation by the rest of the Inner Circle.
She could have taken a knife to the tension and the walls that had been thrown up between them. But it hadn't stopped the bond from giving her mind a gentle nudge whenever he had arrived at the River House. It hadn't stopped her from glancing at Azriel and the priestess that Nesta had convinced to join them from time to time, and silently yearning for someone to look at her the way Azriel's eyes lingered on Gwyn.
Above all, it certainly hadn't stopped the dreams. There were the simple ones, where she could see the vague outline of him. Some, where he sat with her or walked in circles, and simply talked into the morning hours. And the others…those she had refused to even consider once she awoke with her skin burning, and sweat (and she told herself, it was sweat) clinging to her skin and the inside of her thighs.
So why on that day, when he had entered the kitchen for a glass of water, and found her in the midst of preparing a batch of cookies, had she turned and been so startled at the sight of him that she had dropped the bowl to the floor? More so, when it shattered, and glass and batter littered the floor, why had she allowed him to hurry over and offer to help?
Why she accepted it…she had no idea.
Why she had waited until the very last of the bowl had been thrown away to thank him…she still didn't know.
Why she had paused, watched as he bowed and made a move to take his leave and continue ignoring one another for the next ten centuries, and had blurted at the last moment if he would have cared for one…she didn't understand.
Lucien likely hadn't either, if the genuine surprise that had passed over his expression had been anything to go by. Until he had snapped his jaw shut, tucked his arms behind his back, and dipped his head in gratitude at her offer.
He hadn't taken one that day. Something tight and uncomfortable had lingered in his eyes when he attempted (and failed) to explain why he couldn't. But despite her confusion, and the awkward tension that had practically dripped from the walls, he had bowed at the waist, and remarked that he always knew when she was the one baking in the kitchen. The slight in the comment, that she had since realized had only meant to be an observation, had spurred to ask if he knew, simply because the rest of the Inner Circle would have burned the kitchen to the ground, rather than actually baked in it.
His answering surprise at her quick tease had nearly drowned her in mortification, but she was graciously saved when a tiny smile–a real smile–had twitched at his lips. She had nearly tossed herself out the window just by the speed in which her heart had jolted at the sight of it.
It was the first glimpse she had ever had of the male behind the mask.
And with each day that followed when she had stumbled upon him in the gardens or the library, or passed him in the hall or down the stairs, or their eyes met one another's from across the living room as Cassian either roared with drunken laughter or Nyx attempted to crawl, that ice that had solidified over their bond began to thaw. Nods of greeting became actual conversation; untouched bags of tea in the back of the kitchen cabinets became a weekly ritual on the terrace when he was in the city; her embarrassed flushes when he would tease became swats on the arm; his tentative smiles became rakish smirks or genuine laughter.
The presence in her life that she had once attempted to shut out entirely became inescapable. Whether he was there, or off to one of the other Courts, or visiting Jurian and Vassa in the Human Lands. She knew she could have shut him out, or locked that string tied around her ribs away for however many thousands of years she would be forced to endure the pull.
But as the days bled into weeks, and the weeks into months…
Elain realized that she didn't want to.
Not when Lucien, whom she thought was nothing but a stranger, turned into one of her closest friends. Not when the male that had distanced himself for–what she had learned–her sake and her sake alone hid a charming and sarcastic nature beneath his courtier exterior.
Not when the word "mate" slowly became less of a stake in her life, and more of a planted seed. And, despite her efforts to assure herself otherwise, she couldn't help the tiny curl of hope in her that maybe it was beginning to grow.
Or…she thought it had.
Elain laid her palms flat on the steps.
Lucien's shoulders had slumped. His hands had trembled.
He had nearly cried.
Never once, even during their deeper conversations, when the River House was quiet and only the stars were their audience, and they had treaded into waters that dared to snap their truce–their friendship. But he remained a steady rock for her to lean against when her tears fell, and not just for herself. They had talked about Graysen; they had talked about his mother; they had talked about the bond; they had talked about the odd sensation they both seemed to experience when they were around the Inner Circle, or down in Velaris when the city was bustling in the middle of the night. Just a tiny itch, like their pieces in the puzzle of the life that Feyre and Rhysand had built for themselves didn't quite match.
He had stayed silent at times. Had looked her in the eye with something that stole her breath away.
But never afraid. Never fearful.
And that alone had the string in her chest tightening.
Elain wasn't sure how long she sat there, playing Rhys and Lucien's words back and forth to one another over and over again. Trying to find where and what it was that shot shock and shame to her end of the bond.
Unless there is someone willing to take his place.
It might have been minutes, hours, or days before she mindlessly pushed herself to her feet and walked back inside.
This burden shouldn't have to fall to you.
Pure habit took her through the hallways and back to the kitchen. Bowls clattering against the counter finally lifted her gaze from the floor.
The magic of Calanmai is picky as it is powerful.
Nuala and Cerridwen could have blended together as one with the ease in which they moved from one side of the kitchen to the other. Spices, batter, bags of flour, and almost any array of spoon or bowl had been emptied from the cabinets and perfectly aligned over the countertops. For no reason other than that she knew that they enjoyed the smell and space of a kitchen as much as she did, it no longer surprised her to find the twin wraiths in such a state.
And they no longer needed to ask if she wanted to join.
There are conditions, obligations…responsibilities.
As soon as she stepped through the door, they glanced up and offered her wide smiles. Elain returned it–as best she could manage–and grabbed her apron from over the back of her chair.
I know that there are innocent faeries there. Innocent families.
By mid-day, it was almost completely covered in anything and everything that could have been put in or taken out of the oven.
But Elain didn't care.
I'm leaving this to you. It's your choice.
Her hands moved at the same speed that her mind did. Kneading dough, whisking together batter, lying out strips of pudding or filling before wrapping or shaping it into a bun. While Nuala and Cerridwen were content to fill the space with light conversation (or more accurately, light gossip) as the day wore on, Elain hummed in acknowledgement or laughed politely when it was necessary. She was thankful that the two didn't comment on her lack of.
If they had, Elain wouldn't have been able to answer.
Because no matter what she did, she couldn't shake that word from her mind.
That single, damning word.
Calanmai.