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Chapter Text

The polished rosewood vanity is over filled with powder poufs, shimmering silver cosmetic cases, and richly scented vanilla and jasmine perfumes. The expensive products surround me—my war paint, my token army of quiet joys. Carved black swans adorn the silver and obsidian framed mirror as if swimming around the arch, never to find their way out again. Not that the birds seem to mind. Because stone swans aren't real and certainly can't talk. A breath of a laugh escapes me at the thought.

I eye my rose quartz hairbrush with contempt before picking it up to work the knots last night's dream stupor wove into my hair before anyone could see me like this—disheveled and unkempt. The thought of being fresh out of my dreams and exposed in the cold reality of my robe and nest of brassy hair made me feel like I could choke on the discomfort. On the utter confusion of real and not real and here and there.

But I am expected downstairs any minute, and I did not need Rhysand, Feyre or anyone to see me like this for that matter. See me right after one of my infamous spirals. Not before this very important breakfast with my sisters.

Nesta is in trouble again. Because, of course she is—she can't stay out of the mud to save her own neck.

"Ouch." I huff and pull the brush through my hair harder, "un-tangle-you-wretched-beast." I let out a slow, deep breath. The only thing to keep me tethered here—the sound of my own roaring blood and the faint pulse of my heartbeat. Before the sound of it all merged with the others. Before my heart sang the song of a thousand years and souls before me. Before this body. Before this life. This cursed gift, from the Cauldron was anything but a gift. It was a punishment.

I shudder, slipping off my lilac dressing robe in favor of a cobalt blue chiffon gown, dark sapphire beading studded the waistband. I don't flatter myself with a too long glance in the mirror, I feel radiant. Light is finally coming back to my shadowed eyes after such a long dark night.

The sweetheart cut of the neckline cascades between my breasts in two demure arches. As if two curved arrows pointed, ready to shoot at the beautiful golden necklace—a small, flat rose of shimmering stained glass, hanging between them. A solstice gift I would always cherish, though the memories of the night are hazy from all the wine and festive cheer, it was one of the best nights of my life.

The memory brings a dreamy smile to my face as I remember running into Azriel in the foyer under the stair archway late that Solstice eve. Azriel pulling that small velvet box from the shadows around him. Opening the gift for me. It had taken my breath away, it was so beautiful. Putting it on me. His hands brushing my skin as he slid the necklace around my back. His scarred rough hands against my soft neck. Shivering at his touch when he couldn't quite fasten the clasp. His fingers lingering there at my nape, then his entire large hand, and it felt so right. Finally giving in to his touch. I hadn't wanted to leave, didn't care if anyone could see, wanted to live right there with his thumb sweeping long strokes along my throat. Needing to be closer, to brush my breasts against his chest, his hands tangling in my hair. Tilting my face up to meet his, just the way I had always dreamed—and finally, he had kissed me. I had gone molten at the soft brushes of his tongue against mine as our mouths finally met, sweet and gentle and perfect.

A memory of butterflies and heat explodes in my vision. I had been so happy. So why, how did everything go so wrong, I had been waiting for him to touch me again for seven cursed months, the waiting felt like a torturous descent into true madness—two soft knocks at the door warn me before my younger sister floats into my bedroom.

"Elain? Nesta's downstairs. Are you ready?" Feyre had warned me this particular breakfast wouldn't be pretty, and I could skip if I wanted—she truly tried to understand. To give me space if I needed. She was sweet in that way. But she wasn't above her faults. None of us were. Sisters would be sisters and all that. But I had to be downstairs for my other sister. Nesta. Who would need me there for this—who always needed me there.

Feyre and Nesta needed me more than ever I needed either of them.

It had been this way between us my entire life. As long as I could remember, I played mediator between my younger and older sister, somehow ending up forgotten between them. Keeping the peace became my unofficial familial role—the keeper of burdens, secret resentments and waning bonds. I was good at it, but I never liked it. Working to balm the emotions of everyone around me like a raging storm left me feeling angry myself. A quiet anger that never amounted to much, but occasionally it lingered, seeped its way into my thoughts like a festering wound. I tried not to let the darkness in, to bask in light and love and joy but my gift made it difficult.

Darkness is now an insidious living thing that prowls along my nightmares every single night.

