Work Text:
Elain stands at the top of the staircase, one foot hovering in the air, as if to descend. There, at the foot of the stairs, is a prone shape, lying on his back. Moonlight filters in through the window, illuminating scarlet hair.
It’s deadly silent in the house, save for the ragged, wet breaths from below.
The body is a corpse, or it will be soon. But it’s not the corpse it should be, not the one her hesitant half step damned. The hair is cut above the shoulder, the face too angular, his body less broad and imposing, more tall and lean. And the eyes that peer up into the darkness, unfocused, are amber, instead of russet.
Elain grabs the railing and descends slowly, her nightgown rustling softly with each step. Finally, she reaches the dying male and kneels beside him. There’s a gaping wound on his stomach, something strangely brown protruding from the red. There’s a glint of tarnished orange too: necklace hangs from his neck, partially dipped in the pool below. As she leans above him, Eris’ eyes lock on hers in recognition. His lips form her name, though only a trickle of blood escapes.
Still, his hand reaches up weakly, touches her cheek so gently, so reverently, that it does the talking for him. Elain’s mangled heart does nothing but ache but this pain is different from the usual, though no less potent.
The brown spreads and Elain realizes they’re roots, they’re the roots of a tree, growing suddenly ever so fast from Eris’ dying body. Her cheek is stained with his blood. He’s dying. He’s dying too. A half step. A half step too late.
In a fit of desperation she starts to rip out the roots one by one, violently, angrily. They keep growing back and she just keeps tearing them away from him. You had one. You can’t have both. I won’t let you.
The roots stop growing. The wound stops bleeding. Eris looks at her, lucid, confused. And suddenly he’s gone. Suddenly Elain is all alone, her nightgown soaked with her sweat, the moonlight shining in on an empty parlor.
There are scratch marks on the floor and blood under her fingernails. Elain screws her eyes shut, presses the back of her hand to her eyes. Everything rushes back, the heartbeats of everyone in the River House so loud, oppressively so, the pain behind her ribcage suddenly overwhelming. She sits there, bent in the middle, riding out the misery.
She doesn’t know how long it takes until she staggers to her feet, but she does so in a daze, finding herself seated at the desk in her room with an enchanted paper set in front of her without making the conscious choice to return, much less to grab a paper and pen.
Elain hesitated to follow her instincts before and someone else paid for it. She won’t hesitate now.
She needs to go, but her family wouldn’t allow it. Perhaps Eris wouldn’t either.
So she picks up her pen and addresses the letter to Beron Vanserra.
***
“I need someone to winnow me to the Autumn Court.”
They look at her like she’s mad. Elain doesn’t know if she rightfully can blame them for it. After all, she lost her body to the Cauldron, then her mind to the visions, and finally her heart to a severed mating bond. The concern is natural, she reminds herself. They worry, because they love her, because they’ve seen her shatter into pieces. They worry, because some of the cracks still remain.
Despite her best efforts to be understanding, it grates, the way their eyes flick amongst themselves. She’s been lucid for months. Will the suspicion never go away?
“Elain,” Feyre begins carefully “why do you want to go to the Autumn Court?”
“Because I have an appointment with Beron.” she explains easily, taking a dainty sip from her scalding chamomile tea. “To discuss my engagement to his son.”
The table explodes in a riot of noise. Choking (Cassian, on his bacon strip), yelling (a “What?” from Mor, who levels an accusing glance at Rhys too, for good measure) a small cawing laugh (from Amren, of course), a susurration of unintelligible whispers (Azriel and his shadows) and a brief but sharp inhale from Feyre. Only Rhys watches her mutely, assessing the situation.
Thank all the gods Nesta hates the River House and never takes them up on their invitation to breakfast. This all would all be so much more difficult if she were here.
“Which son?” Rhys asks, calmly, his power brushing against her mind. Elain has nothing to hide, isn’t ensorcelled, and Rhys knows better than to go too deep into her mind anyway. It’s not a nice place past the garden gates.
Feyre whips her head toward her mate, incredulous. “That’s what concerns you right now?”
“That will tell me how concerned I need to be, darling.” he looks back at Elain. “So? Which son, Elain?”
“Eris, of course.” Elain replies, doe eyes wide and unblinking.
Before Rhys could declare a verdict, Mor lowers her own cup so roughly, the coffee sloshes out the rim and onto the table, seeping into the tablecloth. “Absolutely fucking not.” she hisses, looking around like a feral, threatened animal. “Is this another one of your deals with Keir and Eris? Another thing you lied to me about?”
“No.” Rhys says, stopping Mor before her indignation could gain momentum. “Of course not.”
“Elain why would you…” Feyre says, but then cuts herself off when it comes out too sharp. She reaches out, takes one of Elain’s hands in her own from across the table, and tries to smile soothingly. “Is everything okay? Are you… confused again? Is it one of your visions?”
“Has to be.” Cassian chimes in, nodding vigorously all the while.
Elain tugs her hand from Feyre’s. “I still need to know who will winnow me.”
“Nobody.” Azriel says, his eyes narrowed, as if challenging the rest of the group to contradict him. He would look impassive, if not for the way the shadows around him swirl in obvious agitation. His expression softens, a touch, as he studies Elain. “What’s wrong?”
Elain purses her lips. Oh bother. She hoped it wouldn’t come to this. “Well someone has to take me. You see, I wrote to Beron himself last night and I think he will be very cross if I don’t arrive by lunch time, like I promised. The Night Court promised him a marriage alliance that fell through before, I would not think it wise to deceive him again. Especially considering how much he dislikes us already.”
“You wrote to him?” Feyre asks, stricken. “Why would you do such a thing?”
Why, why, why. Will this interrogation never cease?
Elain sighs and grabs a waffle from the pile - she deserves a treat this morning, she finds.
“Because I wish to marry his son.” Elain explains, like this should be obvious by now, and takes a small bite. Toasty warm and just the right mix of crisp and soft. The silence that falls on the room is unnatural, coiled to spring into an argument any moment now. Their hearts beat a war drum in her ears. Elain frowns at the sensation, focusing on the texture of the waffle instead, savoring the taste on her tongue. But when she looks up, everyone still gives her a look that suggests they think she’s mad so she huffs, impatiently. “If you want to dissuade Beron, be my guest, but you must see that the wisest course of action would be to go to the Forest House.”
They argue about it on and on for minutes, while Elain pilfers another waffle, to pass the time.
In the end, they have to concede that she is, predictably, correct.
Beron’s throne room is massive, the wide hall unusually devoid of people in anticipation of their arrival. The walls are covered top to bottom with panels of intricately carved wood. On the first panel, terrible monsters and strange, scaled hounds drive faeries to flee. On the next one a priestess gifts a male a beautiful sword, surrounded by ringed images of faeries fighting monsters, then on the next panel faeries fighting faeries and a tired looking male presented with a crown this time instead of a sword. On and on it goes. Until finally, Elain sees a figure she recognizes. A male on this exact throne, flanked by two other males. One smiling benevolently, the other wickedly. The wicked brother stabs the High Lord in the back. The benevolent one raises up his people in revolt, triumphantly holding up the severed head of the betrayer. The last panel is the leering, proud face of Beron Vanserra on his coronation as High Lord.
There is no empty space left after Beron’s ascension to power. The message is clear: there will be no new era. The Autumn Court’s history ends with him.
Three brothers. One to be the High Lord, one to kill him, one to rule.
In the back of the room, there is a dais with double thrones, elaborately carved into the side of a gigantic, living willow tree, its branches fluttering in the breeze let in through numerous but rather small windows.
Beron and his pale, unsmiling wife sit on the thrones. Of their - remaining - sons only Eris is present, wearing an utterly inscrutable expression. His attire is rather modest, or perhaps casual would be a more accurate descriptor. By no means does he look sloppily dressed, but his lack of formal finery is making a statement that he does not think they’re serious about the marriage contract. Nevertheless, even with how blatant the display is, it’s not what captures Elain’s attention.
As they approach, Eris toys with his necklace idly, like he’s bored of the proceedings before they even have a chance to begin. The tear-shaped medallion catches in the sunlight and glows an eerily familiar orange. Elain exhales. Whether in relief or resignation… even she doesn’t know. Perhaps a little bit of each. She’s not going crazy, but if she’s not going crazy, then Eris really is in danger.
And more alarmingly, then it’s truly up to her to save him.
Other than the royals, only one person was allowed to remain in the throne room. A visibly wizened old High Fae female hovers near the dais, with a clipboard and a parchment at the ready. Beron makes a gesture towards her, before he greets them.
“High Lord, Lady,” he says with a smile that widens as his eyes land on her “and the famous Elain Archeron. Welcome to my halls. I must say I did not expect the offer of a marriage contract, given how… precarius the relations are between our two Courts. I especially did not expect it to come in the middle of the night.”
Rhys takes a step forward, his manner deceptively mild compared to the roiling loathing underneath, distaste for both the High Lord he addresses and this whole situation.
“I must ask for your forgiveness about this misunderstanding, Beron.” he says with a sufficiently chagrined smile. “We were caught similarly unaware by Elain’s nocturnal correspondence, but we are of course, open to renegotiation on the subject.”
Beron glances at Elain, with an amused arch of his eyebrow. “My, my. Am I to believe she’s a rogue agent?”
“Not necessarily.” Rhys says smoothly, followed by a minute, performative wince. “Since the death of her mate Elain has been having… episodes. She did not mean any harm by her actions, I assure you.”
It stings, even though she knew it was coming. It’s the only way they can get Beron to discredit her actions. The only way. (It would hurt less, if Elain didn’t think they’d meant it all the same.)
For the first time, Eris’ gaze sharpens. He drops the necklace and fixes his keen gaze on Elain, a nasty smile lurking at the corners of his lips.
“Is he calling you a raving lunatic?” he asks.
Elain shrugs her slender shoulders, in a not too lady-like manner. “I believe so.”
Eris’ lips tick higher at her response. “And are you?” he presses.
Elain feels all the eyes in the room on her, pressing, burning at her skin. Breathing hurts, like her lungs are too big for her chest, like they can’t expand properly. But her mind is clear, no errant images lurking at the edge of her vision. There is a heartbeat among the many that beats steady, like a metronome, and she focuses on that one.
“I am not, prince.” she replies, honestly.
Eris holds her gaze for a moment, for two. There is no outward shift, but something is playing behind those clever, amber eyes of his. Only Beron moving in her periphery draws Elain’s attention away from him. The High Lord leans back in his throne, appraising them.
“How interesting.” he notes.
“Father,” Eris says, politely inclining his head “I would like a moment alone with Lady Elain Archeron, if you would allow me. You may continue your discussion in the meantime.” he tacks on dismissively, this time to Rhys and Feyre.
“Do not - ” Feyre starts but she doesn’t get much further than that before Beron grants Eris’ wish, with a satisfied smirk.
Eris leaves the dais and walks over to her, palm up, offering her his hand. This close, she notices that the necklace she fixated on is an amber and it isn’t wholly orange: there’s a black dot slightly off-center, some sort of insect encased in it. She takes Eris’ hand, unsurprised at the heat of his skin on hers.
Feyre watches her do so with an unhappy look in her eyes. Her mind brushes against Elain’s, comforting but also cautious. “Be careful, Elain. Please.”
Elain doesn’t think there’s much to worry about, Eris will hardly murder her in broad daylight, but she still sends her reassurances down the mental link. Then she lets Eris leads her out of the throne room.
They don’t talk as they walk down the corridor, passing curious servants, who bob their head fearfully each time they are caught staring, not until they reach their destination. They stop at a small alcove, close enough to the throne room and open enough to give Elain the illusion of security, but small and secluded enough to give Eris the illusion of privacy.
Only then does Eris let go of her hand. This time the mask is allowed to fall, or slip at the very least, to reveal expectant impatience.
“What is this really about, then?” he asks. Elain blinks.
“I beg your pardon?”
“This,” he gestures with his hands “this whole charade. When females throw themselves at me, they usually have some ulterior motive, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what you want. Riches, connections, you already have all that. This is obviously not a Night Court plot because Rhysand would never be insane enough to go straight to my father instead of me. So what is it? Are you…” he stops, assesses her again and lands on the one thing he may still have his uses for. “Are you in danger?”
Elain nearly laughs, but a small smile still betrays her. If only he knew. “No. Quite the other way around.”
Eris cocks an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to mean you’re coddled or that I’m in danger?”
“I…” Elain stops, taken aback. “Both, I suppose?”
Is that not why you ran straight here? some bitter part of her mind says, You asked for a marriage so you could be by his side and keep him safe, but deep down… didn’t you want to get out of that suffocating house too? Weren’t you glad to be given a cause?
“I’m a Seer. The Cauldron, when it made me, gave me the power of Sight. And I had a vision.” Elain admits, trying to dislodge the cruel, ungrateful thoughts from her mind. “I Saw you dying, but I ripped the roots of death from you and you lived. I think I can save you.”
Eris to his credit, doesn’t look at her like she’s crazy, only hums in consideration. He says nothing for a long while, but then “You want to save me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Elain’s face scrunches up in bewilderment. “What do you mean, why? I just… did you hear what I said? I Saw you die.”
