#ft. my own personal Feelings about etienne

[words-writ-in-starlight]

FIC PROMPTS. YOU KNOW THE THING. ÉTIENNE CHASING CHELSEA AROUND THE WORLD, AND ALL THE DESPERATE MEETINGS ALONG THE WAY. OR ANYTHING WITH CHELSEA, AT ALL.

I BET YOU THOUGHT I FORGOT ABOUT THIS ASK! THINK AGAIN MOTHERFUCKERS, I COME WITH CHELSEA ANGST!

over hill, over dale, over valley and vale

There’s a lot to be said for living inFairyland, in Chelsea’s opinion.  DukeTorquill is very nice—partly, she suspects, because he views all of Sir Daye’sstrays as a sort of motley crew of grandchildren—even if his wife is strangeand distant even in her kindness.  Pixiesare a vastly more interesting pest than mice, the Hobs in the kitchen are alltoo game to allow or even encourageChelsea to steal snacks whenever she’s interested, and for the first time inher life, Chelsea has friends near her own age. Quentin, and through Quentin Raj, and Karen, and sometimes evenCassandra or Helen.  Not many friends,and spread across seven or eight years in age, but there are nights whenChelsea feels almost dizzy with the embarrassment of riches.

Then there are days like this one, whereChelsea wishes Fairyland had left her well alone until the day she died ahappily ignorant human death.

Chelsea sucked in a breath and it tasted like fire, and ittasted like smoke, and it tasted like screaming, and then—yes, God, yes, thank you, a doorout of this hell, she knew where it would take her, it would take her toSeattle—

She stumbled into ice and snow, and there was a voice shoutingfor her to listen, for her to breathe, just for a moment, and then—

The stars overhead were unfamiliar, and there was an invisiblefist around her spine, around her heart, holding her in place, and her skin wasbeing sanded away to reveal something new and strange, and there was still somuch screaming—anything to be out of this place where everything hurt and shewas a prisoner, anything, anywhere would be better, anywhere but—

There was a man with green eyes and a startled expression, andthen there was fire, and then—

Chelsea’s eyes snap open, and sheflinches back so hard her head cracks into the stone wall.  Her hands fly out, trying to ward off theflames, grabbing for the intangible somethingthat makes up the world, but—

Hands lowering slowly, Chelsea blinks,gulping in a vast breath, then another, and another, as she feels her heartrace.  Right.  Of course. She’s at Shadowed Hills, the dim shapes around her focusing into herroom as her eyes remember what seeing feels like.  There are her books, and her desk, and herwardrobe.

There’s no glittering door in front ofher.

It’s a good thing.  It’s safety. It’s the surest sign in the world she’ll never be swept away again.

It makes Chelsea’s gut twist up with fearuntil she’s sure she’s about to be sick.

Chelsea pulls her legs up to her chestand wraps both arms tight around them, like a little kid afraid of thedark.  Chelsea had never been afraid ofthe dark—even as a child, she had been able to see through the dim,light-polluted Berkley night with ease, and it had felt safe and comforting,nothing like the punishing whipcrack of sunrise.  She thinks she might be learning to be afraidnow, despite her fine new night vision.

At very least, her time in Duchess Riordan’scare taught her well and truly to be afraid of being alone.

“I want my dad,” she whispers into herknees.

It’s a strange impulse.  Her dad—Etienne—is still nearly astranger.  She doesn’t know him, notreally.  He’s a knight, for God’s sake, he fights with a sword.  But—

But she also knows him better than she’sever known anyone, because the first time she met him, he caught her shakingshoulders in his hands and said that he would never leave her again, and shehad looked into his eyes and known hewas telling the truth.

It went like this.

Chelsea was sure she was going to die,alone in a strange world, surrounded by people who didn’t even care enough tohate her.  She wonders, now, if SirDaye—Toby, which Chelsea is still adjusting to—knows how utterly fortunate sheis, that most of her enemies hate herwith every fiber of her being.  It wasterrifying, gut-wrenching, to know that she was going to die, her body left onthe heather or thrown over the cliffs, and no one who cared would ever know,and no one who knew would ever care, except that their crowbar to pry open thewalls of the world had finally given out.

