From Hmmr.art

From hmmr.art

“A single thread of gold tied me to you”

AH so good!!!

Elucien Week Day 1: Mates

I had wanted to do more for this prompt with flowers and lighting but after 1 hand took 3.5 hours to just sketch out, I kind of gave up😭 I still hope you all enjoy it and I tried my best to still incorporate parts of Elain and Lucien in with the colours💜

@elucienweekofficial

Hanging out with Aunt Fennec! “Fine, you can have one sip. But don’t tell your dad.”

AH!!!!! This is so good!!! I love the banter, and I ADORE how feisty Elain is. Perfect!!!!

A Blaze in the Dark - (2/7)

Chapter Title: Promised to Another

Summary: On the eve of her wedding, knowing nothing about her husband besides his apparent disinterest in his soon-to-be wife, Elain uses a spell to meet her true love in her dreams.

A contribution to @elucienweekofficial Day 2: Magic.

Read on AO3 ・Series Masterlist・Previous Chapter

-

It was a lovely day for a wedding.

At least, that was what Elain’s governess had declared when she’d swept into the room at the break of dawn with a flock of maids in tow.

Elain was promptly thrown into a bath, where the maids crowded around and began their work without taking turns—one preening and plucking Elain of every hair below her neck while another scrubbed furiously at the dirt beneath her fingernails, dodging the work of the maid who was rubbing lavender soap into her scalp. All the while, Elain gritted her teeth, trying not to think too carefully about why the presentation of her body was given such precedence.

Only once she was suitably clean for a prince did they offer her breakfast. Elain turned it down, possessing no appetite, though she did accept a cup tea, which she sipped while staring absently in the mirror, watching as two maids fussed her hair into a traditional Eastern hairstyle that she might have paid closer attention to if she had the vacancy of mind.

Instead, she stared at the ruby encrusted hairpiece that was getting wedged against her scalp, and wondered what gemstone matched the color of her true love’s eyes. Not a ruby, surely, for she’d never seen a man with red eyes. But maybe emerald, or sapphire? Perhaps they were brown, like hers, the color of a steady, solid oak.

Not that it mattered, when she would never be able to glimpse them in person.

“What color eyes does the Prince have?” she asked the maids.

They blinked at her, and Elain supposed it was because they didn’t know either, before she realized it was the first thing she’d said to them in hours. And when they frowned, unusually hesitant to answer, she thought they might have been discouraged from speaking about him at all.

She asked, “Has anyone in the manor seen him before?”

When they shook their heads, she sighed. She would find out soon enough.

Any further questions, which were equally unlikely to be answered, were interrupted by an incessant banging at the bedroom door. The maid twisting Elain’s hair into a braid lept at the sound, which resulted in her tugging on the strands of Elain’s hair so tightly that she jerked backwards, spilling the tea on her lap in the process.

“Let me in this instant!”

That was Nesta’s voice, punctuated by several more bangs so furious in nature that Elain wondered if her sister was kicking the door.

In the mirror, Elain saw her governess roll her eyes. “Insolent girl,” she scolded towards the door. “I will not allow you to disrupt your sister’s wedding preparations!”

“There will be no preparations!”

Even with two maids dabbing cotton towels at her scalding wet lap, Elain flinched at the next assault on the door.

The governess clicked her tongue. “I will just be a moment,” she said to the maids. She didn’t bother speaking directly to Elain, who was little more than a doll sitting before her vanity in the eyes of her governess, ready to be dressed up on a whim. Hardly disturbed by boiling water and sharp hairpieces. She said, again to the maids, “See to it that Elain is put into her corset. The dress will be arriving shortly.”

The wedding dress was a generous gift from the Eastern Kingdom, she was told. To Elain, it sounded like just another piece of control that she was to forfeit to her husband. Never mind her quiet fantasies of one day wearing her mother’s wedding dress. Now, she was marrying into a royal family, and there were standards to uphold. Now, it was more fitting that the dress was provided for her.

A wedding sanitized of any sentiment.

Whatever Nesta had to say when the governess opened the bedroom door, it slipped past Elain entirely. Just like everything else. All sound and color became neutral as Elain allowed the maids to stand her from the vanity and step her into the corset. She hardly felt the bindings tighten as they pulled at the laces. The fabric biting into her skin was little more than a kiss on her ribs. She might have ordinarily complained, or at the least offered them a sour look, but all Elain could do was stare into that mirror and watch herself like it was a stranger reflected in the glass. Some other unfortunate girl who was being wedged into lace and ribbons. It was easier to pretend she was just an observer.

Elain was shocked back into her body when one of the maids touched her arm.

“Take some time to relax,” she said. “We’ll be back to help you into your dress once the delegation from the Eastern Kingdom arrives.”

Elain nodded, watching as they herded towards the bedroom door. Then it clicked shut, and she was by herself, left to nothing but her thoughts. That seemed very precarious.