“Oh, no, I heard it.” Eris replies, clicking his tongue. “But you don’t know me, Elain and the rest of your family would not only rejoice at my death, they would probably shove me off a cliff themselves, if they could get away with it. So, one last time: what is this really about?”
Lucien in the hall, Elain’s feet dangling in the air, something is wrong, something -
She clutches a hand to her heart, breathing raggedly through her nose. The pain never fully goes away, but it ebbs and flows like the coming tide. It’ll pass.
“When Lucien left for the Continent, to find Vassa,” she begins, surprised at how raspy she sounds, how parched her mouth suddenly feels “I felt wrong. I wanted to tell him to stay, I suddenly felt like nothing else was more important. I nearly took a step towards him but then I stopped. I thought it was just the bond, that it made me desperate for his presence and I resented myself for being so foolish.” she admits, the same wretched guilt bubbling to the surface.
“But it wasn’t.” she continues unsteadily “My powers aren’t, I’m…” she takes a deep breath in, out, tries again. “It feels like my magic is still figuring out how to communicate with me? Sometimes, I have visions, like I had about you dying, sometimes I sprout prophecies, but sometimes I just have these… feelings. It tried to tell me what was going to happen and I didn’t listen. And Lucien went on his quest and he died. I didn’t trust my instincts and he died. ”
Elain wraps her arms around her chest, as if she could keep herself in one piece if she tried hard enough. The Cauldron was nothing compared to the pain of being rent asunder, her soul cleaved in two. And even that agony was nothing to the realization that a person died, a good person, and she could have prevented it - and didn’t.
Eris’ fingers wrap around his amber medallion absently. Maybe it’s a nervous tic, as strange as it seems that he’d lose control over anything.
“I can’t let that happen again.” she confesses in a whisper, glistening eyes pleading for him to understand.
“Is this meant to be your absolution?” Eris asks, and she’d almost believe him dispassionate, his heart still beating an even rhythm, but his gaze skitters from her, fixed on the arched window above her shoulders.
Elain shakes her head, wildly, her curls bouncing around with her vehemence. “Of course not. I can’t make that right, I know that. But I need to make sure this doesn’t go wrong too. Please let me.”
Eris’ eyes find hers again. He drops the amber. “Oh why not.” he says with a long, drawn-out sigh of indulgence. “I’m feeling very fond of the idea of living anyway. Besides, I know how one gets out of engagements like these and I don’t feel desperate enough to fuck Cassian yet. If it was Azriel, maybe, but Cassian? Absolutely not. That said, I do have one condition: I want the ceremony according to human customs.”
People often remark that Elain has grown very strange since emerging from the Cauldron. Those people, she assumes, have not had the chance to make Eris Vanserra’s acquaintance yet.
“Why?”
Eris gives her a lazy smirk. “Because you insisted upon the matter, naturally.” he drawls.
Much to Feyre’s disappointment, now that both Elain and Eris are in favor of the marriage, there’s very little she can do to convince Beron to drop the matter. Elain is to stay in the Forest House to finalize the details of the actual wedding, while Rhysand and Beron work out the political side of things. Feyre agrees to fetch her things in the meantime, on the condition that she can stay the night here with her.
When a servant ushers her out of the door, Elain catches the mournful look the Lady of the Autumn Court throws at her. She shivers, but she keeps her strides even, and follows.
The maids preparing her room are mostly quiet, scared things. Only one chats with her, frankly and kindly, but even she unsettles her. Elain looks at their scurrying forms and everything inside her screams that their eyes and ears are not theirs, they’re his or if not his then his.
She makes small talk as best she can. When she asks about the faerie marriage ceremony she learns why Eris seemed so against it.
It involves their hands being tied together with a golden thread, in an echo of a mating bond.
***
There’s a dog in Elain’s room when she wakes. They’re large and slender, resting a long snout on their paws, dark eyes peering at her resolutely. Their fur is a sleek black, but overshot with grey and white. The dog is old, clearly, but no less bright for it: there’s an almost human intelligence in their eyes as they watch her.
Feyre brought her clothes yesterday, but most of it still lies in her trunk, Elain only bothering to fish out her nightgown after the tense dinner they went through. Because it was that. Unbearably tense.
The rest of Eris’ brothers arrived, mean and unkind twins named Phobos and Deimos and an unsettlingly quiet male who looked very much like a softer version of a young Beron - Aiden. The dinner went mostly fine. Only once did the hostility turn into violence. One of the twins made an inappropriate comment about her trading one brother for another and then the sleeve of his fancy shirt caught on fire.
Beron chastised Eris for disturbing the guests, though he did look far too amused by the situation to be truly offended. He denied the right of Phobos to see a healer. Said he should “learn from the experience”.
Elain tries to linger on that memory as little as she possibly can.
(Feyre pulled her aside after dinner, her face a mixture of disgust and worry, and asked if she was certain.
“They’re nothing alike. You have to believe me.”
Elain likes to linger on that memory even less.)
And now she has a dog.
“Hello, sweetie.” Elain murmurs, sinking down to sit in front of the dog. They wag their tail, swishing slowly on the floor, left to right, left to right. They lift their head so she scritches underneath their jaw, then the neck. “How did you get here? Are you one of Eris’?”
The dog tilts their head, paying attention. Then barks, once. Whatever that means. Elain smiles and scritches harder.
“I don’t speak your language, I’m afraid. Maybe I will soon.” she amends. Her powers are extremely unpredictable. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing. “If I get dressed, can you take me to him?” the dog whines, then looks at her with big eyes. Elain frowns. “In any case, I better get dressed.”
Elain picks out a dress with a long, white ruffled skirt and a sunflower yellow top, simply because that was at the top of her trunk. She resolutely ignores the other white dress in the room. It’s a simple, restrained dress, the only adornment the flowers and leaves made of lace. It was meant for a human woman, walking down the aisle to wed the man she loved. The man is far away now, the love withered, the woman dead. But still Elain asked Feyre to bring the dress. Maybe it will speed the process up. She desperately hopes she’ll be able to get the wedding out of the way before Nesta catches wind of what’s happened.
The dog rises, stretches, and before Elain can open the door, walks straight through it like it isn’t made of solid wood. Ah. So that’s how they got in in the first place, she notes, and then steps out to the corridor to follow after the dog. A young servant boy that stood beside her door starts.
“Ah, my lady!” he cries. Elain turns around, peering at him curiously.
“Yes?”
“Where are you, that is, may I inquire where you’re going?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m following the dog.”
The servant’s expression freezes in utter bewilderment. “I’m sorry, the dog?” The dog chooses this exact moment to demonstratively circle Elain’s legs. Elain gazes pointedly at them doing so. The boy swallows. “That dog. Ah. So you do not… need any assistance?”
“No,” Elain replies cheerily. “I think we got it! Thank you.”
She expected the dog would lead her to Eris, or well, whoever they belonged to. But that’s not what happens. They enter a large, well-lit chamber, with a long table in the middle. There are servants fluttering around, setting the table for breakfast.
There are three figures already seated at the table, no plates, no glasses set for them, all of them with vibrant scarlet hair. One looks a little mousy, but bitterness radiates off him in waves, one’s face is manic, caught in a rictus of mad glee. And the third one stares off into the distance with profound longing. The first two, Elain does not recognize. The third figure, she does.
That’s Lucien.
Elain looks away, fixing the dog with her haughtiest disappointed expression. “You lied to me. I thought you’d take me to Eris.”
The dog barks, unrepentant and marches to an empty chair, sitting down in a clear invitation.
“Don’t blame Fenrir.” a smooth voice comes from behind her. Elain spins around. There, lounging near the entrance, is Prince Aiden. “He can’t do that if his master isn’t in the Forest House.”
“Eris isn’t here?” all the gods help her! No. Help him if she gets her hands on him! She came here to save him from his impending death and he leaves the very next day? Aggravating, ungrateful, fool of a male! “Where is he then?”
“Away.”
“Away where?” Elain demands. Aiden does not seem moved by her indignation in the slightest.
“Away from you. So telling you where to find him would defeat the point. He asked me to look out for you and sent Fenrir to guard you in the meantime. Phobos will nurse that burnt arm for a while, so you would have been quite safe anyway, but he insisted.”
It’s not my safety I’m worried about, Elain grumbles internally, but retreats for now instead. The day takes a turn for the worse when Feyre appears with a beyond furious Nesta in tow. That… argument isn’t exactly pleasant, but it was bound to happen sooner or later. Elain is just glad it’s out of the way.
“You’re coming home with me, now.” Nesta hissed angrily, trying to catch Elain’s arm. Elain took a step back, staring her down, stomach churning at the pungent smell of ale mixed with the heady sweetness of the faerie wine on Nesta’s clothes. “Elain, I won’t let you ruin your life like this!”
“Why not? I’m giving you the freedom to ruin yours.” Elain retorted. “Allow me the same privilege.”
Nesta’s eyes widened, like Elain slapped her across the face. Then her nostrils flared. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I do.” Elain said and then, with a hammering heart, already sick with guilt, delivered the final blow: “You stink. ”
Feyre coaxes an incensed Nesta into leaving shortly after. Elain asks her to come to the wedding. She doesn’t think her sister will.
She shakes her head, brushing out the tangles from her hair as she gets ready for bed. It’s over with now at least. It was always bound to happen, and it was always bound to be nasty.
The next days pass in a monotonous routine. In between meals, she is asked dozens of questions about the ceremony, the guest list, the decoration, the menu. When she has time, she slips away to badger a very flummoxed court healer, Meredyth, until she gives in and gets her a copy of books on healing potions, plants with medicinal properties, and after Elain asks another question of non-magical first aid, she shoves her own notebook at her too.
Whenever the endless wedding planning and the general crowd of the Forest House gets too much, too loud, her vision swimming with all the noise and the scents, she retreats to her room and reads, alone save for Fenrir who always seems to know when she needs him to lie down and let her pet him until she calms down.
Overall she keeps busy, which is good because eventually even Feyre must return to Velaris, overstaying her welcome as a foreign ruler as far as she could. After concluding his negotions with Rhys, Beron appears only for meals, very occupied with… something, but even that is more than enough for him to clearly but firmly put his foot down regarding any Night Court member being transferred to care for Elain. As long as Elain can keep avoiding Beron’s maids taking care of her, she’s fine with that too. Thankfully, her erratic sleep schedule and her stubborn refusal to ring the enchanted bell to summon them has thwarted their attempts somewhat.
Feyre keeps mental communications up, every night to check in instead.
And in all that time, her fiancé is nowhere to be seen.
By the dawn of her fourth day in the Forest House, Elain has enough of it. She finds Aiden - not too hard to do, when the male seems to be lurking in screaming distance at all times - and tells him to inform his brothers that she will be inviting them for afternoon tea. He gives her a skeptical once-over, and asks if she is sure. She says yes.
So tea is arranged.
Much to the kitchen staff’s displeasure, Elain insists on brewing the cinnamon tea and baking the chocolate chip cookies herself. They can’t really find a way to politely say no to her, though they clearly wish to.
The Lady of the Autumn Court, Calida, walks in, surveying the scene: Elain, with her hair tied in a bun, an apron around her waist, and a head cook that pleads mercy with her eyes.
“What seems to be the matter here?” Calida asks politely. She isn’t as pale as the last few times Elain met her, but then again, those occasions were in the presence of her husband.
“This young lady here refuses to let us prepare her tea and biscuits! It’s unheard of!”
Elain puts her hands on her hips. “I can’t very well make a gesture of goodwill toward the princes if I cannot make the gesture myself!”
“So it is true?” Calida asks, frowning. “You want to… have tea. With my sons?”
She poses the question like the prospect is the most insane, bewildering thing she has ever heard in her life. And well, Elain does have ulterior motives, but that does not mean she isn’t sincerely going to do her best!
“Yes, of course.” Elain replies with a small laugh. “I should get to know them better, shouldn’t I?”
Calida looks at her, with something close to pity, or perhaps concern. “Very well then. I would advise to be careful with all my sons.” she lowers her voice, so they aren’t overheard. “They each carry something of their father’s.” then she gestures to the staff to back down and let her do whatever she pleases.
Elain disregards that warning and gets to work. She is very aware that she is wading into enemy territory. Doing so is sort of the point.
Elain puts on her flounciest pink tulle dress, ties her hair back with an impressively sized bow, and waits, cookies piled high on a porcelain plate adorned with red carnations, the tea steaming in a matching kettle.
Fenrir lies curled at her feet, watching the door with a single-minded intensity. Aiden arrives first and he lets that pass without a complaint, but when the twins enter the dog growls at them to make his sharp-toothed presence known, before settling back down. Elain beams.
“Thank you so much for joining me. Please take whatever you wish. Some tea?”
She pours them all a cup, Phobos - still favoring his arm - lifts it to his face and sniffs. “Not poisoned.”
Elain makes an offended gasp. “Of course it’s not poisoned! Why would I go through all the trouble of baking just to poison you with the tea?”
Phobos looks at Deimos. “Perhaps it’s the cookie that is poisoned.”
Deimos nods, solemnly, eying the table with suspicion.
