This little fic is dedicated to all of my book club friends who correctly recognised the superiority of Hannah Bellinger and Fox Thornton (from Hook, Line and Sinker, by Tessa Bailey) in the March Madness ship wars, and voted accordingly. The rest of you? You're all completely wrong, obviously… but I still love you, don't worry.
A huge thank you goes to @gopeachllama for being my beta; I'm so incredibly thankful. Sorry that I dragged you into a three day discussion about a single sentence; I'd promise that it wouldn't happen again, but it would probably be a lie. And @wingedblooms, as always, thank you for your invaluable advice.
As an added bonus, make sure you check out the gorgeous artwork of this fan fic, linked at the end of the post, by the one and only @livlochan. Liv, I was - and still am - absolutely honoured for the chance to work with you. Your art is a joy, and you are a gorgeous human to boot. Everyone, please give her some love on Tumblr and Instagram.
Read it on AO3, if you prefer.
Word Count: 1866
TW: mentions of canon poverty and trauma.
Disclaimer: this is an Elain centric, post canon one shot that delves into the possible memories of her hypothetical reaction to manifesting a power that involves assisting plant growth after experiencing poverty and food hardship while growing up, and how she failed Feyre at the time, as well as an explanation as to why it - potentially - wasn't as simple as "well why didn't Elain plant vegetables." Background Elriel.
I'm not claiming that Elain did in fact try to grow fruit and/or veg, we won't know until her own book, but there are valid reasons as to why it might not have been as simple to try as people think, or even worked if she had made an attempt. I urge people to read this with an open mind, and understand that sometimes you need not only solid knowledge, but the privilege of knowing you have room to make mistakes and waste food in the process of learning, which Elain and Nesta didn't necessarily have. This obviously doesn't absolve them from everything else they did - or didn't - do, as an FYI.
*
Dawn bloomed softly across the townhouse garden as Elain Archeron weaved through the dappled patches of sunlight, her heart and hands singing with life. She felt the probing, whispering reach of the individual plants against the well of her magic—they were cheeky little things, really, just like people, each with its own personality, depending on species and health and age—the early blooming clematis that lived on the wrought iron archway was already full of a vivacious humming and just about set to flower, whereas the twin banks of rose bushes calling to her from the walk were yet a gentle sigh, ever increasing as the days grew longer, that would peak with a riotous chorus of colour and scent and song come June.
It was a brisk March morning in Velaris, the kind wherein the strength of Old Man Winter’s grip on the world was beginning to fail, making way for the warmth and bounty of spring proper. As Elain slowly made her rounds to the different beds of plants, wrapped tightly in a soft, cobalt shawl, she could feel the latent magic of the earth awakening as the sun's rays graced the soil, touching it, drawing forth its life-giving threads of power to entwine with the surrounding roots even as it began its task of burning away the layer of mist that hung in the chill air. The slow unmasking of her garden, a constant dance between light and dark, of life and death circling each other since the dawn of time—that would continue so long as the sun was destined to rise, a rhythm woven into the very fabric of the universe well before she or her sisters had ever graced the world—was something that Elain had always loved to watch. Even as a human child.
Passing by the bird bath, which currently served a lone robin, the only one either brave or fool enough to test the still-icy waters, Elain smiled at the sky, rubbing her hands together as she felt the sunlight caress her face. Her ability to make her magic, herself, one with the land, to monitor and help, and even borrow from, if necessary—though only sparingly, and then in times of trouble—was the greatest gift she was granted by the Cauldron. It allowed her the ability to not only nurture new growth, from strengthening the roots of a sapling to encouraging the first blooms of a rose, but also, brilliantly, to aid in the decomposition of old life, allowing the earth to reclaim what once was and begin anew.
