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autumnshighlady · 2 months ago

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I've Always Liked to Play With Fire (chapter 1, REVISED)

hey everyone, so the poll was almost 50/50 but my lovely gift anon had the suggestion of posting a chapter to get everyone hyped up for the new version of my beloved story. and so here it is, the first chapter of IALTPWF, rewritten and redone <3

meet Elara, my OC. i hope you guys like her <3

word count: 5.2k

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Three months.

As the sun peaked in the sky above, Elara knew from the faint handmade scratches in the wall beside her bed that today marked three months since she ended up in the Night Court. Three months since her old friend, Lucien, had found her. She had been bloodied and battered, half-dead amidst the ruins of which once was her small village in the Spring Court. What had started as Lucien simply journeying to check on the High Lord, Tamlin, in an attempt to rebuild their relationship turned into a rescue mission in wake of Hybern’s recent warpath. Elara had found out soon after that she was the only survivor, but barely. All she remembered was the sound of Lucien’s panicked voice, and the sensation of a world spinning as he winnowed her away.

She did not remember much about her arrival in the Night Court, aside from the occasional scents of ointments as healers tended to her broken, starved body. She was in and out of consciousness for a few days, never staying awake for more than five minutes at a time. During those brief waking moments, Lucien had explained that she was at a fortress called the House of Wind, in the high mountains above the main city. But her body was too weak, too worn down to give her the strength to protest being held in an enemy court. She hated it here. Despised the stifling air of her small healer’s room. The walls were too close, threatening to collapse in on her at any moment. The chilly mountain air stung her throat, the absence of her home’s familiar flowery scent aching deep within her. All she wanted was the comfort of her mother, her father, or someone from home to tell her that this was all just a bad dream. But it wasn’t. Elara was in enemy territory, at the mercy of a High Lord who played games with lives. And a High Lady who shattered the Spring Court and left its people to bleed. Part of her wished Lucien had left her to die there. The thought brought shame over her, the guilt of being the only survivor screaming at her that she was ungrateful for this second chance.

But after a week, Elara had been strong enough to get out of bed, deemed well enough by a firm but kind healer to officially meet with the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court.

To say it had gone poorly had been an understatement. From the beginning, Elara could see the disdain in the Night Court leaders’ eyes as they learned her to be from the Spring Court, their judgement palpable as if she, not her leader, had been the one who had locked Feyre in that manor after the escape from Under the Mountain. Rage had coiled in her cut as she stared down the High Lady, angry at how she lived her life without remorse for what she had done to the people of Elara’s court.

“Glad to see you are awake and well.” Rhysand had said, no warmth to be found in his violet eyes.

“Spare me your false sympathies, High Lord, I do not need them.” Elara had snapped out in response. Despite the ground still swaying beneath her, she had stood as tall as she could manage. Her limbs had been weak, bones and muscles trembling like paper with the effort. Her once shining, almost dark auburn, brown hair was dull and lifeless. The dark circles under her eyes were prominent, her face hollow like wraith’s. Yet still, she had stood firm, spurred on by the anger at the two fae in front of her. Out of the corner of her eye, she had seen Lucien giving her a pleading look, begging her not to start this argument now.

But she had anyway. Elara did not want to be in the Night Court, forced to rely on the generosity of the female who destroyed her court and the male who delighted in cruelty. Everyone in Prythian knew what Tamlin had done to Feyre, how he locked her up in the manor. Truthfully, Elara could not blame her anger – it had been wrong for the Spring High Lord to lock his bride-to-be up.

But Feyre Archeron had elected to take her revenge on the people of Spring Court. She had sunk her claws in and deliberately opened it up like a wound, allowing Hybern to take advantage of its weakness and go on a slaughtering rampage, one that had almost gotten Elara killed. And yet Feyre was hailed as a hero for destroying a court of innocent people just to get back at its leader. The thought made Elara’s stomach churn, remembering the terrified faces of her friends and family as their throats were slit by Hybern soldiers who laughed as their blood spilled onto their armour. All because of the High Lady of the Night Court.

And so she had not held back her hostility, letting her hatred and anger spill from her lips. “Am I supposed to thank you?” She had scoffed at the High Lady, rolling her hazel eyes.