Aiden lets out a soft, disappointed sigh, reaching for a cookie. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Thank you!” Elain nods to him in appreciation. Unfortunately, the prince isn’t quite finished.
“If she’d kill us now, that would ruin her chances of marrying into the family.”
Elain gapes but all around there’s a chorus of calm agreement and finally they dig in. Well, she thinks dubiously, sitting back down in her own seat, as long as they’re… happy?
“You ever offer these cookies to our little brother?” Phobos asks, grinning wickedly. Aiden shoots him a warning glare but Elain only stares. He’d probably be more intimidating if he didn’t have crumbs on his face.
“I haven’t.” Elain replies breezily. There’s a tightness to her chest, bristling every time Lucien comes up, but sometimes the best strategy against bullies like Phobos is to simply not give them the pleasure of riling you. And sure enough, Phobos looks momentarily confused, glancing at Deimos next to him.
“Yeah? And why not?” he rallies, attempting to salvage something from the situation.
Fenrir growls in the back of his throat again and Elain leans down, petting his head soothingly. There, there. She has this covered.
“I had neither the occasion, nor the inclination.”
“But you have the occasion and the inclination to marry a male who is not your mate.”
“How can that idea be so strange to you, when you are no stranger to it?” she asks, her head suddenly buzzing, the world blurring in and out of focus and she’s sure she’s going to say the exact correct thing before she even knows she’s going to speak “Not everyone marries their mate. Isn’t that right, Phobos?”
Phobos’ grip tightens on the fine porcelain cup. Deimos, who previously didn’t give her much thought, suddenly stiffens and seizes her up like she is a potential… threat?
“Why would you ask me?” Phobos says with a touch of defensiveness. Elain laughs sweetly at him.
“Well, why are you asking me all those silly questions?”
From the corner of her eyes, she sees Aiden smile approvingly. Phobos opens his mouth but he is stopped from digging himself an even bigger hole, a bulky hand landing on his shoulder. Deimos keeps his eyes fixed on Elain, but her placid smile doesn’t waver. Seeing her heart is like trying to peer through murky waters. Like most people, Deimos gives up swiftly enough.
“Our brother was never the marrying sort.” he says, voice deep and rumbling. “We were just curious about the kind of female that could change his mind.” he looks down at the cup, then back at her. “The tea is… lovely.”
Elain nods in delight.
That night, when she enters her bedroom, she finds the door unlocked. She freezes. She doesn’t think anyone would try to murder her, but she is still healthily paranoid enough to always lock it up tight. Sensing her unease, Fenrir jumps in through the door before her. There’s no barking or snarling, so Elain slowly pushes the door open. She finds that he stayed behind, waiting for her, instead of rushing to the other person in the room - which was kind of him, given the nature of who the intruder actually is.
There, lounging on her windowsill, cradled by the faint light of the moon outside, is her wayward fiancé. Eris watches her and it somehow makes her think of a cat, but not a small tabby that would purr and curl in her lap, but a large panther she only ever saw in picture books.
“You had tea with my brothers.” he says in a way of greeting, his partially obscured face scrunched up in distaste. Elain has half a mind to turn on the light but does not. This moment feels dream-like, liminal, and she’s afraid that if she turns on the light, he will vanish, nothing more than a sceptre of the past, the present, or the future. “Willingly. You willingly had tea with my brothers.”
“I did.”
“You realize Phobos is half-convinced you know about his secret marriage and that you threatened him with it, right?” Eris asks, and despite everything she can hear the reluctant amusement in his voice. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“You left.” Elain explains easily, arms crossed in challenge. “And now you’re back.”
“So this was a lure to get me home?”
“Mostly.”
It was also a way to assess the other princes and to do her best to get on their good side, as well as a very selfish and shallow part of her wondering if Eris truly did keep tabs on her. If he cared enough to come running back. But mostly simply the lure.
Eris chuckles mirthlessly and opens his arms wide. “You have me now. What do you intend to do with me?”
There is no hidden insinuation beneath the words, but it still makes Elain’s perception shift. No man or male ever has ever been in her bedroom before, not like this. It is highly improper, some shred of her humanity bleats uselessly. After all, though she pushed the thought as far out of her mind as she could, she was calmly informed that Eris’ bedroom was big enough that she will be able to move in comfortably. What does it matter to share this hushed moment with him, when soon all nights will be exactly this?
But it doesn’t feel right. There is tension in the air, but it’s not the kind that would make her blood sing. It’s not the heat in her gut, as Graysen’s fingers fiddled with the laces on her corset, silent question for permission, or the flustering all encompassing yearning when Lucien’s eyes met hers over a cup of tea. This leaves her feeling raw, an exposed nerve bracing for pain.
There’s a vast ocean of empty space between them. Patchworks of moonlight scatter the dark here and there. Eris doesn’t move an inch from the windowsill and Elain doesn’t take a step away from the door.
“Why did you leave?” she asks.
“You tricked me into coming home, so you could ask why I left in the first place?”
“Yes.” Elain replies matter-of-factly, unashamed by the truth of it. “I told you you were in danger and you up and left anyway. Why?”
“I needed time. Space. To think.” he glances away. “I was never the marrying sort. Centuries and centuries of life and I never married. What does that suggest about a person?”
That you’re a romantic. That you wanted to marry for love. But Elain stops her wayward mouth from running away from her. After all, even if her instincts are true, it would be cruel to say it now, when Eris will tie the knot with someone he decidedly doesn’t love. Or even know.
Elain walks over to him, needing to be close enough that she could tell each individual hue of his irises apart, as if that holds the key to his soul. “Why did you agree to marry me then?”
There is a glimmer of gold, slipping beneath Eris’ jacket. Something drones lowly in Elain’s skull, something invasive and insistent that that chain is important, that it could tell her everything if she just listened to it. Without thinking she reaches out. She hooks a finger beneath the chain, brushing against the column of Eris’ throat, and pulls the necklace out. Amber, insect, promise and pain.
“Oh no,” a young boy said, looking at the amber in his palm. “I can’t give this to Mother!”
“Why not?” an unflappable voice asked, familiar as the back of her hand. Eris. He peered down at the glistening amber and then snorted. “The bug enhances the aesthetic.”
The boy - brotherbrotherbrother - gave him a flat stare. “You’re not funny. I can’t believe I didn’t notice this before!”
“Fine then, don’t give it to Mother. Give it to me. I like the bug forever immortalized in its death throes. It’s wonderfully morbid.”
His brother looked up at him, skeptical. “Really?”
“Really.”
And then he laughed, like he thought Eris was being stupid and that was the funniest thing in the world. “Alright.” he closed his eyes and curled his hands around the amber then blew a breath across it, before pushing it into Eris’ palm with an impish grin. “There. It’s a good luck charm. May it help you avoid that bug’s grisly fate.”
“Is that how enchantment works?” Eris asked with a lazy smirk, hiding the unexpected bout of fondness he felt. “Closing your eyes and wishing really hard?”
“Not for you, obviously. I have skill.”
Eris turned the amber around in his palm. “If it’s that easy, shouldn’t you also get a lucky charm?”
“Nah.” the boy, Lucien, grinned, elbowing him playfully in the stomach, because that’s as high as he could reach. “You wouldn’t let anything happen to me, anyway.”
Elain blinks, finding that suddenly, her cheeks are rather damp. And oh. She touches them. Oh. She’s been crying. Elain lets the chain slip from her grasp and looks into Eris’ eyes.
“I see.” she whispers. “You’re broken too.”
Eris scoffs, tucking the necklace underneath his jacket again. “Don’t be absurd. I’m perfectly fine. You’re the one who went all cross-eyed on me.”
“Did I really?” Elain asks with a frown. That would be an unappealing image. Eris sighs.
“No. You just stared into the distance and started crying. Going cross-eyed would have been far less disturbing of a sight.” he stands, side-stepping her, and approaching the door. As he passes Fenrir, he pets his head and the dog nuzzles against his palm.
“Eris,” Elain calls out after him, before he can leave for gods know how long again. Eris stops, waits. “you’re not in the habit of being seen, are you?”
Eris laughs, but this time the noise is startling, bitter, his eyes a swirling amber and she can very well imagine something dying in their depths. “Elain, no one has ever been in the habit of looking.”
And with that, he closes the door, leaving Elain’s heart to hammer away in her chest. Fenrir rises and places his head in her lap. Elain strokes his fur absently.
“No one ever looked - not really.” she told Lucien once.
Perhaps Eris does know her, a part of her at least. The same way one would know their reflection.
***
Elain thanks Meredyth again, cradling the large potted plant to her chest. The female has warmed up to her, somewhat, now that the initial bewilderment faded, and even offered to give her a few lessons - which Elain more than gratefully accepted.
Fenrir bounds around her legs as she exits the building, attempting to catch a better look at the flower, so she tilts it a bit for his convenience. It has a deep green stem with several small leaves and comically large, multicolor petals, ranging from baby pink to bright orange.
“Mother’s mercy.” Eris says, watching her close the tiny iron gate that keeps the herb garden from getting trampled on. “Those flowers are notoriously hard to manage. You are serious about keeping me alive.”
“Obviously.” Elain replies, perhaps a tad prissily, because Eris grins as he falls in step with her. “And they’re only hard to manage because you all are stuck in perpetual Autumn and it needs more warmth.” Elain glances back at the herb garden, then at the orange treetops that can be seen from nearly everywhere on the grounds and frowns. “How does growing things work in the Seasonal Courts anyway, without natural weather changes?”
“The weather does change here, to some degree, which gives a neat cycle to our agriculture. As for the rest… I suppose it’s the magic of the land.”
Elain squints at him. “Are you pulling my leg?”
“I wish. There is a lengthy volume detailing all the scholarly debates on the subject through the centuries and it’s the most tedious thing ever penned. If you’re ever in the mood to read an 817 pages long book that at one point makes an attempt to find out what the liquid in the Cauldron hypothetically was during the creation of Prythian based on the fluctuating acidity of the soil, I can lend it to you. But really, plant a tree in a pot or directly in Autumn earth and observe the difference, that’ll spare you some time.”
They turn to walk side by side back to the main building of the Forest House and Elain peeks surreptitiously at Eris’ profile. She knew he’d be around, Aiden all but confirmed it for her that Eris hadn’t snuck away again when he saw her periodic - and perhaps touch too revealing - glances to the entrance to the dining hall during breakfast. But after everything she almost expected she’d have to hunt him down personally.
“I might.” Elain concedes. “I would also love a copy, if you don’t mind.”
“I fear for your sanity.”
They almost enter when Elain hears it. Shouting, weak and mewling, the desperate cries of a boy barely grown into his body. Elain casts wild eyes towards Eris and begins to run without thinking. Eris curses as he follows.
She rushes through to where the courtyard ends and meets the forest proper and surveys the area frantically.
“Elain,” Eris’ face swims into her vision. He doesn’t touch to shake her but it seems a close enough thing. “what’s wrong?”
“Can’t you hear it? Someone’s crying for help!”
“Please, please.” the pleading turns watery, echoing from somewhere deep. “Please Castor, you have to let me up now, I’m so cold.”
Water sloshes, cascades down. Elain whirls around and - there. An old, boarded up well!
She picks at the rotted, nailed down wood, attempting to pry it off, when it suddenly bursts into flame. Elain yelps and jumps back, watching as the wood turns to ashes and. And. She is not in pain.
She stares at her unblemished hands for a moment in utter shock. She didn’t manage to pull away in time, she knows that for a fact. So how…?
But then the well is free and all her mind focuses on is helping whoever is trapped inside. She looks down and she groans in anguish.
The well is… empty. Or, she amends, almost empty. There’s some water still at the bottom, moisture from the ground gathering here. And there, on that tiny pool, is a reflection of a boy, as if he were sitting in the water.
Eris peers over her shoulder curiously. “What are you looking for?”
“I heard…” Elain starts, cheeks heating up in embarrassment “I heard a boy cry for help. But there’s no one there.”
“Oh quite. That boy is already dead.”
“What do you mean?” Elain asks, her pulse skittering nervously. Eris shrugs, sits down on the lip of the well.
“For once, I’m being remarkably straightforward. There was a boy in that well and he is dead now. My brother Castor threw in our brother Damien when Damien was still fairly young. He broke his leg on impact, so he couldn’t climb out. The well was already mostly dried out so Castor kept pouring bucketfuls of water on his head. Damien didn’t even do anything to piss him off that time, Castor was just bored.”
Elain has witnessed many a vicious spat between Feyre and Nesta but at the end of the day, they were sisters. Even overshadowed by anger, the love was always there, beneath it all. She could never imagine… this sort of senseless cruelty…
“That’s horrible.”
Eris has the audacity to snicker. “Oh that’s not the horrible part. The horrible part comes years and years later. You see, Damien and Lucien were quite close in years, less than a decade apart. Probably why they got along well. It was our tiny baby brother that went and called Mother for help. Heroic from the cradle, that one.”
A sudden foreboding comes over Elain. She’s not going to like where that story is going.
“When Lucien fell in love with a lesser faerie it was Damien who ratted him out,” Eris says “Damien who enabled Beron’s butchery of that innocent girl and Damien who, alongside Deimos and gods damned Castor, chased Lucien to Spring with the intent to kill him. In the end, Lucien had to kill him to survive anyway. That’s what heroism gets you.”
