Fluttering Wings

by olenvasynyt

Summary:

Plagued by mysterious visions and war on the horizon, Elain Archeron must challenge herself and her usefulness to the Night Court. So when Lucien is called back to his estranged home to stop Beron from gaining territory in Spring, the two mates find themselves confronted with similar paths, forced to address the mating bond they've been avoiding for two years.

Notes:

This is my first multi-chapter Elucien fanfic, so I hope you enjoy! I needed another outlet to write my Autumn Court headcanons from A Court Of Embers and Sunlight lmao

For Elucien Week 2025 Day 4: New Beginnings!

Chapter 1: Myrmidon Jasmine

The grass was cool and wet under her feet.  Leaves crumbled and twigs cracked, echoing through the forest air.  She was running, running…her hair ripping through the air behind her and catching in the wind.  Someone was calling her name, their voice filled with so much laughter and warmth.  

“You can’t fly away from me.  I know you will come back.”

She ignored him, even as her smile widened.  Bells tinkled at her ankles as she quickened her pace, and the buzzing of insect wings vibrated against her back.  Broken light trickled between the jeweled leaves, dotting the forest floor with shimmering gold.

“Catch me, Lu.  Catch me.”

⌘

Darkness greeted Elain when she woke.  Heavy, almost suffocating darkness, only made softer by the sunrise that simmered beneath the horizon.   Outside her window, the River House garden and The Sidra beyond were still asleep in the twilight air: her flowers were indecipherable in the darkness, and the riverbank a churning, crooning mystery.

But the birds were wide awake.  The cooing of doves filled the air, along with the happy, incessant chirping of black birds and thrushes.  Elain listened to them as she stared up at the bed canopy, willing her body to wake.

Her dream sat under her skin still.  It was like a bird fluttering at her rib cage, cooing and tweeting and struggling against the walls of her heart.  She swore the image was embedded in her mind: the brilliant orange glow, the swaying leaves and creaking woods… The sky had been such a vibrant blue above the fiery canopy.  She had never seen a sky that color, even in the Night Court’s fae beauty.  Did the cold of the air make it seem brighter?  Did the ruby and gold leaves bring out the brilliant hue?  Gods… she doubted even a painter as wonderful as Feyre could have captured its vibrance.

Elain closed her eyes.  It hadn’t been one of her visions, right?  The dream had felt like her powers, with its strange heaviness.  She always felt herself sinking deeper into her body, like an anchor dropping into the sea.  But at the same time, she knew the dream was something different.  It clung to her like a distant memory.  An array of feelings stirred inside her body like a gentle wind: warmth, love, maybe even victory and determination.  It had been a life of wildness and freedom, of a stubborn determination to be something more, to go somewhere else.

But it hadn’t been her life.  Elain felt herself sink inward at the thought.  Her life had always been sheltered and quiet, with loved ones constantly at her side and their words hanging heavy in her ears.  

A dense weight tugged at her eyelashes as she stared up at her bed canopy.  She could have easily fallen back into the warmth of her blankets, but she forced herself out of bed.  After getting dressed in an outside dress and her muck boots, she crept out of her room and headed to the garden.  

The sunrise was growing now: purple clouds flushed from the waking dawn and the air was delightfully cool: the epitome of springtime shifting into summer.  Elain walked determinedly down the garden path, sending a group of anxious doves fluttering in alarm.  

Get your tools, water the flowers , she told herself, following her usual checklist.  A sunhat was not necessary so early in the morning, but she went past the compost bin to the garden shed and grabbed other tools that would be necessary for her tasks: a watering can and an apron.  

The shed was dark when she entered, its frosted windows showing only a blur of indigo and violet. She maneuvered blindly until she found the shelves stuffed with her organized tools. Her tool kit sat on the center rack; she pulled it out and popped open the clasp, sounds sharp and loud in the quiet.  But just as she lifted  the lid—

Bells tinkling, a chorus of distant male laughter… leaves crunching under her bare feet…

The lid banged against the tool kit, rattling the metal tools.  

The world was not a blur of indigo and lavender, but red, gold, stunning blue…

She squeezed her eyes shut.  Focus on something else , she thought. Focus on anything else .  Anything .  

The light reached to her through the frosted glass windows of the shed, covering her with a blanket of lilac.  The mourning doves cooed in the garden, their wings whistling as they took flight. 

…the fluttering of wings against her back…

She gripped the tool box blindly, her nails digging in the wood.  Gods… her visions hadn’t been this bad since she arrived to Night.  Since she was up in the House of Wind.  With time and desperation, she had learned how to shut them out: usually with several deep breaths, an empty room, and sometimes a quick nap if it was too bad.

But this vision—this dream , she corrected herself—was heavier and more alluring than she had experienced since The Cauldron.  

…Broken light trickled between the jeweled leaves, dotting the forest floor with shimmering gold…

A wave of frustration made her clench her teeth. Gods, I’m going insane, aren’t I?  It was just a dream.  Just a dream.  

Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming…she was always dreaming, always Seeing… always sinking down, down, an anchor into the sea…

After taking a deep, rattling breath, she focused on the scent of dirt and flora wrapped around her.  Maybe after gardening and having breakfast, she could make a pie.  The Spring Equinox had occurred a week ago, but the Summer Solstice was approaching, and she had an abundance of blueberries Feyre had brought her from a trip to Adriata.  Yes, that would be her main activity today.  Baking a blueberry pie to celebrate the return of summer.  Simple chores, a quiet, unassuming life.  

With several more deep breaths, she found her body settling again.  Not enough to feel normal, but she hadn’t felt normal for a long time.  

Get your tools, water the flowers , she reminded herself.  Apron and watering can, apron and watering can… 

With her hands shaking slightly, opened her tool kit again. A grass-stained apron was folded on the top, and the feeling of its soft, familiar fabric comforted her slightly.  It was fairly clean despite a few grass stains near the knees, and she reminded herself to wash it later.  

Little, menial tasks like washing clothes and watering her plants to keep herself busy throughout the day.  That’s what she had to cling on to to feel somewhat insane, she scoffed to herself.

Just as she pulled the apron out of the tool kit, she caught sight of what sat underneath.  

Gardening gloves sat on the bottom of her tool kit, its soft brown leather and stitching glowing in the rising sun.

The jolt of the bond was like a physical knife stabbing her chest.  She slammed the wooden lid of the tool box closed, her hands suddenly shaking.

 Gods, his scent was still on them.  It had been two years, two years since he gave her those gloves, and the aroma of rich plums, cinnamon, and woodsmoke refused to fade.  She could still smell it, even though the tool kit was now closed.  

The bond that sat silently between her ribs writhed slightly, curling around her heart…

No .  She threw her apron on, her fingers shaking at the ties.  She didn’t need those gloves.  She told herself that the second she had unwrapped the box in the warm solstice light.  It was so shameful to bury them in the bottom of the box, to ignore their usefulness and charm…but she had to.  She even avoided touching the soft leather, as if the feeling would evoke something she wanted to steer clear of. 

