Chapter Text
ELIDE: Beauty
Where Elide gets jaelous
They had always been on the run together.
Dirty clothes, no baths, dusty hair. It had been war. Haste. Pain. Monsters. Life or death. She had used his ruined shirt for her cycle and he had washed her clothes and her underwear in a stream. Sometimes neither of them had washed for weeks.
Now, the women around her talked of what type of silks to wear for the upcoming spring season, which seasonal dresses were the prettiest and what different shades of pink would be most attractive to colour their cheeks with.
The weeks after the battle of Orynth were happy weeks for Elide, happy and relieved and thankful weeks, but they were also sad ones. She was happy to finally be by Aelin’s side, and she felt so blessed she had Lorcan. He had returned to her after the battle, like he had promised her, and he was hers now. They would marry this spring they had decided, before they would leave for Perranth together.
While she of course was very happy about this, Elide also felt a pang in her stomach every time she thought of Gavriel’s death, and she sometimes returned to the battlefield to sit quietly where the Thirteen had died and to watch the flowers that now filled the hillside. She saw the same sorrow in Manon’s expression whenever she caught a glimpse of her, and in Fenrys’ still raw, scarred face. While she was relieved it was all over, it had been at a great cost.
She slept poorly some nights. In her dreams Lorcan did not return from battle. In her dreams she was often stuck somehow, held back by something, perhaps her leg or shackles, and she was unable to move forward. Sometimes she dreamed that he left her. Even if Lorcan was right there with her, every night, his arms around her and his lips against her ear as he gently brushed her bad dreams away with soft kisses.
Elide knew it had nothing to do with him. Knew deep down in her soul how he loved her. She did not need an expert healer to understand the psychology behind her dreams. It was quite simple. Everyone had always left her, and she had never been able to follow. Everyone had always left, one way or another, everyone but Lorcan. It did not take a healer for her to understand this was her subconscious fears yelling at her for it not to happen again. For her to hold on tight.
Whenever she woke, she knew she was safe. She was safe with him, she always had been. Whenever she woke, she knew.
In the days after Aelin’s coronation, Elide found it sometimes difficult to relate to the strangers who now surrounded her in the castle of Orynth. Not to their friends, not to Aelin and Yrene and their closest group, but the strangers she crossed paths with in the everyday life of the castle. She tried not to dwell on it, and she mostly managed. She spent the days working with Aelin and the nights in Lorcan’s steady arms. He had chosen her, and she was happy. She was happy.
Still, as she walked down the halls alongside Lysandra and Aelin, greeted the various inhabitants of the castle and was introduced to the finer ladies and important high-standing people, it became more and more clear to Elide she was, in a way, out of her element. Sometimes she felt like a fish on land.
It was not the people, exactly. After all, she excelled at reading people. It was the culture.
The shops in Orynth opened after the war. After the coronation, life in the city and in the castle slowly resumed its usual pre-war bustle. The streets were scrubbed clean, the melting ice making them shine as the sun returned from its slumber. Elide watched as the windows in the streets returned to their former glory, and the halls of the castle were again polished to perfection. Gradually the people of Orynth returned to their former lives.
It was a rich and luxurious city. Jewellery. Bakeries. Clothing. Tea shops. Cakes. Sweets. Even florists, in spite of their scarce selection, filling their window sills with bulbs of daffodils and tulips sprouting in pretty stone pots. Everywhere Elide looked, there was beauty.
It was overwhelming.
She watched as ladies started to wear their prettiest dresses, dresses that spoke of a world before the war. A dress was not a dress, she learned, but was layers and layers and endless layers of fabric and gods knew what, each and every layer named something she was supposed to know the name of and, most importantly, have an opinion on.
It made her remember her own ragged, clothes as a servant in Morath. One layer. Rough, dirty cotton.
“My crinoline is killing me today,” she once observed a woman nearby moaning to her friend where they leaned against the entrance hall, fanning their faces and keeping to the shadow. “Gods, I can’t wait to take this off.”
