Work Text:
Salvation
Lucien stands in the shadowy hallway of the manor, just out of reach of the fresh rays of Spring sunlight that fight to enter the dark house. His eyes are fixed on the slight figure just beyond who not only seems to bask in the light but radiates it from every inch of her being too.
This girl. This miracle. Elain. His mate.
There’s a gentleness in her he’s never truly known that’s apparent in every graceful movement, every shy smile she bestows on the passing servants, every touch of her fingers on the delicate blossoms she’s investigating with such joy and wonder in her eyes – feelings he’s afraid he only knows how to take, not give, not anymore.
His mate.
Even now he wants to laugh at the cruel mockery the Cauldron has dished up in this. How can this girl, this bright, gentle soul be his? How can any god or fate or being want for her to belong with him? Yet something does. That bond, that bond he feels, has felt from the first moment he saw her, from the moment her eyes met his in that accursed throne room, he had felt it and he had known.
Centuries, centuries have passed but he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that bond, that unbreakable connection between two souls. Rare and more valuable and precious than gold or riches or kingdoms – something people would kill for, had been driven mad longing and hoping for, had spent their entire immortal lives searching and hunting for – the mating bond. And right now he would do anything to get rid of it.
He stiffens as someone moves to stand next to him but doesn’t tear his gaze away from Elain, not until he hears Feyre’s voice say quietly, “Go to her.”
He looks down at her and finds her watching him with guarded exasperation as she gestures with one hand towards Elain, now smiling absently at the scent of a large white rose with blossoms the size of her hand. The expression is so endearingly familiar that he almost smiles for the first time in weeks but instead he only looks away from her again and shakes his head jerkily. Feyre sighs in such a Feyre way that he scowls down at her again.
“It’s been three days,” she presses relentlessly, serenely brushing off his glower as she would a speck of dust marring her canvas, “And you haven’t even said one word to her. Why?”
“You know why,” he huffs irritably when it becomes clear she won’t accept sullen silence as an answer this time.
“You’re afraid?” she asks, in a tone that suggests she’s more trying to bait him into revealing the truth than actually trying to get at the truth itself, arching an eyebrow at him.
“Of course I am,” he snaps and his candidness, he notes with a trace of satisfaction, seems to take her aback, not the reaction she’d been expecting from him.
But he is. He’s afraid of letting himself know her more than he already does through their bond. He’s afraid of letting her know him. He’s afraid of what he’d do if she ever found one of those gentle smiles for him. He’s afraid he won’t then have the strength to do what he’s decided he needs to do. For her.
Dragging a hand through his hair he turns to look at Feyre then says quietly, “It’s better if I keep my distance,” Feyre gives nothing away, her features schooled into neutrality as they study him, “She’ll be happier for it...Safer.”
He closes his eyes, the spray of hot blood against his skin from centuries ago suddenly so real and present that he wants to gag on the thick iron scent of it, the taste and he has to fight to swallow the scream of agony that had risen up from the place where the blade that had slit her throat had also rent a tear in his soul that will never fully heal.
Feyre doesn’t attempt to hide her response to those words – the wince of sympathy for his pain that shows on her features as she slips her hand into his and squeezes gently, knowing just what memories haunt and torment him that prompted those words, what he’s seeking to shelter her sister from.
“Lucien-“ she begins quietly but he whirls on her without warning, pulling away from her touch.
“You think she deserves better than me too,” he bites out.
He had seen it in her, the way she had reacted, the way she had recoiled from the truth he had whispered to Elain when she had emerged from the Cauldron.
But Feyre holds his gaze now, every inch of her radiating the power and nobility her status as High Lady commands when she looks at him and says, “I think she deserves a good person who never let the bad things they endured turn them into something harsh or cruel,” he blinks, registering the meaning and the impact of her words, the weight behind them, “I think you deserve someone who will look at you and see the light and strength in you that everyone else missed,” her voice is quiet and low, her eyes soft and compassionate.