She rarely shared the latter aspect of her powers with others, for even her own sisters had been a little… taken aback when they found out the full extent of her magic—in truth, even she had to admit that it was a little grotesque—but he had never worried about the implications, or been put off. After she had confessed to him what she felt when she opened herself to her wellspring of not just life, but death, too, in a way, dreadfully afraid of the potential consequences, he had, with his usual quiet constance, simply asked her what a bloom would be without the aid of a little blood and bone, and her shoulders had seemed to lighten in an instant. He was correct, and of course of all faeries, it would be he—he, who felt and heard things others did not, could not, comprehend—who understood. The world would stop turning without the old making way for the new, and in helping the life of the realm, she was required to get her hands a little dirty, both literally and figuratively; if she had to encourage the rot of death to give the land the strength to support new life each year, then so be it. Her role changed with the seasons, feeding and nourishing in spring, then breaking down, a lumbricid turning the soil, in autumn—each process vital to the yearly rebirth of the earth. She was more glad than she could ever admit to, having been blessed with a power so attuned to her innermost wishes and joys, especially after Nesta's Cauldron powers had weighed so heavily on her, even though it had taken some getting used to.
When she had first realised what she was capable of, there had been a bitter resentment that rushed through her, swamping any happiness that she may otherwise have felt at having such a constructive power under a wave of unrelenting regrets. Why had her human self not been able to do such things? Elain simultaneously felt like both the betrayer and the betrayed, of and by her body, that she had such an ability now, when she did not need it to contribute food to the table as she desperately had then, all those years ago. It was a discordant bridge between her human and fae selves, and the sour notes had taken much time to fully resolve.
Acceptance had been work. It had been hard, because she had tried so hard, with the singular, sad potato that she'd managed to save from the cook pot the winter she had turned fifteen, determined to make a stand for the first time in her young life. From the depths of her memories, grounded in the stolen mornings she had spent amongst the gardens and greenhouses of their old estate, Elain had remembered the head gardener setting the potatoes out—to chit, the kindly old man had said—and this one did sprout much as she recalled it should, but there her luck had run out. The plot of land on the edge of the forest that housed their cottage hadn't been able to support much in the way of new life, in fact, it could barely support the native plants that scrounged the meager nutrients that their poor soil could provide after the towering trees are their full and, after planting the two halves in the best spot she could find, only a few small, green leaves had broken through the soil before some sort of beetle infestation had made short work of her hope of providing, in some small way, for her family. The next year, the two saved and planted potatoes didn't even manage a single leaf between them, and in the years that followed, there had been no spare potatoes to even make an attempt.
The weak promise of food in the future meant nothing when their bellies were empty in the here and now. Winters spent scrounging and starving soon disabused all three sisters of the idea of leftover food. Scraps didn't exist to create compost, even if she had known what to do with them to realise her dream of rich earth and a thriving plot.
She had tried to beg seeds and starts from the farmers that brought crops to the local market, but they were understandably, if disappointingly, protective of their own income, and seed lines were a closely guarded trade secret. But the problem with their soil would still have existed; while it may have been able to support a few flowers during the best growing conditions of the year, bearing fruit that matured enough to harvest was another thing altogether.
So yes, she had experienced an internal crisis, felt renewed shame at her former failure, when her new powers manifested in such a way that highlighted her past inability to contribute to the table, to lessen Feyre's burden as the sole hunter and provider. Elain had many regrets from her youth—would do it all differently, be a better sister, if she had the time over—and they had all come crashing home the first time she had accidentally caused a rose to sprout a new stem, then bud and bloom heartily in under a minute as she held and inspected the plant…to deadhead it, of all things, and understood what it meant.
Heaving a sigh, Elain finally reached the small vegetable garden at the side of the townhouse. It was her pet project, and really all she could manage now, given the current state of her waistline. She was nearing her eighth month of pregnancy, which was moving along nicely, according to the town healer she had been seeing throughout, but her rapidly expanding middle made digging and weeding and planting more than a wee bit difficult, and she still had over two months to go, if all went according to plan. She hadn't been without help, of course. Her sisters, Nuala and Cerridwen, and him, of course, had all made themselves useful in her garden over winter; even little Nyx had helped, though the latter was more in essence of spirit than function.
Elain wouldn't trade these days with her family, free from the shadows of impending doom, for the world.