“Oh I don’t mind,” the other one responded breezily. “I’ve had to take in my corset two sizes, but it is so nice finally feeling like myself again.”
Elide wondered, not for the first time, at this insistent urge in free women to put themselves in cages.
The shoes, too. The shoes were not meant for running. Not even for walking. The shoes were made for beauty alone. Made to look pretty, and only this. Some women even wore slitted dresses to show them off, their legs bare beneath despite the chilly spring air, high heeled ruby coloured shoes on display under shapely legs. It made her think of her own feet, bare, broken. Once dirty and bound in tight chains, twisted and forever ruined.
But it was not only the things surrounding her that were beautiful. Elide saw it in Lysandra, who blinded everyone within her radius with her otherworldly beauty, every single day. She saw it the fae from Doranelle, some of them who stayed behind after the coronation. Beautiful, strong, female fae. Tall and supple. Elide greeted and spoke to the females in Rowan’s family, watched their beautiful long limbs and their graceful movements. Strong, muscular, tough. Yet soft, slim, and curvy in all the right places.
They reminded her of Essar. Lorcan’s former lover. She had seen Essar, had met her only that one time, long ago now. And Elide guessed – she could guess – that the rest of Lorcan’s infinite string of former lovers were surely at least equally beautiful as the rest of the beautiful females who now surrounded her. Like Essar, that time in Doranelle, who had been nothing short of stunning.
Elide sometimes turned embarrassed when she thought back to her and Lorcan’s early days together on the run, when she had so confidently altered her own appearance. Like the time she had removed her tight leathers to better show off her curves, and he had said, completely unfazed, that bigger tits won't prove or hide anything. When she had roughly painted her eyes with kohl and put red stains on her lips, and she had been contented with that. Had used to simply pinch her cheeks for some colour, to appear unthreatening and simple in the eyes of men.
Now she had learned, had observed, that a colour was not a colour, pink was not only pink, a blush not just a blush. There was a world within the world of beauty, and it was vast, and she was not sure if she was even invited. When comparing her previous alterations to what she now observed, and to the type of females he most certainly had been used to surround himself with, when listening as they discussed nuances of colour and clothes with finesse, and by this vividly demonstrated to her what seemed normal in regular society even here up north, her previous attempts to beautify felt… crude.
What he must have been thinking.
She shook her head no, stopping the emotion from taking hold. She would not dwell on any of it. She knew he loved her. Knew he found her beautiful. Knew he did not compare. She knew she was safe, and she knew he was hers.
When Lorcan looked at her from across the table during dinner with their friends, his eyes ablaze, unabashedly drinking her in with his eyes, her thoughts and nerves quieted completely. And when he kissed her face and her body it truly felt as if he worshipped her, as if she was the goddess, and he prayed by her altar and paid homage to every inch of her. And her thoughts and insecurities were silenced, for a while.
She had no one she could talk to about it. Not really. She had Lorcan, of course, and she had spoken to him about it once. Sort of. He had eased her nerves completely and said the kindest things. She had believed every one of them, and the feeling had eased for a while. Still, she sometimes still remembered. Even if he called her beautiful at least ten times a day, sometimes the world reminded her, and she sometimes still felt it, in spite of what he’d told her.
Like during the day, when the eyes of the people around them slid right over her to land on Lysandra next to her, Elide felt it. It was something she had once cultivated, something that had certainly saved her life, this ability to go by unnoticed. Now, it served instead as a reminder. Irrelevant, their gazes told her, simply by the short amount of time they spent resting upon her face.
Sometimes, as ladies around her giggled and talked about how they longed to get out of their beautiful high heels, and as they sprawled their smooth, straight feet in front of her and wiggled their toes, groaning with longing for flat soles, she felt it. They did not do it to spite her, she knew that. They simply forgot that she was not like them.
And sometimes, when strong, muscular fae females rode past her on horseback and looked as elegant as royalty, not a flick of dust or a strand of hair out of place, their skin often covered in splendid tattoos in foreign languages she could not read, their faces fresh as if they had just risen from their morning bath, she felt it. She remembered Essar, her beautiful, gentle smile, and she felt it.