He swallows hard and she goes on, “I think you both deserve whatever hope and happiness you can find in each other before this war comes. And I think she deserves the right to choose whether or not she wants you in her life. You’re her mate too, Lucien. This decision shouldn’t only be yours. So go to her.”
There’s too much truth in her words to ignore but still he hesitates, mouth going dry. Feyre smiles slightly, “I never thought I’d live to see the day, even with my new immortality, you speechless,” He growls at her and she laughs, “I knew all that talk about your irresistible, male charm and way with females was all just talk.”
He snarls a little louder this time, “This is different,” he rumbles, “She’s my mate, she’s special, she-“ he catches himself and his voice smoothes out as he changes tact and smirks down at her and says, “Although if I recall correctly you were more than happy to spend long, sunlit afternoons alone with me riding through the forest-“
She offers him a layered growl of her own that any Fae warrior would have been proud of and shoves him, sending him bouncing, snickering, off the doorframe when he loses his balance.
“Stop being a prick and go talk to her,” she orders –orders- him, sighing exasperatedly when he makes no move to obey she adds, her tone a little gentler, “Offer to walk her around the gardens, she hasn’t properly explored most of them yet.”
He opens his mouth to continue bickering with her instead, which seems like a much more pleasant alternative but she gives him a soft push between his shoulder blades that sends him out of the door, which she promptly slams shut behind him and down the stone steps into the waiting garden.
Elain has her back to him, bending down to examine a small, dainty blue flower she’s likely never seen before as he recognises it as being native only to Prythian. Before he can say anything to alert her to his presence however she straights up, turns, and walks right into him, stumbling back with a little exclamation of surprise, her feet tangling in the long skirts of her dress and sending her reeling wildly.
****
A strong hand reaches out and catches her as she loses her balance, threatening to topple over and sets her gently on her feet again.
“Thank you! She gasps, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you- oh-“ she breaks off, her flustered babbling apology when she peers up from under the rim of her big, floppy straw hat to see who she’d collided with.
Him. The red-haired High Fae male with the lips made for easy laughter and the eyes full of so much hidden sadness. Lucien. Her mate.
She had asked them all what that meant- to have and be a mate but now that she’s here with him, meeting those mismatched eyes again, she knows none of them had truly understood it when they’d tried to tell her what it was.
Swallowing she says again, breathless this time, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” he replies, light, rich voice gentle as he looks her over carefully then asks, “Did you hurt yourself?”
“No,” she replies at once, a crimson blush the same deep shade as his hair staining her cheeks at the question, “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
He nods then pauses for a too long second before he gestures behind her and says, a little haltingly, “It’s called Blue Graces. It only grows in this area of Prythian.” He had noticed. The delicate little flower she had been examining before she had knocked into him. He had noticed. “And it’s likely older than this Court,” he adds, jolting her back to him.
“Really?” she blurts, unable to hide her amazement that any plant, especially one so small and fragile looking could have survived so long.
He smiles at her incredulous expression, relaxing a little, and the motion makes him seem suddenly younger and kindles a faint light in his russet eye she hasn’t seen before, “Really,” he confirms, “The story goes that the Mother herself planted all of those flowers to remind her children to be gentle and good whenever they saw them. And the Mother’s lessons are eternal.”
“That’s lovely,” she mumbles without thinking, then, her mouth running a mile in front of her head as usual she asks, “Do you know about all of the plants here?”
He dips his head, “A lot of them,” he admits, “My mother loved flowers. She used to teach me about them when I was a boy. I was the only one of my brothers who ever paid attention. I think that she would like you a lot.”
He breaks off suddenly, stuffing his hands into his pockets and looking self-conscious, as though he’s said more than he’d intended to, then, with the air of trying to regain the composure she somehow made him lose he says, “I could show you around some of them if you liked? Unless-“
“No,” she says quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush, reaching out to brush his arm before he can protest, “No, I’d like that.”