Elain doesn’t really know what to say. She should say something, by all rights she should. Another exclamation that this is all gut-wrenchingly terrible, some commendation on Lucien’s character (a good male, everyone keeps saying that, that he was good), or maybe some moral chastisement against Eris’ cynism. But her tongue is tied, her mouth utterly dry. There is nothing at all she can say.
Eris is still looking at her, head cocked now. If she won’t speak, it seems, he must. “Your Sight is still woefully out of your control, isn’t it? Not just during the war, but even now.”
Elain’s breath hitches in panic. The way her family watched her, with infinite pity and caution, a broken doll with episodes… She can’t endure that again. “No, please, I, it’s fine! They… the visions, they come and go like the wind. Sometimes they’re placid enough to ignore and sometimes a gust of it will pick me up and carry me along, but I promise I always find my footing. My mind is my own, I am not mad!”
She is aware that her uneven breathing and the hunted look on her face probably won’t do much to persuade Eris of her sanity, but she is too desperate to care. He has to believe her.
Blissfully unbothered, Eris stands from the well, dusting off the dirt from his pants. “That sounds uncomfortable. I don’t know if I could handle magic yanking me around like that.”
Elain holds her breath for… nothing. There’s no follow up, no squinted examination, no patronizing pity. She exhales loudly.
“It’s fine.” she lies.
“If you say so.”
Elain is so dreadfully rattled by that uncomfortable conversation that she doesn’t speak for a long time while she gets her bearings, not until they enter the house proper. But there is one question she does need to ask, actually, one that she can’t put off no matter how much she wants to.
She works up the nerve, aiming to sound calm, composed, utterly indifferent to the answer, but politely curious anyway, and asks: “Are you going to stay for now?”
“I am.” Eris replies “I hardly think I can get away again, not with the whole staff harassing me about the wedding, getting hung up on details I know they already went over and settled with you. It’s a mess, but, for better or for worse, I’m not running off before the ‘I do.’”
“And after?” Elain presses. Eris gives her a smile and an unreadable look.
“It would probably be ill-advised even then.”
That’s not precisely a ‘no’, Elain sighs. They take a left turn, drawing closer to her room. “Where did you go last time?”
“The human lands.” he answers easily and Elain staggers to a halt. She stops, there in the middle of the corridor, and stares at him. Eris smirks. “Their leadership is in shambles, the Wall is gone, Tamlin is in a mood… of course I would check in from time to time. Vassa and Jurian hate me, so it’s not like they’re very forthright, but it seems they’re doing alright holding down the fort so far. I even went to to ask for a second-opinion, chatted with your previous paramour, that Nolan lordling.”
“What? ” Elain gapes.
“I disguised myself as a doddering old man, seeking a night’s sanctuary behind the estate walls.” Eris snorts. “For a man whose whole identity is about hating our kind he’s hilariously bad at recognizing us. And I’m not even the most gifted with glamours.”
Elain makes a noise that suspiciously sounds like a teakettle whistling and Eris rolls his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that.” he says “If someone is foolish enough to be deceived by you, they deserve to be lied to.”
Elain shakes her head frantically. “It’s not that! Although that’s a mean thing to…” she shakes her head again, staying on track “I can’t believe you - you spent a night at the Nolan estate? I’m trying my best,” she looks meaningfully at the Mother’s mercy which is in fact a finicky little thing that she will be lucky if she can keep alive here “to keep you safe and that’s where you were all this time?”
“I’m not going to keel over from the sight of ash wood.” Eris snickers, which does nothing but make Elain glower unhappily. “I’m good, I’m fine, I promise I’ll be more grateful to all you do to ensure my continued survival from now on.”
“See that you do.” she retorts primly and marches ahead, resolving not to ask if Graysen was doing okay. She doesn’t care. She shouldn’t. He made his opinion on her known and that was that.
Eris grins at her, a touch amused, a touch charmed by her bossiness. “The trip mostly reassured me that no Fae lord used the chance to move in yet, but I did learn one piece of very important intel.” his tone holds mischief waiting to be unleashed, but she gets the sense it won’t be a mean one, a joke played on her. Elain… feels compelled to indulge him.
“And what was that?”
Eris taps his finger. His ring finger. “You owe me a ring.”
Elain blinks owlishly. “I do not. It’s women who traditionally wear engagement rings, not men.”
“No, humans propose with rings, and you proposed to me. So. Where is my ring?”
Elain’s mouth clicks shut. Her chest starts rising and falling and she realizes that for once she’s biting her lip to hold back a laugh and not a sob.
“Ah. I was looking for you, son.”
Eris’ face doesn’t fall. The shape of a smile remains, even as the warmth of it leeches away completely, mischief transformed into bored, cold humor.
“Were you, father? What for?”
Dissonant whispers fill Elain’s head at Beron’s approach, voices overlapping past, present, future that she can barely untangle them. Her hand flies to her temple, a sharp jolt of pain lancing through her head.
“Do not play coy with me,” Beron’s voice says in the distance “everything has a price. What does your master ask for in exchange?”
A different, feminine voice answers. “Only that which is most precious to you, more than power, more than gold. He asks for your fealty. He asks for your pride.”
The voice is familiar, she knows she’s heard it before but where…
“There’s a man I need you to talk to.” Beron says and this time it’s in the present and Elain grits her teeth and tells herself to focus, to keep herself in the conversation before they notice something is wrong. She has no idea how much of it she already missed. “Or perhaps a man I need you to make talk, would be more accurate.”
“Let’s get that over with then.” Eris says, with a long-suffering look thrown in her direction. “I trust that Lady Archeron can find her way from here.” Lady Archeron not Elain, she notes as Eris leaves, without so much as a goodbye.
Beron lingers, watches her with a glint in his eyes as they land on the Mother’s mercy. “My Court has kept me so busy lately, that we haven’t had as much chance to talk as I would have liked, Lady Archeron. I do hope everything is to your liking?”
Elain hugs the pot closer to herself. Fenrir is still like a statue, tense but wiser than to posture to the High Lord himself.
“Everyone has been very accommodating, thank you.”
“Have they?” Beron asks, with something unsettlingly close to a laugh buried behind his words. “Even my wayward eldest?”
“Eris has been nothing but polite to me since he returned.”
“Then he must have learnt a great many things during his trip. Or perhaps you’re a good influence on him, Lady Archeron. Polite is rarely a mood that suits him.”
Elain can’t for the life of her say why, when the words themselves are so innocent, she suddenly feels on edge by that remark.
“In any case, I am grateful for your concern.”
“Even if expressed far too late.” Beron says with a rueful smile she might have believed was real if she didn’t know him better. “I must express some embarrassment because duty calls once again, but I hope now that the plans are getting finalized, I will be seeing more of you.”
“Maybe, you will.”
Why do you want to? Why now?
Elain is unashamed to admit it takes a lot of willpower to keep walking at a measured pace instead of rushing to her room.
Fenrir whines, butts his head against her thigh, and she shifts her grip on the pot so she can pat him on the head with a free hand. “Don’t worry,” she whispers “I know you couldn’t have done anything.”
It’s when she’s trying to find the spot where the Mother’s mercy would get the most sunlight that her mind returns to the interaction. Something nags at her, and the more she thinks about it, the more ill at ease she becomes.
Nesta and her, they sometimes still slip up about calling faerie males men, a force of habit that is hard to break. But Beron would have no reason for such a confusion, no reason at all. If anything, he may call human men males, not the other way around.
And she distinctly remembers him saying “man” just now. Eris goes poking around in the human realm and then Beron whisks him away to interrogate a human the moment he returns?
The cost of what, Beron , she wonders, what do you want to buy?
Is Eris afraid his father would be the fae lord to make a move on the human lands? Is that what will get him killed?
Elain bites her lip, and turns back around to Fenrir. “Is your dad in trouble?”
Fenrir makes another pitiful whine and gives her large, pleading eyes. Yes, alright, she’ll fix it, somehow.
She doesn’t see Eris for the rest of the day, not as she takes restless strolls on the grounds. She spots the rest of the smokehound pack and Fenrir’s ear perks, assessing, but he stays with her all the time, for which she is thankful for. Filled to the brim with restlessness, she plucks several blades of grass and begins weaving, the movement familiar, soothing.
As she hoped, Eris does show for dinner at least. There’s a shallow cut on his cheek, a line leading upward and barely stopping before it reaches his eye. When he spots her, he nods in greeting. But Elain doesn’t stop, doesn’t take her usual seat - which would be across him, although this is the first time in days the seat would be occupied - but rounds the table to go to him.
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a dull green, braided grass ring, offering it to him on her open palm. “I believe this is yours.”
He gingerly takes the ring, inspects it in candlelight.
It was meant to be a joke, meant to cheer him up after whatever happened with Beron. But Eris isn’t laughing. He looks at her like she’s a puzzle that desperately needs to be solved, with a slant of his mouth suggesting he wouldn’t mind such an occupation.
Elain’s eyes draw again to the wound, blood glistening on Eris’ face like tears and…
“If you want to behave like him, you should - ” she presses her lips together, hard, clamping down on the involuntary echo, before they could reach their cruel destination. If you want to behave like him, you should look like him too. Beron did that, she’s sure. As a punishment.
Eris pockets the ring quickly, his face empty, empty like when he stared down his father and Elain feels wretched to have that look directed at her.
“What’s that?” Phobos asks, leaning closer as if he hopes to catch a glimpse of the disappearing object.
Eris cocks his head to the side drawls: “Some trash I dropped. Lady Archeron was kind enough to retrieve it for me.” Elain’s stomach plummets but her face remains fixed in a polite smile. “How is the arm, Phobos?”
Phobos’ face contorts with outrage. “Fuck you.”
“I missed you too.”
“I did not.” Deimos says, coldly. “I enjoyed the peace and quiet.”
“Overrated.” Eris shrugs dismissively. He glances back to Elain and thanks her again, perfunctory, more as a way to get her to go back to her seat which she does.
Beron watches her the whole evening. She pretends she doesn’t notice.
***
Most nights, when the pain from the bond gets bad enough to wake her, she’s able to go back to sleep eventually. Not now.
Elain takes deep, steadying breaths, screwing her eyes closed in an effort to keep the tears in.
Somewhere both very close by and very far off, a baby wails. Elain can’t even begin to process whether that’s real or not.
Fenrir’s glowing eyes watch her from the dark and she smiles (why is she putting on a mask for a dog?) and turns on the light, abandoning sleep.
There’s something on her desk that wasn’t there before. She frowns, pulls on her slippers and inspects the massive leather-bound volume, its pages yellowed with age.
The Magic of the Land: Differing Plant Lifecycles Across Prythian, the cover proclaims. Elain opens it and on the front page, in an elegant script finds the message:
Don’t say I didn’t warn you, E.
She isn’t sure if this is meant to soothe over his harsh comment at dinner or if he always meant to drop this at her room at night. Nor is she particularly pleased he is making a habit of making himself welcome in her room whenever it suits him.
Elain checks the door - locked back, thankfully - and tucks herself back in bed, cracking the book open.
In the beginning of it all, there was the Cauldron…
(Eris is dead wrong, the book is absolutely riveting. The first rays of the rising sun find her already at chapter 5, in the middle of reading about the soil composition in the Spring Court, absolutely enthralled.)
***
They finally set the date for the wedding, a month from now, which coincides with the natural occurrence of a blood moon. An auspicious omen, apparently. Not to mention, a long enough time for the Autumn Court to be able to throw a lavish party, but not so long that the bride-to-be could ruin the engagement - again. Beron doesn’t outright say so, when he ruins her day by wretchedly inviting himself to tea, but that’s what Elain assumes is the cause.
Beron’s newfound attention is unsettling even if not outright malicious. He never says or does anything rude or threatening, curbs any comment of such nature if one of his sons slips up too. His whole goal seems to be just to be aware of her now, where she goes, what she does, who she talks to.
It makes her feel caged in a bit, but it’s not all bad.
Elain has done her best not to unpack fully both out of paranoia and because there is just no point to it, but her room gets lived in against her better judgment. The Mother’s mercy seems fine on the highest shelf, thriving despite the occasional clipping of its petals. Below it, Elain has her veritable horde of books. Her clothes have migrated to the wardrobe, her desk the permanent home for three separate leather journals: one for her visions, one for her experiments, and one for wedding details.
She starts on her project to make her own herb garden but first, she takes Eris’ advice about the trees. Even within days the effect is startling. Mostly because there should be no startling change in a matter of days. Elain gapes at the broadening sapling planted in the Autumn soil, circling it around and around, but no it is decidedly larger and decidedly the same magnolia tree she put in the ground.
“I understand it’s magic and magic isn’t necessarily sensible, but why would it grow quicker? That makes no sense!”
Eris’s smile is lopsided. “We’re in the Autumn Court. Everything is rushing to meet its natural state of decay.”
(Which, while it did make her mind utterly melt, did bode excellently for her garden!)