“That would be a start.” Feyre had said tersely, looking down her nose at Elara. “You are in my court, after all, being taken care of by my healers.”

Elara had snorted, letting out a dry laugh. “You are the reason I am here, High Lady. Because you let your petty revenge fantasies destroy my court and slaughter my village, my family, everything I loved.”

Feyre had stiffened, eyes shifting to her mate for support.

“You will not speak to her like that.” Rhysand had growled, letting his power fill the room in an attempt to intimidate Elara.

“Or what, you’ll kill me?” The words left Elara at rapid fire before she could stop to contemplate her situation, biting back with no remorse. “You have no problem letting people from Spring Court die, so go for it. Maybe killing another one of us will make you feel better.”

Lucien had intervened at this point, trying to ease the tension before it got out of hand. But Elara continued to stare down at the High Lord and Lady, wishing she were anywhere else but in this wretched court. She knew that the only reason she was still alive was because if they killed her, Lucien would be less inclined to work with them. And for whatever reason, they needed him on their side.

And that is how Elara had ended up at the House of Wind, having graduated to the privilege of a guest room rather than the healer’s chamber. It was spacious enough, a large bed with a fireplace in the corner and windows that encompassed a view of the mountains. Now strong enough, Elara could go where she pleased within the High Lord’s residence, but that was all. The High Lord and Lady claimed she was not a prisoner. But she knew that they were well aware she was too weak to tackle the 10,000 steps down into the city. And no doubt there were eyes everywhere, watching her every move and reporting back to Rhysand. So yes, she was essentially a prisoner despite her pretty cage, and she had told them as much right before they winnowed away. As he was not so subtly ushered away by Feyre, Lucien had promised he’d come visit her. But when he didn’t, Elara began to suspect that the High Lord and Lady had deliberately been keeping him busy.

So with her strength returned but her life seemingly shackled to this grand residence, Elara wandered aimlessly around the estate. It was admittedly beautiful, but the opposite of everything she was used to. Everything felt colder, darker, like there was an axe above her head waiting to fall the second she put a foot wrong. Every day, her mind buzzed like a swarm of bees, angry thoughts filled with resentment that she was stuck in the court ruled by the female who had torn her own court apart. She barely ate, her time mostly consisting of sitting on the reading nook by one of the large windows, staring out at the mountains beyond. The food was beautiful, but she barely tasted it on her tongue. Nothing soothed that ache she felt in her chest, nor did anything bring her comfort as she cried herself to sleep every night. What little sleep she got was disrupted by night terrors, waking her up in a cold sweat.

Her life became a predictable routine. Like clockwork, she would head to the nearby kitchen where breakfast was laid out for her. She would push it around on her plate, stomaching what she could before going for her usual walk. Down the hallway by the paintings she would go, before coming to a grand staircase and walking up it to the upper floor. She would wander through the always empty study area, noting the magnificent maps and artifacts yet not once touching anything. She felt like a ghost, drifting from one end of the house to the other before settling in the reading nook until sunset. There, she would curl up, staring out the windows yet seeing nothing.

One day, things changed. Normally, nobody bothered Elara while she stared out of the window, the only other signs of life in the reading room being the occasional servant passing through. On a rainy afternoon, she decided to crack open one of the books on the shelf and begin reading. She was a few chapters into the mystical romance novel when she heard footsteps approaching, stopping a few feet away from her. Normally, she would have ignored the other presence in the room, but something in her chest pulled at her like a string, urging her to turn around.

And so Elara did, and she was faced with the most beautiful female she had ever seen.

She was tall and lean, dressed in a dark blue gown with long sleeves and a collar around her elegant neck. Her face was sharp and her hair was a rich caramel shade, braided in a crown around her head. Those slate-coloured eyes glinted, staring Elara down with an intensity that she imagined made most fae shuffle on their feet with uneasiness. But it was a different intensity than the High Lord and Lady’s gazes, and rather than fear, she felt only awe.

“You are Lucien’s friend.” The female finally spoke. Her expression was unreadable, and she was as still as a statue.

