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Feb 3, 2021

The Cauldron

This came about in December when I was thinking about the cauldron and what happened there. I don’t plan to write anything else, but I hadn’t planned on writing this either. So, this is my Elain fic where she explains to Azriel what happened in the cauldron.

“I was supposed to be married next week,” I rasped.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Feyre said. Her voice was so soft it seemed like she was afraid that if she spoke any louder I might fracture. I’m sure I looked like I would fracture.

Sorry. That was all anyone would say to me now. Sorry. Sorry for the life you should be having. Sorry for everything that was stolen from you. Sorry for the noise and the constant assaults on your senses. Sorry for clanging swords on the roof and the sounds of fae training and fighting.

Sorry for locking you up in this cavernous house where the wind howls at all hours of the day and footsteps echo.

No one was as sorry as I was.

…

Weeks passed and I was sitting in the garden, the sunlight warming my skin when a large shadow briefly blotted out the sun. I knew his smell, the sound of his heartbeat, before he even tucked his wings and landed nearby.

“May I join you?” Azriel asked softly. I nodded and he laid back onto the lounge chair that he often occupied when he sat in the garden with me. Azriel was a restful presence, one of the few that was tolerable in this group of loud and active fae.

A group I was now perhaps part of.

“Feyre is worried about you,” he mumbled. I responded with a sharp look. We rarely spoke during our time in the garden together. Often I would sit as the tea that was perennially brought to me cooled and he would sort through papers that appeared from nowhere.

“I do not mean to pry—” he started again.

“Then don’t,” I interrupted. He observed me carefully, his shadows swirling around his throat and winding around his left ear. Whatever he saw then encouraged him to start again as I gazed into his hazel eyes.

“Lucien is a good male,” his tone was even, flat, and careful. I let the comment hang between us.

I had been forced to listen to Lucien’s breathing nearby since Feyre had returned with him. I had endured his longing stares and quick glances for weeks. I had no reason to dignify Azriel’s words with a response, but then I recalled a far-off memory. It was like an itch in the back of my brain, an itch I couldn’t reach and couldn’t make sense of. A blurred memory started to form of this scene, or of one very similar. Azriel and I sitting just as we were now, sipping tea and laughing. My hand on his arm as we smiled together. It seemed like a ludicrous memory. I hadn’t laughed in ages and the thought of laughing made my empty stomach roil. I wondered if this was a memory or a lingering effect from the cauldron, flickers of a life I would not live. “How long was I in the cauldron for, Azriel?” I asked carefully. His pupils dilated, likey remembering the pain of the poison winding through his veins as we were all rendered helpless by the king of Hybern.

“How long were you in the cauldron for, Elain?” he asked me back.

:readmore:

We both knew that for him it had been moments. I hadn’t planned to share the story with him, or with anyone. But I took a deep breath and reached for my teacup. His eyes tracked my movement and it occurred to me that this was the first time Azriel had seen me consume anything, food or drink, since my arrival in the Night Court.

After a small sip, I told him of the cauldron.

I was pushed into the cauldron and suddenly everything around me changed. I was no longer in a room filled with my terrified sisters and a mighty enemy. Instead, I was back home. In my garden, working as I would be on any other day. The sun was warm and kissed my skin as I dug into the soil to find the root of the weed I was trying to remove. A shadow paused above me and I looked up to see Renaida, one of the many maids that now staffed our home. She offered me a glass of lemonade, condensation pooling along the sides.

I sat back as I accepted the glass and the tart drink hydrated my throat. I hadn’t realized how tired or thirsty I was from a day’s work.

I blinked and Nesta was beside me, fixing my veil as she looked at me in the mirror.

“Are you sure Graysen is the one for you?” she asked, her sharp grey eyes observing my emotions.

“Of course I’m sure.” and I was. I was certain about Graysen. He was my match- a man of compassion and vigor and a desire to see the world righted. It hurt that Feyre could not be with us...it hurt that Graysen could never know her, know what she had become thanks to those over the wall, but he would be mine and Feyre would live her life and I would live my own.