Feyre checks in progressively more often as the date draws closer too. Elain doesn’t mind. She keeps telling her she’s fine and she is. Having a solid goal to work towards grounds her, she finds. Every day, just after lunch, she hops over to Meredyth’s, helping her out with her potion stock and now finally allowed the privilege of hovering on the rare occasion someone does need treatment as well.
The kitchen staff has grown accustomed to her occasional presence too and, Elain is happy to note, they have thawed towards her for the most part, even willing to gossip and chat with her. That is, expecting the times Eris joins her. Then they scoot away like being too friendly with her in front of their prince is a terrible, terrible idea.
Eris watches and he takes interest in most everything she does, allows her to commentate its every minute step, or prompts her when she fails to offer such service on her own accord. But he never helps, not with the baking, not with the gardening, not with her fledgling attempts to make healing potions. Oh he’s there, like a ghost at her heels, but he’s only partially present.
He seems truly curious about what she does, and he’s always pleased like a cat that got the canary to give a lecture if she asks about something, but so far, there has been nothing that she could find that actually interests him.
At a certain point, Elain is fed up with this.
Aiden is talking with Eris’ knight, Tristan, a sweet male who has been nothing but kind to her in the very few and far between occasions that he was at the Forest House, instead of away on a mission. When they see her approach one smiles. The other does not.
“Hello, Lady Elain.” Tristan greets her brightly. Aiden only arches an eyebrow.
“Yes?” he prompts, obviously impatient to see her gone.
Elain puts her hands on her hips. “Is there anything in particular that Eris, I don’t know, likes?”
“That’s a rather narrow category.” Aiden says contemplatively. “Care to elaborate?”
“Something he enjoys. Something that makes him happy. Something he derives pleasure from. Shall I elaborate more?”
“That’s a broader category, actually.”
Elain isn’t a violent person, truly she isn’t. But her smile does go strained a bit around the edges. Tristan gives a chiding look towards the prince, before addressing Elain.
“He enjoys the theatre. He wouldn’t ever admit it, but he has a soft spot for the art.”
A make-believe world where only by lying can you tell the truth and where, may it be comedy or tragedy, the actors are eventually able to shed their masks and go home. What a fantasy that is, to watch a play that you know will eventually come to an end. Of course he would love it.
There is a beautiful oak tree in the courtyard that Elain frequents whenever she needs quiet, but not solitude. In a strangely endearing habit, Eris sometimes takes cat naps in the branches if he finds her camped out underneath.
“Did you know,” Elain starts, reading one of the books she borrowed from Meredyth “that the blood of the High Lord of Dawn has curative properties? I wonder if it needs to be fresh or if it could be preserved somehow.”
The branches rustle and Elain looks up to see Eris peering at her with a half-smile. “Please tell me how Thesan reacts to the idea of you draining him in the name of science.”
“Don’t be absurd! Feyre should suffice.”
Eris’ eyes gleam with unabashed delight. “In that case, please let me be there when you ask.”
“You’re mean.” Elain pouts and looks away in protest. The sound of Eris’ laugh chases her all the same.
“When I heard tales that one of the Archeron sisters is a witch, I thought they meant Nesta.”
Elain chews on her bottom lip in thought. “They do, I think.”
“Then they’re fools. It’s obviously you.”
Elain whirls back around, outraged. “I’m not a witch!”
Eris cocks an eyebrow, toying with a smaller branch in his reach. It bounds back with a loud twang. “You’re spouting prophecies, cultivating a herb garden, learning to make potions and considering running experiments on blood. Pray tell, what does that sound like to you?”
Elain wants to retort but can’t actually find any words to refute him. Put like that she does sound horribly witchy.
“Oh dear.” she mumbles. “Am I a witch?”
Eris, infuriating male he is, doesn’t rush to a distressed damsel’s aid and refute such claim. “If you want to branch out to human trials, I can run a few tests the next time Father makes me torture someone. At least there’d be a point to the whole thing then. Or if you need more subjects, I’d be more than happy to find someone actually deserving.”
Elain isn’t sure if this is a macabre joke or not. It could go either way with him. (It doesn’t wholly feel like a joke though, if she’s being honest).
“No, thank you.” she replies, lip curling in distaste.
“Why not?”
“This may come as a surprise to you, but I’m not fond of the idea of hurting or killing people.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Elain, you killed the King of Hybern.”
Elain scowls up at him. “I did not! That was Nesta, remember?”
Eris clicks his tongue. “Sure. Out of idle curiosity, what would you call stabbing him through the throat?”
Elain doesn’t fully know. She was so full of adrenaline, rushing to get to her sister in time that she didn’t even register much of what she did. It came back to her in flashes afterwards, the blood on the blade, that awful resistance before the flesh gave way, the dagger entering through the back of his neck and pushing out the front.
“I would call that: not the cause of death.” she replies haughtily. Eris chuckles again, but lets the matter drop. Elain wets her lips, words swimming on the page. She didn’t know when to broach the subject, but now feels like an appropriate time. “Eris? I, that is, Tristan, got two tickets for the… it was an opera, I think. The Dragon Princess? I was hoping you would accompany me.”
The rustling above stills. Elain looks up and this time, she can’t make out the slightest detail of Eris’ face through the orange leaves.
“I would.” he says simply, words utterly devoid of any affectation. Too empty, like a bark scraped off a branch with clinical precision. “Not the best play ever produced, that one. There are a couple of charming songs in there and the masks are beautiful but the plot is a bit all over the place. Why the sudden interest? Do you like the theatre?”
“I like it,” Elain replies merrily, very pleased with herself now “as much as you love gardening.”
Which is to say, not at all and yet very dearly, if only through proxy.
Eris offers no response, other than a vague huff that might be laughter and Elain resumes her reading. He probably slips off into another one of his naps soon enough, because usually he has more of a vendetta against empty silences.
She’s not certain where he’s been all night. Aiden has told her that Eris is somewhat of a nocturnal creature and the only time Elain will ever find him awake at dawn is if he hasn’t gone to bed yet.
Eris likes her, or at least is making a concerted effort to like her, but trusting her seems like an altogether different beast.
***
Elain is sitting in front of her vanity, nearly cracking the wood of the table. Her hair is done up in a bun, her veil set on the bed behind her. The dress is beautiful, even if it looks rather plain by the standards of faerie fashion.
Calida stopped her after dinner last night, looked deeply in her eyes and asked her if she was sure. If this is what she wanted. Elain got the sense that the female hoped she would have second-thoughts, that she would have personally spirited her away from this place if she expressed but the slightest of doubts.
Elain said she was sure. Calida looked pained, averting her eyes.
“You deserved better. You deserved sunshine and joy, not this wretched tomb for a home.”
Elain didn’t know how to tell her that she wasn’t miserable, that though every time she crossed Beron’s path she felt her skin crawl, Eris was doing his best to make her feel welcome. That she wasn’t making some grand sacrifice, because she no longer waited for true love, no longer believed in it. She didn’t know how to tell her and Calida left, and Elain has been feeling off-kilter ever since.
The door to her room opens quietly. She can’t lock it, not with the flurry of maidservants intent on poking and prodding her every other minute, so the noise makes her sigh deeply. But it’s not any of the servants, or even the Lady of Autumn come to pack her away in a bag and then shove her at the back of a cart.
It’s her sisters instead. Feyre and Nesta are both here and Elain stops, heart skipping a beat before she leaps up to embrace them. Daily check-ins with Feyre didn’t do justice to the relief of seeing them whole with her own eyes.
Elain gives a long, wondering look to Nesta who only purses her lips, trying to hide the fact that she has emotions. There’s no lingering scent of booze or sweat on her. She made the choice to be here for her and to be here fully.
“I still think you’re making a terrible mistake.” Nesta tells her frankly. “But you asked me to be here. I’m here.”
They’re having the ceremony out at night, under the frankly unpleasant orange-red glow of the moon. They must have put something up to attract fireflies, because they’re buzzing around, illuminating the whole area. The trees are covered in garlands, tables laden with the bounty of the Autumn Court. There’s a troupe of dancers with painted faces, twirling around with batons set aflame, to choir music that almost sounds… haunting.
Beron might have agreed to have the ceremony itself according to human customs, but he certainly wouldn’t be caught dead eschewing all the formalities of his Court either.
Feyre and Nesta walk her down the aisle. It’s a bit unusual, but the faeries would never appreciate the irregularity of it anyway. Elain stops to stand before Eris and wonders what her father would have made of this match.
Papa who believed so much in love that he would have let Nesta marry Tomas too, if she only said the magic words.
She doesn’t take her eyes off Eris’ face as the priestess drones on, doing an admirable work not stumbling over the foreign words. She watches his mouth form the words “I do”, her heart beating too loudly for her to actually hear it.
She Sees Graysen standing in front of her, kind eyes, soft hands holding hers.
I do.
She Sees Lucien standing before her, a bright smile just for her, a teasing in his gaze that says he can’t wait to hold her in his arms.
I do.
Her visions clears and she sees Eris standing before her, head cocked, eyes questioning, like he doesn’t particularly care what she chooses either way.
Elain swallows. “I do.”
Only once the ring is pushed onto her finger that Elain takes in its actual appearance. It’s a golden brand that looks braided together. Like it was made from dried out grass.
The priestess gives Eris leave to kiss the bride and he does so, so briefly, so clinically, that Elain is struck off balance. The crowd claps politely and Elain feels dizzy, the clapping of hands magnifying into thunder claps. Eris grabs her hand and gently rubs a thumb across her knuckles, the touch kinder and more intimate than the press of their lips was.
“Listen. Listen to my heart.” he whispers for her ears only. And she does, breathing in and out, focusing on the steady thump, thump, always composed, lying even to himself, even in a place most can’t reach, lying so much it becomes a habit, that it becomes the truth (reflections of reflections; she understands). “You gave up everything to keep it beating. It’s yours now.”
(It’s yours. I’m yours. Is there any difference really?)
Elain breathes out and lets Eris lead her back through the crowd, flower petals sailing from the rows, getting caught in her veil. She focuses on the bright pink petals instead of gazing out at the faces of those in attendance. There are no smiles to be found there.
“This whole thing was your idea,” Eris asks, his tone airy as he twirls her out during their first dance “so why is everyone glaring at me for?”
“Because I’m too sweet, and they feel guilty when they’re mad at me.” Elain answers, her lips twitching wryly. She spots Nesta in the crowd and sure enough that is a formidable glare that she levels at Eris’ back. “I think you’d like her. Nesta, I mean.”
Something in her tells her that her intuition is absolutely correct. Eris however, seems skeptical.
“No offense Elain, but I think a one on one conversation with your sister would end with her earnestly attempting to murder me.” Eris pauses, considers. “Which, come to think of it, I probably would enjoy. Never mind then.”
Elain shakes her head, disapproving but smiling. Her gaze snags on Beron gesturing for the rest of the guests to join them on the dance floor.
“How did you convince your father to do this the human way, anyway? I never asked.”
Eris grins conspiratorially. “Oh, I just pointed out that if we don’t do a proper faerie ceremony we have wriggle room to claim the marriage is not valid, if needed. He enjoys the idea of using you against the Night Court, and judging by his spying routine, the idea that he could use you against me should he catch wind that I’m sincerely attached to you, but he enjoys the idea of reaping all the benefits without risks infinitely more.”
Elain stares at him, suddenly feeling very foolish. Scarlet blush spreads across her face from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. She thought… she actually… Gods, she is such a gullible idiot!
“What?” Eris prods, amused. Elain shakes her head, looks down. He slows them down to near stop, bending his head low to meet her stubborn gaze. “What, Elain?” he coaxes.
“I just…” she admits “I thought you did all this to be kind.”
Eris laughs, eyes twinkling. “My sweet witch,” he teases and Elain grumbles at the nickname, but it’s mostly just for show “I gave you an escape route and made sure you wouldn’t irreparably ruin your life in trying to save mine. Isn’t that kindness?”
“... I suppose so.” she mumbles petulantly.
When the hour strikes midnight, all the guests watch them expectantly, the crowd parting to let them return to their room for their wedding night. Elain’s palms are sweaty, though she couldn’t even tell why. Based on the kiss, Eris definitely has no interest in doing anything more than sleeping or perhaps teasing her some more tonight.
Ironically, that is somehow also insulting. She has been told she’s rather pretty, if nothing else. It’s rare to meet someone so wholly unmoved by it.
For the first time since she arrived at the Autumn Court, Fenrir doesn’t escort her inside to watch over her sleep. She wouldn’t, after all, be alone.
If he is at all affected by the expectation hanging over them, Eris certainly shows no sign of it. He opens his door and ushers her inside, before carelessly tugging off the jacket of his suit, draping it over the back of a chair by his desk. Elain’s things are already here, clothes packed back up into her trunk, her books, journals, plants, unceremoniously discarded on Eris’ desk - surrounded by huge stacks of paperwork, correspondence, seven different quills and an inkpot.
There is bed in the middle, larger than hers was in the guest room by far, that her attention skitters away from like a spooked fawn, noting instead the presence of large dog-sized pillows tucked away in the small pockets of empty space, and a few paintings here and there, most of them dark and haunting, images out of grim fairytales. But, unsurprisingly, by far most of the available room is used up by bookshelves.