“Yes.” Elara had said, meeting her gaze. The tall female was enchanting, and Elara’s heart fluttered at the sound of her cool voice. She was silent for a moment longer before speaking again.

“I heard you caused some upset with my sister and her mate.”

A bell pinged in Elara’s head as she put the pieces together. Lucien had mentioned Feyre’s older sister, not that she needed an introduction to her. Everyone across Prythian had heard of the female who severed the King of Hybern’s head from his body, whose eyes glowed with silver fire from the Cauldron itself.

Elara was unsure of what to say. Part of her worried that Nesta would look at her with the same disdain as her sister had, but the other part of Elara knew that she wouldn’t. For some reason, Nesta was in the same position as her, a prisoner in the House of Wind while her sister was free to wander the city below, apparently painting away in her new grand estates according to Lucien’s last letter. The thought had made Elara seethe with rage, knowing so many fae like herself were still suffering from the war, with no money and no support.

The silence slowly ate away at her, until Nesta finally spoke.

“Good.” Was all she said before turning away and walking out of the room.

And that was the beginning of Elara and Nesta. Over the next three weeks, they saw each other more. It started with Nesta asking what Elara was reading, and suggesting other stories for her to read. And then, the Cauldron-made female began joining her, sitting in silence in the chair across from Elara as they both read their books. Eventually by the fourth week, Elara found herself leaving the room and going to the library with the older Archeron sister, or sipping tea on the balcony.

For the first while, the two of them spoke little. It was not an uncomfortable silence though. The females simply sat contently in each other's presence. And Elara realized that it was nice to have someone else around who wasn’t a servant scurrying about, especially one that didn’t worship the ground that the High Lady and Lord walked on. But after another month of quiet companionship, careful conversation began. Initially, it began as mere discussions of the books. But over time, it lead to grow more personal. While Nesta revealed little about herself, Elara found herself explaining her situation in as few words as possible. She had tensed, expecting judgement or sly comments. But Nesta had merely nodded before changing the topic.

One day, the ‘inner circle’, as Nesta explained they called themselves, arrived at the House of Wind for dinner. Lucien had informed Elara earlier that morning, sheepishly explaining that not attending wasn’t an option. Apparently the rulers of the Night Court wanted to build relations with her – which she knew was just code for seeing if they could use her connections to the Spring Court to their advantage.

Elara snorted, making a crude comment about the sheer balls of the High Lord and Lady. But she was in no position to argue, no matter how she felt. The dinner was an unavoidable test, and it would happen no matter what. And Elara’s future would undoubtedly be decided.

****************

Elara stood in front of the cracked mirror in her room, examining the dress that one of the servants had brought earlier. It was black, with a deep V-neck and a thick band around her waist. The sleeves were made of sheer material that hung loose around her arms and gathered at the wrist. She could not deny that it was a nice dress, but there was a bitter taste in her mouth regardless. She knew that it was selected to make her feel like she was part of the Night Court.

I am not a part of this court, and I will never be, Elara thought to herself, biting her bottom lip nervously. In her broken reflection, she could see that despite the months spent healing from her injuries, she still looked no more than an ancient ghost. Her collarbones jutted out slightly, her ribs more visible underneath the tight fabric. Those dark circles made her deep-set hazel eyes appear sunken, their presence unyielding no matter how much sleep she got. She was a shell of herself, an unrecognizable thing staring back in the cracked mirror.

Having no energy to deal with her wavy hair, Elara decided to leave it unbound. With a shaking hand, she opened her door and exited her room, leaving behind the warmth of the fireplace. Another click of a door closing caused Elara to turn her head. A few feet away, Nesta stood in the hallway, her room being one down from Elara’s apparently, a discovery they had made last week.

Nesta’s dress was similar to the blue one Elara had met her in, only it was a shade of deep grey, and the thin neckline plunged to her navel. Nesta’s hair was braided in her usual style, but dark circles haunted the skin under her eyes akin to your own. Elara knew Nesta had not been sleeping, often hearing her toss and turn all night from the other side of the wall. From what she gathered from their conversations, Nesta was in a somewhat similar position as her. And the look on Nesta’s face told Elara that the Archeron sister was dreading this dinner more than she was.

