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mardereads19 · 4 years ago

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A Comparrison between Az’s Chapter and Cassian’s Chapters in Acofas

Today I found myself inspired by @thereaderspeaks ‘s post and what I had to add about it, to write this long-ass post comparing Az’s chapter in Acosf to Cassian’s three chapters in Acofas.

@rhyssescups does an amazing job in this post (and @psychee92 in this one) of comparing Az’s chapter to Cassian’s POV in Wings and Embers. I’ll also attach @psychee92 ‘s comparison of both batboys’ attitudes after their respective solstices. But I’m going to concentrate on Az’s POV and Acofas rather than Wings and Embers.

There are a LOT of things in common, so when you add the posts linked above to this one, you’ll see how Azriel’s emotions and his interaction with Gwyn mirror those of Cassian. Everyday I find more peace of mind regarding Elriel.

Before I begin, I want to clarify that Emerie is not in Wings and Embers, but on Cassian’s perspective in Acofas. I had seen many people on Tumblr and on Twitter saying (by mistake) that she’s in W&E, so I wanted to point that out. It is Mor who is mentioned in W&E. How Cassian does not want to tell her about Nesta, etc. For more on that, check out the links I attached above.

There are many elements that Cassian and Azriel share in their chapters and I decided to divide them into categories. I’ll support them with quotes so that we have the receipts. With that said…

Let’s get started!

1. Distance

In both instances there was something that separated the couples and caused distance.

In Cassian’s case it was post-war-Nesta and even Cassian himself (it was pride that kept him ignoring her all through the party until he couldn’t take it anymore and ran after her, simple as that):

In Azriel’s case it was his understanding of what he feels for Elain and the fact that she has a mate. But also, let’s add Rhys’s order as a new element that will cause distance.

2. Emotions

Cassian did not allow himself to think about Nesta because of the feelings that stirred up in him.

Anger, passion, confusion.

And Azriel…

Well, well, well... What do we have here?

Anger, passion, confusion.

He was ready to spar it out of his system, too, like Cassian.

3. Something the batboys associate with their mate Archeron sister

I noticed that in both cases, Cass and Az had given their girls something that they associated with them, be it material or other.

For example, Cassian’s was names for Nesta’s poses.

He saw Nesta stand in any particular way and if it was something she repeated he gave that pose a name. It is something he associates with her.

In Azriel’s case, we know he gives Elain a rose necklace.

Roses signify Elain because of what she does: gardening; But also, it could simply represent them. Their way of spending time together (here’s a post of different refences of Elriel in the garden by @silver-flames) and their relationship that has been slowly blooming in secret, like how that charm shines with colors when it’s in the light, but looks ordinary in the dark.

4. The batboys hurting the sisters

In both POVs the Illyrians hurt the Archerons.

Cassian does it out of anger. Because Nesta kept rejecting him. Instead of holding his tongue, like any mature person should, he tells her something that destroys her (we know by her reaction).

See how her eyes go empty?

Well, in his chapter, Azriel hurts Elain, too, though it pains him as much as it pains her because he did not do it intentionally.

5. The sisters rejecting/returning the gifts

Nesta rejects Cassian’s gift, though I wouldn’t have taken it either after what he told her. This quote comes from before his insult, but my point is that she left without taking the gift.

Also, notice how Cassian hadn’t wanted to give Nesta her present in front of the others, something that Azriel does, too, though for different reasons. Cassian had feared rejection and had been waiting for her to approach him.

Azriel had not given Elain her present because Lucien, her mate, was there.

And of course, Elain returns her gift after Azriel left her standing in the hall with the words “this was a mistake.” I wouldn’t have stayed with that necklace either, not when it reminded me of that moment.

6. Regifting/Comparing

Something particular that happens in both characters’ PoV is the regifting of the objects the batboys used to relate to their girls. I do not think they are necessarily wrong, just that it happens.

Cassian uses the name of one of Nesta’s poses to describe Emerie.

He also compares her way of speaking and the look in her eyes to that of Nesta.

Azriel regifts the necklace that represents Elain to Gwyn (though he doesn’t give it to her personally, just hands it to Clotho for her to do it), and describes her with the same quote he used on the necklace (Elriel).

I have my own theory on why the thought of her smile makes him smile. Soon I will explain.

7. Getting rid of the gifts (decisions made in haste)

Cassian being all impulsive and throwing the very expensive and extremely unique gift to the Sidra:

Gotta love our hotheaded overgrown bat. (My baby!! <3)

Then, we have Az making the dumb decision of regifting the present because somehow he couldn’t get rid of it (symbolism but not the post for it).

He was in a bad place when he made the decision, and even Clotho points out that his eyes are sad.

The quote in purple is important to note. The theory about Clotho not giving Gwyn the necklace? That line is good for it. The fact that he told Clotho to give the necklace to anyone as long as he didn’t have it and the sadness she gleaned in his eyes is enough for her to know there is more to it than what he tells her.

I also want to point out that we know for a fact that Cassian regretted getting rid of the present and that he knows he had been foolish that night. So, considering how parallel to each other these chapters are, I’m sure that Azriel will, too.

8. Distraction/Consolation (Aftermath)

I think it is important to highlight how Cassian got to the Townhouse late and was followed by a worried Mor, who most likely consoled him after his disastrous evening with Nesta...

...and compare it to how Azriel had needed to release unspent energy and was successfully distracted from his bad juju by the short lesson he gave to Gwyn:

He straight up says he’s thankful for the distraction. That was what the whole convo had been for him -in a good sense.

It also aligns super well with @silverlinedeyes ‘s theory of Gwyn being a lightsinger in how they appear to people when they are lost. Gwyn was there when Azriel needed someone (even just to distract him), be it coincidence or not, and that cannot be ignored.

If Gwyn does take on a role in Acotar 5, I think it will have a lot to do with being his friend and confidant (and trainee), someone who will help him figure out what to do about his situation, just like how she unknowingly helped him on solstice.

9. Empathy towards the Valkyries

Another parallel that I found in the chapter is how Cassian felt empathy for Emerie’s situation upon looking at her...

...and how Azriel’s interaction with Gwyn brought about the same reaction:

This is what I was talking about earlier. Notice how he sees her pain and grief and prefers when she’s happy to when she’s sad? Who wouldn’t want that? That is the same mentality I apply to his smile at the thought of her smiling. That he is glad that something would make her happy after what she has been through. Especially after remembering her past (within the last three pages).

10. Emerie and Gwyn’s attitudes

This was super curious for me! Look at how both girls say goodbye to the batboys:

Emerie being a whole independent female, and Gwyn…

All business.

Literally got the same energy from them.

Gwyn finished the convo and continued her practice like the badass warrior that she is. There was no demure glance or cloy blush anywhere. The interaction was not romantic, purely platonic. Just like Emerie’s with Cassian.

11. This interesting parallel:

These two moments that are almost identical:

Cassian tells Emerie to give the Illyrians the clothes he just bought and to tell them it was the High Lord’s gift. He does it because he knows the Illyrians would not accept them if they knew they came from Cassian.

Azriel:

Another one (DJ khaled voice).

“Just tell her it was a gift from Rhys.”

Why does he do that? Because it wasn’t romantic and if Gwyn had known she’d have brought it up in conversation. He just wanted to be rid of it, so he gave it to her, perhaps as a way of thanking her for the distraction yesterday, but nothing more.

“If there’s another priestess here who might appreciate it, give it to them.” He didn’t care who’d have it as long as it wasn’t him.

Conclusion:

(Wings and Embers + Acofas) Cassian = Acosf bonus chapter Azriel

That’s the real formula bestie SJM used and the receipts are here.

Azriel mirrors Cassian in emotions, actions and interactions.

Remember how Nesta Antis began shipping Cass with Emerie after their interaction in Acofas simply because they hated Nesta? Their scene had zero romantic energy, but Nesta Antis still did it.

Well, history repeats itself with Elain.

Regarding Gwyn: So far, I see no build-up to something more than a friendship. Like we explored, Az’s scene with her was similar to Cassian’s with Emerie. The differences lie in that Gwyn is more energetic than Emerie and that Az’s shadows reacted to her power (she has powers, read about it in the lighsinger theory).

There is literally nothing more I can add.

Peace out.

#elriel discussion #elriel endgame #elriel #elain #azriel #elain x azriel #acotar #acotar 5 #acosf #acosf spoilers #azriel bonus chapter #wings and embers #acofas #sarah j maas

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azrielsribbon · 4 years ago

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!!! A COURT OF SILVER FLAME SPOILERS !!!

Alternatively, Asli finished the book in like six hours and has many, many thoughts.

ON THE TOPIC OF NESTA, SOME CASSIAN AND NESSIAN AS A WHOLE.

holy shit. this is a lot.

She has grown so much, and I mean that by the little things.

I love that sjm didn’t make it so she was addicted to the wine and sex

Okay I understand Nesta was frustrating sometimes because she really was stubborn but some of the shit Cassian said was really out of line. Especially when he screamed that no one like fucking liked her.