With her apron on and a full watering can in her hand, Elain hurried out of the shed and went to work.  Watering the flowers was always something she did in the morning, to give time for the roots to properly soak up the water without the worry of evaporation in the sun.  She filled up a metal can with the spigot several times, going up and down the many rows to soak every inch of soil.  

If only the Cauldron had made me into a Summer Fae , she thought as she filled the can for a third time.  Having the power to conjure water would be significantly more helpful than blacking out from meaningless visions.   

But she enjoyed her work in the garden and its monotonous tasks.  Her garden was always a comfort, even if her magic grew too wild under her skin.  Her dream still climbed up her spine, trying to feel its way back into the crook of her skull, but she only felt her aching arms and the air growing warm with the rising sun.

She felt nothing when she was working.  Absolutely nothing at all.

Elain continued watering into the morning twilight, listening to the cooing of doves and the awakening nature.  It would be a good day today, she assured herself,  ignoring the heaviness of her eyelids.  There was something to look forward to besides the rest of her routines.  Not only would she make her pie, but she had new flowers to plant.

After putting away her watering can, she went back to the shed and brought out her newest collection of sprouts: Myrmidon jasmine from Day.  Nesta and Cassian had brought a dozen back from their honeymoon in the Myrmidon mountains, and Elain had nearly squealed in delight when Nesta brought her to the shed to show her.  The small clusters of creamy green leaves and dazzling white blooms seemed to glow in the lavender twilight, like their petals were imbued with magic.  

“They looked so wonderful up in the mountains, Elain,” Nesta had told her, her face glowing with happiness as Cassian held the small of her waist.   “They were like a galaxy of stars.”   

Of course Nesta saw the beauty of Night in another court.  This was her home, and every lovely thing reminded her of it.  But as Elain carried out two of the Myrmidon jasmine to their designated row, she thought they were like little suns sitting in the leaves, with their petals curling out like rays of light.

Stars, suns…they were one in the same, weren’t they?  Elain dug a hole for the sweet-smelling plant and placed it carefully in its new home.  Their fresh beauty calmed something in her, and she swore the heaviness beneath her eyelids had lifted.

Just as she planted the last sapling, the first rays of the sunrise peeked over the horizon, lighting the world with a brilliant orange and gold.  Its buttery warmth brushed at her skin, placing soothing kisses down her arms and the back of her neck and waking up her weary eyes.

It should have comforted her.  Her world seemed so much happier with all of this sunlight.  Even the jasmine seemed to brighten, shining spots of white onto the freshly watered soil around them. 

But another flash of ruby and gold made her flinch.

The grass was cool and wet under her feet.  Leaves crumbled and twigs cracked, echoing through the forest air…

She closed her eyes, the watering can suddenly feeling impossibly heavy.   That familiar, damning tug…this wretched, cursed magic… Gods, she was sick of this.  Her visions were meaningless .  Her dreams offered her nothing besides longing for something she didn’t need.   

After setting down her can, Elain went back inside, leaving the warm light behind her.

⌘

“You can’t seriously be thinking about sending Elain to Spring .”

Elain was halfway to the kitchens when Feyre’s voice rang throughout the hall.  She froze in her tracks.  

Rhys seemed to have forgotten the silencing wards he usually cast on his office to ensure privacy during meetings, because her sister’s words were clear as air.

Rhysand’s voice was cool.  “Calanami was a disaster this year, Feyre.  If Tamlin’s magic fades any more then we’ll be even closer to losing Spring.”

“I’m not sure I see the problem with that.”

“If we lose Spring, then we’ll lose it to Beron, and he’ll be this much closer to gaining footing in the human lands.  We do not want Beron to expand territory, Feyre.”  

Rhysand’s voice was sharp, as if he was addressing an inferior instead of an equal.  His High Lady.  Elain’s lips pursed as she leaned up against the wall.  She always kept her head down and tried to ignore the political conversations she was not invited into, but she always noticed how Rhys switched roles when it convenienced him.  Not just with his mate, but with his brothers, his cousin…s ometimes he was more like a family member or friend, while other times he was something akin to a father figure.  

Her sister scoffed.  “So you want to offer Elain up to what?  Participate in an impromptu Calanmai?”

“That’s not what I’m suggesting.”

“Then what are you suggesting?  We don’t know what her powers are, and I still don’t think she has the constitution to train them.”

Elain pursed her lips.  What a way to interrupt her carefully routine day; overhear her sister and brother-in-law discussing her and her constitution .  Of course that was still Feyre’s idea of her: meek, simple, and far too innocent and scared to handle her powers, let alone the rest of Prythian.  

She wished she could prove her wrong.  Her body writhed and screamed to do something, to offer her family anything that would be useful .  But her offer to scry for the Trove had been ignored and the task was instead forced on Nesta, despite her initial refusal.  And now, self-doubt sat like a rock in her mind.  

“You would be putting my sister at risk if you send her to Spring.”

“Lucien is stationed permanently in the capital, and I have some resemblance of faith towards him,” Rhysand answered carelessly.

Elain practically flinched at the sound of his name.  Lucien .  She pressed her hands into the wall to steady herself.  Something akin to anger and defensiveness bubbled inside at Rhys’s sardonically coy remark, the feeling so unprecedented in the way it mixed with her confusion, longing, and frustration…

Lucien was stationed in Spring.  She had no idea, though frankly she avoided any sort of conversation that would give her the slightest bit of information of his whereabouts and activities.  None of it mattered to her.  She told herself that over and over again: she didn’t care, it didn’t matter.  He didn’t seem to care either.

“And besides, she is his mate,” Rhysand added.  “He has already shown the lengths he’ll go to ensure her safety.”

Elain’s stomach dropped even further.  Feyre seemed determined to argue, because Rhys sharply added, “We can continue to let her fiddle around in her garden and bake and hide from her mate.  I know Cassian would greatly miss her baking.  But her powers are wasted.”

“We don’t even know what her powers are.  She’s nowhere near ready to leave and go to Spring, let alone go to another part of Night.”

“She offered to look for the Trove so I think she’s ready.  And I think she would be significantly more useful in Spring than here.”

That was the only thing he seemed to care about.  Usefulness .  Her heart quickened with frustration, but she simply closed her eyes and pressed her back harder into the wall.

Maybe her sister was right.  She had the ability to shut out her powers, yes, but what about if she had to use them?  She collapsed in on herself when they became too overwhelming.  And the thought of being in an unfamiliar, potentially dangerous Court…

There was silence.  For a moment, Elain thought Rhysand had cast a silencing ward to finally block out any eavesdropping ears (such as her own), but then Feyre spoke, her voice barely audible.  

“We can talk about it later.  Not with her, for now, but…we need to figure this out.”

“Of course.”