“Hey.” Elara said softly. Nesta’s gaze met hers, silver eyes glazed as if they were staring right through her.

But Elara’s heart nearly shattered at how broken she looked. Nesta’s story had been whispered in the winds of the Spring Court, but she hadn’t dared ask her about it. How awful it must have been to be stolen from one’s bed – bodily autonomy stripped away from you as you were turned into something else. She did not look like the fierce Kingslayer the rumours spoke of, or the mean, nasty female that cut people down with her words, but rather a shell of a person who was seconds away from crumbling into nothing.

“Are you ready?” Elara asked through a dry throat.

Nesta was utterly still for several moments. For a second, Elara wondered if she’d turn around and simply return to her room, abandoning the idea of enduring the dinner altogether.

But then, Nesta nodded stiffly, and Elara extended her hand before she could think twice. She froze, cringing at herself for the gesture. Part of her was afraid she’d scoff at the gesture, lashing out and storming away and leaving Elara alone and embarrassed. Embarrassment began to flush in her cheeks, but she could not pull her hand back. Nesta was the only connection she had to this world, with Lucien no longer visiting her. In such a short time and with nobody else by her side, it dawned on Elara that Nesta had become a lifeline for her. A lifeline she was extending her hand to not just for Nesta’s sake, but for her own.

To Elara’s surprise, Nesta slid a bony hand into hers. It was ice cold and shaky, so she gave it a gentle squeeze.

“We can face them together,” Elara assured her. “I don’t know what went down between you and the Night Court, but I’ll be with you the whole time.”

Nesta’s eyes cleared as she turned her gaze back towards her. She blinked once, as if she was making sure Elara was real, standing there holding her hand.

“And I’ll be with you.” Elara continued, her voice shaking slightly as she tilted her chin up. “Now let’s get this over with.”

Nesta was as stiff as a board as they walked, her chin held high as if preparing herself to face a mortal enemy. Her eyes were glassy and clouded, as if a foggy haze was wrapped around her brain trapping her in her own thoughts. Elara was the opposite, jittering with nerves and shaky legs. If her hand began to sweat in Nesta’s, the female made no comment. Every step towards the dining hall echoed like a war drum. The sound of laughter and a mix of familiar and unfamiliar voices grew closer and closer, and you fought every instinct to run.

Tentative hand in hand, Elara and Nesta silently strolled down the fire-lit hallway until they got to the large doorway of their destination, bracing themselves for whatever the next hours would bring.

*************

Elara stifled a laugh at the expressions when she and Nesta pushed their way through the grand doors and walked into the dinning room, hands entwined. At the table, Rhysand and Feyre sat side by side at the head, dressed in glamorous black attire. The High Lord’s violet eyes simmering at the sight of Elara and Nesta side by side, while Feyre’s were wide with surprise. There was an empty space next to Feyre, no doubt intended for Nesta, and on the other side of the seat was a blonde female wearing a red dress with a plunging neckline. Elara immediately recognized her as the Morrigan. Her neck and wrists cluttered with gold jewelry, and her face was undeniably gorgeous, save for the confused look that was written across her features. She also recognized the familiar figures of Cassian and Azriel, who sat next to the blonde, also looking surprised. The one with long hair, Cassian, who Elara had met in passing a few times but said nothing to, paused halfway through sipping his glass of wine. His eyes were wholly focused on Nesta, and the jealousy pooling in them didn’t go unnoticed by both Elara and Nesta, who stiffened and clenched her free hand. Beside him, Azriel showed less surprise. Elara had also met him a few times, and he was the one member of the Inner Circle that she could tolerate, as he didn’t say anything to her. He merely blinked once, an unreadable expression on his face, and a shadow curled around his neck.

To Rhysand’s right was a small female with short black hair and red lips. It was Amren, Elara figured. A look of disgust crossed her face, and Nesta’s eyes narrowed. Clearly, something had gone down between the two of them. Next to Amren was a male with dark skin and white hair, looking very uncomfortable. Lucien sat next to him, looking like he was going to burst out laughing any second. Another empty chair was next to Lucien, clearly intended for Elara.