Squatting in front of the broccoli, something she had developed a particular liking for over the course of her pregnancy, she knelt—as gracefully as she was able—and placed her hands on the ground, letting her fingers eagerly bury themselves in the loose layer of topsoil as her woolen shawl slipped down her arms. Quickly, she righted the garment, knowing that she would hear about it from her fussing husband if he saw her putting her health at risk; to his credit, it was cold outside, and she often neglected to remember the weather when she was intent on her garden. They worked well as a team, each looking out for the other and anticipating what they may need. This morning he had come up behind her as she had been braiding her hair out of the way and simply placed it over her shoulders with a gentle kiss to the top of her head—give a fae male a pregnant wife and they would dote and nest more than she had ever seen in humans; they truly were a different species. He had spent the previous afternoon weeding for her, knowing she could not spend as long on her knees as she would have before, and she rode the fresh wave of contentment the memory triggered, heart singing, as she sent fine tendrils of her power into the ground, gilding the surrounding roots with a little magical nourishment under the golden light of dawn.
Thankfully, she could manage to give the entire vegetable patch a boost from her current position at the side of the plot, otherwise she would certainly be exhausted before she'd made it inside for her morning tea, let alone begun the work in her apothecary. The spark in her veins was echoed by a fizzing thrum from the nearby plants as they took up the melody flowing from her hands, building to a crescendo backed by fluttering leaves and rustling stems. Feeling that the garden would benefit no more from her assistance, Elain sat back on her heels as she withdrew her power, and raised her eyes to the dormer that looked down upon the kitchen garden.
Noting movement in the shadows on the other side of the window, she beamed.
*
Click here to see the matching art for this fan fic, thanks to the brilliant @livlochan.
If you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging. 💜
Disclaimer: I haven't written from Lorcan's pov before, so please forgive me if this interpretation of his character is way off.
Ever since Lorcan Lochan had lost Hellas as his guide, he counted his lucky stars, instead.
His wife, Elide, who could talk her way out of—or into—anything to which she put her mind, was the light who steered him through his darkest days; his son, who was small for his age, or appeared that way, at least—maybe Lorcan should acknowledge that he doesn't have a single clue about the average growth rate of a quarter Fae, part witch human—but managed to get into more scraps than he did classrooms kept him young, despite the centuries he could claim; and last, but certainly not least, his daughter, who had her mother's quiet grace and charm, and her father's ability with knives, had kept him on his toes more than anyone else throughout his long life.
They were his new guiding light, his family, and, although he knew he had found his people, he never would have predicted he'd ever be lucky enough to actually belong somewhere, to be wanted for himself, not simply for what he could do. The havoc he could wreak with his powers. He was still learning each day to accept as fact what Elide told him every night.
It was enough that he could craft a wooden play sword, or gently plaster a cut... perhaps in that order. It was enough that he could turn his shadows, magic that had wrought destruction and death across battlefields and continents—not always for good—into fun play-acts against the wall for his little children. It was enough that he could give a massage, or advice born from years of hardship and war and life with his old Cadre. It was enough that he was here. Home.
Disclaimer: I haven't written from Elide's POV before, or for TOG, so please forgive me if this interpretation of her character is off.
TW: Mentions of canon childhood trauma and injury.
Elide Lochan knew one thing with certainty: if she had children, they would be loved. Her husband—tall, dark haired and ruggedly handsome—would be strong and capable and dependable, as her father had once been; he would teach them how to defend themselves, so they were never treated as she was... not that this would ever happen if she had anything to say about it, either. She would make sure their education was top notch, too, and not left to fester under the oppressive neglect of an abusive uncle.
She would take them on picnics under the summer sunshine, where they would enjoy freshly picked strawberries, and scones with jam and clotted cream; in Autumn they would walk through the rain, their arms full of the colourful leaves that had dressed the trees not long before. Winter would involve sledding down the surrounding hills, through the thick snow that blanketed Terrasen year after year, wrapped up tightly against the cold... and in spring? Spring would involve flower crowns and muddy romps, probably at the same time; her father had not called it "mud season" without cause. She would even sew pretty clothes for them, reclaiming the skill her mother had wielded, first as a laundress, and then the Lady of Perranth.
She would do anything for these hypothetical future children, and she knew her husband would, too.
The problem was, Elide struggled to see it ever happening. It just wasn't in her stars. Finnula had told her this evening that she was to be moved, with her uncle, to someplace new in the morning, though of course she hadn't been told the where or why or how. She looked down at her ruined ankle and sighed heavily. If only she was able to run. Run towards the future she wanted, to get away from her fate—or, perhaps, to find it?
She could hear Finnula's voice, floating up from the depths of her mind: "Don't be angry, be smart."
