#vassien is goals

[violetasteracademic]

Lucien Vanserra's Hero's Journey with Vassa- The Firebird Legends

Hello friends! This is my very first tumblr post, and is IN DEPTH. It seemed like a good place to explore some of the the themes I've been discussing on TikTok regarding Sarah's book structures, how closely Sarah utilizes The Hero's Journey for ACOTAR, and how many "ingredients in the fridge" as I like to call it are already there for Lucien and Vassa's story, despite arguments that there is very little on page action with The Band of Exlies. If anyone is interested in nerding out about book structure with me, I'll do a quick run through of The Hero's Journey with ACOMAF as the example (I made a video about this already!) and then fill in a possible hero's journey beat by beat for Lucien using only what is on the page. I'm not being hyperbolic when I say I could literally plot out and write this book today with everything Sarah has given us!

A few things to know about me: I love all of the characters involved in these ship wars. I am a die hard Elain stan, Az is my favorite Bat Boy, Lucien is one of my all time favorite characters and one whom I deeply relate to (I actually think I relate to Elain and Lucien the most, and I'll share how they mirror each other quite well) and I literally had to pull over in a Sprouts parking lot listening to the ACOSF graphic audio when Gwyn told her story. An elderly woman knocked on my window to ask if I was okay because I was sobbing. I do get passionate about my ships (Elriel and Vassien) because of my reading experience and how I process Sarah's structures. It would be the shock of my life if it goes in a different direction. BUT I love all the characters and respect all ships. My only goal is to get people excited about everything possible for our Bird of Flame and Lord of Fire, because their story stands to be by second favorite after Elain and Azriel!

Here is a quick rundown of The Hero's Journey: A three act structure famously based on the works of Joseph Campbell, an author and educator in the field of comparative mythology.

I will try my best to *briefly* break down the first act of A Court of Mist and Fury (I could do the same for Nesta's Journey in A Court of Silver Flames!)

Step One: The Ordinary World Status Quo. Feyre's status quo after Under The Mountain is the simultaneous evolution of her new life as Fae, and devolution of her spirit and personhood. In her new ordinary world, she is being kept in the dark. She is relegated to wedding planning and isolation.

Step Two: Call to adventure. Feyre is called to adventure on the day of her wedding, when the status quo has become unmaneagable. She calls out for help, and Rhys whisks her to the night court. In the Call to Adventure, our Hero learns a truth about the world that they will have to face. In Feyre's case, it is that the war is immenent. She realizes there is a threat to the safety of her sisters, and Rhys pushes her to train so that she is not unprepared if she is the only thing standing between them and Hybern.

Step Three: Refusal of the Call (in other structures or variations this is called The Debate.) The Hero is not sure if this is their story, if they are the one to face the call. They experience a period of maintaining the status quo a little longer. This is when we see Feyre sinking back into life with Tamlin. He is loosening the reigns, she doesn't want to rock the boat. She believes The Ordinary World might improve without her having to take the next step.

Step Four: Meeting the Mentor. Our hero meets someone that will assist them in their journey, and help them move forward in answering the call. This can be friendships, trainers and teachers, mystical guides, any number of things. In Feyre's case, it is dinner with the Inner Circle. She hasn't yet decided if she will join Rhysand's court and work with him in the efforts against Hybern, however she agrees to meet his court members. Each of them provide guidance to Feyre. In strength and training (Cassian and Azriel), emotional resilience (Mor), and histories/education on how the court and Fae lands function (Amren). Feyre agrees to work for Rhysand and then we cross the threshold into act two.

When I talk about "ingredients in the fridge," I am talking about a dinner that has been planned, ingredients purchased, and everything ready to go for book dinner to be on the table tonight. At this point, Sarah has been grocery shopping for future book plots for many many years! This is my personal interpretation of a really powerful story for Lucien and his hero's journey to free Vassa from Koschei.

Step One: Ordinary World. Lucien wakes up in the human lands in the manor he shares with his Band of Exiles. (I also am obsessed with how messy and hilarious it is that this was gifted to him by his mates ex fiance but I digress.) He has become so close with Vassa that he is no longer trusted to do his job for the Night Court. All the while he is worrying about Koschei, and when he will come for Vassa. Her enslavement to the deathless sorcerer pains him, and the pressure is building.

I hate to poke holes in another ship, however it is important to note that during all of these conversations Elain is not present or mentioned by Lucien in any way. However, Mor states that Lucien is choosing to live in the human lands despite Elain. And of course, in ACOSF Lucien makes it clear that even being in Velaris doesn't mean it is to see Elain, and the thought of his presence being expected only for his mate makes him uncomfortable.

I'm not saying these things couldn't change in the next book, I am however just setting Lucien's Ordinary World or Status Quo. Lucien is living in the human lands with the Band of Exiles and his main areas of concern and growing conflict are with Vassa and Koschei. This is what is being built to send the status quo to a breaking point *at present* His interest or efforts in Elain are devolving while his connection to Vassa and interest in defeating Koschei or freeing her are evolving.

Step Two: Call To Adventure. Lucien already has a powerful possible Call to Adventure (or inciting incident, as other similar structures call it) set in place. Koschei decides to reign in the leash on Vassa and force her to return to the lake, being ripped from her home with Lucien and Jurian and no longer able to provide assistance with the human queens.

Step Three: Resisting the Call. The reason Lucien is so perfectly suited for this is because he is the only character with such torn loyalties. He is loyal to Feyre and the Night Court, he attempts to be respectful to his mate, he is glad to work for Rhysand. There are many other threats present, Lucien's own father Beron suspected to be at risk of allying with Koschei. The human queens in the wind who have powers and a vendetta. While the Firebird legends retelling *could* take place with Jurian and Vassa, my issue with that is similar to my issue with Gwynriel. There is literally nothing, and I mean NOTHING that would create conflict for the character or a debate period. There are no obstacles or stakes in place that could keep the characters apart, which is critical to all storytelling but Sarah utilizes so much conflict. Lucien is the lost wanderer, torn from court to court, abusive home to abusive home, without a true family until the Band of Exiles. But it is still a matter of chosen family over loyalties he still feels to Feyre and her court. So, Vassa is taken by Koschei. Lucien now must be spurred into action, but is *he* the hero of this story? Is he going to be the one to take on Koschei?

Step Four: Meet the mentor. Oh, I think we all know where I am headed with this! What better mentor could there be in place for Lucien in freeing Vassa from her curse than Helion Spellcleaver. Aka Lucien's biological father. Helion also has maintained a consistent presence, being called in to attempt to manage the dread trove items. He has returned to the page in ways other High Lords haven't. We are gearing up for Helion 100%

Now, to get a little farther into some of the details beyond act one, tests allies and enemies, innermost caves, ordeals, so on and so forth, I simply want to focus on the stakes of this story specifically, and why I find them the most powerful.

As far as theme for Lucien, he has been aimless and suffering and ultimately ended up with no home and nowhere to spend Solstice. Feyre and Elain were a default because, in his own words, he had nowhere else to go.

Feyre urges him to call the Night Court home, but he has found a true home with Jurian and Vassa. He cares deeply for them and for their safety. He is amazed by Jurian's leadership, literally saying "Thank god for him" keeping everything together. Even at his best with Rhysand, Lucien has never put full faith in Rhys as a leader (which is very similar to Nesta who, while still an Archeron sister, continues to dismiss Rhys as her high lord and has found her calling and found family with The Valkyrie's.)

Lucien learning Helion is his biological father pairs perfectly with his metal eye, which can see through glamours. We may come to find that Lucien has hidden spell cleaving abilities making him uniquely suited to save the woman he loves. However, this brings us to...

THE BLOOD DUEL.

Lucien and Azriel blood dueling over Elain makes no sense plot, character, or world building wise. Lucien does not identify with the Autumn court or its laws, and he has been nothing but respectful of Elain's lack of interest in him and by all accounts is moving on in a very healthy way. It is stated clearly that Beron knows Lucien is not his son, hence why Lucien received such additional torment and ab*se as well as Beron's treatment of Lady Autumn. However, for Lucien to publicly display Helion's powers would make Lady Autum's affair public knowledge. This gives Beron cause to call for a blood duel with Helion over LoA. These are incredibly high stakes and obstacles. Does he risk the life of his mother and newly discovered father to save the woman he loves by revealing his true power?

As far as Lucien being sole heir to the Day Court, there is another possible outcome where Helion wins the blood duel (thus securing Eris's place as the new High Lord of Autumn, another long established plotline) and Lady Autumn and Helion get a second chance while Lucien still chooses his found family. Or, at the very least, as long of a life with Vassa as he could get before taking up the Day Court. Sarah also of course has had both mortal characters choose mortal life spans for love (Elorcan) or make mortals immortal (Feyre and Miryam.) However, Lucien stated he never had any interest in being a high lord. Of course this is up for interpretation, but I believe his character development still maintains that. This man has been through so much. He just wants to live in peace, and I think it would be a beautiful thing to know that his mother is now safe and not a political pawn.

Speaking of political pawns, this is also why I believe Elain and Lucien have a lot to heal with each other. When Lucien discovers that he could have been raised by Helion and not Beron, but his mother was sold and used as a political pawn and her agency taken away, he is going to face quite a few demons. I do not personally think Lucien's story (or Elain's) is most powerfully served by he and Elain choosing to de-escalate all the conflict and spend time with each other and wind up falling in love. It COULD happen, and if it's what Sarah chooses to do, it will be lovely! But Elain is such a mirror to Lucien's own mother. The only difference being that Lucien is a good male while Beron is a monster. Lucien, when faced with this, would be motivated to prevent his story repeating itself. Elain and Lucien's mother are the only two alive today presenting as unhappy with their pairings. I believe this is what Sarah was referring to when she said Elain was a better mate for Lucien than Nesta (her original plan) because of the healing they could provide each other. While I am not stating this as fact, it is my opinion that there is enough foreshadowing for rejected mating bonds, the suffering of poor matches and females being owned with archaic laws, that Sarah always intended to have Lucien participate in the rejected mating bond story line with one of the Archeron sisters. Lucien and Elain as a rejected bond is a much better fit as Lucien and Elain are actually both quite passive about their mating bond, letting the plot develop and build elsewhere whereas Nesta would have likely just burnt Lucien to a crisp or had it take up a lot more of ACOSF which would have been truly tough to fit in.

I could go on and literally plot out the whole book beat by beat with the Hero's Journey, but I would be here all day. I truly think Lucien and Vassa in the Firebird Legends would be so beautiful and powerful. I've teared up thinking about it! It always disheartens me to see characters getting thrown under the bus for the ship wars, or to be accused of hating Lucien because I ship Elriel. I am brand new to the online ship space, and this was truly how I experienced the books as someone who loves all the characters and wants the best for them. I believe Lucien has been nothing but respectful towards Elain and deserves to be happy. I just don't think Elain is his happiness. Even Feyre and Rhys had moments of trust and connection building in A Court of Thorns and Roses before ACOMAF. Their relationship was not out of left field at all. Elain and Lucien have a LOT of work to do to make their interest in each other suddenly believable, and in my opinion now we are getting into poorly paced and structured writing to accommodate it.

I've definitely seen compelling compilations about how both Elain and Lucien are tied to Koschei and it could just as easily be their shared love story while saving Vassa, and I won't go into a rage if that is what happens. It is simply difficult for me to ignore all the conflicts that would conveniently resolve and obstacles that would be removed. I know people love to call the three brothers and three sisters "lazy" but three is simply a motif, not book structure or line level prose. In my opinion, a sudden resolution to active political conflicts by putting two characters together is much lazier when it comes to the actual writing of the book.

These are just my musings, and the things I picked up on whilst reading (and re-reading a million times tbh) and experiencing books! What do you guys think of Vassien? I personally am so excited by how beautiful it could be!

[glossamerfaerie]

*waves awkwardly* I was the one who wrote this comment on Reddit a few weeks back on the Gwynriel Shipping Post. Pro-tip: do not hang out on Reddit because they will downvote you viciously. Even with a net count of 10 upvotes, this particular comment has like a 100 downvotes last time I checked. 🫠 One would think that the Gwynriel Shipping Post is a safe haven from downvotes, but I digress.

I normally lurk, but I wanted to add more structural reasons why Vassien won’t happen. There are HOFAS spoilers below.

Excluding Elucien mating bond, the biggest barrier to Vassien HEA is Vassa’s mortality. So either 1) Lucien becomes mortal (this is the stupidest theory I’ve ever heard and I refuse to spend energy debunking it) or 2) Vassa becomes immortal (semi-plausible, more interesting claim to debunk). E/riels claim that Vassa gaining immortality isn’t impossible. I acknowledge their point — after all, all three Archeron sisters gained immortality. BUT:

1) First avenue for immortality: Cauldron. Currently guarded in Miryam’s impossible-to-find island. I know that SJM likes repeating plot points, but she’s not bringing the Cauldron back. SJM’s new “magic object” obsession is with the Dread Trove (Mask, Harp, Crown) and Cauldron-made weapons (Ataraxia, Gwydion, Truth-Teller). By the end of HOFAS, these objects are all reunited; we know that Bryce thinks Nesta met her for a reason due to the tattoo. We also know that Azriel’s Truthteller belonged to Enalius and that he hasn’t been properly harnessing its full magic capability. Something special is happening with the Dread Trove and these weapons.

It’s entirely possible that Koschei (trapped in a lake) thinks that the Dread Trove can free him. Think about the Harp, which allows Nesta to winnow anywhere, even the Prison and the warded River House. Freedom is Koschei’s main goal; I’m not SJM, but I think Koschei is going after the Harp next. How exactly is the Cauldron going to help him now?? Great for fighting wars and making weapons, not so much for freedom.

Even assuming that Koschei can scry Cauldron’s current location, who exactly is going to defeat Miryam’s ENTIRE ISLAND NATION and steal the Cauldron? This isn’t like the situation in ACOMAF where the Cauldron spare parts were stupidly stored in temples without adequate protection. It made total sense that Hybern could fight helpless priestesses and minimal guards. But I don’t see this situation repeating itself with Koschei, the Queens, or Beron as the aggressor against Miryam and Drakon. The Cauldron is like a nuclear bomb in terms of magic impact. SJM purposefully stashed it away in ACOWAR’s end so its threat wouldn’t be breathing down our necks.

Is the Cauldron still super relevant? Sure! I think it might come back, especially in discussions of how the Daglan/Asteri used the Cauldron to create the Dread Trove, weapons, and Illyrians. Elain’s book will definitely discuss her relationship with the Cauldron, which seems to like her. But these plot points can happen without physically going to see or tamper the Cauldron. No one wants to fuck with the Cauldron or be in another war battling Cauldron magic.

1) Second avenue for immortality: Gift of Seven High Lords bringing someone back from the dead (see Feyre and Rhys). Okay, I will take this theory seriously because SJM really enjoys reviving protagonists from the dead across all her series. 🤣 But this is not going to happen with Vassa. Let’s assume that Beron is dead and Eris is the new High Lord for this hypothetical (we all agree Beron would refuse to save Vassa). Let’s also assume that the other High Lords (including Tamlin or whatever successor to Spring Court) feel bad about Vassa dying and Lucien’s grief. Would they all grant immortality to this cursed human Queen?

To be blunt: no. When the High Lords agreed to revive Feyre, 1) they did not know they were giving their power to Feyre and 2) Feyre had just saved from them from 50 years of imprisonment. They owed a very clear debt — but had the High Lords known about her future magic abilities, several of them would’ve balked. Feyre got super lucky about their ignorance.

Flash forward to Rhys. He was their fellow High Lord, a “colleague” so to speak, who sacrificed himself to win the war. And most importantly: reviving Rhys didn’t give him magic from the other courts. SJM doesn’t explain this much, but I think it was Feyre’s ascent to immortality that caused all 7 kernels to manifest magic in her. Rhys was already immortal and in possession of great magic; the 7 drops brought him back to life, but his immortality status didn’t change. The High Lords didn’t know what would happen, but they were probably extremely relieved that Rhys didn’t get magic from the other six courts.

Now think about Vassa, a human like Feyre. The High Lords know exactly what will happen if they grant Vassa immortality. Even assuming that Vassa performs a great service like Feyre and sacrifices herself, the High Lords WILL NOT save Vassa. The High Lords are egotistical and protective of their magic; they were incredibly resentful that they lost a kernel of their power to Feyre. Now you’re telling me they’ll do it again willingly for a mortal they barely know? No way in hell.

The High Lords will grieve Vassa and feel terrible for Lucien in this nonexistent book. But at the end of the day, she’s human. Humans die. You cannot save every human friend just because you like them. And even if they wanted to, their egos would hold them back. No one wants to share their magic. The End.

1) Third avenue for immortality: Something Else. Maybe SJM invents another way to become immortal (I don’t think so but let’s say she does for the sake of the argument). Maybe Koschei accidentally wields a spell on Vassa and her curse acts up. I don’t know. Make something ludicrous up in your imagination.

THIS STILL DOESN’T MAKE ANY NARRATIVE SENSE. None. Let me explain: SJM is a deeply flawed writer, but one thing SJM correctly understands is that her heroines have Big Emotions about Change. Changes like… abruptly gaining immortality when their entire life was rooted in mortality. Feyre took two books to fully understand her new magic and immortal body; she had trauma from UTM and felt unanchored in her new body. Nesta took literal YEARS and several books (WAR, FAS, SF) to become happy with her immortality; she finally admits her acceptance to Bryce in HOFAS Walmart Bonus Chapter.

“Do you like it?’ Bryce asked Nesta suddenly. “Being Fae?”

“I didn’t at first,” Nesta said plainly. “But now I do.”

We haven’t had Elain’s POV but I imagine she resents her new body/immortality for taking away Greyson. Like Nesta, Elain will have to learn to appreciate her new life/circumstances in her book.

Vassa is a Human Queen. She prides herself on being mortal and representing her people. It is a core aspect of her identity. If she were to become Fae with new magic, even voluntarily, it would be a momentous life change.

So, like… when exactly does this massive life change and identity shift happen? Within the pages of a single Vassien book? When it took the Archeron sisters several books to become happy/confident with their new Fae body and magic? Are we even going to see Vassa in the nonexistent E/riel book? So maybe we have half a book at most for this momentous plot point.

“But if Vassa loves Lucien, she’ll WANT to become immortal to stay with him forever. She wouldn’t have trauma or doubt like the Archeron Sisters, so she doesn’t need several books to adjust.” It is frankly insulting to suggest that Vassa would immediately love being Fae and have zero identity issues. The very little we’ve seen of her (like, ten pages max) suggests keen ambition and intelligence. Yes, Vassa deserves love, but love shouldn’t strip away her admirable goal to lead humans in an increasingly tense world with the Fae. It’s insulting to reduce Vassa to her love life. Even if I accept (and I don’t) that Vassa wants to be immortal for Lucien’s sake, it’s nonsense to think this could all be resolved within a single Vassien book. Not when Feyre, Elain, and Nesta have ALL taken several books and years to come to terms with immortality and their new magic. I have my beef with SJM, but SJM understands that healing and trauma takes longer than a minute. It can linger and fester for years, even when someone is drowning in plain sight (Nesta) or pretending that all is well (Elain). Since SJM is a heroine-centric author (by her own admission), she’s not going to shortchange Vassa by removing her human-centric ambitions or fast-forwarding past a momentous shift to immortality. 🤷🏽‍♀️

***

What’s crazy is that I’ve written so much and it only addresses the question “why won’t Vassa become immortal?” I haven’t even addressed character dynamics or why I think Vassien doesn’t make sense with their established personalities.

But it’s an important question! It explains the MAIN* roadblock to a Lucien-Vassa endgame. If Vassa won’t become immortal/Fae, she can’t have a satisfactory HEA with Lucien.** The End.*** I’m going back to lurk now, just needed to word vomit. 😅

___

* the actual main roadblock is the Elucien mating bond, but I’ve been told that it’s a fake Cauldron bond and that E/riel has a REAL Mother-approved mating bond. Since it’s impossible to logically counter something in people’s imaginations, let’s pretend that the Vassa’s mortality is the main roadblock.

** If only mortal Vassa could fall in love with another mortal. If only she knew a mortal male other than Lucien. If only this other nonexistent male shared similar ambitions in leading and protecting humans. Wait…

** I nearly broke my resolution to not waste energy on “Lucien will choose to become mortal!!” theory. But I will stay strong. It’s truly so ludicrous that it doesn’t deserve debunking.

Found this comment on Reddit. Couldn’t explain it better than this.

“It’s clear from Mist and Fury that the original ships were: Feysand, Nessian, Elucien, and Mor/Azriel. Like it’s so obvious the way she wrote Mor and Azriel; Mor even seems vaguely interested/torn about Az. Looking at interviews, SJM even talks about Elucien as a couple (eg where would they like to travel together, etc).

Flash forward to ACOWAR. For whatever reason (lack of chemistry with Az, wanting more diversity) SJM has Mor say that she prefers women. This time the Az-pining-for-Mor is more desperate/feels like a zero chance of being requited. SJM also introduces Az as a potential love interest for Elain because she loves throwing a wrench. Just because Elucien are mates doesn’t mean they’ll have it easy; SJM’s whole thing is angst. She had to throw in a love triangle to make it uncertain. This is the first couple where mate status is confirmed upon meeting.

But there’s a problem now. If Az and Mor are no longer endgame, who will they end up with? is it not suspicious that the two new characters introduced in SF (Gwyn and Emerie) just HAPPEN to be potentially be good partners for Az and Mor? Like it’s not a coincidence that Emerie looks at Mor and blushes, remarking how pretty she is. It’s not a coincidence that Az and Gwyn have so many interactions in the text. It’s not a coincidence that a “random side character” shows up in a bonus chapter.

When SJM created Gwyn and Emerie, it wasn’t just to give Nesta friends. These characters clearly didn’t exist when she wrote MAF. SJM wanted new characters that would solve her retcon of ending Az/Mor. She wanted to solve the Mor/Az retcon so bad that she created a NEW RETCON of Az going to Sangravah. Like why bother to add that detail if it’s not important.

Also: poor Lucien. His endgame heroine was supposed to be Nesta until SJM realized they would be terrible together and that Nessian had better chemistry. So she gives Elucien the mating bond. Like is she really going to fuck Lucien over TWICE? She loves him as a character and has put him through the wringer. Yes, I agree that SJM can change her mind and maybe is open to mate rejection, but Lucien has already switched love interests from Nesta to Elain! Who else is he going to switch to, considering that Jurian and Vassa are “at each other’s throats?”

Finally, please think about the number of books left. Ignoring novellas (which are probably gonna be fluffy ones like ACOFAS where nothing happens), there are two main books left. Two couples.

Option A:

• ⁠Gwynriel (Valkyrie growth, Illyrian rebellion, exploring Ramiel, Gwyn’s autumn heritage and maybe lightsinger?? powers)

• ⁠Elucien (Helion secret baby, defeating Koschei, freeing Vassa, fixing spring court)

Option B

• ⁠Elriel (mate rejection storyline, potentially some stuff above)

• ⁠?????

Literally WHO is the second book in this equation? Lucien and Vassa?? We barely know Vassa and there’s barely any connection to Night Court. And Lucien’s book is going to be depressing as fuck dealing with mate rejection; does anyone want to read two heavy books of rejection? Jurian and Vassa: again, we barely know them! At least with Tower of Dawn, Chaol had been a main character for a long time with POV. SJM will not do a full-length Emerie/Mor book as much as I would love for one. She’s very cognizant of criticism re: Mor bi rep in the past; she doesn’t want to open a can of worms and be accused of writing bad sapphic rep. If anything, I can see a fluffy Emerie/Mor novella with little angst (or them getting together in the background of other books).

So from a meta structural level, I don’t understand who the second couple will be if Elriel is endgame. Lucien/Vassa is the most plausible answer, but 1) we barely know Vassa, 2) she’s human and Lucien is immortal. So are we going to toss her into the Cauldron to make her immortal? Serious question, and 3) I don’t want TWO books about mate rejection, it’s depressing as hell. I can see one but not two.

But with Gwynriel and Elucien, you have enormous fan and audience interest in ALL FOUR CHARACTERS. They’re directly tied to Night Court and SJM so far has no intention of staying away from the core group.”

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: the pilgrim soul in you (1/1) | Lucien x Vassa

Summary: A missing-moments Vassien fic covering ACOWAR, ACOFAS, and ACOSF, in which, after a while, Lucien and Vassa fall in love.

A/N: I teased this for a while, and it's finally here. Additional notes and tag list at the end. I hope you enjoy 🧡

Who then devised the torment? Love. Love is the unfamiliar Name Behind the hands that wove The intolerable shirt of flame Which human power cannot remove. We only live, only suspire Consumed by either fire or fire.

-- T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding

The best story: that Lucien first sees Vassa at the lake, swooping over the water. That he’s entranced by her at this first glance, dazzled by the bird of fire, that he can sense the woman within nearly bursting to get free. Even in the form she was cursed with, Lucien might say, something about Vassa beckoned him from the first glance.

But Vassa would never let Lucien tell this story, because it is untrue. They first meet as the evening darkens, when Lucien has found the fire made by the Prince of Merchants. Before he spots the father of the Archeron sisters, he sees the strands of Vassa’s hair glowing red and golden in the firelight, generously curled and falling to the middle of her back. Then there’s the blue of her eyes, as bright and dangerous as the center of a flame. Her golden-brown skin, a shade or two darker than his own, luminous in the combined light of the fire and the stars, so that he can’t help but imagine how it would feel under his fingers.

His breath catches in his throat at what wells up in him, a feeling that is bright and dangerous.

Of course, she spots him seconds later, and then there’s a dagger at his neck, and Lucien is mercifully distracted. Vassa might be a young queen, but she’s clearly had experience with would-be assassins.

“I was sent by friends at the Night Court to try and break your enchantment,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm, but not so calm that she’s suspicious.

“I didn’t need faeries to set me free.” Her voice is lower than he’d expect, a rich alto, the words lilting with a musical accent. She does not growl the words, only tucks his hair behind his ears with her free hand, revealing the delicate arches, a gesture that lays him bare. But he does not think about his vulnerability. To do so would only increase the possibility of pain. Instead, he thinks that he’s surprised to feel callouses on her fingertips, decides to ask what would roughen a queen’s fingers at the nearest opportunity. Even then, he’s planning for a long string of moments with Vassa. “You aren’t the only beings who care about the saving of this world.”

At this point, Gabriel Archeron steps into the circle of light, and the resemblance to Feyre and Elain and Nesta is strong enough that Lucien blurts out their names, claiming he has news, and eventually the knife is removed from his neck.

Lucien makes himself a mix of charming and sorrowful as he tells the Prince of Merchants all that has happened to his daughters, trying to find a sufficient level of honesty that will not provoke unpleasant revelations later, while still convincing them to let him travel in their group. When he has finished and Gabriel has blinked away tears, which Lucien pretends not to see, he turns to Vassa.

“I was sent to make an entreaty to you,” he says. “My land will soon be at war, and the situation is grave. Hybern has been massing its armies for decades, and their spells are as formidable as the magic that binds this world together.”

“If your faerie armies can hardly withstand this onslaught,” she asks, in that thrilling tone that seems to emerge from deeper within her body than ordinary speech, the perfect ideal of a queen’s voice, “why do you expect that my human armies should go willingly to their own slaughter?”

“In my country, the High Lords and generals do not lead from the back of their armies. They fight on the front lines.”

“They have their own power to shield them.”

“Your armies would not battle on the front lines, majesty.”

She smirks at him, her teeth little moons in the firelight. “You sound quite naive when you speak on the workings of battle, emissary. You’re lucky that I have already promised my armies to your friends’ father. We ride to meet them at the coast.”

Lucien shoots a glare at Gabriel, who is smiling at the glow of the dimming fire.

“Queen Vassa flies by day, of course,” he says, the dry humor in his voice so perfectly balanced with graciousness that Lucien understands the reasons for his reputation. “Her wings are swift.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Lucien sees Vassa’s shoulders stiffen ever so slightly. Surely as a queen she is used to adulation.

“Perhaps you’d prefer to keep the enchantment?” Lucien asks the queen, as he turns back to the fire, trying to rile her a little further. Let her know what sort of journey this will be.

The change in Vassa, though, is apparent even to his half-gaze. The sudden tension in her muscles, a readiness that isn’t training but sheer terror. Her golden-brown face, a shade or two darker than his own, goes pale.

“You said your people could free me,” she says, and though she tries to make her voice commanding, Lucien has politicked in every court in Prythian and cannot miss the terror laced into every word.

Against all his better instincts, he tells her: “We’ll free you.”

She turns his head so he can’t see it, but still Lucien can vividly imagine her smile, brilliant and sparkling in the night.

&

&

&

At first, Vassa thinks she will hate Lucien, the way he smirks and teases and generally makes it clear to everyone that he’s full of the arrogance of the High Fae. Then she realizes that, as much as she hates to admit it, Lucien is the most intelligent creature she’s ever met. His mind simply spins faster than any of her court advisors. He sees a thousand possible futures so clearly that her astrologers, famed on the continent for the accuracy of their predictions, would gnash their teeth in jealousy at his seeming clairvoyance.

It’s when Vassa begins considering his gaze with respect instead of annoyance that she knows her feelings have well and truly changed. Because Lucien’s gaze is unnerving in its omniscience: his russet eye sees everything visible, and his gold eye seems to pierce into an unseen world.

Sometimes, in the little sleep she snatches every night, Vassa dreams that Lucien Vanserra, emissary of the High Fae, can see straight into her heart. And though she begins these dreams afraid of what he’ll see, her weakness and fear and failure, at some point his lips quirk into the smallest smile, and Vassa wakes up feeling rested for the first time in months.

By day, it’s all Vassa can do to force the firebird to follow Lucien and Gabriel on the journey toward the coast and her army. The firebird’s mind is so different from her own, easily distracted and unable to parse experience into human comprehension. But the firebird’s eyes turn the world into a jewel box, and the firebird spends too much time staring at the glint of Lucien’s hair in the sunlight, sparkling every shade of red and orange and gold.

In the evenings, by the fire, Lucien’s gaze is not so piercing as it is in her dreams, and though she can admit to his masculine beauty, to her human eyes it is not as overwhelming as what the firebird sees by day.

By the fire, he makes sarcastic remarks that punctuate Gabriel’s stories, insisting that his daughter Feyre is even more brave and kind and stupid than her father lets on, that Nesta is a holy terror. Lucien does not say anything when Gabriel mentions the other daughter, Elain, only clutches his cup or fork a little tighter, makes his breathing too steady.

At a thousand endless state dinners, Vassa has learned to observe the tells of royals and ambassadors. She’s barely had a chance to use this skill outside of card games with her ladies-in-waiting, but now she’s sure that Lucien has met and desired this Elain.

It’s better this way, she tells herself. They are wartime allies. He will likely end up married to Elain Archeron and Vassa will get her curse broken by someone among the High Fae and she’ll reclaim Scythia and her rightful throne. Eventually, she’ll find a politically advantageous consort. Perhaps, once her rule is secure, she will take a lover.

Still, as they draw near to the coast, she finds herself laughing at Lucien’s remarks. He ducks his head towards her in little asides, explaining Prythian politics or making jokes so dry that her laughter nearly startles her. She realizes that, as much as she will always love Gabriel Archeron for finding her, for leading her away from Koschei, her eyes will always go first to Lucien.

Vassa tries not to think about what it means. A young queen cannot afford an ill-considered love affair. Still, when Lucien’s eyes, russet and gold, land on hers, she cannot force herself to look away.

&

&

&

For their first three days at sea, Lucien worries that Vassa will fall into the ocean when she transforms from firebird to woman. The minute the sun begins to kiss the horizon, he watches her flame-bright wings and braces himself to winnow if she cannot position herself safely over the boat.

Always, Vassa manages to land safely on the deck, and Lucien swallows his anxiety. In spite of all his good intentions, the fact that she’s surrounded by the Scythian generals who adore her, Lucien can’t help seeking her gaze, can’t help scanning the length of her body for any hint of harm. All he finds is Koschei’s curse wrapped tight around her, and then Vassa’s sapphire gaze on him, the flash of her bright smile.

He thinks of Elain and he does not think of Elain. Elain, the mate who does not want him.

One day soon, before they’re reunited, Lucien will have to tell Gabriel that his middle daughter is mated to the male he’s crossed the continent with. But instead he listens to the stories the Prince of Merchants weaves about his adventures, basks in the glow of his regard. Gabriel Archeron was born when Lucien was already centuries old and tired of this world, and still Lucien catches himself basking in his fatherly countenance.

He thinks, maybe even a miserable life with Elain would be better if he had such a father-in-law.

Then Vassa catches his eye, ducks her chin to whisper that Gabriel is certainly exaggerating, she’s been to the town he speaks of and the river is not nearly as terrifying as he’s making it out to be. In fact, she says, her voice low and lilting in his ear, she and her ladies-in-waiting crossed it with skirts in hand. Then, her whisper going so soft it’s barely audible, she makes a vulgar speculation about Gabriel’s virility, the kind of phrase that would make her generals shout with laughter.

Lucien can almost feel her full, soft lips against his ear, so that he has to force himself to let out a quiet laugh. The skin of his body feels too tight. His blood thrums inside him. Somehow he makes himself turn back to the meal, laugh again when she repeats her aside to Gabriel, now at full volume, her speculation now even more elaborate and ribald. As Lucien predicted, the generals roar their approval at their queen, and Gabriel flashes her an approving smile.

For just a second, Lucien finds himself wishing that Vassa had told him a different story, which would belong only two of the two of them, not a mere rehearsal of what she’d say to everyone dining with them. He pushes the thought away quickly, focuses on the plate in front of him, lifting the spoon to his lips.

Later, when Gabriel and the generals have retreated to their rooms, Lucien finds Vassa on deck, her head thrown back as she stares at the stars.

He should go to his room, cramped and dank as it is, but instead he stays watching Vassa. Despite the dark, he can see her bright eyes considering each constellation. He can hear the beat of her heart, louder than the waves.

He considers approaching her, asking her what she sees in the stars, if it’s beauty or some vision of the future that draws her. But Lucien is a mated male now, and although he’s sure the conversation would be innocent, increasingly, closer proximity to Vassa feels like a betrayal.

Finally, he forces himself to turn away, to walk to his room and bolt the door.

Elain could take a hundred years to want him. It doesn’t mean he can be in bed with another female (another woman) for that century of purgatory.

Still, maybe it’s the distance from Elain, maybe the sea itself has bewitched him, but even as he falls into sleep, he can’t stop seeing Vassa, luminous and sarcastic and brilliant, behind his eyelids. Imagining how she might feel if she were tangled up in this narrow bed with him.

&

&

&

They arrive in Prythian just in time, Vassa realizes later, once the sun has dipped below the horizon and she’s human again. She can only vaguely recall the sound of screaming, the iron scent of blood, the feeling of flesh under her talons. She had not known the firebird could attack.

Gabriel died at the hands of the King of Hybern, her generals tell her, and though she still walks through the ranks of her soldiers as she’d planned, she hardly registers the faces of the men and women who have guarded this world. She does not remember what she says to the wounded or to those who came out unscatched.

Afterwards, her hands are covered in blood.

She finds herself walking in the forest, not caring if she could be attacked. Surely any monsters have enough sense to fear the magic she witnessed on the battlefield.

Still, she startles when she hears the footsteps behind her. She whips around and there is Lucien, scratched but whole, golden even in the night, no matter the dark leather armor that covers his body like scales.

“You’re all right,” Lucien says, the relief in his voice so deep it’s practically a sob.

Vassa forgets all her reasons for keeping her distance as she launches herself into his arms, presses herself so tight against him that she can smell his citrus and sandalwood scent, hear the beating of his heart. So that the armor he wears digs into her cheek, her ear.

“There’s blood on your hands,” he says, reaching for her fingers, running his thumb over each digit. She tries not to shiver at the contact.

“I needed to visit the wounded. It’s a custom among Scythian queens, to thank their warriors personally. To grieve with them. But I have no idea what I told them. My people have not been at war since well before my reign.” Still, she was trained for this moment. She should have known.

He releases her fingers, his hands working up her arms, until he’s pulling her against him, his cheek resting on her head, the place where her crown belongs.

“No wonder your people love you,” he says.

A dozen sarcastic comments rise in her mind, but they are all wrong for this moment, when all she wants is to stay this close to him, held so tight that death and despair cannot come between them.

Eventually he says, “Your people will think that you were kidnapped by faeries.”

“If only they knew,” she tells him. “Do you think that I could speak with Feyre Cursebreaker tonight?”

Instantly he looks guarded, and then she remembers Elain, the faerie female who Lucien loves. She pulls herself away from him, just enough that she could step away if anybody found them in the woods.

“I think Feyre has been asleep for hours. Nobody is awake but the wounded and the healers and the guards.”

“Which one are you, then?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he says, and when he smirks at her, that flash of the teeth that mark him as High Fae, a thrill runs through her entire body.

Elain, she thinks, then says primly, “It is a queen’s prerogative to be wherever she likes, is it not?”

“There have been no queens in Prythian for thousands of years.” His hands are still on her back. His fingers are tangled in her hair, and if he wanted, Lucien could tug it, angle her mouth so as to be easily kissed. Instead he looks at her as if it’s the last time he’ll ever see her face. Maybe it is.

“You are quite a new thing, Vassa,” he says, after a moment or an eternity. She’s not sure.

It would be so easy to kiss him, she thinks, and Lucien is clearly honorable, more than even he realizes. He would never harm her, never leave her to be ashamed. If he accepted her kiss, surely something wonderful would begin between them.

But then she thinks of Gabriel Archeron, his warm gaze like a benediction on her, the kindness and bravery he showed when he rescued her from Koschei. The way he spoke of his daughter, Elain, the love that filled his voice when he spoke of her, the daughter he would never see again.

She finds that although it is easy to imagine kissing Lucien, his lips on hers, the opening of their mouths and her fingers searching for a gap in his armor, she cannot ask her body to make any of the required motions. Once, not so very long ago, she was well-schooled in honor.

“We should go back to camp. I’m tired.” It is the first lie that Vassa has ever told to Lucien. It will not be the last.

&

&

&

At political functions, much is made of conversations, tone and gesture. Even a too-long look can be made fodder for months of court gossip.

Even knowing this, even knowing he needs to make inroads with Tamlin, that at minimum all his emissary posts require him to converse with the members of the assembled courts, knowing the Night Court watches him, wondering when he will finally try and speak with Elain, Lucien cannot stop looking at Vassa.

Someone has provided her with a dress of sapphire silk and a diadem of gold and sapphire, has brushed her hair until it is practically a living flame falling riotous down her back. He has never seen anyone more radiant. No matter the ruined estate, the tense conversations, even if the whole world goes to hell in this meeting, it will have been worth it to see Vassa every inch a queen in this moment.

When he spots her talking with Jurian, Lucien can hardly contain his fury. He does not trust the man, no matter that he saved Feyre. Sometimes he barely trusts Feyre.

And when Jurian bends to press a kiss to the back of Vassa’s hand, Lucien has to acknowledge the feeling that’s hot inside him: jealousy.

It’s wrong, he knows, when his whole body shouts whenever Elain is near, his heart practically thumping out her name. Far from her, he was able to forget the effects of the mating bond, only the coldness inside him whenever she would not meet his eye.

Still, no matter how close Elain lets him get, he has never felt himself alight the way he did last night, when Vassa stood in his arms and let him pull her close. He has never scanned the horizon with worry that she will fall into the sea, never laughed at a single thing she’s said.

So although Lucien forces himself to let the conversation between Vassa and Jurian play out, tells himself over and over he might be good for her as if repetition will make him believe the sentiment, the moment Jurian steps away, Lucien strides directly to her side.

“I spoke with Feyre,” Vassa says, by way of hello. “She does not know how to break my curse.”

“Feyre has barely learned her powers.”

“Oh? Are you saying you can do better, One True Faerie?” She swats at him, fingers barely grazing his jacket. Still, he warms at the contact.

Smiling in spite of himself, he taps his temple, indicating his golden eye, the scars surrounding it. “I’ve been told I can see what others can’t, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t tell me that line has worked on a single woman.”

