Midnight_Wishes on AO3 | ACOTAR Fanfiction and Fanart | Inspiration Central: Where Anything Goes | Icon Art by Kinuko Y. Craft, Header Background via Pixabay
A Court of Frost and Embers (ACOFAE): a retelling of ACOTAR featuring the rare pairing of Feyre x Lucien. In progress.
Together for Solstice: the ACOFAE Christmas/Solstice special featuring Feyre x Lucien. Complete.
Feylin
I Will See You Again: an ACOTAR AU one-shot featuring Feyre x Tamlin, in which she tells him she loves him before the seven times seven years are up. Complete, but may be expanded upon in the future.
Forever: a canon-compliant one-shot featuring the Feylin engagement scene we heard about but never saw. Inspired by this prompt. Complete.
The Perfect Gift: a holiday one-shot in which Feyre tries to give Tamlin something special for Solstice, but what do you give someone who already has everything? Complete.
The Gown: a Tumblr-inspired Feylin-positive one-shot that shows how Tamlin reacted to Feyre’s gown when he first saw it. Complete.
Brilin
A Garden of Thorns: a Beauty and the Beast retelling that takes place after ACOWAR. A Tamlin x Briar story. Please know that this is not a Tamlin redemption arc story. This is a story of healing for two lost people who happen to find each other. (The prompt that inspired this work is here.) In progress, on hiatus.
“Take me away from here, please”. Based on a writing prompt featuring Briar and Tamlin, exclusive to Tumblr. Complete.
A Winter Court Tradition: a Christmas-y one-shot inspired by this fanart, featuring Briar and Tamlin on the eve of Winter Solstice. Complete.
Love Bite: a spicy Brilin one-shot inspired by this kiss prompt. Complete.
Stay the Night: the emotional hurt/comfort sequel to “Love Bite”, this time from Briar’s POV, inspired by this prompt. Complete.
Tamcien
Still Beautiful, Still Mine: a Tamlin x Lucien oneshot inspired by this image as drawn for Tamlin Week 2023, in which Tamlin comforts a grieving Lucien over the loss of his eye. Complete.
A Second Chance: a gift fic written for the ACOTAR Secret Santa Gift Exchange, Christmas 2023. This modern holiday AU (with detective noir vibes) finds Tamlin and Lucien reconnecting in ways they never expected, and features Jurian x Vassa in supporting roles. In progress.
The Wolf and the Fox: a gift fic written for the ACOTAR Secret Santa Gift Exchange, Christmas 2024. It features Lucien’s POV as he navigates the events of Winter Solstice with the Inner Circle (as seen in ACOFAS), meanwhile grappling with his loyalty to Tamlin and his conflicting feelings between him and his mate. In progress.
Elucien
The Golden Thread: a Solstice-themed ACOFAS AU one-shot, inspired by this writing prompt, in which Elain and Lucien finally air out their grievances. Complete.
The Third Night of Solstice: a gift fic written for the ACOTAR Secret Santa Gift Exchange, Christmas 2022. A dual POV in which Elain and Lucien struggle to give each other what they think the other wants. Complete.
Helion x LoA (Lady of Autumn)
The Faintest Blush of Rose: a pre-ACOTAR fic that explores how the Lady of Autumn (named Melora) met Helion and what happened to her afterwards. In progress; on hiatus.
Please note: I am a Pro-Tamlin writer. I refuse to turn him into a villain, even if SJM has, just so you know what you’re getting yourself into. He’s a flawed, fascinating character that I enjoy writing about. I also like to expound on the worldbuilding and lore, especially in ACOFAE. Thank you!
My Headcanons and Essays
An essay on ACOTAR faeries and lying (and why removing that aspect weakens the story)
A short rant about ACOTAR faeries and aging (and a suggestion to make it consistent)
An essay about ACOTAR faeries and the power of names (and what I think could have made the original story better)
My thoughts on the official ACOTAR Coloring Book (and what I would have done differently)
A mini-rant about the Ballad of Tam Lin and ACOTAR
Thoughts on Feyre’s wedding dress in ACOMAF
Theory (with proof): Tamlin sent the music to Feyre’s cell UTM
Theory (with proof): Rhysand’s appearance on Fire Night was edited in
Theory (with proof): Nesta and Lucien were endgame ft. foxglove
A Nesta/Lucien Headcanon (my thoughts)
Theory: Amarantha is the reason Rhysand’s family was killed
Thoughts on Amarantha’s backstory (future fic idea)
Thoughts on Amarantha as a villain (a Book 2 AU)
What I would do differently in Book 2 if Feylin was endgame
being inspired and taking ideas are different right? Like being inspired is like being like I like the idea of vampire au for this ship, let me think of my own ideas of it and what that could look like
where as taking the idea would be taking someone else’s idea and expanding on something that wasn’t your own
Exactly.
However, be careful not to use “It’s not lifting, it was just inspiration…” as an excuse not to give another author credit where credit is due. If someone’s work inspires you to write something that’s in a similar vein, whether the original work was in the same fandom or not, it’s kind to the other writer (and to readers who may also want to see more of a concept, just like you did) to note that! AO3 lets you do that by checking this box:
I even give credit in my author’s notes at the top of a fic if I’m inspired by a specific chapter of ACOTAR or by a work that’s not on AO3, like a movie, poem, or book.
In the case that made me make this post yesterday, it was definitely lifting, because someone made a comment on one of my posts that detailed a very specific idea that I had and said something like “I’m going to turn this into a fic!” without even asking if that was cool or not.
What if I was already planning to write that fic? In this case, it’s just plain rude and borderline plagiarism. Just ask permission (or, better yet, get creative and think up your own stories)!
I don't think people who come from wattpad after the purge and now want ao3 to have its own official app understand that one of the main reasons behind the recent wattpad purge that drove them to ao3 was due to pressure from appstore demanding wattpad to be more strict and follow appstore's policy. wattpad complied in order for its app to be able to remain on appstore. thus the wattpad purge.
ao3 doesn't have an app because for it to have an app, appstore will have to approve it first. and if, hypothetically, ao3 needs appstore to approve it, it will also have to abide by appstore's pro-censorship stance and start banning dark and taboo fics, which is against its own core principle of being completely against censorship.
ao3 doesn't need an app. it works more than fine without an app. the reason ao3 can allow dark and taboo fics, the reason it can allow the most disgusting and shockingly vile fics, and be completely against censorship is because it doesn't need appstore's approval. it stands on its own as a non-profit organization with functioning site and a team of lawyers protecting its platform, its users, and every single fanwork on its platform.
everybody say thank you ao3
here's the list of things you need to know about ao3 if you're new to the platform
it’s not weird to find fanfiction from 2021, or 2017, or 2014 that you’ve never read and actually taking your time to read it.
it’s not weird to love it and comment and leave kudos because the author will probably still see it someday and it will make them happy.
it’s not weird to like said author’s work so much that you want to go look for other fics from them.
it’s not weird to go through the authors profile and look for other fics from the ships you like (or maybe some that you’ll give a chance because you liked the author) and maybe bookmark them for later.
it’s not weird to read these other fics and like them too and comment on them because you actually like them and you want to let the author know.
it’s not weird to read fanfiction from 5, or 8, or 10 years ago and actually enjoy and engage with it because it’s perfectly normal to relate to something that’s less than a decade old!
let’s stop treating fanfiction like they’re instagram posts that stop being interesting in 24 hours! fanfiction is NOT social media, fanfiction is art!!! and art doesn’t get old in one day, one year, or even a decade!
read fanfiction! write fanfiction! comment on fanfiction! let’s not let fanculture die people!!!!!