The sound of footsteps approached the door.  There was a metallic click, and the sharp turn of the door handle—

By the time her sister and her brother-in-law stepped into the hallway, Elain was already halfway up the stairs with her fists clutching her skirts.

⌘

Her feet brought her to the library instead of the kitchen.  It was blissfully empty, but she found that Nuala and Cerridwen had set out breakfast tea on the coffee table between the couches: a bowl was filled to the brim with sugar cubes and the assortment of biscuits were still warm.  

She sat in an armchair, her mind whirring with too many thoughts.  

The River House library reminded her of the one in the House of Wind.  Even the way the light bled through the curtains was reminiscent of the House’s broad windows and the dusty, sunstrewn air.  

It reminded her of him .  Their official meeting.  Lucien .  

The heaviness sank deeper into her skin, pulling her downward, downward…but she took a deep breath and forced her eyes to remain open.  Her memory of her first few months in Night was blurred slightly with how heavy her depression had been, but that day…the day he came.  She remembered it so well.  She knew the exact same tea set had been between them, with the same lavender tea and tense air…his presence was a sharp, tangible thing, as if he was sitting across from her now.

Elain stared at the tea set, unable to pour herself a cup.  Her shoulders and neck suddenly felt stiff and heavy, and she let out a sigh and reminded her body to relax.  

Her body was foreign compared to her human one.  And she hated it.  She hated how she always felt like she sat so deep inside of her skin after the Cauldron, so uncomfortable with the new strangeness of her faw body.   She tried her hardest to be normal around others, even as her magic writhed and grew and spiraled beneath her heart.  There was an expectation that she should be fine with it.  Feyre walked so confidently in her newly Made body, and Nesta learned to do the same.  Though it had always been like this ever since she and her sisters had lived their human lives…she was the courteous, placid one, who was fine with everything that was thrown at her; Nesta was the clawed, beautiful creature their mother had raised her to be.  That was what everyone expected, so they did not bother to change.  

The strangeness inside her got worse after The Cauldron, and she felt like a creature in her own skin.  So she stuck to what had always worked for her: complicitness.  A kind nod and a bright smile, even as frustration built up in her chest so much that she felt close to bursting.  And that frustration only grew.  Her discontentment had been boiling out as little bursts of steam.  And with Nesta last year… gods , she had been so complicit throughout it all, because it was easier to nod and agree and follow along when Feyre and Rhysand said what was right than to do anything else, including standing up for her sister who had always stood up for her.  

Nesta and her fire had been dolled down and made into something useful .  And Elain was continued to be given delicate smiles and spoken to in hushed voices as if any raised tone would send her to tears.  And when she finally tried to stand up, when she finally voiced the thoughts she kept hidden, she was dismissed or looked down on.  Or even worse: was called foolish or selfish.  

She felt herself writhing against the world she was placed in, a worm helpless in the hands of a godlike beast.

Elain shifted in her seat, her eyes growing suddenly heavy.  Sunlight trickled through the windows, dotting the wooden floor with a pale, shimmering gold.

She didn’t know if Rhysand and her sister came to a conclusion regarding her fate.  It was obvious why Feyre hated the idea of her going to Spring.  Maybe they might decide to send her to Illyria like they did with Nesta.  That certainly fit the image Feyre envisioned for her family, and she would be kept far away from the past her sister despised.  And Nesta, despite the painful journey, had found happiness.

Elain would yet again be shoved into a box that her family had created for her.  And her body and mind writhed and fought against it.  

But did she even want to go to Spring?  How useful could she be, if all she had was a handful of new sprouts, a dirty apron, and powers she still was too afraid to even touch?  She knew little about the Court and its current political climate, except for the news whispered between Rhysand and Feyre.  Its gardens were in turmoil, its High Lord succumbing to his beast form…

And Lucien.  He was there.  Did he wish to avoid her so much that he chose to live in the furthest Court from her, with people who had lost their admiration for him?  

Elain’s heart writhed at the thought, but she forced herself to take another breath.  She had so many conflicting feelings: confusion and loneliness, trepidation, reluctancy, and intrigue… and pure lust for a male she didn’t even know.  Her love for Grayson was long put out, and she tried to distract herself from the pain and heartbreak, only to find herself heartbroken yet again by Azriel.  Years passed, and her confusion for the bond with Lucien remained, and the ravine between them grew wider and wider.  And she couldn’t even begin to think about mending that gap between them if she still struggled to mend herself.  

She knew she wanted to contribute something somewhere .  She knew she wanted a life and a world beyond this… But she didn’t know what yet. 

Chapter 2: Petunias

Notes:

For Elucien Week 2025 Day 6: New Beginnings

By the time dinner came, Elain was exhausted.  Not that she did much throughout the day: the garden was watered, lunch was eaten, and the dough for her blueberry pie was chilling.  It was her typical routine that she felt herself repeating day after day after day.  But when she sat on her balcony to enjoy the view of her garden, she felt like she was five seconds away from collapsing in a heap of satin skirts and loneliness.

She desperately wanted to take a nap.  It was one of the few things that relieved her of her visions when they got too overwhelming.  A good rest in the quiet solitude of her room always helped her avoid even the heaviest of visions.  But now they seemed to be chasing after her even in her unconsciousness.  

She closed her eyes, watching the flickering light on the backs of her eyelids.  Maybe if she could rest for just a few minutes…

A knock on the balcony door made her jump.  When she turned, Feyre was standing in the threshold.  Her sister’s casual fae beauty suited her well: her cheeks glowed with health and her midnight-blue wrap-dress hugged the soft curves of her post-partem body.

“Hey, Elain.” Her sister gave an almost cautious smile. “I just wanted to let you know that Nesta and Cassian showed up for dinner, if you wanna come down.”

Oh gods, dinner…she forgot it was tonight.  Feyre had declared that the Inner Circle had been slacking when it came to family time, so she scheduled a dinner at the River House every week as a way of catching up and taking a break from courtly duties.  She managed a nod, her eyes unfocused.  “I’ll come down in a bit.”

Feyre frowned and placed a hand on the doorway. “Are you okay?  You look exhausted.”

“I am a little,” she lied.  “I think the sun has been waking me up earlier than usual.”

“Do you want to skip dinner tonight?  Nuala could bring you something up to your room.”

It was extremely tempting: weekly dinners always meant that Elain would yet again be subjected to listening to topics she was not part of and receiving careful smiles from her family that thought little of her.  

But the idea of sitting alone in her room sounded like Hel. “No, it’s alright,” She stood and smoothed down her skirts.  “Dinner sounds lovely.”

“You can rest if you want, Elain—”

“I do not need to rest,” she interrupted.  “I’m fine.” 

Her voice was too sharp: Feyre’s lips tightened, and Elain forced herself to look away.  Rhys and her sister’s conversation she overheard in the morning flooded back to her.

“She’s nowhere near ready to leave and go to Spring, let alone go to another part of Night.”