“Lucky for me that the females of my species are much more credulous than human queens.” He allows himself to bask in Vassa’s laughter, too loud to be dignified. “But now that we are in Prythian, there are others with the necessary skills. There are whole libraries that might be of assistance.”

He thinks, but does not speak of Helion as he summons his powers and takes another look at the curse, which is fashioned like a harness on her shoulders, crossing her clavicle and looping around her shoulderblades, Vassa’s heart surrounded by the trip of Koschei’s magic. The magical signature is foreign to him, a long and complicated sentence in a language not spoken in a thousand lifetimes.

“Jurian said there was a place for me in the human realms, if I wanted to take it,” she is saying, snapping him back to the present, the physics of the known world. “Do you think those faerie experts will remember me across the wall?”

“There is no wall anymore,” he says, rewards her with a low laugh when she rolls her eyes at him.

“You’re full of fairytales today, but I suppose that’s appropriate,” she shoots back.

“They won’t forget about you because I will constantly be reminding them that the human queen who saved their sorry selves is still bound by an enchantment.”

“For a moment I forgot how self-important you were.” In spite of her words, Vassa’s smile is sweet and hopeful, the kind of expression only humans wear. In all his long and miserable life, Lucien has never seen such a lovely smile. He hates himself for thinking it but cannot bring himself to turn away from her the way he should.

“There’s more I can do,” he says, breathing deep, letting the imminent mistake wash over him, like dangling his foot off a cliff. “I could stay with you and Jurian, if you wanted. If I wouldn’t be interrupting the two of you.”

She reaches for his hand and squeezes it, a squeal muffled between bitten lips.

“Jurian is a terrific ass and you’ll have to keep me from slicing him to ribbons.”

He’s so dazzled by the feeling of her fingers on his that he doesn’t even bother to look and see if anyone’s watching. For the first time he can remember, every thought leaves his mind.

&

&

&

Jurian would be the perfect man to marry, Vassa realizes within the first three days of their living together. An ancient warrior would not be a strange consort to a firebird queen. True, their arguments shake the walls, and his ideas are old-fashioned to an idiotic extent, and of course there’s the fact that Vassa cannot imagine herself ever falling in love with him. Still, he would be the right choice.

Far better, to be certain, than Greyson, Lord Nolan’s son, who at Vassa’s arrival is paraded with the pomp that would befit a king, not a minor aristocrat. She can tell that there was a sweetness to him once, but that it’s curdled, and what’s left to the boy seems now beneath her regard. She does not know how Elain Archeron once loved him. This fact alone makes her think less of the girl.

Then again, Vassa knows that she is inclined to judge Elain more harshly than she deserves. She tells herself that this is because of the dejected expression on Lucien’s face when he first returned from Velaris after the war, the way he goes quiet when she’s mentioned.

But in her secret heart, when she’s the only one awake in the Nolan manor, Vassa can admit that she’s jealous of Elain Archeron. She hates this emotion. It is not fair, it is not honorable, and yet Vassa feels jealousy wrapping its tendrils around her.

So when Lucien appears in the manor in between visits to the courts of Prythian, she is cordial. She is friendly. Sometimes she even allows her smile to break free, but only if he is telling her about progress towards the breaking of her curse. Only if the implication is that she could be free, and therefore far away from him.

More and more when she’s around him, Vassa feels as if her human self has merged with the firebird: unable to speak freely, bound by invisible chains.

If her arguments with Jurian grow a bit sharper and she smiles more wickedly when she bests him, well, between the curse that makes her a firebird and the heart that longs so furiously for what it cannot have, she cannot possibly be expected to have perfect forbearance.

&

&

&

Finally, there is an evening where Jurian goes to bed early and it’s only Lucien and Vassa in Nolan’s shockingly ample library, the last of the wine between them. Vassa’s cheeks are flushed from another argument with Jurian. Lucien had tried to read through it, but the history he’d selected was inaccurate and every time he looked up, Vassa and Jurian seemed to be grinning in spite of the heat and clamor of their words. They argue like lovers now, he kept thinking, the words spinning before him, turning nonsensical.

“Do you still think that Jurian is a terrific ass?” he asks, before he can stop himself, the wine stretching his words into a drawl. As if the question is unimportant. As if it is not dangerous.

“He’s exactly the kind of man my advisors would tell me to marry. Even my mother would have approved.” Her fingers, on the glass, have gone yellow-white from the strength of her grip. He cannot tell what she’s nervous about.

“I suppose he is miraculous, in his own way. As long as you enjoy going to battle every night.” A hint of the old smirk. Maybe it will unsettle her into revealing the truth.

For a few seconds, the room is still, so quiet he can hear the quickening thump of Vassa’s heartbeat. Weeks or months ago, maybe, Lucien would have been smug over his ability to rile her. Now he only waits to see what she will say.

“At least he’s not in love with someone else.” Vassa does not look at him, and for the first time since he’s known her, her blue eyes do not sparkle.

“I’m not--that is--” Already he has revealed too much. He can feel the heat of her gaze on him and now it’s he who cannot meet her eyes.

“I know about Elain. And I cannot...her father rescued me from Koschei. I will not dishonor his memory by stealing you away from her. No matter what I want.”

He thinks about saying, you have a high opinion of yourself, Queen of Scythia, the kind of thing he’d usually say to her, which would rob the moment of its tension, send them off to their separate beds. Likely, the usual jibe would set everything right. But Lucien has tried to play the dutiful suitor to his mate, has found her thoughtful gifts and has waited until her (their) heart warms, and still she cannot wait until he leaves her behind. Still his thoughts stray to Vassa. And the very thought of her with Jurian is worse than the guilt of leaving his mate for another. Let Elain take a thousand years to come around to the idea of him, let her break the mating bond itself, Lucien thinks, gulping down the last of his wine. She is not the problem. Probably she never was.

“I’m not in love with her,” he says, finally, the words like tumbling off a cliff. “She’s my mate. Chosen for me by the Cauldron. And if I could choose, Queen of Scythia, believe me that I would choose a woman who can win any argument, whose beauty is only eclipsed by her fierce intelligence, and who still has not told me how her hands, the hands of a queen, came to be so calloused.”

“In Scythia, women can be warriors. I’ve trained with a sword since I was seven.” The words are hardly a breath.

He rises from his chair. The book falls from his lap, lands on the carpet with a muffled thump, but he does not turn. He only looks at Vassa’s eyes, the blue deep and sparkling as the middle of the ocean, lit by the noonday sun. Vast and lovely and alive.

He waits for her to look away, but instead she stands up so that she’s right in front of him, the silk of her dress sighing against the toes of hits boots. He always forgets, until they stand close, that she’s nearly as tall as he is. How hard it has been to keep from kissing her, when her lips, the color of ripe berries, have been right in front of him for all these months.

Now, finally, his mouth is on hers, hot and sweet, her lips opening to his tongue, a groan escaping him because Vassa, lithe and lovely, is in his arms, so quick and urgent that he can’t remember whether he reached for her or if she embraced him first. Her calloused fingertips are on his wrists, his neck, working the buttons of his jacket until it falls to the ground.

“I do not want to ruin you,” he says, too far gone with need to blunt the words, trying not to think about the way his cock strains at the seams of his pants. Only the woman in his arms, flushed and disheveled and smiling as she rolls her eyes at him.

“I am the Queen of Scythia by birth and by my own desire. I cannot be ruined by anyone.”

He wants to believe her, and so he kisses her, stops only long enough to undo each button that fastens her gown, take a long look at her lean body, her small breasts that fit so perfectly in his palm, her muscles visible with each movement. Her golden brown skin is scattered with freckles, and he presses a kiss to each one until she tugs at his hair, hissing her frustration.

Between her legs, she’s molten velvet. He strokes her until her little sighs become moans, until her fingers scrabble to reach him, pull him even closer.

“Get inside me, Vanserra.” He nearly laughs at her approximation of a fierce growl, unraveled by the keening sound of desire, a mirror of his own. Still he holds himself apart from her, quirks a brow.

“Need I remind you how bastards are made, Your Majesty?”

“I’ve heard the tales about your contraceptive potions. If you want me tonight, stop stalling.” She crosses her arms over her breasts, and Lucien dearly wants to kiss the smug look off her face.

“I’m glad you’ve been studying our customs,” he says instead, pulling her down to the thick rug that covers the library floor.

At first, he tries to be gentle, but she pulls him closer, her eyes set on his, so that when he enters her with that first desperate stroke, he can see the moment of pain. He cups his hand around her chin, kisses her as he moves in and out, until she begins to pant against his mouth, saying please and yes until she goes stiff and ecstatic, and he follows her, need giving way to a roaring pleasure.

Later, she’s curled up next to him, weaving braids into his hair, and she says, “I know this is only for a little while.”

Before she can continue, Lucien scoops her up so that her body covers his, until he can’t see anything but Vassa’s face, the pensive look she can nearly hide behind her drooping eyelids, a languid smile.

“This is for as long as you’ll have me,” he says, pressing a kiss to her lips. “You are the one I choose, Vassa.”

They do not sleep for a moment of the night, and when she goes to meet the dawn, to become the firebird, Lucien holds tight to her hand.

&

&

&

In her dream, Vassa has fallen into the ocean and she cannot breathe. She tries to inhale the ocean water, she’s become that desperate, but her throat is closed, as if her drowning body has been filled with stones.

When she opens her eyes, the ocean is gone but she cannot breathe, and Lucien works frantically over her body, his eyes moving in every direction, his fingers moving through the air as if guiding a miniscule orchestra.

There’s a burning, raging and deep, where Koschei’s spell binds her. She feels the burning in her blood, as if the nature of her curse has changed and now she will remain a human queen, with the firebird doing battle inside her.

And the world is full of air she cannot breathe.

She thinks, looking up at Lucien, his face now revealing a bit more terror but his hands as sure as ever, that this was always going to be the way that she died: curled up in her bed, looking up at Lucien. Only, she’d always thought that she would be old and wheezing, perhaps a little bored of even their great love, ready for a new adventure.

Now all she can think is that she should have kissed him the first day they met. That she’ll die so far away from Scythia. That she’d never thought her lungs, deprived of air, could burn quite like this, as if she’d inhaled fire instead of air.

She reaches for Lucien just as whatever binds her falls away, and despite the relief that overwhelms her, the air that floods her, Vassa realizes with horror that it was her own hair that coiled around her neck, long and thick enough to form a rope.

“It took so long to find the right unbinding spell,” Lucien says, holding her hand tight in his own. His voice is small, the voice of a lost child. “I thought--”

“I need you to cut my hair short,” Vassa says, her voice rough. Each word burns her throat. “Or Koschei will kill me with it eventually.”

There are others who want to kill her, of course. There are always rivals and assassins and foreign rulers who worry that she will conquer the world with her will alone. But no one other than Koschei could activate the curse, could transform her blood into fire. The rope of hair was only the visible manifestation of his powers.

“I know the unbinding spell now.” He dips to kiss her cheek, her temple, and she’s grateful he knows that he cannot kiss her mouth, rest his body on hers, nothing that impedes her breathing. “I can keep you safe.”

“One day you will have court business that keeps you away overnight.”

“And what if Koschei uses a blanket?” His voice is rough over the question and she realizes that he’s imagining the scene.

“If you’re away, I will sleep on an empty bed and Jurian will watch over me all night long. Now go fetch your sword,” she says, trying to make her voice sound imperious, to make him sarcastic and smirking again, her own Lucien.

One flash and the mass of her hair falls to the floor. What remains hovers an inch over her shoulders, revealing her freckled clavicles, the half-wings of her shoulderblades.

“You are lovely,” Lucien says, laying the sword on the ground.

Normally she would take advantage of his position, guide his mouth to all the places that make her go wordless, but now she only catches his gaze, lets him see the fear on her face. It’s one of the expressions she never lets anybody see.

“This curse will kill me soon,” she tells him.

“I will go to every court in Prythian until we figure out how to unbind you from the death-lord. I swear it to you.”

“Every court in Prythian has forgotten me. And why should they remember? In their eyes, my life will go past in a blink.”

“I will never let them forget you,” he says, smoothing her newly shorn hair away from her face, pulling her close beside him, so that she can hear each breath and thump of his heart. “I will make sure that you are free.”

She does not tell him that it’s no longer freedom she craves, exactly. That she wants to be bound to him the way she is bound to her country, to her people, tied by blood and right and strength of will.

Instead she presses her mouth to his and allows herself to forget, just for a second, how to breathe.

&

&

&

Because humans do not celebrate the old Fae holidays, Vassa did not mind his spending the Solstice at the Night Court, but in spite of this, Lucien spent each minute calculating the earliest moment he could return to her.

She’s still awake, curled up on a sofa in the library, when he returns from Feyre and Rhysand’s estate, bearing a piece of cake he’d secreted away in a heavy cloth napkin.

“I didn’t think you would return before tomorrow,” she says, looking up from her book of history, thick with politics and deception and warring.

Always, he is surprised by the bright blue of her eyes, even in candlelight. Always, he knows, deep in his bones, this woman will enchant him.

“I wouldn’t miss a single night with you if it could be helped. And I have not given you your Solstice gift.”

“I thought we weren’t exchanging gifts,” she says, her mouth puckering into a frown.

“You should know better than to always take me at my word,” he says, raising a brow, watching the indignation rise on her face. He lets the napkin fall into her lap, and then a smaller package, which he’d wrapped carefully this morning, while she wheeled over the manor grounds, wings aflame.

She lets out a little gasp at the sapphire earrings which will turn each ear into a lattice of sparkling flowers, bright against the red-gold curls of her hair. He’d contracted a master jeweler months ago, measured Vassa’s ears when she lay sleeping, so that the fit is exact. It’s the kind of jewelry a queen would wear, he thought, when he gave the earrings their final inspection.

One day soon, Lucien knows, Vassa will be free of the curse that binds her. She’ll go back to Scythia and reclaim her rightful throne, earn and accept and enjoy the love of her people.

“I will follow you, ” he says, watching her smile grow as she studies each flawless sapphire, not a single one as brilliant as her eyes, “when you go back to Scythia.”

“You do not have to lie to me,” she says, and her voice catches in her throat with an emotion too complex to name. “These earrings are enough.”

“I will follow you,” he says again, and kisses her before she can argue, pulls her close.

In the morning, he wakes before the sunrise, walks hand in hand with her through the forest, the silence between them comfortable as their bodies move themselves from sleep.

The moment before the sun passes the horizon, Vassa lets go of Lucien’s hand, and turns toward him. An instant later, the firebird circles near his head, swooping around the trees. Lucien almost thinks there is a spark of recognition in those blue eyes, as if he’s managed to lodge inside that animal brain, wedge himself inside the curse, the first step to destroying it all together.

When the wing of the firebird passes over him, he is startled to realize he feels no pain at the heat of the flame.

“You’ve realized, of course, that I love you,” he says, feeling foolish at speaking into the snow-muffled silence, knowing that the animal before him cannot speak, likely does not understand.

But the firebird extends her wings and, with a great cry, shoots up into the air, keening over the forest, her own sun, before returning to the place where Lucien stands, beholding her glory.

For the rest of the day, she will not leave his side.

.

.

.

A/N 2: I've been a Vassien shipper ever since I watched Lucien light up while talking to Vassa in ACOWAR, and I love how this ship has everything: intelligence, beauty, mutual snark, and no problem standing up to the Night Court. Though I have no idea if this ship will sail in the next ACOTAR books, I can't help but root for these truly immaculate vibes.

Tag List: @vassiensupremacy @vassienweek @lucienvassa @lantsov-vanserra @bookstaninthesoul @fireborne6 @flowerbirdsblog (I tagged you if you previously reblogged my preview of this fic -- please let me know if you'd like to stay on or be removed from my Vassien tag list.)

[acourtofthought]

Debunking Vassien Part I

SJM can take anything she's written in a book and give us a completely new story in the next, undoing everything she's already told us. She's the author so she can figure out a way if that's what she chooses. But the information given SO FAR makes Vassien unlikely to me.

I've seen this excerpt being mentioned to support their pairing:

"Lucien stared out the window—as if he could see the lake across a sea and a continent. As if he were setting his target."

As if Lucien is thinking of how he will avenge Vassa. But that excerpt follows this:

“And you think Koschei would do all of this,” Cassian pressed, “not out of sympathy for the human queens, but with the goal of freeing himself?”

“Certainly.” Vassa peered at her hands, fingers flexing. “I fear what may happen if he ever gets free of the lake. If he sees this world on the cusp of disaster and knows he could strike, and strike hard, and make himself its master. As he once tried to do, long ago.”

It seems more like Lucien is responding to the threat to their world rather than in defense of Vassa alone.

The following has also been used:

A twitch of the lips, a spark in that russet eye. “She’s doing well enough. Savoring every second of her temporary freedom.”

Comparing the "spark" to other mate coded language.

However:

That smile of his sparked something bold in my chest. (Feyre while talking to Tamlin).

Her eyes sparked. “Oh, you are delicious. You let me torture that innocent girl to keep this one safe? You lovely thing! (Amarantha to Feyre).

But something sparked in the queen’s eyes as she looked at Rhysand. Amarantha’s whore, they’d called him.

Those two in the antechamber,” he added, eyes sparkling, “might not be on that list of people you should bother knowing, if they keep banging on the door like children.”

Mor’s eyes sparkled. “You got him kicked out, didn’t you?” My answering smile set her roaring.

Her eyes were the brown of a fawn’s coat. And he could have sworn something sparked in them as she met his gaze.

Gwyn grinned, a broad, bright thing that showed most of her teeth and made her eyes sparkle in a way Nesta knew her own never had. “Oh, you’re good.”

This word is used in failed romances, amusement by villains to their enemies, completely platonic friendships and for the actual mated pair of Elain and Lucien (even though people claim she has no interest in him). How is "spark" definitely romantically coded for Vassian? It could be any number of things. Lucien himself acknowledges that he, Jurian and Vassa get along to which Feyre realizes they are his friends.

Lucien is an affectionate and caring friend. This scene:

Lucien, surprisingly, was chuckling, his shoulders loose and his head angled while he listened.

Is no more telling than this:

Lucien paused half a foot from me. He didn’t so much as object as I threw my arms around his neck, burying my face against his warm, bare chest. It was seawater from Tarquin’s own gift that slipped from my eyes, down my face, and onto his golden skin. Lucien loosed a heavy sigh and slid an arm around my waist, the other threading through my hair to cradle my head.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.” He held me, stroking soothing lines down my back, and I calmed my weeping, those seawater tears drying up like wet sand in the sun. I lifted my head from his sculpted chest at last, my fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders as I peered into his concerned face.

And this:

Both Jurian and Lucien stared at her, the former’s face utterly unreadable, and the latter’s pained.

Is also not indicative of romantic feelings as concern and sadness / pained expressions ARE something he feels for female friends as shown by his relationship with Feyre.

Lucien has already admitted he's a mated male to Feyre and has no interest in other females. Yet we're supposed to assume that by the end of that same book, he's already interested in another? This male who pined for Jesminda for centuries is supposedly giving up on Elain after a few months for Vassa?

This is where we leave things:

“At each other’s throats, as they like to be,” he said, a tad sharply.

She wondered what that was about—and for the life of her couldn’t read it.

Followed by:

Cassian’s heart strained at the pain etching deep into Lucien’s face as he tried to hide his disappointment and longing.

The first scene reads more to me that Lucien senses something is going to happen romantically between Jurian and Vassa and he's worried that he's about to become the third wheel once again.

Also, if he wanted to be with Vassa, what is standing in his way? Nothing is preventing him from being with her. They're around each other and spend enough time together to know if that's what they want.

I also don't think Luciens future is ruling in the Human Lands with a human female who has a human life span. The "at their throats" comments sounds a lot like a Nessian type of situation to me.

“He’s keeping everything running. I think he’d have been crowned king by now if it wasn’t for Vassa.”

“Vassa and Jurian are two sides of the same coin."

It sounds like Jurian is already accepted by the people in the Human Lands and he and Vassa are very similar which SJM usually likes for her pairings. Jurian could easily rule beside Vassa based on this, not Lucien.

If Lucien were feeling romantically towards Vassa, I don't imagine he would still be staring after Elain with longing and that is how we leave the two of them until the next book is released.

[offtorivendell]

Is ACOTAR's ‘Koschei the Death God’ actually Fionn, the once - and, he likely hopes, future - High King of Prythian? A theory

Koschei Series, Part I

Please don't screenshot this post without credit.

Disclaimer: the following is a theory based on both real-world mythology, and excerpts from the text of the ACOTAR series. It makes no claims of accuracy, though the parallels are interesting at a minimum, and could potentially be on the right track (if I’m lucky). Only the next two books will tell. I apologise that this theory is out before Parts II and III of my Dusk Court series, but after reading into Fionnbharr while researching for my initial Dusk post, it was demanding to be written before the others, and I had a huge case of whatever the theory version of writer’s block is called. I promise I'll get back to them as soon as possible, and I hope that this is enough for the meantime.

This series of theory posts assumes that Azriel and Elain Archeron will end up together, as will Vassa and Lucien Vanserra, and relies on the Dusk Court theory being at least partially accurate. If Elriel, Vassien and the Dusk Court aren’t your thing, you’re welcome to keep scrolling, or read with an open mind, as this first part barely mentions them.

TW: mentions of events such as kidnapping and murder, both canon and from mythology.

Spoilers: the entire TOG series, the ACOTAR series to date (2021), and CC HOEAB.

Additionally, a massive thank you goes out to both @icedflames and @nikethestatue for your invaluable help with this monster; we’ve been talking in-depth about this crack theory for months, so this post belongs to all of us, as well as anyone else who was involved. 💜

The ACOTAR fandom is, by now, well aware of the origins of Koschei the Deathless in real-world Slavic mythology, and there are a some fantastic theories floating around as to how that could impact Vassa and Lucien’s story, such as this post from @mrspettyferr, as well as the overall plot for ACOTAR 5 and ACOTAR 6. However, given SJM has said she wants to blend more than one legend, or fairy tale, together in order to create a new, cohesive whole, I suspect that there could be more going on in Koschei’s story than Vassa and the other trapped women, who remain at his lake, and his wish for freedom; namely who is, or was, he really, and what are his potential motivations? It wouldn’t be the first time SJM gave a villain a backstory, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

In this post, I will attempt to analyse the following topics in a discussion of the ACOTAR texts to-date (ACOSF) that surrounds Koschei the death god - older brother to the Weaver and the Bone Carver - who was trapped at his lake by an ancient fae warrior, thousands of years ago.

Koschei the Deathless, from Slavic legend.

Fionnbharr (Finvarra), King of the Daoine Sidhe of Western Ireland, as well as the King of the Otherworld.

Gwyn ap Nudd, the Welsh equivalent of Fionnbharr, King of the Fairies and the Underworld.

Gwydion fab Don.

The history of the Tuatha de Danann and the Fomorians.

Erebos, Hypnos and Thanatos, from Greek mythology.

Hopefully in doing so we will be able to answer the following questions - and maybe more - in upcoming posts:

Has Koschei been meddling from the very first book of the series?

In what way(s) could Koschei be associated with Azriel, Shadowsinger and Spymaster to the Night Court?

What are Koschei’s ultimate goals?

Fair warning, this is once again a long post at over 8k words, so maybe make a cuppa first. If you have the time, read on...

TL,DR: Koschei was, theoretically, once known as Fionn, and his power was possibly tied to the land that would eventually become the Dusk Court, before he ascended to the throne of all Prythian. He was also, potentially, the original shadowsinger.

In addition to being Fionn, he was betrayed by his queen - was she Oleanna, or the god we now know as the Mother… are they the same person? - and his general - perhaps the fae warrior, or Enalius? - after they realised that he was planning to attempt to take over the world (or something equally sinister).

He did not truly die, though, as he was already ‘deathless,’ with his soul hidden away long before. Once he was trapped, the precursor to the Dusk Court began to stagnate, and eventually fell without a true High Lord to protect it.

What do we know about Koschei, the sole remaining death god in ACOTAR?

We first met SJM’s iteration of Koschei the Deathless in ACOWAR, and since then we’ve gleaned bits and pieces - enough to make educated guesses, but definitely not everything. There will almost certainly be some sort of twist to his character.

ACOTAR’s Koschei is an incredibly old and powerful death lord, perhaps a god of death, who is the older brother of both Stryga - the Weaver, who had spent millennia trapped in the Middle, before she met Feyre in ACOMAF - and the Bone Carver, also both death lords, who voluntarily went into the Prison to evade his more powerful siblings. They were “feared and worshipped” by the (apparently) pre-existing ancient Fae - long, long ago, before the Courts and High Lords were established - until such time as a clever fae warrior tricked them into separate confinements; Stryga at her cottage, and Koschei at his lake. However, even “contained and diminished,” the Bone Carver still considered his two older siblings so threatening that he preferred to remain hidden.

The Carver traced three overlapping, interlocked circles in the dirt. “You have met my sister—my twin. The Weaver, as you now call her. I knew her as Stryga. She, and our older brother, Koschei. How they delighted in this world when we fell into it. How those ancient Fae feared and worshipped them. Had I been braver, I might have bided my time—waited for their power to fade, for that long-ago Fae warrior to trick Stryga into diminishing her power and becoming confined to the Middle. Koschei, too—confined and bound by his little lake on the continent. All before Prythian, before the land was carved up and any High Lord was crowned.” Cassian and I waited, not daring to interrupt. [...] “She could not kill them in the end—they were too strong. They could only be contained.” [...] “To hide from my siblings.” I blinked. “Why?” “They are death-gods, girl,” the Carver hissed. “You are immortal—or long-lived enough to seem that way. But my siblings and I … We are different. And the two of them … Stronger. So much stronger than I ever was. [...] That I have no desire to remind my sister and brother that I am alive and in the world. Contained and diminished as they are, their influence remains … considerable.” - ACOWAR, chapter 23

In addition to Koschei’s status as a death god, he has an incredible proclivity for sorcery; he is capable of making a unit of fae warriors disappear, via winnowing, from across the sea, complex glamorous and spellwork, and placing a functionally unbreakable curse on Vassa. Koschei is also able to deftly manipulate both people and situations, and he keeps women/females trapped as white swans at his lake; why? I have a theory or two, and have heard even more. We know that his main goal is, and has always been, to free himself from his lake and regain whatever power he lost; any help he gives to his allies is purely out of self-interest, so it's curious that Azriel mentioned that Briallyn was aware of Koschei’s manipulative ways, and that she was allowing her strings to be pulled. Could this be because she knows he has done this in the past? To the late King of Hybern, perhaps?

Koschei is frequently associated with bodies of water (the sea and his lake) and the wind, as well as mists and shadow, which is likely based upon the real-world mythology (see below). However, despite his own cunning, he was once outsmarted; this could either mean that it will happen again, or that he will now be wiser to any tricks his enemies hope to play on him.

Interestingly, Vassa avoids talking about him, or providing any real, concrete information that we have heard - my assumption is that Koschei placed a spell on her, forbidding her to do so, before he let her go with Papa Archeron - but also, none of the Inner Circle, or peripheral characters, seem to press her. Could Koschei be responsible for this lack of interrogation, too? We know he is “no mere sorcerer,” but how far do those abilities extend? All Vassa was able to do was suggest that Koschei would take advantage of a politically weakened world… in addition to freeing himself, he would try to make himself its master once again. Once more, could this be because Koschei is a shadowsinger, and they have some form of daemati/luring magic?

Her voice hoarsened. “Koschei is no mere sorcerer. He’s confined to the lake only due to an ancient spell. Because he was outsmarted once. Everything he does is to free himself.” “Why was he imprisoned?” Cassian asked. “The story is too long to tell,” she hedged. “But know that Briallyn and the others sold me to him not through their devices, but his. By words he planted in their courts, whispered on the winds.” “He’s still at the lake,” Lucien said carefully. Lucien had been there, Cassian recalled. Had gone with Nesta’s father to the lake where Vassa was held captive. “Yes,” Vassa said, relief in her eyes. “But Koschei is as old as the sea—older.” “Some say he is Death itself,” Eris murmured. “I do not know if that is true,” Vassa said, “but they call him Koschei the Deathless, for he has no death awaiting him. He is truly immortal. And would know of anything that might give Briallyn an edge against us.” “And you think Koschei would do all of this,” Cassian pressed, “not out of sympathy for the human queens, but with the goal of freeing himself?” “Certainly.” Vassa peered at her hands, fingers flexing. “I fear what may happen if he ever gets free of the lake. If he sees this world on the cusp of disaster and knows he could strike, and strike hard, and make himself its master. As he once tried to do, long ago.” “Those are legends that predate our courts,” Eris said. Vassa nodded. “It is all I have gleaned from my time enslaved to him.” Lucien stared out the window—as if he could see the lake across a sea and a continent. As if he were setting his target. - ACOSF, chapter 7

In addition to learning about Koschei’s well-known wile, and his goal of freedom with a side of world domination, he appears to be after the Dread Trove, a group of three - or maybe four; Amren, funnily enough, cannot remember - Made objects of immense power, which may or may not be different to the objects of power from the Hewn City… It is potentially suspicious that nobody answered Feyre’s question.

Azriel nodded to Cassian. “What Vassa suspected is true. The death-lord Koschei has been whispering in Briallyn’s ear. He remains trapped at his lake, but his words carry on the wind to her. He is ancient, his depth of knowledge fathomless. He pointed Briallyn toward the Dread Trove—not for her sake, but for his own ends. He wishes to use it to free himself from his lake. And Briallyn is not the puppet we believed her to be—she and Koschei are allies.” [...] Nesta found herself asking, “What’s the Dread Trove?” Amren’s eyes glowed with a remnant of her power. “The Cauldron Made many objects of power, long ago, forging weapons of unrivaled might. Most were lost to history and war, and when I went into the Prison, only three remained. At the time, some claimed there were four, or that the fourth had been Unmade, but today’s legends only tell of three.” “The Mask,” Rhys murmured, “the Harp, and the Crown.” Nesta had a feeling none of them were good. Feyre frowned at her mate. “They’re different from the objects of power in the Hewn City? What can they do?” - ACOSF, chapter 20

In fact, Amren and Rhys continued on to inform Feyre and Nesta (ie. the readers) about the three known objects of the Dread Trove, which I would not be surprised to discover were Made by Fionn/Koschei himself, especially if he is the "dark maker" of the Cauldron, responsible for the "death" portion of its name: The Bowl of Life and Death.

The mask, which can raise and control the dead, was created for a long-forgotten king - could it have been made for Koschei/Fionn, King of the Otherworld?

The harp, which can open any door, “physical or otherwise,” potentially even those between worlds (which, for those who have read SJM’s Throne of Glass series, sounds suspiciously like a Wyrd key) - given Koschei and his siblings came from another world entirely, the Harp's ability to open portals sounds like a useful skill he'd appreciate in an object of great power, and perhaps one that he'd know how to impart.

The crown, which allows the wearer to control any living person, even those with strong mental shields - if, as I suspect, Koschei is the original shadowsinger, who may have some daemati-like abilities, then this is another appropriate sounding magic for an object of power.

Then, to really drive the point home, after establishing that this is another case of “like calls to like,” Rhys and Amren drop in the hint that Koschei may know something more about the “full scope” of the Dread Trove’s powers than they do. Why might that be, and how? Again, is it because he Made them himself?

“The Mask can raise the dead,” Amren answered for Rhys. “It is a death mask, molded from the face of a long-forgotten king. Wear it and you may summon the dead to you, command them to march at your will. The Harp can open any door, physical or otherwise. Some say between worlds. And the Crown …” Amren shook her head. “The Crown can influence anyone, even piercing through the mightiest of mental shields. [...] “And all Koschei wants is to be free from his lake?” Rhys asked Azriel. But Amren answered. “No one really knows the full scope of the Trove’s powers. Beyond freeing him from his lake, Koschei may very well know something about the Trove that we don’t—some greater power that manifests when all three are united.” [...] Feyre cleared her throat. “So they are trying to find this Dread Trove in order to track down the Cauldron for Briallyn, and likely free Koschei in the process. And launch a war, with Beron as her ally, that would grant them whatever territories they wish. Or give some to Koschei, depending on what bargain he strikes with Briallyn—probably one to his advantage.” “Again, Briallyn is well aware of Koschei’s insidious influence,” Azriel said. “If her strings are being pulled, it is only because she’s allowing it to achieve her own ends.” [...] Azriel shook his head. “Not as far as I could tell. The Dread Trove was last rumored to be here in Prythian. That’s all Koschei knows, apparently. - ACOSF, chapter 20

In ACOSF we learnt that Koschei appears to have an interest in Azriel; the following passage seems to describe him as answering Azriel’s query about Briallyn with the fact he had spent “so many months” preparing for him (though this is open to interpretation, of course). In fact, Koschei didn’t sound as though he was talking to Cassian until after Cass had demanded that Koschei let Eris go free. It was interesting that we didn’t actually learn whether Koschei sensed Nesta’s Made dagger or not; was he aware, but he chose to save that information away for a rainy day? One would assume that a death god, would be able to sense a blade with death power in it that was stolen from the Cauldron, as Lanthys sensed something about Ataraxia, unless this is a hint that Nesta imparted some sort of non-death magic into her trio of blades... what could it have been?

The being that stood atop the lake was a shadow. It must be a reflection, Cassian thought. Smoke and mirrors. “Where is Briallyn?” Azriel demanded, Siphons flaring like cobalt flame. “I spend so many months preparing for you,” Koschei crooned, “and you don’t even wish to speak to me?” Cassian crossed his arms. “Let Eris go, and then we’ll talk.” He prayed Koschei didn’t know of the Made dagger that Eris had again sheathed at his side, that the Crown’s aura of power had blinded even Briallyn to its presence. But if the death-lord got his hands on it … Fuck. Cassian didn’t let himself so much as glance toward the blade. - ACOSF, chapter 71

In addition to Koschei accusing Cassian of falling for his trick - he is known to be cunning and, if he was once known as Fionn, then he had a blade named for a legendary Welsh trickster, to boot - this could potentially link back to both the trap that was set for the Inner Circle in Hybern, and the fae that Nesta saw being trapped in the vision the Harp sent to her (quotes below). Personally, I think it’s safe to assume that, in addition to being linked with the theorised Dusk Court, Koschei has been meddling for a while - though of course I could be wrong - using any combination of his magical skills, contacts outside his lake, and manipulation.

The King of Hybern said, “The trap was so easy, I’m honestly a bit disappointed you didn’t see it coming.” Faster than any of us could see, Jurian fired a hidden ash bolt through Azriel’s chest. Mor screamed. - ACOMAF, chapter 63

Fae screamed, pounding on stone that hadn’t been there a moment before, pleading for their children’s sakes, begging to be let out let out let out – … It was a trap, and our people were too blind to see it… The Fae clawed at stone, tearing their nails on rock where there had once been a door. But the way back was now forever sealed… - Nesta’s vision, ACOSF, chapter 53

“You fell for it rather easily,” Koschei went on, “though you took your time making contact. I thought you’d rush in for the kill, brute that you are.” - ACOSF, chapter 71

Of note: in addition to Vassa, who has spent time with Koschei, Amren is also afraid of him. Amren, who was supposedly some sort of angel-assassin. Even Azriel and his shadows were terrified. For Vassa, this makes sense, as she has Koschei’s curse looming over her, with an unknown quantity of time left before he recalls her to his lake.

They could make out nothing of him beyond the shadows of his form. Even Azriel’s own shadows kept tucked behind his wings. Koschei laughed, and Azriel stiffened. Like his shadows had murmured a warning. His Siphons flared again. “Run,” Az breathed, and the pure terror on his brother’s face had Cassian spreading his wings, readying to launch— [...] Koschei said, “Tell my Vassa I’m waiting.” - ACOSF, chapter 71

What warning could Koschei have given Azriel?

What do we know about Fionn, the only High King in Prythian history?

The short answer is, we don’t know much at all. While we learnt the following information from Rhys and Amren throughout ACOSF, given the fact that history can become warped as it gets repeated over time, not to mention the fact that biased reporting can misrepresent what actually happened in the first place, I think - as with what we know about Koschei - we should keep an open mind when interpreting it for the purposes of theorising.

According to Rhys, Fionn was given the great sword, ‘Gwydion,’ by the High Priestess Oleanna, who dipped it in the Cauldron herself. Fionn was “one of” the fae heroes who rose up to overthrow the Daglan, the monstrous, godlike race who once ruled over and enslaved both fae and humans, millennia ago; he did so using Gwydion. This was followed by a thousand years of peace, during which the lands (plural) were divided into “rough territories that were the precursors to the courts.”

“The Fae were not the first masters of this world. According to our oldest legends, most now forgotten, we were created by beings who were near-gods—and monsters. The Daglan. They ruled for millennia, and enslaved us and the humans. [...] Fionn and Gwydion overthrew the Daglan. A millennium of peace followed, and the lands were divided into rough territories that were the precursors to the courts—but at the end of those thousand years, they were at each other’s throats, on the brink of war.” His face tightened. “Fionn unified them and set himself above them as High King. The first and only High King this land has ever had.” - ACOSF, chapter 55

Fionn was then “betrayed” by his queen, a female who had once led her own territory (a court "precursor," perhaps?), as well as his general, who had been his closest friend; they “killed him,” then absconded with some of “his bloodline’s most powerful and precious weapons.” This mayhem apparently resulted in the current structure of Prythian, with the seven High Lords and associated courts. Amren appeared to have been in the Prison the entire time, so had no relevant information to share.

“Fionn was betrayed by his queen, who had been leader of her own territory, and by his dearest friend, who was his general. They killed him, taking some of his bloodline’s most powerful and precious weapons, and then out of the chaos that followed, the seven High Lords rose, and the courts have been in place ever since.” Feyre asked, “Does Amren remember this?” Rhys shook his head. “Only vaguely now. - ACOSF, chapter 55

Interesting, though, is the fact that Fionn’s sword, Gwydion, “vanished” around the time “the last of the Trove” went missing, and has been “gladly missing” ever since. What could have happened to it? Personally, this gives me “The One Ring” vibes, from The Lord of the Rings - a powerful magical object, Made in a magical Cauldron, as opposed to Mount Doom, that will decide for itself when it wants to be found - perhaps Fionn’s great blade has its own plans? If you’re wondering where Gwydion may have been hiding all this time, here is an interesting Truth-Teller theory, written by @icedflames.

“No one has been able to create a magic sword in more than ten thousand years,” Amren said. “The last one Made, the great blade Gwydion, vanished around the time the last of the Trove went missing.” [...] “Gwydion is gone,” Amren said, a shade sadly, “or has been gladly missing for millennia.” - ACOSF, chapter 42

Mythology that could play a role in Koschei’s character

Koschei the Deathless

Many people have already written about Koschei the Deathless (or, ‘the Immortal’), an anti-hero from Slavic folklore, and how the related mythology could play into the story of the ACOTAR character of the same name, so I will try to keep this brief. For further reading, I highly recommend these two posts:

Koschei the Deathless/Three sisters and three brothers, @psychee92

Koschei, @silverlinedeyes

Koschei from Slavic mythology, sometimes considered a god of death, is known to hide his soul inside a series of nested objects (often a bone needle in an egg, which is then inside a duck, and then, in turn, inside a hare, trapped within a chest that is buried at the base of a tree on an island), thus rendering himself functionally immortal, as his soul needs to be retrieved before he can be killed. As an added incentive for him to keep his soul hidden away, whoever holds the egg can control Koschei himself.

According to some, the Russian spelling of Koschei's name hints that it could be related to the word “kost,” which translates to “bone” in English… which obviously brings to mind the following part of the Book of Breathings’ prophecy:

Life and death and rebirth

Sun and moon and dark

Rot and bloom and bones

Hello, sweet thing. Hello, lady of night, princess of decay. Hello, fanged beast and trembling fawn. Love me, touch me, sing me.

[...]

Light and dark and gray and light and dark and gray— - ACOMAF, chapter 57

If the association pans out, I think there are three options for the location of this hypothetical island:

The first is Hybern, an island which is potentially the home of the now-fallen Dusk Court, and frequently connected to "bone" in the text - the bone-white cliffs they fly over, the castle's walls were constructed with bones, and the throne itself is made from the bones of humans (ACOMAF, chapters 61 and 63).

