#Prythian's Fantasia

[vulpes-fennec]

Prythian's Fantasia 🎪 (Ch. 1)

Summary: It’s 1889. Desperate to save her ailing mother’s life, Feyre strikes a bargain with ringmaster-witch doctor Amarantha. As the Archeron sisters join Prythian’s Fantasia and head for the World’s Fair in Paris, they begin to realize the circus’s magic runs far deeper than its enchanting nightly performances.

Read: Masterlist | AO3

Friday, March 8th, 1889

***Nesta***

The rain had let up by the time 25-year old Nesta Archeron stepped out of the St. John’s Wood Road station. Taking the family carriage was preferable to clustering with all the grimy plebeians, but riding the Metropolitan Railway was considered en vogue for young adults in 1889. Besides, showing up to a suffragist meeting in a fancy carriage wasn’t very humble.

Political disagreements—revolving around Prime Minister Gladstone and Irish Home Rule—had left the budding suffragist movement in disarray. Still, Nesta’s particular group of women’s activists managed to meet every Friday. Which was why, even on freezing March days like this, Nesta was committed to trekking out to central London.

Central London itself was a veritable sludge of shit, coal soot, and rot. But she’d rather be wading through the mucky Victorian streets than walking up the front steps of the Archerons’ house. Nesta didn’t have issues with the four-story building crafted from warm red brick, with its ample windows and three full-time staff to attend to their needs. The home was even outfitted with running water—what more could she ask for?

Nesta had issues with her mother’s disagreeable presence. 

Nesta hadn’t minded being her mother’s favorite child when she was younger, for it meant receiving pretty dresses, compliments, and plenty of dance lessons. But as Nesta grew older, she realized Isabella Archeron cared only about social status. And once Nesta joined the suffragist movement, it became abundantly clear that her mother saw her as a marriage mart project—and never as an actual person. 

Isabella Archeron had fallen ill last spring. Her health failed to improve at their country home, at the southern coast, and even at the hands of their family doctor. So shortly before Christmas, Nesta’s father returned the family to London.

“The pollution is not ideal, but there will be better doctors in London,” he’d reasoned. “And better chances of finding a husband for you, Nesta.” Nesta had agreed to the move, but not because she wanted to get married. If she couldn’t go to Manchester, where the beating heart of the suffrage movement lay, she would find like-minded women in London. 

Society in the country moved at a snail’s pace, as things often did when the closest neighbors were a carriage ride away. Women’s suffrage was met with blank stares, and then revulsion once Nesta explained it in simple terms. Really, did no one find it illogical that in a family with three daughters, the father was the only individual with any say in matters of politics? The women in the family outnumbered him four to one! 

“Miss Archeron.” A maid dusting the vases in the front foyer gave a little bow as Nesta entered. Her brown eyes lingered on Nesta’s muddy boots. Though the servants turned a blind eye to Nesta’s comings and goings, she was certain they gossiped amongst themselves. 

“Hello, Bridley.” Nesta gave the maid a nod. Poor, poor Bridley, a sweet girl married at such a young age to a boorish man who drank and gambled away into the night. This was precisely why Nesta had no intention of getting married, for upper-class men were hardly any better.  

“Your mother called for you several minutes ago. I tried to borrow time, saying you were in a bath, but—”

“Yes, yes, I know. I must make haste.” Nesta waved Bridley off and ran up the stairs. She felt a bit guilty for tracking in street grime, but her mother was a woman who did not appreciate being kept waiting. 

Nesta hastily threw on a tea gown and undid her braid, making sure there was no dirt on her face before opening the door to her mother’s bedroom. “You called, Mother?” Nesta greeted cautiously. 

“Nesta, dear.” Only Isabella Archeron could make terms of endearment sound unpleasantly cold. “Come, sit by me.” Nesta entered and perched delicately on the edge of the four-poster bed. “Sit up straight, Nesta. You won’t attract any aristocrats with that slouch. And goodness, I know you just got out of the bath, but there is no reason for your hair to be undone,” her mother chided sharply. 

Nesta automatically tilted her chin up and squared her shoulders. Surely even Queen Victoria would not meet her mother’s standards for appearances and proper etiquette. “My apologies,” Nesta gritted out.

“Hmm…I just purchased the scarlet dress for you from the catalog.” Her mother’s attention flitted from one topic to the next like a butterfly, and she waved a ladies’ fashion pamphlet at Nesta. 

“Mother, I have five dresses that have not been worn in public yet. The scarlet dress is hardly a necessary purchase,” Nesta protested. Prices in those catalogs were astronomically expensive, but of course Isabella Archeron loved spending money like it grew on trees. 

Nesta refused to balk at her mother’s icy look. “Yet two of those dresses have already fallen out of fashion! You must make a stunning entrance at the Beddor’s gala next week. It’s the debut event of the season, and I heard that several families from the House of Lords will be there, with sons of marrying age.” 

Nesta suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at her mother’s obsession with marrying up in society. Didn’t she realize that most courtships these days were based on love—not social and economic value? Did she ever think about how much potential was wasted when women were limited to marriage, children, and managing households? Clearly not. 

Her mother continued chatting. “...and Tomas Mandray should be a fine option. Did you know that Lord Mandray’s wealth increased by 40 percent since last year? He was so smart for investing in those railways…”

“With the Beddors hosting, it would be poor taste for me to upstage Clare,” Nesta said carefully. 

“Clare? Upstage her? Why, Nesta, that poor girl is so plain, even Bridley could upstage her in last season’s frock.” Her mother chuckled cruelly. “Oh, don’t give me that cross look. You know it’s true.” 

Nesta suppressed the urge to defend Clare. Perhaps Clare lacked remarkable features, but at least she didn’t possess a nasty personality like her stunning mother. Besides, vying for attention from men was as close to pathetic as one could get. “But Mother, how am I to attend the gala if you are unwell and Father is still away?”  

Isabella Archeron bristled. “Unwell? My dear girl, I am just a bit under the weather. I will be in perfect health to accompany you to the Beddors.” 

Nesta highly doubted her mother’s chronic illness would magically clear up in a week, but she chose not to say anything. 

Her mother pressed a pair of garnet and gold earrings into Nesta’s hand. “Wear these earrings to the gala, Nesta. They were your grandmother’s, and they will surely catch the eye of every man in the room. I know this to be true, because your father asked me for our first dance when I wore these 27 years ago.” Icy gray-blue eyes glinted with cunning. 

It was nauseating. What kind of mother expressed affection in the form of social-climbing strategy and materialistic goods? Where were the hugs, kisses, or warm words of comfort? Although the earrings were beautiful, they reminded Nesta of her fate: you will marry, just like the generations of women who came before you. 

“Thank you,” Nesta managed to say, closing her fist. 

“You may take your leave now, my dear. And tell your sister Feyre to join me for afternoon tea.” Isabella Archeron’s placid tone indicated she’d grown bored already. 

“Yes, Mother.” Nesta closed the door, gripping the earrings so tightly that the metal backings left pricks of pain in her palm. Days like this drove her to dance away her self-loathing in the parlor downstairs. The waltz, the tango, the metal pole…Nesta was a master—or should she say, mistress—of these forms. But first, Nesta needed to find Feyre.  

***Elain***

A colossal structure of wrought-iron stretched up, up, and up into the twinkling night sky. What a magnificent building! If Elain craned her neck, she could barely make out the tricolor flag of France fluttering from the upper viewing terrace. The grand lawn before her, a bursting promenade of shops, exhibits, and worldly wonders, invited her to explore at a leisurely pace. 

A solid arm looped over her shoulder, drawing her close to a warm body. Elain gasped, startled at the rush of sensations he—for the person was definitely a man—elicited. She felt warm, like she was sitting by a toasty fire. Secure, as if she’d come home. Elated, like champagne bubbles rushing through her body. Elain glanced to her right, trying to see who the stranger was…

Knock, knock, knock. Sharp raps on her door woke Elain from her nap. “Elain! Elain!” Her younger sister’s muffled cries sounded from the hall. “Are you in there?”

Elain stifled the urge to snap at Feyre when she opened the door. She was fairly certain her dream had featured the Tour Eiffel: the architectural wonder waiting to be unveiled this summer at the Exposition Universelle. Photographs of the attraction had been kept hush hush, but if Elain had just seen it in its full glory…that meant it wasn’t just any dream. It was a premonition. 

“Elain, look what I managed to get!” Feyre was excitedly waving three slips of paper in Elain’s face. With her mismatched servant’s clothes and faint smell of coal, Feyre must have been wandering the slums of London again. 

Elain blinked, trying to regain her post-nap bearings. “What is that?” She took the shimmering crimson slips of paper from Feyre’s hands. In gold lettering, the paper read:

Admit One | Prythian’s Fantasia

A magical night awaits you at the greatest show this side of Earth…

“Three tickets to see Prythian’s Fantasia!” Feyre gushed breathlessly, her blue-gray eyes shining with excitement. “Remember, the circus that arrived last week?” Ah, yes. The circus that Feyre had been raving about every spare minute.

“This side of earth?” Elain repeated. A craggy mountain with two branches of magenta amaranth flowers crossing below it was printed on the ticket. A strange choice of imagery for a circus. “What does that even mean?”

Nesta’s angular face appeared behind Feyre like a ghostly apparition. “Feyre! You’ve been out of the house again, haven’t you?” Nesta accused sharply. “It’s a miracle you haven’t been robbed, stabbed, kidnapped, or caught some venereal disease!”

Feyre’s expression soured. “Says the one who went to a suffragist meeting today!”

“Be quiet.” Nesta whipped her head around anxiously. “Unless you want me telling Mother about your dalliances.”  

“Look, Nesta,” Elain tried to diffuse the situation. “Feyre got us tickets to Prythian’s Fantasia.” 

Nesta’s icy eyes narrowed at Elain’s hand. “Where’d you get those from? Isaac Hale?” She spat his name like a bitter root on her tongue. Elain winced. Isaac Hale, the butcher’s son in the seedier side of town, was Feyre’s paramour. She’d met the man once, and found him relatively handsome and well-mannered. But she privately agreed with Nesta: Feyre could do better. 

“He gave them to me for free.” Feyre crossed her arms indignantly. “Why are you in such a mood today?”

“Nothing in this world is free. Especially between men and women,” Nesta scoffed. 

“Well, they’re for tonight’s show. Eight o’clock. Do you want to go or not?” Feyre jutted her chin out stubbornly. Eldest and youngest Archeron sisters faced off, like a viper versus a wolf, their matching blue eyes blazing. Elain held her breath, preparing to intervene again. 

“Fine.” Nesta was the one who relented. “By the way, Mother asked to see you for afternoon tea.”

“How is she?” Feyre asked, cooling down quickly from their verbal exchange.

“As superficial as she always is.” With that, Nesta turned and left. She didn’t have to specify that their mother only wanted to see Feyre. Isabella Archeron rarely asked for Elain. 

Perhaps all middle children were simply doomed to be forgotten. 

It was always like this: Elain meekly sandwiched between Nesta and Feyre, the two rebellious and squabbling women of the Archeron house. Nesta, who openly derided the male species and passionately spoke about women's rights. Feyre, who renounced high society by excelling at archery and sneaking off to the seedier parts of London. 

While Feyre’s artistic talent was her only refined hobby, Elain seemed the perfect lady, all agreeable manners and poised like a princess. 

But it was all a defense mechanism. Excelling as a high society lady prevented her cruel mother’s scrutiny. And if the peerage saw Elain as a docile, conventional woman, they would not suspect her of seeing the future. For what man would marry a woman who fell into fitful dreams, one who could predict his death and misfortunes? 

At least Elain’s visions only came when she lulled herself into a meditative state or dreamed. If she fell into random, episodic trances, she would definitely be sent off to an asylum for insanity. The future came in flashes and snippets, always cryptic but never subject to change. And with the number of startling—and sometimes horrific—premonitions she received outnumbering the pleasant ones, Elain would hardly call her ability a “gift”.