The ghost of a smile that’s been too long gone from his lips flickers across them at that. He hesitates for a moment then offers her his arm and she takes it with a tentative smile of her own and lets him lead her through the mysterious magic of the Spring Court gardens.
As they walk he asks her about her own garden and she tells him about each of them, the tiny one she had in the cottage in the village that she cherished for the flickers of colour and life it brought her when she needed it most; the great sprawling expanse at the manor and the servants’ horror when she had insisted on tending to it herself – he had smiled at that revelation- and about the little plot Rhysand had allowed her to grow so many wonderful things she had never even heard of before on one of the rooftops in his city.
On and on and on she goes, letting her passion burst out of her like the blossoms he points out to her – eager to show their inner beauty and purpose. Initially she waited for him to divert her onto another subject or lose interest, for his eyes to take on a glazed kind of look she’s seen in others before but he never does. He listens so patiently and attentively to her, drinking in every word, smiling at her accomplishments and the way she describes the feel of fresh earth between her fingers and wincing at her disappointments, at the harsh Winter frosts that always crept in to claim her Spring efforts until she lost the self-conscious hesitation she usually had when she spoke about her joy.
Comfort eases between them as though they’ve been doing this for weeks, months, years even. Lucien shows her plants he suspects she’ll like from what she’s told him, paying particular attention to the Prythian natives she isn’t familiar with, telling her everything he knows about them.
After a long while she works up the nerve to ask him shyly, “Which one is your favourite?”
At that he smiles and takes her hand then leads her deep through one of the wilder, more untamed gardens until they reach the shadowy back corner. He crouches down and she kneels beside him to see the plant he’s showing her. Broad flat leaves of a rich purple with curiously shaped flowers, spiky, their petals all arcing towards the sky above in deep reds and oranges swirled together like Feyre’s paints.
“It’s called Fire Heart,” he says, his voice low, his eye blazing as he watches her, “At night the flowers glow and flicker like flames and it gives off a scent like cinnamon and baked apples,” he says, rocking back on his heels, apparently considering. She remains quiet, giving him space and at last he murmurs, “That’s how I found it. I followed that scent. It, it reminded me of home...The nicer parts of home.” He corrects himself, shifting restlessly on the balls of his feet.
“Feyre told me you grew up in the Autumn Court,” she ventures cautiously, blinking at him.
“Did she tell you why I left?”
“No,” she says, noting the guarded, withdrawn expression on his face, “She only said your family were...”she pauses, considering, then, “Difficult,” she settles for at last.
He lets out a rough bark of laughter at that, “You’d make an excellent politician,” he tells her with a roguish wink, “Very diplomatic,” he sighs and then says, “I left because my family were cruel bastards and-“ he blanches suddenly, looking at her aghast, “I’m sorry,” he says, so seriously.
A smile spreads across her face, tinged with a little edge of daring wildness she’s never truly felt before and before the boldness vanishes she says, “I’ve heard the word bastard before you know,” he blinks, apparently startled and she cocks her head slightly to one side as she adds, “And fuck too.”
A bright glint flashes in his russet eye at that and a broad smirk stretches across his mouth. He bites his lip, containing the grin a moment later, his fingers absently plucking up long shoots of grass from around them and unconsciously beginning to weave them together into a shape that comes out looking a lot like a miniature version of her floppy hat, though he hardly seems to know what he’s doing.
Finally he takes a breath and says, The gardens are beautiful and spectacular in their own right. But they were made by Fae hands. If you let me I can take you into the forest where the true, raw magic of the Spring Court dwells?” he offers her quietly, glancing up at her out of the corner of his eyes to see how she reacts to this proposition.
That raw wildness bursts in her chest again when she looks into his eyes and says, “Take me.”
****
Lucien leads Elain into the stables and introduces her to his mare, letting her offer her an apple, giggling at the horse’s tongue eagerly tickling her fingers, before he helps her into the saddle then mounts up smoothly behind her.