The second option is the hidden island on which Drakon and Miryam live, where the Cauldron - the Bowl of Life and Death - currently resides.

The third is Ramiel, which, while not an island, is one of the sister peaks, with an unexplored interior. Ramiel also means "God's thunder."

In addition to waging war, the Koschei we know of from Slavic legends is also known for stealing women, frequently taking the wives of the hero of the tale - below, you will read that this parallels with Fionnbharr (Finvarra), the King of the Fairies and the Otherworld from Irish legend - which sounds appropriate for Koschei’s ACOTAR counterpart, given that he both has a group of women trapped at his lake in the form of white swans, and he orchestrated Vassa’s kidnapping and arrival at his lake before, we assume, he cursed her to be a firebird by day, and a human once more by night.

“There is … a lake. Deep in—in the continent, I think. Hidden amongst mountains and ancient forests.” Elain’s throat bobbed. “He keeps them all at the lake.” “Other women like her?” “Yes—and no. Their feathers are white as snow. They glide across the water—while she rages through the skies above it.” - ACOWAR, chapter 33

Other powers that are commonly associated with Koschei are:

Shape shifting

Manipulation of the elements

Spellwork

Flying as "vapor on the wind"

He has a "magic steed"

All of these sound like they could be used by SJM's version of Koschei, and hints have appeared already. Koschei is known for his spellwork - as Vassa said in ACOSF, he is “no mere sorcerer” - and he appears to be able to use the wind - an element - for his own devices, and perhaps even the sea, given his association with it.

“Koschei is no mere sorcerer. He’s confined to the lake only due to an ancient spell. Because he was outsmarted once. Everything he does is to free himself.” “Why was he imprisoned?” Cassian asked. “The story is too long to tell,” she hedged. “But know that Briallyn and the others sold me to him not through their devices, but his. By words he planted in their courts, whispered on the winds.” “He’s still at the lake,” Lucien said carefully. Lucien had been there, Cassian recalled. Had gone with Nesta’s father to the lake where Vassa was held captive. “Yes,” Vassa said, relief in her eyes. “But Koschei is as old as the sea—older.” “Some say he is Death itself,” Eris murmured. “I do not know if that is true,” Vassa said, “but they call him Koschei the Deathless, for he has no death awaiting him. He is truly immortal. And would know of anything that might give Briallyn an edge against us.” - ACOSF, chapter 7

In addition to the passage above, one of Mor's POV chapters in ACOFAS had her riding a horse, one of six, all "rare and coveted breeds," that she bought along with her personal estate, Athelwood, three centuries ago.

Early-morning mist hung between the bumps and hollows of the sprawling estate. Her estate. Athelwood. She’d bought it three hundred years ago for the quiet. Had kept it for the horses. Ellia took the hills with unfaltering grace, flowing fast as the west wind. [...] How far away the continent seemed, Rhys’s request with it. To go, to play spy and courtier and ambassador, to see those kingdoms long closed, where friends had once dwelled … Yes, her blood called to her. Go as far and wide as you can. Go on the wind. [...] Ellia’s ears went flat against her head. Mor stiffened, following the mare’s line of sight. [...] Even in these woods, ancient terrors had been known to emerge. But Mor scented nothing, saw nothing. [...] Nothing, except— There, between a snarl of thorns. A patch of darkness. - ACOFAS, chapter 24

"Vapor on the wind" could be represented by the early morning mist at Athelwood, and one of Mor's rare horses could be Koschei’s magical steed; maybe even Ellia herself, who was described as "flowing fast as the west wind." It is perhaps relevant that the name Ellia has a few meanings, including little cinders, truly foreign, bright one, and, interestingly, “goddess” in Hebrew; Koschei is regarded as a death god. I should also note that the Morrigan goddess of Irish mythology also has strong ties to horses, so this could be a nod to her, instead; whether SJM intended the association to extend to Koschei or not, we cannot say at this point.

There are many more hints in the text for the legendary Koschei's influence on ACOTAR, and where the story may go - many others have already written about them - but I'll leave them for another post.

Fionnbharr/Finvarra, King of the Fairies… and the Dead

Many of us have likely come to the conclusion that the High King Fionn we learnt about in ACOSF is based upon Fionnbharr, also known as Finvarra, who was the King of the Daoine Sidhe (fairies/elves) of Western Ireland, according to Irish mythology. However, in addition to his rule of the Sidhe, Fionnbharr was also sometimes known as the King of the Dead/the Otherworld.

Rhys said, “We will walk onto that field and only accept Death when it comes to haul us away to the Otherworld. - ACOWAR, chapter 69

Fionnbharr was not only associated with great wealth, good harvests and powerful horses, and known as a chess master, to boot - the wealth buried in the catacombs of the Hewn City, rebirth, the cycle of life, pegasi and strategy all sound like topics that could potentially be linked to Koschei and/or the Dusk Court as I tentatively understand it - but he was also known for his penchant for kidnapping women, which brings to mind Vassa, and the women (or females) who are trapped as white swans at Koschei’s lake. Unsurprisingly, much of this - horses, stolen women, cunning, association with death - marries readily with the real-world Koschei mythology that I mentioned above.

“There is … a lake. Deep in—in the continent, I think. Hidden amongst mountains and ancient forests.” Elain’s throat bobbed. “He keeps them all at the lake.” “Other women like her?” “Yes—and no. - ACOWAR, chapter 33

Furthermore, Fionnbharr was known for generously aiding those he favoured, which plays in to how I interpret Koschei’s hypothetical relationship with the former King of Hybern - I suspect Koschei was using the late King, while maintaining the appearance of helping him out, with the end goal being his death (what if he wanted the throne of Dusk, which is hypothetically Hybern, free for the taking); but more on that later.

The (potential) influence of Irish and Welsh mythology on both the Dusk Court and ACOTAR’s Koschei

But Cassian scanned the heavy gray sky, as if hunting for spying eyes. Then the moss and grass and rocks beneath our boots for listening ears below. “There was life here,” he said, answering my question at last, “before the High Lords took Prythian. Old gods, we call them. They ruled the forests and the rivers and the mountains—some were those things. Then the magic shifted to the High Fae, who brought the Cauldron and Mother along with them, and though the old gods were still worshipped by a select few, most people forgot them.” I grappled onto a large gray rock as I climbed over it. “The Bone Carver was an old god?” He dragged a hand through his hair, the Siphon gleaming in the watery light. “That’s what legend says. Along with whispers of being able to fell hundreds of soldiers with one breath.” - ACOWAR, chapter 22

I’ve briefly spoken before about the hypothetical link between the faeries of the fallen Dusk Court and either the Tuatha de Danann, or the Daoine Sidhe, from Irish legend, but if Koschei was once known as Fionn - and assuming that Fionn and his queen ruled over the land that was the precursor to the Dusk Court (now Hybern), before he became the High King of Prythian, then I suspect SJM could have been inspired by not only the tales of the Tuatha de Danann conceding their land to the Milesians, but also those of the Tuatha de's fraught relationship with the Fomorians, with a little addition of some Welsh mythology counterparts.

The following will be an attempt to fit what we know of ACOTAR-Koschei’s backstory in with Prythian lore, combined with suggestions for possible in-world history inspired by the Tuatha de and the Fomorians of Irish legend. For more comprehensive information on the Tuatha de Danann, read more here, or watch/listen here; for information about the Fomorians, check out this post.

To recap, the Tuatha De Danann, known as the Tribe of the Gods, or the People of the Goddess Danu, were considered a race of gods - or god-like, magical beings - possessed of a variety of powers, who inhabited Ireland in the 'fifth wave' of invasion recorded in Irish mythology. They are said to have arrived in Ireland from four cities, to either the north or the west (called Falius, Gorias, Finias and Murias), in one of two ways:

From the sky, in clouds of smoke/fog, or

They sailed across a sea, then burnt their ships on arrival, which created the clouds of smoke.

Legend says that the Tuatha de Danann brought with them great wisdom and knowledge, as well as four objects of power, known as their four ‘jewels’ or ‘treasures,’ from each of their four cities, which have been theorised as having been in the heavens, or lands from either the north or west of Ireland; claims range from Atlantis to Denmark to Greece (this could be important, as I think that Greek mythology may also play a role in Koschei’s story, as well as Elain and Azriel's hypothetical journey). As mentioned in my earlier Dusk post, I suspect that the hypothetical Dusk Court fae will have a similar background, as well as powers based around light and shadows (and Sight and Truth), and that they are likely trapped in some form in mounds - perhaps specific mountains, such as the Court of Nightmares in the Hewn City, or the Prison - around Prythian.

The Fomorians, on the other hand, had been battling to claim Irish soil long before the Tuatha de arrived. Said to have come from the sea - remember Vassa’s words? “But Koschei is as old as the sea—older.” - or descended from the cursed son of Noah, ‘Ham,’ they were described as monstrous beings, who commonly enslaved those they conquered, or demanded excessive tributes. Interestingly, Fomorians were also associated with fog, storms, winter and disease.

“The Fae were not the first masters of this world. According to our oldest legends, most now forgotten, we were created by beings who were near-gods—and monsters. The Daglan. They ruled for millennia, and enslaved us and the humans. - ACOSF, chapter 55

Upon arrival to the shores of Ireland, Nuada was the king of the Tuatha de; however, after losing a hand in their battle against the existing people - the Firbolgs - he stepped aside for Breas, who remained king for seven years, until Nuada was fitted with a prosthetic hand made of silver, and deemed able to take the throne once more. Breas was actually of mixed heritage, with a Tuatha de mother, but a Fomorian father. This is where we can start to - hypothetically, of course - blend our real-world legends with what we know of Prythian history (thanks, Amren), to create a potential backstory for Koschei and the hypothesised Dusk Court.

What if Koschei - and thus Fionn, if the theory holds - was actually a Daglan, and initially a god-like rival to the fae of Prythian's world, including what would have become the Dusk Court, if he and his queen had maintained power when the territories that became the current Courts did so. This could mean that the bulk of the existing Dusk Court fae were based upon the Tuatha de Danann, but Fionn/Koschei and the Daglan were inspired by the Fomorians. The resulting Dusk fae would then, hypothetically, be a blend of both. Given ACOTAR-Koschei's association with wind, fog/mist, shadows and the cold - and perhaps disease could be a stand-in for death - I don't believe this is too far-fetched.

Mor leaned forward. “Do you know why the other queens cursed her—sold her to him?” Elain studied the table. “No. No—that is all mist and shadow.” Rhys blew out a breath. “Can you sense where she is?” “There is … a lake. Deep in—in the continent, I think. Hidden amongst mountains and ancient forests.” Elain’s throat bobbed. “He keeps them all at the lake.” “Other women like her?” “Yes—and no. Their feathers are white as snow. They glide across the water—while she rages through the skies above it.” - ACOWAR, chapter 33

But know that Briallyn and the others sold me to him not through their devices, but his. By words he planted in their courts, whispered on the winds.” [...] “Yes,” Vassa said, relief in her eyes. “But Koschei is as old as the sea—older.” “Some say he is Death itself,” Eris murmured. - ACOSF, chapter 7

The Daglan were a powerful, otherworldly, monstrous species - essentially gods - of an age long since past; they consumed the magic of the land, kept slaves, held the “Wild Hunt” to keep their fae and humans they controlled in check, and were known to possess beasts, which many in the fandom theorise could be linked with those of the Hewn City, or perhaps the naga. What if, and remember, this is just a theory, the hollow sister mountains pre-date the High Fae, and the Daglan were the original occupants of the Hewn City, Ramiel, and Under the Mountain? Maybe even the Prison mountain, or the mountain that holds the House of Wind and the library? In terms of crack theories, what if the Daglan’s beasts were originally from the world to which Aelin banished the deities of her world? Could that have been one of the Circles of Hel that we learnt about in the first Crescent City novel?

“The Fae were not the first masters of this world. According to our oldest legends, most now forgotten, we were created by beings who were near-gods—and monsters. The Daglan. They ruled for millennia, and enslaved us and the humans. [...] “Some strains of the mythology claim that one of the Fae heroes who rose up to overthrow them was Fionn, who was given the great sword Gwydion by the High Priestess Oleanna, who had dipped it into the Cauldron itself. Fionn and Gwydion overthrew the Daglan. A millennium of peace followed, and the lands were divided into rough territories that were the precursors to the courts—but at the end of those thousand years, they were at each other’s throats, on the brink of war.” His face tightened. “Fionn unified them and set himself above them as High King. The first and only High King this land has ever had.” [...] “Fionn was betrayed by his queen, who had been leader of her own territory, and by his dearest friend, who was his general. They killed him, taking some of his bloodline’s most powerful and precious weapons, and then out of the chaos that followed, the seven High Lords rose, and the courts have been in place ever since.” - ACOSF, chapter 55

What if, similarly to Maeve from SJM’s Throne of Glass series, Koschei/Fionn made a play for ultimate power and either tricked the High Fae/faeries that he was one of them, or made some sort of deal or bargain to share power with one of the existing rulers - perhaps his eventual queen? I believe it could be a combination of the two, where he tricked the existing fae that he was one of them, and married into a ruling family, thus sharing power with his queen, and weaving his genetics into the fabric of the land. There could be a clue in Fionn’s sword, Gwydion:

Gwydion fab Don, from Welsh mythology, was a known magician and trickster, who was named for his mother’s lineage. Koschei is known to be a powerful sorcerer.

Many experts acknowledge Don as the Welsh equivalent to the Irish Danu, the mother goddess of the Tuatha de Danann, while others consider Don a male ancestor.

Defender of the Kingdom of Gwynedd (more on this further down), he was both cunning and a skilled warrior.

He used his magic for anything, good or bad, including the shape shifting of others.

He created Blodeuwedd as a wife for his nephew, Lleu Llaw Gyffes. @wingedblooms has written a brilliant post about the legend of Blodeuwedd, and how it may pertain to Elain Archeron, and I plan to elaborate on how this could relate to Koschei and a potential use he may have for Elain in another post.

Given that High King Fionn's sword was named after a mythological trickster, could Fionn/Koschei have tricked his hypothetical Daglan brethren into being trapped, similarly to both the fae Nesta saw in the vision the Harp gave her, and the Inner Circle’s disastrous mission to Hybern - that is, they didn’t see it coming? Could the Daglan be the Prison’s original occupants, perhaps trapped in lead sarcophagi to contain their mighty powers? Ramiel? Where else? The following passage sounds like it packs one gigantic foreshadowing punch for ACOTAR 5 or, more likely, ACOTAR 6:

Amren swore. “Lead to keep its full force in, to preserve it. They used to line the sarcophagi of the great rulers with it—because they thought they’d one day awaken.” “If the King of Hybern goes unchecked with that Cauldron, they might very well.” - ACOMAF, chapter 36

Moving on, what if King Nuada partially inspired Fionn/Koschei’s character, and Breas, the temporary king of the Tuatha de Danann, with a Tuatha de mother and a Fomorian father, is the Irish mythology stand-in for the hypothetical child of Fionn/Koschei, a Daglan father, and a mother from the (precursor to the) Dusk Court, who likely ruled it herself before she married Fionn/Koschei - perhaps the Mother, or maybe the High Priestess Oleanna, who created Gwydion… What if they were actually one and the same?

I suspect that Fionn/Koschei and his Dusk-fae (for lack of a better term) wife may have ruled over the land that would one day become the Dusk Court, once Courts and High Lords came into being. This Dusk-fae wife, who likely ruled the land before she married Fionn/Koschei, would then become his queen, when he became High King of Prythian. But who could she have been? As I mentioned earlier, Gwydion fab Don’s mother was Don, who is theorised by some to be Welsh equivalent to the Irish Danu, a Mother goddess; we learnt in ACOSF that the High Priestess Oleanna “Made” Fionn’s great sword Gwydion, by dipping it in the Cauldron herself. In some ways, we could consider Oleanna to be "mother" to the blade Gwydion. While veering into crack territory, I posit that the High Priestess Oleanna may have been both the Mother goddess of Prythian, and Fionn/Koschei’s queen. If this is correct, then who was his general? I think we could learn that it was either the ancient fae warrior, who trapped him at his current lake, or perhaps Enalius, the renowned Illyrian warrior who died on Ramiel, protecting the Pass.

Alternatively, maybe none of this is correct - this is all hypothetical, after all.

Just getting back to Fionn's great sword Gwydion quickly, before we move on:

Firstly, please note I am NOT suggesting that Gwyn will be evil, just that she might be used - a victim - of Fionn/Koschei’s machinations, like everyone else. I am also not saying that this will definitely come to pass but, if Koschei was once known as Fionn, who had the great sword Gwydion, and his character was inspired by (amongst other myths and legends) Fionnbharr, Irish mythology’s King of the Fairies and the Otherworld, then I think this could be where a hint in Gwyneth Berdara’s name could inform what might happen with her character in the future (of course, this may not come to light in ACOTAR 5, it could potentially occur in ACOTAR 6, if it happens at all).

Gwydion fab Don was the protector of the Welsh Kingdom of Gwynedd, and a known trickster.

Gwyn ap Nudd is the Welsh equivalent to Fionbharr, as King of the Fair Folk, and their Underworld.

Gwyn’s full first name is Gwyneth, which is derived from Gwynedd, and her surname, "Berdara," means “bloody” in both Malay and Indonesian.

Given the naming similarities between the two Gwyns, the Gwydion link, as well as the association between Fionnbharr and Gwyn ap Nudd, and therefore, hypothetically, ACOTAR’s Koschei, these could be hinting that ACOTAR's Gwyn might be a tool - a "blade," say, or a "trick" - in Fionn/Koschei’s game plan.

Once again, this would not make Gwyn inherently bad - just as Kaltain Rompier from Throne of Glass was neither bad, nor wicked, simply used by an evil character - nor do I believe it would preclude her from being worthy of friendship or love; if SJM plans for her to end up with a romantic partner by the end of this trilogy, Gwyn being used by the Big Bad shouldn’t affect that endgame (same as any other character… it would actually create an obstacle - a plot point - for the pair to overcome), whether that be Azriel or Balthazar or Tarquin, or anyone else. If Chaol and Lorcan were given HEA’s in Tower of Dawn and Kingdom of Ash respectively, then Gwyn, with all of her bravery and self sacrifice, could certainly receive one, too. This is just a potential link that I’ve noticed in the pool of myths and legends from which SJM may be drawing her inspiration, so it might be a huge coincidence, that does not even come to pass; I just thought it was worth mentioning. If it’s not something you personally want to read, that's fine, please be kind.

Erebos, Hypnos and Thanatos

A throwaway line in ACOWAR, just after Feyre had asked Keir for the Ouroboros mirror, piqued my attention at the time, but it wasn’t until I had the thought that Koschei could have once been Fionn, when looking into the Sidhe, that it properly settled into place:

A shrug. “So it is yours, if you dare to face it.” Keir paused at the threshold as the doors opened on a phantom wind. He said to Rhys, perhaps the closest he’d come to asking for permission to leave, “Lord Thanatos is having… difficulties with his daughter again. He requires my assistance.” - ACOWAR, chapter 26

In Greek mythology, Thanatos is the personification of death; a son to Nyx, the goddess of night, and Erebos, the god of deep darkness and shadows, he was also the twin brother to Hypnos, the god of sleep. If there is a Thanatos present in the Hewn City, is the existence of a Lord Hypnos a given? The namesake of a god of sleep, existing in a, hypothetically, slumbering off-shoot of the Dusk Court would be very appropriate. The presence of a Lord Thanatos in the Court of Nightmares not only makes me more certain that Azriel will have a significant association with it in the end - and wonder whether the Thanatos in question could be Azriel’s ancestor - but it also reminded me of Erebos.

If ACOTAR’s Koschei is partially based on Fionnbharr, King of the Otherworld, in addition to his namesake, could he potentially have elements of Erebos and Thanatos blended in, as well?

The Thanatos of Greek mythology, god of death, was outwitted by King Sisyphus, who chained him in his own shackles; this could be indicative of how the fae warrior of whom the Bone Carver spoke tricked Koschei into his current predicament.

Perhaps significantly, the following passage was mentioned three times in ACOSF:

In the beginning

And in the end

There was Darkness

And nothing more - ACOSF, prologue, chapters 31 and 77

Erebos, the Greek god of darkness and shadows, was a primordial deity born out of the primeval void, Chaos. His powers included:

Unrivalled manipulation of darkness and shadows (sorry, Az), and the ability to embody darkness.

Death force manipulation, necromancy and erebo-geokinesis (power over “underworld walls”).

Telekinesis, emotional manipulation and teleportation.

Essence reading.

He was invulnerable… perhaps one could say “deathless”?

Rapid regeneration.

Immortality.

Leadership of the Underworld.

Enhanced power.

A lot of those powers sound like they could potentially belong to a shadowsinger, no? Specifically, those I highlighted in bold could fit with Rhys’ ACOMAF description of a shadowsinger’s powers, and a few other tracks we have gleaned about Azriel over the course of the series.

Rhys said, “This is Azriel—my spymaster.” Not surprising. Some buried instinct had me checking that my mental shields were intact. Just in case. [...] Shadowsinger. Yes--the title, whatever it meant, seemed to fit. “Like the daemati,” Rhys said to me, “”shadowsingers are rare--coveted by courts and territories across the world for their stealth and predisposition to hear and feel things others can’t.” - ACOMAF, chapter 16

And the rest sound like powers that could be appropriate for Koschei as we know of him. What if Azriel has untapped powers, or powers that he, or his hypothetical future child, is/are yet to inherit, because they are still being held by the invulnerable-yet-contained ruler of a long-forgotten precursor to the Dusk Court (post coming soon)? I also suspect that shadowsingers, lightsingers and the daemati are closely related, that perhaps shadowsinging involves some level of the daemati skill - the “emotional manipulation” that I mentioned above. Could Rhys’ accusation of Azriel “seducing” Elain (ACOSF, Azriel’s bonus chapter) be a hint that, just like lightsingers, fully powered/trained shadowsingers can also lure?

Could Koschei - once known as Fionn, High King of Prythian - be the original shadowsinger?

I can't wait to find out.

If you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging. 💜

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (24/28) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

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

A/N: The angst-to-banter ratio on this chapter is really high, so if that's your jam, I think you're going to enjoy. You can find all previous chapters here, or read Bloom & Bone on AO3. Thank you for reading! ❤️ If you'd like to get an early preview on the next chapter, follow me on Instagram at @house.of.hurricane.

“You seem more preoccupied than usual,” Vassa says in the middle of their after-dinner walk, nudging her shoulder against Elain’s, “and Tamlin has you extremely preoccupied lately.”

“I’m worried about Koschei,” Elain says, and Vassa’s first thought is to tell her not to worry, that everything is fine, but her second thought is that Elain has visions of possible futures on a regular basis, and her worries bear more weight than most.

“Have you had a vision?”

“Nothing about that,” she says, though her cheeks flush, and Vassa wonders whether her visions have taken a different kind of shocking turn, “but my visions don’t always act as alarms. When he came for us the first time--”

Vassa stiffens without wanting to. When she thinks about Koschei’s hands on her, in this place, she wants to run into the forest, take her chances against the fangs and claws of the beasts.

“You have your power now,” Vassa says, taking Elain’s arm at the elbow, reassuring them both that everything is different. “I’m proof of what you can do. You and your sisters. And all of us, here. Even if the High Lords will not listen.”

Vassa herself has sent out missives over the past week, whenever she’s not talking with Elain or training with Lucien or distracting Lucien from training her by kissing him or removing their clothing with the wind she’s learning to summon.

Despite her pleas to the High Lords outside this court, only Rhysand has responded.

“Tamlin will try to convince them,” Elain says, her lips forming the smile that has quickly become habit whenever his name is mentioned. “But Feyre will barely speak to me. She did not break your curse out of sisterly kindness.”

“Your sisters are good people, and strong-willed.”

“I think I owe her an apology.” Her voice dies out in her throat, the way a child speaks in the face of punishment.

“Then offer it, queenling,” Vassa says, fondly pronouncing her nickname for her friend, a reminder of all she has become. She knows that the relationship between Feyre and Elain is fraught, but perhaps all sisters feel this way. She had no siblings, and was taken from her cousin so often in order to learn to be a queen, and then to rule. They had no time for anything but smiles and confessions. She has written to Leda, a message delivered by Lucien, and received an enthusiastic response, an assurance that her kingdom awaits. But her cousin has always believed too strongly in the goodness of people. Setting these thoughts aside, she turns back to her friend, reminds her: “You’re the one who can appear wherever she likes.”

“Technically Feyre can winnow.”

“You’re making excuses.”

“I’ll have to tell her about Tamlin.”

“Is your alternate plan never to see your sisters again?”

Elain shrugs her shoulders, resigned, and Vassa almost regrets her tone.

“I’ll go to her tomorrow. I’ll apologize and I’ll ask her to help us,” she says, as they pass the window to the library, where Lucien and Tamlin are intent on their conversation, though the glass is too thick to hear what words are behind those emphatic gestures.

“Do you think they’re talking about us?” Vassa asks, taking the conversation in a lighter direction.

“Definitely,” Elain replies, her fingers pressing on the windowpane. “I just saw Lucien say your name.”

As if he hears them, Lucien turns to the window, finds Vassa in the darkness, and grins with all his teeth, a challenge and a promise. He’ll find her later.

But Vassa pushes down her anticipation. Her life has been extended by a thousand years, if Koschei does not manage to claim her for a third time. The possibility, newly considered, makes her skin grow cold.

And then she thinks, she is a new being now. It is possible that she could get her vengeance. The thought runs through her with surprising pleasure.

“Do you have any idea how we can destroy the death-lord?” she asks her friend, and hopes that in Elain’s surprising mind, there is an answer.

&

&

&

The next day, Lucien noticies a difference in Vassa’s attention during training. She grasped the fundamentals of her magic quickly, so that within days she could command a gust of air in the direction of her choice, but now she summons a lazy swirling gust with no particular direction.

“Do you need a break?” he asks, crossing his arms. She’d asked him to be hard on her so that she can learn quickly, and today he regrets agreeing to play the role.

“Is it going to be enough, against Koschei?”

“Don’t tell me you are planning to go to the lake today.”

“Elain and I are working on a plan. She is going to speak with her sisters today. Tomorrow, perhaps, we could go to him. But when I call the wind now, there is no response.”

“You and Elain have decided that you will be the one to kill the death-lord?”

“She has given me the opportunity to destroy him but I cannot. What did I think I was going to do, blow him away?”

He’s never heard this note of helplessness in her voice, not even when the curse was ripping her apart. Their training session isn’t over, but Lucien can’t help himself from reaching out to Vassa, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling him against her.

“It’s possible that you have other powers,” he says, right into her ear.

“You’re not going to start distracting me with seduction.”

“That comes later. Close your eyes.”

“They’re closed.”

“You’re lying,” he says, smirking. He feels the tension in her shoulders, the tilt of her chin towards the window, knows she will never get her fill of sunlight. “I won’t let you go.”

Her posture eases slightly and she leans her shoulders against his chest.

“My eyes are closed,” she says.

“Can you find the place where your power lives?”

She scoffs, resisting.

“You make it sound as if I’m a house with many rooms, Vanserra.”

“Focus,” he says, draining the emotion from his voice.

She stills.

“Your magic is a new facet of your self. What does it feel like?”

“The sea when there is no wind.”

“The ocean is vast. There is a breeze somewhere.”

She straightens in his arms, as if she is looking. He thinks of all those days he spent with her and Gabriel Archeron, crossing the waters, Vassa flying overhead, resplendent. He was desperate to return to Prythian before Hybern destroyed them but still he could not stop watching her flight. Always she has been a creature of the wind, held aloft by her own power.

“I think I’m getting closer. I feel… the sensation before a storm? The air is full of power. Not wind yet, but… lightning.” Her hands reach out for him, grip his arms so tightly that he can feel her fingernails through the fabric of his shirt and jacket. “I thought my power was wind, Lucien.”

“I’m here with you. Nobody can harm you now,” he says, trying to only convey his faith in her. “Keep looking. I won’t let go of you.”

She is still for a long moment, draws a deep breath and releases it with a sigh. Now her quiet is searching, determined.

“I see the wind now. There is more than I-- and the air here, Lucien, I think I can…” She raises her hand and the air rushes into his lungs and he coughs against it. She lowers her hand and turns to him, stepping out of the circle of his arms.

Her eyes are open now, and afraid.

“I have some of Koschei’s power.” Always brave, though, she does not ask the question. She knows herself, already understands the contours of her magic. What it contains.

He takes her hands in his.

“What if he can take me back?”

“That won’t happen,” he says, his mind working through the problem like a key in a lock, and then, before she can ask him to reveal his plan, he kisses her, tries to forget that he could ever lose her.

&

&

&

“You said you would go to Feyre today,” Vassa says, before they’ve taken three steps into the garden.

Elain resists the temptation to pull herself out of this world and avoid the conversation, especially because Vassa is right. Koschei could attack at any moment.

“I just keep hoping this is over,” she says, thinking of the afternoon she spent with Tamlin in the village, where she went to every house and shop and introduced herself, the new emissary of the Spring Court and the High Lord’s intended. All those hours she spent smiling, nearly convinced she was in a different world. That Koschei had simply removed himself from their lives. The kind of lies she used to live by.

“You know that he will come for us. And then he’ll rip this world apart. Your sister is not so small-minded as to hate you so fiercely that she destroys the world.”

“My sisters are heroic,” Elain says, hearing Vassa’s remonstrance in the words.

“So are you,” the queen says, twining her arm around Elain’s. “Would you like me to go with you?”

“You owe her no apology. And forgiveness isn’t real if it’s compelled by a queen. I’ll go tomorrow, I promise.”

“I’ll ask Cook to make a celebratory cake.”

“You know he’s scared of you? Apparently he bullies Tamlin into accepting his chosen menu, but he never makes a single objection to your requests.”

“Maybe that’s because of my good taste,” Vassa huffs. “Tamlin is overfond of roasted meats. Cook has showed me his requests. Are you sure you’re ready for that kind of life? You could be emissary to Scythia instead. I promise to serve only the finest delicacies, and let you have dominion over all my gardens.”

“I will visit you all the time,” Elain says. “But I couldn’t, any more than you could plan your life apart from Lucien. Anyway I thought you liked Tamlin.”

“I do,” Vassa says, and then she sighs. “Even so, I will miss you. It is rare that a queen is allowed to have a friend and confidant who is not working towards their own ends.”

“Your advisors and generals will all want to get rid of me, I’ll be there so often.” Elain squeezes her fingers. Around them, the air is fragrant with the scents of lilac and roses.

“I’m not sure they’ll allow me to take the throne.”

“Your country has not crowned another queen, and you were been bound by Koschei’s curse for years. They know what a treasure they have in you.”

“You’re sure you do not want to rule, queenling?” Even in the moonlight, Vassa’s bronze skin glows brighter.

“I want to ensure that there is real peace. You know, I taught the villagers some new techniques for growing vegetables and berries today, and somehow I remembered all their names, and I’m as proud of that as any of my powers.”

“You know you saved my life and Tamlin’s. I’m new to this form, but yours doesn’t seem like an ordinary magic.”

“But imagine if our world had a peace so profound that I only had to use it to visit you and then take you to all the worlds we haven’t seen yet.”

“I would tell you that first we have to destroy Koschei.”

“I’m working on a plan,” Elain says, as if she’s thought of some daring twist since the last time she and Vassa determined their strategy, the necessary contributions from her sisters. “It’s only, what if we don’t survive this? What if these are the last moments when we are happy?”

“Is your peace worthwhile only if you get to enjoy it?”

Vassa dips her head to rest on Elain’s shoulder as if to add, I know you don’t believe that, and when Elain begins to weep, her friend holds her until she is empty of tears. She feels as if she has been in motion for so long, trying to investigate that horrible vision that brought her here and then trying to rescue Vassa and learn her powers and then save Tamlin and break Vassa’s curse. And now she has found herself in love, with friends, in a home and with so many plans for the future.

“I cannot lie and say that I am sure we will survive this, and anyway you are the one with visions of the future.” Vassa’s words are barely above a whisper. “Perhaps you have seen something.”

“The future is a blank to me.” The words catch in Elain’s throat, threatening to set her crying again.

“Then it’s ours to determine. We can give the world your peace and beauty.”

“I see why you are such a beloved queen.”

“Oh, you’ve barely scratched the surface.”

&

&

&

Elain arrives in the kitchen of the river house only because the garden, this late in autumn, is too cold to bear for more than a moment in the gown that was perfectly suitable for the Spring Court. Cerridwen is whisking vanilla extract into dough, and for a moment Elain does not speak, only inhales the aroma.

Of course, Cerridwen, trained in spycraft, notices her right away.

“It’s been a long time since I saw you,” the wraith says. Though there is no judgement in her voice, Elain still feels a flush of shame on her cheeks. Nuala and Cerridwen were the first to help her find a place in Prythian, a spark of joy, when she was drowning under the weight of all she had experienced. She should have come back to see them, even if it meant incurring Rhys’ wrath.

“I’ve missed you,” Elain says, hoping Cerridwen can hear how much she means it. “You always made this court feel like home to me. I promise I’ll visit more often.”

“So it’s true you are not coming back.”

“I’m still needed in the Spring Court.”

Elain spent an hour this morning scouring her skin and hair, trying to remove every trace of Tamlin’s scent. She does not want to mention his name unnecessarily, not before she talks to Feyre.

“You look happy, Elain.”

She is tempted, for a moment, to tell Cerridwen everything that has happened, the threat that looms on the horizon. But she knows that she is only putting off her apology to Feyre.

Instead she smiles and asks about Nuala, who, Cerridwen suggests but does not exactly say, is on a spying mission for Azriel. At this point, Elain would normally ask about the latest gossip, but instead she hugs Cerridwen tightly, breathes in her friend’s scent of lemon and violet, tries to put into the gesture all she is afraid to say in words. That this swift greeting could be their last time together.

“You brought me back to life.” Elain nearly chokes on the words.

“You would have found your way back,” Cerridwen says, giving her a little squeeze, the way she used to, when Elain felt barely tethered to this existence. “I’m glad to have helped you however I could. But I expect your sisters will be waiting for you.”

Elain isn’t sure how how Feyre and Nesta knew of her arrival when she hadn’t announced her plan to anyone outside the Spring Court, or how long they’ve waited in the cozy sitting room, Nyx between them, playing with a set of wooden blocks. With all their responsibilities, this isn’t a place her sisters normally linger.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out, as soon as they look up at her entrance, their gazes revealing nothing, though Elain tries not to dwell on the implications of this lack of gesture. “I shouldn’t have -- I lied about the vision and I should have told you I was struggling. And I should have told you about those meetings with Helion, and everything about my powers, and I should have told you about Tamlin without trying to shock or hurt you, because you are my sisters and you have both always been better to me than I deserve and I am trying but it seems I just hurt you no matter what I do, so I probably don’t deserve your forgiveness, but--”

Feyre cuts her off with a swooping hug, tight and soothing. Her arms an acceptance all their own, no words needed. Elain had thought she had passed the outer limits of Feyre’s deep kindness, her boundless generosity, but somehow her sister has looked past everything, and that makes Elain feel doubly ashamed amidst all her relief, that she had assumed her sister so incapable of understanding.

“You did a very thorough job of washing yourself today,” Nesta says as she comes to claim her own embrace. Elain takes a deep breath and then steps out of her sister’s arms.

She needs to make this admission standing on her own.

“I--I accepted the mating bond, but you won’t ever need to see him, either of you. He’s different now, healed, but he hurt you, Feyre, and I know that and I’m sorry, but I couldn’t--” She stops in the middle of this second outpouring of words, not because either of her sisters has intervened, but because Elain isn’t sure what she should say next. Whether she would destroy this new peace if she says what is true: I couldn’t stop myself from falling in love with him.

“If he ever even thinks of harming you, I will destroy him, mate or not.” Nesta’s arms are crossed over her chest and Elain has no doubt her older sister can carry out her threat, but it’s to Feyre she looks, trying to decipher all the emotions swirling in her younger sister’s gray-blue eyes.

“Does he try to keep you in the estate?” Feyre asks, mirroring Nesta’s pose. “Or control the way you master your powers?”

“I left him in the passageway between worlds once, before we went to Koschei’s lake. He knew I could have left him there for the rest of time and he stayed willingly.”

“And in the Spring Court?”

“He took me to the estate village. And he began to train me to fight, but I’ve barely progressed beyond the fundamentals. I don’t think I am like the two of you in that way. I’m not a warrior.”

A look passes between her sisters, a knowing smile out of the corner of their eyes, which makes Elain relieved but also jealous, that they have this silent language, which she does not understand.

“He trusts you?” Feyre asks, and reaches for Elain’s hands, squeezing them within her own. A statement below her question.

“He named me emissary and he listens to my advice. Not only about little things, like the garden, but about strategy and leading the Spring Court and how to handle the borders of his land.” She takes a breath. “I didn’t want to fall in love with him, Feyre. I thought -- well, I’m sure you can imagine what I thought. And you know I had good reason to distrust him. But then he proved me wrong, over and over. And I still thought, perhaps it was all for show, but I truly think that there is a real change in him. Even when the world tilts toward disaster. He is better, and he’s my mate, and I think that my place is with him now.”

The words hang in the air, and Elain doesn’t breathe as she watches Feyre thinking. It occurs to her that her sister, as High Lady of the Night Court, could bar her from seeing Tamlin. In spite of her friends’ jokes about everyone underestimating her, she still finds it easy, sometimes, to forget her sister’s power.

But no matter what Feyre says, Elain has come into her own powers. Feyre can’t lock her away. She can leave whenever she likes.

“He apologized to me,” Feyre says, finally, and her voice is soft, hard to hear over Nyx’s burbling, the sounds of blocks against blocks, “before we went to Koschei, and I know what he did for Rhysand at the Autumn Court. If you say he’s different, Elain, then I believe you. It’s been years since I’ve seen you look this happy. But if anything changes, there will always be room for you here.”

Now Elain is the one who hugs her sister, crying so hard that Nyx begins to wail himself, and Feyre scoops him up, murmuring reassurances.

“Nesta really will destroy Tamlin if he’s behind your tears,” Feyre said, when all the crying has settled.

“It’s Koschei,” Elain says, drawing in a shaky breath, and then she lays out her concerns, the outline of her plan.

Nesta begins to offer suggestions, and then Feyre sets Nyx down on the ground.

“We need to involve the High Lords,” she says, in her High Lady voice, so that Elain can’t groan, though Feyre has known her long enough that her sister raises an eyebrow at whatever expression has darted across her face. “If you really want peace in Prythian, a lasting peace, we cannot take this kind of action, use this kind of magic, without at least informing them.”

“Will we have Rhys’ support?” Elain asks.

“As long as he can join in the fight.” Feyre smiles. “I think he’s getting bored of politicking.”

“Oh, he’s definitely bored. He’s already started planning for that damn snowball fight,” Nesta grumbles. “Ask me how I know.”

“We should have Helion and Tamlin supporting us as well,” Elain says, not able to suppress a little laugh as she thinks of Rhys and Cassian and Azriel all staying up late for months, plotting for victory in their snowball fight. There’s no pain in her at the thought. “Especially now that Helion can openly acknowledge Lucien.”

“Do you think that Lucien will go to the Day Court?” Feyre asks, and Elain realizes that she’s been waiting for a while to ask that question, and despite her sister’s forgiveness, her regret is acid in her throat at how she’d stayed away, that they hadn’t had this conversation sooner.

“I think he’ll go to Scythia with Vassa first.”

“Such a mated male,” Nesta smirks, as if her own mate were not completely besotted.

“At least he can winnow,” Feyre says, ruffling her fingers through Nyx’s hair. “Though from what I’ve heard about Helion’s reunion with Cybele, Lucien might want to stay out of the Day Court for a few months yet.” She wrinkles her nose, and Elain and Nesta burst out laughing, even if the innuendo wasn’t especially hilarious. Simply laughing with Feyre and Elain feels wonderful.