She could not put her finger on what it was exactly. Could not even name it properly. It was just a small twinge of something, something close to….inferiority.
She wished she could talk to Aelin about it, and perhaps she could have. But, with Lorcan being Aelin’s blood sworn, she felt weird about bringing it up to her queen. She knew very well how Aelin enjoyed teasing Lorcan of the smallest things, and Elide did not quite trust that it would not slip from Aelin to Lorcan one day, unintentionally, after too much wine perhaps, in the shape of a snide comment. But Aelin should not tease him of this, should not dig at him for it, because this was not on him.
In truth, Elide doubted Aelin would understand, with her confidence and her beauty and her experiences in love. They had all heard the story of the time Aelin had set Rowan’s former lover on fire. Aelin had lived in the world in a very different way than Elide ever had, and Elide knew she would not be able to explain this right to Aelin. Elide knew Aelin would try to encourage her, knew she would tell her that she was pretty too, that she too was beautiful - but that wasn’t the issue at all. No, Aelin would not understand.
Elide knew she was pretty. She had no objections at all to how she looked, was rather pleased with her appearance actually, both her face and her body. She liked her dark hair and the colour of her eyes and the contrast it made to her fair skin, liked her curves and did not spare much thought to her broken leg at all beyond the pain it sometimes caused her. Her leg was a part of her and had not failed her yet. She was proud of everything she had accomplished in spite of the odds being stacked against her. Elide didn’t want praise. And she did not want to put anyone on fire, either. She did not quite know what she wanted.
She wished more than anything that she could speak to Yrene about it. Yrene would probably understand the feeling sometimes poking her in the chest. But Yrene had left for the capitol with Chaol and the king. Elide knew she could write to her about it later, and she intended to, as soon as she could manage well enough on her own. But this was not a letter she could ask Lorcan or anyone else to help her with. It would have to wait. Besides, Elide knew Yrene’s morning sickness was reaching into evenings now. Yrene had her arms full. Now was not the time to demand her friend’s attention over something so minor. Because it was minor. It was truly nothing at all.
And Manon… Elide would spare Manon from that conversation. Manon was mourning. There was also a real possibility Manon would have interpreted Elide’s hesitancy as stark reality, and that she would confront Lorcan with it as if he’d done something wrong, which would have been a complete disaster. And while Elide did consider Fenrys a close friend… Well. No. That was out of the question.
In truth, there was nobody left to tell. None she trusted with these minor, petty feelings of hers. Not that it was much to tell, just a feeling sometimes, creeping up on her. A feeling long engraved into her body by others. She knew it would take time to shake it. She could always talk to Lorcan again, and she might. Yet she was also afraid that he would take it to heart, and somehow take responsibility, and she knew she would struggle to explain it right even to him. It was the last thing she wanted, for him to feel bad about it. It was, after all, not his fault that the women surrounding her sometimes made her feel inadequate. And there was certainly nothing he could do about it anyway.
So for now, Elide told no one. Elide was happy, Elide was contented, and she tried not to dwell on it too much. It almost worked.
The weeks after the coronation passed in a blur as they worked to establish Aelin’s new court. Elide joined Aelin almost everywhere, was a part of most things, and fell into Lorcan’s arms at night, usually exhausted.
When it became known that Aedion and Lysandra would marry this summer, her days also started to include wedding preparations for Lysandra’s wedding. Aelin and Lysandra were both overly excited that the halls were to house not one, but two weddings - it was already well known that Elide and Lorcan would marry before they would leave for Perranth. Aelin and Lysandra enthusiastically brought Elide along to discuss details and make plans for the weddings to come. Only when Aelin had suggested they host a double wedding, marrying together in one, enormous celebration, did Elide stop them.
“No,” she had interrupted, her voice stern. “That is not what we want.”
Which had, she regretted, only turned to questions of what she did want. Elide had struggled to answer this, but finally managed to get across that she and Lorcan both wanted something much smaller and simpler than what Lysandra had in mind.