If she listened carefully, she would likely be able to hear the screaming match Nesta was undoubtedly engaged in, but that would require listening past the muted buzz in her ear. Elain wondered if her eldest sister would be permitted to attend the wedding, or if she would be locked in her room for fear of offending their royal guests—among them, the eldest son who had allegedly taken an interest in Nesta. Nesta would surely be doing everything in her power to offend them for that reason alone, so that King Beron might back out of this agreement with their father.

It occurred to Elain that she could attempt to summon that same wicked temper she’d pretended to possess last night. She could make herself so disagreeable that Lucien Vanserra would decide he didn’t want her as a wife after all. She could scream the entire way down the aisle, but it didn’t seem wise to invite the anger of King Beron. As much resentment she carried for this arrangement, she did not want her father to become an enemy of the continent’s most ruthless ruler by presenting an unweddable daughter to his son.

Elain contemplated all of this as she stood at the tall arched window overlooking the gardens, where she could see the servants rushing back and forth to prepare for the arrival of their esteemed guests. There were so many people rushing about that she was certain she could don a ragged cloak and slip right through. If she was Feyre, she would have done so and attempted to sneak out the Archeron gates while everyone was distracted by the arrival of the prince.

But she was not Feyre, she was Elain. And she did not don a ragged cloak to slip through the gates of the manor. She doned a ragged cloak to slip into the gardens around the back, far enough from the chapel and the gates that no one would be paying much attention to the servant girl kneeling among the flowerbeds, hood drawn up to avoid the blaring sun.

The maid had told her to relax before the wedding, and this was the only way Elain knew how. A princess was likely not allowed to garden. With the rumored temperament of her husband, she suspected those rules would be enforced strictly—with severe punishment, if disobeyed. This was likely her last hour of true freedom, and that alone made it worth the wrath of her governess once she discovered the dirt beneath Elain’s fingernails.

“Pardon me,” said a masculine voice at her back.

Elain jerked her head up, startled at the unfamiliar voice. She hadn’t been keeping track of time, but a quick glimpse at the sky saw the sun at its peak, meaning she had been outside for far too long. Her stomach became leaden with dread, already imagining the state that the manor was in while her governess searched for her.

The Eastern Kingdom must have arrived, because the gentleman in front of her was certainly not from the manor, nor was he dressed in any fashion she was familiar with. He bore a deep burgundy tailcoat with golden leaf-shaped epaulets on either shoulder. His red hair was braided back from his face, though strands of it still hung over his shoulder and back. She’d never seen a man with such long, beautiful hair.

That was far from the most beautiful thing about him, though. Elain had to stifle a gasp when she dragged her eyes up to his face and glimpsed two different colored eyes. One dark russet, like the coat of a red fox, and the other as gold as the ornamental leaves on his shoulder. The latter eye was mechanical, though it tracked her as though it was no less functional than the other.

There was a scar on his face—three long slashes that cut through the scarlet brow above his mechanical eye all the way to his strong jaw. Had he gained that scar and lost his eye on the same day, she wondered? The medals fastened over the heart of his jacket were surely from the military, and it was likely the case that he’d received the injury during his service.

It was impolite to ask, so Elain smothered her fascination in place of a simple greeting. “Good day,” she said pleasantly, cautious to hide any notable affluence in her diction. “Are you in the company of King Beron and his sons?”

He was young by her estimations. Close enough in age to ease her concerns that he could be one of the seven princes. He didn’t wear a crown, either, though he was dressed in enough finery to make her father’s treasury weep in envy. A royal attendant, perhaps?

“Yes,” said the gentleman. The corner of his full lips pulled into a smirk. “We’ve just arrived, but we’ve been informed the bride is missing. Have you seen anyone come this direction?”

“I have not, my lord.” Elain ducked back into the flowerbed, hoping the hood had effectively obscured her elegantly woven hair that would surely give herself away. “It’s just been me in this part of the garden all morning.”

That didn’t seem a sufficient answer for him. She could sense him hovering, the toes of his polished shoes visible in the corner of her eye.

“Have you been the one maintaining this garden?”

“Parts of it,” she said noncommittally.

“I’ve recently developed an interest in gardening myself.”

At this, Elain turned her head, squinting into the sunlight to look up at his face again. “Is that so?”

He shrugged as though bashful. “As I said, it’s a recent interest. What’s the flower in your hand there?”

Elain glanced down at her hand, studying the green alkanet she’d been ripping from the bed, and the delicate blue flowers that sat at the top of their stems. “Forget me not,” she said.

“You’re pulling them out?”

“It’s a weed,” she grunted, ripping another from the roots before tossing it onto the pile at her side. “Not everything that’s pretty is worth preserving."

A broad hand crept into her periphery, prodding curiously at the flower petals.

“And I suppose their meaning is in the name? Forget me not?”

She snorted. “They’re a symbol of true love.”

His fingers paused where they were beginning to lift one of the plants by the stem.

“Is the Archeron family making a statement, then? Having these flowers removed on the day Elain Archeron is to be married?”