Their talk of strategy and Prythian gossip for hours, until Cerridwen brings them hot chocolate and cake and Nyx falls asleep in Elain’s lap, warm and sweet. It’s not until the sky is dark outside the windows that she hands him over to Feyre.

“I think I’m needed at home,” she says, not sure how her sisters will accept her phrasing. She’s relieved when they only nod, their expressions unchanged. “But we’ll start on the messages to the High Lords tomorrow?”

“You don’t need to scrub yourself so much tomorrow,” Feyre says, with one parting hug.

It’s perhaps the widest that Elain has ever smiled in her time at the Night Court.

&

&

&

When Lucien suggested the trip to the Day Court, Vassa was hesitant. There was the matter of her training, of course, but more than that, she knew that this would be a visit of some significance, meeting Lucien’s newly reunited parents. She herself has no parents living to approve of the match, and has no idea what will impress two High Fae who have lived centuries and who, no matter what Lucien says, may have enslaved some of her own citizens in the course of their long lives.

Still, Vassa loves Lucien, and so, when their morning training session is complete, she bathes herself and dresses her hair with the help of a female from the village, hired days ago by Elain, who will not stop asking about what it’s like to live with the High Lord Tamlin and Lord Lucien, blushing furiously when she dares to say either of their names. Vassa speaks of them as if they are distant acquaintances, because half of her thinks that the girl would expire if she revealed her relationship with Lucien, and the other half worries she’d find her throat slit. Still, she arranges Vassa’s curls prettily into a loose thick braid studded with diamond- and sapphire-tipped pins. When she looks at herself in the mirror, an ancient queen stares back, no need for a crown to mark her.

She changes into a blue silk dress that matches the gemstones in her hair, the neckline low but narrow enough, she thinks, to meet Lucien’s parents, especially with the long sleeves. She adds diamond earrings that hug the curve of her ears, and one of her more demure crowns.

“I’m worried that Helion is going to claim you as his bride,” Lucien says as soon as he sees her, and then proceeds to muss her cosmetics with a thorough kiss. Vassa is sorely tempted to rip the dress off her body, especially with their bed mere steps away.

“He was just reunited with the love of his life, wasn’t he?”

“I don’t see how anybody could look at you and not want you by their side.”

Lucien has changed from his training clothes too, into a blue velvet jacket like the shadow of her dress, cut close to emphasize the way his broad shoulders taper to his narrow waist. The shirt beneath is white and open at the collar, exposing the golden skin of his throat. And his pants are perfectly fitted, his boots shining, his hair soft and carefully brushed. She’d braided a plait near his ear during a break in the morning’s training and he left it, neatened slightly, and her heart warms, seeing the way he’s left this evidence of her on his body. That he would treasure even this momentary evidence of their laughter.

“They’d have to rip me from the most beautiful male in Prythian,” she says, swallowing back her desire. He’s promised the visit will be short.

“Careful not to let Rhysand hear you say that.” He unleashes the most glorious smirk, and then he reaches for Vassa and takes her into the roaring darkness.

Seconds later, they appear in a small library, with delicacies arranged on the tables, but the library is empty.

“Are you sure you got the time right?”

“They’ll be here any minute,” Lucien promises, a new strain in his voice. She squeezes his hand. “If they don’t arrive, we can--”

The door to the library opens behind them, and the High Lord of the Day Court and the former Lady of Autumn enter from the bedroom, Helion’s draped garment a little askew and wisps of hair escaping Cybele’s intricate chignon. There’s no mistaking the expressions on their faces, the warm satisfaction underlined by his arm wrapped around her waist.

She can practically hear Lucien rolling his eyes next to her and has to bite back a wide grin.

“You’re late,” Lucien says.

“I’ve heard it’s always wise to give newly bonded mates a few moments before entering a room,” Helion retorts, guiding Cybele to the center of the room, where their visitors stand.

“We just left a bedroom,” Vassa offers dryly, the kind of remark she would make to her generals when she first started out, wanting to demonstrate that she was not a squeamish young thing.

She had expected Helion to enjoy the remark most, but it’s Cybele whose eyes brighten, an expression she’s seen on Lucien’s face before.

“My son is lucky to have found you,” she says, clasping Vassa’s hand.

“Vassa reminds me frequently,” Lucien grumbles, but he can’t help but smile at his mother.

Vassa doesn’t miss the longing look that passes quickly over Helion’s features. For all Elain has told her about the difference in his private persona, she’s still surprised at the difference from their encounters at formal meetings. She could imagine this male as Lucien’s father.

The conversation between the two is halting, though, but luckily Vassa and Cybele are quickly able to find topics of conversation. They do not speak of Koschei or of politics, the treaty or the future of their lands. Instead Cybele speaks of Lucien’s childhood mishaps, and Vassa tactfully boasts about him, each lapping up the other’s stories in spite of Lucien’s protests.

Eventually, even Helion asks for more details, his arm around Cybele’s waist as she recounts the time Lucien unraveled a complex spell at some endless Autumn Court dinner, in between bites of a pumpkin pastry.

Lucien has told Vassa, in pained fragments, how his mother was abused by her husband, the High Lord of Autumn, and she’s heard the stories of how Cybele was found during the battle at the Autumn Court keep, imprisoned by her own sons. To watch her now, animated and laughing as she recounts the better moments of her past life, Vassa has a sense that the female is forcing the slate clean. Much like she herself is doing, with her hours of training and the hours in bed, living only in the present with Lucien. Not thinking about the past or even too far into the future. She cannot always live like this, she knows, but for a few weeks, it’s a lovely respite.

“Will you break the curse on Eris?”

The laughter in the room evaporates at Cybele’s question, and Vassa realizes, too late, that this is what she’d been building to with those little stories. Vassa has been trained to recognize these traps, and yet she was lulled into the camaraderie, thinking she was lucky that Lucien’s mother had liked her right away.

“I wasn’t the one who broke Vassa’s curse, Mother,” Lucien says, his voice too calm.

“But you could--”

“As I understand it, great magic was involved,” Vassa offers. “I think it is only a matter of time, and with Koschei--”

“We need to destroy him before he comes for Vassa and Elain.” Lucien’s eyes are blazing. “There is reason to believe that he will tear apart this world in search of them.”

“Koschei is still bound to his lake, correct?” Helion’s voice is light but he instantly controls the conversation. “How will he reach them? You are going to say through magic, in which case, shouldn’t you unbind Eris as a simple precaution? What choice would he have but to turn on you, if Koschei claims him?”

Vassa thinks of Eris telling her to run on her last day at the lake. He could have saved himself alone but he slowed the pace of his sprint to accommodate her, her human strength and her sodden skirts.

She presses her fingers against the back of Lucien’s hand, the slightest contact, silently willing him not to say anything else. That they still have work to do before they can return to Scythia and lock themselves in her most ample bedroom. That her vengeance is nearly at hand.

“We’ll make sure to tell the Archeron sisters,” Lucien says, rising from the couch. “They’ll be glad to hear that their powers are in such demand.”

“You don’t have to leave already?” his mother asks, the question too plaintive, and in spite of the awkwardness only moments ago, Vassa does not rise.

“We’re sharing a home with another newly bonded pair of mates,” she says, making a silent apology to Elain, “I’m sure they’d enjoy the extra time alone. And I’d like to hear more stories about little Lucien.”

She doesn’t miss Helion’s smile, or the way he pulls Cybele a little closer against him as she tells them a story about Lucien’s determination to make cookies with his own power, because he wanted the outside to be perfectly crisp and the inside to be dough. She recounts each of his failures, and when Lucien adds in the experience of his burning fingers and the sweet talk required to get the Autumn Court cook to give him more chocolate, Vassa feels her throat go tight. That even in the midst of an awful home, he had these moments of joy.

Much later, when they finally leave the Day Court, Lucien grumbles in her ear, “If I end up with a baby brother in ten months…”

“What if it’s a sister?” Vassa can’t hide her grin.

For a moment, he just stares at her, as if the possibility had never occurred to him. Though, she supposes, he did grow up with six brothers.

“It would be a relief,” he says, finally, “not to be a High Lord’s heir. Not to have that target on my back.”

“I can imagine you ruling the Day Court. You would be good at it.”

“While you are queen of Scythia?”

“I still don’t know if they’ll accept me.”

“You showed me Leda’s letter.” He kisses her temple and she shivers at the contact.

“When you’ll meet Leda, you’ll understand why I don’t share her confidence. My throne is far from certain.”

“And I am the bastard son of the High Lord of the Day Court.” But instead of the frown she’d anticipated on his face, he smiles at her before he runs his fingers down the neckline of her gown. She fumbles for the buttons of his jacket, her desire flaring already. In all her life, she’s never felt this kind of hunger. “Now we make our own future, Vassa.”

“First we destroy Koschei,” she whispers against his lips.

He steps away and she moans at the absence of him, the cool air against all the places he touched seconds ago.

“We don’t speak his name until tomorrow,” he says, and pulls her towards him so that she nods against his shoulder.

Perhaps their futures will be short. She only lets herself think it for a minute before she surrenders to Lucien’s clever fingers, undoing the buttons of her gown.

The world, so far, has not yet ended.

&

&

&

Tamlin hadn’t noticed the darkness until the first faerie, bearing a lamp, came to collect their child and the wooden practice sword that little Kaelie had refused to part with. He’d ended the impromptu lesson shortly afterwards, but still the children of the village had lingered around him, asking questions about battle and weapons and when they will be allowed to wield real swords.

The session had begun in the morning, when he’d decided to visit the village after Elain left for the Night Court. He’d been there the day before, so there was no urgency. He simply wanted to check in on Ilya and also Marlena, an old dryad who was feeling poorly even under the auspices of the local healer.

As he’d walked between the houses, Kaelie had found him, asking about the battle at the Autumn Court, if it was true he’d saved two High Lords and survived the magic of a death-god.

“You could do it too, if you started training,” he’d said, squatting down to meet her wide eyes, a deep brown that makes him think of Elain even though her eyes are lighter, more golden. Kaelie’s long blonde hair is tangled at the ends, no doubt from days spent outdoors, and her skirts are grass-stained, muddy at the hems.

“Will you teach me?” she’d asked, her chubby fingers clasped together in earnest.

Tamlin would like to think he would’ve started her lesson even if he were not alight with the possibility of his own children, that future that Elain had unfurled before them. But as he starts his lesson, and other children gather around Kaelie, copying his stances and his breathing and the mechanics of a punch, he can’t help imagining what it could be, to teach his own child all he’s learned.

He realizes, too, that he hopes that all these lessons are for nothing more than exercise. That there will be peace in these lands, once they kill Koschei. That his armor will rust and he’ll finally master the art of diplomacy over trivial requests between Spring and the other courts.

The children begged to “learn swords,” and so Tamlin had dismissed them for lunch while he’d gone to his estate for the wooden practice swords.

Just as Elain was months ago, they are awkward with the weapons, surprised by the heft required to wield them. But he’d taught them, bit by bit, until they can follow the barest essentials without dropping the swords or giggling at their mistakes.

He’d told them within the first hour that a warrior does not laugh when he is focused, and a girl named Nyra had retorted that she might actually be very focused while laughing.

He’d mentioned the Valkyries, old and new, how they saved their laughter for celebrations after their victories, and Nyra was rapt for the rest of the day.

When Elain appears, Nyra is in the middle of her third question about the Valkyries, and Tamlin is trying to think how he will tell her that he does not know the answer to her query, that he was a young soldier in the war-bands when the Valkyries were in their prime.

Elain kneels next to him, and smoothly tells the girl about her sister, Nesta, and her training. She hasn’t answered the question but Nyra is delighted all the same.

“I’m sure my sister would be happy to hear that the Spring Court will be defended by such a fierce warrior,” Elain says with a smile, then rises to guide Nyra to her waiting father, who still walks with a heavy limp after the war with Hybern.

“How was your visit to the Night Court?” he asks her, wrapping his arms around her and inhaling her scent, the roses and peonies which are sweeter against her skin than any garden in his lands.

“We have a plan to end Koschei,” she says.

Only when the fabric of his shirt clings to his chest does he realize that Elain has begun to weep in his arms. The tears are silent and she has fought the sobs into total stillness.

“If he puts the Crown on me, and I cannot remove it,” she says, finally, her face bright even in the moonlight, gilded with her tears, “you have to promise that you will kill me.”

Tamlin only pulls her closer against him. For a moment, he cannot speak.

There are stories that mates cannot harm each other, and maybe they are true. Perhaps he will fail to do this thing that now seems so unbearable, to wipe Elain out of existence.

But her agony is so total, her fear thick in the air, and Tamlin knows that she will die every moment that she’s under Koschei’s command, that she cannot be the one who makes it possible for him to destroy this world, to place his claim on all the realms beyond. That such an existence would be worse by far, for Elain, than a swift death by his own sword.

“I swear to you that I will not allow you to live as Koschei’s puppet,” he says, kissing the crown of her head, willing her every comfort and assurance.

There is, of course, another vow that he makes to her in silence: that he will die before the death-lord can cause her a moment of pain.

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (28/28) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

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

A/N: It's the final chapter! All of my final notes appear at the end, so click through to read. You can find all previous chapters here, or read Bloom & Bone on AO3. Thank you for reading! ❤️

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Of course, following Koschei’s death, there are endless meetings to determine the contours of the new era in Prythian, the new peace, and by the third one, Lucien has found himself staking out the seat next to Elain. After a few weeks of recuperation in her bed, she insisted on joining the High Lords and their advisors in these meetings. Still, the aftermath of the battle against Koschei and her pregnancy have left her easily tired, and when she falls asleep during the long afternoon sessions, neither Tamlin nor Vassa are cruel enough to wake her.

Lucien, who knows she stays up late preparing for these meetings in spite of Tamlin’s hovering, faithfully nudges her with his shoulder until she starts awake, offers her a piece of fruit under the table. He’s started taking particularly meticulous notes so that Elain can study them after her unplanned nap and still join in the discussion.

When, in the latest meeting, her plan for guarded waystations between the human and faerie realms is approved by a majority of the courts, Lucien scrawls well done, emissary on the parchment between them. She doesn’t notice for half an hour, caught up in the moment, but he watches her read the words, feels her squeezing his fingers.

Thank you, Prince of Scythia, she writes in her dainty calligraphy, I learned from the best.

He tears off that corner of his parchment. He’ll frame and hang it in one of Vassa’s palaces, he decides, just as the Queen of Scythia makes another appeal for better negotiations with the human realms, supported by Jurian and Tarquin, an unexpected boon, while Rhys and Tamlin nod along. Little by little, argument by argument, their peace is taking shape.

When the discussion is paused for the day, and everyone begins to leave for dinner, Helion approaches Lucien’s seat. At these meetings, he is usually imperious, but now his eyes are downcast. As if the High Lord of Day is nervous.

“May I speak to you a moment?” he asks, and Lucien watches Vassa’s eyes go wide, the smile she barely conceals.

Lucien nods, allows Helion to lead him to a balcony that overlooks the Summer Court coast, the sea lit fuschia and orange by the setting sun.

“It is not right that you don’t have a home,” Helion says after a moment, his fingers gripping tightly to the railing.

“I will join Vassa in Scythia,” Lucien replies, wondering if there was a way Helion had not heard. It has been a month since they killed Koschei, and he’s spent every day not in meetings winnowing Vassa’s generals and advisors to the Spring Court, where they prepare for her arrival, the most advantageous position. Though she insists that her reception is uncertain, none of her counselors have resigned or even offered real worry. Lucien thinks that with one glimpse of her, strong and confident, brilliant and beautiful, nobody could reasonably care about whether she was human or fae. They’d only want her to lead them.

“I know you have found love,” Helion says, interrupting his thoughts, the image of Vassa, “and for that I am glad. But you could be the heir to the Day Court, if you wanted.”

“I am a bastard, in case you’ve forgotten.” He tries to make the words into a courtly joke, but they grate in his throat. The truth he’s always had to live with, how unwanted he’s always been.

“I should have fought to claim you. I will always regret not carrying you away. When Cybele speaks of your childhood, I imagine what you would’ve been like in my libraries. Growing up in my court. I cannot say I would have been a model father, but I would have tried to make you safe, to give you a certain place in the world. And though it is perhaps too late, I would like to give this to you, at least.”

“It might be too late,” Lucien says, even as Helion’s face falls, his eyes go distant with regret. He takes a breath, inhaling the salt air. He thinks of all those nights in Helion’s library, when the High Lord never betrayed frustration or exhaustion despite the late hour, the intricate models that Lucien produced of Koschei’s curse, the demanding conversation. He had thought that Helion was distracted by the puzzle and then by the presence of Elain, the promise of new worlds, but then he always looked away under the weight of Helion’s gaze, not wanting to read whatever glinted in the eyes of the male who sired him.

“I am sorry.”

Helion’s voice is low but the words reverberate in his chest.

Lucien nods his head, lets the moment pass in silence.

“Anyway,” he drawls, running his hand through his hair, “you and my mother might decide you want to have a proper heir.” I would understand, he thinks but does not say, not sure how many of his secrets he will show to Helion.

There’s a warm weight on his hand, and it takes Lucien too long to realize it’s Helion’s palm.

“Even if we had a thousand children, I would want you for my heir.”

Lucien looks to the sea until he’s sure his tears will not fall, but even as the sun dips below the horizon, Helion does not leave him, does not move his hand from Lucien’s.

&

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Tamlin has known for weeks that Lucien and Vassa planned to leave for Scythia as soon as the peace meetings in Prythian ended, and still, waking on the morning of their departure, he can’t quite convince himself that this will be their last breakfast together. He moves through his morning rituals, his exercises and ablutions and dressing, the donning of his weapons, in a haze that’s only punctuated when Elain rises, and he tries to determine how bad her nausea will be today, what he can do to help her. Today, at least, the contents of her stomach stay inside her, but she clings to him, breathing in his scent.

“I’m going to miss them so much,” she says, and he can tell she’s trying not to cry.

“I will too,” he says, running his hand over her back, her skin warm below the thin fabric of her nightgown. “Lucien says he will winnow us there next week, and then you can visit all you’d like.”

Her magic has been returning, a slow tide, and the first time Elain tried using it, moving from the bedroom to the garden, Tamlin had been terrified until he’d seen her waving from the window.

He had tried to ban her from going to other worlds, but she’d stood firm, gentle and stubborn as only Elain can be, until he’d relented, though she’d agreed to take someone with her on her visits to places unknown, where she could not fully ascertain the danger or speak the language. She’d accused him of wanting more of those cinnamon pastries that Cook is still vainly attempting to replicate. He had only smiled.

Although he is frequently exhausted, more afraid than he thought he’d be in any peacetime, Tamlin has never been so thoroughly contented. Elain is happy and healthy, thriving in her role as emissary, sweeter and funnier and smarter than he would have ever imagined his mate to be. Their baby grows inside her, undaunted, adding the slightest roundness to her belly.

After so many years convinced he’d spend his life alone, Tamlin has ended up inside a family.

Which is, perhaps, why his vision blurs as he walks with Elain from their bedroom to the formal dining room, which she’d insisted upon for such a momentous occasion, even if the food was their normal breakfast and she herself was in a simple day dress with a grass-stained hem, in preparation for a rare day in the garden.

“I was wondering if you’d sleep through our departure,” Lucien says as soon as they enter, rising with a little bow to Elain.

“You seem to forget I’m sleeping for two,” she shoots back, sticking out her tongue.

Vassa, grinning, rolls her eyes and pours herself coffee to the brim of her cup.

“You have no reason to be nervous, Majesty,” Tamlin says, approaching her before he takes his seat. “If my own people could forgive me--”

“You were never turned into the stuff of monsters,” she says, her tone a little mocking, but Tamlin does not bristle, especially not when she is right.

“No, I made myself a monster without anyone’s intervention. And I was not half the ruler you are. But if for any reason you need an ally in Prythian, know that we will always come to your aid.”

She clasps his hand, and then she drawls, “I would be more grateful for the offer if I did not know Elain would insist upon it.”

“I never said I wasn’t lucky,” Tamlin responds, his words punctuated by Elain’s laughter to a remark Lucien has made, and their meal is merrier than anticipated, until finally Vassa and Lucien rise to say their goodbyes.

Within seconds, Elain pulls Vassa into an embrace, and as soon as he realizes they are both weeping, Tamlin turns to Lucien.

“Will you be all right in the human realms?”

“You know, I used to think that humans were incredibly boring, preoccupied with the short length of their lives. But now I wonder if they make more drama and intrigue than any of us to make the most of those few years. I think they’ll keep me well occupied.”

“I will miss you, you know,” Tamlin says, clasping Lucien’s shoulder, drawing him close for just a moment. The way he’d always imagined he’d embrace a brother on the eve of his departure for a grand adventure.

“You gave me a home when I needed one.” Lucien looks at him in that way of his, as if he can see everything visible and invisible, straight through to Tamlin’s soul.

“And you were my first hope of a family.”

Lucien’s russet eye is bright, and Tamlin’s own eyes fill with tears, and then they both laugh at their emotion. They were both taught to conceal these feelings, to think only of the throne room or the field of battle.

“I’ll be back in a week,” Lucien says. “And again for your mating ceremony. I hear you are inviting most of Prythian.”

“Elain wanted to show off the garden.” Tamlin shrugs and Lucien raises an eyebrow, seeing through his attempt at deflection. He has invited all of his citizens, regardless of their rank or position, adding to Elain’s list, which had already spanned all of their friends and acquaintances, mutual or otherwise, the citizens of the villages near the estate, and delegations from every court.

“It’s a wise move, politically speaking,” Lucien says, looking over to where Vassa and Elain are whispering their parting words, their cheeks streaked by tears, their fingers clasped. These two females who could, between them, destroy this world and remake it better.

When Lucien embraces him, one last farewell as he leaves the place where he and Tamlin spent so many years together, sometimes miserable and sometimes much less so, Tamlin does not resist his friend. He holds him close, with all his strength, wishes him happiness and peace, and he can tell from the grip of Lucien’s arms that his friend means him well.

After all their parting words have been spoken, and Lucien and Vassa have assured them that they know they can always return, and will in fact see them before much time has passed, they winnow away, leaving Tamlin and Elain standing in the great hall, alone.

They’d each made plans to work: him on changes to Calanmai, her in the garden for the first time in months, after all her preparation and strategizing for the peace talks, the plans and battles before. But he finds that now he does not want to leave her side.

“There’s something I’d like to show you in our bedroom,” he says, whispering the words against the velvet skin of her neck, savoring her little shiver, the slightest moan that escapes her lips. For all their time spent together, in their bed and out of it, making love in nearly every room of the estate, he finds he only wants her more.

When he pulls away to hear her response, he finds Elain’s eyes are bright, but not with the tears she shed before Vassa and Lucien departed. She looks as if she is about to reveal a particularly cunning plan.

“I think we’re needed in the garden first,” she says, her hand in his, already leading him outside.

Grinning, he follows her into the brightness of the day.

&

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Vassa had agreed when her advisors suggested a royal parade into Kamianka, her capital, spending three days showing herself, strong and beautifully arrayed, to her people. As if she had been here all along, instead of trapped in Prythian, betrayed by her fellow queens, bound by a curse, transformed into a firebird by a sorcerer.

The queens have fled and the sorcerer’s ashes lie mouldering in some remote world, and when Vassa raises her hand to wave at the throngs of citizens who await her triumphal entry, she cannot help a grin that is, strictly speaking, a bit too wide to be regal. Even if her heart thumps in her chest, anxious at what awaits her, whether her people will reject her once they learn what she’s become.

At least she has dressed herself perfectly for this moment, consulting with her advisors and Elain. In the morning, her maid anointed her skin with oil, so that, at her neckline and wrists, her skin glows golden. Her hair, the mass of red curls, has been brushed, braids and gemstones scattered through its mass, highlighting her youth and beauty, the grace that’s only become more apparent in her fae body. Her gown is the same blue as her eyes, embroidered with diamonds and sapphires, which cluster on her shoulders and the plunging neckline like a mantle. The ingeniously split skirts, an invention of her foremothers, allow her to ride astride without showing a hint of her leg, and the weight of the fabric and jewels and petticoats feels like armor. On her head rests her most glorious crown, that halo of diamond and sapphire which gives her the air of a sovereign risen from legend.

She looks into the face of each person along her route, and is glad and grateful for what she finds there: joy and admiration, and something that she thinks resembles affection.

“You thought they wouldn’t love you,” Lucien murmurs from his own mount, a pace behind her own.

“They haven’t realized what I am,” she says. Her hairstyle purposefully covers her ears, allowing her to reveal herself at the most advantageous moment.

Although it is unwise, she still reaches over and clasps her hand in his. Even though she braced for it, the quiet that follows the gesture is a blow.

Still, the cheers grow in volume and ardor as they reach her palace in the center of the city, the spires plated with gold even more shining than she remembered, a sovereign crown that rises above her capital.

With one last wave, she enters her palace. She will address her citizens from the balcony, but first Vassa takes in her first view of this palace in years. When she was last here, a new queen, she wondered if she was unworthy of all the splendor, this ancient palace with its priceless artwork and lush fragrance. No detail is lacking: the tiles below her feet have been carefully laid to depict the natural wonders of her country, are carefully restored by skilled artisans every few years to repair the damage from so many powerful feet.

Vassa breathes in the scent of her home, the seat of her power, and, as she savors the fragrant resins, the scent of fruits that cannot grow outside these borders, she realizes that she still feels unworthy. But now she is not afraid of this feeling.

Instead, she takes Lucien’s hand in her own and ascends the marble staircase, a pure white she has never seen outside her country, which so many eyes in Scythia will never glimpse. It may, in fact, be her last chance to climb these stairs as sovereign, and so she ascends slowly, taking the time to savor every detail that surrounds her.

At last, she reaches the balcony.

Before her advisors can speak, Lucien pulls on her hand, leads her to a little alcove where the two of them can talk without being easily overheard.

“Remember that you are more than a queen,” he says, pressing a kiss into her palm.

“I am lucky,” she replies, summoning a smile, hoping she hears everything that underlies that statement. Her joy that he is in this world with her, that after all they’ve endured, they are still standing side by side.

Then she steadies herself, summons all her training, and goes out to address her people.

The street is full of upturned golden faces, all smiling and shouting for joy, and for a moment Vassa simply soaks in the scene. She is home at last, and her people have come to welcome her.

Her advisors form a line behind her, Lucien among them, and she reaches for him, so that he stands before her people. At first his head dips a little under the weight of their regard, their quiet, but then he gives a little wave, and there are cheers, and then she sees the smile on his lips, the straightening of his spine.

She signals the fanfare of the trumpets that announces her speech, and when the crowd goes silent, she begins.

“It is good to be home,” she says, unable to contain her wide smile, the joy and relief in her voice. “For years, I was held against my will by the other queens of this continent, who sold me to a death-lord out of fear over what this country could become under my rule. I used to think that there was something great in me that made them fear me in this way, but now I understand it was this: they saw that I would give anything, do anything, to improve your lives. They saw my will and my training and understood that their own hard hearts would be revealed in your own happiness and prosperity.

For every day of my captivity, and then my exile, I longed to return to you. I missed everything about Scythia, the country and you, my beloved people. Your warmth and kindness and your bravery.”

She pauses for a moment to applaud them, is gratified when they join in, not sure if they’re congratulating her or themselves, and already well beyond caring. For so long, she never thought she’d stand before her people like this, and now, at last, the moment has arrived.

“But, perhaps like you yourself have found in times of hardship,” she says, when they’ve quieted, “I found beauty even in the midst of my curse. Through the eyes of the firebird, I saw a world transformed. By night, in a strange land, I found that the fae of Prythian, the monsters I’d long feared, were in fact as complicated as Scythians. They protected me, advised me, and befriended me when I had no power and no kingdom, when I wasted away under the death-lord’s curse.”

She clasps Lucien’s hand tightly in her own, as strong a mark of affection as a sovereign can show in public, and she hears the whispers begin below her.

“I fell in love,” she declares, raising her chin, daring them to reject this most beautiful truth, then readies herself to reveal another as she pushes her hair back, revealing her delicately pointed ears, accented with diamonds so that nobody, even in such a crowd, can misunderstand. “To escape my curse, to avoid certain death, I was transformed completely. I am no longer human, the way all my foremothers, the queens of Scythia, have been.”

She takes a deep breath, hears it echo in the weighty silence. Although she has not spoken all these words to her advisors, has argued over them with Lucien, she feels they are engraved on her heart, impossible to forget.

“I was reborn with certain powers. Alongside my friends in Prythian, I destroyed the death-lord before he could terrorize this world and so many others. I have made a hundred plans for how to wield these powers to make your lives easier, in addition to my radical ambitions for our country.

But first, I would like you to choose what your destiny will be. I know you’ve always regarded the Fae as monsters, villains who terrorized you with their magic. I stand before you as one of them, powerful and long-lived and only nominally your queen. And I will not let this great country, most beautiful in this world, fall to ruin because I insisted on maintaining my position.

If you will have me as your queen, I will rule over Scythia for sixty years, the time I would have ruled if I had remained a human queen blessed with a long life. If I bear children in that time, they will not inherit the rule of this kingdom. Instead, your next ruler will be chosen by all of you. I do not think that ruling must be the business only of one family and their descendants. I believe that among you are leaders who will make even our most glorious queens look uninspired.

If you will accept it, I will spend my years as your queen making you prosperous and happy, building a lasting peace, and I will work to ensure that the transition from my rule to your next ruler, this new government of your own making, will be only the beginning of centuries of your flourishing.”

She can feel Lucien’s eyes on her. She had told him that she would offer her people the choice, but had never mentioned the limit on her rule. As much as Vassa knows he would sacrifice his life in Prythian for her, she cannot simply accept. Not when she sees how Helion regards him, as if to offer Lucien the world entire. Not when she believes that he deserves it.

Before he can say anything, object to the bargain she’s made with the crowd, she raises her voice to address her people.

“I ask you, my beloved Scythians, will you accept the rule of a faerie queen?”

She had expected silence, hesitation.

Instead, the crowd explodes in cries of yes, yes, yes.

She bows to them, just this one time, in thanks and love, and then she blows a kiss, and their cheers grow louder.

“You never had to sacrifice this,” Lucien whispers in his ear. “I never wanted you to give up your country for me.”

“You’ll benefit from the advice of a queen when you’re High Lord of the Day Court,” she says, unable to contain her smile, her joy. “I am doing what is best for the country. What will be best for us, I think. And I hope that Helion lives another thousand years. Because I would like to have a chance to enjoy this peace we’re building, my love.”

“I hope my father never dies,” he says, desire edging his voice as he pulls her into a deep kiss, making her people whoop with glee, to see their queen so happy.

For all the years Vassa spent imagining this moment, the reality so far exceeds her dreams.

&

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Elain had thought that life at the Spring Court without Vassa and Lucien would be lonely, but the three months she spends planning her mating ceremony pass in a heady blur. After the first month, the exhaustion from her pregnancy and the battle with Koschei finally fades, and she has seemingly bottomless energy for all the minutiae of the party, in addition to her duties as emissary, which she does not allow Tamlin to curtail. There are weekly visits with Vassa and Lucien, who show Elain and Tamlin their palaces with pride and reverence, and speak of their reforms and dreams for the country with increasing enthusiasm. They debate long into the night about the best way to rule, how to translate vision into action, how to strengthen diplomatic ties. Sometimes these supposedly elevated topics remind her of ballroom gossip more than anything, and sometimes Elain leaves those conversations with a parchment full of books and treatises to read and think over.

A month before her mating ceremony, she joins her sisters in the Autumn Court to remove the remnants of Eris’ curse. Tamlin comes with her, not trusting that Eris is reformed, and though she would not admit it, Elain is glad for his presence. She never wants to linger in the Autumn Court, with its lack of sun and the scent of Koschei’s power still lingering.

In the end, though, she removes the curse with a simple press of her hand to Eris’ shoulder, with no need for the aid of her sisters’ magic. Koschei’s death has unbound the spell just enough that it is easy to send that small vestige of his magic into the world she made, where it will dwell amongst the lightning and the darkness.

Still, when she finishes, Eris beholds her as if she was made new.

“You’re sure you’d prefer to say in Spring?” he says, an offer in his eyes. As if he does not see her growing belly, which has just begun to require alterations to her dresses. As if he does not understand the life she’s built for herself.

Perhaps in a hundred years he will realize what she’s capable of. In the meantime, she has work to do.

“It’s only that I’ve worked so hard on the gardens,” she answers Eris, all sweetness as she takes Tamlin’s hand.

They stay for an interminable dinner with Eris and his nobles, made brighter by Nesta’s sparring with the new High Lord of Autumn, by the looks from Feyre which are half exasperated and half amused, and as the courses drag on, Elain rests her hand in Tamlin’s lap, a clear suggestion.

“This is emissary business, I believe,” he says gently, though he lets her hear the desire in his voice. As if he, too, is counting the minutes until they can escape, and has charted a path straight to their bed.

She heaves a sigh because he’s right, and the making of peace will not always be pleasant. In the end, she speaks with a few of Eris’ advisors regarding the coast of the Autumn Court, their treaties with the fae on the continent, how they are rebuilding from Koschei. Just as she’s slipping into the rhythm of the conversation, they look surprised at what she knows already, the suggestions she makes. She forces another sweet smile on her lips, thinks that she’s glad Lucien found a way to leave this court behind.

Later, she hears Tamlin speaking to the same group of his brilliant emissary, how she saved their world and has been so essential in Spring Court diplomacy. She has to hide her smile behind her hand, but she doesn’t bother to mask the scent of her arousal.

When they finally reach the Spring Court, she barely lets him reach their bedroom before she begins removing his clothing, his hidden daggers.

“That could have been you,” she says, into the heated skin of his chest. His fingers trace over her spine and she arches into the touch. “Whenever I see Eris I think, thank the Mother that Tamlin turned out different.”

“It’s only that I’m lucky,” he tells her, the words coming from deep in his chest as he works the last buttons of her gown. “And I had particularly excellent advisors.”

“Now you’re stuck with them.” She smiles at him because she can’t help it. The relief she feels at being home, her joy at being with him, all make laughter bubble up inside her, lighter than air.

He rests his hand on her belly and looses his own bright smile, as if to say that he is glad that this is how they’ve ended up. Then he pulls her dress to the floor and Elain’s thoughts are replaced by sensation, delight.

Late that night, she feels the child move for the first time, light as a butterfly fluttering inside her. She presses Tamlin’s fingers to the spot, and they stay awake for hours, caught up in their excitement.

And so, when the morning of Elain’s mating ceremony finally dawns, she finds that the day does not hold all of the emotion she’d long anticipated. She and Tamlin will speak their vows to each other, promises they make and keep each day, and they will celebrate with roughly half of Prythian, and Cook has humored her enough on the menu that she has begun to dream about that meal. But still, Elain realizes, stretching lazily in bed, her fingertips brushing against Tamlin’s back, that this will only be one lovely day among the thousands that await her in her life.

There will be difficult days also, she knows, days where the hard work barely seems worthwhile. Days when this peace might be threatened, or the citizens of the Spring Court might become unhappy with Tamlin’s rule. Days when she will be unhappy even with this life she’s built.

But she knows now that she is strong, that her life is her own, and on the morning of her mating ceremony, Elain Archeron is not afraid of what lies before her.

Vassa provides her with a large mug of coffee and supervises Melis’ attentions to her hair, glaring at the little pink fairy whenever her fingers pause, until Elain has to assure Melis that everything is well and offer her strawberries and cream from the tray that Cook has sent up personally, in order to welcome Vassa back to the Spring Court.

Her sisters arrive during this interlude, Nyx racing through the room to hug Elain, to play with her hair until Melis gently pulls it away. She had a vision a week before of Feyre with a baby daughter, and in fact her younger sister looks a little green, but Elain only pulls her and then Nesta close in greeting.

Lately, all the visions she’s seen do not require her intervention, and anyway they are not certain, and so Elain has found it best to move through each day on its own.

“You look so happy,” Feyre says, her tattooed fingers squeezing Elain’s shoulder.

“But it’s not too late to run, if you want to,” Nesta says, aiming a meaningful look at Feyre, who rolls her eyes. “We will take you to any corner of this world you like. I hear the Summer Court is particularly nice this time of year.”

“This is where I want to be,” Elain says. “But I’m glad to know you will always rescue me.”

Her sisters, heroes of legend, beam at her, and Elain summons a maid for more strawberries while the conversation turns into Night Court gossip and the latest developments in Scythia.

“You’re quiet,” Feyre says to her after their hair is arranged and their cosmetics are applied, and the only thing left is to slip Elain into her dress.

“She’s strategizing,” Vassa responds, resting her head on Elain’s shoulder for just a moment. “Elain will be at your home tomorrow with recommendations on how to resolve any tension between your court and your people. I speak from experience. Though I hope she’ll take a vacation. And then help me plan my own wedding.”

In truth, Elain has already started work on Vassa and Lucien’s wedding -- their mating ceremony will be private, to avoid a political scandal -- in the midst of the Scythian mountains, a place of such wild, raw beauty that she cried when she first visited.

For now, though, it is her turn, and Vassa applies her favorite perfume, fastens a delicate necklace of pearls and diamonds that dips between her breasts, matching earrings that dangle amidst the curls of her hair. Her dress, embroidered by Melis with all the flowers of her garden, so vibrant and detailed that they look like living blooms, is slipped over her body, a second skin.

When they make their way to the gardens, where Tamlin and their guests await her, Elain takes a moment to watch as her sisters and her dearest friend walk before her, smiling brightly. The child gives a kick in her belly, alive and ready.

Finally, the music begins and Elain walks forward to Tamlin, his eyes bright as new leaves and his smile that makes her burst out into the widest grin. The wildness has not left him, that coiled strength, but he looks at ease as he stands in his finery before the crowd assembled before them, to witness this official beginning of their lives together.

In her mind there are a thousand visions, a series of hopes for the future. But now there is only the present, perfect moment.

Elain steps forward without hesitation, into the rest of her life.

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A/N 2: It's hard for me to believe that this is the end of Bloom & Bone. I vividly remember the night in March when I started writing this, how the first 500 words just poured out of me. I hadn't written fanfiction in nearly a decade, but after reading ACOSF, I couldn't silence this idea inside my mind, a story about Elain's coming into her own, finding unexpected love along the way. At first I thought this was going to be a quick diversion from working on original fiction, but the idea kept growing, and I ended up with a ten-page outline (most of which I had to rewrite!) and four characters whose stories I couldn't wait to explore. This is some of the best writing I've ever done, and I've never had so much fun creating anything.

One of my favorite things about writing fanfiction is getting to be part of the community of readers and writers, and getting to know all of you has been such a joy. Every message you send me, every line or scene you've enjoyed, I've really cherished them. And getting to know you and hear from you has been the best. Thank you for your support, kindness, and friendship.

Finally, I'll be doing an AMA on my Instagram this weekend, so please follow @house.of.hurricane if you want to know what happens to these characters after the final chapter, what was on my original outline, what any of the gowns in Bloom & Bone were based on... and what fics are coming next. I'll put up an ask box around 10 AM EST on Saturday, 11/13, and will save everything in a highlight. Thank you so much for reading 🧡

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (26/28) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

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

A/N: Would it be the final battle if there weren't a few surprises? You can find all previous chapters here, or read Bloom & Bone on AO3. Thank you for reading! ❤️ If you'd like to get a sneak peek of the next chapter, follow me on Instagram at @house.of.hurricane.

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From the moment she wakes, Vassa only focuses on what is right in front of her. There is Lucien’s mouth to kiss, a tunic and pants she’s borrowed from him to wear, plaits to braid and pin close to her head, so that no one can take hold of her hair. There are boots to pull over her calves, and coffee to drink, and now dawn is breaking and she hears the members of the Night Court as they appear in the great hall.

“We should go meet them before Nesta burns the whole estate down,” Lucien says, tying his own hair back with a strip of leather.

“Still so afraid of her,” Vassa teases, letting herself pretend, just one moment longer, that this is an ordinary day, that she will not come face to face with Koschei, that she might not survive the encounter. She slips her hand in Lucien’s while he explains that he’s never quite trusted the official story, that Nesta no longer has most of her powers, that if anyone could wrestle them back out of sheer force of will, it would be the eldest Archeron sister.