He keeps their pace steady and gentle for Elain’s sake as he leads them into the forest, following a path so well-worn that his mare barely needs any guidance from him at all to navigate it. Elain’s body is soft and warm against him, fitting in so neatly to his that it seems in that moment so intimately real to him that the Cauldron made them to be with each other, shaping their bodies this way, with the intention of them fitting together like this. His body sings at her proximity, every instinct roaring that this is where she belongs, where he belongs.
He pushes down on them, hard, focusing instead on their surroundings, keeping up a steady stream of commentary to put her at ease, telling her about the plants and wildlife they encounter but also stories of his various patrols and hunts through these woods. Like the time the other sentries bet him a month’s pay he couldn’t climb all the way to the top of the tallest oak in the forest without using any magic. He had tried it, of course, and had fallen out not even half-way up and broken his arm in three places as a result of his brash stupidity.
Elain had laughed so hard at the way he’d told that tale that she had nearly fallen from the horse and only his strong arm around her had kept her in the saddle. As she had done so, he had thought faintly that he could live on the sound of her laughter alone.
At last they come to the clearing he’d been looking for and he quickly dismounts then reaches up to lift Elain down, setting her gently onto the grass, trying not to focus on how she feels pressed against him for those few moments. He makes to tug a blanket from the saddle bags but she’s already flopped down happily in the grass behind him. So he only tethers his mare to a nearby tree with a grateful pat before letting her graze, hiding his smile as he does so, before he turns and settles himself beside her, taking in the look of enchanted awe on her face and thinking that he could easily spend centuries finding new ways to make her look like that.
“It is beautiful,” she sighs at last, tearing her eyes away from their surroundings to look at him again, her smile nothing short of radiant.
Smiling back at her he reaches out and plucks a small, unremarkable little flower from the grass around them and holds it up to show her another unfamiliar Prythian native. It’s black petals are clenched tight like a fist, hiding its insides but when he leans in and quietly murmurs, “Blàth ,” to it, it opens, the petals rustling and swirling like a lady’s skirts in the middle of a dance, revealing the rich, vibrant colours that plunge down into its throat.
Elain gasps in delight, “How did you do that?” she demands, eyes shining with pleasure.
He smiles and explains, “It’s from the Old Language. It means bloom. I think,” his lessons were a while ago and he remains a little rusty on most of them, despite his father’s insistence on their importance.
“Could you teach me how to say it?” she asks eagerly, her face glowing with excitement.
He obliges, patiently tutoring her in the correct pronunciation then watching as she scampers eagerly over to a clump of the shy, black blossoms and whispers the word to each of them in turn, crying out at the sight of each new pattern and collection of colours, each unique, as she reveals them.
After a moment he gets to his feet, approaches her and lightly touches her shoulder. She looks up at him, wonder glimmering in her eyes when they meet his. He offers her his hand and she takes it, allowing him to lead her to another part of the clearing.
There he shows her flowers that change colour depending on who touches them. For him they become a rich, vibrant copper streaked with gold and for her a pale lemon streaked with white and that same copper colour. If had had an artist’s soul like Feyre he might have said they matched.
Next he shows her a collection of large, trumpet like lilies that make music when the wind blows through them and he then spends a long while using his magic to stimulate them into making sweet melodies that swirl through the air around her until she’s smiling and giggling in that bright, clear way of hers.
She’s laughing so hard that she doesn’t immediately notice when flowers and vines being to grow around her, radiating out from the place she’s sitting like ripples in a pool, winding around them both like ivy curling up the side of a house, clinging to them as it climbs their limbs.
****
Elain starts as she realises one of the flowers she hadn’t noticed when she sat down here is coiling slowly up her leg. Yelping in fright she grips tightly onto Lucien, “What’s doing it?” she squeaks, eyes wide and frightened as she watches them continue to grow at an alarming rate, spiralling up her body.
“You are,” he says gently, watching the vines curling around his ankles and her heart starts racing at his words, pounding so hard against her chest that it hurts.