Elain expected Eris to be somewhat of a scholar. He may have hated the religious soil book, but he has read all 817 pages of it, and the times where he had no answer to a question she asked seemed few and far between. But as to what field captured his attention precisely…
She approaches the shelves, entranced, skimming over the titles and oh, of course. History, culture, even poetry. She wouldn’t have guessed it, but it made a whole world of sense. One of the books lies on its back, rather than standing, and a tiny raven’s feather pokes out of it, like a bookmark.
Elain picks it up curiously, thumbs it open at the marked page.
“I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:”
“I love you as one loves certain obscure things,” Elain continues aloud, tasting the words on her tongue, in an effort to pin down their strange familiarity. “secretly, between the shadow and the soul.”
Elain turns around. Eris stands, leaning against his desk, free from his finery and now standing only in a near sheer white shirt, the glow of the amber necklace dulled underneath the fabric. She doesn’t know where she heard this before. Literature of any kind (usually the smutty variety) was Nesta’s forte, not hers, but she is almost certain she has heard this before. Which would mean only one thing. She raises the book, so small, so innocuous. If it ever had a title on the front page, it has faded to illegibility.
“Is this a collection of human poetry?”
“Yes.” Eris admits easily. “I stole it from the Nolan library, when I was around. I’m enjoying it so far. Do you want to unpack?”
Elain spins around, taking in her mess in the middle of Eris’ tidy room.“Maybe, tomorrow.” she says apologetically.
“Alright. The bathroom is that way, whenever you feel like freshening up.” he jerks his head toward a door obscured by one of his impressively large bookshelves. “Do you need any help with the dress?”
His question is idle, calm and Elain feels her ears burn again. It’s not fair, it’s not fair that she feels jittery even acknowledging that bed - more than capable of fitting two people, red silk sheets that look so soft - and Eris is capable of being completely blasé about this whole interaction.
She says no, she doesn’t need help and escapes to the bathroom before Eris can ask why she is so flushed. As soon as the door closes behind her, Elain drags the accursed wedding dress off her with little to no regard to its integrity. It’s not like she will wear it again. Who cares if a few buttons get ripped off? Nobody, that’s who.
Eris’ endgame is to annul their marriage when it no longer suits their needs. He doesn’t consider this thing real and why should he? It’s a marriage of convenience and it was her idea in the first place. Why would he take it seriously? What would stop him from taking on lovers in the meantime, even? They owe nothing to each other.
“It’s yours now.”
Maybe he’ll flirt and grin at females like he never has with her, maybe he’ll take them back to his godsdamned too large bed with the red silk and… and…
Her mind is spinning, her wedding dress an ugly, torn heap on the floor. Standing in nothing but her lacy underwear and her wedding band, and silently fuming, she sincerely expects that if she goes on like this, she’ll work herself into a vision. But she hears no ragged panting, or moaning, doesn’t See flickers of how Eris would kiss someone he wanted to kiss.
There’s nothing but silence. Elain, properly annoyed with herself over getting into her head over something she can just ask like an adult, grabs Eris’ bathrobe and wraps it around herself, opening the door back again with a loud bang as it hits the wall opposite. Eris spins around to face her.
“I didn’t hear the water running,” he remarks “and that robe is mine, though the color matches your complexion. What’s the matter?”
Elain shakes her head, curls bouncing around, hiding her face for a moment. She’s composing herself. She is a lady - in a male’s borrowed bathrobe with nothing but her underwear underneath - and she will behave with dignity that behooves her station.
“Nothing is the matter, but there was one issue I wanted to discuss with you. I am aware that you do not consider our marriage legally binding - ”
“Not exactly what I said.”
“ - but as your wife in name,” Elain carries on smoothly, calmly “I would prefer that, if you take lovers, you do so outside of this room. I don’t begrudge you your… needs, but this is my home too, and I wish to walk freely in it.”
There. She said it, clean and impersonal, without stumbling over her words.
Eris stares at her. Elain stares back, her head held high. She’s pretty good at keeping her composure, that is, until Eris cracks a smile.
“Wait, wait. Elain. Are you jealous?”
Oh damn everything all the way to hell!
“I am not.” she snaps back, irritated. Why did she try to have a mature conversation with Eris Vanserra in the first place? She should have just stewed in her insecurity like she normally does. That would have been the healthier option. “I simply felt it prudent to lay down some important ground rules.”
“Ground rules. About who I can fuck and where I can fuck them.” Elain winces at the vulgar choice of words and worse, because she has to fight not to let her mind wander off-topic and visualize exactly that. “That’s the important thing you rushed out of the bathroom to discuss with me?”
“Technically,” she interjects with some dignity “I never said I cared about the who. Just the where.”
Eris laughs loudly and there’s something dangerous to the way he stalks forward, the grace Elain fights tooth and nail for coming effortlessly to him. “I really do think you care about the who, my sweet witch. Are you worried that I’m attracted to you or that I’m not?”
He smirks at her like a male who is reasonably confident in his answer but still would not leave anything up to chance. Elain wants to claw those lips ruby red with blood.
“It would not be gentlemanly to insult me further. You’ve made your opinion very clear. In fact, I am grateful that you expect nothing of me, because I certainly want nothing from you. We are of an accord. Good night.” she offers a small dip of a curtsy and walks back toward the bathroom. Or she intends to.
“Bruising your vanity, am I?”
Elain doesn’t consciously decide to whirl around in an attempt to slap him but she somehow finds herself with her palm inches from his face, her wrist held pinned by Eris like a helplessly fluttering butterfly.
“Do you want me to tell you,” Eris continues, his grip loosening on her, but not letting go “that you’re the most beautiful female I ever laid eyes upon? That I can’t breathe when you’re near?” For a brief second, Elain thinks about how Lucien nearly shuddered when she said his name for the first time. Something of an assent, something of a yearning must show on her face because mischief gleams in Eris’ gaze. “My lungs are in perfect condition, thank you for asking.”
Elain’s hand goes limp and Eris releases her the moment it no longer looks like she will attack him. Her chest hurts. It hurts so much. Taking in her misery, his expression shifts.
“Elain,” Eris continues, softer, with all the sincerity that is usually trapped deep behind a dozen steel walls “you’re the first person to care whether I live or die in centuries. Can you imagine how that must feel?” Eris sighs, the downturn of his lips wry “It’s rare that I have fun with someone. Glee, definitely. But fun? Uncomplicated, innocent fun? That’s you, Elain. You’re beautiful to the point of madness, I concur, but gods, that’s not even the most attractive quality you have.
“It’s that pout,” he grins, gesturing to the pout that very much is on her face right now so she scowls instead which makes him grin wider “hiding those claws. You’re my wife. You’re cursed with a husband who has self-control, something that may seem like a foreign concept given who your family is, but I assure you, if there was anyone I would desire in my bed, it would be you. I would never disrespect you by keeping lovers much less, Cauldron boil me, bringing them into our room. I made a promise and I intend to keep it.”
Elain still wants to slap him or kiss him or… No, Elain just wants. Wants so much that it overshadows the ever-present pain in her chest. She looks at Eris, her gaze flitting from his lips to his eyes and then to the chain around his neck. She reaches for it and Eris arrests her before she could pull it off.
“I’m not a good male, Elain.” he reminds her, the gentle way he says them so at odds with his words “Good males tend to die before their time. You know this.”
She does. It comes back to her, Phobos jeering and asking if any Vanserra would do it for her, the flame igniting his sleeve, his horrified scream of pain, so gravelly that it scratched Elain’s throat too like knives. He couldn’t extinguish the fire, not a magical one and so he staggered to his feet, pulling off all his layers in a blind panic.
Eris didn’t even look at him. He kept on eating.
But there’s a truth bitterer than the stench of charred meat filling her nostrils again. And it’s simply this: a starved dog does not particularly care for the morality of the hand that feeds it.
“You’re kind to me.”
Eris scoffs. “It’s nothing to be kind to those you care for Elain.” no, she agrees, but it is something to be able to care. And he does care, deeply, and for more people than he’d like. Or else he wouldn’t have taken on watching over the human lands too, putting his life on the line for people he knows nothing about.
“I’m not him.” Eris continues on. “I will never be him. ”
This time, when Elain grabs the necklace, Eris lets her take it off, lets her carefully, ever so carefully lay it down on the closest bookshelf. She wants to grab the amber and smash it across the floor, wants to exorcise every ghost in the room, but she has no right to, none at all. Lucien was her mate, but he was Eris’ brother and that’s a grief she is not allowed to touch.
“I didn’t know him.” she whispers, reaching up, fingers on the nape of Eris’ neck where the chain used to sit, meeting his gaze, begging him to understand that she doesn’t want the fantasy, trapped in the eternal what-if of a true love that came to nothing. That it’s this that she needs: reflections upon reflections, sightless eyes striving to see, even if they never will, stumbling through the dark, ever and always reaching for each other. “I know you well enough. I want you, well enough.”
This time it’s her that kisses Eris, like she longed to be kissed at the altar, deep and unhurried, as if she could melt into him, disappear entirely in his embrace. Eris’ hands move to her shoulders, pushing the robe off her and she lets them pool at her feet, the cool air making gooseflesh rise on her skin.
Eris breaks away, his breath puffing, tickling her lips. He drinks her in, every inch and she would be bothered by the unreadable look in his eyes, the familiar smirk except there - just the slightest hitch, his heart beating a tad quicker than it usually does. She must be a truly wicked creature underneath all her ribbons and frills because that thrills her.
“Self-control?” she questions, peering up at him playfully from behind her lashes.
Eris grins a little too sharply. “Frayed.” he admits, and suddenly there are strong hands on her waist, hoisting her up. Elain giggles a little manically, wrapping her knees around her husband, until Eris’ lips claim her own again, swallowing the sound of her joy.
He walks backwards until his knees hit that ridiculously large bed, the bane of Elain’s existence, and sits down on it. Elain wriggles a bit to find a more comfortable seat in his lap and Eris hisses, but he doesn’t tell her to stop, doesn’t make an attempt to put distance between them. He lets Elain take and take and take.
Every line of crimson she draws across his body with her nails, every kiss pressed to her feverish skin in turn, every futile gasp for air, every imperfect stutter of his clockwork heart -
All of it hers and hers alone.
***
“He’s angry,” Elain whispers, suddenly terribly light-headed out of the blue, her eyes fixed on the empty doorway. Eris immediately follows her line of sight, focused on the absence there “they do not want what he wants or not how he wants it. Won’t sign, but won’t come. He will have to pay. The price, he will have to pay it.”
Beron storms into the dining room before Eris can ask her what she means, before Elain has to piece together the sense of the words that spilled unbidden out of her mouth. She can tell something is wrong at once. Beron is not a pleasant male by any measure of the word, but he is a controlled one, cruelty leashed by a sense of pragmatism. This Beron, the one who is approaching them now, is a wildfire untamed. He laughs and barks at the guards and the servants to leave, because he wants a private dinner with his family.
But even before that, Elain would have known something was wrong. All the princes, even Eris and Phobos, fell deathly silent the moment they caught sight of their father, and Calida’s grip on her goblet turned bone-white. They know his tempers like they can feel the change on the wind.
Beron sits, piling his plate high with all the different meat on offer. Everyone watches and waits, because he hasn’t given leave for them to dig in. He takes a large bite out of a chicken wing, his teeth tearing into the meat with something akin to violence.
“What do you know about Rask, Vallahan and Montesere?” he asks, once there is nothing in his grip but picked clean bone. “Well?”
“They’re overseas kingdoms.” Eris speaks up, sounding almost bored. “Technically they’re independent but they’re so far up each other’s asses that they seldom act without consulting with the others. If you’re asking about them as a group, I assume this is about their shared closeness with Hybern and their reluctance to sign a new Treaty.”
Beron tap-tap-taps against the table impatiently. “What else?”
“What else?”
“Surely you know more than that.” then Beron’s gaze whips to Aiden. “Or at the very least you do. No? How disappointing.” then he looks to Elain, his smile leery, dangerous. “What about you, night flower? Any insight for me?”
Elain wouldn’t be able to offer any knowledge, even if she dared to speak in this moment, and so she just shakes her head. The room remains uncomfortably quiet.
“Are we expecting a war, Father?” Deimos asks with some frankness. The smile on Beron’s face twitches. He reaches out to his son and for a moment, Elain thinks he’s going to cradle his cheek, like he did good. But then his hands go to his throat instead.
No one moves, even though the Lady of Autumn lets out a sound that is between a moan and a whine. Phobos’ throat bobs as he watches on helplessly, fearing for the life of his brother - but fearing for his own too.
Deimos gasps uselessly but Beron doesn’t aim to strangle him. With strength only a High Lord could possess, he remains seated as he lifts his son and slams him down to the floor. Then he throws his plate after him, the porcelain shattering in a shower of shards on his back. Then the goblet goes too.
“You’ll eat from the floor tonight.” Beron announces coldly, his anger seemingly sated now that it found a target. Calida’s lips tremble pitifully and she hides that by taking another sip. Elain exhales loudly, only now noticing that she’s been holding her breath. Beron looks around at the table, landing on the empty plates and growls. “What are you all waiting for? Eat!”
She fills her plate with as little food as can still be considered polite, eager to get out of the dining room as soon as possible. She isn’t the only one.