In the great hall, the members of the Night Court have chosen to wear Illyrian leathers, and Vassa wishes she’d asked to borrow a pair, if only for the way Feyre and Nesta look transformed into some powerful fusion of dragon and High Fae.

At least her clothes still smell like Lucien, she thinks, giving his hand a little squeeze.

“How are you adapting to life as High Fae?” Rhysand asks her, nodding toward Lucien.

“It’s better than spending my days as a cursed firebird,” she says. “Thanks to Feyre and Nesta.”

“I helped,” Lucien points out.

“You’re forgetting Elain,” Tamlin says, his arm over her shoulder as they walk down the stairs.

There is something different about her friend, aside from the pants and tunic she’s wearing, which are their own significant change. It’s as if something has shifted fundamentally in Elain, made her scent a little sharper, like new leaves in a forest. Perhaps it’s some physical manifestation of Elain’s own hope, Vassa thinks, greeting her with a smile, as if this were another morning where they’d enjoy the new luxury of dawdling over their coffee while the sun was in the sky, before they were summoned to matters of import.

But Elain is looking at her sisters, shaking her head, as if to warn them.

For just a moment, Vassa catches the grave expressions on Feyre and Nesta’s faces, the concern they are quick to transmute into courtly smiles.

“We’re all ready?” Elain asks. Her hands hang at her sides, and in these close-fitting garments, Vassa is newly aware of how small she is, how sweet and innocent she looks even when directing legendary warriors on the brink of battle, all trace of her fierce mind hidden behind her gentle gaze. She hopes that Koschei will see Elain this way, as she herself used to, believe her incapable as she builds his new prison.

“You’re not going,” Nesta says, and she is reaching for her sword.

Tamlin moves to step in front of Elain, but she catches his arm, stands her ground in front of Nesta.

“I’m pregnant. I’m not ill. My powers are the same,” Elain says, and Vassa thinks of her tears last night. Wonders if she knew. Wants, more than anything, to wrap her friend up in her arms, congratulate her, and shield her. Deep in her bones, she understands Nesta’s edict.

“We can find another way,” Feyre says, her voice gentle. “Koschei hasn’t attacked in months.”

“What other way is there?” Elain looks at each of them in turn, but nobody responds. “Nobody else has my powers. And if we do not strike today, then what will we do? Wait for him to capture Vassa and put the Crown on my head? He’s already infiltrated Velaris and the Autumn Court. Eris is bound to him by his curse. If we remove it, Koschei will only find another way. He will never stop until this world belongs to him, until it doesn’t matter that he’s bound to that lake in this world, because there are so many others he can own.”

“We shouldn’t speak in front of Melis.” Cassian pulls the pink servant girl from the back of the room. “We don’t know how she communicates with Koschei.”

“We continue as we planned,” Elain says. Calm, as if there could be no objections.

“You’re not even going to try to save her?” Nesta aims the words at Tamlin, who flinches under the accusation in her gaze. “You’re going to stand around and let her die for you? How many of us will you allow to fall?”

“This is my own decision.” Elain crosses her arms over her chest. “Tamlin doesn’t have my powers. You know he couldn’t take my place. No matter how much he would like to.” She doesn’t mention all of his objections over the days when they formed this plan, his sacrifice in the Autumn Court for Rhys, but when Elain looks at him, then back at her sister, these facts blaze golden in her deep brown eyes.

“You’re not going to sacrifice yourself,” Nesta snaps. “Not after everything.”

Elain crosses the space separating her from her sister, and squeezes her hand.

“I’ve been useless for too long. I let Feyre go into the woods alone, and you bargained for my life when we had nothing, and you both fought the war with Hybern while I sat in the garden. I can do this one thing, Nesta,” she says. “And even if Koschei will bide his time, what if he’s harming someone else? If I had the courage to use my powers sooner, Vassa would be free.”

“What if he kills you?” Vassa is shocked when the words come out of Nesta’s mouth a sob. She’d never thought the Valkyrie could lose her control.

“You think I want to die today? To risk my baby?” The questions are thick with Elain’s own tears. “But what if that could save everyone else?”

For a moment, Nesta only glares at her, and then her arms are tight around Elain.

“I would have ripped apart this world to keep you safe,” she says, the words full of anger and despair, love at its brink.

Elain says nothing, only cups her hand at the back of Nesta’s head, pulling her closer.

Soon Feyre hugs them both, murmuring something too low for Vassa to hear, but when the three sisters separate, despite their tears, they do not look so grim as they did moments ago.

“We are ready?” Vassa asks, looking around the room. At the Night Court in their Ilyrian leathers. At Tamlin, who breaks his attention from Elain just long enough to give Vassa a small nod. At Lucien, her beloved, who meets her gaze with no fear in his eyes. And then Vassa looks at Elain, who dips into a curtsey despite the absence of skirts to give the gesture elegance. The same curtsey she performed when Vassa was a human, on that first day in this court, moments before Elain ran from her. So much has changed since then.

“It’s time for your vengeance, Queen of Scythia,” Elain says, and deep inside, the magic inside Vassa sparks and thunders in answer.

At last, she thinks, despite her fear, despite the cost. At last.

&

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Lucien tries not to betray any emotion on his face, knowing Vassa will tease him, but of course he had to work with Nesta Archeron on Koschei’s downfall, and on their first stop to the lake, she unleashes a tremendous scowl as they appear on the western edge of the Autumn Court.

“If your brother is about to play the villain, I swear I will end him,” she grumbles, and when she reaches for her sword, Lucien genuinely isn’t sure if she means to aim it at him.

“We don’t have time to linger,” Vassa says, scanning the forest. They are the first attack, to be followed by Rhysand and Tamlin, their raw power mostly a distraction, a bulwark in case the plan goes wrong.

He clasps their hands and wills them into the darkness, across the ocean, and then, before Nesta can tell him how unsatisfactory his winnowing is, he makes the final leap, to Koschei’s lake.

Both Nesta and Vassa stiffen at the eerie vista, the dark forest that surrounds the steam-covered waters.

There is a rustle in the trees and they all startle.

No one emerges from the forest.

In silence, they walk along the side of the lake towards the house. Vassa has warned them of its enchantments. Nesta keeps a hand on her sword, and Lucien’s gold eye roves in every direction. The death-god has surprised him twice, but today, he will not snatch Vassa away. Today, Lucien is ready.

Then woods explode into flame behind them.

“Fucking Eris,” Nesta groans, breaking into a run, while Lucien, following her and Vassa, studies the fire. There are gaps in the magic, the kind of thing he would expect to see in a faerie with weaker gifts. Not a new High Lord, bursting with power, wanting to make his mark. Especially not Eris.

“Koschei knows we’re here,” he says to them, trying to keep his voice low, his breath even. “This is curse work.”

As he’d anticipated.

He sets up a quick shield. It will not survive a strike at full blast from either Eris or Koschei, but neither will it drain his magic for the fight ahead. He runs toward the house, the meeting-place they designated without realizing they might be running from something, as well as towards.

He senses Koschei before he sees the death-god. It’s the quality of his magic, the anger and the storm, the complicated matrix of power that even his golden eye struggles to decipher. Lucien prepares to shift and strengthen his shield, his eyes darting between Koschei and Vassa, calculating the space between them.

“I thought you meant to bring my Vassa back,” Koschei says, that voice that haunts his dreams. Lucien braces himself, feels Nesta doing the same, consolidating what’s left of her magic. “I would have given you a kingdom in exchange for her, fireling.”

He takes a step towards Lucien and then another, and Lucien barely draws in breath, feeling Koschei’s magic move across his body and slither inside his mind. He barricades his thoughts, secures the shields on his consciousness.

“I smell her scent on you, prince of the day.” Koschei turns on his heel, and Lucien almost believes he is at ease, doesn’t realize the trap they’ve sprung, but surely he must realize, sense, at a minimum, Nesta’s terrifying power, even in its diminished form.

But when the death-god smiles at him, revealing pointed teeth, a brilliant white that makes his mouth look bloody, Lucien cannot conceal his shudder.

“You have a reputation for cleverness, so I expected you to realize I would know when you brought me an imposter.”

In the instant between his last syllable and the arrival of his attack, Feyre’s magic explodes from Vassa, her water wolves charging for Koschei as she winnows herself and Nesta away from the blast of Koschei’s magic, into position.

“I’ve wondered what it would take for those stuffy High Lords to accept a High Lady,” Koschei says, stunning the wolves with a bolt of his power. Feyre dissolves the magic in a flash of white light and reveals her face. She’s stalling for time, exactly as planned.

Lucien prepares his spell as gradually as he can, so that the magic does not register as Koschei studies Feyre, his eyes lingering too long on her lips.

“The High Lords have always loved a pretty face,” he says, and for that alone Lucien aches to kill him, smash his skull with fists and rage alone. The thought of what he must have done to Vassa, alone and without defenses, bound and afraid.

Feyre has said she can stall him, maintain the distraction, and even with a wall of fire at her back and a death-lord before her, the High Lady of the Night Court does not flinch. She widens her eyes and lets a little smile form on her face, as though she is captivated.

Lucien has learned better than to trust that expression, but Koschei steps closer, the shark’s smile widening. As if he means to swallow her whole.

“They say my sisters and I are blessed,” she says, and the sword closes in on Koschei’s neck as Tamlin and Elain appear on the breeze of another world.

Tamlin has curved his body nearly all the way around Elain, to protect her from harm, but she’s managed to secure one hand on Koschei’s arm, while the other closes on the blade of Nesta’s sword. Lucien whips the tether through the air as Tamlin’s shield slams into place around them, keeping Koschei from escaping.

He’s holding onto Koschei and Elain, added Feyre and Nesta, only waits for Elain to pull them from this world, when he feels a small unraveling to the magic. A white light in Feyre’s hands.

I’m sorry, Feyre says, at the edges of his mind, Vassa made me promise.

Before Lucien can reassemble the spell, the four of them disappear into another world. The place where Vassa waits to claim her vengeance.

Tamlin sinks to his knees on the grass, while outside, Melis pounds on the shield.

Within seconds, Tamlin’s shield dissolves, reforming itself around the lake, fortified by a dark magic that signals that Rhysand has arrived. Within the shield, Cassian leads a small group of Illyrian warriors, their siphons gleaming with leashed power. As a means of last resort.

Azriel should already be inside the house with Gwyn, Lucien reminds himself, using the plan as a distraction from the fact that Vassa should be face-to-face with Koschei in a world she does not know, her new powers nearly as strange. All he can think is that if there are other women in that house, if they were tortured like Vassa, he himself will find a way to kill Koschei a second time, a third, a fourth. Then his mind turns to Vassa, raging at the fact that he cannot be with her, help and protect her.

The mating bond still glows inside him, though. At this moment, Vassa is still alive.

Behind him there’s a whimpering, and Lucien whirls to see Tamlin looming over Melis, who is sobbing, facedown, in the grass.

“I hope you will swear to me that you did not betray her,” he says, and Tamlin’s voice is deadly, the roar contained within the precision of a courtly inflection. A High Lord in the fullness of his power. “If I find that you were at fault for even the slightest harm to her, I will pay it back double.”

Lucien scrambles over to them, in between his friend and the pink faerie, who only sobs harder now.

“Elain wouldn’t want you to destroy her, Tam,” he says, trying to put himself in the path of the sword, even if he wonders whether the sacrifice would be worth it, over someone who has already betrayed him and likely has again. “Remember? We don’t torture Melis?”

Tamlin draws a heavy breath, the muscles of his arms relaxing.

“She’s gone from this world,” he says. The courtly mien has vanished from his voice. There’s only hopelessness in it now, not even the rage that used to sustain him. Lucien is amazed that the shield of magic above them does not buckle.

“She’s still alive,” Lucien responds, hoping it is true. “Do you feel her through the bond?”

“She’s still alive,” Tamlin agrees, “but for how much longer?”

At their feet, Melis sniffles.

“I hated to hurt her,” she says, and now it is Lucien who whirls on her.

“Elain may believe in a better world, and Tamlin may have promised to build it, but you led my mate right into Koschei’s clutches. Vassa wants to claim her vengeance. And I have made no promises to leave you unharmed.” He lets his power flame in his eyes, reveals his teeth. “So this is your chance to save yourself, Melis. What did you tell Koschei?”

“I told him that you were coming,” she says, and her voice is wretched, and Lucien has to work to keep the snarl on his face. Because this is what they wanted Melis to tell Koschei, exactly the same way that they’d left Eris bound by the curse, so that the death-god would think them overconfident and unprepared.

“I told him that Elain is with child,” Melis continues, and Lucien barely holds back Tamlin as he surges toward her, snarling. Koschei, really anybody with a sense of smell, would know that within seconds. And Tamlin must realize this, because he does not make a second attempt to get past Lucien. “I told him that the human queen is no longer human. I had to tell him something.”

Lucien thinks of Koschei’s presence in his mind, slithering like an enormous reptile, a creature of myth. Wonders how he extracted secrets from Melis.

“What did they teach you, in the Night Court?”

“They mostly locked me in a room. But sometimes the High Lady taught me things. She said it was a favor to her sister. How to shield my mind.”

Lucien wants to grin at this revelation, at the way that Feyre’s kindness, and Elain’s, may be what saves them in the end, but this is still a negotiation at the outskirts of a battle, the outcome still uncertain.

“If Vassa and Elain survive this day,” he says, “the High Lord of the Night Court will examine your mind. And I swear upon all my hopes for the future that if you are lying, you will regret it every day of the rest of your long and miserable life.”

Melis nods miserably.

“If they survive,” she says, wiping away her tears with her fingertips, “I will do anything.”

It’s all Lucien can do not to say me too, to keep his face impassive.

The bond is still intact.

Somewhere, Vassa is still alive.

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Elain is in the clearing of the world she’d selected, one hand on the back of Koschei’s neck, the other grasping Nesta’s sword with her fingertips. Then, before she can set her feet on the grass, she is flying through the air, trying to get her bearings.

She lands on the ground more lightly than she’d anticipated, surrounded by a warm wind, and springs to her feet before Koschei can run away. He would only find himself trapped by the shield Tamlin built here before they went to the lake with Melis, but the longer Koschei believes he has the upper hand, the more chances they will have to end him. So she’s quick to gather herself, to push her feet onwards.

Her sisters stand before the death-god, their arms extended, their magic poised for an attack, but Koschei only stares at Vassa, anger and desire warring in his eyes, a hungry smile on his mouth that reveals too many teeth. Bile rises in Elain’s throat at the sight, but she aims herself between the two of them, summoning her magic to the surface, willing herself to be ready.

Koschei turns his eyes on her and his smile is lazy. As if this will be the easy part. Elain rests her hands on her hips, tries to keep the smile on her face as she summons her power and her anger.

“I see that much has changed since I last saw you, world walker. Congratulations are in order.” He takes a delicate sniff of the air. “And yet you’d put your child in such danger for a battle you’re sure to lose, when I could give you so much more than your paltry High Lord.”

“You’re trapped next to a lake, sorcerer.” It’s only the training of her governess, of a dozen narrow escapes in ballrooms, that keeps the smile plastered on Elain’s face. She feels his magic rising, the power in him immense, pressing upon her very self. “What can you give me?”

“I think the better question, dear sweet Elain, is: what do you think you can take from me?”

In an instant, Nesta’s sword is in his hand, and too late, Elain sees her mistake.

When he flung her away, she’d clutched the sword in her hand, the sharp end biting into her palm. Only for a second, but that was all it took for the blade, well-tended by Nesta, to draw blood.

Koschei dips his little finger in the largest drop, and Elain feels her mind caught in a new grip. His power surrounds her, surging in her veins.

She had thought through every particular, and now the world is lost on a reflex, the clutching of her fingers.

Vassa moves into Elain’s line of sight and her eyes are wide and pleading. Fight him, she mouths, and Elain wants to warn her, but Koschei merely swings back his arm and then Vassa is bound by lightning across the clearing, and Elain knows that Koschei is inside her mind.

There are still some secret chambers. The places she stores her hopes. But the parts of her mind most strongly secured are the ones that house this plan and all of her contingencies. Because there might be half an instant where she can act before Koschei realizes what she is doing.

“Will you do my bidding, sweet one?” he asks. “I have heard many stories about you lately, and the tales all conflict when it comes to the matter of your character. In some you will listen to a strong man. In others you will betray even those you profess to love.”

Feyre’s eyes widen, her fingers twitching with the desire to strike, but Elain does not signal her, does not so much as move her eyes in the direction of her sisters. She had envisioned their attack, the four of them striking as one, but Koschei has taken control, and she is afraid for what will happen, if Feyre and Nesta launch an uncoordinated attack. How easily Koschei will rip them apart.

“Will you listen to me?” Koschei asks her, approaching step by careful step. His fingers, still smeared with her blood, come to rest on her chin, the curve of her jaw, the touch too soft, too sticky.

She manages to meet his eyes, to keep her gaze soft. The girl who any man would want to marry, who sighs prettily and does not complain and sinks into the shadows her husband leaves behind. The girl who is nothing at all.

Elain has not been that girl for some time, but she wills Koschei not to notice, to see what, for years, everyone has seen when they look at her.

“I will admit you almost fooled me,” he says, plucking at a loose tendril of her hair. “You play the innocent so very well. But you know what I want.”

His power saturates her mind, and in its wake, there is one image, clear as if it were before her: the Crown.

Koschei’s power buffets her like waves, the compulsion rising in her to reach across worlds, into the Night Court, and summon the Crown to her. The Crown has an affinity for Nesta, not her, but still Elain feels it reaching out as if in answer.

She knows one thing in the part of her mind that is still her own: it cannot end like this.

There is hardly any time before she is forced to pull the Crown to herself, but her magic is quick. She reaches out for the tethering spell and pushes against the Bone in Nesta’s pocket, willing her sisters and Vassa back to their own world. Back to where they will be safe from her, the monster she will soon become. Between them, they will find a way to destroy him. She was always the weak one among them.

Her vision sparks and blurs at the intrusion of Koschei’s magic, but still Elain sees Feyre and Nesta vanish. Vassa remains, held by Koschei’s binding, and Elain wants to scream in frustration, that she could not keep her friend from another captivity, another series of momentary deaths.

“You are stronger than I thought, Elain,” he says, and now his hand is on her stomach, over the place where her child awaits their future in the warm darkness of her body. She tries not to think of that life, barely distinct from her own self, because otherwise she will crumble. “When your heir is born, I’ll teach it to mind me better.”

With the last part of her secret mind, she vows to make him a liar. Even if it means her death. She knows now, falling into his invasion even inside herself, that being under Koschei’s will is a worse fate by far than dwelling in the realm where her father waits.

Missing is a part of being grown in the world, he’d told her, and it is Elain’s last thought before she seals off those last precious corners of her mind and surrenders to Koschei.

His magic overwhelms her will, and Elain loses her grip on her own powers.

In an instant, the Crown is before her.

Distantly, she hears Vassa begin to scream as a small pair of hands with crescents of dirt under the nails, so like her own, reach towards the place where the Crown is suspended on the air, and place the Crown upon her head.

All the sound and light in this world disappears, and Elain feels herself falling deep into the darkness.

“Welcome, sweet one,” Koschei’s voice says, and Elain cannot help it. She stops resisting.

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When Feyre and Nesta appear by the lake, Tamlin convinces herself that Elain will follow in an instant. That she and Vassa are so taken by their moment of triumph that they cannot wait to celebrate. That Vassa would want another look at the world, the strange trees of this new forest, and Elain, ever the perfect hostess, would pull them through the shield he’d built for her and show her the unique foliage, the flowers neither of them have ever before encountered.

Then he sees Nesta’s face. The devastation engraved deep on every feature.

“What happened?” Lucien asks, already beside them, looking behind the two sisters, as if Vassa has hidden herself behind them.

“Koschei has them,” Feyre says, her eyes going wide and unfocused as she receives a message in her mind. “The Crown is missing from the Night Court. I think she pushed us out before--”

Tamlin vowed he would be brave, that he would fight until the last drop of blood seeped from his body, but the reality of Elain in Koschei’s clutches, in a realm he cannot reach, steals the breath from his lungs.

He falls to his knees, the grass giving a little sigh at his weight. As if the world has already given up.

He pulls on the mating bond, the thread like a flowering vine inside of him, and finds it pulled tight, silent and aching. For now, bound or unbound, she is still alive.

But Elain does not respond.

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (23/28) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

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

A/N: This is the chapter where things get steamy, which is to say: there is smut in this chapter. You can find all previous chapters here, or read Bloom & Bone on AO3. Thank you for reading! ❤️ If you'd like to get an early preview on the next chapter, follow me on Instagram at @house.of.hurricane.

In spite of her exhaustion, Vassa is determined to spend her first post-curse day awake, so she takes her breakfast with Lucien and Elain and Tamlin in the garden, their food and coffee balanced awkwardly on their laps on one of the benches Elain installed. Vassa is too distracted by the flowers to eat. It’s been years since she saw flowers by day, and surely it's not only her fae vision that makes the gardens of the Spring Court more gorgeous than even the queen’s garden in her principal palace in Scythia.

“I don’t know what stories you’ve heard, but you still need to eat in this form,” Lucien says, nudging her thigh with his own. She gulps down coffee, winking at him over the rim of her mug.

“I want you to show me the gardens,” she tells Elain, whose brilliant smile turns into a yawn that she’s quick to hide behind her hand.

“The flowers are at their best in the morning,” her friend says, “and there are new tulips from the continent that almost look like roses, although they cost a minor fortune.” She slants her gaze at Tamlin, who returns a smile that makes Elain’s cheeks grow pink.

“I’d like to see the garden as well, if I wouldn’t be interrupting,” Lucien says, and Vassa reaches over to squeeze his hand, revelling once again in how good it feels to touch him, the absence of pain. She leans her head against his shoulder, her hair sighing against his jacket, a sound she’d never noticed before today. Before her ears had been made new.

“I feel a little offended that you’ve never asked for a tour before.” Elain tries to sound affronted but can’t keep the smile out of her voice. She turns to Tamlin. “And it’s been ages since you’ve seen your own gardens.”

“In our defense, we had other priorities,” Tamlin says, transferring berries to Elain’s plate. “I believe I heard rumors of a battle.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve all been very heroic and I very much appreciate it.” Vassa stands up, smoothing her skirts, not able to believe how skinny she’s gotten in the past months, how quickly her stomach filled. “Now let’s see the flowers.”

Although the flowers are beautiful and Elain has more passion for their cultivation than Vassa can fully understand, she soon finds her head spinning with exhaustion, and when Lucien steers her back to the estate, she does not object beyond murmured apologies to Elain.

“She’ll be glad for the time to sleep,” Lucien tells her as he leads her up to their bedroom, practically carrying her up the stairs. “The amount of power she harnessed last night...”

There are implications to his words, surely, and perhaps Vassa should care. This is her world now. But her eyes will not stay open, and all she can feel is relief when Lucien carries her to bed, loosens her bodice, and pulls the quilts over her.

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“You look tired,” Tamlin says as they watch Lucien lead Vassa back to the estate. Even with her exhaustion, Elain feels a bone-deep relief at the change in Vassa: the glow in her skin and the energy about her is completely different from the human woman of last night.

“Are these the kinds of compliments I should expect from now on?”

She bends to pick the dead blossom off a rosebush. It’s still early for the Spring Court gardener, but it’s been weeks since she’s had the chance to get her hands in the garden. More and more, without her having made a declaration, this place feels like it could be hers. The growing realization doesn’t bother her.

When she straightens, she realizes that Tamlin was staring at the place where her bottom had strained against her skirts. Without thinking, she smooths her fingers over the same place, smiling at his sharp inhale.

She’s been wanting to touch him for days. Despite all the time she’d spent frantically researching how to break Vassa’s curse, the dearth of hours she’d been able to sleep, she’d still woken up in the middle of the night with desire throbbing between her legs, sweaty and all but moaning with need.

All that’s held her back is the knowledge that Tamlin would hurt himself if she gave him the slightest sign. But last night, he stood guard over the Spring Court, leading a group of warriors from the village, and the sight of him leading the group, his muscles straining at his jacket and pants, nearly made her forget the whole point of the evening. Vassa Vassa Vassa, she kept chanting to herself, so that she wouldn’t forget the stakes.

Now Vassa has been remade free of her curse and Tamlin is healed, and at the sight of the hunger in his green eyes, Elain feels her own need rise up in her, thundering in her veins.

She takes a step toward him, and then another, until his arms are on her waist, and he lifts her up into a hungry kiss, his lips slanting on hers. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, opens her mouth to his tongue.

“You can take me to whatever world you like,” he says, in a ragged whisper, though they are alone in this corner of the garden, and the gardener will not be here for hours.

She thinks of the inn in the world at peace, the heady scents of spice and desert stones. The way she’s dropped Tamlin’s hand when anybody can see them, blushed at the slightest compliment or innuendo. In spite of all the ways he’s changed, made himself the kind of High Lord who is worthy of legends. The kind of person who could have stayed a monster, but found a way to turn himself back into someone better. Someone good and thoughtful and heroic.

And still, he was nearly taken from this world. Nearly killed.

Her mate.

“Here.” She almost moans the word.

She wraps her legs around his waist, the movement bunching her skirts around her knees. Her slippers fall to the grass. She’s never been like this with him, with anyone, before, so brazen in her need. Her own arousal is thick in the air, and the scent of his need makes her dress feel entirely too tight around her heavy breasts, her racing heartbeat. As if her body can barely contain all this desire.

“Elain,” he says, through panting breaths. “Are you certain?”

She does not think of the mating bond. She thinks of the day he let her leave him in the passageway between worlds, the trust he had in her. The time she wept in his arms and he held her until she was empty. The way he’d looked before the battle in the Autumn Court, or when he returns from his visits to the villages, the building of a quiet confidence. She thinks of the wildness of his body, which cannot be quite contained.

She thinks of the person Tamlin is, the person he has worked so hard on becoming. And she does not hesitate.

“I claim you,” she says, pulling her lips away from his skin so that she can see his eyes, hold his gaze. “You are mine, Tamlin.”

For a second, he is utterly still, and then he surges forward, his lips on her throat, his teeth finding the spot that nearly makes her weep with desire.

“I am yours,” he is saying, between each kiss. “Always, I am yours.”

Now she does not hesitate, but works her fingers on the buttons of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders as she slides against him to the ground, unable to hold back a moan as her sex rides up against the erection that strains at his pants. He growls in her ear, reaches for the buttons of her dress, his fingers deft against her spine.

“You have too many buttons,” he grumbles, and she almost tells him to use his magic to disrobe her, but each time his calloused fingers brush up against her revealed skin, there’s a burst of sensation, a shiver on her skin.

She pulls his baldric with its daggers over his head, and then his shirt, and for a moment, Elain just stares at him, his golden skin and the map of all his muscles, the still-pink scar from Ealars’ attack. She presses her lips to it.

“You saved me.” He breathes the words against the dip where her shoulder meets her neck, punctuating the sentence with his teeth and tongue.

“You saved us first.”

She dips her fingers below his waistband, removing the daggers he’s hidden with a smile as she sets them neatly on the bench, within reach. Confident that, no matter what evil lives in these woods and in this world, at this moment she is perfectly safe.

When she rises, her dress falls to the ground with a sigh, her corset and drawers following seconds later.

The spring breeze wafts around her naked body and Elain has to fight the urge to cover herself under Tamlin’s unblinking gaze. She’s always been a little plumper than Feyre and Nesta, and now she wonders what he thinks of the slight curve of her belly, of her thighs and arms, if he’d prefer if she were more slender. She reaches for his pants, but he catches her wrist.

“Let me look at you,” he says, his thumb resting on the place where her pulse races.

He only drops her wrist to twist his fingers in her hair, lift it off her neck, and run the other hand down the length of her, unfastening her stockings when his fingers reach her thighs, a touch that makes her gasp.

“I have never seen such beauty,” he murmurs into her ear. “You make the garden look like a wasteland.”

Though it makes it harder to kiss him, Elain can’t help the smile that rises to her lips.

“Let me see you,” she says, reaching again for the buttons that fasten his pants. He helps her, pulling off his boots.

She had planned to look at him, to study every glorious detail of his sunkissed body, the golden hair that makes him glow in the gentle morning sunlight, to marvel at the breadth of him, his shoulders and his thighs and his cock, all bigger and more powerful than they had been even in her dreams. Almost beyond believing.

But once Elain gets a glimpse of Tamlin, she can’t help but pull him closer, run her hands against his body so that it’s him that’s groaning, letting out a strangled growl when she runs her fingers down the length of his cock.

The soft skin that lies over that hard, insistent need makes her mouth water. She closes her fingers around him, giving him one stroke and then another.

He responds by falling to his knees in the grass and taking her breast in his mouth, his teeth and tongue against the peak, and then his fingers make their way down her belly, to the curls between her thighs.

When he dips a finger between the folds of her sex, Elain has to bite her lip against the sounds that rise in her throat.

For years she has tried not to think of Greysen, and after a while she’s mostly succeeded, but now she thinks of their first and only coupling, the way he thrust into her, the pain in her body which she tried to smother. The way she hadn’t been sure if she should reach for him, if that would look too eager, so she’d laid still on the bed until he’d spent himself.

But now that experience is extinguished from her mind, because Tamlin’s thumb the place that throbs for him, the nub her own fingers have sometimes furtively explored in the bath, and Elain can’t help the keening sounds that escape her, the clench of her fingers as they twist in his hair.

He slides a finger inside her, and then another, and she braces herself against his shoulders, riding him as the tension builds between her legs, low in her belly, until she is coiled with a delicious tension.

She rakes her fingers down his back, waiting for the moment he will thrust inside her, when the tension inside her will calm, will be replaced by pain.

Instead Tamlin’s eyes are fixed on her, watching her face as he thrusts his fingers inside her, strokes the place where she aches for him most, until her thighs clench around his arm and the world is bright with a thousand colors, thick with the pounding of her heart. The sensation builds and builds and then it overtakes her, until she is wrung out with pleasure, boneless and undone.

She falls to her knees and Tamlin catches her, arranging his jacket before he lays her on it. Elain thinks, dazed, that she has never seen a bluer sky.

He watches her from the space between her legs, his gaze a question. His cock is even larger now, a bud of moisture at the tip. She sits up and reaches for it, the soft skin hot under her fingers, and he hisses with the contact. His desire is bright in his eyes, alive in every muscle.

Already, with the absence of his fingers, she feels empty.

“I want you inside of me,” she says, reaching for his hand, pulling him down to the ground.

He enters her gently, but even so Elain feels herself stretching to fit him. But at each wince, Tamlin asks her if she is sure, if she is all right, and when she nods, he kisses her, finding the place on her neck that makes her gasp, the nub in her sex, right above the place where they are joined, that is already eager to be touched by him again.

Moment by moment, he fits himself inside of her, and then, as he thrusts in and out of her, slowly at first and then faster, a little rough, Elain feels that thick pleasure growing in the core of her, building with each thrust, the friction of him.

She reaches for him, wrapping her legs around his waist, her hands raking his shoulders, his back.

“You are mine,” she breathes, and when he growls her name she can hardly understand it, as if he’s spoken in another language. Or maybe she is too far gone with pleasure, the feeling of him inside her.

The rhythm of his thrusts is nearly frantic now, and she angles her hips toward him, her interior muscles clenching around him with each thrust. When he tightens his grip on her, she realizes she’s nearly gone, the coiling sensation is almost more than she can bear.

“My lovely Elain.” His words are a harsh whisper at her lips, and then she’s completely undone, the world torn asunder with her climax.

He comes with a roar, spending himself inside her, holding her close as he thrusts, chasing the remainder of their pleasure.

When he’s finished, he cleans her thighs with his shirt and then pulls her against him, and Elain has never felt so at peace in all her life.

She is half-asleep already when he presses a kiss to her shoulder.

“Did you design your gardens with this in mind?” he asks.

“You think they’re my gardens?” she asks, instead of answering.

“I’ve always thought of them that way. Like you, they’re more than I’ve ever deserved,” he says, lifting her hair off her neck and replacing it with his kisses. Even after what she’s experienced, the thrill of their joining, she can’t help the little moan that escapes her.

“You deserve so much better than you think.”

“You know who I am,” he says, and his eyes are on hers, suddenly serious. “You know what I’ve done.”

“I’ve heard all the stories. And I’ve heard the ones about Amarantha, too, and what she did to you. The rumors about your father. And you forget that I’ve seen the person you’ve become. The High Lord who is worthy of the title for more than just power. Who listens to his people, and cares for them, and fights alongside them, and keeps them safe.”

“You are too kind.”

He does not quite meet her eyes, and so she reaches out, holds his chin until his green eyes are on hers.

“I am proud to claim you as my mate,” she says. “If you will have me.”

He does not seem to care that she is naked, that he is, when he lifts her up into his arms and twirls her through the air, holding her so tightly that Elain knows, now and always, she will always be safe in his arms.

“When we’ve defeated Koschei,” he says, after he’s finally set her safely on the ground, her feet on his jacket, “we will have our mating ceremony in these gardens. We can invite all of Prythian, or nobody, just as long as you will claim me as your mate, and let me claim you as my own.”

“I’m yours,” she tells him, and does not let go.

&

&

&

When Vassa awakes, the afternoon sun is thick and golden through the window, and Lucien startles himself awake in bed next to her.

“Are you all right?” he asks, already scanning the room for any threat.

“Perfectly well,” she says, and then she laughs because it is true. The sun is in the sky and she is not a firebird. The curse does not bind her any more. She can reach out and touch Lucien as much as she pleases without pain, and it’s this thought that drives her fingers below the blankets, where she finds him still dressed in his jacket and shirt and pants.

“I was tired too,” he says with a shrug as she gapes at him.

“That can’t be comfortable.” She reaches for him, intent on removing his clothes, on learning what it’s like to bed him in this body, but he twines his fingers in hers, a grin on his face, too clever by half.

“I have an idea,” he says. “Find your favorite crown and follow me.”

Years ago now, during the war with Hybern, her generals had brought a few of her treasures from Scythia. They’d thought then that her curse would be broken in a matter of weeks, that she would soon return to her throne, and they had wanted her to make the kind of grand entrance that would reassure her people that their ruler had returned with might and glory.

Of course, she’s rarely had occasion to wear the grand gowns with their endless petticoats and heavy embroidery, and she’s only worn the smallest crown for the few times she’s needed to appear before a High Lord or an assemblage of faerie nobles. Better, always, to let them think that she was weak, so they might be compelled to free her.

Now she selects the most ornate crown, fashioned out of diamonds and sapphires to create a halo of light around her head. When she shows it to Lucien, he only nods, desire simmering in his gaze.

He takes the crown from her, and she shivers when their fingers brush, and then he settles it on her head, arranging her hair so that her curls skim her shoulders.

“My queen,” he murmurs, dipping into a bow, kissing the back of her hand. The perfect courtier.

She should countermand him, remind him that in his realm he is the heir to a ruler, that in his veins runs a powerful magic, but the weight of the crown on her head, the sight of his reverence, it all sends desire flooding through her.

This new fae body, it seems, was made to want Lucien Vanserra.

When he leads her from the bedroom, she follows, not caring that her bodice is so loosened that her breasts are barely contained. Each time they bounce against the fabric of her corset, Vassa has to work to keep her breath steady. As if, even walking three paces ahead of her in these sunlit hallways, Lucien has still managed to touch her.

He leads her down the grand staircase of the estate’s entryway and on through to the rooms that Tamlin uses for his official business.

When he opens the door and reveals a throne room and she sees the way his russet eye has darkened with desire, Vassa opens her mouth to object. Not only because a throne room is important to a sovereign, but because the wall to the outside is made entirely of glass, the garden in plain view.

Here, anybody could see them.

“I’ll lock the door,” Lucien says, smirking, as if he could see all of her thoughts. “But I won’t draw the curtains. You deserve to see the sunlight, Your Majesty.”

“And if anyone sees?”

“Imagine they’re your courtiers, who wish to see their queen made happy.” He presses a kiss to her clavicle, dips his fingers below the bodice of her gown. She arches herself against his touch, the words igniting her. Such a desire is wicked, and of course she would never perform such an act in front of her courtiers, her subjects, but the idea of such a thing, here in another realm, leaves her crossing her legs tight together, searching for friction, desperate to be sated right here.

But she wants this on the throne itself.

The sound of wind fills the room and the windows fly open.

Opened with her own power.

She will consider this discovery, the capacities of her new self, at another moment.

“Now, now, my queen,” Lucien drawls, easing a sleeve from her shoulder. “I intend to make our satisfaction very loudly known. It wouldn’t do to have the gardener come running to rescue you, would it?”

She tries to call back the wind but the doors stay open. After a moment, he closes them with a flick of his wrist, sketches a bow.

“As your humble courtier, I am happy to volunteer to train you in the use of this ability.”

“That’s the game we’re playing?” Her laugh bubbles up inside her.

“I intend to worship you on this throne.”

“You couldn’t be a visiting sovereign? Pursuing a diplomatic alliance and falling in love with a powerful queen?”

Lightning crackles at his fingertips until the moment he touches her, but she still feels the spark as he eases the sleeve off her other shoulder, so that the gown is held up tenuously by the bodice and luck.

“And I’ve been stuck in awful meeting with our courtiers,” he says, stepping behind her, his fingers on the buttons of her dress as he whispers in her ear, “who have the uncanny ability to drone on and on about topics that are of no interest to either of us or our people, but all the while I’ve distracted myself by looking at you. A queen more beautiful than any being I’ve ever known. Every time you open your mouth to say something clever, I’ve wanted to cover it with my own. So the words are a secret between us.”

“Sir, we have been working to arrange these meetings for months,” she says, reaching up to pull at his hair, the way she knows he likes.

“Which is why I’ve asked for this private meeting in your throne room, Majesty. So that you and I can talk about our dreams for our people. The fundamentals of our alliance. But you’ve come wearing your glorious crown and I cannot help but wonder what it would be like to fuck you on your throne, while you wear nothing but this mark of your glory.”

He removes his hands from her back and her clothes fall away, the air itself a caress on her heated skin.

She reaches for him, but her magic reaches Lucien first, and his jacket is torn away by a knot of wind.

“My impatient queen,” he smirks, and she tears the shirt away with her own fingers, pulls away the buttons as she fumbles with his pants.

When he’s finally naked, Vassa runs her hands all over him, delighting in the feeling of his skin against her fingers, the absence of pain and the force of the desire inside her, the throbbing low in her belly, the slickness between her legs.

He holds up his hands before she’s even halfway through with her exploration.

“Get on your throne, Majesty,” he says, his voice dazed with lust.

His hands are on her waist as she climbs up the dias, and he half lifts her onto the throne, the wooden seat cool under her thighs.

She spreads her legs and smiles up at him. She’s made this request before but never after weeks without his touch, never on a throne.

He kneels and opens her knees wider, kissing his way up her thighs until he reaches her sex, and when he licks her opening, reaches the bundle of nerves above it, Vassa press her hand over her mouth.

“Don’t hold back, Majesty.” His voice rumbles against her.

Soon his lips and tongue overcome her and she is moaning, canting her hips and pulling his hair to bring him closer. He pushes his fingers inside her, sliding in and out, and when he nips at that throbbing nub, Vassa cannot contain the wild exclamation that escapes her. The world is on fire, brilliant and bright, and she is overcome with a pleasure so intense that she nearly pushes Lucien away. She’s not sure if she can bear it, but he continues with his fingers and his mouth, and she follows the rising tide of fire inside her until she’s consumed entirely, breathless and liquid.

“You were meant for the throne,” Lucien says after her breathing has settled, running his fingers over her skin. Still, even after that climax, after all the times they’ve been together in this way, she arches toward his touch.

“I have an idea,” she says, and rises from the throne, then drapes herself against the arm, revealing herself completely.

For a moment, though she’s spread herself like this across his desk before, Lucien just stares at her.

“You are exquisite,” he says, and she beams, inspired.