Her eyes and nose suddenly prickled with tears.  Maybe she should talk about it.  Not about how she listened into their private conversation, but...how she felt trapped.  Alone, even with all of these people surrounding her.  

But if she confessed that something was wrong, she would crumble.  And Feyre and the rest of the Inner Circle would continue to see her as the delicate sister that was still struggling to accept her life as a High Fae.  So she offered another mild smile and followed Feyre down to the dining room.

⌘

Dinner was just what Elain expected: loud, chaotic, and with way too many courses to be considered a casual family get together.  She stared blankly at the assortment of food that sat before her: herb stew with lamb and beans; onions and tomatoes soaking in a butter and fermented soybean paste; rice with cashews, peanuts, and ginger shavings.  Several different conversations echoed around the room, banging into each other and turning to a disordered mess.  At the end of the table, Cassian, Nesta, and Rhysand were talking about training the females in Illyria.  Amren, Feyre, and Mor discussed Vallahan while Azriel quietly listened over Mor’s shoulder.  Nyx gurgled happily as Feyre fed him mushed pea by the spoonful.  Elain pushed around her rice, letting the multitude of conversations muddle together.

She suddenly wished she took Feyre’s offer and stayed up in her room.  It would be significantly more quiet, and maybe she could get some rest without another vision haunting her.  

A booming laugh filled the room: Cassian clutched Nesta’s shoulder, a smile beaming on his rugged face.  Nesta shoved him away playfully, her loose hair and wide grin making her look young and free.  

A heavy feeling drifted inside of Elain as watched the mated pair.  It took her a moment to realize that it was not her magic, or even her usual exhaustion…it was loneliness.  The horrible sense of dread and abandonment.

Tears filled her eyes, and looked down at her plate.  Why was it that she longed for company but found herself wishing to be alone when she got it?  She felt like she would never be comfortable: not with herself, her life, or the people who surrounded her.

She stirred around her rice more.  The feeling of despondency sat deep in her chest now, but there was something else kindling.  A sudden, familiar warmness, like a pulling string, a sparking fire—

The front door suddenly burst open, and the table fell into a silence as the sound of boots approached the dining room.

Lucien stood at the threshold.  He wore a traveling cloak still, the midnight blue wool standing out against his elegant scarlet braid. 

Elain felt herself lowering her fork as she stared at him.  

This was the first time she had seen him in months.  Maybe since the Winter Solstice, though she supposed that was nothing in High Fae standards.  His smell of cinnamon, plums, and woodsmoke swept through the room towards her, making the bond ache with fervor.  But she pushed away the feeling and pulled her gaze back to her untouched plate.

“Lucien.” Feyre stood, Nyx’s spoon still in her hand.  “We didn’t know you would be coming tonight—”

“I apologize for not sending a message before coming: it was a last minute trip.” He remained standing in the dining room entrance, his gaze gliding around the filled table before landing on Elain.

She swore his metal eye whirred for a moment.  But before she could be the first to look away, he turned and nodded apologetically to Rhysand and Feyre.  “I have to discuss something with you two.”

Elain’s heart fell.  He had come for another meeting, and judging by the tension in his voice, it was important.  He hadn’t come to see her.  Of course he hadn’t, she silently scolded herself.  He did not care, he did not want her.  And she didn’t care either.

“We can have a meeting after dinner,” Feyre suggested.  “Why don’t you sit down and—”

“I think we should talk about it now.”

The table was uncomfortably silent.  But Rhysand drawled, “After dinner.  Come and sit down, Lucien.  Grab a plate.”

At first, Elain was sure Lucien was about to say no.  But after a moment of hesitation, he nodded, his lips pulled in a tight line.

There wasn’t a spare chair, but Rhysand conjured one between Mor and Feyre with a careless wave of a hand.  Directly across from Elain.  

Elain felt herself shrinking in her chair as Lucien sat, his eyes fixed on his plate Feyre was currently filling for him.  

Conversations slowly picked up again, but the mistrust was almost palpable in the quiet air.  She could see it in Azriel’s face especially: he sat with his arms crossed and his dark hazel eyes fixed on Lucien with extreme dislike.  Elain frantically ate what her writhing stomach could handle, fully aware of the eyes glancing between her and Lucien.  Nesta’s eyes were narrow and her lips oddly tight, and Amren’s smirked as she watched her over the rim of her chalice.

“Beron has been talking about writing up a treaty between Autumn and Spring,” Lucien said suddenly.

The room went silent again.  Lucien leaned forward, the detestation in his voice unmistakable.  “He says he wants to offer the Court protection in its time of desolation.”

Mor lowered her fork.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean Beron knows Spring is vulnerable and is eager to weasel his way in,” Lucien snapped.  “So he can gain easy access to the Human Lands.”

Feyre’s jaw tensed, and Mor’s face grew dark.  Rhysand stood up, wiping his mouth with a napkin.  “Feyre, it seems like our emissary is unable to wait until after dinner.  Should we bring this to the office?”

Lucien’s long, slender hands pressed into the table as he stood.  “Yes, we should,” he said wryly.  

Azriel also stood.  “I’ll come as well.”

Elain felt her shoulders grow taut as she watched the three males.  Azriel’s face was emotionless, but his shadows writhed so violently they looked like a storm.  

A muscle flexed in Feyre’s jaw as she wiped Nyx’s messy, gurgling face.  “I’ll come in after I feed Nyx.” She looked up at her mate, and Elain instantly knew they were speaking mind to mind.

When the three males left the dining room, the remaining Inner Circle seemed to let out a collective breath.  Elain stared at her plate again, her napkin clenched tightly in her fist.

The anger in Lucien’s voice, the frustration tainting his sly, handsome features… she had rarely seen him annoyed, let alone angry .  Though she supposed she didn’t stick around him long enough to see every part of him.

Beron was planning on taking over Spring.  Autumn would bleed into the southernmost Court, tainting the fresh grass red.  Her mind whirred with an array of thoughts, and her body was being pulled down, down...

  Leaves crumbled and twigs cracked… scarlet flashed like a blade through the air.  Roots writhed, their ends tipped with glowing gold—

“So much for our casual family get-together,” Feyre murmured.

“Feyre,” Nesta hissed.

“No, that was incredibly awkward,” Cassian remarked, tearing off a piece of a butter roll.

For some reason, a spark of irritation flashed in Elain’s chest.  “It is only awkward because he is considered an important part of this court, and yet wasn’t invited to dinner,” she retorted.

Her words surprised her, and she regretted them almost instantly; Mor’s painted lips tightened, Nesta raised an eyebrow, and Amren chuckled into her wine glass.  

“Elain, I didn’t mean that—” Feyre began.

“That’s quite interesting, Elain,” Amren interrupted, smirking at her with her wine glass raised to her lips.  “You never seemed to care whether or not your mate came to dinner.  In fact, it seems like you would prefer he never comes back to Night at all.”