Not only is it not weird, it is ACTIVELY ENCOURAGED. Authors LOVE IT when people do this!!! Its not "weird" and its not "neutral" -- its a fucking DELIGHT. Feel very absolutely free to read though an author's entire back catalogue, leaving kudos and/or comments along the way; we absolutely freaking love when someone does this. There is nothing more joyful than getting a comment notification for an old fic. It will make our day, I promise.
Never be afraid to recycle an idea you had for a project you already completed. Sometimes ideas really are just that good and deserve to be used more than once.
The problem with having OCs is that sometimes you wanna read about your little guy being in situations but unfortunately he is YOUR little guy and no one is gonna put him in that situation but you. Tragic.
Summary: Elain Archeron has vivid dreams of a man she's never met, and whose face she cannot see. Inspired by the novel "The Unmaking of June Farrow" with a touch of "Outlander", this modern AU follows Elain Archeron as she falls into a fairy ring and across time… only to discover that the man of her dreams is very real, and they've already met. She just can't remember when, and all he wants to do is forget.
Elain dreams of the day that she and Lucien met, but how she found her way back to the present remains a mystery. The more she remembers, though, the more reluctant she is to find out.
Word Count: 4.4k
Read the chapter below, or find it here on AO3:
graphics divider by @pxrce-lain
Chapter Three
You told me once, dear, you really loved me
And no one else could come between.
But now you’ve left me and love another;
You have shattered all of my dreams.
Salt.
She tasted salt.
Salt, and dirty linen, crammed between her teeth; gagging her, preventing her from crying out.
Crying. She was crying.
Thick cords cut into her wrists and forced her hands behind her back.
She was dressed only in a cream silk shift, open at the neck, with ruffled hems edged in lace.
It had been such a warm evening; the window was unlatched.
That’s how they got in.
They took her and her sister away, far away, across the black ocean to a crumbling castle on a cliff. No… A prison.
Once there, something with claws grabbed her by the hair and dragged her, barefoot, across moonlit stone as white as bone.
She could hear other things behind her, wrestling with Nesta as they brought her along, hands bound, snarling through her own gag.
Nightmare. This was a nightmare. And she could not wake.
There were four women waiting for them; not prisoners, but queens. Regal. Cold. Hateful.
Elain and Nesta were forced to accompany them to the throne room. HIS throne room.
The King of the Crumbling Castle.
His square face was as pale as the moon, and his eyes were black and starless. A spiked crown rested on his long dark hair, and golden rings gleamed on his long fingers as he waved, commanding them to be brought closer.
Closer… to that thing.
Ghostly vapor rose from its depths. Forged from cold, cruel iron, with clawed feet and a gaping maw.
Life. Life, the Cauldron whispered. I will give you life.
But there was only death within.
“Put the prettier one in first,” the King commanded.
Elain cried out as two guards took her by the arms, but the gag muffled her screams. She kicked as they hoisted her up, but it was no use. The iridescent gleam of the swirling surface beckoned, and, like hot oil, it burned when her right foot touched it.
She was still screaming when it took her under.
Elain woke up choking on bathwater. She flailed as she grabbed at the edges of the slippery tub, half-blinded by soap bubbles. She coughed violently and managed to knock over the bottles of soap before snagging one of the folded towels on the nearby stool. Her shoulders shook as she pressed it to her face, trying to soak up the bathwater and her tears. Her throat and her lungs burned as she half-coughed, half-sobbed into the towel.
It was just a dream, she told herself, still shaking. It was just a horrible, horrible dream.
There was a knock at the bathroom door. “Elain?” said a voice on the other side. It was Lucien.
She hadn’t dreamed him up, then. This wasn’t her house, or her bathtub. She really was stuck in the past, for better or worse; in sickness and in health.
Elain took a deep breath to answer, but could only cough. She coughed so hard she tasted lemonade and egg salad. Blegh.
“Are you all right?” he asked, and turned the knob.
“Don’t come in!” she screeched, turning her back on the door and clutching the towel to her front, then let out a terrific sneeze into her palm.
When she peeked over her shoulder, the door was open, but only just.
“Are you dying in there?” he asked through the crack. She couldn’t tell if he sounded more worried or amused.
She swallowed hard and tried to steady her pounding heart. “I’m fine,” she called out, and dabbed at her streaming eyes. “I just fell asleep in the tub, that’s all.”
He sounded appalled. “Are you trying to drown yourself?” he asked, his accent pronounced.
“No,” she snapped, then sniffed and whimpered at her burning sinuses as she re-folded the towel, looking for a dry corner. “Now go away.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the door closed, but the knob didn’t turn, and the latch didn’t catch.
Elain frowned at it. “Are you still out there?” she called out.
“Aye,” he said distantly.
Elain laughed, despite herself, then wiped at the corners of her eyes. “I’m not going to drown,” she insisted, though her voice was still shaky. “I’m fine.”
“I’m not convinced.”
Elain snorted, then winced and rubbed her burning nose. “Is Vassa there?”
“She’s outside,” Lucien said, opening the door just enough so that they could talk, and so that he could release his grip on the knob. “Did you need something?”
Elain took a deep breath and considered it. “I can just wait for Vassa,” she said at last. “How much longer do you think she’ll be?”
“Hard to say,” he said dryly. “It’s been twenty minutes now, and it could be twenty more, knowing the Beddors. Annie alone could talk the hind leg off a donkey.”
Elain found herself smiling. He sounded almost friendly, and it was nice to know he at least had a sense of humor, or she might have started to question her taste in men. She reached for the edge of the tub to hoist herself up, then thought better of it and slid back under the water. “Um. Could you…?”
“Yes?” he said immediately.
She blushed. “I don’t have any clothes,” she admitted, then quickly amended, “I mean I don’t have any clean clothes.” God. She was half-tempted to stick her head back under the water. “Can you get me a robe or something until Vassa gets back?”
There was silence on the other side of the door, and Elain wasn’t sure if he’d heard her, or if he’d decided to fetch Vassa after all.
“Um… sir?” she asked. She couldn’t quite bring herself to call him by his name yet.