Cassian was down so bad this entire book and I knew that the moment he said he hadn’t bed a female in two years. He was STARVINGGG

Her determination in getting down those stairs, I probably wouldve tested myself down a window or something.

I liked how she bonded with the House. It was a refreshing, different take on loneliness and finding a friend.

The House and how it looked after her. It was the biggest thing in her journey.

One theme I see in Nesta a lot is self sabotage, especially when it means the safety of others. She’s ready to throw herself in front of them.

Her banter with Cassian was really nice to read.

WHEN SHE MENTIONED HAVING A THREESOME TWICE I DIED

Cassian and his backstory was rip. It was really sad thinking about how little kid Cass really regretted some of the things that even he couldn’t control.

sjm did not disappoint with inner thoughts. Those were really refreshing.

She wasn’t vividly jealous or furious at Mor and Cassian’s friendship and I really liked that take.

Cassian’s silent jealously when Helion tries to flirt with Nesta and she dodged it LMAOOO

When Cassian kisses her in front of their family to help her get out of the map

Her silent bond with Az! That kept me going honestly. He was a sly bastard sometimes.

Sometimes I really questioned somethings, like those fast smut scenes but that’s just my preference.

Her marching down to Amren’s after she finds out they voted against her having the weapons she Made

Not to mention how she told Feyre about the baby and the labor risk out of anger, that really hurt both of them and me.

When she stayed silent during her punishment hike with Cassian. Each thought tore me apart.

When he warned her about falling and she was glad he didn’t see the expression on her face. How she didn’t mind if she fell down and how it would better.

When she cried after all those days of silence and finally told him how she felt underneath all that.

He softened up fast too and blamed himself for not realizing all this time why she hated the fire.

Can we talk about that dancing scene with Eris? And how Cassian was secretly exploding on the side as he remembered her mother wanted her to marry a Prince just like Eris.

WHEN ERIS ASKED RHYS WHAT HE WANTED IN EXCHANGE FOR NESTA TO BE HIS BRIDE AFTER LIKE A COUPLE DANCED LMAOO

The Solstice scene had my heart. The gift Az got Nesta and how she hugged him after he told her about it. How Cassian smiled at the sight.

HOW CASS GOT HER A LITTLE MUSIC BOX RECORDED WITH THE MUSIC FROM THE BALLROOM AND HOW HE ASKED THE MUSICIANS TO PERFORM IT FOR HIM AFTER EVERYONE LEFT SO HE COULD GET IT FOR HERRRR

They really kept shit away from each other till it exploded in an argument and that’s a reoccurring theme with this book couple.

WHAT MADE ME SO FRUSTRATED WAS HOW HE WANTED TO STAY IN HER BED AFTER SEX AND SHE WANTED TO CUDDLE BUT THEY DIDNT SAY ANYTHING AND ASSUMED THE OTHER DIDNT WANT IT

The topic of mates was RUSHED. Like I mean really rushed. First they argue, he says shackled and then the next time they get to speak (after the forced Blood Rite and labor scene) they accept it? I dont know, it didn’t sit with me.

I wish Nesta would elaborate on why she didn’t believe in Mates even more and Cassian would actually listen for once. Again, rushed.

The ending was fast paced in my opinion. We could’ve really had more to go off of, I needed more domestic Nessian.

ON THE TOPIC OF NESTA, GWYN, EMERIE

I am obsessed with Gwyn, Emerie and their friendship with Nesta.

I love how Gwyn and Nesta started, both gritting their teeth and still appreciating that aspect of each other.

How Nesta raced to help her with a book even when their first encounter wasn’t the friendliest.

Gwyn being persistent in paying back her small debt. I love her.

When Gwyn applied to defense lessons after Nesta defended them from the scholar priestess.

Emerie, my homegirl. I love her to death. The way she easily befriends Nesta, how Nesta stands up for her when her cousin comes to bother her.

I don’t know if it was just me, but Emerie and Mor might possibly be something. Either good friends or interested lovers.

THE WAY EMERIE BONDED OVER SMUTTY NOVELS WITH THE OTHER GIRLS AND LET THEM BORROW HER STUFFFFFF

Gwyn helping Nesta with her research on Valkyries. Muah.

Gwyn and Az, I feel like something might happen here and if it does, I do not want any Elriel drama getting dragged in, MY GIRL GWYN HAS BEEN THROUGH ENOUGH OKAY

Gwyn thinking she doesn’t deserve the purity jewel the other priestesses wear and her backstory honestly just broke me. She endured so much.

Emerie and everything she lost. Her mother, her brother, her wings and any dreams she had of flying. How she distracts herself with work and gardening to keep that off her mind.

The way the girls all developed inside jokes, jokingly hanged up on Cassian at training and always had Nesta’s back.

The way they were dedicated to each other even during the Rite when they couldve let one another behind and won.

HER SISTERSSS I CRIED I WOULD DIE FOR THIS MF TRIOOOO

ON THE TOPIC OF THE INNER CIRCLE + THE ARCHERON PARENTS

Fey-ruh was pregoooo she and Rhys raw dogged it

I felt really really bad when no one fucking told her she would die because the baby had wings and she wasn’t fit to give birth like that. Like. What.

Can we talk about how they fucked when Feyre was in her Illyrian form and didn’t think the thing through?

Rhys, I can’t stand the guy. First he wants to make a bargain with his mate that they die together and then he wants to keep it from her that she can die when giving birth to their kid.

I think what pissed me off the most was when he was trying to help Cassian get Nesta out of a nightmare/power “episode” and had to experience what she did with the Cauldron and seeing Elain and Cassian hurt. He said he knew she was feeling something but seeing and feeling it yourself was different. Yeah, what else did you think smartass.

Rhys has a habit of keeping important shit secret, Amren is no better either. I think that’s what pissed me off the most. They sometimes kept the too important shit away.

As much as Nesta grew, so did Feyre. They both developed pretty good in my mind, I don’t hate her as much as I despise Rhys sometimes. All and all I love how she and Nesta ended up.

Amren....I get her point about Nesta using and abusing their friendship. At the same time, sometimes she was too harsh.

Elain, darling old cottage core aesthetic Elain. I found her to be a little insufferable sometimes. How she showed up unexpectedly at the Library to talk to Nesta and they got into an argument was funny to me since Nesta pulled out some stuff on her.

ELAIN THANKING NESTA AND SAYING FINALLY AFTER SHE TELLS HER TO “OH FUCK OFF” AT THE SOLSTICE PARTY WAS SO RANDOM

Elain and Lucien is some fucked up shit. I understand how she doesn’t want to acknowledge the fact that they’re mates and all that but you can atleast thank the guy when he gives you a gift on Solstice.

I feel bad for Lucien because as sweet as Elain might show to be, she’s really hurting him and could just reject him if she really doesn’t want him.

AZ AZ AZ I LOVE HIM AND HIS SLY MOMENTS

Az when he cockblocks is the best thing. Do it more often.

Az and Nesta’s bond is something I want to see more, as well as how she literally thought about a threesome with him and Cassian.

Morriiiiigan. Everyone mentions her beauty and how she’s like the sun walking and I admire that. She wasn’t as annoying as I thought she’d be on the topic of Nesta and Cassian being an item.

She also wasn’t in the book as much which made sense since she was in Vallahan. I did like how she accepted Nessian towards the end.

The long awaited Mrs Archeron. Some of my theories about her proved true! About how she groomed her daughters into marriage ideologies at the worst age. 12 and 11? What the fuck?

The way she called Elain a pretty thing with no ambition at 11, no wonder Nesta and Elain have no proper knowledge of survival like Feyre did. She was set on making sure Nesta married someone who would treat her well, Elain married someone rich since her beauty was beyond all three of them.

Literally Mrs Archeron was not okay LMAOOO why are you telling your daughters this when they haven’t even bled yet damn CHILL

I felt bad since she didn’t care for Feyre and only their father doted on Elain and Feyre. Nesta was kept all to her mother to feed off Mrs Archeron’s narcissism.

Not to mention she died a year later

I found it funny Elain mentioned how at 15, Nesta even had their dad fearing her. Like it’s your daughter, wdym you fear her

The backstory on how Nesta treated him and how she feels now looking back. It was saddening and I unfortunately know the regret of not doing somethings. It must eat her alive.