And worse than that, she was going to diein pain, because the blinding painthat had started in her head was lancing down her neck, burning along hernerves like it was trying to chew through her bones.  The longer she held open the gate, the moreit hurt—and she couldn’t do anything else, she couldn’t, because there was an unbreakable grip around her spineand she couldn’t run, couldn’t fight, couldn’t do anything but try to standhere and not die.

When the fight started, she could barelysee past the white-static haze drifting over her vision, popping here and therewith black starbursts.  There wasscreaming, barely distinguishable from the noise in Chelsea’s ears.  It had started as a pitchy hum, then aringing, and now it was as if she was standing in a high wind, just an endlessroaring that ebbed every once in a while to remind her that her heart reallywas beating that fast.

Someone was rushing toward her.  Fine. Chelsea couldn’t see, couldn’t move, just gasped out a wheezing, sobbingbreath and tried to straighten under the weight of the pain.  The gate, the gate, she had to hold up thegate—

“Chelsea!”

That was what had finally gotten herattention, brought her back into her body from the elsewhere she had started todrift toward.  If Riordan knew her name,Chelsea had never seen any evidence of that fact.  The only people who had shouted her name werethe other changeling, and the man with her, and this was neither of them.

Turning her head hurt more than anythingelse Chelsea had ever done.

There was a man moving toward her, movingfast, and he looked like he’d been beaten to hell and back but he bulledthrough one of the invisible soldiers without so much as a pause.

“Chelsea!” he repeated, more sharply, andthen he was in front of her.  He wastall, and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and sharply pointed ears and eyes asbright as freshly minted pennies. “Chelsea, breathe,” he said. There was a strange accent clinging to his deep voice, but his wordswere kind, and he caught her shoulder when she wavered on her feet.

“Who—are—you,” Chelsea forced out, oneword at a time, and his face twisted into something between grief and blind,homicidal rage.

“My name is Etienne,” he said, and oh,then his hands were brushing her hair out of her face, careful and unsure, butthe touch left a small path of painlessness, for a brief moment.  “I’m—I’m your father.”

“It hurts,” Chelsea gasped, feeling tearsgather in her eyes again.  The ragesettled more fully onto his face.  “It—Ithurts.”

“I know it does, Chelsea,” the man—her father—said.  “I’m going to help you hold open thegate.  Just look at me.  You’re doing wonderfully.”

“I don’t want to keep it open anymore,”she said, tipping over fully into crying. “It hurts, I—I don’t want to die, I don’t--”

“You are not going to die,” her father said fiercely, cupping her face inhis hands and catching her eyes with his own. Her eyes, his eyes.  It was funny,to a hysterical part of Chelsea’s brain, but laughing was one too many thingsto consider doing right now.  “I am goingto get you out of this, Chelsea.  Youhave my word.”

“Please don’t leave me,” Chelsea begged,and she knew she was begging, and she didn’t care, because fuck, at least if he stayed, she wouldn’t die alone.  “Please, please, I can’t—I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.”  Her father was still cradling her face inboth hands, and he looked every inch the knight of the Fair Folk, even throughthe bruises and blood—wild, and terrible, and honest.  “Chelsea, you can do this.  I am going to get you out of this, but weneed that gate back to the mortal world to do it.  Chelsea—Chelsea, look at me, open your eyes.”

Were they closed?  Chelsea forced them open, and it took far toolong for his face to resolve.  All shecould see was his eyes, bright as copper, and vicious with determination.

“Listen to me, Chelsea,” he said, wipingthe tears from her face with his thumbs. “I am so sorry, that I wasn’t there for you.  We should have had all these years together,and we didn’t, and I’m sorry.  But I giveyou my word, on oak and ash and thornand rowan and anything else you want me to swear on, that I am not leaving younow.  Do you believe me?”

And God save her—oak and ash and thornand rowan save her—she did.

“Yes,” she whispered.  Her voice sounded like a child’s when shespoke again.  “Daddy?  What do I do?”