There was no accusation in his voice, simple curiosity, but Elain hastened to answer, “No! Heavens, no. They are just weeds, and I am pulling them out because that is what this garden requires.” She pulled another, perhaps with a tad more passion than was necessary. “And,” she added through gritted teeth, “because flowers have value beyond their pretty appearance or the ways we’ve named them. Therefore, my lord, there is no need to assign extra meaning to what I’m doing.”

She heard him huff. “And I’m the only one assigning extra meaning, am I?”

“The bride to be is not here,“ Elain said, returning his same haughty tone. “I do not know where she is, but perhaps you will have better luck finding her in a different garden.”

Whatever interest he’d possessed in finding the bride was quickly forgotten, because he chose that moment to sit on the pavement beside her. He grabbed the pile of weeds from the ground and plucked them into his lap with no care at all for the dirt that spilled onto his dark trousers.

“Since she is not here, tell me about her,” he said, beginning to separate the flowers from the long bristly stems. “Is she kind?”

“Some might say she is.”

“Would you?”

“I would say I hardly know her,” Elain said carefully. “Would you be able to answer the same of your prince? Is he kind?”

“Ah, well. Unlike you I have the misfortune of knowing the prince very well. Now, is he kind?” He considered the answer for a moment. “I suppose it depends on whether or not he has the luxury.”

A disheartening answer.

Elain frowned. “Kindness is a not luxury, it’s a basic decency. And if Prince Lucien possesses it in short supply, then I pity his wife.”

It was a foolish thing to say to a courtier from the Eastern Kingdom, but the sunlight was directly overhead and Elain was beginning to feel the heat smothering her, inescapable in its reminder that the time was upon her. The wedding was here. It was now. The man beside her, a token of the unknown people and culture she was about to be plunged into.

The man laughed. A warm, wonderful sound that drew her eyes back to his face. He’d tipped his head back slightly so that the sun fell across his bronze cheeks, illuminating the swirl of dark freckles hidden on his smooth skin as well as around and amongst the scars. His smile was wide and bright, and she wished she could stay here, undisturbed in the garden where everything felt natural. Familiar. Even him.

“You speak very freely,” he said, his amusement still curling at his lips.

He said it like a compliment, and Elain found herself smiling, too.

Until a small yellow butterfly flitted through the space between them, dousing her brief spark of joy as readily as a kick to the stomach. She noticed his eyes widen, tracking the butterfly’s movements as if startled by the sight. It occurred to Elain that it was winter in the Eastern Kingdom, and it had likely been months since the last time he’d seen a butterfly—if they were found naturally in the East to begin with.

Before yesterday, a butterfly would have felt like a good omen. A symbol of faith and renewal. Now, she could feel one of those wings beating beneath her tongue, and she was worried she might be sick in the flowerbeds.

“Too freely,” she said, hastily standing up while brushing the dirt off her hands. “I forget myself.”

The gentleman, who had been extending his hand towards the butterfly, paused. He was frowning. “I am not offended, lady. There is no need—”

“I must assist with finding the bride,” she said. “I’m certain Prince Lucien must be in quite the state to hear she’s missing.”

“He is inconsolable, lady.”

He said it mockingly, though Elain could not tell if it was said at the expense of the prince or herself. She didn’t have time to undress his meaning, or the rueful smile he offered her as she curtsied her goodbye. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she left, noticing how the smile dropped, and how his eyes fell back to the resting butterfly.

-

Elain had nearly managed to sneak back into her bedroom before she was caught by Nesta, who tugged her by the arm into a nearby study.

“Don’t be a fool,” she hissed, quickly shutting the door behind them. “There will be no escaping this if you go back in there.” Her blue eyes narrowed into slits. “I thought you ran away.”

Only Nesta could say that like it was a bad thing Elain had returned. As if running away was an option when she had no means of surviving on her own. There was her true love, but…

Elain hugged her arms over her chest, like that might soothe the ache seeping from her heart. “I just needed a moment of fresh air.”

“It’s not too late,” Nesta said, gripping her shoulders so hard that her nails would surely leave divots in Elain’s skin. “You could go now. If there was ever a moment for bravery, Elain—”

“I am being brave now!” she protested. “By staying. For you and father.”

Nesta shook her head. “Whatever deal father’s struck, you’ll be paying us no favors by seeing it through.”

“You are only saying that because you don’t want to marry Prince Eris.”

“I am saying it because I am afraid.” Nesta’s voice rang out through the library, bouncing off the deserted tables. Her eyes were so wide, their color all the more shocking through her burning, unshed tears. “I am afraid of what will happen if you marry him. Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Elain said, blinking back the sting behind her own eyes. “I am terrified, Nesta. But what can be done?”

Footsteps sounded down the hall, alarming in both pace and quantity. Nesta held her gaze as somewhere in the distance, a door slammed open. They were searching for her.

Nesta lifted her skirts and withdrew a small pouch from a pocket sewn in the inner lining.

“Find him,” she said, pressing the pouch into Elain’s hand. “If true love is real and Feyre’s spell is to be believed, then he would help you.”

With shaking hands, Elain pulled the fabric open to reveal a dozen butterfly wings, if not more.