I enjoyed reading this book, even if I wasn’t content with the ending. I tabbed a LOT of things so you’ll probably catch me editing and adding more to this in the morning. Thank you for reading all the way down here! 🤍

#nesta archeron #nessian #acosf spoilers #acofas #a court of silver flames #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #cassian #feyre archeron #elain archeron

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houseofhurricane · 4 years ago

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Bloom & Bone (1/32) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

Summary: Elain lies about a vision and winds up as the Night Court’s emissary to the Spring Court, trying to prevent the Dread Trove from falling into the wrong hands and wrestling with the gifts the Cauldron imparted when she was Made. Lucien, asked to join her, must contend with secrets about his mating bond. Meanwhile, Tamlin struggles to lead the Spring Court in the aftermath of the war with Hybern. And Vassa, the human queen in their midst, wrestles with the enchantment that turns her into a firebird by day, robbing her of the power of speech and human thought. Looming over all of them is uniquet peace in Prythian and the threat of Koschei, the death-god with unimaginable power. With powers both magical and monstrous, the quartet at the Spring Court will have to wrestle with their own natures and the evil that surrounds them. Will the struggle save their world, or doom it?

A/N: I haven't written fanfiction in a decade, but this idea wouldn't let me go, especially once I got to thinking about Elain. And Tamlin. And then I fell in love with Lucien and Vassa. This is a long ride but everything's outlined, and I hope you'll join me on this journey. You can find all chapters here. You can also read this chapter on AO3.

Elain cannot look at her sister when she describes the vision: the spark in Tamlin’s green eyes, Feyre’s anguish, the press of his fingers into her wrist. The Crown on his head and his talons hovering just above the blue veins that are so stark against her younger sister’s milk-pale skin, a sickly shade that Elain has never actually seen on Feyre in life, not even in the cottage, in the dead of winter.

Instead, while she addresses the Court of Dreams, Elain makes herself look at Rhys, his rage-dulled eyes, at Mor, who moves toward Feyre as if magnetized, wanting to protect her friend. Even Amren is easier to watch, her face revealing no emotion but a certainty bordering on arrogance. Elain glances only occasionally at Azriel, the force of his glance a blow in her gut. Though the pain, in its own way, is useful, giving her voice a wobble that could be understood as horror or incomprehension. Mostly Elain angles her head so that she studies the swirls of marble on the floor. They are used to believing she is diffident, cowed, and honestly she often feels this way, in spite of her Fae body and her powers, no matter what new rancor stirs in her lately.

She recounts the vision’s grand finale: Tamlin and Feyre on the thrones in the ruined Spring Court, the Crown the only spark of light in the gloom, the room empty and covered in thorns.

“Azriel told me once,” she says, once the words have had sufficient time to settle, “that he thought my powers were not the visions alone, but the ability to change them.”

Elain allows herself, then, to turn from the floor to Cassian, the first person she’d saved knowingly, applying her fingers to Truth Teller, the knife to the king of Hybern’s throat. She’d seen his death in a vision, but not her father’s, and a kernel of her hates him for this, all those easy smiles. She had only ever told Azriel the details of the vision. At the time he was the only one who’d believed what she was seeing, who thought she might have the power to change things. The one who’d put the knife in her hands. Now she does not look at him.

Instead, she keeps her eyes on Cassian. Not because she needs to read the expression on his face. His reactions to her vision would have been audible even to her human ears, the horror at the mere possibility of a future for his High Lady. Cassian, who she knows will relay the story directly to Nesta, the sister who grew up entwined around her and can read the nuances behind each of Elain’s gestures, the timbre of her voice, and instantly detect a lie. She’d bided her time until Nesta was occupied with the Valkyries, a training exercise that could not be rescheduled, occupying her sister and also Gwyn, of whom Elain prefers not to think.

From the heavy silence in the room, she knows they all believe her.

“Then what should we do?” Feyre says, finally, her High Lady voice its own armor. She looks toward her mate, not even glancing at Elain. Her job, it seems, is to supply the visions, then return to her garden. For once in her gods-damned life, this is not Elain Archeron’s plan.

“I would like to go to the Spring Court,” she says, working her hands into fists. She waits for Azriel’s growl, but there’s only silence, Feyre’s mouth working silently, trying to determine the right words. As if her sister has suspected that something vile is brewing inside Elain, acrid and corrosive, that now she wonders why, unlike the other times, Elain could so calmly recount the details of her vision, a power mastered seemingly without training.

Instead her sister says, “There is no chance I’m letting you within Tamlin’s borders. Do you remember how you ended up in the Cauldron?” The words spit themselves from her lips.

“Who else do you suggest we send?”

It surprises them, the steel in her voice. For a moment, they are all silent, trying to determine what it means, Elain snapping at her sister. She watches as Rhys reaches out for Feyre, and the weariness overcomes her, the weight of the lie suddenly laid on her. That she could become a creature against whom her sister needs protection.

She clenches her fists tighter. Her fingernails dig into the callouses left by her gardening tools.

“Nesta could--” Feyre begins.

“Nesta could summon the Crown right to Tamlin,” Amren cuts in, before Elain can get the words out herself. Amren, who knows Nesta’s powers better than any of them.

“Nesta would never do that,” Cassian growls, and Elain bites her lip to keep from smiling. Of the entire Night Court, she can always predict Cassian’s responses most easily.

“If you were threatened?” Elain says, her voice low, concerned. “Nesta has her own duties. I can detect the Trove but not summon it. I couldn’t be used so easily as bait.”

“You are still--” Rhys starts, but Elain cuts him off, continuing as though she does not hear him, you are still one of the Cauldron-blessed Archeron sisters, the words a curse that will not leave her, the facts of her existence that have taken everything away from her, every choice she’d once thought to be her own. Hoping he’ll forget that until now she always has been bait, the soft and useless sister who could best be used to harm the others, the ones with real value in and of themselves.

“Send Lucien with me, if you like,” she says. Feyre’s eyebrow’s raise, and Mor’s, and though Elain is afraid she’s said too much, she allows the blush to rise to her cheeks. Let them think, now that Azriel’s found his mate, that she’s considering Lucien with renewed interest.

“I’ll go with them,” Mor cuts in.

“You’re needed in Valhallan,” Rhys says, fingers splayed under his chin. He’s all languorous consideration and sparkling violet eyes but Elain knows his mind is whirling, that the pleasant veneer is mostly for her benefit. After three years in the Court of Dreams, everyone still thinks she’s going to shatter. Even if they’ve given her ample reason to fall apart. “Would Vassa join your merry band, do you think? I’d like to keep an eye on her, given what we’ve learned about Koschei.” Thanks to Azriel and Gwyn, Elain knows, but Rhysand does not say.

“We shouldn’t leave Jurian unattended.” Cassian cracks his knuckles, his armor shifting.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Azriel says.

“Then it’s settled. Elain will act as our emissary in the Spring Court,” Rhys says, and when Elain finally does look into Feyre’s eyes, she doesn’t want to read her sister’s expression, only knows it’s one she’s never seen before.

Then again, Elain has never told such an incredible lie in her life. She’s not entirely sure what kind of creature that makes her.

“You don’t have to try and save me,” Feyre says later, standing on the threshold of Elain’s room with Nyx on her shoulder. The baby is almost asleep, his wings making languid circles that catch Feyre’s cheek in a sigh. Nyx is nearly too big to need holding, but Feyre is holding on to these last moments before he’ll be off and running or flying, a brilliant and holy terror.

“I know you can fight against Tamlin. But I’d like to see if that can be avoided. And... I’d like to have something to do. To be useful.” Elain busies herself with her dresses, selecting those which most resemble her favorite blooms, the pale azures and pinks that herald spring and the rich yellow that shows that fall is on the horizon.

“Is it Azriel?”

For a while now, Feyre has been dancing around this question with a poise that reminds Elain of Nesta’s skill in a ballroom. She invited Elain to sit for a portrait last month and began a hundred soft questions that Elain demurely did not answer.

Elain continues sorting through her dresses. This orange makes her look sickly, and of course the black gowns have no place in the Spring Court, would only serve to advertise her status as an outsider.

“I know that he and Gwyn were unexpected,” Feyre begins again, in a voice that she must use when meeting with her public, a voice that’s low and soothing and guaranteed to make them proud of their High Lady, “but I did not realize that you were so attached to him.”

Elain has turned, now, to her jewels. She grits her teeth against the scream that curdles inside her. You did not see Rhysand at the top of the staircase at the Solstice party the year before last, she does not say, because the words are too ridiculous for all that’s inside her. Azriel could have kissed her anyway. She could have reached for him. Instead they gazed at each other across rooms, let their fingers brush, until he stopped meeting her gaze. Two weeks later, Gwyn showed up at the house on the river, a faint blush on her cheeks, standing too close to Azriel for there to be any question as to the reason for her visit. And there was Nesta, taking a fighting stance at her friend’s side, the expression on her face so familiar to Elain that she could practically feel the grime of their old cottage on her skin. Between the two of them, Elain could hardly have approached Gwyn if she’d wanted to, if she’d had anything inside her head but roaring and emptiness. When she’d spotted the rose necklace Azriel had fastened to her own neck on Gwyn’s throat, Elain had excused herself from dinner before dessert.