“Pfft,” Aelin had said, and waved her hand as if whisking away a minor fly. “You’re marrying in the royal castle! Of course your wedding will be spectacular.”
Elide had retrieved Aelin’s attention by gently reaching for her hand, stilling it, and she held her gaze in hers.
“No,” Elide repeated, keeping her energy grounded and assertive, her voice mild. “I mean it, Aelin. We will decide how we want it.”
Aelin had paused for a second, caught off guard by her change of pace, but she had listened and smiled.
“Of course, Elide.”
Not a double wedding, then.
Still, whenever they met to discuss Lysandra and Aedion’s wedding, the two females included Elide in every little arrangement and decision. They asked her opinion on the smallest and silliest of things. Elide was of course happy to be included, but she was also positive that they hoped by this to tempt her over to the dark side. She was certain though that what Lysandra and Aelin had in mind was not for her.
“Have you decided on the tableware and tablecloths for your wedding yet, Lady Elide?” Evangeline asked her one afternoon.
Elide had been sitting in the soft chaise longue in one of Aelin’s living rooms, content to rub Fleetfoot behind his ears as he sprawled on the floor next to her. Behind her, Lysandra was in the middle of unwrapping fabrics and napkins and tablecloths to display them on a massive dining table. Evangeline was leaning over the back of the chaise longue where Elide was perched, her eyes glinting as she watched Elide with an innocent face.
Elide wondered for a moment if Aelin had sent this new spy on her, still on a mission to coax her into a new enthusiasm for table decorations. She very well knew the importance of proper table wear. Knew brocade was the most luxurious tablecloth to be found, besides silk, and that brocade was to be expected in a proper household. Or at least it had been, fifteen years ago. Her mother had once taught her that. She registered the too innocent look in Evangeline’s face, and knew her hunch had been right.
“I have not,” Elide smiled sweetly back at Evangeline. “But perhaps you should go and ask Lorcan if he’s decided on the tablecloths yet. It’s been keeping him up at night, thinking about it.”
Evangeline’s eyes glinted with mischief.
Elide leaned closer to her face, and whispered “You should go back to Aelin and tell her that’s what I said when you asked me.”
Evangeline grinned.
“I will,” she said, and she turned, clapping her hands together. “Come, Fleetwood, come!”
Fleetwood, large and eager, scrambled onto his legs to run after Evangeline as she hurried from the room. They disappeared outside, leaving Elide and Lysandra alone in the large living room which was now filled to the brim with luxurious fabrics.
Elide heard a chuckle behind her, and turned to watch as Lysandra returned to the table with her arms full of silken cloth napkins.
“You really don’t care for any of this, do you,” Lysandra smiled, starting to align the fabrics on the large table.
They were perched in one of the larger living rooms now a part of Aelin and Rowan’s private chambers. Aelin had left them an hour ago, leaving Lysandra and Elide to go over the final samples of fabrics for Lysandra’s wedding table. Elide had considered leaving too, and had been wondering if she should locate Ren Allsbrook again to see if he had gotten some news from Perranth. He had helped her write to several of his acquaintances there, and she was eager for their responses. She knew Lorcan was still out working outside with Rowan, and would not be back for a few hours yet. But Evangeline and Fleetwood had shown, and she had enjoyed spending time with them both, rubbing at the big dog’s belly as it rolled around on Aelin’s carpet while she had listened to Evangeline’s account of her day.
Elide eyed the napkins lined out on the table in front of Lysandra.
“It’s not that I don’t care for it, as much as I’m just not very good at it,” she said.
She did not want to cause offence. She liked Lysandra. And there was nothing wrong in wanting a splendid wedding worthy of a royal castle. Elide looked forward to her own wedding too, of course she did. It was just all the options, the vast amount of questions and choices and decisions that were presented to her, that she was expected to have an opinion on, to just know the answer to as if it was waiting for her somewhere in her heart… It was overwhelming. Elide preferred the tangible, the efficient. People, progress. Not things in various shades of pink.
“It’s not about being good,” Lysandra argued, lining out the napkins. “It’s about finding what you like. What is just right. It’s fun.” She smiled back at Elide, adding. “But apparently not all think that, and that’s okay too.”