"Good morning, Elain." Rhys gives me a solemn nod of greeting as I sit across from him next to Nesta, with a tight lipped Cassian on her other side. Feyre takes the seat next to her mate. My sister and brother give an obvious look of mind speaking between them—which I've always thought is beyond rude, especially when they are so obvious.

"Morning, Nesta. How did you sleep?" Attention redirecting to ask my other sister, I say the first inane thing that comes to mind, as if it'll mask their impertinence. I don't get very far in the way of diffusing Nesta's simmering wrath, "I would have slept better had I not been threatened to be filleted like a fish last night and then again this morning at dawn." Eyes of silver fire dagger toward my brother, equally enraged, and I try not to wince amidst the tension as she asks coolly, "How did you sleep, Elain?"

"Well... thank you for asking." Quiet clangs of silver echo in the cavernous hall of the River House estate's formal dining room and I briefly wonder if anyone can scent my lie. But I don't kid myself. No one ever cares enough to notice. "Where's Azriel?" Rhys's expression darkens as he puts down his teacup softly into the saucer of the intricate set that occasionally haunted my dreams.

Dancing teacups and saucers could be terrifying in the right context, but I never mustered up enough courage to explain the dream to anyone in fear of more concerned stares or the backs of hands placed on my forehead to check for fever. I especially wouldn't consider telling anyone of the dream I'd had last night; a pile of bleeding, dancing tongues in a pit of darkness, glowing silver strings drifting up to two moon white hands clutching a rather threatening pair of shears. Total nonsense.

Rhysand's long fingers tap twice on the table as if wondering if he should even respond to my stupid question. Like he knew I never contributed anything worthwhile to a conversation and it was his duty to help me steer the ship back towards the harbor of sanity. My brother took pity on me, and it never seemed to make me feel anything but ashamed.

"Azriel is otherwise engaged at the House of Wind with our latest… arrivals."

"Oh." I spoon scrambled eggs into my mouth amidst the awkward silence, careful not to make an even bigger fool out of myself. Remain the pillar of strength I was supposed to represent between my two sisters. I snort under my breath—I might as well be a pillar of sand.

"I will be flying up to the House shortly to check on them. Would you like to come, Elain?" Rhysand always does his best to include me in the courtly gauntlet he runs, despite my frequent hesitations.

"Thank you, but I'll stay here. I want to spend the day with Nyx." I give Feyre a warm look, which she returns. There isn't anything that brings me more joy than cuddling with my precious little nephew all day. The happy thought loosens my tongue, giving me hope that I could inject a little light in this miserable conversation.

"I'm sure the off worlder will return the Mask when she's done with it—what is her name again?" Nesta and Cassian's eyes dart to me in warning. A black pit of fury seems to roll off of Rhys, the table practically vibrating with ire. Wrong thing to say, as usual. But couldn't we all use a little hope?

Feyre seems to hear my thoughts, chiming in the silence, "We can only hope that she survives and doesn't bring any more trouble to our door. But it's out of our hands now."

"Nesta, didn't you say that she gave you and Azriel a run for your money?" I grin at her sideways, attempting a light teasing like we used to gossip and banter into all hours of the night, sometimes until dawn. "Maybe she's smart enough to defeat—who is she fighting again—"

But Rhys isn't having any of it. "Bryce Quinlan is not smart enough to take down a legion of immortal beings that took our world five thousand years to overthrow. Nesta has sealed all of our death warrants. Any other being of this realm would be drawn and quartered for such an offense. The only thing we have to do now is shore up our defenses against certain impending doom." Feyre cuts him a sharp look, content to bicker with him in resounding silence. Cassian's fork drops to his plate. Nesta just stares and stares at Rhys in answer, like she knows something that he doesn't.

A gaping black hole enters my mind's eye, swallowing me whole. I'm only making this meeting worse—and the darkness in the room is giving me a headache.

Rhys and Feyre continue to bicker silently for untold minutes while Nesta and Cassian don't spare each other so much as a glance. Waiting for their verdict. With a long exasperated sigh and a simpering smile from Feyre, he scrubs his hands over his face, "My better half has convinced me to let the issue of the Mask go, for now. But not without payment for the debt." Rhys casually smirks. "Congratulations on your new position, Nesta Archeron. You are now the Night Court's emissary to the Planet Midgard. Let's go—we have work to do. Much for you to glean from our new… friends."