That had only been the first dinner, the first hint of a smile she’d never seen before on Azriel’s face. Soon Gwyn appeared at all kinds of court affairs and family gatherings, and Elain has found herself seeking corners, wanting quiet. The roiling inside her grew stronger, a twist in her stomach and acid in her muscles, so that even a small group could feel overwhelming. Her gardens have never been more beautiful, or her hemlines so streaked with dirt. Nuala and Cerridwen sometimes tease her, wondering if she has found a lover in the gardens, and Elain laughs to keep them from asking questions. She schools her expression to be pleasant, never demanding, never petulant, never angry.

When she was human, which seems so long ago already, Elain had been the beautiful sister, the one her parents anticipated would marry well, enrich their family or establish them as aristocracy. They had told her always to be sweet and gentle, never creating a reason for a man to fall out of love with her. The instructions were not a burden for Elain, not the way they would have been to her sisters. But now, her character finely honed, she would never have expected to be without a husband, without the love and affection she sees between her sisters and their mates. She’d worked too hard on being loveable to be forced to end up with a mate for whom she has no regard.

Now, Feyre sets Nyx down on Elain’s bed and comes over to the jewelry box, untangling the pearls from the emeralds and rubies. Elain has always favored delicate jewels, nothing too large or ornate, and the golden chains seem to catch no matter how carefully they’re arranged.

“I always thought you were better suited to the Spring Court than I ever was,” she says, picking up a diamond earring and clasping it to its mate. “I wish you could have seen the gardens the way I first did. Though I think they would have a hard time competing with any of your gardens.”

Elain breathes a laugh through her nose. “You always try too hard to flatter me.”

“Only because you can never take a compliment.”

For a moment, they are girls again, in a funhouse mirror of what their adolescence could have looked like: Feyre always more self-assured than anyone would expect for a girl her age, Elain seemingly serene, allowing herself to be led down pleasant paths.

“You know that the Spring Court is dangerous.”

“I’ve been to the Court of Nightmares and lived to tell the tale.”

“The Court of Nightmares has a ruler.”

“Tamlin knows what would happen if he harmed me.” Elain runs her fingers over a set of combs shaped like branches that know winter is ending, emerald leaves unfurling. She will have to pack these in her trunks.

“Not according to your vision,” Feyre murmurs, and though the tone is pitched to be soothing, an acid knot forms in Elain’s stomach. “I know that Rhys will make things clear to him, but you can’t let Tamlin walk all over you.”

“He needs to trust me somehow.”

Feyre puts down the bottle of perfume she’s been toying with, releasing a puff of peony and rose. She pulls on the end of her plaited hair, not so much thinking as gnawing on her memories.

“I used to think that Tamlin only told his secrets to Lucien, or perhaps Ianthe, but now I don’t think… I think he is very alone. And he never trusted me with very much of anything.”

“He was wrong about you, Feyre.”

“I only mean, I think that a beautiful maiden would not necessarily inspire Tamlin to confess anything of interest. He will only trust, and grudgingly, the people he sees as his equals.”

“I am not some damsel, sister.”

It’s only when she catches Feyre’s wide-eyed look that Elain realizes the sharpness in her tone. The kind of tone her sisters both wield so well, but which no one expects to emerge from between her own lips.

But Elain does not want to ruin the moment, maybe the last in which she and Feyre will be so close, so she takes her sister’s hand and listens to her sister’s stories of the Spring Court, drying the occasional tear, until neither of them can talk for yawning. Before Feyre goes to her own bedroom with Nyx, Elain pulls her into a close embrace, taking in her sister’s scent of lilac and pear, until she’s sure that nothing could pull these memories out of her mind.

Alone in her darkened room, though she’s exhausted and worn, Elain does not sleep. This is a common side effect of her visions, she would say if anybody asked her. The futures she sees always haunt her to a certain extent, their texture real and yet unhinged, the world mostly nightmarish.

Elain has never seen herself in her visions, though. Not before this last one. Because she had lied to the Court of Dreams. She herself has been the Archeron sister sitting next to Tamlin in that ruined court. And she, not that High Lord, had been wearing the Crown.

Even more than that vision of herself, the haughty set of her chin and a glint in her eye that matched this newfound roiling inside her, the expression on Tamlin’s face drove away all possibility of sleep. His eyes were not alive, the green gone cold and deep, like the dying moss on an overturned stone, but the features of his face were calm, and, even unpracticed as she is in the analysis of her own visions, Elain could swear that she’d seen the hint of a smile on his lips, that in spite of the compulsion of the Crown, the joy was real.

She hates that she would be so desperate, even in the small room of her own mind, that she would look so closely at a prisoner’s face to find this kind of affection. Already, in the two days that passed while she tried to figure out how best to resolve this situation, she’s wondered if she could simply claw out the part of her brain that generates these nightmares. She would scoop out the part of herself that is evil, too, if only she could identify these horrible parts.

Elain isn’t sure if it’s the Night Court that is making her a monster, or if it was a gift from the Cauldron. Perhaps the Spring Court will change her, or maybe it was losing, twice already, the possibility of love.

All she knows is that she needs to leave before her sisters witness the transformation. She will die before she sees her monstrous self reflected in their eyes.

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #elain archeron #elain is my queen #elain x tamlin #tamlin #tamlin redemption arc #tamlin x elain #vucien #vucien is goals #lucien vanserra #queen vassa #inner circle #nessian #feysand #post acosf #acosf spoilers #gwynriel

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theladyofdeath · 5 years ago

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Rags & Riches {1}

Summary: An A Court of Thorns and Roses Fanfiction. 19th century AU.Based on the prompt sent in by @cat5313All characters belong to SJM, I am just a fan with a plot.

Warning: Mature content strung throughout.

A/N: Shoutout to @throne-of-ashes-and-beauty for helping me with chapter 1! I hope you all enjoy. Let me know what you think & comment if you wanna be tagged. :)

Elain had always loved the rain.

It was necessary for the life cycle of her precious flowers. They had to brave the storm to embrace their beauty. She watched the thick droplets pour down, hitting the glass of the window with a soft pitter-patter.

“Miss Elain?”

Elain jumped, peering over her shoulder from where she sat near the windowpane in the library. Nesta was across the room, sitting by the fireplace with her nose in a book, as she usually was. She wasn’t sure where Feyre had gone. Their younger sister had claimed to go to bed just after supper, but they both knew she wasn’t in her bedchamber.

Elain rose as Alis approached.

“Your father wishes to see you in his study,” she said.

Elain nodded her head in thanks before Alis curtsied and scurried away.

She stood frozen, watching her leave.

Nesta, eyes still on the pages before her, asked, “Well? Are you going?”

Elain nodded, unable to move.

She knew what was coming and she surely wasn’t ready for it. Of course, it was time. It was her duty. She was of age and of a noble household.

Nesta said nothing more, but Elain knew her older sister’s eyes were now on her.

Elain nodded, once more, and hurried out of the library and down the hall to her father’s study. He was seated behind his large mahogany desk, writing a letter by the candlelight. Elain stepped inside and gave a gentle knock against the doorframe.

He looked up and blinked a few times before smiling. “Ah. Darling, come in, please.”

Elain did as she was told, sitting across from him in one of his guest chairs.

“It’s late,” was all she said. “I was planning on going to bed soon.”

Lord Archeron smiled. “Don’t worry, I won’t be long. I only wanted to say that there is a man that wishes to court you. He has written, saying that he saw you at the Hale’s ball last month and thought you were of the utmost beauty. He will join us here, on Friday, to introduce himself.”

Elain was not surprised. She cleared her throat before asking, “And may I ask his name?”

“Lucien Vanserra,” Lord Archeron replied. “The Vanserra’s are well known for their business. Perhaps you’ve heard of his father, Beron.”

Elain had. She had heard many things about Beron Vanserra, none of them pleasant.

He must have seen the change in her features, because he then said, “Do not worry, my dear. Lucien is a great man with a great reputation. He will be a good match for you.”

Elain nodded, nibbling on her lip - a habit in which her mother would have instantly chastised, if she were still alive.

“That’s all, dear,” Lord Archeron said, dipping his quill back into his ink. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, father,” Elain said, rising to her feet, although it was hardly more than a whisper. Once she turned, she soon halted, finding who stood just inside the doorway. She hadn’t even heard him come in. He must’ve heard every word.

Elain’s heart sank even further into the pit of her stomach.

“Ah, Azriel, come in,” Lord Archeron said from behind Elain.

“Sorry to interrupt, my Lord,” Azriel said, voice low as he approached his Lord’s desk. “A letter arrived for you.”

Azriel handed her father a sealed envelope with his white-gloved hand before bowing to him, then to Elain, and excusing himself.

Elain watched him walk away before she collected herself. “Goodnight, father,” she said, once more, before excusing herself.

Lord Archeron mumbled a goodnight after she had walked out of the door.

The house was quiet as Elain made her way down the hallway. She passed the library, where Nesta was still sitting by the fire with her novel, and toward the proper sitting room that remained lifeless.

Since her mother’s passing, their house seemed smaller. It was one thing when they had guests over, but when they didn’t, it was only the four of them. Her father spent most of his time in his study, Nesta spent most of hers in the library, and no one truly knew what Feyre spent her time doing.