“Imagine your visit drags on longer than expected,” she suggests, raising herself just slightly, so that he can see her breasts. “The courtiers do like to hear themselves talk. And we keep meeting secretly, to determine every facet of the treaty. How it will benefit our people.”

She skims her fingers down her body and he draws a rough breath.

“Our meetings grow more frequent, of course,” she continues, turning away from him as if she isn’t paying attention to his every gesture, “so that even the servants have begun to speculate. There are times when your hands stray beneath my skirts during those long days of deliberations, and I have to try and hide my responses behind outdated reports. But you are so clever with your fingers, I don’t ever want you to stop.”

All she can hear is the jagged sound of his breathing, close to her but not touching, and Vassa aches for Lucien so badly that she nearly spoils the effect by turning around and pressing herself against him.

Then his hands are on her hips, and he enters her with a single deep thrust, and Vassa has to hold tight to the arm of the throne, her fingers pressed into the rose carvings, because she’s not confident her legs will hold her. She manages to raise her hips in time with his rhythm and he groans over her.

She has always loved the feeling of him inside her, but now the fit seems even more perfect, as if they’d been made for each other.

As he thrusts in and out of her, her pleasure builds again, and Vassa swears she can hear the wild beating of his heart, distinct from her own. She reaches for him, catches his hand in her own and squeezes it, one more reminder that they are here together. That they’ve survived.

Then his other hand dips to her nub and Lucien replicates the rhythm with his thumb against her, and this time the pleasure builds like a mountain emerging from the center of the earth, molten and powerful and certain.

“Come for me, Majesty,” he drawls in her ear, trying to hide the sounds of his own desire but she hears them them anyway, knows he’s just as close as she is, and that certainty pushes her over the edge, bound to this earth only by his scent and power as her release overtakes her, as his own release thunders through the room, his shout and the rumble of his magic.

Later, he scoops her to his chest and pulls her to the throne. She can hear, so clearly now, the sound of his heart.

“How was it?” he asks, stroking his fingers through her hair, careful not to disturb the crown.

“This form was clearly made with you in mind.”

“And you seemed to enjoy yourself. Do you have a private throne room in one of your palaces? Because I think we will have to try this again.”

She stills and he kisses her cheek.

“I will go to Scythia with you,” he says, and she looks up at him, shakes her head.

“Your father is a High Lord. You have duties in every court, and countless friends. Why would you bother with a human kingdom?”

“You’re too intelligent to ask this question, Vassa. Didn’t you feel the bond between us even in that darkness?”

She thinks of that place where her self had no form, only perception, the way that golden cord had kept her from scattering into nothingness. It had smelled of Lucien, had felt like his power, and that was when she knew that everything truly would be all right.

“You don’t have to follow me to Scythia simply because we’re mates,” she says, though the words grate in her throat. She has always been prepared to make these kinds of sacrifices, so well trained in the life of a queen.

“It doesn’t matter that we’re mates. I will follow you to Scythia, or to wherever you might lead, because I have been hopelessly in love with you from the first moment I set eyes on you, and since that moment, I find myself unable to imagine a life without you. This mating bond hardly matters. I’d chosen you already.”

“Our first meeting was hardly pleasant,” she says, the words wavering around her tears, the glut of emotion. For all that they speak of everything, politics and history and their deepest thoughts, there is still so much that has gone unspoken between them. These omissions were acts of preservation, she knows now, in case their story faced an unhappy ending. And now it seems that they will have more years than she knows how to imagine.

“I had never met a well-born lady who could curse so fluently, let alone a queen.”

She takes his hand and draws it to her heart.

“I love you,” she says, and she knows that, even if she lives a million years, she will never forget the brilliance of his smile.

&

&

&

Hours later, when they dress in anticipation of the gardener’s approach, Elain decides she would prefer to stop wearing clothes entirely. Already she misses the sensation of the breeze and the grass and Tamlin’s skin against her own.

As they make their way to Tamlin’s room, hands clasped together, the servants regale them with knowing gazes. She feels the leaves falling from her hair, knows that Tamlin’s jacket is full of stains from the earth and grass, can only imagine what a spectacle they are, grinning and redolent of sex.

Still, Elain cannot find it in herself to be ashamed.

The minute they’re in Tamlin’s room, the door locked behind them, she lets her dress fall to the floor. This time, when he lifts her up to kiss her, she does not return to the ground for a long while.

Later, when they’ve settled in his bed, she lifts away the quilts and linens so that she can see all of him, trace every muscle with her fingertips.

“Is it always like this,” she asks, “with the mating bond?”

“According to the stories, it will be like this for months.” He pulls her fingers to his lips, dips each one against his lips. Already desire stirs in her again. “The frenzy is supposed to ensure that there are children. But there are potions to avoid them, of course.”

“What if we didn’t take the contraceptive potions?” The words tumble out of her, cobbled out of the fragments of her thoughts. Futures she never allowed herself to consider.

“You want to have a child with me?”

He looks into her eyes as if he can’t believe it.

She is quiet for a moment, trying to form the words. She never had a plan for this conversation.

“I want--I want to build my home. My family. And you need an heir.”

He reaches for her, pulls her close against him.

“There is no hurry for an heir, lovely. If I fall in battle, I know that you can lead this court.”

She breathes in the scent of him and considers. Since she was a child, there has always been the expectation that she would marry well, find some rich lordling and bear his heirs, preferably at least two boys to start, and then some daughters who could be used to build alliances for power or money. A beautiful object in a powerful man’s home, his path to greater glory.

Even now, after years in Prythian and months in this court, all the time spent growing her powers and capabilities, Elain is still learning to determine what it is she wants.

She thinks about Tamlin, the way he is with her now, the way they’ve been together even before either of them knew about the mating bond. Their secrets revealed to each other even while they attempted casual conversation. The way he will always try to protect her, even while recognizing her brave moments, her capacity for strategy and power. His trust in her, which at one time had seemed impossible. She does not want him by her side because of any expectation or even the mating bond. She wants him because of who he is. Who they could be, together.

And when she thinks of a child, she thinks of Nyx in her arms, his sleepy breath against her neck, the warmth of him cradled against her body. How she’d delighted in him, before she began to feel she had no place in the Night Court, before she exiled herself to the garden. The hours she spent singing little songs that turned her voice silly, exclaiming when he discovered words, the use of his wings. The possibility of her own child, sharing that being with Tamlin, makes her heart clench in her chest with longing.

What she wants, for herself and for him, for the two of them together, is enormous. And yet Elain thinks that she can trust him with all of it.

“I have never wanted to rule,” she says, finally, and then the words spill out of her. “I want my home here, and I want to be your emissary. To the other courts, and to the continent, and to the human kingdoms. I want to go to other worlds and see and learn from them. And I want the people of this court to feel safe and contented. I want to help you build a home for them, and make them glad to live on these lands. To show them our care and shield them when they need protection. I want the gardens of this estate to be beautiful and enjoyed not only by us, but by the servants and the people in the village. I want to have balls and parties. I want the nobles and really all the citizens of this court to want to come here, not to flatter you or me, but because they know this is a kind place, and they want to spend time together with us, in our home.”

She takes a breath, ducks her head so that she says the final words to his shoulder, to the muscles that shift with the slightest movement.

“But I think I could do all of that with children. Can you imagine what we could show them of this world, and all the rest besides?”

He smooths the hair from her face until she looks up at him, and his eyes are bright. She can see the smile in them even before she sees his lips and kisses them.

“It’s only,” he says, against her mouth, “that I don’t want you to feel as if you must make this choice for fear of disappointing me. Or because of the bond between us.”

“You’ve changed. You stopped hiding in the woods, and you started leading your people. You sacrificed yourself to save Helion and Cybele and even Rhysand, and your army came home from the battle with not a single death. You trust me. And I am tired of trying to make everybody happy with me. I am tired of waiting for the life I want to begin. And I should have told you all of this while you were recovering, but--”

“You were busy with Vassa. Breaking her unbreakable curse. Tending to me, too. You’ve hardly slept in weeks.”

“I love you.” She blurts out the words, the one last admission she’d held to herself. “I didn’t want you to think I only told you because you were so close to dying. But I should have told you sooner.”

“Instead you saved me,” he says, and then, “I should have told you sooner as well. That I love you. And I would love to have this life with you, exactly as you describe. With all the children you would like. It would be my greatest honor, Elain.”

This time, when he pulls her to him, she does not stop to speak, only kisses him until she can hardly breathe, lets him show her what it’s like to make love in his bed.

Later, when she’s curled up against him, her head on his broad chest, he winds a lock of her hair around his fingers.

“I never thought I could feel like this,” he says.

“Tired? Hungry? Bored of a woman?” she shoots back, rising on her elbow to reveal a lazy smile. He cups her jaw, runs his thumb against her cheek.

“My life has been shaped by battles. The space between them always felt empty, as if the best part of me were going to waste. But now I am envisioning a future in this court with you, and I am hoping there are centuries of peace.”

She kisses him, lets him pull her flush against him, a perfect distraction against the thoughts that form in her mind, the reality they will have to face.

“We need to destroy Koschei first,” she says. “He has been too quiet.”

“Between you and Vassa, the death-lord doesn’t stand a chance.”

Elain knows, looking in his eyes, that he believes this. It’s one of the reasons why she loves him. Even though she remembers the feeling of being trapped in the world, still has nightmares about herself wearing the Crown, about Vassa’s screams. The death-lord is always one step ahead of them and now, when she is so happy, Elain is most afraid that all this will be torn from her.

Still, they have this moment, and so she allows the smile to bloom on her face, full of all the joy she does not have words for. Let them have this moment, where the possibility of a happy ending to their story seems so possible.

“You flatter me, High Lord,” she says, and reaches for him, to return the compliment.

[houseofhurricane]

Why Vassien Is Endgame: The World Peace Theory

At the end of ACOWAR, all of the characters are focused on healing from the war with Hybern and creating peace in their world. One major aspect of this peace is High Fae, "lesser" faeries, and humans all living at peace with each other. In ACOSF, we find out that the terms of the treaty that would broker this peace are not going well -- particularly on the side of the High Fae. (Established power's never going to give up its power quite so easily, but I digress.)

This is where Lucien and Vassa come in. Lucien is the heir to the Day and/or Autumn Courts, with the potential for a claim to Spring if Tamlin were to die without heirs. (I mean, I don't know how Prythian's inheritance laws work, but it seems like a strong possibility.) Vassa is one of the seven human queens who rule the human realms, and could end up as the only queen if the betrayal of the others were to come to light.

Imagine how much easier peace in Prythian would be if there were a realm ruled by a human queen and her High Fae consort? Or a court ruled by a High Lord and his human High Lady? I know the Night Court has a formerly human High Lady, but now Feyre is a High Fae with a lot of power. The Night Court is a remote destination, nearly impossible for humans to reach. Its pro-human attitude is mostly symbolic. But Vassa as a co-ruler of the Day Court, the brave and brilliant human queen who broke the enchantment of the death-lord Koschei? Lucien, a powerful High Fae and rightful heir to at least one Prythian court, divesting of his power in favor of supporting his beloved human queen? Those stories are powerful. That's evidence that a better world is possible. And the High Fae, petty and politicking as they are, might actually be moved by it, just enough to consent to a treaty that makes life better for everyone.

Vassien already has immaculate vibes -- the beauty, the snark, the meeting of the minds! -- but throw in world peace, too? It's got to be endgame.

[houseofhurricane]

Not making any promises, but today I started working on a Lucien/Vassa one-shot. I love writing them together, they’re clever AND snarky AND beautiful AND each the heir to a kingdom? I MEAN...!

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (21/28) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

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

A/N: With Tamlin and Vassa on the brink of death, is there anything Elain can do to save them? You can find all previous chapters here, or read Bloom & Bone on AO3. Thank you for reading! ❤️ If you'd like to get an early preview on the next chapter, follow me on Instagram at @house.of.hurricane.

Elain has been pacing the Spring Court estate since Tamlin left, hours before dawn. Her fingers trembled so badly that Mor, come from the Night Court, was forced to button her dress, then forced Elain to sit while Mor held a cup of tea to her lips. Elain could taste the whisky in the mixture but accepted the burn in her throat without complaint, nodded when Mor told her it would be all right. She’d watched Tamlin in battle dozens of times, she said, and the Mother always protected him, you’d think a male so big would be an easy target, but Tamlin always knew exactly where to be, when to wield his magic or his sword or the shape of the beast. Mor’s babbling, Elain knows, and yet her musical voice is so soothing that it’s all she can do to keep herself from begging Mor to stay with her. But she’s here to guard Vassa, to winnow her if Koschei attacks.

She’s let Vassa down enough, Elain knows. She cannot allow her friend to be captured by Koschei, not after seeing what this second captivity has wrought, the way Vassa is crumbling.

So when the queen and the Morrigan go to the lake to await the sun, Elain stays in the estate with Lucien, alert to every sound. Finally, he retreats to the library after placing a spell on her that will alert him to the presence of another living being, and Elain takes to the halls again, her heels clicking on the marble and the old stone. Normally she would linger at the windows, comfort herself with the view of the flowers and her endless hypotheses about how to improve the garden, but now the blooms are a smear of color in her vision, refusing to become distinct and consoling.

She spends an hour in the kitchen, letting Cook boss her through the baking of the day’s bread, but eventually he shoos her away for over-kneading the dough.

If she had not promised Tamlin otherwise, she would go to the Autumn Court, no matter that the only places she knows are likely already in the thick of battle. If only she could see him for a few more moments, she thinks, striding through the estate one more time.

Mid-stride, the pain hits her. The agony begins on the left side of her torso, the place where her waist curves, and then it consumes Elain whole, a blaze of agony.

The pain makes her silent, drives her hands into fists so tight that blood seeps from between her fingers, from where her nails have punctured her palm.

“Lucien,” she breathes through the pain, though perhaps it is a scream, “someone has cast a spell on me.”

Though she can see no magic around her, detect nothing with her own powers. The attack from Koschei has begun, she realizes, and when she disappears out of the world, even though the pain remains, flaring and ebbing, she waits to hear his voice, feel the spark and crackle of his powers.

Instead she appears outside her room in Feyre and Rhys’s river house, and Rhys is muttering, “if you die like this, it’s going to look as if I killed you, and we both know this isn’t how I would kill you,” and then, despite the fire that clamps its jaws tighter on her, Elain runs until she reaches Tamlin, nearly falling out of Rhys’ arms. She knows exactly how far they’ve walked by the thick trail of blood, a shocking red against the gleaming floor.

“Get Madja,” she orders Rhys, reaching for Tamlin, a challenge in her eyes. She won’t ask what happened. There is no chance that Rhys would have left a losing battle with Tamlin instead of Cassian or Azriel. Which means that Tamlin had some plan he didn’t divulge to her. But she will be angry with him later.

Now, she only tells Rhys that she can bear Tamlin’s weight and braces herself for him, his head coming to rest on her shoulder, the blood of his injury warm on her hip. She presses her hand over the gash, walking him step by agonizing step to her bedroom, murmuring, you’re all right and hold on and please, Tamlin, please until none of those words have any meaning and her voice sounds like a shrill whine in her ears.

Finally, they reach the bedroom and she eases him as gently as she can onto her bed, pressing with all her might on his side, the magic in the wound sparking against her own. Koschei was behind this attack somehow, of this Elain is certain.

But as she presses on the wound, calling her magic up inside herself, willing it through her fingers in a golden glow, the pain in Elain’s side recedes.

She can still feel Tamlin’s blood, hot and throbbing against her palm, but Koschei’s magic is gone. All she can detect is Tamlin’s own magic, and Rhys’, where he tried his best to throw a patch on the damage.

There is still so much blood, though. Enough that a man would be dead. Elain has never much liked the sight or smell of blood, but she pushes through the bile that rises in her throat, presses her hands hard against Tamlin’s side, willing his blood to stay inside his body, for his own rapid healing to begin. Hoping it will be quick enough.

“You need to live,” she tells him, “because I want to scream at you for whatever made you decide to sacrifice yourself. And then I want to apologize for all the times I told you to do something, to lead your court. Because I didn’t realize it would hurt me so much to see you like this.”

She can still feel the warmth of the blood trying to escape his body, and Tamlin’s eyelids don’t so much as flutter. Despite his tan from so many hours spent outside, his skin is pale, going blue and gray, as if shadows have begun to claim him.

“I could’ve lived with the pain in my side,” she goes on, as if he had been listening to her, “but the pain in my heart at losing you is too much. I can follow you to the realm where the dead go, and if you die today you will find me in that world. But I want to know what it would be like to be with you in this world and unafraid. So you need to hold tight to whatever binds you here and live.”

She sets free a pulse of magic through him, not sure if it will do any good, but there is no answering gush of blood, and she hears a steadier breath leave Tamlin’s lungs. The seconds drag on and Elain holds her hands to the wound, alert to Koschei’s magic.

When the hand presses to the back of her neck, cool and dry, Elain screams.

Then she registers Madja’s scent, the calming herbs that seemed to have seeped into the healer’s skin.

With a practiced gesture, Madja slips her hands around Elain’s, then replaces them, pressing on the wound. Her magic, a white glow, surrounds Tamlin's side, spreads itself across his body.

“It is only his flesh that is harmed,” Madja says, and her voice is equal parts calming and annoyed. “I had thought from the state the High Lord was in, that there was a magical catastrophe of some kind.”

“Koschei’s magic was in the wound. It felt spiky and strange, like lightning in the air but more… evil, somehow.”

“There is nothing like that in this wound. Not even a trace of that kind of magic. I sense yours, and his, and the High Lord’s awful attempt at healing. It is as if that magic has not existed in this world, Lady.”

“You can call me Elain, Madja,” she responds, which is what she always tells the healer despite no evidence that Madja will listen, but behind her words, Elain’s mind is whirling. That she could remove Koschei’s magic from this world. There are a thousand things that she could do with that power, beginning with freeing Vassa from her curse.

She’s dimly aware of Madja’s magic as she wields it on Tamlin, knitting his flesh together, which Elain feels now in her own body, an easing inside her, the banishment of pain. She finds herself clutching at Tamlin’s hand, feeling the pulse at his wrist protesting her tight grip.

Yet inside, her mind works through the implications of this new facet of her power. This magic of Koschei’s was weaker than what she’d previously encountered, and untethered to Tamlin. It reminds her most of Beron’s magic when he interrupted the meeting of the other High Lords, and of course Koschei would have had to offer something to cement a continued alliance with the Autumn Court. Helion and Lucien could help her finesse her powers, will spend happy hours bickering over the best way to navigate the curse on Vassa.

This time, when she squeezes Tamlin’s hand, it’s because she is eager for all that awaits her, the unfolding of her plan. And this time, his fingers reach out and squeeze hers, and Elain can’t contain the little shout of joy that rises in her throat.

“Will he be all right?” she asks Madja.

“He will be weak for a few days while his body heals,” the healer says, applying a fragrant bandage to the wound, “but then it will be as if he were never harmed.”

Later, Elain will hear about the victory at the Autumn Court, how Eris claimed his throne and how Helion and the Lady of Autumn absconded to the Day Court, and joy will rise inside her, mixed with relief. But now, as Madja tightens the bandages and checks her handiwork, as color returns to Tamlin’s face, premature as it may be, this is when Elain rejoices.

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Exhaustion robs Vassa of most of her capacity for celebration. When Elain and Tamlin are returned to the Spring Court after the battle by Rhys, who recounts everything that has happened to Lucien and Vassa and the Morrigan, who has remained faithful to her duties as a guard, the most Vassa can manage is a smile that reveals her teeth. She wants to lean in to Lucien, pillow her head with his shoulder, but even the idea of the pain of that gesture will involve robs the desire from her, sends her to the opposite corner of the couch, tucked into herself so that there is less of her to touch.

She wants to rejoice for Eris but she worries about the curse on him, which Lucien says resembles the architecture of her own. Koschei feels only a whisper away, the grip of his magic so strong that it seems as if his own hands brush against her, polluting her. But she does not have the resolve to point this out to the grinning members of the Night Court, not after Morrigan’s bright chatter kept her distracted all day, and Vassa does not have the capacity to tear at the fragile hope in Rhys’s eyes. She should have the strength to hold Lucien close and allow him to mourn or celebrate the deaths of his other brothers however he wants, but it’s as if a thousand sleepless nights now press in on her, painful and muffling, so that she can only think of what she requires in each moment. And the idea of holding Lucien close, letting his touch cause her pain, is beyond what Vassa can currently bear.

Instead, after Rhys and the Morrigan leave, she hovers at the threshold of Tamlin’s room, where Elain has carefully arranged him on the bed. Lucien has quickly established himself on a deep armchair, his feet propped up on a low table as he works on a worn parchment which Vassa knows quite well. It contains a detailed analysis of her curse.

“You don’t know if the bond played a role,” Lucien is saying to Elain, who looks up from the fragrant compress she’s laid on Tamlin’s forehead just long enough to wrinkle her nose in annoyance.

“Even if it did, I don’t see how this isn’t worth a try.”

“You’re very sure of yourself for someone who learned this power moments ago.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“You know that Lucien is generally right,” Tamlin croaks, and the way Elain’s fingers reach for his jaw, trace the line the bones make under his skin, makes something clench, tender and jealous, inside Vassa.

She steps inside the room and they all turn towards her, her heavy human tread.

“Didn’t you always tell me that everyone underestimates Elain?” Vassa says, summoning levity to her voice, a wink towards Elain. She can tell from Lucien’s expression that he hears the strain anyway.

“I think that it is possible that I can break Koschei’s curse on you,” Elain says, in a voice that is sweet and adorably unsure, though Vassa is predisposed to give those words in any tone a rosy judgement.

“How?”

“Earlier, with my magic, I sent a spell of Koschei’s out of this world and into another. I think that I could do the same with your curse.”

“That was magic Koschei gave to my brother,” Lucien says. “My brothers were--”

“Your brothers were all powerful sons of two powerful High Fae, just like you.” Elain’s words shift between comfort and accusation, a tone Vassa recognizes. One she taught Elain herself.

“Try it now,” Vassa says, walking towards the bed and extending her hand toward Elain. She tilts her palm to the ceiling, the way a queen bestows her favor.

Then Elain steps off the bed and takes Vassa’s hand, and the pain cleaves her completely. It is as if her blood is boiling fire, as if there is an animal inside her, slashing at her with its teeth and claws, as if the world has turned to pandemonium and ragged screaming.

When Vassa finds herself on the floor, Elain and Lucien and Tamlin all staring at her, wide-eyed, she realizes that her throat is raw. That the screams were her own.

“I’m so sorry,” Elain says, and Vassa has to hold herself back from reaching for her.

Because as horrible as that pain was, when Elain reached out to her, there was an end to it. And the pain that Vassa endures every day feels endless, a life sentence.

She does not want to think about what it implies, that she wants Elain to grab her and hold on until the pain stops.

Instead, Vassa summons the depths of her will, assures her fae companions that she is all right, that she would like a few moments alone to collect herself, and manages to keep from collapsing until she reaches her own bed.

&

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“You were going to rip her apart,” Lucien growls, as soon as Vassa is out of earshot, and for a moment Elain is actually afraid of him. She’s never heard him so full of wrath.

Still, she cannot help asking: “What did you see?”

“Did your magic keep you from hearing her screams?” There’s an edge in his voice that threatens tears, wrathful sobs. Still. She had felt the magic rise in her, the will. A possibility that seemed apart from Vassa’s torment. Even in spite of her friend’s suffering, the maelstrom of pain, Elain had almost kept her fingers wrapped in Vassa’s tight grip. Of course, she will not tell Lucien how her friend clung. Perhaps she will never reveal the extent of the queen’s desperation.

“You saw something else,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. She feels Tamlin’s hand on hers, warmer than it was even moments ago, and the luck of it, the fact that he is here in his court and healing, makes her plunge onward. Because she has been trying to pretend that there is plenty of time to break Vassa’s curse, but that is clearly now a lie. “Tell me what you saw, Lucien, and we can try to fix it. We can go to Helion, or--”

Lucien interrupts her with a wave of his hand, lightning between his fingers. So powerful and yet completely unlike Koschei’s magic.

“That curse is interwoven with an essential part of Vassa. When you try to send it into another world, you are ripping that out of her.”

“Can you determine what part it was?”

Lucien’s face has gone pale, his lips yellow-white.

“It was her life, Elain. Her human life.”

“But that’s easy,” she says, not understanding his misery. “We’ll just summon the High Lords. Feyre was a human once.”

“Feyre saved our world and half the High Lords would still kill her to get that bit of their power back, if they didn’t believe she herself would destroy them in the process,” Tamlin says, the words between a groan and a sigh. “Now that they know the cost of such a miracle, you’ll never summon all of them. Not for a human queen who can offer them nothing.”

Elain is preparing a blistering retort when he reaches for her, squeezes her hand.

“If it were my decision alone, Vassa would already be High Fae.”

She dips her head and kisses him, a gentle press of lips that belies the furious workings of her mind. Because the moment Tamlin said her sister’s name, Elain’s own words to Feyre echoed in her mind. Your magic is something new entirely , she’d told Feyre. And isn’t it true of herself, too? Of Nesta?

“As soon as we can get a guard on this house,” she tells Lucien, “we go to the Night Court and then Helion. I have an idea.”

“I won’t let you kill Vassa,” he says, already halfway out the door, feet pointed in the direction of her room.

Elain only nods, doesn’t say that Vassa will surely die without her intervention. It would not be a kindness.

Instead, she turns back to the bed and smooths Tamlin’s hair away from his face, checking for signs of fever and too relieved when she finds none. She forgets, over and over, the fact that they aren’t human, that their lives are no longer so fragile, even in the thick of battle.

“You’re going to have to tell me why you weren’t shielding your forces,” she says, letting frustration suffuse her words.

“Helion and I went to rescue Cybele.” His eyes on hers are steady, no apology in them. “The Summer Court was better equipped to hold a shield against the Autumn Court’s fire.”

“So you had to be a hero?”

“You were angry when I hid in the forest,” he says, a sharp tone in his voice. “This is what it means, to be High Lord. To gain the peace you seek.”

His skin stands out against his white sheets now, and, had she not known the sight of him so well, Elain would think Tamlin unharmed. Still, she can see the exhaustion in his features, the pale cast to his skin.

“I didn’t know it would hurt so much,” she says, her voice breaking as soon as she meets his gaze. “I thought that you were going to die of that wound. That magic.”

“Now you know how it felt for me when Beron took you.” He reaches for her, his thumbs swiping away the tears that have fallen down her cheeks.

“Is it just the mating bond?”

“I--I sometimes think about what it would be, if you left this house. If you left me. The emptiness. And still I think I could… I think you’ve shown me how I could bear it, being alone. Anyway I probably deserve it.”

She lays herself carefully against him, avoiding his injured side, nestling close against his warmth.

“You are much better than I used to think,” she says.

“Better than I was. It isn’t much.” She hates that he won’t take the compliment. Accepting his flaws and failures is one thing, but this sorrow, in the face of his survival, still worries her.

“You were ready to sacrifice yourself for the Lady of Autumn. So that Helion could get away safe, and Rhys would be all right.”

“Who told you all that?” A confirmation in his eyes, the green gone bright as new leaves.

“Vassa was right when she said everyone underestimates me,” she says, taking his hand and sliding his fingers under the bodice of her gown. She does not want to talk about strategy or battle now. What she wants is far more than she can express in words. Not the desire for a man to protect her. More than the fervent kisses they exchange in other worlds. So many things in the world are awful, and Elain is tired and relieved and alive, and what she wants is Tamlin against her, inside of her, somehow still alive with her at the end of this day.

She stretches, allowing his hand to fall, cup her breast, and feels the heat rise in her at his harsh breath.

“I thought we were going to argue,” he says, his thumb pressed against her nipple. She can feel every movement, every hesitation.

“You’re alive,” she says, casting out with her magic to pull the door shut, leaning towards him so that her breasts swell against the neckline of her gown and his fingers are trapped against her soft flesh. “And I will have to go to the Night and Day Courts in the morning.”

In seconds, with his assistance, her dress is undone, landing on the floor with a muffled thump, her undergarments flung alongside, and then Elain reaches for Tamlin, pushing up the soft fabric of his shirt and running her fingers over his skin, the golden hair that’s light on his chest and thicker on his forearms, the muscles of his chest and abdomen, the cock that strains through his pants at the gentle exploration of her fingers.

She’s never touched him there before. She’s never dared.

His lips are on her neck, his teeth against the skin as his thumbs, featherlight, skim her breasts, teasing her soft skin, and she can’t help the moan she looses, the urgency of her own fingers, scrabbling between his back and the wall of pillows she’s constructed.

“Are you all right?” she asks, knowing that in a moment all semblance of consideration will desert her.

He pulls her against him and nods, but she feels his fingers going cold. She pulls her hands from behind him and cups her palms around his fingers, holding them above her heart.

“I’m alive,” he says, a growl edging the words, as if to distract her from the exhaustion in his words. “I’m alive thanks to your magic.”

“I’m never going to let you forget that.” She curls herself beside him, hoping he hears the promise in the words. The declaration in them.

With a groan, he reaches over and tucks the blankets around her, up to her chin, strokes his thumb across her lips.

“You saved me,” he says, and though the weight of the day bears down on her, a thick exhaustion, Elain can’t stop smiling.

&

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Over the next week, the firebird flies less and less, and Vassa spends more of each night in her room, curled up on the bed. Though he tries to hide it, Lucien has taken to sleeping on the floor, rousing himself at the slightest motion before spending his days far away. They’re getting closer to figuring out how to break her curse, he tells her, but Vassa has to work to feign interest, let alone believe him.

In both her human and firebird forms, her body feels as if its wrapped tight with cotton and pain, everything muffled, everything a strain. Elain’s laughter is harsh against her ears, Lucien’s worried looks are cloying and overfilled with pity. She hates that she cannot bear them.

She finds herself, one night, in the doorway of the High Lord’s bedroom, where Tamlin has been forced to wait for his innards to knit themselves together again. Already he looks fully healed to Vassa, but Elain has compelled him to remain in bed and Tamlin is clearly too besotted to put up much resistance.

“I see Lucien and Elain are still away,” he says when she greets him, the words not quite as jovial as he intends. A creature like that, forced into confinement, never rests easy. “Elain barely sleeps. She thinks only of breaking your curse.”

“Do you think that there is hope?” Vassa does not ask about Lucien, who no longer speaks to her about the breaking of the curse, but who is away with Elain, and who stays awake puzzling at all hours over reams of parchment and obscure spellbooks that smell like centuries of dust. Vassa falls asleep and he is leaning over his desk, making annotations, and when she wakes before dawn, she keeps finding Lucien in the same position.

“I believe in Elain,” Tamlin says, his gaze landing on her so powerfully that Vassa is reminded of what it means to be a High Lord, “I think she is only beginning to realize her capabilities. If she says it can be done, I believe her.”

“I am not so sure. I think Lucien has lost hope.” She has not made this confession to Elain or to Lucien himself because she can imagine the vast sadness in their eyes, the onset of grief. That she would be lost to them.

Still, even the sadness in Tamlin’s face is enough to steal her breath. She, who was bred and raised to withstand armies.

“I think Lucien would sacrifice the world if it meant keeping you safe.”

“In the stories,” she says, leaning on the threshold, “you were not nearly so perceptive.”

“If the stories are true, they describe me rightly as a monster.”

“You sacrificed yourself at the Autumn Court. No monster of my acquaintance has ever been so noble.”

“I knew this court would go on without me. The stories say you were beloved in Scythia.”

“All I ever wanted was to rule,” she says, because a queen accepts a compliment gracefully, but it’s been so long since she was last among her people that she’s beginning to wonder if it is true. If the things she’s always thought she wanted are the things she truly wants, now.

“Before you return--” Tamlin begins, but he’s interrupted by a flurry of footsteps, the intake of breath that precedes Elain’s voice.

“We figured out how to break the curse!” she announces, a riot of joy as she sweeps into the room, careful not to make contact with Vassa.

Behind her, Lucien and her sisters take a more sedate walk, and before Vassa steels herself to meet Lucien’s eyes, she takes in the careful void of emotion on Feyre Cursebreaker’s face, as she walks into Tamlin’s bedroom. Vassa knows enough of Prythian gossip to know what a moment this is, even if the tableau is innocent, the High Lord convalescing and his gaze intent on Elain, all pride and delight.

“Is it true?” Vassa makes herself ask, wrenching her eyes on Lucien. The deep violet under his eyes.

She does not miss the look that passes between him and Elain, the weight of it.

Still, he nods.

“When I touch you,” Elain says, her voice gone serious, “the pain is unique because my magic is attempting to pull the curse out of this world and into another, where it cannot harm you. But as part of his adjustments to the spell, Koschei ensured that if I removed the spell, I would shatter your humanity. That’s why I couldn’t take you from this world. I would kill you.”

“I was Made High Fae under similar circumstances,” Feyre says, every inch the High Lady even in her sweater and leggings and boots scuffed with wear. “But after realizing that assembling the High Lords was unlikely, Elain thought that Nesta, who can Make and Unmake, and I, with power of the High Lords, might be able to approximate their capacities. We’ve been determining a theory and practicing the spell and its timing for the past week.”

“ Someone is too slow with her magic,” Nesta interjects, rolling her eyes towards Feyre even as she smiles at Vassa with the confidence of an alpha predator.

If Vassa hadn’t been listening so closely, that would have been the moment she thought that everything would be resolved.

But: “I would be High Fae?”

“The combination of your curse and our magic means that you would have to become something new,” Feyre says, in a voice she no doubt uses on her child when he is so tired that all he can do is sob. The way that Vassa feels now.

All her life, she was raised to be the human queen of Scythia. She had always envisioned herself returning to rule there for the rest of the years that remained to her. Because she grew up learning the history of the faeries of this world. Such a queen would never be recognized, would never be accepted.

She would no longer be Queen Vassa of Scythia. She would no longer be a firebird, or a cursed queen, or a human woman.

She would no longer live with this curse eating its way through her, the fire raging in her veins as it prepares to swallow her whole.

She turns to Lucien, meets his eyes for the first time since he walked in the room. Sees the despair in them, the fear, and the hope. And another emotion, which at this moment Vassa can hardly bear. Still, she does not look away from him, tries to etch his expression into her mind, so that she’ll never forget his russet and gold gaze, which sees everything that makes up this world, the lips she’s kissed a thousand times, the bronze skin and red-orange-gold of his hair. The jagged scar which only highlights the handsome angles of his face and makes him more dear to her, for everything that he’s survived. Her Lucien, with his clever remarks and the wit that makes her cackle with laughter, whispering secrets and endearments to her every night, who has always made her feel as if maybe it were possible to live under this curse, so long as her life was illuminated by his light.

“This magic could kill you,” he says, “or destroy you past the point of recovery.”

She thinks of what it felt like, when Elain touched her this last time. What she might become even if the Archeron sisters are successful.

“How much longer do I have if we do nothing?” She tries to stay calm, not to upset Lucien, but still the words feel jagged in her throat.

“It’s possible that Koschei could reverse the spell,” Elain says, “if we compel him.”

For the first time since she’s entered the room, Tamlin speaks.

“You will not offer yourself to the death-lord,” he growls.

Elain moves toward him, but Vassa reaches toward her first, her fingers grasping for Elain’s wrist. A bolt of pain that shocks through her. The kind of pain that carries its end within itself, which cannot last forever.

Vassa thinks, in a rush, of all those new years she might have with Lucien, should this plan succeed. All the nights where the pain of holding him has overwhelmed her. Who she might be, at the end of this. No more days trapped within the mind of the firebird, no more nights watching the life drip out of her. There will be pain, but maybe, after, there will be something new. A future she has never even allowed herself to imagine.

“Break the curse,” she says.

For the first time in a long while, she sounds like her rightful self.

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (20/28) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

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

A/N: The High Lords go to battle against the Autumn Court. You can find all previous chapters here, or read Bloom & Bone on AO3. Thank you for reading! ❤️ If you'd like to get an early preview on the next chapter, follow me on Instagram at @house.of.hurricane.

The army from the Spring Court is small but Tamlin makes sure to greet and thank each warrior lined up in front of his estate, the same enthusiasm for the lower faeries as he gives to the members of the nobility who have arrived from their country estates. Tomorrow, at the Autumn Court, any of them could die. He does not want to forget a single name or face, and he wants them to know he’s seen each of their faces.

He used to shield himself from most of his army as a guard against the inevitable loss. It was easier, his father always said, to craft a winning stratagem when the general thought more about the victory than the ensuing loss of life. But more and more, Tamlin is feeling his father’s perspective unravel inside of his mind. He feels unmoored but also, sometimes, unbound in an entirely new way.

Anyway, he cannot quite believe that anybody answered his summons. Even after the months spent visiting the villages throughout the Spring Court, listening and commiserating and offering solutions, the humbling visits to the estates of his nobility, Tamlin thought they hated him. Although Lucien and Elain and Vassa had all helped him with the wording of his pleading summons, he expected that a request for an army of volunteers would go unanswered, that the lands around his estate would be empty save for the flowers. When warriors, males and females and those who see themselves in other ways, began to arrive at the Spring Court, he could barely manage to keep his composure, to restrain the tears that threatened to spill alongside strangled shouts of relief and joy. All he’d known in his life was leading warriors, and he had fully expected to never have that sense of purpose again, that he would fight alone until some stronger enemy claimed him.

So he has made his plans and preparations in a state of urgency and gratefulness which seems both old and new to him, interrupted only by meals and Elain, pulling him into another world for an hour, food unlike any he’s tasted, languages he’s never heard, and kisses that quench and also leave him wanting her so deeply he practically gasps with need. She is helping Lucien with diplomatic work and with the understanding of Koschei’s magic and spells, but in other worlds, neither of them speaks much of their work. They share little secrets and amusements and compliments. He tells her everything he would want her to know if he were to die in this battle. For so long, Tamlin had never thought about the possibility of death, and when it finally occurred to him, he wanted it to claim him. Now, for the first time in all the long years of his life, he both acknowledges the possibility of death and wants dearly to avoid it.

Throughout the morning, the army completes its drills. First, they go through the physical motions: the basic weaponry and the formations which, thankfully, they have not forgotten since the war with Hybern, some from wars that took place centuries before. Then, there are the drills in magic, determining the gifts of the army and how they might be used.

Finally, as the sun falls toward the horizon, he shows his commanders the formations, and within minutes, he sees a small army lined up neatly behind him, each flank poised and ready, on horse and on foot, their weapons poised to strike.

They all look to him, in the front of their group, and Tamlin tries to meet the gaze of each person, even as he knows that’s impossible with even this small army, the thousand volunteer warriors from across the Spring Court.

Behind him, he hears the doors of the estate open, and even before her sweet scent reaches him, Tamlin knows Elain is watching. He clears his throat, focuses only on what he had planned to say, well before he knew she would hear.

“Tomorrow we will march on the Autumn Court,” he says, magic amplifying his voice to a confident boom, “and I suspect you may wonder why I have summoned you to this battle. You may think that the determination of a ruler in another court will not affect you. But in that, you will be wrong. The males who want to seize rule of the Autumn Court seek to ally with a powerful death-lord on the continent. That creature seeks to seize friends of our own court to fuel his own wicked ends. If captured, he will use them in order to rule this world and every other. Tomorrow, you do not only fight for Eris Vanserra to take the High Lord’s throne in the Autumn Court. You fight for the saving of our world, and I thank you for your courage.”

When he takes a breath, the rapt silence stretches on, and Tamlin realizes that this was when he used to feel most comfortable, leading his war band. When he knew every face and believed that he and all his company would gladly die in order that the others would survive. He’s not sure when he lost that perspective, but now he takes a moment and searches each face, engraving it in his mind.

“My cook and his staff have been working for days to prepare a feast for you, but before you go inside to eat, I want to thank you sincerely for your bravery and courage. For the kindness you are showing to the people of this world. I hope that your bravery will be remembered in legend and in song. As long as I live, I will celebrate you.”

The clapping begins near the doors of his estate, and sweeps across to his warriors, his army, who clap and shout their support until at last Tamlin cannot contain the tears that fall down his cheeks.