Elain knows, rationally, that she shouldn’t follow her husband like a thief in the night. But when she hears the door open and close as she gets ready for her bath, she can’t help recall the glance he exchanged with Aiden after dinner, or what he called one of Beron’s “moods”. She glances at Fenrir, snoozing on the dog bed. The dog lifts his head with a bleary expression and Elain chuckles, letting him rest and taking off on her own instead.
She knows where Aiden’s room is, although she rarely had reason to go inside. Like always, it’s deathly quiet from the outside, like nobody is present - some sort of silencing enchantment, she would assume. She cracks the door open, just a smidge, just to check if Eris is actually inside or if she’s bothering Aiden entirely unwarranted and so late at night.
“I’m not suggesting you tell her everything.” she hears Aiden speak “But your wife is a Seer, Eris, and it’s high time you took advantage of - ah, the female of the hour. Come on in, Elain.” Aiden says sardonically. Elain opens the door wider and slips inside. Eris and Aiden face off against each other and Eris looks at his brother with such a barely controlled frustration, that Elain sort of understands the saying “curiosity killed the cat” now a whole lot more.
“Do you really want to drag her into this?” Eris asks.
“She’s already involved. You can’t protect her, and it won’t bring him back even if you try.”
Elain inhales sharply. She is overcome with the urge to tug at her high collar, to cool her heated skin, because the temperature in the room is rising, fast.
“What did you just say to me?” Eris asks with a sudden, eerie calm.
“I said, Lucien is dead. Do you think you can somehow rid yourself of the guilt? That Lucien is looking on from the afterlife, thinking ‘well, he couldn’t save my life but at least he keeps my mate’s bed warm’?
Between one heartbeat and the next Aiden is shoved up against a wall, a dagger made of white hot flame against his throat. Elain watches them, her heart thrumming with anxiety. She doesn’t think they would hurt each other - despite their pretense otherwise it’s clear that they’re actually very close. But she also never saw any of their interactions get this ugly before.
“That’s a drastic overreaction, if you ask me.” Aiden remarks, utterly unbothered by death just inches away. “Father would approve.”
“Threatening you is no fun.” Eris says drolly, letting the heat of the fire get to Aiden, his face turning a sweaty red, while keeping the burn back. “The one thing you would fear to lose is the one thing I would never take.”
The flames dissipate and as they do, Elain steps closer. She touches Eris’ shoulder gently, to remind him she’s there and while he doesn’t melt into her like she wishes he would, some of the tension does seem to leave him. She fixes Aiden with her best Nesta impression.
“I’m right here.” she says “If you want to ask for my help, you talk to me.”
Aiden’s gaze locks on the hand she still has on Eris’ shoulder and the way he relaxed underneath it. Then his cold, stony features soften with something that almost looks like pity.
“Oh Eris,” he says “I was wrong, wasn’t I? You actually care about her.”
It sounds like a death knell, like the town physician gently trying to tell someone how long they still have to live. Eris’ lip curls in a sneer.
“Stay out of this.”
“Talk to her. I’m curious about the ‘price’ she mentioned.”
“You’re really pushing your luck here.”
But despite how much the conversation obviously displeased him, Eris lets himself be led out of the room. He lets Elain draw a bath for them both, and even more miraculously, lets her tuck her chin into the crook of his neck when they’re soaking in the lavender scented water.
“Have you tried poisoning him?” she asks idly, fingers tracing up and down his arm. Eris turns - as far as he is able without dislodging her - to study her face and she lifts her eyes to allow him access to her thoughts through their for once clear depths.
“Father?”
“Yes.”
“He’d be able to detect most poisons.”
“Not all.” she argues. “Faebane for instance, you couldn’t notice until it was too late.”
“True, but we haven’t been able to develop a strain of faebane that could bypass Nuan’s antidote yet. That female is too thorough.”
Now Elain pulls away in incredulity. “You have faebane?”
Eris chuckles, leaning in to press a kiss to the side of her head. “Of course we do. Did you seriously believe my brothers would have destroyed the stashes without pocketing some?”
“I…” no, actually, he has a point. That would have been uncharacteristic for them. What did any of them expect, really? That said, it’s not a total loss, even now. “We can still use it. I doubt you gave the servants the antidote and I have access to the kitchens. If we poisoned them, slowly, they wouldn’t be able to winnow and call for help. That’s worth something at least. And Rhys can always glamour any remaining witnesses and. Wait. Is that why you want the Night Court’s alliance?”
She is almost offended by the realization and more so when Eris’ grin widens shamelessly. “Your family is insufferable. Why else would I have put up with them all for this long? Don’t take this the wrong way, because I enjoy this side of you Lady I-Don’t-Kill Archeron, but what brought this on?”
Elain sighs, water rippling beneath her fingers as she tries to gather her thoughts. “Aiden is right, about involving me.”
“Elain…”
“Is this about protecting me, or not trusting me?”
Eris is silent for a moment, the room filled only with the quiet swirling of the water under Elain’s fingers. She lets him have it, the chance to gather his thoughts.
She expects him to lie, maybe, or to never answer. Aiden, though rude, wasn’t wrong. Eris has kept her bed warm. But slipping out from under the covers, the world still looks like it always had, the distance they can so easily cross in the privacy of their room once again spooling out for miles between them.
Much to her relief, Eris does answer, a crack in the wall he erected around his heart, offering her one honest glimpse inside.
“Sometimes this, sometimes that. Right now? Mostly the first one.”
Mostly. She can work with mostly. “I had a vision once, of Beron talking to a woman. She told him the thing he desired would have a price. His fealty. Based on my own ramblings, I am assuming he wanted to ask for the same thing from the overseas kingdoms and failed. And now, he will have to bow his head.”
Eris sighs. “He wants security against Rhysand. With Tamlin a broken husk, Spring would be all too easy to seize. But he needs allies before he starts a new war. He’s been using the human lands as an incentive to get the overseas kingdoms’ help, but our spies reported that today the talks utterly fell through. So now, Aiden and I fear that he will take the only other offer left on the table. Briallyn, the mortal queen, and her master, Koschei the Deathless.”
Briallyn. Of course that voice sounded familiar! She remembers that crone, ruined by the Cauldron, both alike and unlike Elain’s own sundering. “It was her, I heard her voice. Eris, he will take the offer.”
“I know.” Eris replies, troubled. “And that would ruin the Autumn Court forever.”
“We won’t let him.”
“It’s not that easy. The Autumn Court loathes regicide, or maybe just loathes it if you’re too incompetent to cover it up. Father got his throne by leading a righteous revolt against his fratricidal brother, and I’m not in the mood to martyr myself so one of the twins can take over.”
There’s a morose, dark expression on his face. She can’t let that stand. She shimmies closer, the water sloshing gently and looks deep into his eyes, brown against amber. And then she boops him on the nose. Eris recoils in surprise. Affront chases away the gloom and Elain giggles. “We’ll figure it out. You have me now, remember?”
He’s not alone in this anymore. Neither of them are.
***
Eris hates her plan which is excellent because Elain hates his too.
She’s not particularly inclined to be partial to anyone but her plan is simply to walk into the noisiest, most crowded place she can find and let her distress trigger a vision which may be unpleasant but it certainly will not (probably will not, Eris would argue) result in her death.
Eris, on the other hand, wants to get caught betraying Beron and to suffer the consequences in an effort to get the bastard alone, a plan that has a far higher risk of mortality. Which Elain does shrilly remind him time and again, furiously grinding Mother’s mercy petals to make another batch of potions. She needs as many as she can get.
So they’re at a tense impasse. Which is fine.
Eris takes her to a large, empty clearing, far, far away from the Forest House. At first Elain is puzzled by the sight. That is, until Eris begins whistling and the tune is carried on by a fiddle, and then by a voice too and then the glamour fades and there are dozens upon dozens of faeries there - lesser fae, as some would call them - in every variety. Some large and gaunt, their skin made of bark, some one apple tall, weaving expertly through the throng of dancing feet, some in a strange coat made of the pelt of an impossibly-sized white mouse, their eyes red, their skin sallow.
Some High Fae are present too, wearing colorful clothes and dancing around a sparkling bonfire. Elain suddenly feels a little underdressed in her plain, long-sleeved orange dress, with nothing but a soft scarf thrown around her neck. Unlike her, Eris isn’t underdressed but counter-dressed: he is wearing all black, though his shirt and breeches are mostly obscured by his dark, glimmering cloak. There’s even a raven feather tucked into his tied up hair.
“Is it a special occasion?” she asks, tugging at her sleeves.
An old, plump female who is sitting on a nearby rock and knitting… something, lets out a cawing laugh at her question. “Dear child, every moment we gather is special, and we gather whenever we miss each other - that makes it even more special, wouldn’t you agree?”
Elain smiles, charmed by the answer. She looks around at the smiling faces, lets the warmth of the fire and the warmth of friendship seep under her skin. “I would.”
The female glances at Eris, knowingly. “Love has its own magic, as I’m sure our prince has found out.”
Eris gives her such a contemptuous look that Elain almost gives in to the urge to chide him for it. “Your Sight has dimmed in your old age, crone. I’d pity you, if I ever liked you.”
Now Elain backhands him scoldingly across the chest. “Eris! That was terribly unkind!”
The old faerie throws her head back and laughs. “What is a rosebud without her thorns! Fear not, child, your prince and I have a history of being cruel to one another. He offers me insults and I offer him truth. I would wager his feelings are more hurt than mine are.”
“The only thing I feel towards you is revulsion, Silvestra.” Eris mutters darkly. Silvestra winks.
“So you’re a Seer too?” Elain asks, suddenly excited. An excitement that is popped like a soap bubble when Silvestra shakes her head regretfully.
“I am sorry, petal, no, not like you are. You have a gift for Far Sight, while I see only Truth. No glamour can fool me, no lie that doesn’t ring like a rusty chime, no wall that can keep me from seeing other’s hearts.”
“Or so she claims.” Eris interjects again.
“You must believe me somewhat, prince, because you brought that which is most precious to you into my care. Or perhaps you do not believe me, and simply treasure her all the more that you grasp at all threads. Perhaps both. No! The ladies are talking now.” she holds up a hand when Eris wants to interrupt her, and turns to Elain instead. “There is a better way to get in touch with all that were, are, or can be. You let the winds of fate pick you up and throw you around, yes, and sometimes when things are bad you make yourself so small that you make it easy for it. You desired distress, the panicked blank of your mind to invite the images in.”
“Well, ah, yes?”
“That would work well, petal, it would, but not it would not work best, see? Do not run. Feel the current around you and when the wind comes, leap with it. Go to the bonfire, let the beating heart of this place in, let the magic in. And may the Mother favor your quest, because I most certainly do.”
“Thank you.”
Eris shoots another displeased look in Silvestra’s direction, but allows Elain to approach the fire without a parting comment.
Some faeries offer Eris nods of greeting but none of them acknowledge him as someone of higher rank. In his attire, he looks more like a vagabond attempting to rob you blind in an alley rather than a prince though, she will give them that.
The festivities get more and more overwhelming the closer they get to the bonfire, the laughter of the people present, the thumping of their feet, the frenzied beat of their hearts, the crackling of the logs under the fire, the shrill cry of the instruments.
Elain doesn’t run, doesn’t empty her mind of everything to tune it all out. She listens to each and every one. She chucks off her shoes, tucks her toes into the soft soil, cold beneath the earth, lets the dirt stain her feet. The world hums and though strained and off-kilter, she hums along with it.
“Come on.” a familiar voice says. Not Eris’. She looks toward the forest path where Lucien stands, hands outstretched toward her. “Keep up, Feyre.”
Elain follows, in a daze. Eris follows with a curse.
Lucien leads her through the forest, going deeper and deeper. She steps on something sharp, cutting the soles of her feet and trailing dots of blood in her wake like dew on grass, but she doesn’t stop, not until Lucien does.
She crouches in front of the bush Lucien is standing next to, an empty look on his face. The bush is bursting with berries, pink with swirls of purple veins. Elain reaches for one of them, suddenly aware that this is part of the script and Lucien won’t move on, until she moves it along.
“I said keep up why… oh.” he says, a sudden smile on his face. “You found the witchberries.”
“The what?” Elain hears herself speak, alarmed to realize she sounded like Feyre just now.
“Witchberries. They’re harmless, if a bit spicy.”
Elain takes one of the berries in a trance, popping it into her mouth. Then something even stranger happens. Feyre falls out of her, landing on her back on the forest floor, mortal mind scrambled, eyes unfocused as she stares at the sky and giggles. Lucien laughs louder than Elain has ever heard him in life.
She’s back in the forest, Feyre on the ground, Lucien above, and somewhere distantly, someone calls her name. She should answer. That voice is important. But…
“Lucien.” she says, this time as her, this time as Elain. Lucien’s laugh cuts off abruptly. He looks around wildly, like she is a ghost on the wind, like he can’t see her. Elain stands, stares into his mismatched eyes, the thread behind her ribs growing taut, the severed end being pulled on. “I’m sorry.” she breathes, reaching up to touch his scarred cheek. He shivers, still alarmed. “I’m sorry for letting you go, I’m sorry I didn’t stop it.”
