Elain Archeron | The Court Of New |

The Prick (Part 1)

Elain stared down at her torn gloves, watching as the ruby blood seeped through the fabric, her hands riddled with thorns. She stood and began plucking the thorns from her hands before removing the gloves, placing them on a small wrought-iron chair beside her. She began walking around the house, away from the flowerbed and toward the entrance of the Velaris Town House.

Before she had even reached the corner of the house, the little cuts had already begun to heal by some magical fae ability. Small things like this still perturbed her, reminding her of the humanity that had been stripped away and the life destroyed. She didn't let herself ponder on it too long, now rounding the house and approaching the front door.

She reached for the handle but stopped and took a step back as the door opened and she was faced with Lucien. She immediately took another two steps back and folded her hands together, averting her gaze as he stepped out of the house. His golden eye whirled to steal a glance at her before he continued onward. They had always been like this, at odds, at war with each other, with that bond. She didn't bother saying hello or goodbye, knowing he was probably returning to meet with Jurian and Vassa in the mortal realm.

Briefly, she allowed her eyes to find his back, watching him walk down the street and toward the river. She turned and finally stepped inside and made her way to the kitchen, where she plunged her hands into the freezing water that ran from the sink, washing her face and smoothing a cold, wet hand over her neck, allowing it to soothe her nerves.

She loosened a small sigh and leaned her palms against the sink, watching the filthy water swirl as it drained. She loved gardening, and she had even grown fond of Velaris and her housemates whenever they were around. But recently, she had felt an uneasy tug in her chest, like she was forgetting something or remembering something or both combined. She lifted a hand and pinched her nose between her thumb and forefinger, her anxiety bubbling at the seams.

"Want to take a walk by the river?" A voice, cool and collected, called from the kitchen doorway. Elain nearly startled, but she knew that voice, and as she turned and leaned against the sink, her brown eyes settled on the Shadowsinger as he leaned casually in the doorframe. She thought for a moment, letting her eyes drift to the floor as she considered it before nodding. "Alright." She was short on words and offered a small smile instead before pushing off the sink and walking toward and then past Azriel.

Azriel's eyes tracked Elain's thinning form as she led the way to the front door. He could feel her unease and had felt it for a few months now. Ever since Cassian and Nesta had gotten married, and Rhysand and Feyre had become occupied with their baby, the house had been left relatively quiet. It gave time for Elain to think, maybe too much time. Azriel followed her outside and down the stretch of lawn until they found the road and began walking in comfortable silence. His hands, neatly tucked into his pockets, as he gazed over Velaris.

"Did he say something to you?" He inquired.

Elain tensed slightly but answered quickly, not wanting the question to hang in the air for too long.

"No. He never does. Not anymore."

Azriel's eyes drifted from the back of her head to the stained cuffs of her dress. She never wore the gloves Lucien had brought her on the winter solstice; she never spoke of him or asked about him. And every interaction the mates had was awkward and tense. Azriel wondered if this was a result of a rejected mating bond, and part of him wished to indulge in the unspoken tension between himself and Elain, but he knew that Rhysand wouldn't approve. No, his brother would ship Elain away to the farthest mountain before he let Azriel touch her.

Azriel's face was neutral, not depicting any of the turmoil beneath him; it never did. His eyes caught the sunlight as it poured through Elain's silky hair, illuminating those soft curls and the gentle curves of her silhouette. He wasn't sure what he felt for her, but he could never call it love. He would never allow himself to draw Elain into his life, not with how dangerous his lifestyle and job were. She was dear to him, but his scarred hands would be kept at bay. If not by himself, then by Rhysand.