As their applause dies down, Elain’s voice sounds in his head, remind them that there is dessert in the gardens!

Tell them at dinner yourself, emissary, he tells her, by magic or pure will, before turning and drinking her in. She’s wearing a dress the color of new grass in the sunshine, fastened at her waist with a slim pink belt, her bare shoulders luminous as the moon in the twilight. When she meets his gaze, her brown eyes are warm and intoxicating as whisky, and the thought of the battle, the possibility of losing her, is enough to crush the air from his lungs.

“How was training?” she asks, as soon as he reaches the doors. Lucien has joined her, his eyes fixed on the horizon for Vassa, but Tamlin knows he’s listening.

“They’re ready,” he tells them both.

“And if Koschei is at the Autumn Court?” The question is familiar, one she’s asked him every day since a battle became inevitable.

“I’m prepared to hold the shield until they can all be winnowed away.”

“I’ll come for you,” Elain says, as she always does.

“You’ll be needed for the saving of this world,” he tells her, the answer that he means more every time he says it. He reaches out for her fingers, clutches them tightly in both his hands, brings them to his lips. “You’ll stay with Lucien and Vassa and ensure there is peace. That there will be some beauty after all this war.”

Her sigh is laced with tears, and beside her Lucien groans.

“Will you two be like this until he leaves? Because if so, I will need to change my seat at dinner.”

“You will be flirting outrageously with Vassa the minute any of the Spring Court commanders so much as looks at her appreciatively,” Elain says as she twines her fingers in Tamlin’s and walks into the estate, he and Lucien following in her footsteps.

No one, now or when she arrives at the feast an hour later, remarks on Vassa’s changed appearance. The Queen of Scythia has always been slender, but she has lost weight since Koschei captured her, and since her return, her golden brown skin has grown pale, deep purple hollows forming under her blue eyes. Lucien has tried to conceal his alarm, but Tamlin knows that these changes drive him to spend every daytime moment negotiating an alliance against Koschei, studying his magic and the makings of the curse that binds Vassa tighter than ever.

Still, she makes herself as merry as anybody, asking the nobles questions about wars known to her only in history and myth, trading stories about the battle with Hybern, explaining that yes, she was a firebird all day today, and no, she does not particularly recommend the experience, although she wishes that everyone could see Elain’s garden through the firebird’s eyes, because there is nothing more beautiful in this world.

When Tamlin looks to Elain, he sees the tears in her eyes, and grips her hand below the table.

“How early are you leaving?” she asks, her finger rising to the edge of his sleeve, dipping beneath the fabric.

“Hours before sunrise,” he says. If he could winnow his warriors, they could leave later, but they will ride hard to the Autumn Court in the hours before the battle, replenishing the horses with magic. “After touring your gardens, this army will sleep.”

“No detours?” Her thumb reaches the inside of his arm, the skin that, despite all his training, has remained relatively soft. He manages to contain the sound of all his wanting.

“When I return safe to you,” he says, “you can take me to whatever world you like.”

He knows there is still shame inside her at the notion of their pairing, which explains why she only kisses him in other worlds, why their exchanges in this one are furtive and laced with double entendres.

“You should talk to your warriors,” she tells him, though she still holds him, their hands hidden by the table linens.

“Come with me, emissary,” he says, knowing the invitation is a test.

Still, though Elain drops his hand, she follows him down the line of the table, repeating the name of each warrior and thanking them for their service, asking about their experience and talents, listening deeply to their answers, to Tamlin’s own questions and stories.

They work their way down the table, and then she circles back to Vassa and Lucien, hovering over the human queen but coaxing a smile to her lips, a laugh from Lucien. After a few seconds, Elain looks up and meets Tamlin’s eye, and he watches her smile widen, her eyes grow bright.

As he leads his army into the garden, to the cakes and sorbets that Cook insisted were perfect for a spring evening, Tamlin thinks about that tableau, the golden circle the three of them made. He’s always found himself outside such circles, separated from his brothers by the power he had to keep hidden, from the Spring Court nobles by his own unease, his people and the other High Lords and practically everyone in Prythian seeming far beyond his grip.

But Elain’s look was an open door into another world, unlike the one he’s always known.

Tamlin spends the next hour talking to the warriors, focusing on the beings of more humble origins. Lucien had made the recommendation, pointing out that Melis was a lesser faerie, the advantage the lowerborn have in numbers alone. As he speaks to the faeries of every height and skintone and magic, he’s surprised by how easily the conversations flow, how eager the other fae are to speak with him, especially when he begins asking questions, listening the way Elain does, nodding and chuckling and meeting dozens of unfamiliar eyes.

He’s just served himself a slice of chocolate cake when he meets a pair of eyes he’d never seen. Not because he does not know this male, but because he would never meet Tamlin’s gaze before.

“I didn’t think you would ever join the army, Ilya,” he says, clapping the village blacksmith on the back.

“There’s never been a volunteer army in this court,” Ilya responds, nodding his head. “At least not for the last thousand years. I want to be able to say I was part of the first that anyone can remember.”

“I’m grateful.”

“You’ve changed, High Lord.” Ilya darts a glance at Elain, who is listening intently to another villager who is explaining the medicinal properties of forest plants. “You’ll pardon my asking, but does it have anything to do with the lady at your side?”

“Elain Archeron is serving as emissary of this court,” he says, and then, because he is so grateful for the ways that this conversation is unlike their first, “and she, just as much as you, deserves for it to be a place where everyone is treated decently. I am sorry I have never provided you with such a home.”

“You’re the first person in my memory who has tried, at any rate.”

Tamlin presses his hand over his own heart and bows. There’s nothing he can say, not against the knot in his throat. Ilya gives him a smile and a nod and goes to join a knot of villagers, and Tamlin walks in the direction of the woods, intending to eat the cake and collect himself.

He’s barely made it to the trees before he detects Elain’s scent.

“You’re not going to prowl the forest all night, are you?” The question is light but somehow the words are not a jest. Though perhaps it is the conversation he just left, the weight of the day to come.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling her fragrance of peonies and rose and berries, a perfect morning in the thick of spring.

“Do you believe I’ve changed?” he asks her. He does not look at her, only hears her footsteps against the fallen leaves, the sigh of her skirts.

“I want to believe that you are different now. That you’re better than the person who allied with Hybern and tormented my sister. But part of me wonders if I’m imagining everything because of what I feel towards you.”

As she speaks, the darkness of the evening seems to grow even dimmer. He has felt the world shift inside him, as if he sees everything with the eyes of Vassa’s firebird. And to be seen by her as more or less the same, capable of destroying her, is a blow graver than any he’s suffered in battle.

“You think the mating bond has blinded you.” He cannot bring himself to phrase it as a question.

“I wish I could have chosen you on my own,” she says, and she’s reached out to him, her fingers on his elbow, now on his chest, her skirts swishing against the tips of his boots. “I wish I could have known for certain that this is what I want, not some ancient magic that says our children would be powerful.”

He wants to draw her toward him, flush against his body, at the mention of children, the idea of a future with her, but instead he only presses his hand over hers, holds it against his thumping heart.

“I am so afraid that you will be hurt tomorrow,” she says, stepping closer to him, her body curled up against him, warm and sweet and soft. “I do not want you to think that -- that I feel nothing towards you. It’s only…”

“That I’ve been a monster.”

“And I’ve been a stupid child all my life. I think that you are different now, Tamlin. It’s only that I want you to be good so badly, because then I wouldn’t have to be guilty about my feelings. I could just...”

Once again she doesn’t complete the thought, only twines her fingers in his hair, strokes the back of his neck, and finally he crushes her in his arms so that her feet leave the ground entirely.

“I will come back to you tomorrow,” he says. “You don’t have to decide tonight.”

“I wish--” she starts, and this time he kisses her. Her lips taste like chocolate, and she opens her mouth to his with a little moan that unravels him. But tomorrow he will rise before the dawn and lead his army into battle, so Tamlin forces himself to set Elain on her own two feet, tries to tame the desire on his features to an acceptable facade.

“We’ll have time,” he says, and then, hand in hand, he walks with her, out of the forest and into the Spring Court.

&

&

&

When the sun rises over the Spring Court army, they’ve already ridden for hours in near silence. By midmorning, they are to meet the rest of Prythian’s armies at the Autumn Court, and the group is making better time than Tamlin had expected, riding swiftly enough that, at the borders of his lands, he allows them a short respite, during which he seeks out his most trusted commanders, who fought with him in the war bands, and reviews the battle plan.

He did not tell Elain the truth when she asked him for his strategy. He will not shield his court from the front lines of the battle.

The Summer Court has volunteered to shield the assembled army. Tamlin and Rhys had realized, on their mission against Koschei, that water magic would prevail the longest against the fire of the Autumn Court. Feyre has worked with Tarquin and Varian over the past week, according to the reports from the Night Court, and they have not only developed new shielding techniques but methods for attack, fearsome creatures animated by spellwork and will. The Spring Court commanders who can hold a shield will do so if the Autumn Court breaks through, but meanwhile Tamlin will be inside the keep itself with Helion, rescuing Cybele from the tyranny of her sons, or else fighting her until she yields. Helion has given no sign that he knows the Lady of Autumn’s allegiance, or even, since neither of them can winnow, how they will enter the keep, only winked and assured Tamlin he was on the winning team for once. The gesture made him think of Lucien, the swagger his friend sometimes allows to shine through. But entering the keep is riskier than remaining outside it. They have gathered no intelligence on what has happened at the Autumn Court since the day of Beron’s death, the last time anyone else in Prythian was able to get inside. If Koschei awaits, or High Fae from the continent, Tamlin knows that mere hours could separate him from his death.

Still, he rides onwards through the Autumn Court, the trees the color of earnest flames, and finally, Tamlin lets himself think of Elain, her warm gaze and the mind that whirls behind it, her sweet mouth and the way the words she speaks could form their own perfect world. The magic in her, bright as a new star. He wishes he could have left her being confident of her love, but at least he is certain of what she can create on her own.

As they draw near to the keep, Tamlin lays a thick glamour over the army, shielding them from the eyes and ears of the Vanserra brothers. The hoofs of the horses are muffled even to his own ears.

Nearly there?

The sound of Rhysand’s voice in his mind is like a thousand biting insects, but Tamlin does not push him out. Instead, he allows Rhys access to his vision.

You’ll be there in ten minutes. We’ll be ready. Drop the glamour as soon as you’re in range of the keep.

He waits until all trace of Rhysand is gone to feel, just for a moment, his frustration at being commanded. Then he surrenders himself to the killing calm.

When he reaches the wall of flames, he drops the glamour, and for a moment, the field of battle is empty aside from the Spring Court force.

He is sure, then, that he’s been abandoned by the rest of Prythian, is grateful when he feels the shield form behind him, that his people will be safe enough to begin their retreat. He’s glad that Elain is far, far away.

Then the wall of water springs up a few inches in front of his horse, and the great white bears of the Winter Court appear, and the sky is full of Illyrians, their siphons flashing.

You thought we’d leave you to die? Rhysand is laughing into his mind, and Tamlin cranes his neck, looking for the overgrown bat.

I probably deserve it, he thinks.

Now, now, Rhysand drawls, you still have work to do.

So do you, Tamlin fires back, now looking for Helion, who strides through the lines as if this is merely a training exercise. As soon as he spots Tamlin, the world dissolves and Tamlin stumbles into what looks like the interior passageways of the Autumn Court keep, dark stone hallways lit by torches. Helion is implacable as he was on the battlefield, calmly studying his surroundings, his armlet glinting even in the dim light.

“I didn’t think you could winnow,” Tamlin mutters as he reaches for his sword.

“There are always ways around any limitation if you’re creative enough,” Helion says, flashing a smile that leaves no doubt of his self-estimation. “I believe the lady is being kept in this corridor.”

“How have you been able to track this court?” he asks in his lowest tone as he follows, unable to contain his curiosity. In his beast form, he could scent Lady Cybele, but he and Helion had agreed to remain in their High Fae forms, for any subtler magic and diplomacy required. Yet Helion walks down the dark hallway without a sound, without so much as a sideways glance to confirm that he’s moving in the correct direction. Perhaps all these years later, he is still besotted with Cybele. Perhaps he thinks this will be a romantic rescue.

“They call me Spellcleaver with good reason.”

The door opens before Helion touches it, and at first Tamlin thinks that the High Lord of Day has opened it with his magic, one more flourish, but Helion whips his head toward him, his braids flying with the motion.

Inside the room, the Lady of Autumn sits on a plush armchair surrounded by a hundred threads of fire, caging her so that she cannot make the smallest movement.

“Come to find your lover?”

The voice is a cruel distortion of Lucien’s, and in a flash, Tamlin’s sword is at Ealars’ throat.

“I wish I was surprised to see you make your mother a prisoner in her own court,” he says, debating whether to take off Ealars’ head or merely incapacitate him. Meanwhile, Helion works frantically at the spells that control the cage.

The room fills with heat, diffusing from the flaming chains. The glow illuminates Ealars’ grin.

“I don’t understand why you won’t just give them up,” Ealars says, and then the magic surrounds Tamlin, that spiky potent power that does not belong in this world. Not wholly Autumn Court magic, but Koschei’s, too, multiplying Ealars’ power so that it rivals a High Lord’s.

Tamlin slams his shield in place, covering Helion and Cybele. His sword clangs to the ground, thrown by the force of his own magic. Tamlin reaches for the sword he’d strapped across his back, palms a dagger in his other hand.

“He was trying to bind you,” Helion says, his fingers working around the bindings as if he’s trying to assess their width and tension.

“And here I thought you would need to concentrate on your task.” Tamlin doesn’t want to think about the implications of being bound by Koschei’s magic.

“I’ve reached the level of brilliance which allows for multitasking.” And, perfectly timed with his self-praise, Helion reaches into the strings of fire and bends them. There’s no hint of pain on his face, no arrogance in his gaze that’s focused only on Cybele’s pale face, only a recognition, as if to say finally. Her russet eyes are bright as she looks up at him. Tamlin has always known the Lady of Autumn to be shy and retreating, but there’s no hesitation in her bold look, only certainty, a claiming.

Once the flames have parted enough to allow the movement, Helion rests his thumb on her cheek, studies her face as if he means to memorize each feature. Though the caging spell still partially binds her, neither of them makes the slightest motion apart from the other.

Tamlin is about to clear his throat, remind them that they are in the middle of a battle, when the room goes dark and a new power batters his shield.

“Trust Rhys to make a grand entrance,” Helion says without so much as raising his eyes, only lifting the chains of fire aside like a curtain and holding out his other hand for Cybele to step through.

The High Lord of Night had been tasked with offering the remaining Vanserra brothers the opportunity for retreat, or ending their lives. Apparently he’d made quick work of the rest of Lucien’s family.

Outside the shield, the mixture of fire and Koschei’s magic battle the dark expanse of Rhysand’s power and for once, Rhysand isn’t the clear victor. Koschei’s power seems to eat away at his magic, absorbing it to grow stronger.

“Can you get yourself out of here?” he asks Helion, who has joined in the analysis of the skirmish outside their shield, the Lady of Autumn tucked in to his side. “There’s something wrong with this magic.”

“This isn’t Ealars’ power,'' Cybele says, her voice hoarse from disuse or abuse or some awful combination. “It was the price of his allegiance.”

“Did all of your sons ally with Koschei?” Tamlin asks, watching Helion wince at the oversight but waiting, one eye on Rhys, for Cybele’s response.

“The three in this keep. The day after their father died. Koschei said it was more power than any of the High Lords possesses on their own.”

“Then we will need a stratagem to escape,” Helion says, eyeing Rhysand, whose tan face has gone pale, the darkness of his magic now translucent.

“I’m faster with a sword than Ealars.” Tamlin tries to summon belief in this statement, tries not to think of Vassa, the shell that remains of her every night. “I can hold him at bay until the rest of you escape.”

Because his mother is there, Tamlin does not say, until I kill your son, even though that is his plan. Still, Cybele goes from pale to ghostly as she realizes his unstated implications.

“And how will you get out?” Helion asks, reaching out his hand. Though Tamlin will refuse it, this offer for escape, he is grateful. That, if this is the end for him, it didn’t happen when he was useless and raging, alone in the forests of the Spring Court. That someone would want to rescue him.

He shakes his head, finds himself somehow grinning.

“People tend to run from the beast. Just get her out, Helion.”

Helion nods.

Tamlin drops the shield. Instantly, Cybele and Helion vanish, and Koschei’s power spears toward Tamlin.

He dodges the blow and runs with his sword instead of his magic, throwing up a small shield as he runs toward Ealars. Lately he has found success in a stealthy approach but now he roars out his battle cry, so that, for just a second, the fire mixed with otherworldly magic wanes, and Rhys’ magic rises in the room.

Within seconds, night is a slender cord around Ealars’ neck.

Tamlin vaults toward the gasping male, trying to dodge the bolts of spiky magic that Ealars flings around the room. He is so close, he needs only to take one more step.

He hardly has time to see or hear the magic, let alone react, when his left side explodes with pain, as if his own flesh is consuming itself.

Still, Tamlin digs in deep to all his warrior’s training. He reaches out with his sword, one heaving slash of the blade and then another, until there is a thump and the room descends into a ringing silence.

Strange, that he cannot see Ealars fall. That the head that fell from his body already seems a long-past memory, the blood trailing his neck, his face frozen in an expression of horror, Ealars’ last look at the world. It all goes gray and distant.

There is only the pain in his side, but even that pain has receded now, a scream in the distance.

He opens his eyes and Rhysand stands over him, and even in the haze of ringing gray ache, Tamlin knows that Rhys’ smile is forced.

“Elain is going to kill me if you don’t survive this,” he says, and then, for Tamlin at least, the world goes empty, dark, and roaring.

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (18/28) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

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

A/N: Everyone is back at the Spring Court, but nothing is as Elain imagined. I hope you enjoy! You can find all previous chapters here, or read Bloom & Bone on AO3. Thank you for reading! ❤️ There will be no new chapter next week because I will be on vacation with limited wifi, but after that, it's full steam ahead until the end.

Once Lucien takes Vassa to their room, Rhys and Tamlin agree to survey the wards on the estate, and Elain waits with Feyre and Eris for any sign of Koschei. She does not know what use she’ll be, but though her dress is torn and there are leaves tangled in her hair, Elain is not willing to leave the great hall.

“Will you go to the Autumn Court and claim your title?” Feyre asks Eris, her voice carefully neutral.

“I think that even with your limited years in Prythian, you will understand that such a thing is not a simple matter of appearing on the throne,” Eris responds in that silken tone which is seemingly not affected by torture or pain.

He shoots a look at Elain that indicates her presence is unwelcome. She crosses her arms.

Then Feyre turns to her.

“Can you give us a moment?” her sister asks, in that too-gentle voice that knows that Elain could not do what was needed in the moment of crisis, that she will always need rescuing.

But this is not some private room in which she can tell Feyre what is the matter. She is standing before the High Lady of the Night Court and the High Lord of the Autumn Court, and she’s been dismissed.

She forces her lips into the approximation of a smile and leaves the room, pushes her way out of the great wooden doors, and walks into the garden.

Elain has imagined this moment, her return to the gardens of the Spring Court, so many times. She would be walking with Vassa, healed and happy, and Elain would share her plans for the new garden, new hybrids developed on the continent or a more pleasing arrangement of plants, and Vassa would tell her a story about Scythia, which would make her laugh and also contain a thinly-veiled lesson on what it would mean to rule. There would be an affectionate joke about Lucien, perhaps a reference to Tamlin that would have Elain blushing, but mostly she would savor the nighttime walk in the garden with her friend, who would trust that Elain was capable of nearly anything.

Now Vassa screams at her touch.

Elain makes it as far as the edge of her field of tulips before she falls to her knees, ready for the sobs to overtake her. Instead, there is a great roaring emptiness inside of her. She’s surprised to realize that this feeling is not unfamiliar, something akin to what she felt in the Night Court months and months ago, convinced she’d turn into a monster. The feeling that she’d once had a purpose, only to find it had abandoned her.

She does not want to go back to the Spring Court, or to the Night Court, or even to all of Helion’s libraries. Instead, Elain thinks about wandering the forest, letting the low-hanging branches tear at her until she is dirty and empty and snarling.

Still, when she hears the sound of footsteps behind her, Elain does not fight. She freezes. She feels the hand on her and then she does the only thing she knows: she disappears.

Elain had worried that she’d lost this ability because of Koschei’s magic, that she’d be bound to her own world forever, but she leaves Prythian behind as easily as a leaf falls to the earth, the Spring Court gardens giving way to the familiar passageways.

Tamlin is beside her.

Watching the play of emotions on his face, Elain is sure he’s going to rage at her, point out every stupid decision she’s made, every risk and every failure, but instead one of his hands goes to her shoulder, the other to her chin, gently lifting her face until their eyes meet.

What she sees in his eyes makes everything else dissolve into mist around her. His green eyes do not waver in their gaze on her, as if he can behold every piece of her. She could never have imagined a look that tender, that hopeful, that concerned, that kind. The fairytales never went into such specifics.

“Are you all right?” he asks, the words so gentle and raw that Elain begins to cry. Not the screaming sobs she imagined. Instead, her tears leak out from her eyes, silent as they fall to her cheeks.

“I couldn’t save her,” she says. Her voice goes high and plaintive, a child’s wail. “I couldn’t take her to a place where she’d be safe. And she was there for so long. And the way she screamed when I touched her. I thought I was helping but all I did was cause her pain.”

The thought brings on the sobbing, her shoulders heaving with the recollection of Vassa’s screaming, the fact that even in the face of her friend’s suffering, Elain did not let her go. The fact that in the end, all she’s learned, all her abilities, were of no use.

Tamlin does not tell her to stop crying, does not tell her it is all right, doesn’t even remind her that everyone is waiting at the Spring Court, that there is every chance they’ll be retaliated against by Koschei or some unknown ally. Instead he draws her against him, her cheek against his chest, his hands on her back, up and down her spine, over and over, until her sobs calm.

“Without you, we wouldn’t have known that Vassa and Eris were in danger in the first place. You were the one who drew us together, who made the strategy.”

“Koschei will just claim her again.”

“We won’t allow that to happen,” he says, his hands cupping her shoulders, warm even through the heavy beading on her gown. But some perverse part of Elain is tired of being comforted.

“You think the High Lords will be willing to sacrifice themselves for the safety of a human queen?”

“I’m not talking about the High Lords. I mean you and Lucien. And me.” The last part comes after a hesitation, phrased almost as a question.

Her mind shifts them, to his appearance in the clearing.

“What happened to the shield against Koschei?”

“Feyre realized you were in trouble. She or Rhysand winnowed me to you. Koschei built a trap into the spell he has on Vassa. Likely it’s on Eris as well.”

She knows this will have political implications for Eris, but she cannot think about those now. Not when she’s dismissed from the rooms where such matters are discussed.

“I should have thought that Koschei wouldn’t make rescue so easy. Not when everyone was telling me to wait.”

He pulls away from her, meets her eyes, and does not look away.

“There is always a point where courage seems like stupidity.”

She shakes her head, tries for a smile. Of course Tamlin would know this.

“You’re being too nice to me,” she says. She was trained all her life to read the desires of men on their faces, and she knows when there’s something they’re not saying.

He sighs, looks away from her.

“You tried to do everything on your own. If you were anyone else, I would have started by saying that you should have let go of Vassa the moment she started screaming. Lucien could have winnowed her, or Feyre or Rhysand. You didn’t know what magic Koschei was working. And when I thought you were in danger, I… I was willing to sacrifice myself for you, Elain. To buy you the time to save Vassa, or run to safety. I would gladly make the same decision again. But you did not show the same amount of trust.”

She looks at him for a long moment. His muscles are tensed against her, as if he is waiting for her to rage at him, or else to disappear and leave him stranded between worlds. It occurs to her, then, that he is completely at her mercy.

In the space of that realization, all her angry thoughts toward Feyre evaporate. All she can think about is that if he braces for rejection in the face of such a gentle critique, he must have faced it from everyone he ever cared for. That she is now one of those people. Elain isn’t sure if it’s the mating bond, but this idea is a heady one, thrumming through her body.

There are a thousand reasons she should distrust Tamlin, even now, but she pushes each one firmly aside.

“I think you’re right,” she says, her voice a thread, swallowed up by the expanse around them.

When she sees the slight widening of his eyes, the surprise at her acceptance, she wants to fling herself at him, press her mouth to his. But they need to return. There is work to do, still, and she cannot lose herself to this desire, she cannot be the person who winds up trapped by the idea of romance.

And though Elain wants to trust Tamlin, believe that he has changed, that his past is behind him, she’s still comforted by the fact that in this place, she is the one with the power. That despite all his training, the arms that heft a broadsword without hesitation, the thighs that strain at his pants, she could trap him with a thought. In another world, he cannot harm her.

So instead of kissing him, she steps out of the circle of his arms, says, “We should go back to the Spring Court.”

“I need you to go to the Summer Court.” He looks down at her but she doesn’t feel him looming, only the earnestness of his gaze. Still, she steels herself.

“In case Koschei comes for Vassa and Eris?”

“Because I’d like you to tell the High Lords of Prythian everything that has happened while I ensure my court is secure. I’m asking you to be my emissary.”

“Why me?”

“You see what nobody else does, Elain, and beneath your lovely face is a mind that never stops. I think only a fool would underestimate you, but it seems this world is full of fools.”

His little speech is pure poetry, everything she’s ever dreamed a man or male could say to her, more than she ever expected. Still Elain remains out of the circle of his arms. She was part of the deliberations between Tamlin and Lucien over the meeting of the High Lords, the bickering that turned thunderous. As much as she wants to believe them, she knows firsthand how words can be manipulated, how a story of disaster can be turned into an epic tale of bravery and vulnerability and redemption. And while she believes both halves of this story when it comes to the Spring Court, tonight her heart feels too bruised and tired to take the risk on Tamlin.

“You’re sure Lucien won’t mind losing his post?”

“Lucien has been revealed as the heir to the Day Court and will likely be the consort of the Queen of Scythia. Even if he’d like to reclaim the position in the future, I don’t think he’ll object to your mission tonight.”

“Then I’ll accept,” she says. “As long as you’ll agree to consider the fact that you’ll still need an army to deal with the Autumn Court and fend off Koschei.”

His mouth thins while he considers.

“What did you see when you were there?”

“I don’t think the Vanserra brothers are ready to hand over the throne to Eris. We can try a diplomatic option but they’re unlikely to be receptive. They threatened Feyre and me with fire when they found us in the Autumn Court.”

His fists are clenched.

“How did you escape?”

“Feyre made a shield of water and we ran as fast as we could.”

“You could have--”

“I know I could have brought you from the passageways,” she says, “but this is going to be a political nightmare already, and we barely have the other courts as our allies.”

She hadn’t realized she’d looked away from him until his hand interrupts her view of the tiled flooring of the passageways. She reaches for him and their fingers intertwine, effortless.

“We will require an army,” he says, and Elain could swear that the air fills with the scent of springtime, green and sunlit and full of promise.

&

&

&

The High Lords have remained in the same room of the Summer Court, and at first Elain wonders why their expressions are rapt from the moment she appears. Then she realizes that Feyre is speaking, that Vassa is at her side.

“That is the chaos in the Autumn Court,” Feyre says, without acknowledging Elain’s appearance, “but I think that the larger threat to all of us is Koschei.”

“The sorcerer is bound to the lake.” Kallias’ voice sounds certain, but he looks around at the other High Lords as if requesting reassurance.

“He spoke to me of other worlds.” Vassa speaks into the silence, which grows more profound as her words resonate in the room. “He means to conquer them.”

“By what means?” Helion tries for arrogance but Elain can hear the concern, the curiosity in his tone. She has heard those qualities in his speech too many times to miss them.

And it occurs to Elain that she knows the answer to this question, that she’s held it inside of her since that vision long ago. The world shifted around her to make sense of it, and still her thinking mind shielded her a bit longer, as if knowing she was not ready.

Before Feyre can answer, she steps forward to where the rulers of Prythian cannot help but see her, her tired face and the leaves in her hair and the sparkling dress that’s smeared with blood and dirt.

“I think he means to get the Crown on me,” she tells them.

“I heard you were a seer.” Tarquin’s voice is calm, the sea on a sunny day, but Elain wonders what’s lurking below, how his mind moves.

This is the moment when Elain must choose how much of her gifts to reveal. For a second she hesitates, nearly looks to Feyre or Helion for guidance. Instead, she turns to meet Vassa’s eyes.

Though her friend’s face is pale and haunted, her blue eyes blaze bright. The gaze of a queen.

Slowly, because a queen is never hurried, much less by a commoner, Vassa nods at Elain, her lips ever so slightly uptilted.

“I am still learning about my powers,” Elain says, turning back to Tarquin, then letting her gaze rest on each of the High Lords in turn: Kallias, Thesan, and Helion. “But what I thought was the power of foresight seems to be more complicated. I can see the inflection points, where one world becomes another. These worlds are forged by our choices. In one, for example, Koschei captures me and forces the Crown on my head. In another, we defeat him.”

“And why are you the central figure in his plan?” Thesan’s voice is pleasant, almost musical, and yet she sees the tension in his body, nearly hidden. Elain thinks that, should she survive what’s to come, she would like to know him better, learn the way he balances his strength and kindness, the way it is not weakness.

But there is work to do, so she breathes deep and explains to them about the way that she can walk through worlds. She tells the High Lords about the passageways, the way she’s guided by desire, so that she can find the worlds that answer her needs in half a heartbeat. She speaks of the world of Koschei’s origin, the tethering spell, the spell that keeps Vassa in this world.

“There’s one other thing I encountered on my travels,” she says, trying not to sound too excited, too naive. “I found a world where the fae and humans live together, a world at peace. I did not speak the language and looked unlike the humans of that world, but they gave me food and shelter and kindness. When this is over, if we can defeat Koschei, that is the kind of world I want to live in. Where visitors from other realms would like to stay because they know they will be safe.”

“First we will need an army.” Vassa steps in before any of the High Lords can speak, stepping towards Elain but far enough away that their bodies cannot accidentally touch. “First we will need Eris to rule over the Autumn Court. His brothers will be easy targets for Koschei.”

“I thought you would say that we must protect Elain,” Helion says, more steel in his voice than Elain would’ve expected, until she remembers once again that Helion is now Lucien’s acknowledged father, observing his lover for the first time.

“I will not be safe if any court in Prythian falls to Koschei,” she says, shooting a glance at Vassa, makes it as warm and encouraging as she can. “The Spring Court will raise the largest army it can cobble together to support Eris’ claim.”

“The Night Court will back Eris with an army.” Feyre’s voice is as sure and savage as any of the High Lord’s, and this is the moment when Elain has most delighted in her sister, at the swell of her power in the room, her refusal to yield.

“The Illyrians?” Helion asks, crossing his ankle over his knee.

“The Illyrians support Eris.” Feyre crosses her arms over her chest.

“If it cannot be Lucien,” Thesan sighs, “Eris is the best of the lot. The Dawn Court will offer its army.”

Kallias gives a nod, and then the room goes quiet.

“This is what your son would want,” Vassa says, her face aimed at Helion.

“Then why does he not ask me himself?” The words are too hard to be entirely false.

“He is strengthening the wards on the Spring Court against Koschei.” Vassa crosses her arms. “He’d like it clear that he wants to make no claim on the Autumn Court.”

“I see why he likes you, Queen of Scythia,” Helion says, his smile brilliant. “I’ll offer my army.”

“Then we’ll return tomorrow night to discuss our strategy.” Feyre’s gaze sweeps across the room but does not rest on Elain.

“We need to rule our courts,” Kallias says, with a shake of his head. “Give us another night, and bring the firebird queen.”

The other High Lords murmur their agreement, and when Elain steals a glance at Vassa, she could swear her friend is barely concealing a victorious smile. One battle, at least, has been won.

But when they’re in the Spring Court again, Feyre tugs on Elain’s arm, pulls her into an alcove off the great hall.

“Which vision was the lie?” Feyre’s voice is sharp, her fingers pressing into the soft part of Elain’s upper arm, so that she thinks of claws.

“I meant to tell you--”

“I gave you everything you needed, and the High Lords came to your meeting, they left their territories vulnerable against Koschei and the Autumn Court, and you lied. Was there even a true vision? Because I have been looking over my shoulder and wondering how he’d use you, how he’d break you, all the misery that would happen when your vision came true. And all that time you were here, and silent, and I thought you were in danger from him. Are you really such a monster that you needed to hurt me? Or are you in league with him, trying to have us all tearing at each other’s throats until you truly do wear a crown?”

At first Feyre’s words had been ragged and filled with hurt and rage, but gradually the emotion had disappeared, leaving only a flat despair.

Elain had never stopped to consider the impact of her lie on Feyre. She’d been so focused on her escape, the life she’d made in fits and starts in the Spring Court, her power. Just as she’s always been, she realizes, focused on her gowns or the men she might marry, her dreams of flowers when they’d lived in the cabin.

“I lied to you,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “I am sorry, Feyre. I felt… when I saw that vision, I felt like the monstrous thing inside of me was going to turn me into something completely different. A person I couldn’t recognize. Except I already felt that way. Angry and useless and vile. And I thought, I couldn’t bear it if you and Nesta saw me turn into a monster. But I should have thought of you, what it would mean if I went to Tamlin. That you were in the vision.”

She expects Feyre’s voice to soften at her words, the honesty in them. Instead her eyes are downcast, her face hard and focused.

“I want to forgive you,” her little sister says. “But I don’t know if I believe you. Because I believed you when you lied to me. And you didn’t even think…”

Elain wants to insist that she’s sorry, kneel in front of her sister and weep until she’s so wretched that Feyre has no choice but to forgive her. Somehow she forces her spine to stay straight, her head to nod.

“I understand,” she says, unable to keep her voice from wavering.

“Of course this will not affect relations between our courts.” Feyre adjusts the sleeves of her gown, the same one she’d worn to the High Lords’ meeting, black and almost severe but for its close fit against her body. Her sister, who went off into the woods every day in search of food, who learned how to be a queen.

“I wasn’t aware that those relations were particularly friendly.” Elain tries to smile and feels it twist into a grimace.

“I will never let this court fall if you are there.”

“I -- thank you, Feyre.”

She had planned to say that she did not need this special protection, but she thinks of what Feyre said. Of what Tamlin said. The feeling when she was stuck in this world and Koschei seemed imminent.

Instead of arguing, she holds out her hand to her sister, and when Feyre takes it, she squeezes it tight until Feyre steps away, leaves the alcove, her skirts sighing against the marble floors.

Elain sinks to the ground, curls herself into a ball, and stares at the tiles until she hears the footsteps approaching her, Tamlin’s scent.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Are the wards secure?” she shoots back, looking at him, dirty and disheveled but still so handsome he’s practically glowing.

“They recognize Koschei’s magic and should repel him from appearing. And Rhysand is taking Melis to the Night Court. Apparently Nesta and her Valkyrie friends will be guarding her in the library.”

“I thought Melis would stay here.”

“We still don’t know what she can do if she touches you. As talented a designer as she is, and as beautiful as this gown is, I would rather know that you’re safe from her.”

“It’s not -- I don’t care about the dresses,” she says, holding up her hand so that he cannot get close enough to drown out her voice. “But we didn’t torture Melis. And in the Night Court, Azriel might.”

“That is why I made Rhysand swear that Melis would not be tortured as long as she behaved herself.” Tamlin crouches down, and even then, she has to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. “I made sure that Melis was aware of the arrangement.”

“So Vassa and Eris are safe?”

“As safe as anyone is in this world.”

The day and night have been endless but still Elain reaches for Tamlin. The world around her wavers, half-dissolving, before she resolves herself. That this must be here and now.

Before he can speak, she presses her mouth to his, hot and searching.

There is only time for a kiss in this world. Elain is battered and bruised and exhausted, and Tamlin is needed for a thousand things, and anybody could see them, but for this moment there is only his mouth opening to hers, his arms pulling her body tight against his, Elain is only a person who wants, and wants, and wants.

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (25/28) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

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

A/N: The early part of this chapter is based on some truly frustrating work meetings I've experienced... but trust me, make sure you read it until the end. You can find all previous chapters here, or read Bloom & Bone on AO3. Thank you for reading! ❤️ If you'd like to get an early preview on the next chapter, follow me on Instagram at @house.of.hurricane.

&&&

Not for the first time, Lucien wants to rage at Helion. His father is charming, even warm, among those he holds in confidence, but in front of the other High Lords, he is determined to be arrogant, pointing out everyone else’s faults in logic as if the safety of Prythian and its citizens is merely a particularly complex game of wits.

They have been arguing over Koschei since early in the morning, and the sun has kissed the horizon with barely any progress made on destroying the death-lord.

Finally, Nesta stands amidst the delegation from the Night Court.

“Frankly, we are having this meeting as a courtesy to you,” she says, ignoring Feyre and Cassian tugging on her wrists, “we could end him today.”

“Last I heard, you and your sisters were not queens set to rule over us, whatever you may think,” Helion says, dryly.

“And what will you do if you are conquered instead by Koschei?” It is Vassa, beside him, who speaks, her eyes the blue at the center of a flame, her chin raised. The only female in this room who has ever been crowned queen. “I assure you that your bondage will be far more arduous than any slight to your pride today.”

“You were a human girl mere moments ago,” Eris says, a warning in his eyes and a demand.

“You know what it is to be held by Koschei,” Vassa insists.

“And I was promised certain assistance by your associates which I have yet to receive.” His eyes move from Vassa to each of the Archeron sisters, leaving no doubt who he means, claiming in front of all Prythian alliances best left unspoken.

Lucien had hoped that becoming High Lord would make Eris less of a bastard, but either he was overly optimistic, or the change will be slow in arriving.

“Koschei is a threat to all of us,” Feyre says, her voice deceptively gentle. “We think that this plan will--”

“You think? If you fall against Koschei and he claims you for his own, have you bothered to imagine how he might use your powers?” Kallias’ fingers are tented under his chin. Lucien can tell that he is trying to appear calm and failing.

“We are confident that Koschei wants access to my powers,” Elain says now, her voice seemingly too sweet and earnest for this sort of council. Even knowing her as well as he does, he still almost finds himself believing her helpless. Exactly as she wants everyone to think, before she springs her plan on them. “With me under his control, he could gain access to every world and rule over each, an almighty god. My sisters’ powers would be useful as well, and we're sure he wants to reclaim Vassa, but at this point I am the target. Which is why Tamlin has sworn that he will kill me if Koschei places the Crown on my head and succeeds in commanding me.”

Lucien struggles to keep his face blank. He hadn’t heard of this possibility, that Elain would sacrifice herself to Tamlin’s killing blow. Tamlin’s fingers are intertwined with Elain’s, their knuckles gone white with the strength of their grip on each other.

“And if he fails?” Helion asks, and in his voice there is a glimmer of tenderness, as if he, like Lucien, is thinking of those nights in the Day Court, exploring Elain’s power and then the mysteries of all those heretofore unknown worlds, the moments when their awkwardness fell away for the thrill of a mystery coming into focus. Those moments when he felt what it might have been, to be born into a happy family.

“He will not fail,” she says, and her voice is so certain that Lucien wonders if she had a vision, if she knows, now, the moment of her own death. “Will you trust us with this plan?”

No one speaks. It is a first for any meeting of the High Lords and their advisors, this thick, expectant silence, when all arguments and posturing have been stripped away.

Elain’s voice wobbles on the first few words of the strategy, but she’s quick to steady herself as she explains the involvement of her sisters and Vassa, Tamlin and Lucien, the places they will be and the weapons they will wield. The use of her own powers.

At first Lucien thinks he may have missed some key updates to the plan, but as Elain continues to speak, he realizes that there are certain portions that have been blurred or even excised. She’s left off a good portion of Vassa’s involvement, is being purposefully vague to the point of being misleading about Nesta’s powers and her own. Each misdirection or deception is small individually, but contributes to a very different plan, all recounted in Elain’s voice, which is too sincere to make anyone think that she could possibly be lying.