Elain’s lips parted. She glanced up to Nesta—Nesta, who had always scoffed at the premise of true love. When Feyre had revealed the spell to them, all those nights ago when she’d attempted to run away to be with her true love, Nesta had called Feyre naive. She’d labeled the spell deceitful and had reminded Elain that magic was forbidden. They had sworn together, years ago, that they would always uphold that one, sacred rule.

Had so much truly changed?

Elain’s fingers curled protectively around the pouch, despite how she willed her fingers to open, willed her hand to return the gift. She wanted to say she couldn’t accept it. It was her wedding day and her true love was betrothed. It was already too late.

If anyone deserved the butterfly wings and the chance to escape their fate, it was Nesta.

“You should take this,” Elain said, inwardly wincing at the scratch in her voice. “You should try to be with your true love.”

“I have a while yet before I’ll be taken to a Kingdom in the depths of Winter. You take them, Elain. And use them. Wisely.”

There was no room to say anything more. No thank yous or teary goodbyes. The doors to the library were pushed open and they were inundated by a group of servants headed by their governess. Elain only had the sense to hide the pouch beneath her ragged cloak before she was yanked sideways by the arm.

“You foolish girls!” Their governess sent Nesta a baleful look, one that her sister returned in equal intensity. “Well done,” the old woman snapped. “You have effectively embarrassed your family before the Eastern Kingdom. Let us hope Prince Lucien takes kindly to the delay and the nerves of a new bride. Let’s go, Elain.”

In a matter of minutes, Elain was stripped of her clothes and plunged back into the bath. The water had gone cold, but Elain didn’t care and neither did the servants scrubbing her of any evidence of dirt. The water washed away her crime of autonomy, until she was once again her governess’s doll, listening mutely to the string of admonishments while a pair of maids kept her hair elevated from the water and ran a brush through the loose strands to cleanse them of any impurities.

Eventually, her governess took a break from scolding Elain to glance towards the freestanding clock in the bedroom. She clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

“You were meant to be married an hour ago.”

Elain said nothing, which hardly made a difference to her governess, who preferred when Elain was silent. Children should be seen and not heard, she would often say, though it was unclear to Elain when children had morphed into ladies.

She continued to say nothing, burning in that same resentful silence she had endured since she was old enough to speak and clever enough to watch Nesta discover that thoughts spoken allowed could make others uncomfortable, could be perceived as a challenge. She stepped into the dress—a tiered satin gown dyed a rich burgundy color. It was embroidered in golden leaves that traced the hem of the skirt and climbed elegantly up the front. The sleeves opened wide at her elbow, hemmed in gold and rippling like water when she lifted her arms.

It was, all around, much lighter than she expected. Which was good, because every step towards the chapel felt excruciating, like someone had replaced the loose stones with shards of broken glass, each one shattering beneath her impractical shoes.

Her father was waiting for her just outside. His smile was rehearsed, just like his meek, “You look beautiful, Elain.”

But did she look happy? Elain swallowed the question, along with her pride, and stepped into the chapel with her father.

Elain had only been in the chapel a handful of times. She recalled hiding amongst the pews during games of hide and seek when she was younger, and there had been the occasional ceremonies they’d been dragged to attend as children. But none of them, not even their father, had stepped through the double doors since they had hosted their mother’s funeral just beyond.

It was fitting, Elain thought. She would say goodbye to her life in the very same place she had said goodbye to her mother. As the doors opened, the air felt just as heavy as it had all those years ago, though nothing about the chapel had remained the same. Candles were nestled into every space imaginable. The golden light flickered against the satin ribbons draped from pew to pew, where the ends of the seats were decorated with a collection of flowers—daffodils, red chrysanthemums, marigolds.

Marigolds. A symbol of mourning. Elain wondered who selected them, if perhaps it was a final slight from Nesta against their father. A brief scan of the crowd saw her eldest sister sitting near the front, scowling menacingly towards their father who pretended not to notice. Elain was surprised to see Nesta wasn’t making a scene, but perhaps the man beside her—a tall, red haired gentlemen who was studying Elain through an arched brow—was keeping her in check with the hand he had placed at her shoulder.

Elain couldn’t help straightening as their eyes met and his mouth widened into a cruel smile. A Vanserra. The eldest if she had to guess, from the proprietary way he leaned closer to Nesta and whispered something in her ear. Something that made her eldest sister stiffen.

She quickly averted her eyes, trying not to think too carefully about what Eris Vanserra could say, or do, to make even Nesta heel on today of all days. Everyone in the room was watching Elain, waiting for her to break composure. She turned her eyes to the aisle, over the carpet of blossoms scattered along the floor, then up. To the man waiting for her on the other side of the altar.

It was a wonder she remained standing. The whole world lurched forward. Or at least, that’s how it felt to be staring at the man from the garden, dressed in the burgundy tailcoat that was a perfect match to her dress. Elain gasped when she saw him—but for a moment, with his wide eyes and parted lips, she was convinced the sound had come from him first.