Elain couldn’t scold her younger sister, though. She had a secret of her own.

He was standing in the corner of the room, close to a floor-length window covered in heavy gold-trimmed curtains. She approached him, quietly, and when she stood within a breaths-width, she reached up to place her palm gently against his smooth cheek.

He melted into her touch, eyes closing.

Neither of them said a word.

There was not much to say.

They knew their love affair couldn’t last, if it could even be called that. It had been mild flirtations, sneaking innocent kisses, and attempting to meet one another’s eyes from across the room for nearly a year.

But she was crazy about him, although no one would ever, could ever, know.

And now she was of the age in which she would have to be married.

To a rich man, of course. Anyone else would be considered shameful.

“I have to go,” he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to her brow. “Alis is expecting me downstairs.”

Elain nodded, attempting a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he replied. “Goodnight, Elain.”

“Goodnight, Azriel,” she said, in return.

He slipped away, out of her embrace and through the doorway before she could form another thought.

She didn’t watch him go.

Every time he left, it hurt too much.

For every time he walked away, it could be the last time.

~~~~~~

Nesta hated brushing her own hair.

Her mother brushed it for her when she was young, then her lady’s maid before they had to let the ladies’ maids go after their father’s gambling addiction had caused them to reevaluate their household budget.

But as her hair grew long, as she was able to braid into more beautiful and elegant twists and knots, it’s constant upkeep frustrated her to no limits.

After she finally was able to pull the brush through with no snags or tangles, she left it to hang loose around her shoulders and opened her balcony doors, letting the cool night air sweep in. The rain had recently subsided, but the scent lingered. She stepped out, breathing in the smell of their manor house, though her room, unfortunately, was above the stables.

It wasn’t overwhelming, thanks to the mild summer they were having, but it still was a smell she had taken years to become accustomed to. She looked out into the dark expanse of their land, trying to find a bit of movement she wasn’t sure if she should be expecting.

There was a lantern still lit in the stables and Nesta could see a form of a shadow moving against the wall, but she paid the stable boy no mind. He often worked late hours, and it wasn’t uncommon for his lantern to be lit well after Nesta fell asleep.

She heard the rustling of leaves and twigs and turned to the south side of the manor, seeing him emerge from a small garden Elain had planted by the fountains.

Her stomach both dropped and tightened in anticipation. Anticipation of the pleasure she would soon be feeling, but also of the pain. There was almost certainly always a little bit of pain. But after she endured the pain, she got to bask in the numbness, relish in the glorious in between of sleep and consciousness.

Tomas Mandray had been claiming for almost two years that at the next ball he attended, he’d make the proclamation for her hand. Nesta wasn’t sure if she was frustrated by the fact that he’d been dragging his feet or relieved. But as he climbed the lattice beneath her window, crushing Elain’s gorgeous roses she’d painstakingly tended to, she had to wonder if his delay was a curse or if it were secretly a blessing.

Nesta wasn’t even sure if she wanted to be married, she had never met anyone who made her excited at the thought. The idea of spending the rest of your life with the same man, a man who thought you were nothing more than a pretty face or an arm ornament…

No, Nesta wasn’t sure about marriage, but it was expected of her.

Although, everyone knew Elain would be the one to marry first. She was charming and beautiful, kind and welcoming...and had always wanted to be a wife.

Nesta loved her sisters, but they were all so different she had no idea how they had been born to the same set of parents.

Tomas crept along the shadows of the garden until he reached the side of the house. He kept along it until he reached the spot he was able to climb. She watched as he climbed, watched to make sure no one was around to witness. The stable boy didn’t seem to notice, thankfully.

He hopped down onto her balcony with a thud before examining Nesta in her nightdress. She didn’t back down from his hungry gaze.

~~~~~~

Cassian was exhausted.

He had been working as a stable boy for a week, but it felt like much longer. He liked it, though. He liked being outside, working with the horses. They were beautiful creatures. He admired them.

“Goodnight, Marigold,” he said, locking up the mare’s gate. “I’ll see you tomorrow, beautiful.”

The horse huffed in reply, making Cassian chuckle. “Yeah, I love you, too.”

He grabbed his lantern from where it hung and walked out of the stable for the night. The night was foggy, the air brisk. Cassian loved this weather. He loved it even more at night.

As he was about to head back around to the servant’s entrance, Cassian halted. He could see directly into Lady Nesta’s bedchamber, and she wasn’t alone.

A man, probably around Cassian’s age, had his hands wandering up her thighs, and his mouth pressed roughly against hers. Cassian wasn’t familiar with living the noble life, but he was pretty sure she was doing it wrong.

He didn’t realize he was staring until a set of gray-blue eyes met his own.