When she says that, he squints, as if he could almost make out the shape of her. Then again the voice comes.
“Elain! Come on, wake up!”
There’s a different string that’s being tugged now, not one of the soul but one of the heart. Elain takes a step behind. She doesn’t want to turn around. She must turn around.
“Elain, please!”
There’s a fear in that plea now, a vulnerability that unsettles her, but boldens her too. She turns around.
The moment her back is to Lucien, the ghost on the wind whispers to her too: “I know.” Not forgiven, not condemned, simply… Heard.
Elain still feels disoriented. There’s a rush of softness, her hair being lifted, slipping between hands - the only sign Eris cradled her face is the aftermath of it. Now he moves back, standing at a careful distance, watching her hawkishly for any sign of trouble.
“Gods dammit, you have a flair for the dramatic and - oh fuck no!” he cries, when Elain opens her hand and he sees the witchberry still sitting in her palm. Elain curls her fingers back into a fist, a protective cocoon against Eris’ attempt to swipe it. “I think you had enough hallucinations without the witchberry!”
But she heard him in a dream, far, far away, and she knows he is frustrated only because moments ago he was terribly afraid and that bothers him. She burrowed under his skin like a parasite and he can’t get her out now, not without tearing himself apart in the process.
Love has its own magic.
The slightly crunched witchberry has a sweet scent, almost like faerie wine. Elain wonders what would happen if the two were mixed. How potent it would be. How unassuming. None of its ingredients is poison, none of it kills directly. But it’s enough to debilitate a person and then all they’d need is an ash dagger to a throat.
“I’ve found a way to kill Beron.” she whispers, perhaps a more profound love confession than any she could offer. He cares for her, and she will kill for him. “We trap him in dreams.”
***
The plan is horrible, terrible and Elain hates it, she hates it, she hates it.
She has nightmares about Eris dying in every which way. The twins change their minds. They can’t stall for long enough. Elain’s measurements of the witchberried faerie wine or the healing potion are off. She never dreams of Beron hurting her. He never has that chance, even in her mind.
She can’t tell which are premonitions and which are just her mind’s way of processing the looming spectre of another loss. Feyre assures her that she has the Night Court’s support (not really because they warmed up to Eris but because Beron allying with Koschei the Deathless is something they want to avoid), a support that also comes with the promise of another beautiful vial with clear red liquid to arrive just after the sun has set. None of it reassures her like it should.
One the day everything is supposed to happen, she stays in bed longer, awake, Fenrir’s head in her lap, the dog intent on cheering her up. Or maybe he is worried too. She doesn’t know.
Elain has had ample time to figure out the correct dose of witchberry needed. Still, when Aiden and Tristan’s distraction comes and it’s time for her to pour the distilled berries into the bottle, her hands tremble ever slightly.
But she pulls it off, she puts the cork back on before the staff have a chance to spot anything untoward. It looks fine from afar, but anyone taking the first sip would notice immediately that it wasn’t sealed properly.
Elain enters with the servants, helps set the table. Deimos plucks the bottle of faerie wine from the tray, opens it, and pours himself a generous fill before handing it back to her. Elain gives him a strained smile and pours a glass for everyone else too. Then she takes her seat, watches the faerie wine sparkle and whizz, the golden glow untarnished by the reddish sheen of the witchberry juice.
Once the table is set, Beron sends the guards away. In a moment of paternal indulgence, he looks to Phobos, his son glowing with pride or perhaps merely glee.
“I propose a toast.” Phobos says, lifting his goblet. “To Eris.”
Eris gives him a dubious look and sniffs at his goblet. “Cauldron boil me, is this another poisoning attempt?”
Deimos smiles. It’s a rare thing for him to do so, face hewn from marble as it is. It’s an unpleasant, thin thing. He raises his glass too. “The bottle was sealed, brother. Ask your lovely lady wife.”
Elain looks apologetically to him and raises her own too. They drink and she grimaces. She does not enjoy faerie wine, it goes to her head too quickly, makes her dizzy and almost giddy when she needs to be everything but.
“Where have you been wandering, Eris, hmm?” Phobos continues, inelegantly eager for the kill. “Hewn City?”
“Quit grinning like that, you’re already unattractive as is. Yes, I went to Hewn City two days ago. Is that a crime?”
They couldn’t use too much of the witchberry, because the coloring would have given them all away. So they need to stall for a few minutes. The potions hidden under her petticoat begin to weigh very heavy.
“Just Hewn City? Because I have heard you were elsewhere too. In Briallyn’s palace. In Rask. In… Velaris. Giving up our secrets to the Night Court.”
“Not even touching on wherever the hell ‘Velaris’ is supposed to be, that is quite an accusation to make without proof.”
Phobos’ face contorts but his retort is cut off by a loud clink, Beron hitting the side of the goblet with his knife.
“I do not often put stock in the rabid ramblings of Phobos,” Beron says, his voice smooth and composed “or forced confessions given under Deimos’ care. Except this time, right around the time the twins claim you betrayed us to the Night Court, when I know for a fact you have disappeared from under the watchful eyes of Keir… bats began circling the mortal queens’ palace and Rhysand’s whore of a cousin sailed off to Vallahan. Isn’t that an odd coincidence?”
Beron clinks his goblet again, louder, his smile growing wider, as Phobos flounders, disappointed the final word will not be his. “But do not worry son, I am not so hasty in my judgement. You have a chance to defend yourself.” a rope of fire appears around Elain’s neck like a collar. “Shall I ask your wife what she knows?”
Oh no, please no, they just need a little more time -
Elain has seen this event play out in every which way and she knows that the moment she begins to burn, the moment she cries out, Eris will attempt to stab his father with his ash dagger and will be stabbed by him in turn.
“That actually works in our favor. They can’t accuse me of killing him if I’m bleeding out on the floor.” Eris told her flippantly when Elain begged him to reconsider.
“But you may actually bleed out!”
“Only if you’re not fast enough. And I know you are.”
“Please, I…” Elain scrambles, wanting to get something out, her vision growing spottier, but she can’t tell if it’s the witchberry of the pressure on her windpipe. The cord around her neck constricts in retaliation for her attempt to speak. Elain bites down on her lip hard enough to draw blood, but in the end it’s all for nothing. A strangled cry escapes her lips all the same and -
The dagger flashes. Elain is released suddenly and violently, her face smashing into the porcelain plate, the shards scratching at her skin. There’s a scream - from the Lady of Autumn.
Elain is already pushing herself to stand on swaying feet, ignoring the stinging pain blossoming alongside trickling warmth.
Eris is lying on the floor with a gaping wound, blood gushing like a river. Beron is standing above him, snarling. “For her?” he points the dagger toward her, droplets of blood flying everywhere “You would betray me and risk everything for a pretty face? It would be a mercy to kill you now, before you can debase yourself even more.”
Elain begins to see double and then triple, multiplying until she sees nothing but sunspots. All around the table, people begin to moan, to cry out. Beron stumbles. “What is…” and then he giggles, the dagger landing with a loud thud as he tears at his own hair.
Everything is a swirling, pulsing mass of color. Flowers bloom from the marbles, the blood unfurling into rose petals. Elain closes her eyes and rips up the secret pouches on her dress, knowing the shape of the healing potions by hand.
She rushes through the kaleidoscopic room, overwhelmed by the scent of blood, toward the heart that still frantically tries to keep beating - for her. Chairs are overturned, goblets fall, dishes break but Elain Archeron is used to walking through living daydreams, her reality blurred around the edges. The Vanserras are not.
Let me See, down to the truth of it. The swirling sunspots are still there, but underneath it all, faintly, she can see silhouettes. This time the vision is reality, and reality is the mirage.
Despite everything, she goes to Eris first, pouring the healing potion and the vial of Feyre’s mostly fresh blood down his throat. She stays, just long enough to see the blood flow slow, the potency of the mixture counteracting the ash poisoning. Eris attempts to blindly reach for her, smearing her cheek with his blood. Elain grabs his hand, kisses it, and then picks up the ash dagger.
She Sees many things, flitting about in bursts of sunflares. She Sees Eris, his head in his blood-soaked hands barely a boy and crying, the unseeing eyes of a lesser faerie staring at the ceiling and Beron barking at him to get himself together. She Sees another child, lips wobbling, asking his older brother why their father hates him. She Sees boys chained to walls, whipped and burnt and cut up for each failure, each displeasure, turning on each other to avoid their father’s wrath. She Sees the Lady of Autumn spitting out blood, her teeth stained with it, a bruise on the shape of a hand on her face. She Sees Lucien screaming as Beron hacks into the soft flesh where spine meets a butterfly wing, his lover sobbing “I love you, I love you.” with every breath she has left.
She Sees Briallyn’s glee, her mad attempts to catch Nesta, Koschei freed and Feyre giving birth to a child in a world thrown into war again, Spring conquered by Autumn, death eclipsing birth and the human lands burning, burning.
In that split second she Sees all that and most of all she sees Beron for what he is. A weed. A winding vine, wrapped around everything she loves and strangling it to death. And the choice now is easy. Elain does what she does whenever she finds weed in her gardens. She pulls it out by the roots.
In one, smooth motion she cuts Beron Vanserra’s throat.
***
There’s not much to be done in the aftermath. The power of the High Lord transferring to Eris helps speed up the process of healing even more, but Meredyth insists on examining him all the same. His family lets him be carted off without protest.
No one can pin the murder with any accuracy. Phobos was the one to arrange this whole private confrontation to begin with. The compromised wine was opened by Deimos, as far as most are aware. Elain was soaked in blood, but also doing her best to stabilize Eris. And Eris was on the ground with a wound made by an ash dagger. Nothing absolves or incriminates Calida and Aiden. There’s not much to go on.
When Deimos points this out, Phobos’ mouth falls open. He looks at his brother with something akin to betrayal, a plea that he tell him his suspicions are wrong.
“Rank, wealth, my protection. Anything you could want.” Eris had told him when he, along with Elain and Aiden, cornered Deimos two weeks ago. “Phobos’ wife will be safe. I’m willing to offer a magical bargain for it. ”
“And if I say no? Will you kill her then?”
“Beron will.” Elain interjected in a small voice “If he finds out she’s with child…”
Deimos paled and staggered back, as if she dealt him a blow, even though she did not mean for it to sound as a threat. She only said what they all knew to be true.
“I could help you finalize a full contract if you want,” Aiden said dispassionately “to make sure you’re not being had by a loophole.”
“Fuck,” Deimos gritted out “you all.”
Deimos looks away from his brother’s questioning gaze. Love has its own kind of magic. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for his brother. Even if it means double-crossing him.
Feyre and Nesta visit her soon after the whole ordeal is settled, asking if she is alright, reluctantly asking if her husband will survive too. She says yes, to both. It’s only a little bit of a lie. She should be more upset by killing a male but she can’t summon more than a mild distaste for it. It’s not like the world isn’t more beautiful without Beron Vanserra in it.
She promises to visit the River House with her husband in tow once Eris recuperates a little, which mollifies and rankles her sisters in equal measure.
Elain spends most of her time by Eris bedside, waiting for the wound to close properly. All twelve of his smokehounds are crowded into the bedroom, the smallest, with a patchy, misty fur, curled up against his side any time she sees them.
She retrieves “The Magic of the Land: Differing Plant Lifecycles Across Prythian“ and reads it aloud to him, her lips quirking when Eris keeps complaining that she is torturing him for getting himself stabbed - which she is - and utterly ignoring all his protest that she stop.
It’s on his second day on the mend, Elain changing his bandages, the cut nothing but a thin strip now, faintly gleaming in the candlelight, when Eris asks: “Do you think this was it?”
“Was what?” Elain asks distractedly. With the wound healing so nicely, she can lower the dosage of the Mother’s mercy soon, she thinks. Eris’ faerie healing has a handle on this now and the poor plant needs time to recover its petals too.
“The thing you wanted to save me from.”
Elain is alert in an instant, head whipping up to meet Eris’ searching gaze. She doesn’t think he is trying to get rid of her, not really, but the unease remains. She doesn’t want to call it quits now. She has bled for her place here, killed for it. To be sent away now when she could actually make it a home would be beyond cruel.
“Maybe it was,” she admits half-heartedly, twirling her wedding ring around her finger; drawing attention to it or drawing solace from it, who can tell. “maybe it wasn’t.”
Eris’ lips twitch. “Are you saying, you would be amenable to staying here and making sure no one else gets to stab me, sweet witch?”
A bright smile of relieved joy blooms on Elain’s face. He wants her to stay too. He wants her to stay with him.
She leans closer, brushing her lips against his softly. Then she grins cheekily and bops his nose. This time, Eris only looks mildly disgruntled about it. “Well, someone needs to take care of you.” she teases “You would clearly die without me.”
Eris reaches up, hand on the back of her neck to pull her even closer. Elain’s eyes flutter closed, in anticipation of the kiss when Eris confesses:
“I most certainly would.”
She allows herself to sink into his embrace, to luxuriate in the gloriously living warmth of his skin pressed against her own. He is flame that ignites her, but never consumes her – and after all, isn’t a fire that doesn’t burn you a little like sunlight?