“Lord, give me strength,” she heard him mutter. “I’ll fetch you somethin’,” he said in a louder tone, then his footsteps faded down the hall. From the sound of it, he was heading toward the master bedroom. Elain had always preferred the upstairs bedroom herself, but she didn’t know who that room belonged to in 1951, or if it even existed yet.
Still, Lucien’s absence meant she had a couple of minutes to dry off, although the cracked door made her hurry faster.
She had just wrapped a towel around herself when a sharp knock sounded against the door frame. She jumped as he thrust a black dress on a hanger through the opening.
“Will this do?” Lucien asked stiffly.
Elain was too surprised to answer. She’d seen this dress before. She recognized the white Peter Pan collar and the puffed sleeves, the row of pearl buttons and the gently flared skirt. It was the same one she’d worn to her dad’s funeral. The dress had been retro then, but it was modern, now. Elain’s hand moved to her throat. It was true, then. She really had been here…
When she didn’t speak, Lucien poked his head in. “Elain? Where did you…?” His eyes widened as he caught sight of her in her towel, then his face turned red as he quickly withdrew. “Oh, feck. Sorry. Sorry,” he muttered, then waved the dress at her through the crack. “Do ya want it or not?”
Blushing furiously, she limped forward and snatched the hanger from his hand. “Yes, thank you,” she said, then pressed the door shut behind him, and locked it for good measure.
“Look. I’m sorry I peeked,” he said from the other side. “It’s just that you have a habit of…”
“Of disappearing?” she said sarcastically, but knowing she was right brought her no satisfaction.
“Aye,” he muttered.
She sighed, knowing he was still standing there, wondering where his real wife had gone. “Thank you for the dress,” she managed sincerely, hugging it to her chest.
She thought she heard him grunt in response. “Is there anything else?” he asked impatiently, already back to his grumpy self.
She would rather die than ask him for a pair of clean panties, let alone a bra. “No,” she said coolly. “Just tell Vassa when you see her that I’m done with my bath.”
He let out another grunt, and then he was gone.
A few minutes later, Elain faced her reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. She straightened her collar and ran her fingers through her loose curls, but the black dress still turned her rosy complexion pale and made her sandy-blonde hair look brassy. It didn’t help that the dress made her remember things she’d rather forget.
The day of the funeral had been gray and gloomy and humid. Whether it was the weather or social distancing caused by the pandemic, not many people came to pay their respects to the late Ed Archeron. They sent food, though, and flowers. Those that did come said he was lucky, since it was just a heart attack. Just. As if his heart hadn’t broken years ago, when his wife died in a car accident. It wasn’t his fault, but he blamed himself anyway; he was the driver. Feyre was eight, Elain was ten, and Nesta had just turned thirteen. It wasn’t easy, raising three girls—soon-to-be teenagers—by himself. But he always said that no one could ever replace his Kathy, and he didn’t care to try.
Still, the first year was hard. Their Aunt Leigh lived with them for the first six weeks while their dad recovered, but he still had to use a cane for the rest of his life. After Aunt Leigh went back home to her dogs, it fell to him to do the cooking and the laundry and the shopping. They had a lot of cereal for dinner as a result. After he accidentally ruined Nesta’s favorite sweater in the wash, she burst into tears and cried that he should have been the one who died because at least their mom actually cared. The two of them went for a long drive; Elain didn’t know what was said, but Nesta came home with a new sweater, and he brought pizza. Things got better after that.
He attended Nesta’s dance recitals, and encouraged Feyre’s artistic pursuits, even when she painted the kitchen cupboards without asking. He ate Elain’s early attempts at baking with gusto, and declared that she had it in her to start her own bakery one day, if she wanted.
He bought tampons and mascara when they asked, although he had to enlist the help of their Aunt Leigh to take them bra shopping. He attended parent-teacher conferences when Feyre kept failing English, only to find that she had dyslexia. He stood up to the principal when he found out Tomas Mandray and his awful friends kept harassing Nesta and Clare. He helped Elain get a part-time job at the Beddors’ bakery, and when he picked her up afterwards, he’d ask about her day; how she was doing in history class, or if Graysen had asked her to the school dance yet.
She liked their one-on-one time. Sometimes they talked, and sometimes they’d just drive and listen to music. He liked old country best, and would often sing along in his soothing tenor. He’d nudge her when “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue” came on, and they’d sing it together.
Tell me you love me and don't let me cry
Say anything but don't say goodbye…
Elain sobbed when they played it at his funeral.
She didn’t remember much of what happened afterwards. She knew she didn’t want to go home to a bunch of nosy neighbors and church-goers tut-tutting over her and her sisters. She was eighteen now, not a child. She remembered telling Nesta she wanted to be alone for a while, so Nesta took Feyre back to the house while Elain walked through the cemetery towards the woods.
They found her hours later, dehydrated and disoriented.
That’s when the dreams started.
A knock on the bathroom door startled Elain from her reverie.
“Elain?” Vassa called through the door, and rattled the locked knob.
“I’m coming!” Elain called out, and limped to the door to unlock it.
Vassa sighed in relief when she opened the door. “Oh, good. Lucien said you were…” She paused when she saw what Elain was wearing. “Ohh. You look…” She trailed off and covered her mouth.
Elain tried to smile and picked at the puffed sleeves. “I know. It’s not really my color, is it?”
“Nonsense,” Vassa said kindly, and took her hand to lead her down the hall toward the living room. “I was going to say you look just as you did when you first came here, after Lucien found you.”
Elain stopped her. “Wait. Lucien found me?”
Vassa looked surprised. “Yes. He was driving into town, to pick up an order for Juri, I think,” she mused. “But it was raining, and he found you, trying to find your way back to the house. You really do not remember?”
Elain blinked. It was strange; now that Vassa mentioned it… She remembered cupping her hand over her dark smartphone screen, squinting at it as pelting rain stung her skin. But the stupid thing wouldn’t turn on, so there was no way to contact Nesta or Feyre. She shivered and tucked the useless phone into her daisy-dotted handbag, then shielded her eyes with it as she picked her way through the sodden tufts of grass on the side of the road. Water squelched between her toes, soaking the strappy black Mary Jane shoes she’d chosen to go with the vintage dress that was now clinging uncomfortably to her skin.
Thunder rumbled overhead, and she tried not to cry. It wasn’t supposed to rain until that evening, but she hadn’t exactly been paying attention to the time. The storm made everything seem darker, and without her phone, she couldn’t check. Nesta was going to be so pissed at her when she got home. That is, if she got home.
Golden headlights appeared in the distance, like twin suns through the slanting rain. An absurdly old-fashioned gray-green truck squealed to a stop in the middle of the road, and its driver cranked down the window to yell at her.
Elain squinted, and crept closer. “What?” she yelled back.
He cupped his hand to his mouth. “I said: Are ye mad?” he called back, then opened the door without waiting for an answer. He splashed across the road to meet her, shielding his face with his hand.