I blinked again. A thousand simple, happy days flashed before my eyes. Days working on the estate I shared with Graysen. Lord Nolan training the dogs, my loving husband kissing my cheek as he left for the day. This was the life I had always hoped for, the life I had dreamed of. Dinners with my father and Nesta on their estate. Parties, so many parties planned and attended as Graysen swirled me across a parade of ballrooms. Evenings reading next to my husband. Walks through the ash forest that Lord Nolan had cultivated to protect us. The scenes passed before my very eyes as if I had already lived them and was recalling them from a long memory.

My body swollen with life while Graysen looked fondly at me. Lord Nolan proudly proclaiming at a summer feast that I was with child. Nesta visiting with poultices for my bulging ankles and reading me scandalous novels while we relaxed in the shade of an old Silver Maple. My father resuming his old carving habit and proudly presenting me with a cradle for the life growing inside me.

I’m holding my son- he is still pink and fresh and flush with new life. Graysen is beside me and he lovingly brushes his knuckles along my cheek while leaning in to look at his boy.

“He is perfect,” Graysen whispers as his lips brush my brow.

“He is, isn’t he?” I grin up to him, feeling our deep love pulsing and growing to encompass this new life.

“What shall we call him?” Graysen asks, looking adoringly at the blonde locks that are slicked down on our son’s head.

“Samuel,” I respond with certainty. We hadn’t decided on a name before the birth. We had discussed names, but I wanted to be sure that my child would have a name that suited them. The babe in my arms had wailed with life and settled the moment he was in my arms. “Samuel,” I said again. This was my Samuel.

I watched as my baby grew- he gurgled and chattered and his angelic voice repeated, “mum-mum-mum-mum-mum,” and I snuggled him close and tickled his toes and I knew then that Samuel was the greatest accomplishment I would ever have. I had given Graysen a son. The Nolan line was secure and my beloved husband beamed with pride anytime his eyes rested on Samuel.

My son, with deep brown eyes and blonde hair, he was the tiny mirror image of his father. From the moment he could walk, Samuel stalked his father’s steps. Across the grounds, to the stables, through the forest of ash; where Graysen went, Samuel followed. Graysen taught Samuel about the hounds and how to train them and when his father wasn’t looking, Samuel would feed them treats and sneak them into bed with him.

A few short years later, I was with child again. My father became ill. Nesta and I nursed him back to health, despite his protestations that his pregnant daughter had no business waiting on him.

My days gardening became fewer as I became rounder. Samuel would rush to me after a day on the estate with his father, place his hands on my stomach, and whisper to the new baby, “I love you, baby, were you good today?” Graysen was always steps behind him, rich with sweat and a deep kiss for me.

My second labor was hard. The grueling pain and exhaustion pushed my body to its limits. Graysen gripped my hand desperately and called for extra healers. There was true fear in his eyes that day.

But we all survived to meet our daughter.

“Thorne,” he whispered as she was placed into his arms. I felt the protestation bubbling up in my throat, but I was too exhausted to argue as I lay back in our marriage bed.

As much as I didn’t want to admit it, he was right. Our little Thorne was exactly that- she was contrary and challenging and Nesta adored her. Where Samuel was tame and respectful and eager to earn praise, Thorne was wicked and wild and quick to temper. But Samuel loved her deeply. Lord Nolan loved her deeply. And Nesta...Nesta was tamed by Thorne.

It was like my sister had been transformed. Nesta called on Thorne every day. She would take the toddler around the property, weaving roses into a crown for her. Nesta softened in a way I had never before seen. The moment the auburn-haired child was in her presence, Nesta became calm, kind, and gentle.

My husband and I loved each other. And that love ran deep.

“I’m not sure I want you to have any more children,” he confessed one night as we readied for bed.

“Why ever not?” I demanded, shocked. We loved our children. Even though Thorne had tormented the kitchen staff today and caused a two-hour delay in dinner service.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he murmured, examining the rug with care.

“Beloved,” I whispered, rising from the bed, “you will not lose me. We will not part from this world until we are both old and gray and surrounded by armies of children and grandchildren.” I smiled as I wrapped my arms around his torso and planted a kiss on his cheek.

Graysen looked into my eyes, scanning them for any trace of doubt. When he found none he took me into his arms.

Braeburn was conceived that night, so named because of the sheer tonnage of apples I consumed during my pregnancy. Like his brother before him, Braeburn was calm and inquisitive. He was my little gardening partner and I would carry him around the yard, strapped into a harness Graysen had made for me as I worked on my knees. Braeburn and I spent the seasons like this- bound together tightly as we worked through the garden. His first steps happened next to the lavender bush. His first laugh was thanks to a rose petal brushing his toes.

