#how long will it take Lucien to wonder why his protective instincts are in overdrive?

[flowerflamestars]

Petals and Rain

Elucien, Post ACOTAR & Pre ACOMAF, Part One here

His hair was the color of old blood when wet- she couldn’t look away from the muted vibrancy, the water he didn’t even seem to notice racing down his bright skin. In the daytime dark of the storm, his remaining eye gleamed like a predators, the lack of light destroying any pleasantry that might mute how otherworldly he was.  To Elain’s eyes, Lucien was a creature of the forest. The beautiful clothes, the fine knives, the articulate speech- seeing him like this made it very clear those were things he would take on and off, as easily as she might change dresses. Not human, not human, her rapid pulse seemed to be saying. Soaked to the bone, she could see every defined muscle, even the faint shine of immortal skin, through the wreckage of his fine lawn shirt. Beautiful, her brain answered her heart, more beautiful than anything she’d ever seen.  “Elain,” Lucien said again, his voice rougher than she’d ever heard. “Tell me you’re alright.”  Of course she was alright- was her blush so hard he thought she were ill? That would be just her luck, to go along with her inability to speak properly at the sight of him. Before Elain could open her mouth, before she could even try to speak, he’d gripped her shoulders.  Not hard, so gentle, the way Elain touched flower blossoms. She was frozen, entranced as he traced her arms, his soaked sleeves leaving trails of water on her skin. Finally, he came to her hands and flipped them, palm up, searching. She wondered if his golden eye was magic, if that was the force that held her pinned in place. Or if it was simply the electricity of his skin on hers, the spark she’d never felt before.  “You’ve okay,” He breathed, like a prayer.  That, finally, broke her spell. “Of course I am,” she said, making her voice bright. “But you’re not, you must be frozen.” He didn’t respond at all when she pulled on his hands, tried to bring him deeper into the room. Lucien was as otherworldly still as he’d been the day she found him in her garden, still in that way human bodies weren’t strong enough to become.  “You’re okay.” He repeated, at normal volume now, voice still rough. “But you used the acorn.”  The tiny golden perfect acorn, always warm to the touch. Magic, Elain, assumed. She’d found it tucked in her garden with a note the day after she’d seen him last. Careful instructions in what she had to assume was his own hand, telling her that is she ever needed him, all she needed to do was twist the top three times and speak his name.  She’d hidden it away among her ribbons for a full month before giving into the curiosity to use it, giving into the pull of wanting to see him again. The magic had tingled her hand, made the air smell strange and smoky. Elain had no idea if it had actually worked, until he’d strode in from the storm.  She fought the urge to squirm under his gaze, instead fixing her eyes on the growing puddle his long hair was leaving on her floor.  “I wanted to continue our acquaintance,” Elain said, feeling more human and more ridiculous by the moment, “I’m alone here again, it seemed like a good time to invite you to tea.”  Finally she met his eyes, both gold and russet were steady on her, unblinking. The attention should have been terrifying, but it only made her curious. What could he see that she couldn’t? Why did he use to magic to call over distances but not to keep dry?  Lucien began to smile, stillness slowly melting away. “You wanted to see me?” He inclined his head, long hair falling forward, “then I am at your service, my lady.”  All at once he seemed to notice he was still holding her hands, that the courteous motion had sent more rainwater over them both from his sodden hair. He was gentle with her hands, but the motion of him snapping back was too fast for her eyes to follow. “Apologies,” Lucien began, “I wasn’t paying attention to the storm.”  What had he been paying attention to then? He was soaked through, his skin icy to the touch.  “I’ll get you a towel,” Elain replied, brushing away his apology. She smoothed her skirt, righted her posture. “And a shirt, maybe?” The step back he’d taken helped her not at all, giving her a more complete view of the fine cloth stuck to his skin with water. Elain could see the hair on his stomach, the defined divots of his abdominal muscles that made her throat go dry. “Be right back!” She sang, fluttering her way to the door.  Elain had grown up seeing the men coming in from the fields in summer. Their skin tanned deep, muscles built from hard work shining with sweat. She could remember seeing the young dandies and noble sons learning to fight, strong in their finery. She understood perfectly well attraction, how easy it was to bury in manners and sweet charm, so that no one noticed if she looked too long.  It was like comparing a campfire to the sun.  She bustled off to find a towel, thankful she’d thought to dismiss the maids before she’d tried the acorn. Gifted them paid time off, sent them merrily on their way on the off chance that the magic would have visible effects.  So there was no one to charm, no one to ask question as she slipped into the scullery and plucked up a clean shirt belonging to a house guard. It was cotton, nothing so lovely as the lawn fabric sticking to Lucien’s skin at this exact moment, but she couldn’t think of anything else that would fit him. As it was, Elain suspected the breadth of his shoulders would be a challenge.  Necessities clutched in her hands, she gave herself a moment to lean against the wall and breathe.  Beauty was a faery weapon, she’d always been told that. To ensnare and entrance, to spell human victims happily into their doom. But she’d also always been told faeries couldn’t touch pure gold, or iron. That the wall really kept them out. If none of the stories were true, what was she supposed to do with how beautiful Lucien was? How his savage loveliness stalking in from the storm like a nightmare hadn’t lit her pulse with fear, but with longing?  