“Are you trying to catch your death?” he chided, squinting through the downpour. “What are you doing on the side of the road?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but her teeth chattered instead.
His frown softened as he took her arm. “Come on, then. Come on,” he urged when she tried to resist. “Only an idiot would be out in this weather, and you’re lucky I’m an idiot.”
He guided her to the passenger’s side and opened the door, and, despite her misgivings, helped her climb onto the bench seat.
She huffed as he shut the door, glad to be out of the rain at last, then blew on her fingers and tried to warm them as he trotted around to the driver’s side door. This particular model of truck was so old, it didn’t even have heating vents in the dashboard. The steering wheel was attached to a stick, and the gear shift was in the floor… Still, the interior was clean, and, most importantly, dry.
As her would-be rescuer—or kidnapper, she hadn’t decided yet—slid in and shut the door behind him, she realized that if he really wanted to, he could have chosen a less conspicuous getaway vehicle, or at least a faster one. Besides, what kind of kidnapper dressed himself in a newsboy cap, double-patched button-down shirt, and slacks, of all things? Then again, she’d never been kidnapped before, so what did she know?
The man was busy cranking up his window, muttering to himself, then took off his cap to wipe the rain from his clean-shaven face. His red hair was short, parted sharply on one side, and slicked back and gleaming. He replaced his cap and looked to her, breathing hard.
He had an unnervingly long scar over his left eye that bit into his cheek; it looked as though someone had tried swiping at him with a knife. But he didn’t look like the kind of guy to get into knife fights, or the kind who kidnapped helpless, stranded women. He looked… nice. A bit hipster, maybe, but nice. His eyes were a warm, russet shade of brown, and he didn’t leer or linger over her figure, despite the clinginess of her wet dress.
“What were ya doing out there?” he asked accusingly.
Okay, so maybe he wasn’t that nice. She blinked back the rainwater in her eyes and could only shrug.
“Did your car break down?” he guessed.
She shook her head.
“Are ya lost?”
She shook her head again, and shivered.
He pursed his lips, apparently considering the next question in his interrogation, but he surprised her by reaching for the brown tweed jacket draped over the back of the seat. “Here,” he said, slinging it across her shoulders. “It’s not much, but at least it’s dry.”
Elain sighed at the welcome warmth, at the whiff of citrus and cedarwood aftershave steeped in the collar, and pulled it gratefully around herself. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He smiled as he sat back, a kind of warm, lopsided smile. “So you can talk,” he remarked.
She chuckled, but shivered again.
“Let’s get you out of all this wet,” he said, shifting the old truck into gear. “No doubt someone will be missing ya.”
Despite the rain, he managed to turn the truck around safely and started driving back the way he’d come; the same way Elain had been going.
“Do ya live nearby?” he asked as they drove.
“Why?” she asked, suddenly nervous.
He laughed, clearly surprised at her response. “So I can take ya home.”
“You don’t have to,” she said with a sniff, then wiped her nose on his collar. She froze when she realized what she’d done, then blushed when she noticed him looking. “Sorry,” she said meekly.
He smiled. “That’s all right,” he said, then jerked his chin at her. “There’s a tissue in the left pocket, if ya like.”
As she pulled it out, he asked her, “Are you running away, then?”
She barked a laugh. “What? No, I…” she began, but her gaze fell to the folded tissue in her palm as she realized that’s exactly what she’d done, even if it was temporary.
“It’s all right. You’re not the only one,” he said gently, which made her suddenly wonder about his accent. He met her gaze and smiled again. “So. Ya have a name, Little Miss Runaway?”
She found herself blushing again. “Elain,” she admitted.
“Elain,” he repeated. “That’s pretty.”
Her shoulders relaxed when he didn’t make it weird or creepy. “What about you?” she asked, wiping at her leaking nose. “Do you have a name?”
“Aye,” he said, and tipped his cap. “Lucien Vanserra, at your service.”
She let out a giggle, and his head jerked back in surprise.
“What?”
“I don’t know. It’s just—” She feigned tipping her hat. “Milady.”
“But that’s what you are, isn’t it?”
Her smile faltered when she realized he was sincere. “I guess,” she said, embarrassed, as she crumpled the used tissue in her lap. “It’s just… nobody does that anymore.”
“I do.”
Her stomach fluttered at that, and she found herself turning towards him. “What did you say your name was? Lucien?”
“Aye. Lucien. Lucien Vanserra,” he repeated, and tipped his hat again, just to tease her. “Milady.”
She chuckled, and tucked a loose, damp curl behind her ear. “Lucien,” she whispered to herself, sounding it out. LU-shen. She couldn’t help herself when she blurted, “Is Vanserra an Irish name, or…?”
He grinned to himself. “Eh. Not exactly,” he said, then caught her eye and winked. “I made it up.”
Her head jerked back. “What? Why?”
“Well,” he said slowly, scratching at the scar on his left cheek. “Let’s just say you Americans can’t spell Irish names for shite,” he teased.
Her mouth dropped open. “Oh, yeah? Try me,” she challenged.
He looked her over in such a way that her breath caught, just a little. “Maybe I will,” he said softly.
Vassa startled Elain back to the present—well, the present past—by touching her shoulder. Her brow was creased with worry as she asked, “Are you all right?”
Elain nodded quickly, then touched her aching forehead. “Yeah. I—I think so.”
Vassa pursed her lips, then took her arm. “I will wrap your foot, then you should rest,” she advised.
Elain didn’t argue as Vassa led her to the living room. She’d dreamed of being caught in the rain before, of a man gallantly putting his jacket around her as she shivered at his nearness, but she’d always dismissed that as some romantic fantasy. If what she’d seen was true—and it seemed true—then what other fantastic memories had this magic taken from her? And, more importantly, what would it take to get them back?
Jurian and Lucien were sitting on the couch, talking in low voices, but they stopped and stood when Vassa and Elain walked in.
Jurian’s forced smile faltered as he took in Elain’s black dress. “You couldn’t find her something else to wear?” he muttered to Lucien.
Lucien crossed his arms. “It’s hers, isn’t it?” he replied, frowning.
His hair was shaggier now; his face harder, and more angular, but he was still the same man who had rescued her in the rain… He’d loved her, once. The least she could do was try to give him closure… before she left.
Her heart suddenly twinged at the thought, and she took a deep breath, trying to ease the ache. “It’s okay,” she told Jurian. “It actually helped me remember… some things.”
Lucien’s head jerked back in surprise, as if he hadn’t expected that outcome, but Jurian clapped him on the shoulder and praised him for the swell idea.
Vassa rubbed her arm. “That is wonderful news,” she cooed.
“What else do you remember?” Jurian asked her.
“Come. Tell us while I wrap your foot,” Vassa interjected, and led her to the couch.