Elain stared at Amren.  She was baiting her.  Maybe it would be good if she snapped, if she showed her spine for once.  But something shrank inside her, and she placed her hands in her lap.  “Unlike some people, I can be courteous despite my otherwise disagreeable feelings.” 

She tried to speak as calmly as she could, but she found herself tripping over her words.  It seemed to have amused Amren, because the female’s painted lips grew wider.  “Yes you two are very different from the other mates in this room,” the female mused.  “Instead of throwing shoes at heads and solstice gifts into rivers, you stand a minimum of ten feet away and awkwardly avoid each other’s eyes like ex-lovers with the same friendship circle.  Though I suppose you can’t be ex-lovers if you were never lovers in the first place,” she added.

Elain flushed so hard she felt like she could be bright as the roasted tomatoes on her plate.  She stood, placing her napkin neatly on the table and picking up her unfinished plate.  “I’m done with dinner.  Thank you for hosting again, Feyre.”

Her youngest sister’s eyes were wide.  “Elain—”

With her dinner in hand, Elain walked quickly out of the dining room, her face still burning.  

She was running.  She knew it, her family and friends certainly knew it.  Their whispering voices chased her down the hallway as she trudged through the halls, her feet moving entirely on her own.  But she found herself not in the kitchen, the library, or her chambers, but back on the balcony overlooking her garden.

Her hands shook as she set her dinner on the balcony ledge.  A hanging basket of petunias hung from the terrace roof: she reached up and touched the silky leaves and flowers, roaming over the assortment of fresh and dead buds.  

Maybe it was because of her exhaustion, but a weight tugged at her eyelids.  It was her powers.  Gods, how could they get so bad so quickly?  Her body was heavy with an unbearable sense of… foreboding .  The only thing she could relate it to was the feeling of passing out when she was human; she remembered the feeling of her body weighing heavy, the blackness filling her vision right before she would collapse to the ground.  This feeling was similar but wildly different at the same time.  Something so terribly wrong, but also… right .  Fate stroked her hair, kissed her heavy eyelashes, filled her mind with this glorious brightness…

A dim light, like embers in darkness.  The sound of tinkling bells.  Gnarled wood, blinding sunlight… rain soaked her skin, and a scream rose up in her throat.  Fire, fire, rain…

“Are you okay, Elain?”

She felt a hand touch her shoulder.  She blinked, and the sight of Feyre’s concerned eyes replaced the muddled images of rain and bells and burning wood.  Nesta stood at the balcony door behind her, her fingers pale against the frame.  

They had followed her out of the dining room, it seemed.  They were concerned for her health as always.

The hand at her shoulder grew tighter. “Elain?”

She knew she had to answer.  But what was an explanation that wouldn’t make her sister worry even more for her?  What was acceptable and right?  

Raindrops dotted her skin.  Light melted, dripping into the grass—

She spoke without even realizing it.  “It’s going to rain tomorrow.”

Feyre looked out beyond the balcony and frowned.  “There hasn’t been a cloud in the sky all day, Elain.”  

Elain blinked, her vision outlined with silver.  The sunset beyond the balcony was a brilliant expense of gold and red, empty of any obscuring clouds.  Her body drifted again, down—and the cloudless evening melted into Night’s beauty, revealing the stars and moon.

And then the rain ripped through, invisible in the darkness and cold.  It soaked her skin and her flowers; it dug its cold fingers deep into the ground.

Her hands shook as she plucked a dead bud from the mass of petunias.  “It’ll rain,” she whispered.  “Worms will breach the soil in the morning, and all the birds will feast.”  

Rain, rain, rain.  Rain and worms and stars… She could feel them now: the tiny little bodies wriggling in the dirt, tunneling through roots and around stones.  Did they sense the rain coming, like she did?  When the birds found them, did they feel pain when they were ripped apart?  

Elain continued to stare out into her garden.  Her glowing jasmine plants dotted the darkening ground, a collection of suns unwilling to succumb to night.  

“Lucien will be leaving right after his meeting with Rhys and Az,” Feyre said, her voice carefully guarded.  “If…if that’s what you’re thinking about.”

Elain plucked another dead petunia.  The meeting…Lucien…

She blinked, the silver in her eyes clearing.  “I want to go,” she suddenly said.  “I want to go to Spring.”

She had no idea why she said it.  She didn’t even know if she believed it.  But the confession made her feel more awake.  Spring… would her life be more meaningful there?  Would she be able to heal?  Maybe then these visions would go away, and she would be happy and free.

Feyre was silent.  Elain found herself staring at her, waiting for her reaction.

“It’s better if we talk about this later,” her sister said finally.  “I think you need rest—”

A prickle of annoyance dotted Elain’s skin.  “No, I want to talk about this now,” she said loudly.  “I know Rhysand explained to you how important I would be in Spring, and I agree with him.”

Feyre’s jaw clenched, and from the glossy look in her eyes, she knew she was communicating with her mate mind-to-mind.  “The office wards were down this morning when I came back from the garden,” Elain added.  “I didn’t mean to listen in.” 

She still had a habit of apologizing, even with the anger sitting in her chest.  Even with all of this internal struggle and dislike for the box she was shoved in, she still went back to her courteous, placid self.

Feyre crossed her arms.  “You don’t know what Spring was like before, and you certainly don’t know what it’s like now.  So no, I don’t think you should go.”

“Lucien will be there,” Nesta said faintly.  “You don’t think he could protect her?”

Elain glanced at her.  She remained in the doorway with her arms crossed over her onyx dress and her eyebrows cinched.

“I think his priorities are askew,” Feyre snapped.  “Especially since he has been spending more time with his Band of Exiles, and especially since Spring and Autumn have always been his focus instead of Night.”

A sudden flash of anger shot through Elain, and she ripped another dead petunia off of the hanging basket.    “I believe he’s doing what you and Rhys ordered him to do.”

She didn’t know why she felt the need to defend Lucien.  Lucien, who was best friends with Tamlin.  Lucien, who played a part in Hybern kidnapping her and Nesta.  Lucien, who seemed so hesitant to even look at her.

Feyre hesitated.  “Lucien is a good male, but…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?”

“Me and Rhys discussed it before, years ago.  I—I don’t know if the bond is right.”

Elain’s stomach flipped at that.  Her bond.  With Lucien .  Feyre had been questioning it behind her back while she was happy with her own mate.  Gods…she had often asked herself the same thing, but it felt so wrong coming from someone else’s mouth.  “Do you prefer me to be with the shadowsinger?” she asked, a sudden anger rising in her chest.

Feyre’s eyebrows cinched.  “I was under the impression that was what you wanted.”

Elain practically flinched.  She didn’t know her past interest in Azriel had been that obvious.  Her mind had desperately been searching for a distraction from her longing and heartbreak.  Grayson’s violent rejection still left a stain on her heart, even if time made it more bearable to deal with.  And she needed to do anything to drown out the tugging ache of the bond… she didn’t want a mate.  She could barely stand being High Fae.