No, Elain thought. No. She squared her shoulders. She was going to give him a fresh shirt and go make that spicy, dark hot chocolate Nesta had bought her. She’d serve it in blossom china cups, some brightness on the stormy day. Croissants for refreshment, spring water to cut the sweetness.  She’d find out more about her sister’s life over the wall, if she’d found her love after all. She’d learn more about magic if she could get Lucien to tell her. A friend- she could cultivate a faery friend. A source of knowledge, a tangible, precious connection to Feyre, and strangely good company.  It would be perfectly fine. — Lucien needed to take a damn breath.  Why had he panicked? He’d been alone when the summons reached him, for once having a quiet moment where he didn’t need to mollify Tamlin or hide from Inathe. Elain’s voice had echoed in his head like a bell, the call scaring him down to his bones. He’d assumed she was in trouble, armed himself and winnowed straight to the Wall without another thought.  He couldn’t really feel the cold, the frozen day and vicious storm once he crossed out of the artificial bubble of Spring Court magic. It had only deepened his panic, his rage. That someone had come for Elain on a day like this- humans couldn’t even be out in weather like this for long. He couldn’t stop seeing it- her cold, afraid, bloody.  If they were Fae, he was going to remind them why he’d been thought to be a contender for his father’s throne, even long after his banishment. If they were human, he was going to take them deep into the forest, far from Elain’s beautiful eyes, and feed them to the monsters on the other side of the Wall.  The magic in his veins was burning hotter than it had in decades, heat so close to the surface half a thought would have turned the rain on his skin to steam, to mist.  This beautiful, confounding, human girl- she’d spoken his name and relit the fire he’d nearly forgotten, hadn’t burned and set free in longer than he could remember.  And then- and then she’d been fine. Perfectly okay, brown eyes wide with confusion, still as terror beneath his hands. He’d scared her, that much was obvious. Brave as she was, Elain hadn’t shied from his touch, from his words, but she’d been unable to look at him for much of their conversation.  Lucien had never been more aware of how different faery reactions might be. In the land of his youth, in his viper filled current home, a knife in one hand and magic wreathing the other was tame, understandable. To Elain, he might as well have been the face of a horror story, a monster coming in from the rain.  When Elain returned, that startled flush was still on her cheeks, but her eyes were bright and clear. She took his sodden coat from his hands without any reaction, turning from him to reach over her head, to hang it on a metal hook clearly intended for a flower pot. It dripped steadily down onto a basin of potted flowers.  With a polite smile, lacking the dimples he saw when he was trying to sleep, Elain passed him a thick towel and a soft shirt. She inclined her head to the door, “I’ll give you a moment.”  Before he could summon a reply she was gone again, the only sound the rain on the glass walls. Cauldron boil him, had he scared her that badly? He’d been forging deals and playing courtier to immortals for longer than she’d been alive, surely he could figure out how to talk to her? To speak to this one beautiful, brilliant girl. Who’d wanted to see him, for no reason but his company, after all. Surely he could make this right.  Thinking hard about what he knew of her, Lucien dried and braided away his hair. Remembering her shiver as she’d opened the door he sent just a whisper of his magic into the air, warming the room until the plants smelled like joy again, until it was a temperature he thought would make her comfortable.  He was wringing out his shirt over a potted palm when the door opened. Her merry mask and quick dancing steps stopped dead when she saw him, the motion so abrupt china cups on the tray she carried slid, threatening to fall. Like an idiot, like a youth with no control, Lucien flashed to right in front of her, catching a teacup in each nimble hand.  He’d moved faster than mortal eyes could track, had to bite down a vicious curse at her horrified eyes, her scarlet face.  So close to her, Elain breathing hard, her heart racing, the air was filled with the scent of honeysuckle. Embers and crisp sweet flowers. She smelled like- she smelled like longing, like warm darkness to fall into.  But she was blinking those wide eyes at him, confused. Lucien realized he’d been stopped in front of her for minutes, uncounted heartbeats, breathing in the smell of her skin.  Gods and hells and immortal honey, what was wrong with him?  Carefully, slowly, to keep from startling her all over again, Lucien placed the cups back on her tray. He fought the urge to clear his throat in the growing silence, instead striding away at careful mortal speed to pull on the shirt she’d given him, to get some damned control over himself.  When he turned again, courtiers smile on his face, Elain had set down the tray and arranged the low table they’d sat at before. Primly, she waited for him to sit to pour, the only sound rain pounding down.  Lucien wanted to close his eyes as the steam drifted to him. Warm cinnamon, the bite of something spicy, and chocolate-deep and rich as love. He’d not had hot chocolate since he’d left Autumn. In the Winter court is was too rich, too filled with vanilla and cream. But this, Lucien was sure, would taste like pure warmth on his tongue.  He became very focused on the pink flower motif of the cups. Was there no part of Elain Acheron that didn’t disarm him?  She was the one to break the awkwardness. “Do the markings on your back mean something?” Her tone was light, bright as charm. “Tattoo’s are very rare on this side of the Wall.”  It was an idle question, he was very sure. Bramble and hawthorne, rowan and oak. Lucien had carried their leaves stark on his skin for so long he sometimes forgot they were there, his home in ink. From behind, he might still be a son of the forest, wild as the hunt. It was only when he saw his own face that the toll the world had took became clear; the monstrous scars, the magic eye, the false smile.  