Samuel had been unquestionably his father’s son and there was no doubt that Thorne belonged to Nesta. But Braeburn...he was mine, through and through.

Years went by like the seasons, Samuel traveled with my father to visit the continent and learn of other lands, other people, and other places. It was the dream I had once held for myself, but I would see it come to fruition for my son. 9 months gone and my son returned to me more a man than he had been when he left. Suddenly he was riding hard with our guards, training at sword by sparring with grown men instead of their sons.

One late fall evening he returned to the manor with a large wolf carcass strapped to his horse. Nesta, who was visiting, latched onto me and at that moment we were taken back to our youth. To the years we had nothing when our darling baby sister cared for us. Feyre. We never spoke of her, especially not in front of Lord Nolan. Graysen knew I had a sister and that she was gone, but to where and why...I could never bring myself to tell him, to explain. Samuel looked at us with pride at his catch as he saluted from his chestnut mount. Nesta pinched my arm and hissed at me to smile.

That night after Graysen took me into his arms and made love to me, I allowed my mind to wander across the wall, to the fae lands, and I thought of my sister for the first time in a very long time.

It had been well over a decade since I had last seen her. She had asked for help from the queens and received their piece of the book and I hadn’t seen, nor heard from her since. I hadn’t questioned what had happened to her, what had gone on over the wall. I knew that if we were in danger Feyre would always work to protect us, to fight for us. Feyre had never allowed us to suffer if she could help it. The next morning I cornered Nesta.

“Have you spoken to Feyre since she last met with the queens?” I inquired, holding my sister’s arms to prevent her from turning away. She inhaled deeply before responding.

“I have written to her, yes.”

I wasn’t even sure how that was possible.

“And you have said what?”

Nesta hesitated. “To stay away. To let us live our lives as they are supposed to be. To keep the fae from our doorstep. You have too much at stake and I will not be bothered with them again.” With that, Nesta wrenched free from my grip, turning on her heel and striding to the gates of the estate. Feyre’s silence made sense- she would never want to impose on us, never hurt us. I hoped she was happy. That she was fulfilled with her High Lord in the far North. And I was grateful. Ashamed, but grateful. Her absence had guaranteed the love of my husband, my father in law. Had secured a life for my children and our family. Nesta had been selfish and horrible to Feyre, but she had done it for me.

Nine months later when I bore a daughter I named her Feyre. Lorde Nolan protested vigorously, but for the sister who had risked so much, for the sister who had stayed away, for the sister who had saved us, it felt like a tribute too small.

That fall Lord Nolan passed away and Graysen’s face became lined with new burdens. He was away hunting along the wall more often than he was not, though monsters didn’t slip through as they once had and whispers of a nameless fear had all but ceased. Graysen and his men counted it as a victory on their part, but I would find my mind wandering to my fae sister as I cradled my youngest and sang to her songs of my childhood.

The days passed into years, some quickly and others dragging. Braeburn worked beside me and tended his younger sister on the grounds. Samuel was suddenly occupied in the village when he wasn’t on patrols with his father or training with the guards. Thorne was a creature unto herself: proud, determined, sharp like the edge of a knife. She spent her days with Nesta at our father’s home. I didn’t realize it until later, but they were both working to understand the trade, to take over my father’s business and master it. Their brilliant minds worked in tandem over sums and maps and surpluses. Graysen pushed for Braeburn to begin training with sword and bow, but Braeburn resisted and I pushed my husband to let him be. Samuel was born a warrior, but my Braeburn was born for the land, to tend, to guide, and to grow. My daughter, however, seemed to follow in the footsteps of her namesake and suddenly she was inseparable from her bow and arrow. It was startling to watch my grey-eyed daughter tote around such weaponry when dressed in such fine, ladylike clothing, but she was a walking contradiction to me: calm but feisty, delicate in finery but determined to train with the guard. She would have made her Fae Aunt proud.

It was at a large family dinner when Samuel announced he had chosen a girl to marry. My eyes snapped to Graysen, expecting similar shock, but he showed none. Clearly, they had been discussing women during their time together and left me out of their confidences. Graysen heartily gave his consent while I demanded to meet her first. Samuel told me to expect Eloise the following day.