So she went to the first available male who wasn’t Lucien: Azriel.  He reminded her of Grayson in a way, with his courage, gentle hands, and stoic demeanor.  Even the way they held themselves was the same, like they were knights straight out of a fairytale.

But then the Solstice happened.

“This was a mistake.”  

The shadowsinger’s panicked voice echoed in her head.  He had been right—Elain knew it even before their almost-kiss.  Her heart had practically screamed at her how wrong it was when she walked down the stairs to the living room.  Lucien had been sleeping just a few rooms away.

If she could go back to that night, she would have never gone downstairs and accepted that damned necklace.  It had been over as quickly as if it had started, but she was now drowning in  regret.

“You don’t know what I want,” she said quietly.

Nesta let out a breath, but said nothing.  Feyre’s eyes suddenly grew dark.  “I don’t think you even understand what you want.  You just left dinner because of Lucien, and now you’re thinking of going to Spring ?”

Elain turned to fully face her sister, her hands clenching her dress skirts.  “I don’t know what I want because I was never given the opportunity to choose ,” she retorted.  “You try to place ideas in my head, you give me no opportunity to be anything more than what you want me to be.  Even if you both decide to let me go to Spring, Rhys would probably manipulate the Court to become something he thinks would fit for me.” Like sending Lucien away, Elain thought.  To the Human Lands again, or maybe forcing him to be in Autumn if and when his oldest brother becomes High Lord.  She didn’t know if that was what she preferred.

Nesta looked at her like she was seeing her for the first time.  Feyre clenched her teeth, growling, “No.  I will not allow Rhys to throw you in a situation you can’t handle.”

Before Elain could answer, The High Lady spun on her heels and left., Nesta sidestepped to let Feyre push past, her arms crossed. She watched Feyre storm away before glancing back at Elain.

“I didn’t expect you to snap at Feyre,” she mused.  “Did it make you feel better?”

Her sister’s voice wasn’t scornful—quite the contrary.  Amusement made her usually cold voice lighter, like how light shone on steel.  Elain tugged off another dead petunia, the brown leaves crumbling beneath her fingers.  “No.  But it was nice to tell the truth, at least.”

It had been eerily close to her fight with Nesta, she realized.  The same frustrating conversation was being brought up again and again: what was Elain good for?  What did we want her to be?  She was supposed to be the mild one, the gentle one, who smiled and was supposed to accept whatever life she was given.  And when finally fought against her box, she was told she just didn’t know any better. 

But Nesta had changed, at least.  Her fire was smaller, maybe, her life tied firmly to Night, but she was no longer the cold, bitter woman her mother formed her into.  She was a mated female with a wonderful group of friends and her purpose laid out clearly in front of her.  Was it because she was molded into something else, or because she truly found herself?

Elain’s hands tugged at her skirts, adding to the wrinkles and creases.  “Do you think I should go to Spring?”

Nesta was quiet at first.  “I think you’re struggling here.  I know you’ve denied it, but I don’t think Night is your home.”

Her sister’s honesty made tears erupt in her eyes.  “Are you happy?” she whispered.  “In Night?”

The question had been on her mind for a while now, and she never found the courage to ask.  Another thing that made her selfish and ignorant, Elain thought, guilt building in her stomach.  Her relationship with Nesta had improved after her sister had used the Trove to save Feyre, Nyx, and Rhys, but they still didn’t fully discuss everything.  Today was probably the most honest they had been with each other since their fight.

“I am,” Nesta answered.  “I will admit that I still struggle sometimes, but…I think I’m the happiest I’ve ever felt in my life.”  She paused.  “Are you happy, Elain?”

Her voice was quiet, as if she already knew the answer.  Are you happy .  Not are you okay, as Feyre so often asked with caution and concern.  

When was the last time she felt happy?  There were small moments, she knew, insignificant compared to the massive heartbreak and longing that consumed several years of her life.  

Tears pricked in Elain’s eyes, and she let them fall.  “I’ve been having these dreams,” she whispered.  She knew it wasn’t a proper answer, but the honesty was already too much for her to handle.  “Or visions…I—I don’t know what they are.  But…” 

Her words fell apart.  Nesta’s lips pursed.  “It’s not good to bottle them up, Elain.  I should know.” Her sister paused before asking, “Do you know what your powers are?  Besides being a Seer?”

“No,” she murmured. “And I don’t know what to do with them.”

At first, Nesta was silent.  Then, she touched her shoulder.  “Well.  I think you should go and find out."

Notes:

Plose note: the 25 chapters is a rough outline! I have about 20 chapters fully outlined and I know I will do a bit more to finalize the plot but idk *how* much more haha. And knowing me, it might get bigger.
Thank you for reading!

Chapter 3: Opal and Brown

Lucien had been in Rhysand’s office for barely three seconds, and he already felt like crawling out of his skin.  A clock ticked an incessant beat on the fireplace mantle, and a dim faelamp on the corner table cast a muddled streak of light across the floor.  He studied it for a moment, willing his irritation to cool.

A grand desk sat between him and Rhysand, who was currently sorting through documents in the dreaded silence.  No doubt avoiding his gaze, and possibly speaking with Feyre mind-to-mind.  He was used to both, of course—the mates so often spoke to each other silently when others were in the room, and especially in front of him.  But the familiarity of Rhysand’s silence did not soothe his agitation.  

The clock continued its ticking, and the sound of shifting papers added to the aggravating chorus.  Lucien suddenly felt like a child again, sitting upright in a narrow-backed chair with his knees brushing the front of the desk, waiting for his High Lord to speak.  He had been called to Beron’s office too many times during his youth—though usually for a scolding and discipline, rather than political reasons.  So many lessons , so much cruelty.  Beron tested him time and time again, and his stubbornness and dislike for the court he was raised in made him fail every time.

Rhys was not the same as Beron.  There was no fiery cruelty from the Night Court’s High Lord—only coldness.  And as Lucien sat waiting for him to speak, he got the feeling that he was about to be used and lied to yet again.

“Should we wait for Feyre?” Azriel asked quietly.   He had not taken a seat: instead, he stood next to the bookshelf by the door, his wings tucked inward and his arms crossed.  His presence was dark and heavy as the shadows that draped across his form, but Lucien was quite happy to ignore him.  He had other things to worry about besides the shadowsinger’s aversion towards him.  

“No, she said she’ll come in later.” Rhysand traced a few papers on his desk with a single idle finger as if in deep thought before finally looking up at Lucien.  “So.  When did you hear about this…treaty?”

The High Lord sounded casual, careless.  Of course the daemati would hide his trepidation well; Lucien, unfortunately, struggled in that department, though he was much better at hiding his emotions than he had been when he was younger.  But what he excelled at was reading people, even if they hid most of their emotions under their sleeve.  Emotions lingered on the face even when they were buried deep: a muscle in the jaw might pop and flex, something might glitter and shine behind their eyes.  