Around them, the crowd began murmuring, though the words became only a dizzying muddle in her head. She watched Lucien quickly regain his composure, smoothing his expression into a neutrality that hardly felt suited to a wedding. Elain did her best to follow suit, trying to give her body back to the Elain from the mirror, the stranger who was getting married. But now she felt jittery in a way that made surrendering her mind feel impossible.

She was marrying the man from the garden. Who had seemed… kind. If a little snide. But not nearly so close to the monster she’d conjured in her head. And what surprised her, more than their encounter in the garden, was that he was young. A year or two older than her, at most. And he was handsome—though she had already discovered that much.

Elain had not expected this. She had not expected the way his eyes fixed on her, watching her every step with an fixation that did not match a man who had neglected to court his bride. He hadn’t inquired anything about her, she reminded herself, as she felt the heat rise over her cheeks.

“Haven’t seen my bride, have you?” he said to her, quietly, once she’d joined him at the altar.

The only one close enough to hear them was the clergyman, an elderly man who slotted his eyes between them curiously but otherwise did not comment. He had been present to verify her purity just a few nights prior, and the memory of that humiliation sharpened the anxiety and anger she’d been struggling to push down.

She sniped, “There were no mirrors in that garden as far as I recall.”

Lucien laughed under his breath. “And you hardly know her?”

“I know only who she has been told she must pretend to be,” Elain said, raising her chin in the stubborn way she’d seen from her sisters a thousand times before. “I know nothing of the girl beyond the pretense.”

“I know she likes to dress up as a servant and act discourteously towards foreign royalty.”

“I did not know you were royalty,” she protested. Then with narrowed eyes and all the poison she could muster standing this close to the clergyman, she said, “Perhaps I was distracted by how inconsolable you were at the news of your missing bride.”

His eyes flashed. With what, she could not tell—ire, perhaps? It was excusable to speak to him this way as a servant ignorant of his status. But to be this insolent as his bride, standing at the altar before both of their families? She took a small, conscious step back. Imperceptible to all but Lucien, who appeared to be gnashing his teeth together from the way his jaw stiffened.

The clergyman cleared his throat. He was smiling pleasantly to the crowd, like the bickering of a couple about to enter marriage was hardly something new to him.

“Welcome all, blessed by the Mother on this joyous day, as we witness the promises of marriage between two souls. The seventh prince of the Eastern Kingdom, son of King Beron, Prince Lucien Vanserra. And his stunning bride, the second daughter of Lord Archeron, Miss Elain Archeron.”

Elain felt her heart thudding in her chest, an errant prisoner begging to be let out. Suddenly, this was becoming real. And inescapable.

“This commitment is between two people who will love each other, who will endure both tension and healing as they grow and change together in the years to come, and who will welcome each other’s growth with mutual love and respect.”

Perhaps the corset had been laced too tightly. That must have been what was trapping the air in her lungs, causing the room to spin as she struggled for breath, as her fingers tightened along the dethorned stems of the bouquet she clutched in her hands.

Her eyes met gold, then russet. He was frowning, brows pinched together while he studied her. She watched as his expression softened.

You can say ‘no’, he mouthed.

“Prince Lucien Vanserra and Miss Elain Archeron, do you declare before me, the Mother, and the witnesses present that you come here voluntarily and without reservation and that you are free by law to be married to each other today?”

Lucien was watching her expectantly. They all were. Elain turned her head to the crowd, finding Nesta, softly shaking her head. And her governess, gray eyes burning furious at the small hesitation. Lucien likely thought he was kind in offering her the chance to say no, here at the altar, where the burden of rejection would be placed upon her shoulders with everyone as witness.

“Y-yes,” Elain said.

Her husband, with a solemn look in his eyes, echoed her agreement.

“Before you are joined in marriage, I am to remind you of the solemn and binding nature of the relationship into which you are now about to enter. Marriage is the union of two people to the exclusion of all others, voluntarily entered into for life.”

The exclusion of all others, Elain thought, feeling the pouch of butterfly wings where she’d tucked them into a hidden seam in her dress. She felt a phantom hand trace the skin of her inner thigh as she recalled all the places she should have woken up with love bites this morning. Did the binding laws of marriage apply to her dreams?

A petal drifted aimlessly to the floor, shaken loose from the bouquet trembling in her hands. Elain watched as the clergyman removed a box from his coat pocket. The sun streaming in from the stained glass windows glinted against the precious metal of two golden rings—one more slender than the other, each adorned with twisting leaves and small red gemstones.

“The band of a wedding ring symbolizes everlasting love,” the clergyman said. “A ring possesses no beginning, just as it possesses no end. Prince Lucien, place a ring on your bride and repeat after me.”

Lucien removed the smaller ring from the box, pinching it delicately between his elegant fingers. He turned to her and reached out his free hand in offering. Elain’s hands tightened around the flower stems. She felt like she was being asked to put her own head on the chopping block, and in that moment she did consider bolting down the aisle—running as fast and as far away as she could, until she could slip one of Nesta’s butterfly wings beneath her tongue and hope her true love would be able to help her out of the mess she’d wrought upon herself.