Silence filled the room for what could have been an eternity until Feyre spoke up.

“Nesta, Elara,” The High Lady said, voice light and airy. “We are so glad you could join us.”

Nobody else said anything, and Elara could practically feel Nesta’s panic through her palms. She was looking at the seat meant for her, between her sister who locked her up here and a female who clearly disliked her.

After squeezing Nesta’s hand, Elara let go and walked over to the chair beside Feyre. Confused, the entire table watched as she grabbed the back of the fancy-looking chair and dragged it away, not caring about the ear splitting scraping sound it made on the stone floor. The joy brought a jolt of satisfaction through her. Wordlessly, she pulled it to the other end of the table, opposite of Rhys and Feyre but next to the empty chair beside Lucien, who coughed into his arm to conceal his laugh. Every second of that silence was an ironic reminder of how little she cared for the pretentious gathering. To her, the harsh scraping was a small victory in comparison to the streak of defeat she had been enduring.

Elara looked back towards Nesta, whose lips twitched upwards for a split second as she strode over to the newly placed chair, smoothing her skirts as she sat down in it. Satisfied with the new arrangement, Elara took her seat. She fought back a laugh at her own amusement, focusing on arranging her skirts nicely to conceal it.

After more moments of dumbstruck quiet, it was Varian who finally broke the silence, asking Feyre about her art. Everyone seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at the lack of explosive comments. As servants brought rich-smelling food to the table, conversation flowed everywhere but in the direction of Elara and Nesta.

And Elara was perfectly fine with that, and she knew Nesta was too. The silence between them was comfortable and familiar, but neither of them touched their food. The rich scents were almost overwhelming, the anxiety over this dinner overshadowing your hunger. Elara wanted to scream at them to drop the facade of a friendly dinner and to be forthcoming with what they really wanted. But doing so would get her nowhere, so she bit her tongue.

Besides, Being in the presence of the inner circle made Elara’s appetite nonexistent. So she pushed the veggies around her plate for the next half hour until plates were cleared, and the quiet end of the table was addressed for the first time.

“How’s the training going, Nesta?” Morrigan asked. It seemed genuine enough, but from the way Nesta tensed beside Elara, she could tell it was a pointed question.

“Wonderful.” Nesta said dryly, meeting her stare.

“What training?” Elara asked, confused. Not once had she seen Nesta with a blade, but whenever Cassian was on his way out of House of Wind, he stomped through the halls in a foul mood. Nesta even more so.

“Nesta’s learning how to fight,” Feyre said. “That’s why she’s here.”

“The training she’s apparently refusing to do.” Rhysand added.

Elara snorted. “Doesn’t the Night Court already have armies? I don’t see them here, if she was going to learn how to fight wouldn’t it be, you know, where the armies actually are?”

Rhysand’s eyes met hers. “Yes, we have armies,” He said in a low voice. “But Nesta needs to train anyway.”

“I don’t have to do anything.” Nesta hissed.

“You do if you are in my court.” Rhysand growled.

“I did not ask to be here.”

Elara surveyed the table. Feyre’s eyes were red, as if she were about to burst into tears at any moment. Cassian looked concerned, while Mor and Amren seemed outright annoyed, huffing and puffing as they shook their heads. So many questions burned at Elara – why was Nesta being made to train to fight? Why here, locked away from the city? What happened between her and her sister?

Discreetly, Elara took Nesta’s hand under the table, rubbing a circle with her thumb. She felt a pair of almost glowing hazel eyes on her, and she looked up to see Azriel’s unreadable expression aiming right at her. But she decided to ignore it, focusing on Nesta’s touch instead.

I am with you, Elara reminded her through her gesture.

“But why am I here?” Elara spoke up, trying to take the spotlight off of Nesta.. “I am healed now, why not send me back home? What reason do you have to keep me here?”

Another heavy silence filled the room, even Cassian had stopped eating. Eyes shifted, as if a silent conversation was occurring. Elara held her chin high, despite her nerves going haywire. The only people on her side at this table were Nesta and Lucien, both of whom already seemed kept at arms length by the Inner Circle to begin with. But she relented, facing the wolves that stared her down hungrily.