“Any news from Papa?” Feyre asked Elain. Reginald Archeron, a renowned merchant who sailed to the four corners of the earth to do business, had set off for Continental Europe just after Christmas. He still had not returned. 

Elain shook her head. “The postman didn’t have any correspondence.” 

“It’s unusual for him to be gone so long, and not send any word.” Feyre chewed her lip worriedly. “Perhaps we should alert the authorities?” 

“What good will that do?” Elain replied shortly. “We don’t even know what country Father is in.” 

“I don’t see how you can be so calm about this.” 

Elain blinked, trying to keep her expression neutral. Why worry about her father, when he was probably having the time of his life cheating on their mother? The terrible premonition arrived three years ago: Reginald Archeron kissing a woman with dark hair and emerald green eyes in a continental-style opera house. Possibly in Moscow. Or perhaps it was Berlin. 

The most striking detail was the ornate golden locket that had glinted in the woman’s hands. Elain went rooting through her father’s study when he returned from his trip, and she found the exact same locket, complete with the woman’s picture in it. Holding the offensive jewelry piece in her very hands had Elain tasting bile. 

Elain had been 21 years old and well aware that not all marriages were pleasant. Still, the realization that her own father was unfaithful had been a shock. That her loving Papa was one of those types of husbands. But Elain didn’t dare breathe a word of her findings to her sisters, who knew nothing of her abilities. Nesta…Nesta would probably tear their father apart with words alone. Feyre…Feyre, who valued their family unit more than anything, would be crushed.

Feyre sighed, not waiting to hear Elain’s response. “Well, I’ll see what Mother wants. Be ready for the circus by seven. We need to travel to the south bank.” Elain nodded, closing the door distractedly. 

Elain’s mind returned to that mysterious man from her vision. Oh, how she longed to return to that hazy dream, so warm and tantalizing it was! He existed somewhere. He had to. Elain didn’t catch any of his features, but she felt so sure that he wasn’t anyone she knew at that moment. The man was waiting for her in the future. In Paris, too!

Oh, Paris! The Continent! As her father’s favorite child, Elain was shown the goods he’d help procure, like beautiful fabrics, spices, rough-cut gems, and wood carvings. She had fond memories of spending hours in his office, staring at the large maps on the walls and devouring books about foreign lands. “I’ll bring you to the continent next year, Elain,” Reginald Archeron had promised. Then he promised again, the next year. And again, the following. Many years passed, a slew of broken promises in their wake.

Not that she would ever want to explore the continent with her father now, knowing that he spent those trips canoodling with mysterious women. But the London gloom outside her window had Elain wishing her life was different.

If Nesta and Feyre were shamelessly carving their own unconventional paths, why couldn’t she do the same? She didn’t need to wait for her father to take her to the continent; she was 24 years old, a modern woman with the means to travel the world. 

As if an answer to her thoughts, the mystery man’s phantom touch seemed to linger on her shoulder, urging Elain to make her way to the Exposition Universelle. To find him in real life. 

***Feyre***

Isabella Archeron had been a formidable woman just two years ago. Her golden-brown hair had been a luscious mane that shimmered even under England’s clouds. Her back had been ramrod straight, the sharp lines of her cheeks and jaw had nary a wrinkle. Flitting from one party to the next, Isabella Archeron was truly London’s finest social butterflies.

But her mother’s hair turned limpid, even gray. The pale hue of her skin was almost sickly, and the angles of her face only made her look hollowed out, older. Now, Isabella Archeron spent most of her time confined to the bed or the bath. 

Watching her mother’s chest rattle with phlegm-filled coughs and her frail hands tremble, Feyre wondered if something swift and sure like cholera would have been better. It would’ve been better than this gradual chipping away at life over the months. 

“How are you feeling, Mother?” Feyre asked cautiously when she entered the room. Although illness had dulled Isabella Archeron’s quick mind, it soured her temperament, leaving her prone to mood swings.

“Feyre. Pour me a cup of tea, won’t you?” 

“Yes, Mother.” Feyre dutifully placed a sugar cube into the dainty china cup, and poured steaming tea from the ornate teapot. 

She was about to stir the sugar and cream with a spoon, when her mother snapped, “And do not stir the tea. I may be ill, but I am not invalid.” Feyre set the spoon down cautiously and dutifully walked towards her mother’s bed, hating how her shaky hands rattled the cup and saucer. 

“Have you heard from your father?”

“No, Mother.” 

The difficult pregnancy had meant that Feyre would be the last Archeron child. Feyre suspected her parents hoped she would be a son who could inherit the family business and lead the household while Reginald Archeron was away for work. Feyre wasn’t a son, but her parents still expected her to be the “most responsible” of her sisters since early childhood. 

For example, ever since she was 16, her father assigned her to managing their bank statements while he was abroad. All Feyre had to do was sign the checks and record the transactions in the balance book, but at this point, she could forge Reginald Archeron’s signature in her sleep. Feyre had also tended her sisters whenever they got sick, bringing them warm soup and administering tonics. Thanks to those years of “experience”, Feyre was now charged with managing the rotating circle of doctors, household expenses, and servants ever since her mother fell ill.

Perhaps she was assigned this role of “caretaker” because her parents were reluctant to change their attitudes toward her sisters. Nesta, the first-born, could have easily been taught the tools of the trade. But Isabella Archeron was keen on shaping Nesta to be the wife of a lord or a prince, not a merchant’s apprentice. Then came Elain, who took after their father and automatically became his princess to dote on. 

That left Feyre at the scrutiny of both, but without the love from either parent. 

“Hmm. I’m feeling rather abysmal today. I fear these doctors are not helping me whatsoever.” Her mother gestured to the array of tonics and powders on the bedside table. Feyre’s eyes widened in alarm when she noticed a pile of brown-stained handkerchiefs. 

“Are you coughing up blood?” she said in alarm.

“Don’t be silly. Why would I be coughing up blood? I just spilled my tea.” Her mother sounded like she even believed it herself. But Feyre was doubtful; she’d seen those tell-tale colors on Isaac’s work apron numerous times. “Do write to your Aunt Ripleigh and ask if she could send some more of that rose and daisy tea. It was delightful.” 

Aunt Ripleigh had been dead for six years now. There was no rose and daisy tea in the house, either.

“Of course, Mother.” She made a mental note to ask Nesta if their mother had experienced another bout of memory loss during their session together. Isabella Archeron’s diminishing moments of lucidity were concerning. 

“Well, Feyre. You’d better hurry along and get ready for Watson's charity ball. I’ve already told Mrs. Watson that I’ve fallen ill, but your father should be able to accompany you three.” Isabella Archeron’s blue-gray eyes closed, and within moments, she’d fallen asleep.

The charity ball her mother spoke of had occurred two seasons ago. 

Hopefully she would sleep past supper and continue assuming her daughters were at a charity ball instead of a circus. Isabella Archeron considered anything below the opera or classical music hall a lowly performance unfit for their presence. Laughable, considering the Archerons were only wealthy merchants, not the aristocracy. 

“Yes, Mother.” Feyre said, even though she couldn’t hear her. She touched her mother’s hand before she left the room. It was deathly cold. Feyre didn’t love her mother, but she didn’t want her to die. Despair rose within her like the tide, as if it was her fault Isabella Archeron wasn’t getting any better. 

It was rumored that Amarantha, the circus ringmaster, was a powerful witch doctor. Apparently she learned her craft from the natives in the tropical latitudes and left a trail of miracles from town to town. Feyre had nearly laughed in Isaac’s face when he told her that. 

A female ringmaster? Impossible. And a witch? Those were from the Dark Ages. 

But now, Feyre was desperate. If modern science could not cure her mother, why not try other methods? The Archerons had money. Jewels. Exotic antiques. Feyre was quite confident she could pay Amarantha for a little healing spell. 

Nesta was wholly focused on the suffragist movement. Elain was swept away by the pageantry of fancy dinners and shows in London. Both seemed rather ambivalent about their mother’s health and their father’s suspicious silence over the last few months. Once again, it fell on Feyre to do something, anything that would keep her dysfunctional family together. 

Tonight, she would see for herself what this Amarantha was all about. Even if the ringmaster turned out to be a dud, at least she got a famed circus show out of it. 

✨

Taglist: @velidewrites @reverie-tales @highladysith @shadowsxgwynriel @foxwithagoldeye @sunshinebingo

[the-lonelybarricade]

LB my dear dear! I have devoured all yours and MB's ao3 works till date ❤️🤌 and I am feeling pathetically ravenous for more 🫠. Although my question is- since I have seen people asking you for suggestions as to which blog and which writer to look to for more feysand/elucien content I would like to request the same only and only if you are comfortable and have the time for this pressing request. And thank you even if you couldn't for some reason im only scared since you are busy and wouldnt want to burden you with such an exigent task. . I'm sorry to bother you That would be it 🥺 👉👈

You want blog suggestions for Elucien/Feysand authors? And you think you're bothering me??? Anon, this happens to be my exact area of exertise and there is nothing love more than hyping up my friends!

To kick us off my lovely friend @velidewrites is an extraordinarily talented writer and artist, and also just an all-around ray of sunshine whose blog I cannot recommend enough.

There's also @writtenonreceipts who's every work is literal potery. Pick any of her stroies and you will come undone.

@belabellissima has a beautiful Feysand/Elucien series called the State of Grace and is also one of my favorite people 🥺💝

@azrielshadowssing also regularly feeds us with delciioiusly sinful Feysand and Elucien stories 🥰 hehehe definitely read the tags though!

Among a host of other incredible fics, @damedechance has an onlyfans series that will make you feral - Playgirl (Elucien) and darling.exe (Feysand) 👀👀 Come back to me once you finish losing your mind

@xtaketwox and @itsthedoodle come as Feysand/Elucien pair hehe. @xtaketwox has treated us to lots of goodies, but I wanted to highlight her modern soulmate AU which has a dedicated work for Feysand, Elucien, and Nessian! @itsthedoodle has written so many beautiful feysand oneshots and is the sweetest, most unhinged person you'll ever have the pleasure of knowing.

@asnowfern is so talented and writes for a lot of different pairings, including Feysand and Elucien! Right now she's working on a stunning Feysand AU inspired by a chinese legend called Till Forever Falls Apart

if you're a fan of next-gen, @areyoudreaminof has lots of adorable fics and headcanons centering around Elucien and Feysand as parents!

@witch-and-her-witcher again writes for many couples, including Feysand and Elucien! She recently wrote a Feysand and Nyx oneshot, The Little Tiger, that completely fractured my heart and put it back together.

@thegloweringcastle is another extremely talented writer who has a wealth of feysand and elucien fics! One I really love is the The Law of the Land which is a Feysand western AU with background Elucien 🤠

@darling-archeron has been in this fandom since 2016 and in that time has blessed us with so much wonderful Feysand and Elucien content!! (One day you really need to sit us all down and tell us the fandom lore we all missed out on from the acomaf/acowar releases 👀)

@iambutmortal has a lot of delicious Feysand and Elucien stories! For Elucienweek last year she wrote a really addicting story called The Honeymooners

@labellefleur-sauvage has written so many incredible Elucien fics! As well as a very delicious monster!Feyre fic called Meet Me In the Woods hehehe 👀

@foundress0fnothing always blows me away with her writing. For Elucienweek last year she wrote an Elucien sex cult fic titled Both Forever and Rather Die that lives in my head rent free.

@howlingcaptaincommando is working on a really amazing pirate AU, Never Shall I Die, centering around Elucien, Nessian, and Feysand!

@vulpes-fennec has so many lovely stories, including her Prythian Fantasia WIP which centers on the Archeron sisters and their mates 😍

@popjunkie42 has yet to dip her toes into writing Elucien but maybe one day we can convince her 👀👀 That said she has so many amazing Feysand works such as Hate Me Instead and her current WIP Blossoming In Winter.

Likewise my dearest friend @wilde-knight has only written Elucien and Nessian, but I can't recommend her works and blog enough!! She's working on an amazing Princess Bride AU called Burnished Gold

@captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship is a die-hard Feysand, Elucien, Gwynriel, and Nessian! Currently they're working on a Feysand fic Five Minutes to Midnight which also features background Elucien!