The clergyman cleared his throat. Elain glanced up from Lucien’s waiting hand.

Those mismatched eyes were staring at her. Not at all impatient, like she might have expected from a man being forced to endure her inaction while his entire family watched, expressions likely wilting in disapproval.

But not his.

His gaze was level, encouraging but not overbearingly so. And when the clergyman went to clear his throat again, Lucien silenced him with a single, cutting glance.

Then those simmering pools of russet and gold were fixed on her once more. She wondered if it was the differing colors that had thrown off the maids when Elain inquired about his eye color. Did others find it offputting? Elain was reminded of flames dancing in a hearth, glowing brightest at the center and trailing into flickering copper. She could tell, by the way he held himself beneath her silence, that he was someone who burned steadily. Warm, reliable, capable of harming her if approached without caution.

Flowers and fires were not so different, she thought. Each was pleasant until mishandled. Elain decided that if she had spent her lifetime weathering the thorns in her garden without any gloves, so too could she endure the fire of Lucien Vanserra.

Elain placed her hand in his. She was unsurprised to find his touch was firm—enough so that he stilled her shaking from the observance of their families, whilst possessing a gentleness that managed to still her breath, too.

He slid her silk glove down her arm slowly. It would be odd to do so with haste, Elain reasoned, but there was unhurriedness to the motion and she couldn’t decide if it erred on indulgence or reluctance.

Either way, when the glove was removed and his fingers rested on her bare skin, Elain had to stifle another gasp. His skin was scorchingly hot. She would have feared he was feverish, if there was even the barest hint of a flush on his brown cheeks. He was the picture of health and composure as he positioned the golden ring at the tip of her finger.

“I call upon the mother,” he said, repeating the words fed to him by the clergyman, “to witness that I, Lucien Vanserra, take you, Elain Archeron, to be my wife.”

He slid the ring down her finger, reciting, “With this ring, I wed you. With this body, I honor you. With this name, I offer you my home, my land, and all my worldly goods. And with my heart, I provide you with love and faithfulness until my dying breath.”

Elain tried not to panic at the thought that the same would be asked of her. Love and faithfulness, both of which she had already betrayed.

The clergyman turned to her. “Elain Archeron, please place this ring upon the bridegroom’s finger and repeat after me.”

With the ring now fastened to her finger like the world’s smallest prison sentence, Lucien let his dominant hand fall to his side. The other, he kept extended, allowing Elain to slip her gloved hand beneath his own.

Her fingers shook so severely she worried she would drop the ring once she caught ahold of it. With none of the same patience, she quickly pushed it onto Lucien’s finger, securing the gold band in place before the clergyman had even fed her for the first line.

Without anything to do with her hands, she was forced to look up, into Lucien’s eyes, as she said, “I call upon the mother to witness that I, Elain Archeron, consent for you, Lucien Vanserra, to be my husband. With this ring, I wed you. With this body—” Elain swallowed, willing her voice level— “I obey you. And with my heart, I devote my love and faithfulness to you until my dying breath.”

The clergyman smiled. Lucien did not. He was watching her so intently, appraising her with an expression she could not begin to decipher. There was no pleasure on his face from what she could tell—but then, there wasn’t any on hers. They were strangers confessing love to each other, and their lack of conviction was entirely his doing.

“May the Mother and her Cauldron bless this marriage and guide you on the path that you now advance as one. Prince Lucien, you may now kiss your bride.”

Elain’s eyes widened. She looked to Lucien, who was still watching her so closely that none of the panic seeping through her veins could have escaped his notice. This was meant to be her first kiss. Would he be able to tell—would they all be able to tell that she had not preserved this act for her husband?

He stepped towards her. Elain swayed back, nearly taking a step away before his hand smoothed behind her back, pulling her closer.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “Close your eyes.”

A hand brushed over her cheek, smooth and large and oddly comforting. With her eyes closed, she could pretend she was back in the dark room from the night before. In the dark, it was her true love holding her.

“It will be over before you realize it,” he said, lips brushing the corner of her mouth. Then he tilted his head, and he was kissing her. Softly.

And it… it was pleasant.

So much so, that her lips parted of their own accord. And when she kissed him back, she heard him gasp. She swallowed the sound, feeling it flutter to her stomach. It was surely some kind of poison, taking root in her body, because it encouraged her to do strange things like catch his shoulders and pull him closer. Somewhere, she’d gotten so caught up in the memory of last night that she’d forgotten this wasn’t actually her true love.

The witnesses began to clap. The church bells peeled overhead. Elain supposed that was their sign to break away from each other, but Lucien kissed her a moment longer and Elain made no effort to pull away. A soft moan built in her throat, fortunately interrupted by the clergyman clearing his throat once again.

Elain opened her eyes to see Lucien drawing back. Lucien.

Her husband.