“No!” she cries, thrashing and struggling, wanting nothing more than for it to stop, “No, I don’t, I don’t want it, I don’t-“
Lucien reaches forwards and gently but firmly takes her hand in his. The rough bumps of his calluses are somehow reassuring, something solid and real and she holds tightly onto him, squeezing his hand as hard as she can to try and stop herself trembling.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs soothingly, “It’s okay, you’re all right.”
She shakes her head, her whole body quivering, “I don’t know how to make it stop,” she tells him, her voice cracking.
“Then don’t,” he says simply, giving her an easy smile, “It’s not hurting us.”
But she can feel the panic rising up in her chest to claim her – magic, magic and worse than that, magic she hadn’t even noticed she was causing, magic she can’t control- “I’m scared,” she whispers to him, trembling all over as the thin vines continue to push up and out from the earth and she feels them now, she feels them in her body and blood.
Lucien takes her other hand in his, fingers rubbing and squeezing softly, “Look at me,” he instructs her, voice quiet but form. She does as he asks, her dark eyes meeting his of russet and gold.
A chord strikes deep within her in answer to that gaze and on the other end she senses peace and calm – the feel of coming home, the sound of the song she usually hums to herself when she’s working in her garden, the soft sigh of a gentle breeze, the scent of roses on the first day of bloom.
She opens herself up to those feelings and to him whom they stem from as he says softly, “Now close your eyes,” she does, squeezing their joined hands to remind herself that he’s still here, here with her and that he won’t let any harm come to her, “Breathe. Nice and steady and slow. Good,” he coaches her quietly, “Now imagine it stopping, imagine them withdrawing back into the ground. Imagine still and calm and quiet.”
She opens her eyes as the magic burning in her blood gently slips away to wherever it had come from. “It worked,” she whispers in relief, sagging against him, blinking down at her hands and then on to the vines full of small white and red flowers and a frown creases her face, “But they’re still here,” she looks up at Lucien for some further explanation but he only smiles and plucks one of the red blossoms, tucking it into her long brown-gold hair making her blush and smile again.
Once she relaxes he lounges back again, lazily stretching out his legs in front of him, “Believe me,” he says conversationally, as though she’d done nothing more remarkable than make a daisy chain – his light tone for her benefit, to try and calm and soothe her, she’s sure, “It’s much more alarming when this happens.”
He flicks his fingers and a bright flash of fire bursts into the air above them, the heat flaring against her skin though he’d taken care to keep it well away from her. She gasps, blinking at the place where it vanished before she turns back to look at him, saying shyly, “Show me again.”
He obliges her, having a thin tongue of flame weave itself intricately between his fingers like a small, scarlet serpent, moving rather like her growing vines she notices.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs quietly as he lets it wink out, only a faint haze of smoke lingering behind.
“So are you,” he rasps back, his voice low and husky, his eyes fixed on her, drinking her in.
A faint blush creeps into her cheeks at that and she finds herself confessing quietly to him, without quite knowing why she’s saying it except something about him makes her feel like she can talk to him, like she can tell him things that other might laugh or sneer at but he’d only absorb with that quiet patience he’s already shown her, “I’ve never made that happen before,” she says, gesturing at the plant that’s still splayed out around them, “I didn’t know I could but you-“ her blush darkens and she looks away without finishing her sentence.
Lucien gently takes her chin between his thumb and forefinger and makes her look up at him, “What?” he coaxes her, his russet eye blazing with the rich, entrancing intensity of a bonfire.
He’s patient as she struggles to explain herself and how she feels, “I don’t know you just...” she can feel the heat pouring from her cheeks in waves now but she makes herself be brave and go on to say, “You bring something out of me. Something I never even knew was there,” he smiles and softly brushes her cheek with the tips of his fingers before he lowers his hand from her face.