@octobers-veryown creates so many wonderful moodboards for variuos ships and characters! I cannot recommend following them enough💕

And finally @rosanna-writer, @reverie-tales, @thesistersarcheron, and @starfall-spirit are my multishipping queens 🥰 On their blogs you'll find wonderful content for Feysand, Elriel, Elucien, and other ships as well!

[acourtofkindness]

December 10th | @vulpes-fennec

Prythians Fantasia (Elucien, Feysand, Nessian,...)

This is an ACOTAR circus AU and what I can say…it is basically perfection. Not only are scenery and world building incredible, but also the description of the characters and the whole storyline. It is definitely worth reading, but one warning…you won't be able to stop after starting it, so prepare to save some time for it. 

Meddle About (Elucien)

It is definitely one of the sexiest and most amazing stories about Elucien that I have ever read. This story is incredible and perfect, basically just like all the pieces of work from this author - you all have no idea how hard it was to only pick two.

[vulpes-fennec]

Brb screaming!?! Thank you so much for the moodboard 🥹 I am blown away by everybody’s love for the fic so far 🥰

(Also this moodboard series is very exciting and I’m looking forward to getting new fic recs from this ☺️)

Favourite Fics || A Court of Thorns and Roses

🎪 PRYTHIAN'S FANTASIA 🎪 by @vulpes-fennec

A magical night awaits you at the greatest show this side of Earth… (Prythian’s Fantasia, Chapter I)

You can read Prythian’s Fantasia here!

[elucienweekofficial]

Elucien Fanfic Crossword Answer Key- Fantasy AU

How did you do? It's our hope through this week of puzzles that folks are able to find an existing fanfiction that speaks to them! Consider these a small masterlist filled with recommendations from the community itself. Below you'll find every fanfiction recommended attached to the author who created it, added in the order they were submitted! Fics were also categorized to their best of our ability. Check them out below!

A Blaze In The Dark by @the-lonelybarricade

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

All Of The Girls You've Loved Before by @separatist-apologist

I want to teach you how forever feels

OR:

That time Elain was a witch and Lucien was condemned to hunt her down

I Am Not A Woman, I'm A God by @separatist-apologist

Elain Archeron only wants revenge on the man who jilted her and turned her village against her. On the Autumn Equinox, she decides to summon a demon and have her vengeance before leaving that village-and the life she'd once hoped for- behind. What comes for Elain is no demon. An ancient God of Chaos rises, binding her life to his. And when he speaks, he makes the most terrifying claim she's ever heard.

He says she's his wife.

Burnished Gold by @wilde-knight

Should I call you that, then?” She quirked her head. His noble brows curved in confusion.  “Err–call me what?” he replied, still trying to find his way over the path of their stumbling first encounter. “Well, farmboy, of course,” she replied with the sly hint of a smile he’d treasure until his dying day. “As you wish,” was his only reply.

---

An Elucien Fairy tale inspired by A Princess Bride

Pride and Prythian by MANGo

Regency Era Elucien Inspired By Bridgerton

After bumping into a beautiful woman at the seasons first ball, Lucien Vanserra has spent every day since trying to track this mystery woman down. All the while his best friend is making calls on the Archeron house, attempting to woo the youngest daughter - and all is recorded in the daily editions of Lady Whistledown

A Tale of Nymphs by @missarcheron

Elain is a nymph of spring, spreading beauty and happiness wherever she goes. Lucien is the Lord of Death, whose realm is, well- dying. When he meets Elain, he knows he will need her to save his court- and perhaps for some other things as well…

Prythian's Fantasia by @vulpes-fennec

It’s 1889. Desperate to save her ailing mother’s life, Feyre strikes a bargain with ringmaster-witch doctor Amarantha. As the Archeron sisters join Prythian’s Fantasia and head for the World’s Fair in Paris, they begin to realize the circus’s magic runs far deeper than its enchanting nightly performances.

Golden by @separatist-apologist

I once believed love would burning red. But it's golden.

To save his people, Lucien Vanserra will marry his most hated enemy.

But to love her? Well, that's another thing entirely

This Fire Won't Burn Me by @separatist-apologist

Princess Elain Archeron wants nothing more than to be reunited with her missing youngest sister and to see her father finally emerge from the fog of grief he's been living under since her mother died. When her step mother arranges for her older sister to fetch her youngest to celebrate Elain's impending engagement to a neighboring prince, it seems like she'll get her wish. That is, until her father's fearsome huntsman steps in and wrecks it all. Now she's on the run, hiding in the forest to keep herself- and her heart- intact.

In her quest to understand why someone would want her heart carved from her chest, Elain will have to reconcile what it means to truly be the fairest of them all

Your Heart, Beating Through Stone by @ofduskanddreams

An upstanding young woman from a disgraced family, Elain Archeron takes a position as a governess to avoid an unwelcome arranged marriage. She didn't know what to expect when she arrived at the Forest House but finds herself enchanted by her pupil Charlotte Vanserra, the only child of the Duke Eris Vanserra and his late wife, and her grandmother Serafina, the Dowager Duchess. Just as Elain begins to feel like she has a place in the world, everything changes.

Every summer, Lord Lucien Vanserra and his brothers return to their childhood home for holiday. You would not believe his surprise when he arrived early and found Elain Archeron, the girl he'd loved for half of his life, sitting in his chair at the breakfast table. When Lucien finally works up the nerve to speak to the woman again, a dangerous situation arises that may bind the two in ways neither of them anticipated.

They Are The Hunters, We Are The Foxes by @the-lonelybarricade

Nesta had been very firm in her instruction not to stray from the path. The path was safe—sprinkled with iron dust every morning by the mercenaries who protected their villages. But Elain had spied the blackberries, plump and ripe for the taking, if only because no sensible human would have dared. Ordinarily, Elain wouldn’t have. Too terrified of the fae and what she heard they did to young, pretty human girls like herself. But today, Elain was to be married. Even facing the woods was less daunting than that. - Elucien Little Red Riding Hood AU

Ex Luna Scientia by @kingofsummer93

Lucien Vanserra, seventh son of the Minister for Magic, is as loved by his peers as he is hated by his family. But behind the charm and irreverence hides a secret, as dark and menacing as the scar on his face.

Elain Archeron, middle sister in a trio of muggle-born witches, has only one wish: for someone to truly see her. Because when she sleeps at night, she can see it all.

Or- an Elucien at Hogwarts AU.

Flicker in the Night by @ablogofsapphicpanic

Elain is sure that Graysen is the man she's going to spend the rest of her life with. He's everything she could have hoped, and has been caring and kind to her in a time when her family is looked down upon after her younger sister, Feyre, disappeared over the Wall separating them from the land beyond it three years ago. But when reveals that he intends to marry someone else for the dowry she can offer, she desperately claims she will retrieve a star that they saw fall on the other side of the Wall and use that for her dowry. He accepts, but she only has a week to retrieve it. But how hard can it be to get a rock? Instead of a rock or a gem, though, she finds a man. But she refuses to let that get in the way of true love. The only problem is transporting a mouthy, uncooperative star all the way across Prythian and back over the Wall in time to meet Graysen and gain his hand, and all of the roadblocks that come with that.

never shall we die by @howlingcaptaincommando

One sunlit morning, the Archeron sisters are kidnapped from their ship by the Pirate Lord Rhysand, his spymaster, and his warlord — why, and what he wants from them, they don’t know. But they are soon to find out.

Twist of Fate by @damedechance

After an ill-fated night that alters Elain Archeron's friendship with Lucien Vanserra, Prince of Autumn, forever, Elain struggles to regain any semblance of civility with her childhood friend and crush.

You Are Not The Kind Of Boy (Who Should Be Marrying The Wrong Girl) by @c-e-d-dreamer

With her season and herself ruined thanks to her older sister's lover, Elain Archeron decides she's finally going to take what she wants.

ivy game by @thelovelymadone

Beron wants Lucien back in his court and intends to reinstate him in Autumn, willing or not. The Night Court tells Elain to accept the bond or face the consequences by the end of the day. Lucien is told by the Night Court that Elain intends to break the bond so the war between Autumn and Night Court is prevented. What is fact? In a lavender field, a few bargains are made. What comes before a storm? Calm.

[starfall-spirit]

IT'S MY BIRTHDAY

If you want to give me a gift you can come to my ask box and tell me you have visited any or all of the wonderful stories I am posting below and just tell me all the reasons the authors are amazing bc I guarantee I'll agree with you.

Feysand

As the River Flows and/or A Court of Faded Dreams by @the-lonelybarricade

Sunshine and Promises (You get some Helion too) and by @shallyne

A Memory Undone and/or The Things We Cannot Say Series (Mute!Feyre) by @writtenonreceipts

To Steal a Bride of Spring by @ultadverb

Of the Archer and the Dark by @thesistersarcheron

I Was Enchanted to Meet You and/or Is There a Word for a Bad Miracle by @separatist-apologist

Catch Me Flying, Love by @reverie-tales

Five Minutes to Midnight by @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship

Blood Moon and Starlight Fangs by @edgyellie

Elucien

Sunshine and Reunions (Sunshine and Promises AU) by @shallyne

Seven Tears for the Sea by @ultadverb

Call it What You Want to by @separatist-apologist

(Also it’s Elucien Week so check that stuff out. We have some very talented participants this year!)

Elriel

Glitch by @thesistersarcheron

Over the Edge by @shallyne

Morlain

Embers by @ultadverb

Feymor

You're so Gorgeous by @separatist-apologist

Multiship

Sea Monsters Series by @separatist-apologist

Prythian's Fantasia by @vulpes-fennec

You and I Are Going to Change the World by @velidewrites

Pretty Please (I Need Your Hands on Me) by @headcanonheadcase (Also known as the threesome I didn't know I needed until she dropped a chapter in ubc)

[fieldofdaisiies]

two month story wrap up and shout-out, canon + x-Reader stories

I haven't read many stories in the past months, but I managed to catch up with some. so here we go, a little shout out to amazing creators and my absolute favourite stories I have read lately.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Asking Prize - by @the-lonelybarricade (Azris)

Elucien Drabble - by @asnowfern

The Writings on the Wall - by @asnowfern (Nessian)

Effervescence - by @asnowfern (Elucien)

Prythian’s Fantasia - by @vulpes-fennec (Acotar AU)

Throne Room Shenanigans - by @vulpes-fennec (Jassa)

Until Your Last Breath - by @moonlightazriel (Azriel x Reader)

Run Away - by @moonlightazriel (Eris x Reader)

Leave Before You Love Me - by @velidewrites (Elucien)

I Was Never There - by @velidewrites (Bone Carver)

Sleep - by @velidewrites (Elucien)

One Hundred - by @velidewrites (Elucien)

Where Have the Bubbles Gone - by @kingofsummer93 (Elucien)

Into the Water - by @kingofsummer93 (Elucien)

Ex Luna Scientia - by @kingofsummer93 (Elucien)

All of the Girls You Loved Before - by @separatist-apologist (Elucien)

What a Time to Be Alive - by @separatist-apologist (Elucien)

New Beginnings (-part 4) - by @cosmic-whispers (Azriel x Reader)

On My Mind in My Heart - by @darling-archeron (Elucien)

The Sins that Blind Us - by @honeybeefae (Eris x Reader)

You’d Marry Me If I Asked, Right? -by @isterofimias (Nessian)

On the Line - by @moodymelanist (Nessian)

All You Knead Is Love - by @moodymelanist (Nessian)

The Hit - by @headcanonheadcase (Nessian)

Helion x LoA Drabble - by @ofduskanddreams

Game Night - by @areyoudreaminof (Elucien/Band of Exiles; sorry, I knew I forgot sth.)

the ACOTAR writing circle organised by @azrielshadowssing

and lastly an absolutely fantastic painting of Elucien - by @krem-does-stuff

[areyoudreaminof]

It’s @vulpes-fennec birthday today! Not only is she awesome and hilarious, she’s also an amazing writer! Check out her Ao3 here! Especially Prythian’s Fantasia, one of my personal favorites.