“We thought you might have some information about the Spring Court.” Rhysand began, clasping his hands together on the edge of the table. “Since you are here–”

Elara laughed sharply, cutting him off. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“I am not, and I suggest you listen.”

“Do you seriously think I’m going to betray my own court?” She spat, ignoring the High Lord. “Besides, isn’t Lucien the one with the job anyways?”

Her red-haired friend closed his eyes and sighed, no doubt knowing this was going to happen. Deep down, despite the weeks of no contact, she felt bad for him. It was no secret that Lucien was under no illusions that he was completely accepted in the Night Court. Just as no matter what happened tonight, Elara would never be either, not with their ties to Spring. Lucien was balancing on a wire, trying to help two courts who hated each other.

“Your father is one of Tamlin’s advisors,” Rhysand continued, ignoring Elara. “And Tamlin is an enemy. We just want to know–”

Rage pulsed through Elara at his cold, calculated words. She was glad that she did not possess any sort of magnificent power, because if she did, she was pretty sure the room would have erupted into flames.

“My father WAS one of Tamlin’s advisors,” Elara said tersely, ignoring the way the words hurt to drag out. “Now he is dead thanks to your High Lady destroying his court and leaving them vulnerable to Hybern. If you think I’m going to help you, you’re insane.”

“You will do as we say,” Rhysand growled, placing his hands on the table and standing up. “If you do not want to share what you know, we have other ways of getting it out of you. I have no problem going into that pretty head of yours and—”

Nesta stood up. “Do not threaten her.” She said, with the most vicious snarl Elara had ever seen. Silver fire glowed in her eyes, and she almost gasped at the sight. This was the power the Cauldron gave her, Elara realized. She looked like a goddess of war, staring at the High Lord with a challenge to dare lay a hand on either of them.

“Or what, Nesta?” Rhysand asked, moving his arm to bring Feyre behind him. “What are you going to do?”

The entire table was still, as if bracing themselves to intervene if either fae launched themselves at one another. Elara had only known Nesta for just over two months, yet she was ready to challenge the High Lord in her defense, something which clearly confused the others at the table. The flames of the candles flickered angrily at the tense atmosphere, and Elara waited with bated breath.

Despite her nervousness, Elara was grateful for Nesta’s support. The dynamic between the two of them was unique to any other friendship she had ever experienced, although she did not know if she could classify it as such. They were two females who had slighted the members of the court and forced into the House of Wind like dogs being sent to the kennel. And not to mention she still did not know much about how Nesta ended up in her situation.

For Elara, the Night Court saved her under the guise of a helping hand then planned to use it as leverage to try and get information on their enemy. It made her sick, how she was indebted to them and expected to be grateful. While the House of Wind was nice, she was a hostage there, just as much as Nesta. And Nesta was a much needed ally.

Caught between a mixture of wanting to defend herself and fearing what might become of her at Rhysand’s hands if she chose to do so, Elara shifted in her seat. Self preservation told her to be quiet, but she itched with the urge to pull Nesta back down into her seat, to fight her own battles. If Rhys wanted to smite her on the spot, he easily could. Not even Nesta could protect her from that. But the guilt relented – guilt at Nesta putting herself in a further precarious position with her sister’s family in Elara’s honour.

After several long moments, Nesta’s eyes returned to their original shade, whether it be from the High Lord’s magic demanding submission or her own volition. She cleared her throat, throwing one last glare across the table before grabbing Elara’s hand.

“Thank you for the meal, but I think we are done for tonight.” She said, pulling Elara up. She stumbled out of her chair slightly, confused but grateful all the same at Nesta’s need for a sudden departure.

Elara didn’t bother turning around to see the faces of the Inner Circle as she fought to keep up with Nesta’s longer legs. Nesta led her out the door, her hand shaking slightly in Elara’s. The two walked in silence down the hallway towards their rooms, breaths unsteady in the thin mountain air. As they approached Elara’s door, Nesta dropped her hand rapidly before reaching for her own bedroom.

“Nesta, I–” Elara turned to thank her after opening her door, and to ask if she was ok, but the female had already wordlessly stormed into her room and closed the door.

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