“You breathe,” he said, sounding close totears himself.  “And you look at me.”

And he had somehow, through some miracleof magic she didn’t think even Etienne could explain, talked her throughkeeping the gate open, even when her legs tried to fold up under her and shestopped being able to speak through the pain. He had held her up, keeping his voice steady, and she had clung to himas best she could without losing her grasp on the gate, and then when she hadbeen snatched away again—

She knows now what it had cost Etienne tofollow her, to chase her through cities and countries and realms when, at hisstrongest, he found it tiring to go from Shadowed Hills to Toby’s house.  The magic burn had been brutal, powerdampeners or not.  But he had stayed onher heels every step of the way, he had stayed on his feet when she wascollapsing, he had held her hand when they were close enough and hugged her closein the Snow Kingdoms and told her where they were.  Within an hour, he had gone from a strangerto her dad, the man who would doanything in the world to keep her safe.

So maybe it makes sense, now, thatChelsea wants him.

Her mom—her mom is wonderful.  Bridget Ames loves her daughter witheverything she has and more than a few things she doesn’t, and Chelsea knowsthis.

Her mom also didn’t understand why herbeautiful baby girl screamed and sobbed every day at dawn, and even if sheknows the reason now, she’ll never understand.  Her mom would do anything for her, but shecould never have hung onto Chelsea’s hand and panted out “Welcome toTir-na-Nog,” just so that Chelsea wouldn’t be lost anymore.

But she’s seventeen damn years old, goingon eternity, and she’s going to take some deep breaths and get herself undercontrol rather than running to her parents.

The shaking has started to ease out of herhands, finally, when her door opens—just a crack.

If it was at home—if Chelsea was how shewas, at her old home—she wouldn’t have been able to make out the face of theperson standing there in this darkness. The Summerlands might be comparable to light-polluted California intheir perpetual twilight, but any room meant for sleeping is dark, heavy curtains or else no windowsat all, and Chelsea’s is the same.  Now,though, she blinks away the last haze clinging to her lashes and whispers,“Daddy?”

“I—I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says,like he’s been caught doing something wrong. “I only—Chelsea, are you all right?”

And she doesn’t know what gave her away,if he can see the salt tracks on her cheeks or hear the faint rasp in hervoice, or maybe he just knows, butit’s the middle of the day and she can’t lie to him.

“Can I have a hug?” Chelsea breathes, andshe knows she sounds like a child afraid of the dark and doesn’t care.

Chelsea doesn’t care because there’s abeat where Etienne seems taken off-guard, but then he says, “Of course.”  And he crosses the room in a handful of quicksteps to hesitate, just for a fraction of a second, next to her bed before hevisibly steels himself and settles down next to her to pull her into a hug, andhe’s nervous and unsure of his welcome, just like he was when he brushed herhair from her face, but his arms are strong and he holds onto her like she’sthe most precious thing he’s ever touched. Chelsea presses her face into his shoulder without thinking twice,wrapping her arms around his neck and breathing in the faint scent of cedarthat clings to him even though he hasn’t had his magic in weeks, and herfather’s grip goes from cautious to firm the moment he’s sure of what shewants, and it’s—

Chelsea finds herself bursting into tearsagain without really knowing why.

Etienne makes a faint noise, like he’s ata loss for what to do, but he’s a damn knight,her father, and he knows how to rally and come through when he’s needed.  He comforts differently from her mother—doesn’trub her back or rock back and forth, just holds her tight with one arm and strokesher hair with the other hand, tucking her head under his jaw while she burrowsinto his shoulder.  He doesn’t sayanything, either, and somehow it’s perfect.

She’s heard stories of the Fair Folk allher life, but none of them ever mentioned how brutally hard Faerie took change.  She’salways been fae enough for that.  

She doesn’t know how to explain why she’scrying, can’t put her fingers on the words to say why she’s shaking apart half-wayinto her father’s lap, it’s all too much and too strange and some deep part ofher that’s woken up lately clings pettily to the way things used to be andmutters that change is for mortals.  And her father, Etienne who kept ShadowedHills standing when the Duke went mad with change,doesn’t ask her to explain, just holds her and strokes her hair and waits forher to cry herself out.