She pauses, looking up earnestly into his eyes as she says quietly, “This bond between us,” she begins and he stiffens beside her, making her wonder if he too had experienced the same odd shiver through his core at the mention of it, just as she has, as though reminding them it’s there and urging her to go on, “I don’t really understand it, “ she admits, seeking that same comfort and reassurance he had given her earlier when he’d known just what to do to help her control her magic.
He swallows and shakes his head and though he says a little hoarsely, “Neither do I,” and he doesn’t have all of the answers she’s been seeking for weeks, him being just as confused and uncertain about it all makes her feel somehow calmer all the same, “But if it means we’re to be together,” she says, trying to find the words to tell him that this doesn’t seem like such a bad thing at all.
But Lucien’s eyes snap up to hers and before she can think of what to say he tells her firmly, voice razor sharp, “It doesn’t,” she blinks at him uncertainly. Everything she’d heard about this bond made it seem that their pairing would eventually be inevitable no matter what they did but...
****
Lucien drags a hand through his long red hair, sensing her confusion over his interruption and he gentles his tone as he tries to explain, “It doesn’t mean we have to be together – Not if you don’t want it to,” he says slowly, “It...” he frowns, his scar contracting tightly as he tries to sort through his tangled thoughts. Finally, “Mating bonds are rare- some search their entire immortal lives and never find their match – and the bonds themselves are precious, special,” his throat bobs as his memory flickers uncontrollably back to that cold marble room, the rich green of her eyes, the spray of crimson blood.
Giving himself a shake he continues, voice a little unsteady until he regains his flow but she’s patient and understanding and doesn’t push, “The bond is sought after and cherished but it’s not always exact and it’s not set in stone at this stage either. You don’t have to do anything I, I don’t expect anything at all, I-“ he breaks off and takes a deep steadying breath that shudders through his chest, “It doesn’t mean we have to be together,” he repeats carefully, “It just means that..That we’re suited to one another but you don’t have to accept it or be with me because of it.”
He needs her to understand that, understand that her control over becoming immortal and Fae might have been stripped from her but in this she has a choice and whatever it is he’ll learn to live with it.
“Bonds are complicated,” he murmurs, feeling a sudden need to fill the silence between them, “No two are ever exactly the same, just as no two relationships will ever be exactly the same, but it can take time for them to snap into place or make themselves known. It’s quite common for one person to feel it even if the other can’t yet, it doesn’t mean-“
“I can,” Elain interrupts him very quietly.
He breaks off and gapes at her, sure he somehow managed to mishear her even though they’re sitting bare feet apart in the middle of a silent forest clearing, “What?” he whispers, his voice coming out in a hoarse rasp.
Elain raises her head and looks straight into his eyes when she says boldly, “I can feel it,” something in his carefully crafted world fractures at her words and then shatters as the full impact of her words hit him, pitching him back to that wild, untameable place he’d been thrown into after she’d been Made and he’d looked and her and known, felt, exactly what she was to him.
But he never thought...He never dreamed...
“I can feel you,” Elain breathes, her voice is quite and timid but her gaze, those rich smooth brown eyes, like the earth she loves so well – full of promise and potential- are strong and sure as she presses on, “I’ve been able to for weeks now,” she confesses almost matter-of-factly, as though this is obvious, as though he ought to have known that she would be aware of him, aware of this connection between them.
She meets his wide eyes again, re-calling their last encounter in the throne room before Rhys’ Third had caught her hand and winnowed her away, “Ever since we met,” she murmurs, as though she’d read his mind, “But I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t know how. Didn’t know what it was at first and it...It scared me. It scared me so badly and everything was changing and I didn’t understand any of it so I tried to block it out, to pretend that it wasn’t there...”her voice has become so small and tremulous that it takes every scrap of will he possesses to stop himself reaching forward and taking her in his arms and holding her close to him.
She finds some new reserve of strength in herself when she raises her head and looks at him once more, “But you...” she says with such fierce tenderness, “I dreamed of you. Almost every night I dreamed of you and of this place,” she gestures around them and beyond to encompass the Spring Court too, “And it was safe, and quiet, and peaceful, and good – the way you wanted it to be.”