Jurian stepped aside to let them pass, but Lucien moved to the fireplace mantle on the opposite wall. It was a bit further away than necessary, but Elain couldn’t blame him for wanting to keep his distance.
“So,” Jurian began as Vassa busied herself unrolling the bandage. “Do you remember how you got here?”
“Do you remember why you left?” Lucien said bitterly.
Elain winced, and not just because Vassa moved her foot to her lap. “Not yet,” she admitted, shifting into a more comfortable position. “But I remember my dad’s funeral. And I remember getting caught in the rain. You—Lucien, I mean—you stopped, and… you gave me your jacket.”
Lucien looked away, his mouth tight. It seemed he didn’t appreciate the reminder.
“But you don’t remember how you got here,” Jurian asked pointedly.
“Not the first time, no,” Elain said. “This time I went mushroom picking, and I—ow.” She hissed as Vassa secured the bandage around her ankle. “I tripped. The next thing I knew, I was in the middle of a mushroom ring.”
“A fairy ring?” Lucien said sharply.
“Well, yeah,” Elain agreed, albeit reluctantly. “I guess. But I didn’t see any fairies,” she tried to joke.
Lucien’s face was grim as he looked to Jurian, and Jurian to Vassa, but none of them spoke.
Elain forced a laugh. “Come on. You don’t actually believe that fairies…” She trailed off, because it seemed so absurd, and yet…
“They stole little Bridget, For seven years long; When she came down again, Her friends were all gone,” Lucien said distantly.
Elain’s skin prickled. “What?”
“Nothin’,” he said, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. “It’s just an old poem. That’s all.”
Elain huffed and crossed her arms. “You’re just trying to scare me,” she declared.
He scowled at her. “Now why would I do that?”
“Because I went away, and you don’t want me back,” she snapped.
“I never said—” Lucien stopped himself, and Elain’s face flushed. “I’m not trying to scare ya,” he said instead. “You just have to watch your step when it comes to—mushrooms.”
Elain snorted. “It’s not like I stomped on them,” she complained. “Besides, those aren’t the kind of mushrooms I’d pick, anyway.”
“You didn’t pick any, did ya?” Lucien asked warily.
“No!” Elain snapped. “You sound like Bud Beddor. The Witch o’ the Woods don’t take kindly to thieves,” she drawled sarcastically. “Besides, that’s just a local legend. I’ve gone mushroom picking dozens of times and nothing ever happened.”
“Until now,” Lucien said darkly.
“Look. I didn’t see anybody,” Elain insisted. “I just tripped and hurt my ankle.” Her breath caught as tears suddenly filled her eyes, and she had to bite her lip to stop its trembling. “I just want to go home.”
Vassa shifted closer and put her arm around Elain’s shoulders. She murmured something soothing in Russian, and Elain leaned tearily into her embrace.
Elain could feel Lucien watching her, but when she tried to meet his gaze, he looked away. He looked… broken.
“I’m going to go check on Rosie,” he told Jurian quietly, and walked into the next room.
When he was gone, Jurian knelt at Elain’s feet. “Hey, Lainey,” he said gently. “We’re going to do everything we can to figure this out, okay? Until then, you have a home here, if you want it.”
Elain sniffed and brushed away a stray tear. “My dad used to call me Lainey,” she said softly.
He smiled kindly, and his brown eyes crinkled at the corners. “I know. Do you mind if I do?”
Elain shook her head. “No. That would be kind of nice,” she said, and she meant it.
“Okay, Lainey,” he said, and took her hand and patted it. “First things first: You get some rest. We’re going to talk, and we’ll see what we can do to get your memories back.”
so what if.....? what iffffffffffffffff we had a fandom party? just like, a lil celebration? potluck style? After many years of waiting for a CRUMB of news, should we have a feast??
When: September 22nd - September 23rd
Where: Tumblr, obvi (#FEASTFORFOXES)
Why: For fun. Duh
How: You bring something to contribute! Something to share with the party! Anything works! A song that reminds you of a certain character, a mood board for your faves, a drawing you're proud of, an artwork you saw that made you scream, 100-word drabbles, a whole fan fiction. Did you bake something? You can share something from a creator, you can share your own work. Just show up, like & reblog, and share your excitement for the next book!
This will NOT be ship specific, and NO ship bashing/wars allowed. Let's bring some gosh dang WHIMSY back to this fandom.
If I get enough likes/reblogs/interest I'll make this more official.
P.S. If anyone is interested in running this with me HMU (you get lots of smooches and flirting from me)
Summary: Elain Archeron has vivid dreams of a man she's never met, and whose face she cannot see. Inspired by the novel "The Unmaking of June Farrow" with a touch of "Outlander", this modern AU follows Elain Archeron as she falls into a fairy ring and across time… only to discover that the man of her dreams is very real, and they've already met. She just can't remember when, and all he wants to do is forget.
Elain dreams of the day that she and Lucien met, but how she found her way back to the present remains a mystery. The more she remembers, though, the more reluctant she is to find out.
Word Count: 4.4k
Read the chapter below, or find it here on AO3:
graphics divider by @pxrce-lain
Chapter Three
You told me once, dear, you really loved me
And no one else could come between.
But now you’ve left me and love another;
You have shattered all of my dreams.
Salt.
She tasted salt.
Salt, and dirty linen, crammed between her teeth; gagging her, preventing her from crying out.
Crying. She was crying.
Thick cords cut into her wrists and forced her hands behind her back.
She was dressed only in a cream silk shift, open at the neck, with ruffled hems edged in lace.
It had been such a warm evening; the window was unlatched.
That’s how they got in.
They took her and her sister away, far away, across the black ocean to a crumbling castle on a cliff. No… A prison.
Once there, something with claws grabbed her by the hair and dragged her, barefoot, across moonlit stone as white as bone.
She could hear other things behind her, wrestling with Nesta as they brought her along, hands bound, snarling through her own gag.
Nightmare. This was a nightmare. And she could not wake.
There were four women waiting for them; not prisoners, but queens. Regal. Cold. Hateful.
Elain and Nesta were forced to accompany them to the throne room. HIS throne room.
The King of the Crumbling Castle.
His square face was as pale as the moon, and his eyes were black and starless. A spiked crown rested on his long dark hair, and golden rings gleamed on his long fingers as he waved, commanding them to be brought closer.
Closer… to that thing.
Ghostly vapor rose from its depths. Forged from cold, cruel iron, with clawed feet and a gaping maw.
Life. Life, the Cauldron whispered. I will give you life.
But there was only death within.
“Put the prettier one in first,” the King commanded.
Elain cried out as two guards took her by the arms, but the gag muffled her screams. She kicked as they hoisted her up, but it was no use. The iridescent gleam of the swirling surface beckoned, and, like hot oil, it burned when her right foot touched it.
She was still screaming when it took her under.