Happy Birthday Viffy! ❤️

[asnowfern]

Ahhh thank you @areyoudreaminof @fieldofdaisiies I am so touched you guys thought of me💕💕💕

There are so many amazing, talented writers already mentioned but I am going to add on (and maybe some repeats🙈) my personal favourite fics too!

Everything @separatist-apologist writes is gold but Throw Me To The Flames will always have a special place in my heart as being the fic that made me an Elucien

Can't forget the amazing A Court of Faded Dreams series by @the-lonelybarricade but I also really love her latest Elucien week fic: A Blaze in the Dark

Prythian's Fantasia by @vulpes-fennec which has amazing world building and captures different voices so well

As the World Falls Down by @thesistersarcheron has me salivating at the beautiful writing

Velaris U series, especially the latest Elucien fic The Shot by @headcanonheadcase

Amazing Feysand, queen of softness by @reverie-tales and her latest Beautiful Darling Boy

@c-e-d-dreamer is also Nessian writer royalty but the one I always find myself rereading is I Will Love You Without A Single String Attached

Begged and Borrowed Time and Promise @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk who have me falling in love with Nessian again and again

Embers and Light by @duskandstarlight has probably forever changed me too

Cursed, Hexed, Bonded by @thelovelymadone has such amazing world building and fantastic writer's voice

I Was Never There by @velidewrites who is so incredibly talented but has probably forever changed my views on the Bone Carver

Fox and Fawn by @daevastanner which is such delightful Elucien-ness

Sympathy for the Devil by Saphie3243 (I'm not sure if she's on Tumblr?)

Hover Corte by @areyoudreaminof who nails BOE dynamics so well

Plant a Jasmine in the Night by @kingofsummer93 which is such delicious steamy Elucien (of course Ex Luna Scientia for every Marauders-era x ACOTAR fans!

The Highland Fox and The English Rose by @labellefleur-sauvage which features delicious Scottish Lucien

Like falling stars, we are destined to burn @ofduskanddreams that popped my omega-verse cherry

I am no god, only wormwood by @damedechance is so beautifully written

Ultima Ex Nobis by @fieldofdaisiies is so creative and original

A Court of Scars and Shadows by @beaumaismortel which was honestly entrancing and I love so much too

Five Minutes to Midnight by @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship which is an honestly amazing acomaf rewrite

I definitely have missed people and so many wonderful fics but these are definitely life-changing for me💕

On to shameless self promo, I am particularly proud of these fics so do give them a read if you're interested!

Sunshine in Autumn, an Elucien time travel fic

Effervescence, an Elucien night circus AU setting fic

The Writing's on the Wall, a wuxia, Legend of White Snake-inspired Nessian fic

Eye for an Eye, an alternative acosf ending Nessian fic

I also want to collect titles to give a shout out on bookstagram since I often get asked about fanfic recommendations.

So don't be shy and let us know 🥰 These are the most popular ships but if you also have fics for different characters that's fine too!

[vulpes-fennec]

Prythian's Fantasia 🎪 (Ch. 3)

Summary: It’s 1889. Desperate to save her ailing mother’s life, Feyre strikes a bargain with ringmaster-witch doctor Amarantha. As the Archeron sisters join Prythian’s Fantasia and head for the World’s Fair in Paris, they begin to realize the circus’s magic runs far deeper than its enchanting nightly performances.

Previously: The Archeron sisters had a magical experience at Prythian's Fantasia. Will Feyre be able to bargain with Amarantha to save her mother's life? WARNINGS: References to past SA in Gwyn's POV

Read: Masterlist | AO3

Tuesday, March 12th, 1889

***Nesta***

Nesta was scritch-scratching her way through the pile of correspondence in the parlor when the front door snicked shut. Blazing irritation ruined Nesta’s train of thought. Where the hell was her damn sister going? 

Sure enough, Feyre’s cloaked form had just turned the corner down the street. Nesta ground her teeth, frustration fueling her quick steps into a light jog. She’d turned a blind eye to Feyre’s excursions long enough. As the eldest child, it was her responsibility to keep her sisters out of trouble. But Nesta hated running. Especially in such a layered skirt and dainty little shoes. 

“You, there. I’ll pay you five shillings if you follow that girl in the black dress down the street.” Nesta announced to a boy who happened to be driving an empty wagon past her. He could not be any older than fourteen, based on his short stature and pimple-covered face. But he nodded, even cowing slightly as Nesta hopped into the grimy wagon. “Be discreet. If she catches us, you’ll only get two.” 

The janky wagon rumbled and squelched over cobblestone and mud. The boy maintained a careful distance as they moved past soot-darkened gray buildings, ramshackle apartments, squalid beggars, and over the Thames River. They followed Feyre for a good half hour before she disappeared into thin air. 

“Where did she go?” The boy stopped, his confusion mirroring Nesta’s. Nesta, who had been keeping a close eye on Feyre the entire time, was at a loss for words. Feyre’s honey-brown hair was easy to spot, even amongst the throng of Londoners. She was even wearing a knitted cream shawl that made her stand out in the gray. But they had traveled far enough that Nesta was certain where Feyre was headed. 

The Prythian’s Fantasia tent rose tall and proud about a half mile away. The lines and colors were sharper in daylight, but the structure still evoked memories of that magical night. Nesta had not been able to stop thinking about how circus dancers pranced and spun across the ring, seductively contorting their bodies mid-air with silken ribbons. She would make the rest of the way by foot; Nesta plunked down the five shillings into the wagon before hopping out.

The circus gate was shut and the grounds were silent, which had Nesta wondering for a moment if she had guessed incorrectly. It seemed dead as a graveyard. But there it was…that faint jingle of music. Lilting notes and clear tones sweetened the air, beckoning her in. Nesta walked along the massive perimeter, following the music. She eventually reached the performers’ camp just behind the main circus. 

Sure enough, her sister was idling at the camp’s edge, wringing her hands and pacing anxiously as if she was working up the nerve to enter. A gold-painted sign propped next to the small entrance read: Prospective performers, seek Amarantha. 

“Feyre,” Nesta called out firmly. 

Feyre jumped, her blue-gray eyes widening in surprise. “Nesta!” Her expression pinched with sudden nervousness. “What are you doing here? Have you been following me?” 

“I should ask the same thing about yourself. Not thinking of running away to the circus, are you?” Nesta replied dryly. 

“I’m not running away…I simply must speak with the ringmaster.” Nesta groaned in frustration when Feyre strode away. Whatever business Feyre had with Amarantha, Nesta was not going to wait around for her sister to come back out. 

During the day, the circus performers were unrecognizable in regular garb, with women in plain linen dresses and men in standard brown pants and shirts. Nesta clearly stuck out, with her pale blue dress and embroidered silk slippers. Even Feyre looked more proper than usual, with her freshly cleaned lilac dress and carefully braided hair. 

Colored caravans were interspersed between medium-sized tents and practice rings. The performers barely paid Nesta and Feyre any attention as they navigated down the crunchy dry grass and towards the large plum tent with the words “ringmaster’s office” scripted on a hanging placard.

A tall, muscular man stood under the tent’s awning, and Nesta gawked at him openly. He was not like the sniveling, pale, weak-boned aristocrats of London society. Nor was he like one of those bumbling country boys who were all brawn but no brain. His golden eyes were like a hawk’s: sharp, intelligent, and…beautiful. Was he a circus performer, or personal protection? Nesta could not recall having seen him in the show, for she would certainly remember a man like him. 

“What’s your business here?” he asked with a half grin, in a deep voice that sounded like a song. Nesta clenched her jaw, trying to keep herself from getting carried away.

“We request an audience with Amarantha,” Feyre responded. The man’s crossed arms stretched and creased his gray shirt along defined muscles. Nesta’s eyes were fixated on the triangle of ruddy brown skin, like that of sailors who spent their days out in the open seas, peeking through the unbuttoned top of his shirt.

“What is the nature of your audience?” 

“I seek her aid for our ailing mother.” Nesta blinked in surprise. Running to a circus ringmaster for healing? Feyre must have lost her mind. 

The man’s hazel eyes snapped towards Nesta’s face, picking her steely facade apart and assessing every hidden, dark thought. She could have sworn his pupils widened with subtle desire. His chiseled face was rugged, as if a sculptor had failed to smooth down a marble statue before presenting their work to an art exhibit. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” His attitude had changed, and it stung, for some reason. 

“I don’t see why not?” Nesta blurted out. “You are not the ringmaster.” The man scoffed at her now, his lip twitching in condescension. 

“What you seek would not benefit you in the slightest.” Normally, Nesta would have wholeheartedly used the barring of entry as an excuse to drag Feyre away. But his self-righteous and dismissive attitude riled her. 

“Cassian,” a strong, female voice called from the interior of the tent. “Do we have guests outside? Do let them in.”  

So that was his name. Cassian. 

“Seems you do not have the final word around here.” Nesta allowed her lips to twitch in a simpering smirk as she walked past Cassian, who had gone rigid with fury, most likely. She could not banish the memory of his intense hazel eyes, which were surely pinned on her back like a target as she slipped into the ringmaster’s tent.  

***Feyre***

It was surprisingly dim inside the tent, and the air clung to Feyre’s cheeks like a damp fog. Ringmaster Amarantha sat in a large velvet chair, reading a book and sipping from a goblet of wine. She’d exchanged her bodice and breeches for a deep purple gown that made her alabaster skin appear bloodless.  

“Good afternoon,” Amarantha purred with a saccharine smile. “What brings such lovely ladies to my domain today?” It seemed the ringmaster’s charisma was not limited to the stage. Feyre took a step forward, dipping her head in a slight bow. 

“Good afternoon, ringmaster. I heard you possess…magic. And I’ve come to humbly request your assistance. My mother has been gravely ill for months.” The Archeron family’s fate hung upon Amarantha’s answer.

“My assistance does not come without a price. Tell me, dear, what is your name?” Amarantha tossed her thick, crimson hair behind a shoulder. 

“Feyre Archeron.” Confidence—keeping her voice steady—was crucial.

“And yours?” Amarantha’s dark gaze swiveled to Nesta, who did not balk at the sheer weight of the ringmaster’s stare. 

“Nesta. Nesta Archeron,” she replied. “I’m Feyre’s older sister.” Amarantha hummed in approval. She closed her eyes, tapping her fingers together in contemplation. 

“Feyre Archeron, I do not desire money or riches as a form of payment. I will provide a healing potion for your mother, as long as you agree to half a year of service with my circus: Prythian’s Fantasia.” 

Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. But Nesta pinched Feyre’s arm hard before she could speak. 

“Please excuse us for a moment,” Nesta said roughly. Amarantha waved her hand flippantly, returning to her book. Nesta dragged Feyre to the side. “Have you lost your mind, Feyre?” she hissed lowly. “Join a circus? For some crackpot potion, when Mother is already on her way out this world?” 

Feyre’s blue eyes flashed angrily. 

“I need to try, Nesta,” she argued back. “I know that you are not fond of Mother. But imagine what Father will endure if she dies. And think about Elain! You may not want to get married, but are you willing to be her chaperone next year? Be my chaperone for another season?” 

“The ringmaster didn’t even inquire about Mother’s condition. How would her ‘potion’ be any useful cure?” Nesta asked, a little more loudly. 

“Magic,” Amarantha called out lazily. “Six months of service seems sufficient in exchange for a potion that acts as a general restorative for any ailment, don’t you think?”

“Magic does not exist. Healing potions do not exist,” Nesta rationalized. “You’re being foolish, Feyre. Save yourself from the embarrassment.”

“Magic does exist. I know it,” Feyre shot back, her voice a harsh whisper. She turned back to Amarantha. “My mother’s condition is too dire to wait six months. What if she passes before my term of service is completed?” 

Amarantha’s mouth curled in a wry grin. “You do drive a hard bargain, my dear. I will award you the potion after two months of service, but you must finish the six months with me before you are free to leave.”  