Honesty, Lucien realized. With this one mortal girl, who was so stupidly brave, unflinching even when she feared him, he could be honest. Elain had sought him out, after all. He’d try hard to charm her, to make her feel comfortable, but what did he gain from lying?  It was all he did in Spring, in his work and life. She’d been audacious enough to try to poison him, perhaps he could learn from her boldness. “I wasn’t born in Spring,” he told her, meeting curious brown eyes. “I am,” The words didn’t want to come out, “I am the son of the Lady of Autumn. I can’t return home, but those are the plants we hold sacred. From the stories of my childhood.”  “They’re very beautiful,” Elain said, riotous curls snagging on the embroidery of her gown as she shivered, the motion involuntary.  “You’re still cold,” Lucien murmured. Slowly, unwilling to make another mistake in front of her, he raised the temperature of the room.  “No, I’m perfectly”- her polite protest cut off as she felt the spring warm air. “Are you doing that?”  Lucien merely inclined his head. There, she didn’t sound afraid.  Elain set down her cup with a gentle clink and drew up her legs, tucking them to the side, under her skirt. She was looking at the empty air, hand drawn to her full lips like wonder. When she turned her eyes back to him, it finally the face of the girl who’d hit him with a shovel. “Does all magic smell like fire? The acorn did too, when I called to you.”  Lucien almost choked on the chocolate he was finally letting himself drink, cinnamon smothering him. “No,” he replied, too quickly. How could she smell that? Surely human senses weren’t all that sharp? “You’re smelling me, I suppose.” Lucien tried to keep his voice detached, but he was certainly throwing her mortal conventions all to hell again. Gods. “Much of my magic is fire, you’re probably just sensing that I made it.”  “You made the acorn?” Elain asked, tone something he couldn’t read, eyes thoughtful.  He nodded, looking past her to a lemon tree, letting the smell anchor him. No lie would pass his lips with this girl. It felt wrong, impossible. “I had to learn to work metal,” he gestured to his face, mouth twisting ruefully, “to keep the eye working right.”  “Do you know,” she replied, “that human stories say faeries can’t touch gold? Any pure metals?”  Luciens laugh surprised him, wrung from his chest. She smiled in return, heart-stoppingly beautiful. He was so glad to not have her pity, to not sense a bit of sadness in the air.  It was odd, to look at her and see the features she shared with Feyre so clearly. But they were so different- both brave to a fault, but when Lucien looked at Elain he felt nothing of Feyre, glimpsed nothing of the singularly gentle sister she’d portrayed.  Were Elain fae, Lucien was sure she’d have been brilliant opponent. With centuries, that charm and curiosity would only grow more lethal. It twisted his long dead heart.But he smiled instead. “High fae love finery more than you can imagine.”  Shockingly, her smile grew even brighter, cheeks dimpling. “I can perhaps imagine.” Elain tilted her head to the right, indicating a sturdy cabinet he’d have imagined was full of gardening tools. “Your weapons are in there.”  Her laughing tone made him feel awkward, the ache of it more foreign than the sound of her slow human heartbeat. Lucien didn’t know what to do with his hands now that his cup was empty, found himself smoothing back his hair. He was too tall for her silk divan, legs trapped up against the delicate wrought iron table. “The Spring Court values ornamentation,” he told her, voice stiff to his own ears.  Like crackling embers, like roses opening, Elain laughed.  The sound was relief enough that he rose, strode to open the cabinet she’d indicated. There it all was- his gold bracketed bow, his horn quiver, the veritable pile of jeweled daggers she’d wrapped in soft cloth. It was ridiculous, but carrying his allegiance openly had been important in the last century.  Frippery, the truest part of his mind answered. But he strapped on the bow, the quiver. Slid the long knives into his boots. But it was on the smallest daggers that Lucien paused.  He was already armed to the teeth, had come to Elain’s call with his own practical steel and fire as defense. The daggers were beautiful- carved emerald leaves climbing the hilts, cross guards the shape of rosebuds. Despite the decoration, they were well made, light by any standard.  Lucien turned back to Elain. She was watching him, eyes dark and steady. Too tall, too large for this room, looming over her, Lucien knelt at her side. Even on the ground he found their eyes were nearly level.  “Perhaps,” he began, holding out the smallest of knives piled in his hands, “You might keep these yourself.” Let this brave girl have even the smallest protection, let him actually be useful to her in some real way. The fear of earlier in the day rose in him all at once, the horror of her meeting faery violence.  With a single pale, freckled hand, Elain traced an emerald leaf and met his eyes head on. “How do I hold one?” Her voice was quiet, almost lost beneath the rain. — Fire magic, Elain was thinking. Did that mean all faeries looked like that? Like whatever element they wielded lived under their skin?  He’d caught her staring again, but he didn’t seem offended in the least. Who knew what faery manners were anyway? She felt a little giddy with it, the calm she’d forced on herself evaporated from the instant she’d walked in and found him half dressed.  Did her sisters Spring lord have eyes that bloomed? Lucien’s burned.  It was a mad thought, made madder still when he knelt beside her. Her faery friend, Elain reminded herself. For Feyre, for her own curiosity. Even for Lucien himself, maybe, for the protection he seemed to want to offer her.  “Perhaps,” he said, voice deep and smooth, “You might keep these yourself.” There were endless stories about the fell things that happened to humans who accepted faeries gifts. Who’d let themselves become trapped, lost years or souls because of the temptation of faery food, faery riches. Faeries torment, she’d been told, they give you what you want only to take it away and demand twice as much from you. Faery bargains were binding and deadly. But deep down, somehow, Elain was completely sure Lucien offered her no harm.