He can’t stop staring at her – in awe and wonder as a lump rises in his throat at her words. It’s as though she’s reached down into his heart – hollowed out and empty except for where she touché sit – and pulled out every piece of himself that he’d hidden and buried so deeply within himself that he had been sure no-one would ever find that faint flickering shred of hope he could never bring himself to abandon entirely. That faint shred of her in him he realises now as he looks in her eyes, that kept him going, kept him from breaking entirely and surrendering to the darkness howling to corrupt the still gentle heart he shares with her.
“I felt things that didn’t belong to me,” she continues, the sound of her voice tearing him from his wondering reverie and back to her, “Sorrow, so much sorrow and sometimes pain and I-“ he winces so badly that she pauses, concern emanating from her.
He closes his damp eyes at the thought of everything he’d been through since they’d been bonded –everything he’d inadvertently inflicted upon her, upon his mate- his mate.
“I’m so sorry,” he rasps to her.
“Look at me,” she says quietly but with something like steel lacing her words and he obeys. Her eyes are warm and so gentle when he meets them but her voice contains a strength he would never have suspected she possessed had he not been able to feel it thrumming through him from her, “You never have to apologise to me for the things other people have done to you,” she tells him fiercely, “For the pain they caused you. None of it was your fault. None of it.”
She reaches up and tenderly cups his cheek in one of her soft, delicate hands, the hands of one who brings life into the world when all he’s ever felt are those who take, “You are not your scars, Lucien,” she whispers and the sound of his name on her tongue shivers through his bones and echoes through those empty hollows in his heart.
Her thumb gently strokes the brutal rent in his cheek as she goes on, “You are not broken by them and I am not afraid of them...Or of you. Or of being your mate.” It was the first time she had said it aloud, to him, to anyone, that truth, that definite truth that lingers between them, that binds them together.
Mate. His mate. She was his mate and she was everything, everything to him in this moment. She is his destruction, taking apart the very essence of him and his rebirth as she forges him anew in the fire that’s kindled in her eyes. She is the light that flickered and stirred in him through all those years of darkness. She is the hope that pulled him through all the times this world brought him to his knees. She is the end and the beginning and the shape around which every breath will bend for the rest of his eternity. She is his balance; his equal; his mate; his salvation.
He looks at her, throat tight, silver lining his eyes and she smiles, the gesture warm and light and kind, “I don’t really understand this bond,” she murmurs quietly, her hand still cupping his cheek, “What it means, how it will change us...but neither do you...And I think. I think I’d like to figure it out with you.”
The hand on his cheek remains while the other braces against his chest, her fingers burying themselves into his tunic like the roots of a tree digging deep into the earth, claiming it, anchoring itself there as she leans forwards and tentatively brushes her lips against his. It’s a soft, sweet kiss, lacking the fiery heat and blazing intensity of raw passion but the scent of her is in his lungs and the taste of her is on his tongue when she shyly opens her mouth to him and something deep within his chest purrs its approval as he winds his fingers gently through her hair.
When they break apart, their hands lingering, reluctant to fully let the other go, the flowers around them she had created burn and glow with the magic of the Autumn Court leaving them sitting entwined together in a green sky spattered with little red and white suns.
Elain blinks down at them then looks up at him, “Being an immortal,” she says slowly, “Do you ever get used to this sort of thing?” she asks, gesturing around them where their magic continues to mingle and play together.
“No,” he says flatly, shaking his head in disbelief, “Never.”
She giggles at his frankness then bites her lip. Her hand extends slowly towards his and she twines their fingers together as she says, “Well, I suppose we have forever to figure this out too.”
Darkness sweeps in around them, enveloping them like a blanket and he encourages her magic out of her until the clearing is filled with vines and glowing flowers and they swim together in a sea of their own stars.
****