Cassian hurried away, hoping she didn’t catch him, but knowing full well that she did.

~~~~~~

Feyre felt invincible with a handful of cards. Especially as she sat at a table full of men.

Women shouldn’t gamble. They claimed it was because it was “unladylike”, but Feyre knew it was because women were smarter than men. If women began to gamble, men would be out of the sport.

Which is why she always wore trousers and a loose tunic when she visited the gambling den, why she always wore a cap, with her hair tied back.

She mostly observed, not speaking, not playing her hand. Every once in a while, she’d make a play, only betting when she knew she’d win. Only upping the pot by a little at a time, so she could stay under the radar.

She’d just won a hand, taking the pot of over $600, and began scraping it into her pouch. She nodded to the rest of the men at her table and slunk back into the darkness, ready to disappear into the night. She slipped out the side door, as she always did, and paused, weighing the heft of her bag on her hip.

She had done well.

She suddenly wished she had someone to brag to.

As she took a step toward the street, the door swung open behind her and a tall brute came stumbling out.

His green eyes grazed over her, a wicked smile contorting his lips.

“You are no man,” he said in way of greeting, his voice deep and slurred and coated with rum.

Feyre turned her back to him, taking another step toward the street. She didn’t want to run, didn’t want to seem panicked, but there was one thing she knew - drunk men who followed ladies into allies were not to be trusted.

“Nor are you,” she said, her chin lifted high. “If you’ll excuse me.”

As soon as she began to move, his hand grasped hers, pulling her back.

Feyre was strong, intelligent. But, she was no match for a man twice her size and built with pure muscle.

He held her close to him, his head bent down, lips close to her neck. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin.

“Let me go,” she demanded, hoping her voice sounded as intimidating as she wanted it to.

“But I haven’t had my fun yet,” he whispered, pushing her up against the brick wall of the gambling den. She could hear the ruckus from inside, could hear the laughter of those winning and the regret of those who have lost.

Feyre tried to move, tried to lift her knee to his balls, but couldn’t move a muscle as his giant body pinned hers into stillness.

“You’re quite lovely,” he slurred, lips soft on her neck. “Even in men’s clothing.”

Feyre squeezed her eyes closed. She prayed to whoever was listening that he’d drop dead before his hands could explore any further.

“I promise this will all be worth your while,” he said, his tongue grazing her neck.

“Is this how you get all your women?”

Feyre’s eyes shot open as her attacker released his grip. Those green eyes were infuriated as they shot toward the end of the alley.

The newcomer wore a fine suit. His dark hair was swept back, his lavender eyes bright in the shadows of the lanterns.

“I have to admit, Tamlin,” he began, his hands shoved into his pockets as he meandered closer to the pair. “Your standards in women seemed to have lowered.”

He was close enough now that when Feyre spat, it landed directly on his expensive shoes.

He blinked, lifting his brows, humored. “He’s the one that tries to take a bite of you and I’m the one you spit on?”

“Get out, Rhysand,” her attacker, Tamlin, hissed. “This do-doesn’t concern you.”

“I’m sure your father will be pleased to find you’ve spent your night out drinking and whoring around,” Rhysand grinned, “again. Now, if you’ll move, I’ll be escorting this lovely woman, with an interesting fashion sense, home.”

As he reached his hand toward her, Feyre took a step back toward the door. “I can take care of myself. Thanks.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Tamlin scowled, then looked to Rhysand. “You, however-”

Rhysand’s fist made contact with Tamlin’s jaw, instantly knocking him down, unconscious.

“I hate that guy,” he muttered, bright eyes reconnecting with Feyre’s own. “Now, where were we?”

“I was going home,” Feyre said, brushing past him.

“You know, it’s not safe for a woman out here, alone, at night,” Rhysand crooned, following her, hands back into his pockets.

“Ah,” Feyre sighed, “you’ve cracked the code of why I’m dressed as a man.”

Rhysand snorted. “More like a boy.”

Feyre spun around as she reached the street. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

Rhysand took a moment to think about it. “No… No, not really.”

With a roll of her eyes, Feyre continued on, back toward the way of her home.

“I believe a ‘thank you’ is in order,” Rhysand said, jogging until he was in front of her, walking backward so that he could watch her reaction.

“Thank you? For what?”

“For saving you from that prick,” he said, grinning. “Oh, sorry, your clothing made me forget I was talking to a woman. How dare I use such language?”

“You talk too much,” Feyre scowled.

His grin widened. “Come on. Let me take you home. Live nearby?”

Feyre had to admit the thought was tempting. She was exhausted. “No.”

“All the more reason for me to take you home,” he said, suddenly coming to a halt next to a horse. He patted the brown mare’s side. “Come on.”

“You wear a suit that fine to ride a horse into town?” Feyre asked, lifting a brow.

“I’m not so self-entitled that I would ask my driver to stay awake for half the night to take me into town when I’m perfectly capable of riding my horse,” he said, hauling himself up onto the saddle. “Now, are you going to walk or join me?”

Feyre hesitated, which only seemed to please him.

“That’s what I thought.” He held out his hand. “Come on. I promise I won’t bite.”

The walk back to the manor was long and all Feyre longed for was to quickly be back home in her bed before the servants woke up for their early morning chores.

She sighed, taking his hand. He helped her onto the horse, and when the mare slowly began to walk, he grinned as her arms went flying around his waist.

“I don’t know where I’m taking you,” he said.

“Archeron Manor,” she replied.

“Whoaaa,” he said, bringing his horse to a halt. “You’re a Lady? One of Lord Isaac’s daughters?”

“Feyre,” was all she said.

He kicked the horse in her sides, moving once more.

He cursed under his breath. “What the hell are you doing out here? Gambling? Are you insane?”

Feyre lifted a brow. “I can’t give you all my secrets, can I? We’ve only just met and I don’t trust you for a second.”

A soft laugh shook his sturdy frame. “Fair enough. Don’t worry. I’ll ask again on Friday.”

“Friday?”

“Isn’t your family hosting a ball on Friday? I was invited.” Feyre’s mind went blank at his words, as she tried to quickly run through the guest list she’d glanced at weeks ago, when the invitations were going out. All the names she’d recognized were insignificant men she’d known for years and the ones she didn’t were mostly older lords from surrounding lands.

This man, who exuded grace and danger in such a simple gesture as slipping his hand into his pocket, there was no way he was some lowly lord from her territory.

He confirmed exactly that as he glanced at her over his shoulder, lavender eyes locking with hers, and said, “I’m Lord of Velaris, but you, Feyre, darling, can call me Rhysand.”

_________________________________________________

@throne-of-ashes-and-beauty @mariamuses @a-happybird @amusicalbookworm @manoncrochanblackbeak @alifletcher2012 @candid-confetti @fandoms-everywhere-united @mis-lil-red @littlehoneyybee @abillionlittlepieces @impossiblescissorspeachpaper @awesomelena555 @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @tswaney17 @jemma-nessian-and-elriel @rhysandsrightknee @gendryaforthemasses @dayanna-hatter @thebluemartini @welcometothespeaknowworldtour @julemmaes @christiashadows @sleeping-and-books @itsme-malin @agnez312 @cat5313 @amren-courtofdreams @chemica @empress-ofbloodshed @islamonna @illyrianbeauty

#acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #nessian #feysand #elriel #nesta #cassian #feyre #rhysand #elain #azriel #sjm #fanfic #fanfiction #chapter 1 #tara writes #tacmc r&r

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inn0cencestrained · 3 months ago

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Curiosity always seemed to plague the Archeron sisters. Sure, Feyre and Nesta may have always acted more impulsively on those thoughts they couldn't shake, but that didn't mean Elain was any less wonderous. She was just more cautious about it...but she'd always wondered about Lucien- about his life, his history. And when Feyre had told her just the faintest pieces of information about Lucien's past...she couldn't help but want to know more.

"Jesminda," Elain repeated, the faintest tint of a smile coming to pull at the corners of her lips at the beauty of the name. "That's such a lovely name." Her lips remained in a small soft smile as Lucien continued to speak, her attention solely on him and his words.

"How did you two meet? How long....how long were you together?"

Lucien was silent for a moment, a bit taken aback (at first) that she'd asked. It wasn't like that had been a memory he dwelt on frequently. Rather, as much of the opposite as possible. Remembering her never failed to bring grief, to bring pain--

It was too hard. No matter the decades and centuries that had passed since, no matter the different roads he'd walked since, there was a part of him, perhaps, that hadn't left that day.

That had died just as much as Jesminda had.

❝ Her name was Jesminda. ❞ And yet, the words came a bit easier, to Elain. Soft, perhaps a bit hesitant, but more like a balm to a wound that hadn't ever fully healed than pouring salt in it. Making it worse.

❝ She was... She smiled a lot. Laughed. There was a... a life about her, something I hadn't ever really seen in another before. ❞

#//I hate it here so I will go to secret gardens in my mind...Elain Archeron {Threads}

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houseofhurricane · 3 years ago

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ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (13/32) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

A/N: This chapter includes descriptions of physical and emotional abuse towards Vassa. If you find this potentially troubling or triggering to read, I'm providing a summary of the chapter at the very end of this chapter, so that you're able to skip it and keep following along with the story. You can find all previous chapters here, or read Bloom & Bone on AO3. If you'd like to get an early peek at chapter 11 and all future chapters, follow me on Instagram at @house.of.hurricane. Thank you for reading! ❤️

When Koschei claims her, the fire rages in Vassa’s veins, threatening to consume her. She hates that Lucien’s last impression of her will be the screaming of a wretched, frightened woman, but in those last moments in the Spring Court, Vassa is certain that Koschei will turn her body into filaments of bloody flesh. She can feel her flesh separating from bone.

When she opens her eyes again, she is back at the lake and Koschei looms over her, silhouetted against the full moon. The only indication that any time has passed is the white gossamer gown that Koschei has always dressed her in, translucent even in the moonlight.

“You put up quite a fight, my darling,” he says, nearly purring the endearment. Bile rises in her throat. Before, he never touched her except to strike. He’d never called her darling. “I had to force you to sleep for days. And you will notice that the enchantment on you is more tightly wound than before. After all, I was asked to keep you from escaping.”

“Briallyn is dead. The rest of the queens have left their thrones behind. Who still binds you?” She imagines herself in the throne room. It’s the only way she can keep her voice level.

“You’ll find I always keep my promises, little bird. Unlike your ragtag group of friends. You should know that they have not appeared to try and claim you.”

“I told them not to rescue me,” Vassa says, injecting as much fire in her words as she can bear. Inside she still feels ragged, every joint and sinew sore and tender, though her skin is still unmarked, the moonlight making her skin unnaturally pale, even against the white gown. An image, her golden brown hand on Lucien’s bronzed arm, the way they were shining and alive together, streaks across her mind. She banishes the thought quickly. Vassa has never been sure if Koschei can read her mind, especially now in this weakened state.