“This is a traveling circus, is it not? Where do you plan to go?” Feyre asked. 

“We will be making a touring loop around England before heading to Paris in May for the World’s Fair,” Amarantha responded. “Our stops will be in the main cities of Bristol, Birmingham, Manchester, Leeds, Sheffield, Cambridge, and Southend-on-Sea.”

Feyre chewed her lip. Her answer was still ‘yes’ but would two months be soon enough? 

“One month of service,” Nesta declared suddenly. Feyre stared at her older sister in confusion. “I will take part in the bargain, as long as you give us the ‘potion’ after one month of service.” 

Amarantha’s dark eyes gleamed with feral delight. “Very well, then. Come closer, ladies. All I need is a few droplets of your blood.” 

“For what?” Nesta blanched.

“The potion, of course.” Nesta and Feyre stepped closer to Amarantha, who produced a sharp needle. Amarantha grasped Feyre’s hand, her slender fingers icy cold and unusually strong. 

“A bargain: one healing potion, to be given after a month of work, in exchange for six months of Feyre Archeron’s work in Prythian’s Fantasia,” Amarantha intoned. 

Feyre watched with fascination as crimson welled from her index finger and dripped into a small glass vial. A prickling sensation raced from her fingertip to her elbow. Amarantha did the same for Nesta, handing them both linen bandages once she was done. The ringmaster pocketed the glass vial and smiled demurely at them.

“Thank you, ladies. Prythian’s Fantasia departs for Bristol on Friday morning. I shall see both of you here no later than eleven o’clock.”

“What will our roles be?” Feyre blurted out. Amarantha assessed them critically. 

“Feyre, our magician is in need of an assistant, especially for the World’s Fair. You shall work closely with him on his acts. Nesta, I see you have a dancer’s grace. You shall participate in our aerial silks act.” 

“Thank you.” Feyre smiled, feeling incandescent. Everything was lining into place: she would save her mother, go on an adventure, and become closer with the handsome magician. The magician! Perhaps by working with him, she could also find answers about her magic. 

She was so caught up in her joy that she barely noticed a glowering Cassian as they exited Amarantha’s tent. She was going to join the circus! Feyre’s finger throbbed with residual pain, proof that this was truly happening. “You didn’t have to strike a bargain with Amarantha,” she pointed out. “So why did you?” 

Nesta seemed lost in a similar wishful daze. “It’s a ticket to Manchester. The beating heart of the suffragist movement. I also couldn’t let you do such a foolish thing alone.” She gave Feyre a dubious glance.

Feyre froze. “Oh, damn us,” she gasped, glancing at Nesta with wide eyes. “What are we going to say to Elain?” 

***Gwyn***

Tears rolled down Gwyneth Berdara’s cheeks at the memory of her twin sister Catrin’s joyful face and pealing laugh. How many more times could she draw upon her recollections before they faded away? Catrin’s silver wedding ring hung on a chain around Gwyn’s neck, was the only physical part of her sister she had left—and served as a reminder of all that was lost. 

Her heart hurt, but at least she wasn’t in physical pain anymore. Gwyn squeezed her eyes shut and sobbed, pushing away the memories of the cursed brothel. The rank smells, the raucous laughter of drunkards. The clinking of coins before they began. The leering men who did not bother with “making love” to women. 

From what Catrin told her, intercourse was supposed to be a blissful and exciting experience. But Gwyn only knew pain. Pain from the bruises, the pulling of her coppery-brown hair, the chafing of skin between her legs. 

There was also a specific memory of warm, wet blood and the sounds of screams in the dark. And a fast-cooling body. 

Gwyn wiped her teary face and allowed herself one last sniffle before getting up from her cot. At least the bruises on her arms and waist had faded after a week with Prythian’s Fantasia. She’d sought the help of Thesan, the circus physician, who gave her contraceptive tonics without any judgment.

The caravan she shared with Emerie, Nuala, and Cerridwen was packed to the brim. Small windows ventilated the space, a small copper tub was shoved in the corner, and clothes and books were strewn across all available surfaces.

Gwyn was on kitchen duty today. The center of the camp served as the main area for meals and congregating, with food prepared in the open air. Tarquin and Daphne Vanserra were already there, baking bread in the clay oven and handling the wheels of cheese. 

“The vegetables are already washed,” Tarquin said, pointing to the crates of leafy greens, carrots, and potatoes. Tarquin cut a striking figure, with his turquoise eyes and long white hair contrasting with his dark brown skin. She’d only known him for a week, but his gentle smiles and thoughtful nature had put Gwyn at ease with her new surroundings. 

Gwyn picked up a sharp knife and began dicing the vegetables, placing the smaller pieces into large wooden bowls for stew. She was so engrossed with her cutting that when a man silently stepped up next to her, Gwyn jumped with fright. But it was only the dagger-thrower, here to assist with meal preparation. 

He was the same height as her, with a slightly muscled build. Inky black hair curled around the nape of his neck and fell in front of his angular hazel eyes, which softened slightly at her reaction.

“Apologies,” he muttered, his voice low. 

“It’s alright,” Gwyn responded quickly. “My name is Gwyn. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She smiled broadly at him.

“You’ve been crying, haven’t you?” Gwyn stiffened, her smile slipping away. 

“Azriel, don’t you know it’s rude to say such things to a lady?” Daphne tutted at the dagger-thrower. 

“Apologies,” Azriel said again. He picked up a knife and began expertly fileting the skin and bone off a slab of meat. Gwyn stared: pale scars streaked across his olive-toned hands. They moved with deadly precision. Smears of blood had begun to coat the tips of his fingers…Azriel met her gaze with a sharp look that had Gwyn glancing away with embarrassment. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” Gwyn replied. “I joined the circus right when it arrived in London.” 

“Why?” His words were short, and to the point. 

Catrin’s lifeless face, with sunken-in cheeks and chapped lips flashed before her. That horrible smell…those awful hands grabbing her, hurting her…Gwyn shrugged nonchalantly. 

“I needed to make some money. When did you join the circus?” Azriel’s brows lifted slightly at her returning question. 

“Almost five years,” he replied. The dagger-thrower did not offer any more words of conversation after that. Daphne and Tarquin chatted in the background, but between Azriel and Gwyn, there was only silence. Gwyn’s eyes began watering again when she started on the onions. Before she could reach for a second onion, Azriel wordlessly took the whole crate away. 

“Thank you. I suppose I’ve cried enough for today,” Gwyn murmured. She snuck a glance at the dagger-thrower, and was disappointed to see his face stone-cold at her attempt to jest.

✨

Tags: @velidewrites @reverie-tales @highladysith @shadowsxgwynriel @foxwithagoldeye @sunshinebingo @jealousveronya @corcracrow @fieldofdaisiies @the-lonelybarricade

[vulpes-fennec]

Prythian's Fantasia 🎪 (Ch. 4)

Summary: It’s 1889. Desperate to save her ailing mother’s life, Feyre strikes a bargain with ringmaster-witch doctor Amarantha. As the Archeron sisters join Prythian’s Fantasia and head for the World’s Fair in Paris, they begin to realize the circus’s magic runs far deeper than its enchanting nightly performances.

Previously: Feyre and Nesta have bargained with Amarantha! What's Elain going to do?!?

Read: Masterlist | AO3

Thursday, March 14th, 1889

***Elain***

Feyre and Nesta didn’t stop giving her furtive looks until they sat her down for a serious conversation over yesterday’s afternoon tea. And now Elain knew why. 

“Nesta and I will be joining Prythian’s Fantasia for the next half year,” Feyre had announced, stirring cream and sugar into her tea as if it were any other day. “We made a deal with the ringmaster: Amarantha will cure Mother in exchange for our service.”

“How?” Elain had sputtered. Nothing—nothing—had helped Isabella Archeron’s illness, which seemed to worsen with spite.

Nesta’s heavy sigh preceded Feyre’s answer: “Magic.”  

Elain could believe magic existed. Her gift of reading the future was part of the occult, was it not? But the idea of a magical circus…well, stunning performances did not equate to proof of magic. 

“You do not seem surprised,” Feyre observed. 

Elain shrugged. “I am skeptical…but I am more concerned with where is Prythian’s Fantasia going.”  

“The circus will tour England…then head to Paris for the Exposition Universelle,” Nesta replied, switching into French for the last bit of the sentence. “Feyre will be the magician’s assistant, and I will be participating in the aerial silks performance.”

“What about Mother?” Elain asked. “What about the upcoming season? We ordered all our gowns already. And when Father gets back…none of us will be home…”

“That is why we need you to stay and care for the household…ensure Mother is taking her tonics and manage our correspondence from the other families,” Nesta responded swiftly. Her sister’s gaze dropped down guiltily. 

“You will be gone…for months?” Elain’s voice was barely above a whisper, her initial excitement quickly dashed. “And you did not care to include me in this arrangement?” 

Feyre was the more apologetic sister. “We will be sure to write, Elain. And Amarantha will give us the curative after a month, which means Mother will be back to health in no time at all.”

“I do not wish for you to write,” Elain had said stiffly. She had spent the afternoon baking scones and preparing the little sandwiches, but now the food was less than palatable. “I wish to join you both.” 

“Traveling is far too dangerous,” Nesta said. “Do you think we are going on holiday? Feyre and I will be working. We do not want you to go hungry, or sleep in the cold and damp. Staying here is easier, Elain. And safer.” 

“But I want to go to Paris!” Elain had cried, feeling like a petulant child. 

“Nesta is right,” Feyre had added. “The journey ahead is uncertain…and what talents could you possibly bring to Prythian’s Fantasia? Gardening and baking are not useful in a traveling circus.” 

Elain had glanced at her sisters, shocked that both were in agreement for once. “When do you depart?” she had asked, feeling discombobulated.

“Tomorrow morning,” Nesta had said with finality, clearly assuming Elain was agreeable with their plan of action. 

But Elain was livid, and far from agreeable when it came to this issue. How could her sisters leave her behind? Feyre knew damn well Elain wanted to travel to Continental Europe her entire life. And how could Nesta, of all women, assume Elain needed protection from the big scary world? Of course they would expect her to stay home, for she was the Archeron sister that was most well-adjusted to London society. Of course it was alright for radical Nesta and bold Feyre to gallivant England unchaperoned, but the thought of soft and sweet Elain doing so would draw gasps of horror! 

Elain called an early night, unable to bear watching Nesta and Feyre pack when it should have been her in their positions. Guilt gnawed at her: it would be their last night together for a while, yet Elain could not bring herself to spend a minute longer with them. Not that it would make much of a difference, for the Archeron sisters had never been particularly close.. 

But it simply wasn’t fair! 

Whatever happened to taking charge of her own destiny? The fact that she had a premonition about a mysterious man in Paris seemed a good sign to leap out of her comfort zone. Elain did not want to shoulder the burden of excusing her sisters’ prolonged absence to her mother. And telling Isabella Archeron her two daughters had left high society for a traveling circus would be a death wish. 

Which was how Elain found herself hastily packing after Feyre and Nesta bid her a stiff goodbye in the morning. Dresses, shoes, cosmetics, hats, and gloves were haphazardly stuffed into massive carpet bags. Elain bundled out the door, paying the family carriage driver a generous sum for his discretion. 

The big top had been taken down, but the circus performers were still packing up their camp. Feyre and Nesta had to be in there somewhere. Elain’s palms dampened gloves in a mixture of anxiety and thrill—no longer would she sit back and wait for life to happen!  

“Excuse me! Excuse me!” Elain’s voice was shrill as she ran towards the camp as fast as her daintily slippered feet could carry her. The large cases she lugged in both hands made her gait even more awkward.

In her haste, Elain did not notice how wet and muddy the grass was. Her ankle slipped; she went down with a screech. Cases went flying, her hat turned askew, and her gloved hands sank several inches into smelly gunk. It seemed like the whole camp had come to a stand-still as everybody watched Elain struggle to stand. 

“Elain? Elain!” Feyre cried as she rushed over, picking up the muddy cases for her sister. “What are you doing here?” 