And the darkness in Rhys’s brewed as heavy as the blackest night. 

Lucien leaned into the arm of his chair.  “Eris came to the Spring Capital to inform me of it.”

“My spies haven’t heard anything,” Az mused. 

Lucien glanced at him, and the male shifted his gaze away and stared at the bookshelf.  “No, they probably haven’t,” he said, tilting his head.  “Eris doesn't even know everything yet.  But he said that Beron has been planning a meeting with Spring to negotiate.”

“I didn’t know Eris has been keeping you this updated on Autumn, Lucien,” Rhysand mused.  

Another question lingered behind his words.  He could imagine the daemati’s cool, amused voice slithering into his mind, asking, What of your relationship with your estranged brother?   What do you think about his demand for the High Lord’s seat, even after all of the horrible things he has done?  

His mouth tightened at the thought, but he simply leaned back in his seat.  “He occasionally discusses it with me, though quite prudently.   I think he has been getting antsy about his plans to become High Lord.”

Rhys tapped his fingers on his desk.  He gazed at Azriel, his indigo eyes unreadable.  Lucien couldn’t help but clench his teeth.  “If you would be so kind as to express your thoughts out loud, High Lord,” he said quietly, “I would appreciate it.”

He swore he saw a flash of annoyance in Rhys’s eyes.  Another sign that his mask of cold was covering other, more damning emotions. “I believe you called your brother a snake a few years ago.”

He hesitated. “And he still is.  But I know he’ll be a better High Lord than Beron.” 

Rhys studied him for a moment.  “You think Eris will try to change Autumn?”

“You have said you would side with him when he becomes High Lord.  And you’re just now thinking about his politics?”

“He wears a very thick mask, Lucien.  Forgive me for not fully understanding his motives.”  He lowered his hand and rapped on the desk absentmindedly.  “What is your answer to my question?”

He paused.  “Yes,” he said after a moment.  “I do think he’ll change Autumn for the better.  He’ll have things he has to redeem himself for, but I believe we all do.”

It was a nudge, of course, at Rhysand’s own history.  At the Night Court’s own history: a place in Pyrthian’s coldest, most isolated corner with a reputation carefully painted as dark and brutal, even when Velaris sat like a polished gem in the Night.  Rhys and his Inner Circle had paraded around with masks on their faces and blood on their hands and then demanded that their actions were for good .  Maybe it was true, but did it really matter when your hands were painted with that much red?

And he could say the same thing about his eldest brother.  Though he admitted that Eris had done significantly more to dissolve the blood from his hands.

Rhysand remained silent.  Gripping his hands on the arms of his chair, Lucien couldn’t help but add, “I know you don’t trust Eris, Rhys, but you know he’s a better option than Beron.  And Beron with his hands on Spring would be dangerous for your plans to defeat Koschei.” After a pause, he added slowly, “I think that this meeting is our best opportunity to kill him.”

He knew it was a bold proposition.  And he hadn’t fully thought it out himself.  But the news of Autumn's proposed treaty with Spring was a substantial fracture in his already broken life.  Spring wasn’t his home anymore, he knew that very well, but the idea of Beron tearing through his old home and everything that inhabits it, and then causing even more devastation to the humans to the south, where he managed to find a hint of comfort and purpose…

He refused to accept it.  He refused to sit by like a helpless boy in a narrow-backed chair and let it happen.  Too many things in his world had been destroyed by Beron’s hand.

Including Jesminda.

He gripped the arm of his chair as Jesminda’s face suddenly filled his vision.  Or at least what he could remember: trauma and time took too much of his memory, and his old love became more of a presence in his mind than something tangible.  But her eyes always remained with him: the bright, shifting opal, with a speck of green that clung to her pupil.  

So many things he had lost.  So many things destroyed.  

Then, a sudden shift, and Elain’s fawn brown eyes replaced Jesminda’s opal ones.  Her jasmine and honey scent, her distant stare.

Guilt and longing struck his chest.  But his jaw tightened with a grim determination.  

So many things in his life had shattered in Beron’s hand.  And he still had more to lose.

A smirk grew on Rhysand’s face.  Maybe he saw his inner struggle: Lucien couldn’t help but straighten in his chair.  But Rhysand crooned, “That’s quite a bold plan, Lucien.  Not necessarily one I would expect from you, but it’s good to see a bit of your fire show through.”

“I’m sure Eris would happily agree with me,” he said bitterly.

“So you haven’t discussed it with him yet?”

“I figured you wouldn’t care for me going to him before coming to you first.”

Rhys sat back in his chair, his smirk fading into a more serious expression. “Does Eris know when and where this meeting would be held?”

The sudden question should have given him hope that the High Lord would think over his plan.  But he knew better than to expect anything that simple from Rhys.  “Soon.  And he wants it in the Forest House.”

“If he is asking for a treaty to be drawn, then it should be on neutral ground,” Azriel said quietly.  “That was how the Human Treaty was made.”

Lucien glanced at him.  “We can try to debate the location, but unless Tamlin suddenly feels the urge to go back to his fae form and lead his Court, Beron has the upper hand as the High Lord who is proposing this treaty.”

“Who will he be proposing this meeting to then, with Tamlin in his current state?”

Lucien shook his head.  “Beron isn’t looking for a fair treaty.  Tamlin’s absence is exactly what he wants.  And since I’m stationed there, I’m sure he’s looking forward to me being the guarantor, despite my current status in Spring.  And he’ll want it to be discussed in his own territory.”

“He’d have the advantage if it’s in The Forest House,” Azriel retorted.  “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

A surge of frustration suddenly shot through Lucien, and he snapped, “Then when are we planning on taking him out?” 

“I will admit that the growing worries with Autumn are becoming…unavoidable.” Rhys tilted his head as if in deep thought.  “But we have our own Court to worry about.  You have your Court to worry about,” he added, giving him a curt nod that sent a prickle of irritation down Lucien’s spine.

The Night Court was not his home.  He knew it, and he was sure Rhysand knew it too.  Even Feyre said it two solstices ago when they discussed Vassa and Jurian: ‘It seems like you’ve decided to fall in with two people without their homes of their own as well.’

The room fell silent at the sound of the door creaking open.  Feyre stepped in with her arms crossed, her power and scent swelled into the room and mingled with Rhysand’s.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” She walked around Lucien and the desk and placed a hand on Rhys’s shoulder.  “Dinner held me up.”  She gave a tight smile, which Lucien did not feel like reciprocating.

He knew what Feyre looked like when she was angry.  And from the way her eyebrows scrunched up and the muscle in her jaw popped…the High Lady of the Night Court was pissed.

Rhysand’s gaze was fixed on Lucien.  “Feyre and I were discussing something this morning,” he said slowly.

“No, Rhys,” Feyre interrupted.  “Don’t.  Not now.”