Elain woke up choking on bathwater. She flailed as she grabbed at the edges of the slippery tub, half-blinded by soap bubbles. She coughed violently and managed to knock over the bottles of soap before snagging one of the folded towels on the nearby stool. Her shoulders shook as she pressed it to her face, trying to soak up the bathwater and her tears. Her throat and her lungs burned as she half-coughed, half-sobbed into the towel.
It was just a dream, she told herself, still shaking. It was just a horrible, horrible dream.
There was a knock at the bathroom door. “Elain?” said a voice on the other side. It was Lucien.
She hadn’t dreamed him up, then. This wasn’t her house, or her bathtub. She really was stuck in the past, for better or worse; in sickness and in health.
Elain took a deep breath to answer, but could only cough. She coughed so hard she tasted lemonade and egg salad. Blegh.
“Are you all right?” he asked, and turned the knob.
“Don’t come in!” she screeched, turning her back on the door and clutching the towel to her front, then let out a terrific sneeze into her palm.
When she peeked over her shoulder, the door was open, but only just.
“Are you dying in there?” he asked through the crack. She couldn’t tell if he sounded more worried or amused.
She swallowed hard and tried to steady her pounding heart. “I’m fine,” she called out, and dabbed at her streaming eyes. “I just fell asleep in the tub, that’s all.”
He sounded appalled. “Are you trying to drown yourself?” he asked, his accent pronounced.
“No,” she snapped, then sniffed and whimpered at her burning sinuses as she re-folded the towel, looking for a dry corner. “Now go away.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the door closed, but the knob didn’t turn, and the latch didn’t catch.
Elain frowned at it. “Are you still out there?” she called out.
“Aye,” he said distantly.
Elain laughed, despite herself, then wiped at the corners of her eyes. “I’m not going to drown,” she insisted, though her voice was still shaky. “I’m fine.”
“I’m not convinced.”
Elain snorted, then winced and rubbed her burning nose. “Is Vassa there?”
“She’s outside,” Lucien said, opening the door just enough so that they could talk, and so that he could release his grip on the knob. “Did you need something?”
Elain took a deep breath and considered it. “I can just wait for Vassa,” she said at last. “How much longer do you think she’ll be?”
“Hard to say,” he said dryly. “It’s been twenty minutes now, and it could be twenty more, knowing the Beddors. Annie alone could talk the hind leg off a donkey.”
Elain found herself smiling. He sounded almost friendly, and it was nice to know he at least had a sense of humor, or she might have started to question her taste in men. She reached for the edge of the tub to hoist herself up, then thought better of it and slid back under the water. “Um. Could you…?”
“Yes?” he said immediately.
She blushed. “I don’t have any clothes,” she admitted, then quickly amended, “I mean I don’t have any clean clothes.” God. She was half-tempted to stick her head back under the water. “Can you get me a robe or something until Vassa gets back?”
There was silence on the other side of the door, and Elain wasn’t sure if he’d heard her, or if he’d decided to fetch Vassa after all.
“Um… sir?” she asked. She couldn’t quite bring herself to call him by his name yet.
“Lord, give me strength,” she heard him mutter. “I’ll fetch you somethin’,” he said in a louder tone, then his footsteps faded down the hall. From the sound of it, he was heading toward the master bedroom. Elain had always preferred the upstairs bedroom herself, but she didn’t know who that room belonged to in 1951, or if it even existed yet.
Still, Lucien’s absence meant she had a couple of minutes to dry off, although the cracked door made her hurry faster.
She had just wrapped a towel around herself when a sharp knock sounded against the door frame. She jumped as he thrust a black dress on a hanger through the opening.
“Will this do?” Lucien asked stiffly.
Elain was too surprised to answer. She’d seen this dress before. She recognized the white Peter Pan collar and the puffed sleeves, the row of pearl buttons and the gently flared skirt. It was the same one she’d worn to her dad’s funeral. The dress had been retro then, but it was modern, now. Elain’s hand moved to her throat. It was true, then. She really had been here…
When she didn’t speak, Lucien poked his head in. “Elain? Where did you…?” His eyes widened as he caught sight of her in her towel, then his face turned red as he quickly withdrew. “Oh, feck. Sorry. Sorry,” he muttered, then waved the dress at her through the crack. “Do ya want it or not?”
Blushing furiously, she limped forward and snatched the hanger from his hand. “Yes, thank you,” she said, then pressed the door shut behind him, and locked it for good measure.
“Look. I’m sorry I peeked,” he said from the other side. “It’s just that you have a habit of…”
“Of disappearing?” she said sarcastically, but knowing she was right brought her no satisfaction.
“Aye,” he muttered.
She sighed, knowing he was still standing there, wondering where his real wife had gone. “Thank you for the dress,” she managed sincerely, hugging it to her chest.
She thought she heard him grunt in response. “Is there anything else?” he asked impatiently, already back to his grumpy self.
She would rather die than ask him for a pair of clean panties, let alone a bra. “No,” she said coolly. “Just tell Vassa when you see her that I’m done with my bath.”
He let out another grunt, and then he was gone.
A few minutes later, Elain faced her reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. She straightened her collar and ran her fingers through her loose curls, but the black dress still turned her rosy complexion pale and made her sandy-blonde hair look brassy. It didn’t help that the dress made her remember things she’d rather forget.
The day of the funeral had been gray and gloomy and humid. Whether it was the weather or social distancing caused by the pandemic, not many people came to pay their respects to the late Ed Archeron. They sent food, though, and flowers. Those that did come said he was lucky, since it was just a heart attack. Just. As if his heart hadn’t broken years ago, when his wife died in a car accident. It wasn’t his fault, but he blamed himself anyway; he was the driver. Feyre was eight, Elain was ten, and Nesta had just turned thirteen. It wasn’t easy, raising three girls—soon-to-be teenagers—by himself. But he always said that no one could ever replace his Kathy, and he didn’t care to try.
Still, the first year was hard. Their Aunt Leigh lived with them for the first six weeks while their dad recovered, but he still had to use a cane for the rest of his life. After Aunt Leigh went back home to her dogs, it fell to him to do the cooking and the laundry and the shopping. They had a lot of cereal for dinner as a result. After he accidentally ruined Nesta’s favorite sweater in the wash, she burst into tears and cried that he should have been the one who died because at least their mom actually cared. The two of them went for a long drive; Elain didn’t know what was said, but Nesta came home with a new sweater, and he brought pizza. Things got better after that.
He attended Nesta’s dance recitals, and encouraged Feyre’s artistic pursuits, even when she painted the kitchen cupboards without asking. He ate Elain’s early attempts at baking with gusto, and declared that she had it in her to start her own bakery one day, if she wanted.