“Surely you are scheming,” the death-lord says, curling a finger and using it to raise her chin so that she’s forced to meet those depthless eyes, “but I will warn you, your cadre will not find me quite the fragile opponent that plagues this world.”

“Why am I so important to you?” she asks, forcing herself to meet his gaze, to keep from looking away. Best to keep him talking. Maybe then he’ll reveal a key part of his strength or magic, maybe somehow she’ll be able to pass it on to Lucien and he will know what to do, will know whether the words are sincere or a carefully baited trap.

But Koschei only gives a little smirk and turns away from her, sweeping his cloak in a gesture she knows means she is to follow.

Vassa had always been dimly aware of her relative weakness as a human, but now, unable to remember what has happened, unable to free herself, unable to focus on her goal with the same single-minded passion she’d had during her first captivity, she feels weak as a wet piece of paper, ready to dissolve at the faintest touch. She’d trained with a sword, once, gave speeches that brought her people to their knees. But no words can save her now, and even if she had a sword, what use would it be against a magic so powerful that none of the fae in this world could find a way to overcome it?

It was a hard lesson to a woman trained to be a queen, but in her first captivity, she learned how to be powerless, how to bide her time. So Vassa heaves herself to her feet with as much grace as her throbbing joints will allow and follows Koschei.

The sorcerer is bound to this lake, so Vassa has never been sure how he manages such a richly appointed table, more elegant than anything she has witnessed in her own court or in Prythian. The food, too, is exquisite, and though she is worried it has been drugged, after three days without a meal, she wolfs down everything so artfully arranged on her gilded plates, trying not to notice the gleam in Koschei’s dark eyes.

When she begins to feel sleepy, Vassa hopes it is merely the effect of being sated, the wine she drank. Koschei did drug her before, in those first days when she had not yet realized the futility of fighting him. After a week, the helplessness was enough to break her. Still, she thinks, as a heavy unconsciousness claims her, this means he thinks she can escape. That somehow, in some way she still cannot parse, the death-lord is vulnerable.

She wakes submerged in the dark waters of the lake, weeds clinging to her ankles, her lungs burning, and Vassa barely has the strength to hoist herself to the surface, pushing the water away from her body until she can gasp in the air. Above her, the stars are brighter than she’s ever seen.

Taking in the beauty as she paddles to shore, Vassa thinks of Elain. A peace that is nurtured by beauty, the legacy she’d wanted. At the time it had seemed a lovely wish, if a little anemic, the kind of thing that girls dream of. But now, as Vassa watches the stars fill the great dome of the sky, glittering above her, she thinks that maybe Elain knew all along, the necessity of this wish. If all along she was lost in her pragmatism, while Elain Archeron, the sweet-faced gardener, was the one who really saw the world.

She does not know if she will ever see Elain again.

She’s still not sure why Koschei let her leave with Gabriel Archeron, though Vassa has wondered if Hybern’s magic, their command of the cauldron, was too great a threat for even the death-lord to allow. But perhaps, in spite of all his promises, Koschei will let her go, or perhaps Lucien in all his cleverness will find a plan, and Elain will wield whatever fearsome gift is inside her, and Tamlin will storm the gates alongside them, the sword under which all their cleverness and strategy can thrive. Her companions at the Spring Court could be the stuff of legends, she decides, if only they’d realize their own capabilities. Perhaps this is nostalgia, but still it glows inside her, an ember of hope.

It’s this hope that allows Vassa to steel herself for the dinner with Koschei, that keeps her from fully slaking the growling hunger inside her. So that she pretends to fall into the drugged sleep early, her limbs sprawled heavy on the table, her face on the half-laden plate for effect. She knocks over the wine and worries this is one flourish too many, but once she’s really evened her breathing, Koschei begins to croon over her. The tone, which reminds her of her fellow queens exclaiming over babies and puppies, makes her skin crawl, but she cannot understand what he’s saying, the language unlike anything she’s ever heard on this earth. She wills her muscles to stay relaxed. Even a twitch will give her away.

Without warning, he picks her up by the back of her dress, the delicate seams digging into her skin, and flings her across the room.

For a small eternity, Vassa is in the air. Eyes closed, she tries to keep herself from panicking, from anticipating the fall.

When she hits the wall, and then the ground, the pain in her head is bright in her eyes, an explosion of pain that shoots through her body. The food she ate rises, burning, in her throat. Her joints are clanging. All the while, she tries not to make a sound, to keep her breathing low and even, though each breath is its own sharp pang.

Boots cross the room. Will he kick her next? Is this what Koschei does every night?

Somehow Vassa wills herself to stay still, nearly relaxed. She wanted to know what was happening to her. If he continues with a beating, eventually she will lose consciousness, but at least she will not be some limp doll with only a few precious moments of clarity, of starlight and beauty and memory.

But Koschei does not kick her.

Instead, he crouches down by her.

“I know you’re awake,” he murmurs, his voice so gentle it could belong to another person, not the sorcerer who flung her across a room as if to shatter her, “I am at least a bit more clever than you think I am, little bird.”

She stays quiet. Koschei has never rewarded reluctant obedience.

“Do you know what I think? I think those faeries convinced you of their friendship and now you mean to spy for them. Perhaps that’s why you offered so little resistance when you felt my call. I want to believe you missed me, but as I said, I am not quite as foolish as you believe.”

His fingers are on her face, tracing her cheekbone, the line of her jaw. The pad of his thumb presses into her bottom lip.

Lucien touched her like this, only a few days ago. Your lips are perfect for kissing, he’d said, how is it that they’re so soft?

“I smell that faerie on you, Vassa,” Koschei says, obliterating her thoughts. His voice approximates a song. “I know you took him into your bed. Did you think the fire would burn off my enchantment? Or did you know that your lover’s true father is known across this world for his acumen at breaking spells? Did you think they would find a way to free you?”

He brushes his thumb against the seam of her mouth, so lightly that her lips do not part.

“The creatures of this world are weak. I would have thought you’d know better by now.”

Vassa does not whimper or cry out, only waits for him to speak again, to strike or violate her. She will be limp as a doll, she tells herself, a dead weight in his hands.

Instead, there is silence for one laden moment, then another. She hears the sound of his boots on the floor, walking away.

Then he turns back. Before Vassa can register the sound of his quickened steps, his booted foot is at her stomach and his fingers are in her hair and once again, she’s flying.

This time, oblivion claims her before the pain.

Vassa wakes up inside the firebird. The world is still alive, the water of the lake spangled with rainbows and the afternoon sun, and the absence of pain is a miracle. She tries to remember why she is so glad to notice all these things but she cannot remember. Instead she wonders why the lake is empty, why the other birds scatter when she draws near.

Why, if she has wings, does she not fly?

This time, when the sun dips below the horizon, Vassa’s mind is ready and she swims to shore before the fabric of her dress is soaked through. The pain from the previous night’s assault has vanished from her head and her stomach, her back and her shoulder, even in this form. She realizes that perhaps more than a day has passed, that it could have been weeks since she was last conscious. Somehow this possibility is more appealing than Koschei healing the damage while she was incapacitated. Even when there’s magic involved, a healer needs to put his hands on the patient, skin to skin.

When she hoists herself up on the bank, Koschei looms over her.

“How was your day?” he asks, as if they were completely different people in completely different circumstances, friends parted for a day by their respective obligations.

Vassa is careful to modulate her voice so that it’s all sweetness.

“Did you know that birds can see more than humans?”

“I have heard the shapeshifters among the High Fae make such a comment, but I suspect their own vision is relatively weak. Particularly if they’re devising artificial eyes.”

She takes a deep breath of the evening air to buy herself a bit of time to think, notes the chill of autumn beginning to creep into the summer evening. Soon, the water of the lake will be frigid and she will have to stay in her right mind if she wants to avoid swimming those waters when winter comes.

Koschei misinterprets her silence as acquiescence and holds out his hand to her.

He does not decide what her gestures mean. It’s what she tells herself as she grips his palm with her cold fingers, allows him to pull her upright. When he turns away from her toward his home, she follows without comment.

Let him think she’s already broken, she thinks with a little smirk, trying to keep from tripping on the sodden skirts that cling to her ankles.

Koschei passes his entry hall, the dining room, leads her deeper into the house, further than Vassa would expect the walls to extend based on the outer dimensions of the structure. He ascends a spiralling staircase, passing the hallways to two shadowed floors, then leads her to a landing that would be beautiful in the day, with high windows and wooden floors that would gleam red-gold in the sunlight. The color of her own hair.

But this moment of enjoyable vanity is destroyed when Koschei stops, gestures with elegantly pointed fingers at an open door. The room lit with candles is a bedroom, the bed large and inviting.

During her first captivity, she slept outside, under the stars. Even the freezing nights were preferable to this implicit threat. Nausea rises through her, the remembrance of those fingers caressing her face. She tries to keep these thoughts from appearing on her face, knows that she’s probably failing. Her queen’s training only preserved a certain lack of respect, not the threat of capture or abuse or even rape. Her tutors did not prepare her for this scenario when they taught her how to modulate her voice.

“I only thought that you would like to change into a dry gown before dinner,” he says, his voice a perfect simulacrum of charm.

“And deny you the pleasure of drying the fabric through your own magic?”

“I am given to think that you human women detect such interventions as unpleasant. Unless you have learned otherwise during your time in Prythian.”

She thinks of Lucien, the way he’d warm his hands or feet so that he never caused her a single shiver of cold, only of pleasure.

“I learned many things in Prythian,” she says, trying to keep the expression from her voice. “Will you wait for me, or should I meet you at the table?”

“Are you planning on escaping through the window?”

“I’m sure you’ve already considered this possibility and warded the room.”

He smiles at her, runs his tongue along his pointed teeth. She has to work to hold her resolve. There is a benefit in letting an enemy think he has won. Even if it feels like a real loss.

“Join me at the dinner table. I expect that you will not linger unduly.”

