This was just an idea I had, you know…lacking plot or anything essential. (Nervous laughter) Just a lot of fluff and some angst. This is set after the war, presuming Lucien’s brothers are dead and everyone we care about is alive (because if they aren’t I might as well be dead too). Also, complete credit to chaol/highlordlucien for inspiring Lucien’s cute pet name for Elain. I tried thinking of some other ones but after reading Lauren’s stories, I just can’t see using any other terms of endearment with these two! Hope you enjoy!
Length: 4.5k+ Pairing: Elain x Lucien Rating: M
“Are you nearly ready?”
Elain turned back to her sisters, both of whom looked at her as though waiting for a person to lunge off a cliff— anticipating the fall. “Of course.”
Nesta narrowed her eyes, about to say something presumably akin to more skepticism, but Feyre subtly elbowed her and glanced towards the opened window. Nesta’s lips thinned, but she stood with their sister to exit Elain’s bedchambers. A door of hemlock obscured her view, but Elain could see Cerridwen was waiting in the corridor, her twin likely close by. The wraith sisters had taken an instant liking to the middle Archeron, their patience and silent strength in the same vein as her quiet cunning. Mere hours after assessing one another, Azriel had mentioned in passing that the three women would work together wonderfully. Nesta, and surprisingly even Amren, had given the Shadowmaster a scathing look at the suggestion.
With a hand lingering on the wooden frame, Feyre turned back and said, “We know this must be difficult for you, but remember you will always have us to confide in. Just trust yourself to know what to do, and I promise things will get better.”
The door closed noiselessly.
Elain stared at her hands, her calm face at odds with the rabbit heart beneath her ribs.
It had been four months since the war. Four months from when they’d nearly all lost each other to the wrath of a mad king, to the plague of malicious court badgering that swamped Prythian, to the wretched Never Fading Flower, Amrantha, who had, indeed, not faded well enough to be then brought back by Jurian and the powers of the godforsaken cauldron. But they were all gone now. Bled from the realm as though wrought out from a drying cloth. Yet a faint stain persisted, always reminding her of those nefarious weeks. It couldn’t be washed away by soap, by rain, by blessed holy water, or by the tightening bond in her core that not a day went by could she ignore.
The war was over, yet she felt as though the same euphoria that cleansed her family of their anguish and heartache had somehow missed her where she lingered off to the side as per usual.
They didn’t know of her dreams, this court of dreamers. How each night she’d play out the same scenes over and over— horrified that she would wake one dawn and find them missing.
The first scene was always the haziest, muddled from her human mind. He’d been so gentle with her as he’d lifted her into his grasp and nestled her within the warmth of his body heat, away from the ice of the cauldron waters. He’d always been warm, a fire wrapped in Fae skins. The next memories were sharper, as was the pain they left in their path. A scarred face staring up at her as though a boy was looking up into the first turning leaves of an autumn tree. Hands that fit perfectly against her waist, hoisting her up so that her skirts wouldn’t get muddy as he walked them back to the manor. Laughter, devious and mischievous and so, so very free that it made her want to join in, no matter the occasion, and throw her head back like a fox cackling at the moon.