He bought tampons and mascara when they asked, although he had to enlist the help of their Aunt Leigh to take them bra shopping. He attended parent-teacher conferences when Feyre kept failing English, only to find that she had dyslexia. He stood up to the principal when he found out Tomas Mandray and his awful friends kept harassing Nesta and Clare. He helped Elain get a part-time job at the Beddors’ bakery, and when he picked her up afterwards, he’d ask about her day; how she was doing in history class, or if Graysen had asked her to the school dance yet.
She liked their one-on-one time. Sometimes they talked, and sometimes they’d just drive and listen to music. He liked old country best, and would often sing along in his soothing tenor. He’d nudge her when “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue” came on, and they’d sing it together.
Tell me you love me and don't let me cry
Say anything but don't say goodbye…
Elain sobbed when they played it at his funeral.
She didn’t remember much of what happened afterwards. She knew she didn’t want to go home to a bunch of nosy neighbors and church-goers tut-tutting over her and her sisters. She was eighteen now, not a child. She remembered telling Nesta she wanted to be alone for a while, so Nesta took Feyre back to the house while Elain walked through the cemetery towards the woods.
They found her hours later, dehydrated and disoriented.
That’s when the dreams started.
A knock on the bathroom door startled Elain from her reverie.
“Elain?” Vassa called through the door, and rattled the locked knob.
“I’m coming!” Elain called out, and limped to the door to unlock it.
Vassa sighed in relief when she opened the door. “Oh, good. Lucien said you were…” She paused when she saw what Elain was wearing. “Ohh. You look…” She trailed off and covered her mouth.
Elain tried to smile and picked at the puffed sleeves. “I know. It’s not really my color, is it?”
“Nonsense,” Vassa said kindly, and took her hand to lead her down the hall toward the living room. “I was going to say you look just as you did when you first came here, after Lucien found you.”
Elain stopped her. “Wait. Lucien found me?”
Vassa looked surprised. “Yes. He was driving into town, to pick up an order for Juri, I think,” she mused. “But it was raining, and he found you, trying to find your way back to the house. You really do not remember?”
Elain blinked. It was strange; now that Vassa mentioned it… She remembered cupping her hand over her dark smartphone screen, squinting at it as pelting rain stung her skin. But the stupid thing wouldn’t turn on, so there was no way to contact Nesta or Feyre. She shivered and tucked the useless phone into her daisy-dotted handbag, then shielded her eyes with it as she picked her way through the sodden tufts of grass on the side of the road. Water squelched between her toes, soaking the strappy black Mary Jane shoes she’d chosen to go with the vintage dress that was now clinging uncomfortably to her skin.
Thunder rumbled overhead, and she tried not to cry. It wasn’t supposed to rain until that evening, but she hadn’t exactly been paying attention to the time. The storm made everything seem darker, and without her phone, she couldn’t check. Nesta was going to be so pissed at her when she got home. That is, if she got home.
Golden headlights appeared in the distance, like twin suns through the slanting rain. An absurdly old-fashioned gray-green truck squealed to a stop in the middle of the road, and its driver cranked down the window to yell at her.
Elain squinted, and crept closer. “What?” she yelled back.
He cupped his hand to his mouth. “I said: Are ye mad?” he called back, then opened the door without waiting for an answer. He splashed across the road to meet her, shielding his face with his hand.
“Are you trying to catch your death?” he chided, squinting through the downpour. “What are you doing on the side of the road?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but her teeth chattered instead.
His frown softened as he took her arm. “Come on, then. Come on,” he urged when she tried to resist. “Only an idiot would be out in this weather, and you’re lucky I’m an idiot.”
He guided her to the passenger’s side and opened the door, and, despite her misgivings, helped her climb onto the bench seat.
She huffed as he shut the door, glad to be out of the rain at last, then blew on her fingers and tried to warm them as he trotted around to the driver’s side door. This particular model of truck was so old, it didn’t even have heating vents in the dashboard. The steering wheel was attached to a stick, and the gear shift was in the floor… Still, the interior was clean, and, most importantly, dry.
As her would-be rescuer—or kidnapper, she hadn’t decided yet—slid in and shut the door behind him, she realized that if he really wanted to, he could have chosen a less conspicuous getaway vehicle, or at least a faster one. Besides, what kind of kidnapper dressed himself in a newsboy cap, double-patched button-down shirt, and slacks, of all things? Then again, she’d never been kidnapped before, so what did she know?
The man was busy cranking up his window, muttering to himself, then took off his cap to wipe the rain from his clean-shaven face. His red hair was short, parted sharply on one side, and slicked back and gleaming. He replaced his cap and looked to her, breathing hard.
He had an unnervingly long scar over his left eye that bit into his cheek; it looked as though someone had tried swiping at him with a knife. But he didn’t look like the kind of guy to get into knife fights, or the kind who kidnapped helpless, stranded women. He looked… nice. A bit hipster, maybe, but nice. His eyes were a warm, russet shade of brown, and he didn’t leer or linger over her figure, despite the clinginess of her wet dress.
“What were ya doing out there?” he asked accusingly.
Okay, so maybe he wasn’t that nice. She blinked back the rainwater in her eyes and could only shrug.
“Did your car break down?” he guessed.
She shook her head.
“Are ya lost?”
She shook her head again, and shivered.
He pursed his lips, apparently considering the next question in his interrogation, but he surprised her by reaching for the brown tweed jacket draped over the back of the seat. “Here,” he said, slinging it across her shoulders. “It’s not much, but at least it’s dry.”
Elain sighed at the welcome warmth, at the whiff of citrus and cedarwood aftershave steeped in the collar, and pulled it gratefully around herself. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He smiled as he sat back, a kind of warm, lopsided smile. “So you can talk,” he remarked.
She chuckled, but shivered again.
“Let’s get you out of all this wet,” he said, shifting the old truck into gear. “No doubt someone will be missing ya.”
Despite the rain, he managed to turn the truck around safely and started driving back the way he’d come; the same way Elain had been going.
“Do ya live nearby?” he asked as they drove.
“Why?” she asked, suddenly nervous.
He laughed, clearly surprised at her response. “So I can take ya home.”
“You don’t have to,” she said with a sniff, then wiped her nose on his collar. She froze when she realized what she’d done, then blushed when she noticed him looking. “Sorry,” she said meekly.
He smiled. “That’s all right,” he said, then jerked his chin at her. “There’s a tissue in the left pocket, if ya like.”
As she pulled it out, he asked her, “Are you running away, then?”
She barked a laugh. “What? No, I…” she began, but her gaze fell to the folded tissue in her palm as she realized that’s exactly what she’d done, even if it was temporary.
“It’s all right. You’re not the only one,” he said gently, which made her suddenly wonder about his accent. He met her gaze and smiled again. “So. Ya have a name, Little Miss Runaway?”
She found herself blushing again. “Elain,” she admitted.
“Elain,” he repeated. “That’s pretty.”
Her shoulders relaxed when he didn’t make it weird or creepy. “What about you?” she asked, wiping at her leaking nose. “Do you have a name?”