Elain stood, red-cheeked with embarrassment. Her creamy pink dress was sodden and now stank of filth, her cheeks were splattered with mud. But at the sound of Feyre’s voice, she straightened and indignantly replied, “I don’t want to be left behind.” 

“Elain, you must return home,” Nesta ordered, striding over to them quickly. “This is foolishness.”

“What is going on here?” Amarantha’s voice sharply rang out over the crowd of people. “My goodness, who is this pathetic creature?” The ringmaster assessed Elain’s now-filthy form with obvious distaste. 

“I’m sorry, Amarantha,” Feyre apologized quickly. “This is my sister, Elain.”

“She will be leaving now,” Nesta added meaningfully, grabbing the last clean patch of fabric on Elain’s elbow and tugging on it. Elain disentangled herself subtly, but Amarantha noticed it. 

“Leaving?” Amarantha arched an eyebrow. “Why, it looks like she was planning on joining us.” 

“Yes!” Elain cried breathily. “I wish to be with my sisters.” She ignored Nesta’s glare. The crowd of circus performers had grown larger, though, and Elain shrank slightly under their bold stares. This was not the first impression she wanted to make.

It could not be any more obvious that Amarantha was judging Elain’s clumsy feet, her gloved hands, the timid roundness of her shoulders. Elain held her breath, fearful of being turned away. 

“I know just the role for you. You will be our fortune-teller. We lost our last one thanks to…an unfortunate accident.” 

“I am afraid I do not have any experience in the occult,” Elain blurted out defensively, so taken aback by the accuracy of Amarantha’s assignment. It was partially true, though. Experiencing sporadic visions was one thing; being skilled at “parlor tricks” or channeling specific readings was another. Still, Elain mentally kicked herself for spurning the offer. 

“Well? Simply make things up,” the ringmaster waved her hand condescendingly. “As long as the circus visitors are satisfied, you will be of use to me. And do tidy yourself up before we board the train.” Amarantha flashed Elain a gleaming white smile that possessed no warmth before she turned away.

Nesta sighed and motioned for Elain to follow her through the camp. Elain kept her head down, careful not to embarrass herself again. There was a feeling of unease writhing in the pit of her stomach like a black worm. It was distinct from nerves or embarrassment…the sensation was akin to a warning bell.  

Elain considered herself an open-minded, friendly lady, who didn’t have qualms with many people. But there was something peculiar about the way Amarantha assessed her, and she didn’t like it. No, Elain did not like it at all.

“We were lucky enough to have our own caravan,” Feyre said, interrupting Elain’s musings. “Come, let us put your cases inside.”

The caravan was painted in a rich green with ornate gold detailing. Glass windows and beautiful lanterns hanging by the door, as well as the fold-down wooden steps of polished dark wood, elevated the caravan’s standing beyond a covered wagon on wheels.

“It’s so small,” Elain commented doubtfully. 

“It’s much bigger inside, you will see.” The door swung on well-oiled hinges, revealing an unusually spacious setting. The first thing Elain saw was a copper tub—for bathing—positioned opposite a wooden table complete with green-cushioned wooden chairs. 

“At least we can stand upright here! Look, we have a bathtub,” Feyre explained excitedly. “Towels and soaps included. We can heat the water on the stove.” A small iron stove was situated in the caravan’s corner, its black slender chimney extending up and out of the wooden roof. 

It was beginning to dawn on Elain that, while the caravan was better than sleeping on the cold, hard ground, nothing would compare to the comforts of home. Since the maids always drew up warm baths upon request, tending a flame and heating up water bucket by bucket would be a harsh wake-up call to reality. Elain wasn’t even sure she could strike a match.  

An elegant wardrobe stood next to the tub, facing an upholstered sofa with plush velvet pillows. Thick curtains kept the sleeping area separate: the back end of the caravan was taken up by a large bunk bed. 

“I took the top bed already,” Feyre said, pointing to the top bunk where a circular window offered views to the outside world. “And Nesta took the bottom one. But there’s a separate bed on the side for you.” 

She had never been confined in such close proximity to her sisters. Elain’s bed was built into the caravan, with extra storage underneath. Across from her bed sat a small counter with a marble wash basin, and an ornate mirror hanging on the wall. Her cruddy face reflected back at her, pale and disheveled. Her first adventure started off on the wrong foot, but she made it, didn’t she? 

“It’s quite nice,” Elain finally said quietly. “Home sweet home for the next few months.” 

Saturday, March 16th, 1889

***Gwyn***

Birds of a feather flock together. Any stranger would have taken one look at Daphne’s auburn and Gwyn’s coppery-brown hair, their pale skin and willowy statures, and assumed them to be relatives. Gwyn had learned several key facts about the fire performer over the last few days. One: Daphne’s son, Lucien was 26. Just two years younger than Gwyn. Two: she hailed from Ireland, somehow surviving famine and political turmoil. Three: she was married to Beron Vanserra, the sour-faced, Spanish escape artist. Based on Gwyn’s limited observations of the two, Beron was hardly deserving of Daphne’s warmth and goodness. In fact, Daphne seemed to shrink back within herself whenever she was in her husband’s proximity.

Prythian’s Fantasia, Gwyn also learned, was transported from town to town via the great English railway system. Tents were taken down and bundled neatly, caravans were rolled onto flatcars and strapped down, and the performers bundled into carriages.

When they boarded the train to Bristol two days ago, Gwyn could have sworn some odd emotion passed between Daphne and an older man. The man was around Daphne’s age, with earthy brown skin and hazel eyes like that of a wise owl. Gwyn had seen him several times, for his muscled thighs and foreign features were unmistakable around the camp.

“Who is that gentleman?” Gwyn had whispered to Daphne as they sat down in the carriage. “The tall, dark one who just passed us by?” 

“Ah…that is Helion,” the lady murmured, looking down demurely. “He assists with the lights during the performance.” From the way Daphne’s fair cheeks mellowed out with color, Gwyn presumed there was more to the story than Daphne would divulge. But she didn’t want to pry when Daphne had just warmed up to her.

Tomorrow would be their first show in Bristol, and Gwyn was currently assisting the circus hands in setting up the music hall. An open-air tent of forest-green fabric had just been pitched. Signage was carefully hung. Polished boards were neatly aligned to form a sizable dance floor. The stage would be elevated by pushing together massive crates, artfully concealed by luxurious curtains and decor. 

Amarantha had taken Gwyn into Prythian’s Fantasia to fulfill a singer position in the music hall, but Gwyn had been stationed at the ticket booth for the last few nights with no indication of reassignment. Gwyn was itching to move on from the rote task of checking tickets. She wanted to sing!

Everyone listened whenever Gwyn began singing. Her mother had always spoken of merrow or morgen heritage from their Irish and Welsh ancestors, something Gwyn had always dismissed. Sirens were pure myth; and Gwyn had never seen the ocean, nor felt any draw towards the vast seas. But even she could not deny that her voice was unusually rich and magnetic. Catrin incessantly encouraged Gwyn to audition for London’s high-end music halls, but Gwyn much preferred to offer her talents free of charge at the local church choir. 

Sweat beaded Gwyn’s brow as she pushed against the massive crate. The church would never accept her now, after all she had done—been forced to do—at the brothel…and Catrin. Catrin would never get to hear her perform at a music hall ever again, not even this one—

Gwyn’s foot slipped in the mud. A pair of scarred hands positioned themselves next to her, assisting with the crate. 

“Careful.” Azriel’s voice was flat, but his hazel eyes were wary. “Severe flooding occurred in Bristol this week.” The corded muscles in his forearms flexed as he easily pushed the crate into the proper position. 

“Thank you,” Gwyn replied, wiping her brow. “Are you looking forward to the performance tonight?”

“I am always prepared.” Not exactly answering her question. But from the daggers that were sheathed along his belt, Gwyn had no doubt that Azriel practiced everywhere he went. 

“What are you doing here?” Tamlin, one of the circus musicians, rounded the corner with a hammer in his hand. His emerald gaze was fixed on Azriel, and Gwyn could have sworn Tamlin’s imaginary hackles were raised like a cornered dog. 

“Someone could not be bothered to quit their hammering to lend her a hand, so of course I had to assist,” Azriel replied shortly, his eyes narrowing with mirrored distaste. His scarred hands hung loosely at his side, within close reach of his daggers. 

There must be some history between Tamlin and Azriel, Gwyn decided, for Tamlin had been nothing but cordial towards her, Daphne, and Tarquin. First Daphne and Helion, now Tamlin and Azriel. Prythian’s Fantasia, it seemed, held an unusual amount of secrets under its glossy tents and sparkling performances. 

“Tamlin.” A clear, powerful voice rang out as the magician strode into the music hall with feline grace. Tamlin’s expression soured even further. “You have a new performer assignment for the music hall.”

“You do not give me orders, Rhysand,” Tamlin snarled as Rhysand smacked a thick stack of papers against his chest.

Rhysand smirked, his inky black hair the polar opposite to Tamlin’s golden blonde. “They’re Amarantha’s orders, not mine. I do feel sorry for you, Gwyneth, that your new colleague is acting like an uncouth beast.” 

“Me?” Gwyn squeaked. It was the first time the magician had interacted with her, and she was surprised that he knew her name. His handsome face was even a bit unnerving to look at, for it was cold as the morning frost. 

Rhysand’s violet eyes flicked towards her, faint amusement shimmering. He produced another stack of papers out of thin air and offered them to Gwyn with a courteous bow. “Amarantha has reassigned you to the music hall, as promised. Do inform me if Tamlin gives you any trouble.” 

“I would rather be a beast than a bootlicking turncoat,” Tamlin threw back coldly at Rhysand’s retreating back. Bootlicking turncoat? What happened between Tamlin and Rhysand? Gwyn was vaguely aware of Tamlin saying something about practice times, before realizing Azriel had disappeared as well. 

***Feyre***

The magician’s tent was far too easy to spot amongst the multitude of colored tents in the circus camp: it was midnight black. It was the key to getting her questions about her shadow capabilities answered. Of finally meeting someone who was like her. Years of wishes on evening stars culminating in this very moment. 

“Be still, o beating heart,” Feyre whispered to herself as she approached. To her surprise, the top of the magician’s tent was left open, bathing the space in sunlight. And there he was, leaning casually against a tent pole and fiddling with his top hat. The magician looked up slowly when she stepped across the threshold, like a cat waking up from a luxurious nap. 

He was still dressed in black, albeit in a more simple pair of pants and neatly creased shirt. Onyx black hair carefully combed and styled across his forehead, and his tan brown face close-shaven. The magician clearly maintained an impeccable appearance even while off-stage.

“You must be my new assistant, Feyre Archeron.” Feyre’s breath hitched at the smooth purr of voice, shaping the syllables of her name as if he was savoring sweet wine. “I was wondering when you would show up.” 

“And you are…?”

“Rhysand,” the magician replied matter-of-factly, as if he was mildly offended she didn’t already know his name. He prowled towards her, mouth curving with an almost intimate smile. “But you may call me Rhys.”

“You are from Wales?” Feyre tracked his movements carefully, unsure of how to act around her new mentor. 

“My father is from Scotland, actually.” Rhys halted in front of her, close enough to border on impropriety. Dear lord—his deep blue eyes were hypnotizing. Already she was mentally tabulating the color combinations she could use to recreate the color of his eyes, for they were an unusual shade of violet. Like the color of amethyst gemstone mixed with sunset’s indigo. 

“I see.” Feyre doubted the validity of that statement, for Rhys’s brown nose and aquiline nose implied otherwise. 

“I heard you arrived here with not one, but two sisters. What is a darling like you doing in a circus like this?” Men who called ladies “darling” on the street were exactly the types of men Feyre rolled her eyes at. So why did she shiver with delight when Rhys said it? 

“My mother is very ill,” Feyre explained, tilting her chin up to maintain eye contact. “I sought Amarantha for help.” And you are the first person I’ve met who possesses the same gifts, she added silently.

Rhys’s brow creased slightly, and his sensual gaze chilled. “So you made a bargain with Amarantha.” Displeasure was laced in his tone. 