She nods, dips into a curtsy for good measure, then waits until she hears him pass the second landing before entering the room. Quickly, quietly, she opens every drawer, looking for a weapon, a document, anything that could help, but there are only washcloths and cosmetics and jewels and perfumes and handkerchiefs and underthings. Because of course what she needs most at this moment is a functional corset.

She does not, cannot, ask herself how Koschei acquired so many items of a woman’s toilette. At best he summoned them to himself with whatever magic populates his flawless table. The worst options will wreck her utterly.

On the bed lies the dinner gown, sumptuous in a deep green velvet, no adornment but a line of pearls at the wide collar, which she knows will glow against her skin. The gossamer gowns are for virginal princesses. This is a dress that a queen wears when addressing her subjects.

She lets her sodden dress and underthings fall to the floor with a wet slap. The velvet is heavy enough that she does not bother with undergarments. They will only leave her itchy and haunted by the women who wore them before her, why Koschei kept them prisoner and how he managed to make their lives miserable.

In all her time with Koschei, she’s never seen another woman. Only the sorcerer, until Gabriel Archeron negotiated her freedom.

Nevertheless, and perhaps it is only her imagination, but Vassa swears that she can feel the spirits of these unknown women around her while she fastens jewels around her neck and in her earlobes, arranges her hair into a coronet. Their spirits gild the air around her when she fashions a stiff necklace into a diadem that’s pleasantly cool against her forehead. She has never liked bracelets or rings, which have always felt constraining, especially after Koschei, but when she looks at herself in the mirror, she looks passably queenlike. She even manages to muster a haughty expression, the kind that would send Lucien rolling his eyes at her whenever she aimed it towards him in the bedroom. A traitorous clutch of hope pounds in her heart, just at the idea of him.

I believe you will find a way to free me, she thinks in his direction, hoping one of the clustered spirits will pass the message. Their presence does not scare her. They have not assembled to do her harm.

Finally, heaving a deep breath into her lungs, Vassa exits the room, descends the winding staircase until she’s in Koschei’s lavish dining room.

Koschei is alone at the table, angling a goblet of wine to his lips.

“You look lovely, little queen,” he says, rising as she walks toward the table. He pulls out a chair for her, brushing a kiss to her temple.

For a second, his beard snags on the chain of her diadem, and Vassa forces herself to smother a smile, her first in days. Then she forces the hair free and sinks into her chair, letting her palms sprawl on the arms, the way she’d sit on her throne, the youngest and most willful of the seven queens who ruled the human realms of this world. With her people she was all easy grins and drawling delivery, witty and clever and sure, but with six other queens, Vassa knew enough to keep herself in check, to hide the whirling of her brain behind flawless manners.

She eats the food before her, her bites demure and chewed in silence, and eventually Koschei begins to speak about nothing in particular, the harvest in a nearby village and the berries of the forest, the signs which predict the weather in the coming days and seasons. Vassa sips her wine and makes encouraging little sounds in the back of her throat, watching for the small detail that will signal disaster.

This evening is practically a kindness coming from Koschei. His kindness is always suspect.

Vassa waits for a drugged sleep to claim her, but the meal continues the way a state dinner does, a new course periodically revealed as the most boring guest drones on and on about subjects that interest him only. Luckily, Vassa has had years of practice at smiling and nodding while crucial diplomatic relations can crumble over the improper acceptance of a compliment.

When dessert is finished, along with the smallest sip of port Vassa can manage, Koschei says, “I would like to offer you a room to sleep in, as a symbol of my faith in you.”

“That is a great kindness,” she manages to say, though all her senses are screaming.

“It would not do, if you were to sleep outside in the coming days. The nights are growing colder and colder. I would hate to see you freeze. Do you know what happens to a human body in such conditions?”

She expects him to continue speaking but he looks at her as if he expects to answer. She lets her eyes widen, as if the thought is too horrible to consider, as if he himself has not flung her across the room and allowed her bones to fracture.

“Believe me, little bird, you do not want to experience this pain. I insist you take the room.”

How she makes herself murmur a thank-you, Vassa will never know.

She climbs the stairs slowly, turning to look over her shoulder, but Koschei does not follow. When she reaches the room at the top of the staircase, she removes her jewels, pulls the blanket from the bed, and wedges herself against the closed door.

“If you have any ghost-magic, I would appreciate your protection,” Vassa whispers to the spirits that thicken the air of the room.

There is no silence. There is also no attack.

Vassa wakes into the gray pre-dawn, and manages to make her way outside before the world, her mind, all dissolve into a haze of colors and movement which overwhelm her thoughts completely.

The next few weeks fall into this routine: a new dress for every dinner, Koschei’s endless small talk, peppered with increasing yet innocuous questions about her mundane preferences and youthful memories, and a night spent curled on the floor with her back to the door, sleeping and yet alert to every sigh and creak of the house in case it’s an alert to Koschei’s presence. He never comes, and Vassa never feels more feral than in those half-dozing hours, when she realizes the way animals must sleep in the wild. Luckily she’s able to sleep on the lake as the firebird, which she realizes as her human mind learns once again how to work within the confines of the bird’s mind.

One night, when Vassa is preparing herself for dinner, there is a voice inside her mind.

Have you seen my sister? The voice sounds like Elain but with more gravity. Feyre.

You know I am a captive, don’t you?

Elain wants to rescue you more than anything. She and Lucien. I am worried they have made some terrible decisions in the course of pursuing your safety.

A death-lord holds me as his captive, High Lady, she says, not bothering to hide the derision in her voice. Once, she’d asked Feyre to free her. She’s not convinced that Feyre took her plea seriously. She’s heard the stories, of course, which tell of Feyre Cursebreaker, who, as a human, bargained for Tamlin’s life against Amarantha. Her trials and the torture she endured before she was reborn as High Fae have become legend, to the point where Vassa wonders how much is true, or if Feyre has given up the memories of her experience. Because if she endures this, if she ever leaves Koschei, there will be no women in captivity in her lands, no girls locked in strange rooms at the behest of men.

We are working on a plan to rescue you.

But you have lost Elain and probably Lucien, as well.

A silence, and then a sound like a sigh, so deep it’s nearly a groan.

Is he… harming you?

At first. Now he is being too kind.

There’s a silence. Vassa doesn’t know if Feyre understands or thinks she is being ridiculous. She has never been more aware of all her weakness than in this moment, when she cannot so much as parse a simple mental conversation.

We will rescue you.

There are only a few moments before Koschei will be suspicious, so Vassa decides to blurt out everything she knows. Let Feyre and her court work out the implications.

Lucien is working on parsing the spell that binds me. He’s working with Helion in the Day Court. And your sister -- I cannot detect power the way the fae do, but your sister is much stronger than you think. Koschei knows about her powers, probably more than you do. He will want her at his side.

Has he mentioned Elain to you?

Not yet. He doesn’t trust me with much information. She blows out a breath, fogging the mirror so that she’s only the red mass of hair and golden skin, the heavy purple folds of her dress. I am late to dinner and I am sure he will detect this conversation.

I’ll erase it behind you.

When you see your sister, tell her she was right about beauty. And Lucien has not betrayed you. I think Lucien is the best male in all of Prythian.

There’s a tug at her chest, the harness of the spell pulled tight.

I’m being summoned, she thinks toward Feyre, and then, as she descends the stairs, Vassa begins to wonder why it is that, despite the perfect ordinariness of the day, she feels a spark of hope inside her like a flower unfurling its petals.

Dinner with Koschei is a little quieter than usual, and Vassa finds herself worrying that Koschei will notice the difference in her, the lightness. As usual, she makes sure to keep quiet, hum her acquiescence in between careful bites.

“It is not so terrible being here, is it?” he says, when the plates of their entree have vanished and the dessert has not yet appeared. She longs to reach for her glass of wine.

“The forest is lovely in autumn,” she responds in a voice like honey, keeping her barb well-cloaked. “There’s a certain angle of the light that is quite beautiful at this time of year.”

He scoffs a little, the smile on his lips revealing the points of his teeth. Whatever Koschei was in the world of his origin, he was never meant to have an endearing grin.

“I am speaking of this life you have, every night. The dinners and dresses, the well-appointed room. You would like it to continue?”

She wants to say you know I am a captive, don’t you? The words feel familiar but she knows they are not safe in this place.

“You keep the finest table I’ve ever known, Koschei.” She meets his eyes when she says this, tries to make them earnest as she offers this one tiny pleasant truth.

“There is so much more I could offer you, little queen.”

He leans toward her, across the table, reaches out her hand. Vassa allows him to clutch her fingers. He runs his thumb against her fingertips, his skin against hers. She does not wince. She forces her face into a pleasant expression.

“Tell me more.” She cannot say what are you talking about. She will not be able to make the words sound pleasant.

“I could make you my wife and queen.” His thumb is on her wrist, the dip at the base of her palm where her pulse thrums. “Forget Scythia, Vassa. You could rule over all the human lands. The whole of this world.”

“And what would be left for you?”

She cannot keep the fear from her voice, but Koschei does not seem to mind. He regales her with another smile, a predator’s expression.

“There are other worlds, my little queen. Soon I will enter them as ruler.”

Vassa is too stunned even to attempt a correction to the posessive. At some point, her hand falls to the table, empty.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN SUMMARY

Vassa is imprisoned by Koschei at the lake. She is barely conscious in her firebird form, and is physically abused by Koschei when she's awake. Still, despite the abuse and the fact that as a human queen she is in every way outmatched, she tries to keep fighting. Vassa becomes seemingly acquiescent to Koschei but stays alert for any apparent weakness, though she begins to despair. After a short time, Koschei begins to show kindness to Vassa, offering her a new gown every evening and a room in his house which she's never seen, which is inhabited by the spirits of other women. She is afraid that Koschei will drug and/or assault her, but instead he offers her dinner and shelter. After a few weeks of this confusing treatment, Feyre speaks into Vassa's mind, looking for the missing Elain and Lucien, and promising a rescue, a promise that Vassa doubts. At dinner that same night, Koschei offers to marry Vassa and make her queen of this world, with himself as the ruler of every realm. Horrified, she does not answer him.

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