Her voice was sharp and quiet, and filled with something like…fear.

Before Rhysand could reply, Azriel spoke.  “I agree with Feyre, Rhys.  I think that part of this discussion should be saved until this meeting with Beron passes.  If it needs to happen at all.”

Of course the shadowsinger knew what this was about.  Lucien wasn’t sure if it was because of the male’s magical abilities, or because he was more privy to the inner workings of this court than he was.  He looked between the High Lord and Lady and crossed his arms.  “Is this about Elain?”

He didn’t know why the thought came to him.  Her name was a heavy weight on his lips, and he instantly regretted asking it.  But Feyre, who was always a terrible liar, confirmed his suspicions: a muscle flexed in her jaw as she replied, “It’s about Spring, not Elain—”

“Then I don’t believe it should be left out of the conversation,” he interrupted.

Feyre glanced at Rhys, who examined Lucien carefully.  “Our focus should be on stopping this treaty, not trivial ideas that can be easily set aside until later.”

“I would normally agree with that, my Lady.  But you and your Inner Circle have a terrible habit of lying for the sake of your own skin.  So I don’t think this is about Spring at all.”

Feyre placed her hands on the desk.  “This is about the safety of people in my court.  The people in my family .  I don’t care about what happens in Autumn or Spring, I will keep my family safe .”  

It was about Elain.  It had to be.  He stood, his hands braced on the desk.  “You think I’ll put my mate in danger?”

“No,” Feyre said.  “Which is why Elain will stay away from all of this.”

The room fell silent.  Lucien glared at Feyre and Rhysand.  “I have given Elain a choice.  I always have.  And I have said it before and I will say it again: I will not let any harm come to her.”

He pushed past them and shoved open the door, making the heavy wood bang against the wall.  

Feyre and Rhysand had no interest in helping Eris, he thought to himself, walking blindly down the hall.  Their Court came first and foremost, even if the mated couple was obsessed with inserting themselves in things that had nothing to do with Night.  Including his bond with his mate.

Just as he turned left down the hall to the stairs, the smell of jasmine and honey hit him like an arrow.  He stopped in his tracks.

Elain stood in the middle of the hallway.  At first, it didn’t seem like she had noticed him.  Her eyes were fixed on the floor and her hands shook against the wrinkled purple linen of her dress.  He fully expected her to walk past him, to murmur an apology or meek greeting and avoid him like she so often did when he visited.  But then she looked up and met his gaze.  

The sadness in those beautiful brown eyes struck him like a hammer.  Tears spilled down her freckled cheeks, a few drops clinging to her eyelashes.  He felt the urge to reach out and wipe her cheek, to tug at the bond and catch a glimpse of what had hurt her so…and even worse: the urge to storm back up to Rhysand’s office and ask—no, demand —what had happened.

He swallowed and took a step towards her.  “Are you okay?”

He knew it was much too personal of a question to ask her, and guilt erupted in his heart.  Elain wiped her face and looked away as if embarrassed.  “I’m fine,” she whispered.

The way she gazed up at him…it was with a look he had never seen from her before.  “Do you ever feel like you don’t belong somewhere?” she whispered.  

Her question took him aback, and at first, he did nothing but stare at her.  “Yes,” he finally said.  “I do.  I have known that feeling for a long time.”

“Did you feel like you belonged in Spring?”

Spring.  The word seemed to hang heavy on Elain’s lips.  He stared at her, stumped by the unexpected question.  Spring was a crack in his heart, yes, but Autumn was a hole in his chest, an enormous, intimate cavern of memories he wanted to forget.  He could barely think about any of his past homes, let alone discuss it with his mate.  And especially not after the fight he just had with Feyre.

“I—I apologize, I just—” She shook her head.  “I don’t know why I asked that—”

“There’s no need to apologize.” He shifted on his feet, suddenly aware of how close he was to her.  “Spring… was my second home.  Even with how it ended, I still look back on the things that made me happy.”

Elain said nothing at first.  “And Autumn?” she suddenly asked.  “Did you…feel like you belonged there?”

Her eyes remained fixed on the floor, and he swore there was a strange hazy silver muting her fawn brown gaze.

Gods…this was the longest conversation he ever had with her, and it was about one of the things that haunted him the most.  His heart began to pound as fast like a rabbit’s, but he managed, “Sometimes I did.  When I’m with certain people.” His mother.  A few friends, though most of them probably hated his guts now.  And Jesminda.  He hesitated.  “But I always felt like I had one foot in Autumn and one foot…somewhere else.”

“It’s been a long time since you were there.”

Her voice was so quiet he barely heard it.  And she didn’t phrase it like a question.

He studied her for a moment.  What Elain knew of his history, he didn’t know.  He doubted Feyre told her of anything.  “Yes.  It’s been about four centuries.  But if Beron allows me to discuss the treaty, then I’ll be leaving for Autumn in a few days.”

Autumn.  He’ll be back in Autumn after four centuries. His body shrunk inward, but a question suddenly rose up in his throat, hot and aching.  

Come with me.  

The words hung on his lips.  But it felt so wrong to ask her that now; not after Feyre’s warning, but because of so many other reasons.  He barely knew a thing about her, and yet he wanted to whisk her away to Autumn ?  To the male who burned everything in his path, who ruled his Court with a steel fist, who ripped apart everything in his life that he held dear?  Maybe he could take her to Spring, he thought desperately.  To free her from this fucking Court.  But even that sounded stupid, given the potential dangers this proposed treaty threatened to impose on the southernmost Court.

And he had no idea if that was what Elain even wanted.

He looked up.  Elain was now gazing out the window; he wasn’t sure if she was watching the sky turn to night or the specks of flowers that dotted the River House lawn, but either way, a quiet distance grew between them again.  And more interestingly, a heaviness around her that was so tangible it was like a fog.

The creaking of the floor made him tense.  Just as he turned around, Feyre stepped out into the hallway behind him, with Rhysand at her side and Azriel behind them.  

Instead of anger in Feyre’s face, there was something akin to pleading.   Not directed at him, though—but at Elain.  

Rhysand’s hand slipped into his mate’s, and Lucien swore a muscle flexed in his jaw.

A golden-brown strand of Elain’s hair slipped off her shoulder as she turned back to the window.  Down the thread of their bond, Lucien could feel a struggle, and he wondered what choices were being made.

Elain’s eyes were dim again as she stared down into the garden.  “I wish you luck,” she whispered.  

His heart fell.  

It felt wrong to leave her here.  Wrong .  

But he fisted his hands at his sides.  After a pause, he quietly said, “Good night, my lady.”

He winnowed.  Air rushed around him, tight and overwhelming, and when his feet met ground, he swore her scent still lingered in the air: jasmine and sweet, supple honey.

Notes:

I can't help but insert Jesminda into every Elucien thing I write haha😭😭👀. I hope you enjoyed the update!