“Only six months of service for a healing potion. But since my mother’s condition is dire, Amarantha will give me the potion after a month,” Feyre explained, unsure of why he was frowning. 

“There is no such thing as only six months,” Rhys muttered, more to himself than her. While he appeared lost in thought, Feyre took the liberty of studying Rhys with an artist’s gaze, parsing every plane of his face, the details of his relaxed body. Surely a handsome man like him was married, right? It would be criminal—and alarming—if he wasn’t. 

The edges of Feyre’s attention span suddenly thinned and wavered, as if her thoughts were being scrambled up. Raw power thrummed in the air, thick enough to taste. Rhys tilted his head, darkness quickly evaporating into satisfaction. 

“What do you know about magic?” A double-edged question: was he inquiring about her skills with magic tricks, or was he somehow referring to the strange shadow capabilities she possessed? 

“Little enough for me to seek the master himself,” Feyre responded gamely. 

His beautiful mouth smirked as he closed the distance between them. Feyre leaned in, presuming he was about to kiss her…but Rhys’s hand brushed a lock of golden-brown hair behind her ear, producing a small silver chain with a delicate silver cross instead. 

“How did you do that?” Feyre blinked in crest-fallen confusion. 

“A magician never reveals his secrets.” Rhys offered her a sly smile. “Allow me.” 

Feyre could only nod slightly, heart hammering in her chest as Rhys positioned himself behind her. She pressed her lips together tightly when his hands brushed the nape of her neck, lest she let out an inappropriate moan. How could such a simple touch bring forth such pleasurable sensations that traveled right down to her very toes? 

His fingers delicately scraped her skin again, as he slipped the silver cross under her collar and out of sight. The gesture was chaste, yet the sensation of intimacy hung heavy in the air. “I advise you to keep that cross on at all times…for your own good.”

“...What?” Feyre needed to remember to breathe. 

“It’s protection,” he replied simply. “Identification.”

“I am not keen on wearing something around my neck like a dog,” Feyre objected, feeling even more confused.  

“Then consider a gift from your mentor.” Rhys stepped back in front of her, putting a regretful amount of distance between them once more. 

“Mentor, are you? If I am to be your assistant, I think I should be privy to at least some of your secrets.” She smiled back teasingly, fingering the delicate chain. Violet eyes regarded her with molten intensity. Feyre smiled even wider. Good…it seemed Rhys was just as taken with her. It would be such a shame if he found her uninteresting. 

“If you wish to know some of my secrets, then let us begin your training.” 

✨

Tags: @velidewrites @reverie-tales @highladysith @shadowsxgwynriel @foxwithagoldeye @sunshinebingo @jealousveronya @corcracrow @fieldofdaisiies @the-lonelybarricade

Author's Note:

I hope you enjoyed this update! Maybe it took you 5 minutes to read it, but it took me several hours to write it. Would you rather read a paragraph of words an AI strung together over a fanfic with fun headcanons and character analysis, or published writing?

I hope your answer is no, and I hope you will show the same respect to artists by NOT supporting or reposting AI art, especially on TikTok. Artists spend YEARS honing their craft, so propping up AI art is the equivalent of supporting plagiarism. I'm tired of seeing people defending their use of AI images over genuine art in their fan edits because AI "look perfect". ACOTAR fandom, please do better.

[vulpes-fennec]

Prythian's Fantasia 🎪 (Ch. 2)

Summary: It’s 1889. Desperate to save her ailing mother’s life, Feyre strikes a bargain with ringmaster-witch doctor Amarantha. As the Archeron sisters join Prythian’s Fantasia and head for the World’s Fair in Paris, they begin to realize the circus’s magic runs far deeper than its enchanting nightly performances.

Read: Masterlist | AO3

***Elain***

London’s finest—including the Archerons—arrived at Prythian’s Fantasia in a procession of stately carriages and well-mannered coachmen. The middle class bundled together in exposed horse-drawn wagons, rumbling and jostling over cobblestone, while the poor came on foot. Regardless of their mode of transport, everybody had to be dropped off at the edge of a short lawn and line up at the gate. 

Prythian’s Fantasia was nothing at all like the previous circus shows Elain attended, which were humble little events. She had first spotted the flag-tipped peaks of the circus tent cresting above buildings from across the Thames. Now, up close, it towered overhead, light pulsating under its vertical white and plum red stripes. 

“Hurry up!” Elain’s heeled slippers squished into the rain-drenched grass as she tried to keep up with Feyre. A tall gate encircled the circus, complete with swirling brassy motifs and a proud display of “Prythian’s Fantasia” over the entrance gate.  

How a traveling circus managed to erect gas lamps and a tall gate around its premises was beyond sound logic. Despite these firmly established characteristics, Prythian’s Fantasia lacked substance, as if it were a whimsical dream on the verge of waking up. Perhaps it was the faint sound of instrumental music drifting in the frigid air. Or perhaps it was the golden light and friendly murmuring beyond the gates that drew Elain in, like a moth to a flame.

A peculiar ticket booth was the last thing standing between them and the festivities. Nestled between brassy gates, the booth’s entire exterior seemed to be made of clock parts: translucent faces with Roman numerals of all sizes, burnished gold cogs and gears, onyx hands, wiry mechanisms. The surface shifted and clicked, as if the entire ticket booth was a clock. 

“Tickets, please!” If the incessant ticking and clicking bothered the young woman with twinkling teal eyes in the booth, she did not show it. 

“Yes, here they are!” Feyre excitedly handed over the crimson slips. Coppery-brown hair shifted in the light as the ticket attendant scrutinized the tickets. Feyre was holding her breath anxiously. Thankfully, the attendee ripped the “Admit One” tabs off before handing them back to Feyre. 

“Welcome!” The girl clapped her hands twice. “Enjoy your evening at Prythian’s Fantasia! Next! Tickets, please!” 

Feyre was giddy with delight as she pushed Elain through the well-oiled gates. The delicious scents of savory butter and sweet caramel hooked snagged Elain’s attention. To her left, an open air, plum-red tent housed several portable cooking apparatuses on wheels. The setup reminded Elain of the street food vendors who hawked hot buns, jellied eels, mystery soups, and sausage on London’s streets, except this outdoor cafe was spanking clean. And it sold delightful things: salted nuts, crystalline candies, treacle-drizzled apples, hot coffee, and what looked like puffy white clouds on a stick.

“Oh, I’m so hungry,” Elain exclaimed, turning towards Nesta with a silent plea in her big brown eyes. “We should have some refreshments before the show begins!” 

Nesta relented, purchasing a small bag of sweets and one of the cloud sticks. Elain and Feyre delicately pulled on the cotton material, eyes widening in amazement at its fluffy texture. “It’s sweet!” Elain gasped with delight.

“And it melts in your mouth!” Feyre added, grabbing another piece. “Nesta, you must try it!” 

“You’re right,” Nesta agreed, her gray eyes lightening as she took another bite. “Perhaps we can buy another one. They call it cotton candy.”

“Cotton candy indeed,” Elain sighed, unable to stop eating the sugary cloud. 

Cheerful orchestral music played in the distance, the catchy tune tempting Elain to dance. Folks of all classes milled about, partaking in the treats or boisterously appreciating all the fine touches of Prythian’s Fantasia. Children chased each other in little groups, delighting in the amount of open space available to play. While there were more attractions—Elain heard several circus goers babble excitedly about the optical illusion and fortune-telling tents somewhere around the corner—it was in their best interest to locate good seats.

Nesta swung open the plum red flap, revealing a colossal circus tent that lived up to the circus’s outlying grandeur. Rows of seats—actual seats, not just wooden benches—circled the massive ring, the lowest platform already filled with patrons. Thick metal beams stretched high into the air, parallel to thin ladders that led up, up, up onto small platforms. A web of ropes and bars criss-crossed just shy of the plum red and white-striped ceiling, promising of acrobatic performances to come.

“Up the stairs,” Nesta chided as Feyre and Elain stopped to gawk at how the circus ring was a shallow, matte-black tub instead of dusty dirt. The Archeron sisters settled on the seventh row up, with Nesta and Feyre sandwiching Elain protectively. The tent had five entrances, and Elain wondered how the performances would enter without a designated backstage area. 

After several minutes, the lights dimmed, cuing the audience to quiet. Click-clack, click-clack. Heeled boots strode crisply across the floor, so dark that it seemed to swallow up all light. A yellow spotlight singled out a woman at the center of the ring. Dressed in a fitted gold bodice and cream breeches tucked into knee-high black boots, the woman’s crimson-painted mouth smiled, stark against her bone white skin. 

“She’s wearing breeches?” Elain blanched slightly. No woman dared to wear breeches. 

“She’s wearing breeches,” Nesta said in amazement next to her, leaning forward with marked interest.

Clearly this woman did not care what the audience thought of her, based on the way she tossed her flowing, plum red hair over a shoulder and tilted her chin with regal air. A crimson jacket, with its hem brushing the curve of the woman’s waist, was made more feminine with a cinched waist and black lace edging the lapels and cuffs. She seemed lovely…and powerful. 

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. My name is Amarantha, and I am Prythian Fantasia’s ringmaster.” Amarantha’s lilting voice confidently amplified across the vast space, just like magic. “Are you ready for the greatest show on earth tonight?”

The crowd burst into a mixture of polite applause and raucous cheers. Elain clapped lightly, while Feyre whooped loudly in response. 

“I’m very pleased to see you as well. Without further ado, let the circus begin!” 

Music kicked up from a hidden orchestra. Lights and a gaggle of performers exploded into the ring. Acrobats in brightly colored suits walked on their hands, with legs and feet perfectly pointed in the air. Unicyclists cut tight corners, weaving between performers comically wobbling on tall stilts with striped pants artificially elongating their legs. Pairs of smiling dancers twirled streamers, stepping in precise, synchronous rhythm. 

The glorious display was simply too much to take in, as Elain’s eyes could barely focus on one act for five seconds before darting towards another. As for the matter of the lights…were the red, green, and blue beams a product of electricity? But even then, how was it possible for the lights to be so clear, so multi-colored? 

After several successive songs, the organized chaos of performers disappeared off into the sidelines. The ring darkened again, and silence fell in anticipation for the next act. The pitch-black darkness weighed heavily with the presence of hundreds of souls. She could no longer tell which way was up or down, what was in front of her or even behind her. It was a heart-pounding, sweat-inducing oppressiveness.

But then…a spark. A tiny sign of life down in the ring. Someone seemed to have struck a match.

Fire danced its way into a sparking, fizzling circle that grew larger and larger. Drums began pounding in the background, the powerful beats sending vibrations through the seats. 

A shadowed figure twirled a flame-tipped rod at high speeds, cycling the ring of fire through the air before gracefully tapping the rod on the ground. Upon contact, a circle of fire erupted, creating a wall of fire burning so hot that Elain felt heat sear her face. She gasped when three people stepped out of the flames: a woman with a bird mask, and two men—one with a fox mask, the other with a feline mask. The blazing inferno dimmed slightly, just enough to cast an orange glow over the audience. 

The two male performers lit their staffs, and began moving to the beat, effortlessly passing the staff between hands, threading it over shoulders, under arms, and between legs. Fire was contorted into multiple shapes, streaking through the air like a glowing serpent. Surely any lesser-trained performer would be scorched, but these performers danced with fire unbothered.

Elain’s eyes were drawn to the man in the fox mask, who she now just realized was shirtless. His toned body gleamed in the orange light as he reached into a basket and tossed one, two, three, four balls into the air. The fire must have added a few degrees to the room, for Elain was suddenly feeling hot at the sight of his fine muscles and braided red hair glowing like molten ore. The pounding drums became one with her heart as Elain stared, enraptured. 

The foxy man simultaneously set the four balls on fire and extinguished his staff with one final slash. Elain’s jaw dropped when he began to juggle the flaming balls with his bare hands. Surely this was impossible, she thought. Perhaps the man had covered his hands in a protective coating. 