It takes a while.  When Chelsea’s tears finally ebb until she’snot shuddering anymore, she realizes that he’s humming, something sweet and alittle sad in the back of his throat. Not a lullaby, but maybe a ballad.  And she keeps her head pressed against hisshoulder, tucks her face into the curve of his throat, and lets the sound of itresonate into her bones while she breathes through the last of the tears.

“Sorry,” Chelsea whispers into her father’sshoulder.

“It’s quite all right,” Etienne says,loosening his grip on her slightly to let her sit away from him.  Then he cups her face in his hands, like hedid in Annwn, and wipes away her tears with his thumbs, looking into her eyeswith a worried expression.  In the dimlight spilling in through the hallway, his eyes are too shadowed to show thebright penny-copper, but he can probably see it in hers.  “Are you well, Chelsea?  Did you have a nightmare?”

Chelsea nods, and self-consciousness isstarting to set in, at last, because this might be her father, her Daddy, buthe was also a perfect stranger two months ago. Two months ago, he’d probably never let a teenager sob all over him inhis life.  

“I didn’t mean to—sorry,” she says again,weakly, reaching up between Etienne’s hands to rub at her eyes.  He lets go of her at once, to give her thespace to collect herself, and Chelsea wishes idly that she wasn’t such ablotchy crier.  Her mother cries with thecollected elegance of a princess. Chelsea’s face flushes red in patches and her eyes go bloodshot and shealways manages to look hopelessly frazzled. Being a pureblood just means it doesn’t last as long as it used to.

Etienne’s frown deepens, minutely.  “Don’t be. What was your nightmare about?”

“Fire,” Chelsea says, and her voicewavers.  She clears her throat and saysagain, more steadily, “Fire.  And someother places.”

Etienne reaches out, hesitant, and tucksa wayward lock of hair back from her face, and says, “Do you want something hotto drink?”

The question is so—not what Chelsea expected that she blinks at him for a moment.  “Something hot to drink?” she echoes, blank.

He smiles faintly.  “Yes. I used to drink tea when I had nightmares as a child.  Do you want something hot to drink?”  She blinks at him one or two more times forgood measure, against the gritty feeling of having cried too hard for too long,and Etienne adds, “I’m sure that someone is awake in the kitchen, and if not, Iknow where everything is.  You like hotchocolate.”

He says the last somewhere between aquestion and a statement.  Like he knowsit’s the truth but isn’t sure he’s allowedto know it.

“I—look like a mess,” Chelsea says.  “I always look like a mess after I cry.”

Etienne’s smile widens a little, takingon some of that wondering edge she’s getting used to seeing on him.  “You get that from me, I’m afraid.”

“You are not an ugly crier.”

“You would lose that bet, my love,” hesays dryly, and stands up from her bed.  Thenhe holds out a hand to her, and—

Her father’s hand is warm and Chelseafeels like a kid, standing up next to him. They’re almost of a height—Chelsea is probably due a few more inches,which will put them dead even—but she’s in pajama pants with little frogs onthem and he’s still wearing livery, fine fae cloth that looks expensive evenafter she wept all over it.  The stone iscold on her feet before she steps into her slippers.  It’s a strange, out-of-place sense memory, ofbeing a little girl holding her mother’s hand after a bad dream, but it’sfamiliar and safe and soothing.

Etienne has callouses on his palm thatcan’t be from anything but a sword, but the strong, sure grip on her hand as heleads her down the hall hits that same sense memory.  Chelsea relaxes into it, more easily than shewould have dreamed, into this feeling of being a kid shuffling after her parentand trying not to yawn every time she’s faced with a bright light.  Few people are awake at this hour, and thosethat are mostly consist of Etienne’s knights, who smile at her a littleindulgently and give him a polite nod, and then they’re at the kitchen, andEtienne is placing Chelsea on a stool while he boils water in a saucepan.