Braeburn was in the garden with me, reading to Feyre who was lounging on a blanket in the sun crunching on an apple. They had both grown tall and lithe, skin tanned by years in the garden by my side. Feyre had put on muscle since beginning to train with a longbow.

Eloise’s shadow fell over us and I looked up as she curtsied to me. So formal. But I had to remember the days of courting with Graysen- we had been formal. Polite. Proper. She took a seat on Feyre’s blanket, my two youngest children making themselves scarce. It struck me then, how much I had aged as I spoke to Eloise of her hopes for marriage, her desire to be part of our family, to live on the estate with Samuel, and to look to me as a mentor and second mother. I listened patiently as she described her family, her life, and I wondered how many times we had met at balls or parties. Those events had been the highlight of my youth but as I tried to recall them all I could summon was flurries of color blurring together. Parties that had once seemed so important had given way to mothering my children in the gardens.

Graysen was taken with Eloise.

“That is what Thorne should be like,” he muttered to me that evening as we lay in bed. I knew he didn’t understand Thorne, that he wished she were tame, amiable like Braeburn and malleable like little Feyre. But she was not those things. In this way, Eloise was like a gift to us- the daughter Graysen had always hoped for instead of the cold and distant one he had. Thorne had only ever been close to Nesta- she shared her thoughts and dreams with no one, not even her siblings.

“She seems like she will make Samuel happy,” I replied, hoping to distract his displeasure from our second child and focus his energies on our son.

“Yes,” he agreed absently, kissing my brow and blowing out the candle.

Samuel’s wedding was the event of the social season. The garden was aglow with candlelight and Braeburn and I were puffed up with pride as proper society commented about the beauty of the landscaping. Eloise was a sight in shimmering silver and Samuel didn’t take his eyes off her once. I was pleased to see that theirs was a love match, just like mine had been with Graysen. They moved to the estate, into one of the cottages that had been constructed to house the many guards that were perennially on the property.

Graysen began to gray at his temples as Samuel took on more responsibility throughout the estate. Suddenly Eloise had a shadow as Feyre followed her everywhere. I was thankful for a youthful guide for my youngest daughter- Eloise was patient in showing Feyre how to wear her hair in a proper fashion and how to tint her lips with color. They went everywhere together, gossiping and chittering, and suddenly my bow-wielding daughter and swapped out her arms for books and trinkets and little nosegays she would carry to town with her.

It was the night of Thorne’s 23rd birthday and she had insisted on a small family gathering. Graysen and Eloise had tried to bully her into a grand party that would see the young men from town vying for her favor, but she had steadfastly refused such ‘grandiose wastefulness,’ a term I was certain fell directly from Nesta’s mouth.

Thorne was seated between Nesta and my father and as the dessert course was served (lemon curd tart, Thorne’s favorite) my father stood to propose a toast.

“To Thorne, my beloved Thorne, who, I have decided, to leave my fortunes to, to make my primary heir, and who will inherit my business upon my passing.”

We sat in stunned silence as my father, Thorne, and Nesta tipped back their drinks. Graysen was red faced.

“She will do no such thing,” he commanded, quietly, but with a determined set to his jaw. Eloise rose and excused herself and Feyre and they quickly left the table. Braeburn eyed me as Nesta smiled at Graysen like a cat about to pounce on easy prey.

“I’m afraid,” Nesta smirked, “you have no authority to prevent this arrangement.” My father blinked, surprised that his declaration was being met by resistance.

“What do you think she has been doing with us all this time, Graysen? Riding horses? Arranging bouquets? Flirting with stable boys?” my father demanded, his voice rising, “Certainly not! She has been learning! She will make a brilliant—”

“She will do no such thing!” Graysen growled. Braeburn twisted his body, blocking me from my husband’s view. It was a movement that was not missed by my husband. I had never known my husband to be violent, but Braeburn seemed to sense an explosion.

“She will marry and do what is expected of a member of this family,” Samuel added, looking sternly at his sister.

“I will not marry,” Thorne said, dismissively. It seemed as though Nesta had trained my daughter in how to infuriate and reject men.

“You will do as you are told,” my husband replied. Thorne looked to me, eyes desperate but determined.

“Thorne,” I started, placatingly.

“Don’t do that, Mother! You always do that! This is what I want, for me!” Thorne shouted, standing so suddenly her chair crashed backward.

