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The years flew by, the blur of time numbing to those caught in its current with no safehold. There were mating ceremonies, wars missed by a hair, first birthdays, more mating ceremonies, second birthdays, growing families, third birthdays, more conflicts on the continent, disagreements between Lords and Ladies… the dizzying happenings of high fae never ceased.
And all of it accumulated to just about nothing for Elain Archeron, who could barely tell the difference between one day and the next. It thrilled her to see both of her sisters healing, it thrilled her to see her nephew grow each day, and it thrilled her to meet her new nieces as they were welcomed into the world mere years apart.
But even that could not break the monotony of her life; some things had changed, but she had stayed the same. And that just would not do.
When Lucien invited her to Day Court, an offer to study with their best horticulturalists and tend to the royal gardens, Elain warred with herself beyond reason. She never liked living in the night court and she made it no secret. But there was the guilt of leaving her family - because certainly, that’s what her friends in Night had become - and the sorrow of leaving the gardens - her sanctuaries - she had worked so hard on for so many years. But the most anxiety inducing factor of all was having to deal with Lucien. Having to see him more.
It could be a chance to heal.
It could make her feel even more shut-out.
It could give her opportunities to learn things she never dreamt of.
It could end up being her biggest mistake yet.
But at the end of the day… What did she have to lose?
She was gone within a week of making her decision, comfortably settled in a cottage near the palace of Day, a convenient walking distance from the royal greenhouses and gardens.
There were the rocky days where interacting with others simply wasn’t possible. There was the anger towards fae - her own kind now - for everything that had happened. And of course, the resentment towards Lucien; the role he played in Feyre’s breaking in Spring, what he did to get her back, and how he hurt Nesta and herself in blindly following orders, even if she knew it wasn’t as simple as that.
But among it all, throughout the adjustments of life and her frustrations with the world, there were pockets of hope. Golden light shining through the cracks.
There was Lucien, no longer as shy and now asking her about different plants to spark real conversations. There were the other horticulturalists, admiring her work while guiding her to new discoveries. Weekends when her sisters would visit - no kids, mates, or politics - to catch up and take care of one another. Afternoons when Lucien would join her for tea and they would do nothing but sit in comfortable silence and watch the world. Early, restless mornings when he would join her in the kitchen, stealing tastes of lemon curd and crumbs of berry pie.
Eventually, after years of touch and go, ‘Lord Lucien’ turned to just ‘Lucien’, ‘Lady Elain’ turned to just ‘Elain’. Plain and simple.
Between the chaos, there was healing. Friendship. Happiness.
In a matter of months, after years of discontentment, Elain had found her home. Her roots settled deep in their perfect soil, surrounded by life that helped her thrive. That’s what helped her to finally see what was right in front of her.
Elain, now more amenable, commonly went on evening strolls with Lucien to gather field samples from luscious meadows. She joined him for brunch with his mother and found a tenderness she nor her sisters had ever known. She took it slow, finding her rhythm right alongside Lucien in a world that was far kinder to both of them.
But the final thread to undo her was a breezy, golden evening. The sun was setting, melting along the horizon and bleeding across the clouds as Lucien walked Elain home. Basket of flowers in her arms, she made no notice of the slipper that had come loose, its ribbon slipping from where it wound around her ankle, falling down from its hiding place beneath flowy, flouncy pants.
“Allow me,” Lucien drew them to a stop, kneeling down before she knew what the matter was. “Don’t want you to trip and drop everything.” He knew not to coddle her, and if she hadn’t been distracted by his strong, calloused fingers on her leg, she would have taken more time to appreciate it.
As it was, however… her skin blazed. A weight - warm and heavy - settled in her belly, while something similar flipped in her chest. Lucien gazed up at her, his thumbs crept up, brushing circles into her calf. He had finished tying the ribbon off long ago. They had been stuck here for decades. Centuries. The same story over and over. Push, pull, but never equilibrium.
For Elain, it was not like in the books that Nesta was so fond of; there was no single moment of stunning clarity. It was softer, warmer, easier. It simply clicked into place, and that was that. The golden thing between them glowed, outshining the dark days and lonesome nights; she wanted to reach into that well of hope, hang on for dear life.
So she did.
Without a word, she set her basket down to the side of the path. It held a hodgepodge of flowers, so many that no one else would understand the madness. But she did. And after their time spent together in the garden, after allowing him to also appreciate her haven, she hoped he would too.
She ever-so-carefully selected the ones she needed and turned back to Lucien. Now he stood, waiting, curiosity written plainly across his face.
“You have been patient and kind,” Elain forged her path, “You have treated me with respect when I have not done the same to you. I have been a terror-” She broke off, both of them cooling the space with nervous chuckles. “Truly horrid to you at times. But you’ve been steadfast. You’ve waited for me to sort myself, and now here you are at the opposite side still waiting.”
Now she swallowed, wiping her palms on her trousers, dusty with dirt. Why didn’t she think this through? Why didn’t she wait until she had scrubbed the dirt from her nails, when green no longer stained her skin? When she could offer him the berry scones he so adored? When she had more to give than an unstyled bouquet?
“What I am saying, Lucien, is…” She held the bundle of flowers out, unable to be direct in the way most people understood and appreciated. “Dandelions represent hope and growth. Healing, too. And orchids - “ She glanced up at him, found his smile to be half tenderness and half mischief. “Orchid blossoms symbolize love and devotion. And Lilacs wish happiness, tranquility, and peace upon the receiver. Tulips represent deep, true love.”
She lessened the space between them, her timid steps still leaving room for rejection.
Elain offered the oddball bouquet to Lucien, her garden-worn hands shaking with nerves. “It’s no lemon tart or berry crumble, but… All of these are edible.” She swallowed thickly. “If it’s not too late for us.”
The words hung between them, a pendulum reaching its crest; that instant when it’s frozen. Lucien reached out, his reach sure and steady, and took the bouquet from her in one broad hand.