Chapter Text

After Rhys leaves, Feyre's eyes land on me, a curious smile playing at her lips. "That's a beautiful necklace, Elain. I don't think I've seen it before."

My fingers instinctively touch the delicate pendant resting between my breasts. "Oh, this? Azriel gave it to me for Solstice. I wear it every day…" The golden chain holds a rose-shaped glass of shimmering white, red and even blue hues. It was the perfect gift, a thing of secret beauty.

"It's lovely," Feyre says with a look of familiar confusion, then hesitates. "I should mention... Lucien will be arriving later today. He's going to be staying here at the River House for a few days."

Silver screeches against my plate. "Lucien?"

"Yes," Feyre confirms. "Rhys thinks we need multiple perspectives on these off-world threats now against us. Lucien's unique background as an emissary and his connections might help us somehow. He'll be working with Nesta. She will be thrilled, I'm sure." Even though I know my sister is joking, I can't help but let the overt political maneuver grate my nerves. The absence of her consideration of my feelings—how it has never mattered to anyone whether I wanted Lucien here or not.

I keep my face carefully neutral. My mate—no, not my mate, just Lucien—coming here. To this house. I make a mental note to disappear into the gardens or my room before his arrival to skip all of the surely to be awkward encounters. The invisible, unwanted tether makes every interaction with Lucien tense and suffocating. Even thinking about it makes my chest tighten uncomfortably. The gardens will be my sanctuary when he arrives; I can lose myself among the flowers and soil, where the only expectations are those I place upon myself. Or perhaps I'll retreat to my bedroom, where Nuala and Cerridwen can shield me from unwanted visitors with their shadows and quiet understanding.

"Well sounds like I won't be needed, then. I'm going to see if Nyx is awake yet," I announce, rising from the table, leaving my sister to whatever it is she does all day. Probably painting and ignoring her correspondences.

The afternoon sun warms my skin as I sit on a blanket spread across the grass, watching Nyx grasp at butterflies with his chubby hands. His giggles fill the air, a balm to my troubled thoughts.

"He has his father's mischievous streak."

I startle at the voice, looking up to find Lucien standing at the garden's edge. His russet hair gleams in the sunlight, his mechanical eye whirring as it adjusts.

"Lucien," I acknowledge, not coldly but not warmly either. Clutching Nyx a little tighter to me, as if the babe could provide any sort of shield.

He approaches cautiously, as if I might bolt like a frightened deer. "May I join you?"

Albeit a bit hesitant, I nod and he settles on the edge of the blanket, keeping a respectful distance. I don't attempt to fill the silence. If he wants to talk, well. He could. I don't want to be rude, but I am not in the mood to be overly-polite should he get the wrong idea.

"You look well," he offers.

Nyx crawls between us, breaking the tension as he reaches for Lucien's hair. I can't help but smile as my nephew tugs at his fiery strands. And I can't stop the vision before it starts—dawn light shining across my swollen belly full of his growing seed, my plump breasts nursing our weening child, his look of utter admiration and contentment while he gazes down at me as I rest against his chest, feeding our son—

The vision is so vivid, so real that for a heartbeat I forget where I am. I feel the phantom weight of that future child in my arms, smell the sweet milky scent of a child's breath. My hands tremble slightly as I reach to steady Nyx when he nearly topples over in his determination to grasp Lucien's copper locks.

This… bond between us—it shows me possibilities I'm not ready to face, futures I'm not certain I want. Not with him. Not Lucien. Not yet, anyway.

I blink the vision away, forcing myself back to the present moment. The River House lawn. My nephew. Lucien's careful, hopeful eyes watching me as if I might bolt at any second. Perhaps I would, if etiquette allowed it.

"Your necklace," Lucien says suddenly. "It's... unusual. Is it new?"

My hand flies to the pendant. "It was a Solstice gift. I never take it off—you know that." Or least I had thought he knew. A longing kernel inside of me wants to get back to that vision.

Something flickers in his good eye—hurt, resignation, I can't tell. "It suits you. Everything does." He murmurs under his breath.