“Thorne,” my father whispered as if trying to calm a frightened animal.

“I will not submit. This is the life I want to live and I will live it.” Thorne declared to the room before storming out. Graysen shot accusatory looks at Nesta and my father, who was also red-faced and outraged.

“You would deny your daughter her very happiness? Her way in the world—”

“She is not your daughter. I will not allow mine to grow into a harpy spinster like Nesta, now get out.” Graysen’s declaration was met with rage on my sister’s face and if I didn’t know better I would assume she would strike him.

Nesta slowly retreated from the room, but my father continued to stand his ground as he rose from the table, “don’t lose your daughter over this. I nearly lost mine and I regret every moment that I failed them. Don’t do this,” he pleaded as my heart broke. I never spoke of those years, not with Nesta or my father or Graysen or my children. Those years were like a mist that had burned off in sunshine- they were nightmares that I had fought to forget. Braeburn gripped my hand.

“Get. Out.” Graysen commanded, also rising to his feet. My father looked at me with sorrow, with apology, and then followed Nesta out the door.

“Good riddance,” Samuel muttered under his breath. And in that moment, I snapped. I reached out and smacked my grown son across the face, stubble catching on my skin as it connected with his jaw. Braeburn had feared my husband would have a violent outburst but had never predicted that it would be his mother who would strike the first blow.

Samuel looked at me imperiously as Graysen barked my name in shock. I stared down my eldest son, willing him to look away, to apologize, to recant. He stared defiantly back at me.

“Samuel,” Graysen said in a low warning tone, drawing my son’s gaze to him, “enough.”

Samuel stormed from the room then, releasing a disgusted grunt. It was then Graysen noticed that Braeburn was still working to block me from view, to protect me from whatever outburst he was still awaiting.

“You’re dismissed,” my husband said to him simply. Braeburn slowly rose and ran a hand along my arm in comfort as he retreated from the room.

“What are we going to do about your daughter?” Graysen asked, resignedly.

“Let her be,” I said after a beat. Thorne had always been her own person, more a part of Nesta’s family than our own. She hadn’t ever really belonged to me, and I had known that. Perhaps I should have fought to keep her with us, pushed her to train with her father or spend time in the garden with me, but it had been a relief each time Nesta had scooped her onto her silver mare and said she would return Thorne the next day.

“Let her be,” I repeated with more certainty.

“She may ruin prospects for Feyre and Braeburn,” Graysen replied, weighing the costs.

“I rather doubt that. Braeburn has ambition to run an orchard, which already limits his prospects. With Eloise’s tutelage, I’m sure Feyre will be the most marriageable girl her age in a few years. Let Thorne have her happiness.”

Graysen eyed me warily, considering the many pieces that might impact our children. He nodded solemnly.

“Alright. But Braeburn must start proper training. If he thinks he is going to run an orchard he better be able to demonstrate he is also capable of fighting off intruders and thieves. His time in the garden is at an end. Tomorrow, he rides with us to the wall.” With another nod, my husband rose from the table and left me to mourn what seemed to be the loss of two children in a single night.

I was mostly alone after that. Braeburn rode with Graysen and Samuel and when he wasn’t on the back of a horse he was sparring with guards in the training ring. Feyre and Eloise were often in town or on social visits and Thorne had taken her things and moved to live with my father and Nesta. It was a quiet and sad time for me, but it was not to last. Before the end of the spring season, Eloise announced she was with child and my life was sent into a flurry of activity again, planning for a new baby and helping Eloise and Samuel move from their small cottage to the manor. Renovations were soon underway and I was left to oversee the work.

I was there to witness the birth of my granddaughter, Gemma. She had wisps of dark hair matching Eloise and her healthy lungs let us know she was going to provide a world of excitement.

Suddenly it seemed like my life was a cycle- new children being born every few years, babies to hold and love, Feyre married off and having children of her own. Thorne stayed distant with Nesta and my father as her companions; Samuel and Graysen granted Braeburn the money to purchase land for his orchard and suddenly my children no longer needed me.

Graysen and I would sit on the large patio overlooking the garden together, holding hands and sipping lemonade, watching our grandchildren run through the grass. We were blissful in those quiet moments together. No fears, no worries for the two of us.