“I don’t mind it, honestly,” Elide tried to reassure her. “I am very happy about it. Our wedding, I mean.”
Lysandra’s eyes brightened. “What are you looking forward to the most?”
Elide paused, thinking. “What comes after, I think.”
Lysandra’s smile widened into a grin, and Elide felt her own blush on her face as her face heated.
“I mean,” she hurried to add. “I most look forward to actually being married. To create a home together.”
Lysandra’s smile turned into something milder. “I know what you mean. I’m looking forward to going down that isle though.”
Elide rose from her seat and walked around to stand beside Lysandra by the table.
“I bet Aedion is eager for that too,” Elide said. She let her eyes wander over the various shades of colour on the table in front of her, watching as Lysandra efficiently lined them out next to each other.
Lysandra sent her a sideways glance.
“Have you decided on a dress yet?” Lysandra asked carefully.
Elide shook her head. “Not yet.”
“How about your hair? Your shoes?”
Elide shrugged, but felt she should offer something, and added. “Hair down, I think.”
Lysandra smiled. “I agree, that suits you. Now, what do you think of this one?”
She held up a pink textile.
“It’s very pretty.”
Lysandra frowned. “I’m not sure I like it.”
“Oh.”
Lysandra continued. “I just can’t decide if I want lilac or cherry. Don’t you think this one is prettier?” she held up a purple one. Then, she reached out the lilac towards Elide, as if measuring it against her face. “This would be pretty for yours, I think, or this.”Another pale purple. “I am leaning against this now,” she continued, picking up a paler pink. “Or this. Not that one, that’s horrendous.”
She pushed another fabric aside. It fell to the floor.
Elide didn’t see anything wrong with the fabric that was now falling to the ground. She thought it had a pretty peach colour. She watched as the fabric slowly slid to the ground and fell into a soft crumpled heap. She leaned down to pick it up, and trailed her hand over the silken material.
“-for that one, right?” Lysandra said, and Elide became aware she had been speaking.
“What?”
Lysandra turned towards her, her shiny hair falling over her shoulder. Elide realized she must have been asking her a question, and was waiting for her response, but she had not heard the question. She looked down at the fabric between her fingers.
Brocade, she recognized. A pretty piece of soft, peach coloured brocade. It reminded her of something. She was not sure of what.
The seconds that passed felt slow, languid. Syrupy.
“Is everything all right?” Lysandra asked, and Elide got the feeling it was not the first time she had asked. Her ears were ringing, making it hard to concentrate.
“I don’t know which colour,” Elide finally managed to say, her voice quiet, vaguely aware of what their conversation had been about. She carefully placed the peach coloured fabric back on the table, stroking it carefully with her fingertips before letting her hand fall back down.
She expected Lysandra to turn around and continue like before, suggest something, another type of purple perhaps, but she didn’t. Instead, Lysandra took a step closer. Elide kept her eyes on the napkins.
“Perhaps you like all of them?” Lysandra suggested mildly. “You are clearly a winter, so the cool colours would fit your skin tone the best. I can help you find some options that will suit you, if you’d like.”
Elide cocked her head, not sure why she suddenly felt sadness prickle behind her eyes.
“Perhaps,” she echoed. Her mind felt sluggish. “I haven’t really thought about that before.”
“Or perhaps you don’t like any of them?” Lysandra pressed, taking another step closer. Gently trying to figure out what was going on in her head. “Do you not think they are beautiful?”
Elide pressed her lips together, and it felt as if she was waking up from a daydream. She blinked, and processed Lysandra’s question again. She was quiet for some time before she responded.
“I never had to think about beauty like that,” she said. “Not beyond how I can use it to sway other people, not-” She abruptly stopped, cutting herself of.
“What?” Lysandra prompted, waiting.
“Not for – me,” Elide finished. “Not what suits me. Not what I like, what colours and materials and- I’ve had no use for it, beyond trying to sway how others see me.”