“Aye,” he said, and tipped his cap. “Lucien Vanserra, at your service.”
She let out a giggle, and his head jerked back in surprise.
“What?”
“I don’t know. It’s just—” She feigned tipping her hat. “Milady.”
“But that’s what you are, isn’t it?”
Her smile faltered when she realized he was sincere. “I guess,” she said, embarrassed, as she crumpled the used tissue in her lap. “It’s just… nobody does that anymore.”
“I do.”
Her stomach fluttered at that, and she found herself turning towards him. “What did you say your name was? Lucien?”
“Aye. Lucien. Lucien Vanserra,” he repeated, and tipped his hat again, just to tease her. “Milady.”
She chuckled, and tucked a loose, damp curl behind her ear. “Lucien,” she whispered to herself, sounding it out. LU-shen. She couldn’t help herself when she blurted, “Is Vanserra an Irish name, or…?”
He grinned to himself. “Eh. Not exactly,” he said, then caught her eye and winked. “I made it up.”
Her head jerked back. “What? Why?”
“Well,” he said slowly, scratching at the scar on his left cheek. “Let’s just say you Americans can’t spell Irish names for shite,” he teased.
Her mouth dropped open. “Oh, yeah? Try me,” she challenged.
He looked her over in such a way that her breath caught, just a little. “Maybe I will,” he said softly.
Vassa startled Elain back to the present—well, the present past—by touching her shoulder. Her brow was creased with worry as she asked, “Are you all right?”
Elain nodded quickly, then touched her aching forehead. “Yeah. I—I think so.”
Vassa pursed her lips, then took her arm. “I will wrap your foot, then you should rest,” she advised.
Elain didn’t argue as Vassa led her to the living room. She’d dreamed of being caught in the rain before, of a man gallantly putting his jacket around her as she shivered at his nearness, but she’d always dismissed that as some romantic fantasy. If what she’d seen was true—and it seemed true—then what other fantastic memories had this magic taken from her? And, more importantly, what would it take to get them back?
Jurian and Lucien were sitting on the couch, talking in low voices, but they stopped and stood when Vassa and Elain walked in.
Jurian’s forced smile faltered as he took in Elain’s black dress. “You couldn’t find her something else to wear?” he muttered to Lucien.
Lucien crossed his arms. “It’s hers, isn’t it?” he replied, frowning.
His hair was shaggier now; his face harder, and more angular, but he was still the same man who had rescued her in the rain… He’d loved her, once. The least she could do was try to give him closure… before she left.
Her heart suddenly twinged at the thought, and she took a deep breath, trying to ease the ache. “It’s okay,” she told Jurian. “It actually helped me remember… some things.”
Lucien’s head jerked back in surprise, as if he hadn’t expected that outcome, but Jurian clapped him on the shoulder and praised him for the swell idea.
Vassa rubbed her arm. “That is wonderful news,” she cooed.
“What else do you remember?” Jurian asked her.
“Come. Tell us while I wrap your foot,” Vassa interjected, and led her to the couch.
Jurian stepped aside to let them pass, but Lucien moved to the fireplace mantle on the opposite wall. It was a bit further away than necessary, but Elain couldn’t blame him for wanting to keep his distance.
“So,” Jurian began as Vassa busied herself unrolling the bandage. “Do you remember how you got here?”
“Do you remember why you left?” Lucien said bitterly.
Elain winced, and not just because Vassa moved her foot to her lap. “Not yet,” she admitted, shifting into a more comfortable position. “But I remember my dad’s funeral. And I remember getting caught in the rain. You—Lucien, I mean—you stopped, and… you gave me your jacket.”
Lucien looked away, his mouth tight. It seemed he didn’t appreciate the reminder.
“But you don’t remember how you got here,” Jurian asked pointedly.
“Not the first time, no,” Elain said. “This time I went mushroom picking, and I—ow.” She hissed as Vassa secured the bandage around her ankle. “I tripped. The next thing I knew, I was in the middle of a mushroom ring.”
“A fairy ring?” Lucien said sharply.
“Well, yeah,” Elain agreed, albeit reluctantly. “I guess. But I didn’t see any fairies,” she tried to joke.
Lucien’s face was grim as he looked to Jurian, and Jurian to Vassa, but none of them spoke.
Elain forced a laugh. “Come on. You don’t actually believe that fairies…” She trailed off, because it seemed so absurd, and yet…
“They stole little Bridget, For seven years long; When she came down again, Her friends were all gone,” Lucien said distantly.
Elain’s skin prickled. “What?”
“Nothin’,” he said, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. “It’s just an old poem. That’s all.”
Elain huffed and crossed her arms. “You’re just trying to scare me,” she declared.
He scowled at her. “Now why would I do that?”
“Because I went away, and you don’t want me back,” she snapped.
“I never said—” Lucien stopped himself, and Elain’s face flushed. “I’m not trying to scare ya,” he said instead. “You just have to watch your step when it comes to—mushrooms.”
Elain snorted. “It’s not like I stomped on them,” she complained. “Besides, those aren’t the kind of mushrooms I’d pick, anyway.”
“You didn’t pick any, did ya?” Lucien asked warily.
“No!” Elain snapped. “You sound like Bud Beddor. The Witch o’ the Woods don’t take kindly to thieves,” she drawled sarcastically. “Besides, that’s just a local legend. I’ve gone mushroom picking dozens of times and nothing ever happened.”
“Until now,” Lucien said darkly.
“Look. I didn’t see anybody,” Elain insisted. “I just tripped and hurt my ankle.” Her breath caught as tears suddenly filled her eyes, and she had to bite her lip to stop its trembling. “I just want to go home.”
Vassa shifted closer and put her arm around Elain’s shoulders. She murmured something soothing in Russian, and Elain leaned tearily into her embrace.
Elain could feel Lucien watching her, but when she tried to meet his gaze, he looked away. He looked… broken.
“I’m going to go check on Rosie,” he told Jurian quietly, and walked into the next room.
When he was gone, Jurian knelt at Elain’s feet. “Hey, Lainey,” he said gently. “We’re going to do everything we can to figure this out, okay? Until then, you have a home here, if you want it.”
Elain sniffed and brushed away a stray tear. “My dad used to call me Lainey,” she said softly.
He smiled kindly, and his brown eyes crinkled at the corners. “I know. Do you mind if I do?”
Elain shook her head. “No. That would be kind of nice,” she said, and she meant it.
“Okay, Lainey,” he said, and took her hand and patted it. “First things first: You get some rest. We’re going to talk, and we’ll see what we can do to get your memories back.”
My new Elucien chapter is almost ready to be posted! 💖 What takes me so long to actually post new chapters, though, is formatting them for Tumblr, too. 🫠 (Darn limited free time outside of work, grumble grumble...)
For my fellow writers: Does anyone else post on AO3 first, and then get around to the Tumblr update later? Or do you always do both at the same time?