My father passed away soon after Braeburn took a wife. The two events were so closely bound together- my father being sick just as Braeburn introduced us to Moira, his rapid recovery-dancing with Thorne at Braeburn’s wedding, and within a week we were burying him as Braeburn was celebrating his wedded bliss. Moira hadn’t been what Graysen had wanted, a proper lady for his second son, but we had all understood that the life Braeburn wanted for himself was not one that would elicit the kind of ladies who Samuel had courted.

Our home was filled with love- Eloise bore Samuel seven children whom I adored and doted on often. Braeburn would bring Moira, who was often swollen with life, to visit frequently and walk the gardens with me as I clung to his elbow for support. We would meander the paths that he had grown up in and discuss the seasons and planting. Feyre’s husband was a merchant and she traveled with him frequently, often crossing paths with Throne and Nesta who managed to make father’s success double.

Our life felt complete.

One morning, as I was rising from bed, I looked out at the estate, the land I had worked and honed, the place where my children had married and danced and played and I knew—

Suddenly, I was poured onto a cold floor, shivers wracking my body. Disoriented, cold, wet, I struggled to wipe away the water from my eyes in the sudden dimness of a room lit by torches. I blinked, working to reconcile the life I had lived, the view out my window with what was surrounding me. I pushed up onto my elbows and my eyes met Feyre. Feyre was here? I blinked again and Nesta roared from behind me.

No. No. No. NO. NO. NO.

I remembered this room, the mighty king, the power he had sent out, being snatched from my bed.

No. This couldn’t be. I had lived. I had loved Graysen and bore children and spent 60 years caring for my family.

No. My senses were being assaulted- I heard heartbeats, water crashing against rocks, blood dripping and smearing on the floor, rasping breath nearby, weight shifting, Nesta roaring and struggling and all I could do is look at Feyre sobbing on the floor.

“So we can survive,” someone muttered behind me.

“Don’t just leave her on the damned floor—” a burst of light and footsteps, footsteps so loud, too loud, echoed toward me. Rich red hair flashed as he leaned into me, placing a jacket around me. I could smell him then- he smelt familiar, like returning to your room after days away, but I cringed away from him- he was a stranger and it wouldn’t matter how familiar he was, he was not my Graysen.

Graysen. I saw what we would have, how we would live. Our children. Our losses. How? How was it possible? I could recall the pain of labor, the passionate embraces of my husband, the grief of burying my father. Those things had been real. I had lived them.

I looked at the cauldron then, just as Nesta was shoved under, and suddenly I understood. The cauldron had given me the ultimate torment. I had seen my life, had lived my life, my life as it should have been, would have been if a mighty king had not plucked me from my home.

This could not be.

I had a future. A whole life just waiting for me to live it.

The cauldron was tipped and the fae with the striking red hair gathered me into his arms and held me as a great wave of water met the ground where I had just been.

Nesta was before me, whole and young, her face sharper somehow, pointed ears poking out of her tangled hair. She wrestled me from the fae’s arms, petting me and sobbing my name. I was fae now...but...I had lived my life in that cauldron...how long had they been waiting for me to reemerge?

My eyes met the familiar smelling fae over Nesta’s shoulders. One eye was deep, russet, and wide as if he were staggered to see me there. The other was mechanical and I heard it clicking away. My senses were assaulted again all the while the russet eye searched my face desperately.

“You’re my mate,” he rasped, his voice rough with fear and shock.

“She is no such thing,” Nesta hissed as she released me and shoved him away.

My eyes stayed locked onto his. Mate. My mate. Revulsion wound its way up my throat, clawing through my body.

No. No, I was Graysen’s and he was mine and we were all that mattered and I would fight with every fiber in my body to have the life I was owed, the life that was mine.

…

I looked at Azriel again. His face was steady but his hazel eyes were a storm.

“My life will not be dictated by the cauldron,” I declared, finishing my story. I took another long draught from my teacup, which was now cold.

“The cruelty of the cauldron was overwhelming. It had shown me everything that could be, that should be, that never would be. I’m sure Lucien is a good male, but I will never be his mate,” I breathed with cool certainty. Azriel nodded, observing me solemnly. His wings flared and tucked in and he nodded again, picking up a nearby sheet of paper to examine it as I closed my eyes and tipped my face to the sun.

#actotar #elain #azriel #elriel #elucien #fanfic

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