Vassa and her sisters and even Tamlin all watch her as if this is the plan they’d agreed to, and Lucien realizes that they want him to be surprised at this moment, in case someone invades his mind or is watching him for clues. Helion is unlikely. Eris is the likely culprit, though Lucien himself had crafted his portion of the plan alongside Vassa. She knows the way that Koschei’s curses work, and Lucien spent more than a century studying Eris in order to avoid a thousand small cruelties.

But his brother is not a daemati.

So Lucien lets his confusion onto his face, holds back his triumph when he feels Eris’ eyes on him.

It will be a small bonus, in his brother’s eyes, if when Koschei is destroyed, Lucien is cast out from the confidence of another powerful circle.

When Elain finishes, Rhysand is quick to speak.

“I think this all sounds very well-considered. As long as the participating members of my court support this strategy, I give it my backing.”

“I’m happy to lend my powers in destroying the death-lord,” Feyre says, letting a little of her power slip into her voice, that quicksilver magic that can be anything she wills.

“And you’d be happy to be High Queen too, wouldn’t you?” Eris smirks.

“I would have expected such paranoia from Tamlin,” Feyre retorts, “and yet here he is, cooperating.”

“He’s offering to kill your sister. Are you afraid of competition for your throne?”

“I am doing everything within my power to ensure that we all survive Koschei. That our world survives. Elain is doing the same. Can you say as much, Eris?”

His nod is barely detectable but it’s still an assent, an agreement. The one they had been most unsure of.

“What about you, Tamlin?” Helion asks. “Do you give your backing?”

“I think it is the only way we will be rid of Koschei,” he says, “though I would give anything for an alternative.” As soon as he says the words, Elain takes his hand in both of hers, and Lucien has to look away at the look on her face.

“The plan seems sound to me, Elain, and frankly you’ve earned your diplomatic credentials if you can bring Rhysand, Eris, and Tamlin into an agreement. You have my support.” Helion’s voice has never been this kind. Lucien cannot tell if it’s because of his genuine affection for Elain, or because he believes these are his last words to her. “You have my support as well.”

“I am impressed by your care for the human queen, and by the changes in the Spring Court. I believe you can end Koschei with the plan you described,” Tarquin says. “I will offer my support.”

Kallias and Thesan, the last remaining High Lords, offer their agreement, and Kallias leaves shortly afterwards. Viviane is due to give birth to their second child any day, and he had been unable to hide his desire to leave the meeting as soon as they’d finished lunch.

Lucien turns, immediately, to Vassa.

“I thought I would feel more triumphant,” she says, “but now there’s nothing left but to face Koschei.”

“You’re ready, Majesty,” he says, pressing a kiss to her palm and closing her fingers around it. What he’d like to do is pull her tight against him, but that will have to wait until they return to the Spring Court.

He can feel Helion trying to catch his eye, and so with a kiss to Vassa’s temple, he excuses himself to the refreshments table, picked over after a day of deliberations.

“You’re sure this is the best plan?” Helion asks, looking over Lucien’s shoulder to Elain, who sits between Tamlin and Vassa, each of them holding tight to her hands, trying to distract her with light conversation. “I feel as if we’re about to sacrifice that girl to appease the death-god.”

“You’ve heard Elain’s plan. You approved of it before the other High Lords.”

“I worry you may have underestimated Koschei’s powers. That this battle will end in bloodshed and Koschei unleashed on a thousand worlds.”

“If we cannot stop him, you are the one who knows the most about Koschei. You’ll have to keep him from ripping this world apart.”

Helion considers him, and for a moment, Lucien thinks he is going to object. Instead, he pulls Lucien into an embrace. It is the first time they have ever touched in public, the first time Helion has truly claimed him.

“I think you will succeed, Lucien,” Helion says, in a raw tone Lucien has never heard him use, no matter how many people are present. “Your moment of triumph is at hand.”

“I think you’d prefer to stay in your libraries,” Lucien retorts, but he does not step out of his father’s arms.

“Would it be too much if I said I was proud of you?”

“You can tell me when Koschei is dead.”

At this, Helion takes a step back, the emotion fading from his face. He gives Lucien a grave nod.

“I look forward to your report,” he says, clearly unwilling to say goodbye as he turns back to his retinue, to his mother’s adoring gaze.

Lucien greets her, makes the rounds to every remaining High Lord’s group, including a few bawdy jokes from Cassian when he reaches the Night Court, before he returns to Vassa, Elain, and Tamlin, and winnows them back to the estate.

Tomorrow, they fight back against Koschei, and Lucien knows that now, each minute before the battle is precious.

&

&

&

Before they’d left the Summer Court, Rhys had approached Elain with a drawn expression and performed a little bow before he drew her away from Tamlin and Vassa, onto a balcony overlooking the sea.

“I was wrong about you,” he says. “And I truly think you can defeat Koschei. But I have to ask, are you sure you want Tamlin to kill you?”

Elain takes a deep breath. She does not want to think about what it would be, death at Tamlin’s hands. The sight of him preparing to give the final blow. Would it be love or fury in his eyes?

“Vassa has told me what her captivity was like. That it was nearly unbearable. I cannot allow myself to be made into some gateway between worlds, Rhys. I will not become a monster.”

“And you’re sure that he won’t--”

She cuts him off before he can elaborate.

“He is my mate. He will not harm me. He cannot harm me. But I made him swear. Because if it happens -- that life under Koschei’s command will be far worse than death.”

“I will do everything I can to keep that from happening.”

“Just don’t sacrifice yourself,” Elain says, fighting and succeeding to keep her voice light. “I would never forgive you if I lost Feyre because you were pushed to the farthest extent of heroism.”

“See you at the lake, then,” he says, his voice smooth again, and he guides her back into the meeting room.

“What was that about?” Tamlin asks, as soon as she’s seated.

“I think it will take a thousand years before Rhys believes we’re happy together,” she says, kissing his ear as she whispers the words. “He wanted to make sure you weren’t going to take advantage of my request and murder me.”

Tamlin growls and starts to rise.

“He’s part of your family now,” Elain says, and it is easier, with Tamlin, not to think of tomorrow, to laugh at his grimace. “But I don’t think he will visit very often.”

His grumbling is swallowed up by a quick kiss to her lips, and all at once Elain is very eager to leave.

But once they are in the great hall of the Spring Court, Lucien pulls her into a hug and says, “Well done, emissary,” and then she has to whirl from his embrace before the sobs wrack her and her nose runs on the fabric of his jacket.

Instantly, there are three sets of hands on her: Lucien, holding her shoulder, to keep her from turning away, Vassa, holding her hand, saying that she will not let go, and Tamlin’s hands on her waist, as if he knows how untethered Elain feels from the earth, as if she could float away and dissolve into nothing.

Because they know her, once her sobs quiet, Lucien and Vassa begin a detailed review of the plan for tomorrow. When Feyre and Nesta will arrive from the Night Court, how they will descend on the lake, the precise sequence of magic and misdirection that should, if they are correct, mean that at this time tomorrow, there will be no threat of Koschei in this world or any other. Tamlin holds her against his chest, stroking his hand down her back, while Vassa unpins her chignon and winds it into a long plait, all the while reminding Elain of the magic she will use, all they’ve learned in the past months.

“Tomorrow, we will build your peace,” her friend says, and there are tears in the Queen of Scythia’s eyes.

“Promise you’ll build it even if I can’t?” The words aren’t as hard to say as she expects, because they sound like a joke. It is impossible for Elain to imagine that she will not return here tomorrow night, that she might never walk in the gardens again or tease Lucien or talk about everything with Vassa or inhale Tamlin’s scent. That she would, so abruptly, cease to exist.

“I promise, queenling.”

“I’ll help,” Lucien adds, reaching over and squeezing her hand. “But you know Vassa is the one with vision.”

“You underestimate yourself, Lucien,” she says, trying to make a joke even as the words catch in her throat. “You see everything.”

With one last round of embraces, she lets Tamlin lead her up the stairs to their bedroom. When he’s closed the door behind them, she says, “Promise me you won’t give up on this court, no matter what happens.”

“You will not die tomorrow, lovely,” he says, setting her gently on the bed. He sits next to her and she leans against him, breathing in his scent, the woods after the rain, new earth and new leaves, combined with the musk of his skin.

“I do not want to die.” Her voice cracks on the last word, all the weight of the day falling on her. “I have finally discovered the future I want, and the person I want to spend all of these years with. I want to make love to you for days on end. I want to teach our children how to garden and show them every beautiful thing in this world and every other. To see our world at peace. I do not want my life to end tomorrow, but I will not live and watch every other dream in this world grind to a halt.”

She clenches her fists, a reminder of her will, and he takes them in his own and kisses each knuckle.

“I have sworn to protect you from that fate, and I will. And if this will be all the time we will ever have together, I will treasure it until the end of my days. You are more beautiful and intelligent and wondrous than I can say. You have brought me back from the lands between the living and the dead. But I am greedy, my love. I will do everything I can to keep tomorrow from being your last day on this earth. To keep you safe.”

“You need to hold the shield as long as you can,” she says. “Koschei cannot be allowed to escape the lake.”

That isn’t the full extent of their plan, of course, but Tamlin has heard the specifics at least a dozen times, contributed his own suggestions and heard each revision and alteration to the strategy. She presses a kiss to his lips, wiping away his tears with the tips of her fingers.

“If I die tomorrow and Koschei is destroyed, you must come back here and build the world at peace. Swear to me that you will do it.”

“I swear.” The words barely leave his mouth for emotion, and then she is kissing him, her arms tight around his neck, his hands just as intent on her, undoing the buttons of her dress.

They make love as if the world is ending, greedy and almost frantic, gasping with desire and endearments, pleas and moans. She feels more beast than Fae, feral and desirous, claiming him with her body. When she comes, crying out, he answers with a growl against her throat, her name like an incantation as he finds his own release.

Elain had thought that she would be unable to sleep, but when she settles herself against Tamlin, her head pillowed on his chest, her thoughts seem to swim with her exhaustion.

“I love you,” she murmurs against his skin. She cannot bring herself to believe that this will be the last time she gets to tell him.

“I love you,” he says, right into her ear, and then, however much she wants to hold on to these waking moments, she is falling, straight into sleep.

&

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Tamlin had fallen asleep when Elain did, but he wakes in the dead of night, his heart pounding, certain there is a new presence in the room. An intruder has the advantage on him, so for a few seconds, he stays absolutely still in the bed, breathing deep, consulting his senses. He hears no movement, sees no shifting of the light.

But there is a new scent in the room, like the fragrance of a rosebud, the green spice that precedes the sweetness of a full flower, mixed with a warm sweet scent like honey. So faint that if Tamlin hadn’t honed his senses in the forests as a beast, he would have dismissed it as fantasy.

The scent rises from Elain, and the realization thunders through Tamlin, heady and terrifying and so lovely.

Together, they have made a child. Still a wisp of a promise inside his mate, barely present in this world, but already making their existence known.

He spreads his fingers over her belly, as if he can keep the small creature inside warm. He breathes deep, memorizing the scent, fixing every small detail of this moment in his mind.

For a few minutes, he thinks of not telling Elain. So that she will be unburdened tomorrow. He knows that nothing could make her braver or more cunning or more determined. And yet he does not think that she would want to go to her death not knowing that this dream of hers had, at least for a little while, become reality.

He cups her shoulders, murmurs, “Elain, wake up,” until her eyelids flutter open.

“Is it morning yet?” she asks him, scrubbing her knuckles against her eyes.

“You have hours to sleep,” he says, unable to keep himself from grinning broadly. “But there is some news that couldn’t wait.”

“What is it?” she asks, and he hates that her voice is afraid. That she has learned to accept all change as a blow.

“There’s a new scent in the room,” he says. “Breathe deep and tell me what you think.”

For long seconds he hears her inhale, feels the expanding of her chest against his own. And then he hears the moment she realizes: the little sob in her throat, her hand against her stomach.

“Has anyone been in the room?” she asks, though he can hear her smile in the dark. Her hope and excitement.

“The door is locked.” He presses his hand over hers.

“We made our child tonight?”

“I think it happened a few weeks ago, after you broke Vassa’s curse. The scent takes a little time to be detected,” he says, summoning a little light so he can see her, the warmth of her eyes, her bright smile, the sleep-mussed hair that falls across her cheek. He can’t help but kiss her. “But our child decided to announce themselves tonight.”

“Our child,” she breathes, the words themselves a smile, and then, her eyes widening, “But then I cannot die tomorrow, Tamlin. What will--”

“You will not die tomorrow, lovely,” he promises, pulling her close against him, willing the words to be true. “We will destroy Koschei, all of us, thanks to your brilliant plan, and we will have centuries together. Our child will be strong and brave, just like their mother, and grow up in a world at peace.”

“I hope so,” she murmurs, and despite the excitement and their joy, he feels as her breathing slows and she falls into sleep, her hands still pressed over her belly.

Hours pass while he watches her, envisioning a thousand happy futures which he’d give anything to make true. The dark goes gray at the window before he manages to fall asleep.

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (27/28) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

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

A/N: I don't want to spoil anything, but if you read this, you'll find out how the battle turns out. You can find all previous chapters here, or read Bloom & Bone on AO3. Thank you for reading! ❤️ If you'd like to get a sneak peek of the next chapter, follow me on Instagram at @house.of.hurricane.

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Elain opens her eyes and the darkness recedes, but a roaring fills her mind, its teeth sinking into her as she tries to determine where she is. To which world Koschei has taken her.

She is still in the clearing, and Vassa is still bound by lightning, still struggling. She meets Elain’s eyes, but even thinking about their expression causes the teeth in her mind to sink into her thoughts, leaves her screaming silently at an unbearable pain that harms no place she can locate on her body.

Once, she had considered what to do if a thing like this should happen. This weight upon her head. The teeth, pointed and gleaming, threaten to sink in again, to force her to submit to a total tranquility.

Koschei will give an order, and Elain will obey, and there will be peace.

For a moment, the idea of quiet inside her mind is so lovely that she nearly surrenders. She has always wanted peace, hasn’t she? She was raised to be a creature of peace, tending her garden, minding the household, raising her husband’s children. Never a person of consequence. Just a beautiful prize for the right man, suitably wealthy and titled, seeking an alliance with the Prince of Merchants.

She is nobody at all, a voice amidst the roaring tells her.

Her objections -- she used to have so many -- are silenced, snatched from her, her head bending under the weight of the Crown.

A little girl, green-eyed with golden-brown hair, appears in front of her, holding up a violet hyacinth, its fragrance drifting through the air as she laughs and twirls.

Elain tries to get a better glimpse of the girl. She wants to swallow her up, hold her close, study each feature. Because she knows, with a deep instinct, this is her own daughter.

Koschei has made her another offering, made his bargain that much sweeter.

Then the girl turns to her, and Elain sees her eyes.

She’s seen that look before. She saw it on Tamlin’s face, in the vision that sent her to the Spring Court. The one she played over and over in her mind, until she knew the scene in great detail. But always, the part that haunted her was Tamlin’s expression, the absence of life in his eyes.

The little girl, her own sweet child, smiles at Elain with her mouth but her eyes have no light in them, no joy or hope.

Perhaps there is a roaring in her mind also. Perhaps the threat of teeth.

Or perhaps Koschei broke her so early, so completely, that the girl has never felt free.

The thought lands like a blow on Elain. Because she could accept her own death, even her own imprisonment with the Crown on her brow, but not this expression on the girl’s face. Not the increasing certainty that they wouldn’t be the only captives.

The teeth bite and tear at her, ragged and searing. The roaring in her mind goes louder and louder as she lifts her eyes from the vision of her daughter. The pain is like nothing she’s experienced, clotting her thinking and driving hot tears down her cheeks.

She stays silent only because everything depends on her operating without detection for as long as possible. The screams explode inside her, echoing and fierce.

Her palms grow sticky with blood at the places where her fingernails have buried themselves into her palms.

Little by little, raising her chin almost imperceptibly as she fights the maelstrom inside her, she looks across the clearing, to where her friend is chained by a mesh of lightning.

Koschei has his back to Elain. He thought she’d succumbed to the Crown or his magic or the apparition of her daughter, that haunted little girl.

He has moved to Vassa. His hands are on her throat.

Finally, Elain’s gaze is level with Vassa’s eyes, the sapphire at the center of a flame. The queen’s expression hardly changes, but it seems to Elain that she can hear her friend saying, what took you so long?

She gives Vassa the tiniest grin, each movement a tear in her muscles.

Then Elain raises her hands to her head, to where the Crown sits.

The metal is fire against her fingers.

Once she’d seen Nesta remove this ancient object from her head as if it were an ordinary adornment. But Elain’s hands are fixed, burning, and the roaring in her mind does not relent.

She’d heard that people went mad, trying to remove the Crown. But she’d never believed those stories applied to her. Another miscalculation. She cannot move her hands, cannot ease the roaring in her mind.

Across the clearing, there is a flash of blue light. Vassa’s eyes glow, just for an instant. Koschei’s face is buried in her hair, his eyes closed, and he does not notice. The sight makes Elain’s stomach roil, her skin crawl.

Even as the roaring eases, blown away by a wind that, for the space of a second, lowers the heat of the Crown, the burning in her fingers.

It’s enough for Elain to heave with all her might and send the Crown flying into the grass.

Suddenly, her mind is calm, entirely her own. But Elain does not have time to think, only follow the plan that is embedded in her body, as Koschei whirls from Vassa to face her. She casts out her hands and calls out to the bindings of lighting that trap the queen. She banishes that magic from this world.

Koschei reaches for the sword, the remnants of Elain’s blood.

“You think you are clever,” he says, and though he tries to keep the taunting cadence to his voice, Elain can hear something else, a hesitation.

She picks up the Crown and it disappears from this world.

When Koschei walks to her, she does not see any of the caution he heard in his voice. He approaches like a predator, confident that he can destroy his weak prey.

Elain, with no weapon in her hands, not even her magic to shield her, stands as she did in a dozen ballrooms, her back straight, her neck elegantly arched, her eyes slightly downcast. Waiting to be chosen, to be saved.

Hoping that, after so many years hiding inside of it, she’s perfected this guise.

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For a moment, Vassa thinks that Elain has decided to sacrifice herself. That she will die with Vassa still bound by Koschei, not even trying to fight their certain deaths. Vassa can still feel his lips on her hair, his breath on her, but she does not allow herself to shudder. If she thinks about what Koschei can do to her, she will fall apart.

Then, though Elain has not changed her posture, the lightning falls away. Exactly as they’d planned, banished from this world by her friend’s power. No trace of Koschei’s magic remains around Vassa. Nothing binds her.

Before she can blink, she replaces the chains with her own lightning, the remnant of Koschei’s magic that has become part of her power. She’s practiced binding herself, until she can cast the restraints in an instant.

If Koschei detects the flickering of his power, the subtle change, he does not turn from Elain.

“You would have made such a fine queen,” he is saying, the back of his hand on Elain’s cheek. Only the slight puckering of Elain’s lips registers her disgust. Somehow, her eyes are still placid and warm. As if he is merely another suitor in a ballroom, an aristo with a fortune large enough that she cannot refuse him outright.

A man who, unlike them, does not understand what he means when he speaks the word queen.

Vassa swallows her fear and revulsion and, just for a second, closes her eyes. In the darkness, she can sense her magic. The wind, and, at its center, the roiling lightning.

Come, she calls. She gathers her magic softly to herself, a new friend, a beloved companion, an extension of her own fierce will. Inside her, the wind begins to grow. The lightning crackles, ready to strike.

Now she allows herself to think of Koschei. What he did to her, with his hands and his power and his curse. All the time she’s lost, within her kingdom and within her own right mind. All the girls before her, a trail of carnage and despair, a path he wants to raze through every world that has ever existed.

Her power goes electric inside her, the wind howling. She is Vassa, the Queen of Scythia, and she has come to claim her vengeance.

Across the clearing, she meets Elain’s eyes. She reaches out for Koschei as Vassa extends her own hands.

As one, their magics strike.

Vassa flings her bonds around Koschei’s middle, knocking the sword from his hands, as Elain’s power pulls the death-god’s magic out of the world, her friend going golden, the power from her enough to make a new world from her will alone.

Vassa does not wait until Koschei is powerless to pull the air from his lungs, a fetid heaving and then the sounds of his gagging as he falls to the grass. His hands, bound to his sides, open and close spasmodically, as if insisting on his continued existence.

“You cannot kill a death-god,” he wheezes.

“Watch me,” Vassa pronounces, and the lightning surges from her, driving him out of existence, ripping through the body and soul of Koschei, each torment he visited on the bodies of his captive women repaid a thousandfold with light and energy and power.

Beside her, Elain is hardly visible through the golden light of her magic, draining the last dregs of Koschei’s power.

Vassa unleashes a final blast, removing the air from his body and letting the lightning consume Koschei until his body hardly resembles a body at all, until his flesh sparks and smokes with this last inundation of her majesty.

The last thing Koschei will ever take from her.

Vassa lets out a breath and despite the mangled corpse of the death-god lying before her, she still basks in this moment, the feeling of a world without his power. The knowledge that in the end, she was the one who destroyed him, alongside her friend.

She turns to Elain, ready to congratulate her on the triumph of her plan, the beginning of their peace, but instead of a golden glow, Elain’s magic has receded and she sways on her feet, her skin gone gray.

Vassa barely catches her in time to keep her from falling to the grass.

&

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The bond gutters inside Tamlin and he tries to brace himself, hold his shield steady, but the emotion shows so clearly on his face that Lucien runs to him.

“I think--” he starts to say, and cannot finish the sentence. As long as he does not speak it into existence, perhaps Elain is still alive in that other world.

“Vassa is still alive,” Lucien says. “She won’t give Elain up. She knows what it would mean.”

“Unless Koschei is in control.”

His fear surges through his shield, casting an eerie green glow against Rhysand’s night-dark magic. He should have followed Elain, no matter what she said. Now she is lost in another world, powerless or in pain, and all he can do is wait and hope for her safe return.

He’s reminded of Amarantha, those nights he was forced to sit on the dias while Feyre was tortured. Of his father, all the horrors that transpired in his estate when Tamlin had no power or ability to stop them.

But Elain is different, he tells himself, fixing his eyes upward, on the dome of the shield, all that will contain Koschei from unleashing himself on this world when he returns. Elain chose to isolate Koschei, using her powers. She is not a helpless victim. Even as it tears at him, he reminds himself of this.

Nesta approaches him, her face drawn and pale.

There’s a different magic rising from her. Ancient and potent, tinged with a trace of Elain’s scent.

“She left this with me,” Nesta says, reaching for her pocket. “In case something happened to her and we… needed to find our way back to this world. She asked me not to tell you unless it was crucial. But she thought you could find her with it.”

When she opens her palm, the Bone lies there, wrapped in a scrap of fabric. He recognizes the remnant of the dress Elain wore to the High Lord’s meeting, when she appeared as his bride in order to delay his admission of failure and weakness. He’d hardly been able to take his eyes from her, can hardly look away from that small piece of her gown, even as the Bone’s power floods his senses.

“I followed her once,” he says, thinking of the night when the bond had been revealed, Elain a pillar of golden light in her bedroom. “I’ll find her.”

“I’m coming,” Lucien says, his dagger already in his palm. “Vassa is with her.”

“You’ll take me with you,” Nesta says, and Feyre is already on her way to them.

Tamlin holds up his hand.

“Elain sent you back,” he says to Nesta and Feyre. “She wanted you to attack Koschei with her and Vassa, didn’t she?”

They nod, Feyre’s power welling up as if she’d love nothing more than to strike the death-lord, Nesta’s glower so deadly that Tamlin has no doubt that the magic remaining inside her could level cities and palaces if she were sufficiently provoked. That they could destroy Koschei, if Elain --

He takes the Bone in his hand, grabs his sword with the other.

“Don’t waste her gift,” he tells the Archeron sisters, who have sacrificed so much to keep Elain alive and safe and happy. Now it is his turn.

He removes the Bone from its fabric and follows the flickering mating bond out of the world.

&

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Lucien barely has time to secure the tether before Tamlin disappears. For an instant, he worries that he has botched the spell and trapped himself between worlds, and then, after his next blink, they are in the clearing and Vassa is crouching in front of a burned and steaming corpse, clutching Elain in her arms.

There’s no hint of Koschei’s magic.

“I think he’s dead but I didn’t want to touch him,” Vassa says, her voice dazed from exhaustion and adrenaline. “And Elain--”

Tamlin takes Elain into his arms, cradling her against his body. Her face is gray and her limbs fall as if there is no strength left in her. Her powers are banked inside her, a river gone dry. He has rarely observed such an outlay of power as Elain and Vassa unleashed, its evidence still swirling through the air like the echoes of an explosion. He doesn’t know if Elain will survive. How Vassa is still upright.

But somehow, through her power or the force of her great will, the Queen of Scythia rises from her crouch, picks up the sword at Koschei’s side, cleans it thoroughly on her tunic, and cleaves the death-god’s head from his body.

Vassa’s bronze skin is pale with the exertion of lifting the weapon, but she heaves it over her head, again and again, until the corpse is a bloody mess, beyond recognition.

“Light it on fire,” she says, breathless but still imperious. “If there is anything left of him, I don’t want it to have a body to return to.”

Lucien unleashes his magic on what is left of Koschei. Within seconds, his remains are consumed by the flames.

When all that’s left is ash, he pulls Vassa towards him. When he scents her fear, even now, he wants to resurrect Koschei just to kill him again.

“I thought we were going to die,” she says, against his neck. “But then she took the Crown off. I stopped his magic just long enough. I didn’t think I could do what I did today. My power, it’s -- it scares me, what I could do, if I could do this. Who I could hurt.”

He’s reminded of the times when the curse bound her so tightly she could hardly take a deep breath, when they would talk in the middle of the night and Vassa would be half gone with pain and fear and exhaustion. Then, he was never sure he was saying the right thing, he was so clouded by his own fear for her.

Now, he takes her chin in his hands, traces the line of her cheek with his thumb, removes the tears that have started to fall.

“You will bring your kingdom rain during droughts and send away the deadly winter storms. Koschei’s power destroyed because of who he was. Who he chose to be. But you, Majesty, are brave and kind and willful. You care deeply for your people. For your friends. Even when you could have died, when it required facing the death-god who very nearly killed you, you did not hesitate. No matter what happens in Scythia, you saved this world and every other. And now you are free.”

For a moment, she simply accepts his embrace, and he breathes deep and savors the scent of her, alive.

Then she steps out of his arms, her eyes wide.

“Elain is--”

Tamlin has not moved, though his hands are lit with his power. He’s trying to call her back but Elain is still and pale in his arms. Still, if he concentrates, he can hear her heart beating.

“She’s still alive. So is the child,” Lucien says. “But the amount of magic she burned through…”

He does not want to finish the thought in Tamlin’s hearing.

Vassa snaps into motion.

“We need to go home,” she says, and pulls him to Tamlin. She crouches in front of the High Lord of Spring, her own hands cradling Elain’s head.

Whatever she murmurs returns a bit of light to Tamlin’s bleak gaze.

He transfers Elain to Vassa’s arms and carefully picks up the Bone with a bit of fabric. This time, he looks at Lucien to ensure the tethering spell is secure, and then they disappear from the world, Tamlin’s shield dissolving behind them, leaving the clearing to unknown beasts.

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Around Elain, the clearing disappears and a new world rises. She had wondered for so long if such a thing was possible with her powers, but had never had occasion or desire to try. There were always so many places to visit, sneaking off for kisses or wandering beautiful landscapes with Tamlin, showing Vassa a gallery or garden or a dessert, investigating unknown magics with Lucien. There were so many worlds, and anyway she could not imagine places more strange and extravagant than where she’s already been.

But she realized, snatching Koschei’s power, that she could not allow the whole of it to return to any world in existence, where it might coalesce into another death-god, another terror.

So Elain opens the floodgates of her power and builds a new world, trying to remember every lesson from Helion and Lucien about the architecture and construction methods for magic. Aside from forming and stabilizing the world, she does not linger on the details: it is darkness, a dark sea over which she hovers, letting Koschei’s power flow out of her to flicker in the sky.

Lightning is good for the soil, according to her favorite gardening treatises. Eventually, in millions of years, even this malevolent power might transform a desolate world into a garden. She likes that thought, a little light in the haze at the corner of her vision, which goes beyond the darkness of this world.

She can feel her power ebbing as the last of Koschei’s power flows through her. This has never happened. There has always been enough. There is only a little longer, a little more work to do. Then she can rest, give in to the thick exhaustion that rests on her, a mantle that muffles all sensation aside from a dull pain in every joint.

Still she manages to push herself out of the world and into the passageway, summons her power to carve lightning and a leering face full of ferocious teeth on the door. Elain has never seen a stranger in these passageways, but she crafts a lock for the door anyway, barring it shut.

Alone in the passageways, Elain reaches out for her world. For the clearing, where Vassa waits. For the lake, where Nesta holds the Bone, where Tamlin is certainly frantic by now. For the Spring Court, her home.

But there is hardly any power left in her, now, only a tiny dense brightness like a star in her center, and Elain will not give it up. Instead she leans her back against the door to the world she built, slides to sit on the exquisite tile floors, and waits.

She is beginning to contemplate whether to begin walking, how far her legs will carry her, when a new power enters the passageways, spring thunderstorms and new leaves and all the possibilities of a new season. Tamlin.

Can you come back? His voice in her mind is so tender, shot through with fear.

Koschei’s power is gone, she says, knowing it’s not an answer, still wanting to tell him. But my magic -- I don’t think I can move from here. Not for a while.

She doesn’t say, maybe she’ll never be able to leave, maybe her magic is gone forever, traded away like Nesta’s for the saving of something precious. There might be a realm for the dead, but maybe this is what always awaited her, an eternity in these corridors, alone.

She still doesn’t regret it.

Tamlin’s voice is silent but she feels him, still, the working of his lungs, the beating of his heart. Scared but still steady, his warrior’s training not deserting him.

Is everyone safe?

Everyone survived but Koschei. Exactly as you planned, emissary.

And Vassa?

How tired she is, that she has forgotten the fact that her friend would be trapped in the clearing if Elain remained in the passageways. Her head falls into her hands as she tries to gather her thoughts, tries to workout one last puzzle. But her mind will not comply.

Then Tamlin’s voice is in her mind again, gently putting all those thoughts aside, until she can take a breath.

Vassa and Lucien are with me at the Spring Court. We’re safe. Now let me take you out of here, he says, and his power is in the passageway, his hand limned by greenish gold. Extended for her.

Where am I?

Your body is in my arms, he says, and she can hear, now, the fear and despair, and it breaks through her exhaustion, the possibility of losing him. What it would mean, to remain in this place forever.

She reaches out, her arms trembling with her exhaustion, and takes his hand.

The passageways dim before her, and Elain lets herself be led into the darkness, her hands in Tamlin’s.

When she opens her eyes, the only thing she sees is his face. Within seconds, her pain and exhaustion overcomes her, and she has to close her eyes against it, let herself fall.

Still, even in half-dreams and darkness, the world around her feels like home.

&

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Tamlin sends for every healer in the village, and Rhys, at Feyre and Nesta’s insistence, arrives with Madja to fuss over Elain and Vassa. She pronounces them both dangerously over-exerted -- despite Vassa’s protests that she feels fine, her drooping eyelids and wobbling legs betraying her confidence -- but her confidence falters as she lingers over Elain, studying the results of her diagnostic spells.

“This outlay of magic, while pregnant… it could be catastrophic,” she says. “Even if she recovers, there could be permanent damage.”

“What can I do?” Tamlin asks, unable to look away at Elain’s small body on their bed, her pale skin and the violet shadows around her eyes. The effort of her breath fills the room.

“Stay with her, High Lord. Tell her to come back.”

“There is no magic that will cure her?”

“I will do what I can with my magic and my herbs,” Madja assures him, her fragrant hand clasping Tamlin’s shoulder. “But there is more to healing than this.”

“And the child?” He can detect the scent of the baby, still, but Tamlin does not quite trust his senses, not when they’re so clouded by what he wants.

“If she survives, I think the child will be safe.”

With that, Madja works her healing on Elain, surrounding her in white light. When she’s finished, Elain isn’t quite so pale and her breathing eases a bit.

He reaches out with his own magic, but Madja stops him.

“Talk to her,” she says. “Hold her hand. Remind her of this world and all that she can return to.”

“There’s no other magic we can use?” Nesta asks. Tamlin had forgotten anyone else was in the room, even her sisters.

Madja shakes her head slowly, promising to leave a tonic and herbs, words that Tamlin tries to absorb over the ringing pitch in his mind, the feverish fear. That Elain could be gone from this world.

Feyre and Nesta stay for hours. They’re quiet at first, but soon they are telling Elain all of the Night Court news and gossip, Nyx’s latest misadventures and the plots of the latest books Nesta has shared with her house, a scenario so far-fetched that Tamlin is sure he has temporarily gone out of his mind with weariness and fear.

When the sky goes dark, Nesta raises her eyes to Tamlin.

“My sister loves you for some gods-damned reason,” she says. “But know that if you cause her even the slightest pain, I will destroy you.”

“I have no idea how she could love me, after everything I’ve done,” he tells her, meeting her gaze and then Feyre’s. “But believe that I will treasure her for every day she gives me.” His voice cracks and he looks away from them, unwilling to let his tears fall.

As they leave the room, there is a hand at his shoulder, and Feyre’s scent surrounds him. She only gives a little nod, but at the look in her eyes, absent any anger or accusation, a weight lifts off him.

After they leave, Lucien leads Vassa in the room and settles her on the bed, where she whispers a stream of words split evenly between tears and laughter and invectives directly into Elain’s ear.

“I think she’s hoping she can command Elain to be well,” Lucien mutters to Tamlin, and Tamlin barks out an answering laugh, hoping that Vassa has some still-undiscovered power that could save Elain.

Before he leaves, Lucien evaluates Elain for any errant spells, and finds nothing, only a complete depletion in her own power. His expression is grave, and Tamlin tries not to think too deeply on it. Instead he thanks his friend for these attentions, hoping Lucien hears all the other meanings underlying his words.

He spends the night curled around Elain, careful not to crush her, alert to any sound. In the middle of the night, he begins to speak to her.

He thought that he would talk to her like her sisters did, of nothing at all. That he might catalogue the flowers in the garden, their colors and fragrances, to tempt her back to life.

Instead, wondering if it will do her more harm than good, he pours out his history to her. The shadowed parts he never tells anyone. His loneliness and uncertainty, the horror of his father and his own weakness and cowardice. He tells her about Amarantha and Feyre and the Night Court and Hybern and does not try to make himself a hero or a villain but describes himself only as he was, desperate and hurting and angry and, in the end, wrong about so many things. He tells her about his first glimpse of her, still a human, how she was lovely and how her fragility broke his heart. About how, when she’d appeared in his court, him barely out of the mind of the beast, she’d looked to him like a goddess, scented with spring and limned in golden light.

In a legend, she would awaken, but Elain does not stir from the bed.

Eventually, Tamlin manages to fall asleep for a few hours.

Over the next few days, Vassa and Lucien take up a vigil alongside Elain, insisting that Tamlin rest, visit the village, carry on as Elain would want him to. They do not speak of her in the past tense, for which he’s grateful.

Her sisters come from the Night Court, accompanied by the Morrigan, filling the room with flowers and laughter, trying to tempt Elain to waking.

Every servant in the manor visits, bearing little gifts for her: cakes and cards and more flowers, until the room has more blossoms than any garden in his realm.

In the night, before sleep claims him, he tells her all the futures he imagines for them, traveling to all the worlds she’d like and every place in this one, the changes he envisions for his court, their life together, and with their child. He tells these stories even when they feel like delusional fictions, even when the words catch in his throat.

If he squints, he thinks there is a bit more color in her cheeks, that the shadows under her eyes have lightened. Still, she does not wake.

“Helion is calling for a meeting of the High Lords in light of everything,” Lucien tells him, on the fifth day of his vigil over Elain. “He is asking when you’d prefer to set the meeting.”

It is a great honor to be considered with such preference, especially given his weak position within the alliances between courts, and still Tamlin hesitates. He does not want to leave Elain.

Lucien sees his hesitation and studies Elain for a moment. Vassa has made herself busy brushing Elain’s hair, using some of the power that’s returned to her to waft a breeze across her face, fragranced with cherry blossoms.

“Do you think the Bone would help?”

“She once said it spoke to her,” Tamlin says, the memory returning to him, Elain’s grabbing the Bone, becoming a pillar of light. He feels stupid and slow, not to have thought of it before. “She said it felt like a part of herself.”

“I’ll go to the Night Court,” Lucien sighs, though he brightens when Vassa insists on going with him, even when he has to pull her from the bed.

He returns an hour later with Feyre and Nesta and Melis, whose hands are bound. Vassa holds the Bone by the tips of her fingers, still wrapped in the remnant of Elain’s dress and whispering in the language no one understands except the dreamer on the bed who does not wake.

“She insisted on coming with,” Lucien says with a grimace. “She’s tethered to me and Nesta.”

“I’m happy to keep her in line,” Nesta says, with a smile that shutters as soon as she gets a glimpse of Elain. Tamlin does not forget, will never forget, how, even as a human, she stood between her sister and the beast.

But Melis hangs her head and approaches the bed.

“He said I was the conduit,” she says, her voice buzzing. Tamlin can hear no deceit in it. “Put the Bone in one hand and let me hold the other.”

“If you harm her,” Vassa says, towering over the small pink faerie and summoning lightning in her palms, “you will have everyone in this room to contend with, but I will find you first.”

“I am so sorry, Majesty,” Melis bleats.

Still eyeing her warily, Vassa places the Bone in Elain’s hand, and pulls away the fabric just as Melis clasps Elain’s other hand.

Tamlin expected Elain to become a pillar of light, to disappear entirely, but instead the golden light of her power, runs from Melis’ grip and the Bone like arteries of sparkling gold, warming the air itself.

Around her, the air warms, and the air is fragranced by scents he recognizes from his own garden, and by the blooms of flowers he suspects grow only in other worlds. Little by little, Elain’s skin is saturated with golden light.

Elain’s eyes open, and her brown gaze looks shockingly dark on her illuminated face. She does not look as if she sees anything, but it is the first time he has seen her eyes since they arrived in the Spring Court.

Suddenly she drops the Bone. Tamlin holds his breath.

Elain does not disappear, or fall back to the bed. Instead she braces herself, and when she looks at him, at her sisters, at Lucien and Vassa and Melis, who still clutches her fingertips, Elain takes them all in.

“You destroyed him?” she asks, turning first to Vassa. Her voice is hoarse from all those days lying unconscious. “It wasn’t a dream?”

“You helped a little, queenling,” Vassa says, wrapping her arms tight around Elain’s shoulders.

When she lets go, Elain turns to Tamlin, and he can hardly stand under the weight of her gaze, the love and joy in it. Everything he thought he’d lost forever, those days she’d lain in the bed.

“You brought us home,” she says, and the whole world is made new.

Hours later, after Madja has examined her and pronounced both Elain and the baby healthy, after Feyre and Nesta have fussed over her, and Melis has sobbed an apology which Elain somehow accepted, after Lucien has teased her and hugged her tightly, and she and Vassa have commiserated and cried and laughed, Tamlin lingers in the doorway of their room. Not wanting to overtire her.

“I heard everything you said,” Elain tells him, bracing herself as if to rise. He hurries towards her, settling himself on the spot he’s barely vacated for the past five days, pulling her so that her head rests on his chest, her ear against his heart.

“I said so many things. So much of it was unpleasant.”

Her fingers are gentle on his face, soft as petals.

“I think you kept me tethered to this world. The futures you described -- I heard them and I couldn’t fall into the darkness. And the stories you told me about yourself, they made me want to see how you’d turn out. What our story could be, if I could only find a way to return.”

“I love you,” he tells her, pulling her close against him, so that he can feel every breath she takes, every moment she is alive in this world.

He does not know when she falls asleep, or he does, only that when he wakes in the morning, she is there beside him, letting out a sigh as she awakens.

What happens, she’d once asked him, when the war is over, when the time for sacrifices has ended?

He thinks, moving towards her warm sweet body, that now he might be learning an answer.