“How do I hold one?” She asked, touching the shocking gemstones, real and perfect. She’d hustled them to the cabinets out here at dawn one day, wrapped them in cloth to stop looking at the incredible finery of them.  The curiosity had tangled inside her. Humans got emeralds from a far northern continent, they were worth more to a merchant than their weight in gold, in diamonds. Were faeries simply richer with their centuries to accumulate whatever they prized, or was trade completely different over the Wall?  “Here,” Lucien said, carelessly dumping the pile of daggers beside her chair before plucking up one of the smallest. He held it out to her, balanced across his palm. Gentle, he rearranged her grip on the pommel, pressed her fingers to the steel, warm from his skin. Elain made an abbreviated slashing motion that brought a crack of laughter from Lucien’s mouth. “Perfect,” he said, approvingly. “Keep your wrist steady and you’ll do a lot more damage than with a shovel.”  Were all faeries this charming?  “You mean I shouldn’t just invite them to tea and feed the them the burnt remains of ash trees?” She’d said it before she could stop herself, discourteous and sharp. Elain could feel herself blushing again.  “I’m sure they’d take anything you gave them,” Lucien said, eyes serious as his voice danced. “But stabbing and running might be more practical. You have the element of surprise.”  It was impossible not to smile at that. Elain straightened back up, squared her posture back to formality. But whatever she’d been about to grasp for, to say, was stopped by Lucien wrapping his hand over hers again.

Not to correct her grip, but holding on, soft and warm. “I would be honored if you kept them near you,” he said, voice a more serious thing.  Helplessly, she nodded back, his skin deeper than gold next to hers.  Lucien inclined his head in return, elegant as any lord. He rose, taller than any man she knew, and plucked the coat she’d hung from the wall. While she watched, it grew dry under his hands, fabric lightening.  He bowed to her silkily. “Thank you again for your hospitality, Elain Acheron.” Lucien’s smile was sharp as he straightened. “The acorn will work again, whenever you have need.”  And then he was simply gone, magic making her blink, making her heart race. Elain jumped to her feet, but the room was empty, truly. It took her a long time to realize that whatever he’d done to the temperature for her remained, the room warm.  Longer still, the fire lingered, thick in the air of her favorite haven. 

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