Her attention shifted to the woman, who had exchanged her staff for two massive fans in each hand, both ablaze with blue flame. Her mouth curved sensually under her bird mask as she fluttered the fans, twirling them deftly with quick wrist movements. Her free-flowing long red hair, similar to that of the foxy man’s, did not catch fire. 

Again, the woman moved as if she was one with the flame, bending her knees and shifting her shoulders gracefully around the blue fans. She pranced around the arena, light as a deer, and lifted her hand as if she were blowing a kiss to the audience…she blew fire. A solid jet of flame that set a tall torch ablaze, then another, and another, as the lady made her way round the ring. 

Was this a lady, or a dragon who had donned pale skin and a burgundy gown? The way she breathed fire so effortlessly…surely there had to be some match up her sleeve, a sleight of hand that struck flint and sparked the torches. Elain wished the fire act was longer, but it seemed that the circle of blazing torches had set the stage for the next performance.

***Feyre***

The hour had passed in a magical blur. Trapeze artists and acrobats had just finished swinging through the air like nimble monkeys on a vine. The audience—and Feyre included—had held its breath in fear as men and women in leotard tights leapt, somersaulted, and swooped through the air, with no net available to save them should they fall. 

Feyre had been tempted to shield her face, to avert her eyes so that she would not have to bear witness to a performer splattering on the ground like an egg. She was not immune to gripping Elain’s hand like a vice whenever an acrobat seemed to soar just shy of the catch bar. Waves of relief would soothe her fears when performers not only caught the bar, but also managed to swing back up and execute somersaults mid-air. 

Now, frightened gasps broke out in waves as a massive beast prowled onto the arena. Large as a horse, with a thick, shaggy brown body and a wolfish head, it had several ladies fainting on sight. What a strange creature! Like most things in Prythian’s Fantasia, it was unlike anything Feyre had ever encountered before. 

The beast circled around the arena with feline grace, allowing the crowd to view its full glory. Surely the attendees in the first few rows were regretting their decision to sit so close as they shrank back against their seats upon the beast’s fearsome approach. When it passed by Feyre, she could make out sharp black claws scraping the ground, as well as the massive teeth poking out from its maw. Elain trembled next to her. 

Crack! Amarantha strode onto the ring, armed with a whip and cool as a summer lemonade. The beast snarled, its emerald green eyes glowering viciously at the ringmaster. With a flick of Amarantha’s wrist, the beast sat on its haunches. 

The crowd murmured in awe at how a woman could control such a dangerous animal with a simple gesture. The ringmaster did not have to wield the whip when she ordered the beast to jump through the hoops and nimbly navigate the obstacle course. Upon her cue, he would even let out a hair-raising roar that kept the audience on its toes. 

While everybody else was preoccupied by the beast’s tricks, Feyre was busy studying its features. Working out how to replicate the ripple of muscle, the fine texture of the hair, and the strange proportions of its body on paper. While others found the beast frightening to look at—Elain, for example, was covering her eyes—Feyre thought the creature was fascinating.

The beast act was relatively short; the arena falling into darkness soon after. But Feyre did not fear the dark. Right now, she could see stagehands rushing to set up the ring for the next performance, thanks to perfect night vision. In fact, she’d spent countless hours manipulating shadows to shield herself from danger in London’s shady hovels. She’d even mastered darkness into something corporeal, strong enough to open a door or swipe money off the table. 

The power of the night was what Feyre called it, not wanting to ponder too much where her capabilities came from. 

Light flashed and thunder crackled like an avalanche, causing Feyre to jump out of her seat this time. And standing in the newly lit circus ring, amidst clouds of billowing violet smoke, was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. 

A magician, judging from the looks of his black top hat and his fitted black suit with silver threading. He gallantly bowed. And upon straightening his back, the man’s uniquely blue eyes seemed to pick her face out amongst the sea of people. His mouth quirked into a feline smile, sending an electric jolt down Feyre’s spine.

Feyre blushed, though she had no reason to. Everybody else was fixated on him. So why did he find it particularly satisfying that she was staring?

He could not be any older than thirty, but his expression seemed to carry the weight of a man who had lived countless lifetimes. The circus seemed to employ performers from all over the world, yet Feyre was most intrigued by this man’s origins. With his black hair carefully slicked back and his warm brown skin, it was clear this man was not English. 

The magician swept his top hat off his head, turning in a circle to show the audience its empty contents. Because out came a sizable hand-held mirror, a lush bouquet of roses, a broadsword, a silk blanket, and finally, a rush of pure gold coins pouring into a seemingly endless waterfall. 

The crowd clapped appreciatively as he placed the mirror, roses, and sword back into the hat. As for the pile of coins on the ground, the magician threw the silk blanket and waved his hands with flourish. Feyre watched the lumps under the cloth and the ground carefully, wondering if she could catch his sleight of hand. 

But when the magician plucked the silk blanket off the floor, the coins had completely disappeared. It was as if those objects had been squirreled away into a pocket between worlds. He tucked the blanket back into his hat with a smug smile.

“For my next set, I require a volunteer from the audience.” His voice was deep and sensual, with a slight rolling accent. 

Feyre’s hand shot up like lightning. Oh please, please, please, she begged silently. There were so many other volunteers in the audience, but this was her one chance to get closer to him. 

“Put your hand down,” Nesta hissed. The magician glanced towards her again, but to Feyre’s immense disappointment, he selected a young man and an older woman at random. 

After briefly allowing the volunteers to introduce themselves to the audience, the magician gave both a deck of cards. 

“Thank you for your participation. Please check the cards to ensure a complete deck, and affirm to the audience.” The magician smirked. “Wouldn’t want anybody to accuse me of foul play.” The deck must have been arranged by suit and number, for both volunteers affirmed loudly that the decks they held were regular playing cards.

“Now, both of you shall shuffle your cards, and then fan them out. Like so.” He adjusted the older woman’s cards by maneuvering her hands, causing Feyre to suddenly feel a pang of jealousy. The woman, old enough to be her mother, looked ready to swoon at the handsome magician’s gloved touch. 

Upon his instruction, the volunteers picked a card at random from each other’s deck. “Examine the card you’ve selected, and then show the audience. I shall close my eyes, of course.” The magician enunciated clearly as he strode around the volunteers slowly. 

The magician placed his hands behind his back and closed his eyes, patiently waiting for the volunteers to display their card. The man held a nine of spades, the lady held an ace of diamonds. 

“Excellent. You, sir, have selected a nine of spades. And you, madam, have selected an ace of diamonds.” Both of the volunteers’ eyes widened in shock, for the magician was several yards away and his eyes were still closed. The audience clapped appreciatively. 

“Before we can move onto the next act, we must set the cards free.” Confusion was written across the volunteers’ faces. The magician raised an eyebrow in response. “What, never had to release your playing cards? Well, all you have to do is toss them into the air.” 

Feeling somewhat foolish, the volunteers reluctantly cast their deck of cards into the air. In a blink of an eye, the numbers and suits fluttering to the ground were replaced by a small colony of brown bats, squeaking and flapping their wings as they took to greater heights. 

“Impossible,” Nesta said in disbelief as the audience roared with delight. “Those were a standard deck of playing cards! Bats?” Feyre watched the bats as they settled on the tightrope wires. From the way they hung upside down, still chittering, the bats were very real indeed. She could have sworn the magician was looking at her again, seconds before he turned to the volunteers. 

“Please step onto our magic carpet, so I may transport you to a delightful world.” He smoothly set out the silk blanket from his hat. “Fantastic. Close your eyes, and on the count of three, you may open them again. One…”

Shadowy mist began to appear out of thin air, roiling over the magic carpet. Feyre jolted up in her seat. 

“Two…” Feyre’s heart thundered in her chest, recognizing the unnatural movement of shadows. The magician had the same capabilities as her. 

“Three.” The volunteers opened their eyes and looked around them with a renewed expression of wonder. 

“Such lovely flowers,” the lady gushed. “Oh, the butterflies are magnificent! This grass…such a vibrant green and freshly trimmed…” She bent down and seemed to pick something up from the ground. 

Meanwhile, the man walked with a swaggering step, as if the ground was shifting underneath him. “Oh hoh, finally on the high seas!” he crowed. “Give me your looking glass, mate! We must search for treasure on the endless horizon!” 

Feyre was vaguely aware of the audience clapping and shouting more questions at the volunteers, who answered them happily. She barely registered the volunteers waking up and thanking the magician profusely for such a life-like illusion. Hell, the magician had continued to perform a slew of magical feats, each more impossible than the last, yet she could only sit stunned.

She was not naive to think magicians had actual powers. Parlor “tricks” followed a specific set of steps that, when coupled with proper showmanship, created the impression of magic. Perhaps the volunteers had been strategically placed actors, all in cahoots with him.

The whole night had been surreal, though. Feyre would have chalked it up to the thrill of going to a circus show until she recognized the magician’s shadow magic as her own. Oh, Prythian’s Fantasia definitely carried otherworldly power under the guise of pure talent. If the magician possessed such remarkable magic, then ringmaster Amarantha’s power was surely leagues above the performers. 

Realizing the rumors of Amarantha were legitimate was like striking gold in a riverbed. Feyre’s heart soared like the trapeze artists: hope existed for her mother, for her family!     

The magician had one last illusion up his sleeve: he threw a handful of glittering dust. Light dropped away to reveal the night sky above, as if the circus tent’s canopy had been lifted away. A multitude of stars twinkled in the backdrop of eternity, the moon’s crescent sliver an exact copy of the one that waited for circus goers outside. 

The night sky had always comforted Feyre, and despite all her efforts, she could not quite capture its magnificence on canvas. And now the magician had replicated it effortlessly.

The golden lights gradually returned, but the magic lingered in the air like a suspended cloud of stardust. A standing ovation, thunderous drumming of feet on the floor, cheers and whistles filled the air. Feyre didn’t want to leave just yet, but Nesta and Elain were urging her to move along.

It was raining again by the time the Archeron sisters found their family carriage, cold droplets splashing down onto Feyre’s shoulders. Their carriage was just as frigid, and Elain clung to Nesta for warmth. 

“That was such a delightful show!” Elain exclaimed. “Please send Isaac my thanks when you see him again, Feyre.” 

“Of course,” Feyre murmured as she peered out past the rivulets of water streaking down the window. The distorted lights of Prythian’s Fantasia grew more distant with each step the horses took. Once they faded from view, Feyre closed her eyes and smiled quietly at the thought of the magician’s charismatic eyes. Questions were lingering on the tip of her tongue, and she would see that they were answered.

✨

Tags: @velidewrites @reverie-tales @highladysith @shadowsxgwynriel @foxwithagoldeye @sunshinebingo @jealousveronya @corcracrow

[vulpes-fennec]

Prythian's Fantasia Masterlist

Summary: It’s 1889. Desperate to save her ailing mother’s life, Feyre strikes a bargain with ringmaster-witch doctor Amarantha. As the Archeron sisters join Prythian’s Fantasia and head for the World’s Fair in Paris, they begin to realize the circus’s magic runs far deeper than its enchanting nightly performances.

Read: AO3 || Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4

Moodboards/Gift Content (💖):

💖 Moodboard by @velidewrites

💖 Moodboard by @jealousveronya

[vulpes-fennec]

🎪🎪

Random fact #1: There will be SMUT

Random fact #2: There will be a Gwynriel side pairing

[vulpes-fennec]

New Fic Announcement: Prythian’s Fantasia

It’s 1889. Desperate to save her ailing mother’s life, Feyre strikes a bargain with ringmaster-witch doctor Amarantha. As the Archeron sisters join Prythian’s Fantasia and head for the World’s Fair in Paris, they begin to realize the circus’s magic runs far deeper than its enchanting nightly performances.

Hoping to post my first chapter next week!

Send a 🎪 into my ask for a random fic fact! (credit to @velidewrites for the fun idea ☺️)

[vulpes-fennec]

there is this song called wonderland by neoni and in my mind this is now the perfect song for Prythian's Fantasia 🎪

Ohh I just gave it a listen and I love it!! Adding it to my fic playlist for writing inspo ☺️ thank you so much!