That reality felt startling to her, like she’d been doused with cold water. She was blinking as Lucien took her hand, the one now adorned with her wedding ring, and turned them to face the standing crowd. Instinctively, she twined her fingers through his, trying to avoid looking too closely to the right side, where King Beron watched the proceedings with a grim, set face. Five of his sons sat behind him, all of them sharing the same distinct red hair that matched the elegant lady sitting at King Beron’s side, who was staring at Elain and Lucien through wide, tearful russet eyes. The Queen of the East. Lucien gave Elain’s hand a tight squeeze.

There would be a small reception of afternoon tea in the Archeron ballroom. It was a humble event, surely not befitting of a royal wedding. Elain wondered if there would be an additional ceremony held more publicly once they returned to the Eastern Kingdom, or if the haste and secrecy of this entire affair was intentional. It was possible that, despite the arrangement, they believed it was shameful that a prince would not be marrying someone from a royal bloodline. Elain was well aware that they intended to leverage her relation to Feyre to form an alliship with the Northern Kingdom—but if that alliship was considered so valuable, why was this marriage being treated as though it was borne from scandal?

All questions she would refrain from asking her husband, who would be offended at best and untruthful at worst. But soon, she would be the lady of his estate and its staff would report directly to her. There was no better source of information about the master of the house than from the mouth of his own servants.

“Shall we?” Lucien asked.

Elain straightened her shoulders. She didn’t think she would ever be ready for what was to come—a steady procession of guests, each coming to congratulate them as she sat beside her husband and acted as the starstruck maiden who was obnoxiously pleased to be married to a prince. She only wondered what part Lucien would play.

“Do you feel confident you know the way, your highness?”

“You are my wife, you mustn't address me so formally,” he said, the corner of his lip downturned. “Lucien will do. And I feel quite confident—I became rather familiar with the layout of the manor while in search of my bride.”

“Yes,” she said dryly, “you must have searched tirelessly for her amongst the garden beds.”

They stepped off the altar. Elain kept her head straight as they walked through the crowd throwing handfuls of rice as they passed.

“As it happens, I was successful in finding her.” She snuck a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. Pieces of rice clung to his hair and she resisted the urge to brush them off. “Though you will forgive me that I did not hasten to force my reluctant bride into marriage. Please enlighten me, so I may improve my performance for the next time. Would you have preferred more force, a bit of rope, perhaps?”

They were out of the church now. Their families would follow in a procession, but they were far enough back that, combined with the ringing bells, Elain felt comfortable in saying, “If you didn’t want to force your bride, then perhaps you should have inquired to my willingness when you arranged this marriage.”

He barked a single, dark laugh. “You think I arranged this marriage? Praytell, do you believe that royals often have a say in marriages, that we’re allowed to freely choose our brides in the name of love?”

“I never said that I believe royals marry for love,” Elain said. The condescension in his tone was quickly tempering her anger, glowing like a red-hot poker in her stomach. “I’m well aware that your title provides its own set of limitations. But surely a prince could choose from a selection of fitting ladies—”

“I had no choice at all,” he interrupted. “King Beron decided that you would be my betrothed, and I was in no position to decline. Your willingness, or lack thereof, was not made known to me. And if it were, there was nothing I could do short of denying a direct order from my King—treason, if you’re unfamiliar.”

“Treason?” Elain laughed in disbelief. “You are his son—”

“You know nothing—” His tone had gone dark and cold. A glowing ember dropped into water, hissing and hardening into stone. “—Nothing of my family, or what it means to be the seventh son of King Beron Vanserra. I do not have the luxury of questioning orders. I know it must baffle you, as you have clearly made me out as the villain in your mind, but I had just as much a say in this marriage as you did. I did not delight in taking this choice from you, Elain.”

“You…” Elain blinked. “You did not want to marry me?”

“Had that never crossed your mind?” He clicked his tongue. “Such vanity.”

Her eyes were stinging again. Elain didn’t know why it mattered. But her heart ached at the thought that her husband didn’t even want her. She was dispensable to him, which was a fact she had always assumed. A pawn that tied his family to the Northern Kingdom and nothing more. But she had thought, with every ounce of the vanity he accused, that desire had played a role as well—that she had been sought for the beauty she was assured she possessed.

“Don’t act the wounded bird, now,” he chided. “You have made no secret of your reluctance to marry me. Am I not allowed to express the same sentiment?”

Elain bit her lip, preventing it from wobbling. They were nearly at the entrance to the ballroom and the second they sat at their table, she would need to face their families with feigned joy.

With a measured breath, Elain said, “You act as though my contempt is the result of my own naivety. I am well aware that most matches are made in the absence of love. I’ll have you know, I was resigned quite happily to this arrangement until you made it clear there would be no effort of courtship, not even a letter.”

Lucien’s silhouette was the picture of indifference, but she felt his hand tighten in her own. Their shoes echoed off the tiled flooring of the ballroom, which had been transformed into an elegant dining hall, laid with velvet-clothed tables and brass-sconce candles. At the forefront of the room was a small table decorated in golden ribbon, set elegantly for two.