I draw Nyx back toward me, tugging him away from Lucien's long red hair. Such is the freedom of being so small. I laugh softly at Lucien who's watching Nyx with a wonder and delight I've never witnessed from him before as the tiny winged babe fixates on my pendant. That damned vision combined with Lucien's tender look at Nyx has my insides lighting brighter than a sun. Nyx reaches awkwardly for the gold chain, completely unconcerned whether he might rip it straight from my neck.

"A young male with taste." Lucien nods approvingly at him.

And right as Nyx grasps for purchase on the chain, a dribble of his spit up escapes him onto my chest.

"Oh—" I giggle despite myself and situate Nyx back on my lap, not wanting to startle him. The little one doesn't even seem to notice what he's done, his wide eyes still fixated on my glinting pendant.

Lucien is moving before I have a chance to think, pulling out a piece of cloth from his finely tailored jacket, his hands are an inch from my breasts before sanity seems to dawn on him, "May I?"

Still huffing a little laugh to no one but myself and Nyx, I blink several times, too confused to form words, before Lucien takes my silence as confirmation.

"Here." He wipes my chest with a single pass. It doesn't quite feel lecherous until I realize he's clutching the cloth hard enough to disintegrate it into dust, and he has to excuse himself from the garden entirely.

That night, I dream of Azriel.

I'm baking bread in the townhouse, just having finished cutting fresh roses from the garden. The floral scent still clings to my fingers as I knead the dough with practiced motions. Azriel looks so beautiful with his wings spread wide but his face is wrong. Tormented. The shadows that usually dance around him seem heavier, darker somehow. And he's breaking my heart with each word, "I'm sorry, Elain," Azriel whispers, standing next to a woman with hair like autumn fire and teal eyes that seem to pierce right through me. His scarred hands steady as they reach for hers. "This was a mistake." The words echo, shattering something delicate I hadn't even realized I was nurturing inside my chest.

No—before I can tell him, refuse what he is saying, he turns away, leaving me alone in the kitchen as a pit of darkness drowns me, flooding a river of ink inside my eyes, nose, choking my mouth. I try to scream for help, but I can't get any sounds out, my gurgling breath threatens the nearing end.

I wake gasping in my feather soft bed, my saffron yellow nightgown damp with sweat. Clutching at the missing weight on my chest, grasping for the rose necklace I had left on my vanity table. As if it held the answer to my nightmare.

Waltzing along corridors was quite commonplace in my dreams.

Without thinking, I find myself at Lucien's door, knocking softly. My fingers tremble slightly against the polished wood, and I realize I hadn't planned what to say. The nightmare still clings to me like my damp silk, making my thoughts murky.

He opens it, surprise evident on his face. I have to will myself not to look down at his shirtless body, clad only in soft white pants that do nothing to hide the outline of him. His russet eye widens while the mechanical one whirs and adjusts, focusing on my disheveled appearance. "Elain? What's wrong?" His voice is thick with concern, and he takes a half step forward as if to steady me, though he keeps a careful distance—always so careful around me. Like I'm some breakable glass doll. The thought doesn't make me angry enough to not need his help. To not need a warm body as some sort of beacon in the darkness to curl up against.

"I had a bad dream. I think… I think I'm really confused." The words tumble out before I can stop them, my voice small and fragile in the quiet hallway. "About everything," I add, wrapping my arms around myself, feeling the chill that has nothing to do with the temperature of the house.

"Come here. Tell me." Lucien's voice is a gentle rumble, soothing like light warming over stone. His large hands hang open at his sides, patient and waiting. As if waiting only for me. Some invisible string pulls me into them and he nuzzles his head into my neck. Breathing me in.

"Elain, tell me what's wrong. Are you alright?" A gentle command from Lucien I couldn't make sense of slackened my bones—I couldn't understand why I was here to begin with or how any of this was happening.

Just another day in my life, in this body, I suppose.

Maybe Lucien could make the endless abyss of swirling thoughts stop, if only for a moment. Maybe the eye that dances around his skull could somehow swallow the thoughts that drift inside my head. I've seen how he watches me—the way nothing escapes his notice. Perhaps the visions that torment me would become clearer if I shared them with someone who comprehends how things can hide behind beautiful masks, just as I do.