He doesn’t talk while he does it, andChelsea doesn’t ask any questions.  She’stoo busy watching the apparently intricate process of making hot chocolate on astove.  It makes some intuitive sense,she guesses.  Etienne’s exact age is somethingshe’ll have to ask about someday, but he probably predates Swiss Miss hot cocoapackets and definitely predates the microwave.  He can use one—Chelsea saw him with her own eyes,at Tamed Lightning—but apparently for the time being he prefers to meltchocolate into milk the old-fashioned way. There’s a lot more stirring and careful heat management than Chelsea isused to, when it comes to making anything short of a meal.

God, can Etienne cook?  He seems reasonably confident, adding a bitof cinnamon and something else that smells strange and exotic to the chocolate,but Chelsea has literally never seen him make anything more complicated thancoffee.  The Hobs that usually populatethe kitchen are happy to feed anyone who comes through, but, as a rule, aren’tcharitable to strangers cooking in their space. Etienne is lucky there aren’t any here, or they definitely would havechased him off before he could even turn on the stove.

Chelsea is so absorbed in watching thehypnotic swirl of the hot chocolate that it startles her, when Etienne liftsthe saucepan away and neatly pours some into a mug.

“It’s been a while since I made hot chocolate,”he says, with that trace of rueful humor Chelsea has started to recognize.  He sets the blue mug on the table in front ofher stool and it smells sweetly of chocolate and spices, cinnamon and thatother darker spice she can’t quite put her finger on.  The porcelain isn’t quite hot enough to burnwhen she wraps her hands around it.  “Butthe principle is still simple enough.”

“Just like riding a bike,” she says,staring at the hot chocolate like she’s expecting it to disappear.  Etienne makes a noise that she’s starting toknow as his I understood that human idiombut you’ll never make me admit it noise, and she smiles down at her mug.  “Daddy,” she says.  “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Etienne says quietly.

Chelsea takes a sip of the hot chocolateand it’s—fucking incredible, actually. Chelsea’s always had a sweet tooth, the kind of kid who stole sugarpackets when her mother’s back was turned, and the hot chocolate is so thickand sweet that it washes away the sour taste of tears with a single swallow.  When she lowers the cup, she realizes thatEtienne has the remainder of the hot chocolate in a smaller mug, his hippropped against the counter next to her, not quite selling casual but very nearly hitting the mark on comfortable.

“You were there in my dream,” she says,before she can talk herself out of it. Etienne looks up at her, over the edge of his cup.  “I fell through the Snow Kingdoms, and Icould hear your voice.  You were tellingme to breathe, and that it would be okay.”

It seems to take Etienne so off-guardthat he’s left fumbling for words.  Inthe warm golden light of the kitchen, his eyes are so bright they lookpolished, and when he blinks quickly, twice, something glitters for a moment onhis lashes before he rallies, taking another sip of his hot chocolate as if tofortify himself.

“Chelsea,” he says, voice still quiet, asif they’re still in her room.  “I—I hopeyou know that I did not mean to leave you, as a baby.  I would have given anything, to be able tospend those years with you, and your mother. You are—you are the greatest gift I could ever have dreamed of, and nowthat I have the option, I intend to do everything in my power to be at yourside for as long as you want me there. For the rest of your life, if you wish.”

“For the rest of forever?” Chelsea asks,and her voice sounds thin and wistful. Forever might be her birthright, now, as a pureblood, but it’s a longtime to the girl who grew up half human.

“Until the last oak and ash crumble, andthe rowan and thorn never grow again,” Etienne swears, and he sounds so seriousthat she thinks it must be a vow. Chelsea nods, and takes a few more long swallows of her hot chocolate.

“This is really good, Daddy,” shemurmurs.  “What did you put in it?”

“Cloves,” Etienne says immediately.  “I’m afraid my culinary talents are—limited,but no one ever accused me of being inept with spices.  I could--” He pauses, and then bulls on like a good knight.  “I could teach you how to make it someday, ifyou’d like.”

“Yeah,”Chelsea says.  “Yeah, I’d love that.”