Steeling her nerves, Elain continued, uncertain if she was determined to wound him or force an apology. “What I find offensive, your highness, was that you could not afford even the barest effort that was owed to our betrothal, formed in convenience as it may have been. You may paint me as vain and petulant, but my displeasure is well founded. It was me that you were slighting in your silence, not your father.”

They stopped before the table. Lucien pulled out a seat for her, shaking his head all the while. “I thought it was Eris marrying the outspoken sister.”

“I have no comment to offer in turn,” she grumbled, even as he pushed her chair into the table like a gentleman. “All my knowledge of you has been acquired only in the last few hours.”

“And what have you learned?” He crooned, sliding gracefully into the seat beside her. He propped an arm on the table to angle himself closer to her, and Elain hated how handsome he looked with the sunlight streaming in from behind, lighting the copper in his hair.

“That you are arrogant and insufferable.”

He laughed as though delighted. “If you are the passive one, I look forward to seeing what challenge awaits Eris.”

Elain said nothing, irritated by the change in his tone and frustrated that he had not offered an apology—or at the least, an explanation.

“What happens now?”

“We dine with our families—“

“No,” she said, cutting him off. “What happens in our marriage? You do not want me. Does this mean I will be cast away while you pursue a mistress and have illegitimate children? You have slighted me before we were even to be married, should I expect such treatment for the remainder of our marriage?”

“Cauldron, are we discussing this now?”

Across the room, the King and Queen stepped through the doors, followed by five of Lucien’s brothers. Elain smiled pleasantly at them, though none returned the gesture as they were escorted to their seats.

“Yes,” Elain said. “I would like to know your expectations so I am not deluded by pretense during our honeymoon.”

Lucien sighed. “I intend for us to live separate, amicable lives. My estate is large and we will each have our own wing, so we scarcely need to cross paths. You can occupy yourself with whatever will satisfy your happiness and to the rest of the world, we will maintain the illusion of a happily married couple—which means no bastard children. For either of us.”

He met her eyes intently, wanting the gravity of that rule to rest over her. As if the idea of having an illegitimate child wasn’t already appalling. No bastard children… He had, she noticed, elegantly sidestepped the question of mistresses.

“And you and I?”

“You and I what?”

Elain pressed, “Will we be having children? Fulfilling our marital duties? I assume we’re expected to produce an heir.”

“No,” he said, frowning. “You have no such marital duties, Elain. I’ve no intention of gratifying my father with an heir. In a few years we can say that we have tried and the doctors can conclude that I am sterile.”

They will not. Elain knew this with certainty. It was always the woman who was at fault in such situations. It would be Elain with the shortcoming, incapable of fulfilling the one duty that was expected from a wife. Not the prince of a pure, royal bloodline. She would be bearing the humiliation of not having children. As well as the isolation.

“So I will never be a mother,” she said, staring blankly at the guests filling the room.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lucien glance towards his own mother. “There are worse fates,” he said, not unkindly. “You will find fulfillment in other ways. I truly do seek your happiness, and I would like us to be friends.”

That was an easy suggestion for him to make, when he would be getting everything he wanted from this arrangement.

“Do you find this agreeable?”

No. Not if he’d be taking on mistresses, making a mockery of her while she passed time idly, fulfilled by neither children nor love.

Love…

Elain ducked her hand beneath the table, feeling for the pouch of butterfly wings she’d tucked into the in-sewn pocket of her petticoat. Her husband was giving her license to pursue her own happiness. By his own rules, so long as there were no illegitimate children, she needn’t feel guilty for the night she’d spent with her true love, or any that she might spend with him in the future.

Which did she desire more—children, or her true love?

Her freehand snagged at the stem of sparkling wine laid in front of her, taking a sip to buy herself time in answering. It bubbled on her tongue, lighter and freer than she could ever hope to be. And as she looked over the rim of the crystal-cut glass, she made eye contact with King Beron.

This time, he smiled. A cruel, vulpine expression that caused Elain’s skin to prickle down her arms and legs. She hastily set down the wine and averted her eyes back towards Lucien. If he was a steady burning hearth, then his father was the smoke and ash that remained once the flame was smothered. Elain could sense there was nowhere he touched that his mark wasn’t left, and that would include any future children she sired to his line.

Maybe Lucien had good reason to deny his father an heir. He seemed earnest enough. She could see him begging her with his eyes to trust him. Against her better judgment, she wanted to.

“I agree,” she said. “But I want your assurance of something in return.”

“Nina might not be able to put you back, you know. Not without another dose of parem. You could be stuck like this.”

“Why does it matter?”

“I don’t know!” Jesper said angrily. “Maybe I liked your stupid face.”

~ Six Of Crows, T1. Jesper & Wylan ~

When @gracie-rosee and I were discussing the vibes for this piece, I said I wanted it to feel like, "Something sacred, between two people who know each other better than anyone else in the entire world. This place is holy BECAUSE we're here, and not the other way around."

Or, you know- right there where we stood was holy ground.

And oh, did she deliver

@elucienweekofficial