There was a long pause. Elide regretted speaking at all. Knew it was a misplaced comment amidst the silken tablecloths and draperies. Knew Lysandra would be bewildered by her dampened mood and probably think her odd.
“Honestly?” Lysandra snorted. “Me neither.”
Elide looked up at her, startled.
“What? But you’re so good at all of this.”
Lysandras lips curled up again, but it was not quite a smile this time. Her hands returned to trail over the fabrics in front of her. There was an edge to her tone when she spoke next.
“Yes, I’m good at it," Lysandra said. “I’ve had years to hone my own preferences into luxury.”
Elide frowned at her phrasing, her tone. It seemed almost bitter. Lysandra spoke again, her voice quiet now.
“I want it to be beautiful, our wedding. So I make it that way. I know how to make it beautiful. I know what colours to wear, what colours to combine. What colours suit me. What to prefer, what to dislike. But if you ask me what I truly, truly like – honestly, I don’t know. I don’t know if my tastes are truly mine, or if they have just been honed into my preferences because someone have repeatedly told me what is objectively beautiful. I no longer know what is truly mine and what is learned. It’s probably all learned. So it is not truly me, is it.” She gave a short sigh, shrugging, and picked up another fabric before that too could slide to the ground. “But what can you do.”
And she folded it and replaced it on the table alongside the others, as if what she had just said was nothing out of the ordinary.
Elide was stunned at this pragmatic handling of personal preference and identity. But perhaps, as a shifter, Lysandra would’ve had more time to reflect upon this topic than most people, and was no longer fazed by the melancholy that had suddenly gripped Elide.
“Beauty is fleeting,” Lysandra said as she returned to folding the fabrics in front of her, not looking up, and it was as if she’d heard all of Elide’s thoughts. “It will save you one second and kill you the next. Beauty will get you places. But finding what you truly like, Elide, what is yours, that is so much more valuable. No one can take that from you.”
“The lack of beauty will get you places, too.”
It slipped out of Elide without her intention, as she let her hand trail over the soft materials. She had not meant to say it, to let her mind slip back, to think of dark hallways and small, locked up spaces. She tried not to dwell on Morath these days, or on the dark moments alone in that tower, but sometimes the memories visited her anyway.
She had spent her whole life trying not to be noticed, trying not to be perceived as beautiful. Not to be perceived as anything at all, to not be interesting to the male gaze. She had succeed, thank Anneith for that. And she did not understand why this skill would affect her so much now, because she had honed it, had she not, like a blade – the only blade she had access to - the skill to walk past someone without being looked at twice.
She had honed it into perfection. It had saved her from ending up like Kaltain Rompier, she knew that perfectly well. It had surely saved her from assault on more than one occasion. So how, how could she resent this very skill now, when she sometimes felt inferior when faced with all this beauty that now surrounded her?
She did not lack in beauty, she knew that. But Elide had morphed her whole being into walking past someone unnoticed. To be uninteresting. Irrelevant. It had been her lifeline. Without it, who even was she? What colours did she truly like? Not just a colour, but endless shades and shades of them. They all had names. They all had nuances. Elide knew none.
Irrelevant. Irrelevant, irrelevant, irrelevant.
She felt Lysandra’s eyes on her, and did not meet her gaze. There could be something predatory in Lysandra’s gaze sometimes, even in her human shape, and the hairs on Elide’s neck lifted as she felt it pierce her now.
“Scars can be beautiful,” Lysandra said softly, her voice in contrast to her sharp gaze. Elide looked up then, surprised, and found Lysandra indeed was watching her steadily. She had stopped folding fabric. “Look at Evangeline. Look at Fenrys.”
Both truly beautiful, both scarred. She was of course right. Elide smiled.
”I agree.” And, adding, because she knew very well what Lysandra was referencing. “My leg has never bothered me like that, though.”
It was the truth. Lysandra pursed her lips, turning her head to the side, still watching Elide.
“But something else have?” she guessed, her eyes piercing. The predator had eased, perhaps, but her eyesight was still keen, and she knew she was on to something.
Elide drew a deep breath and felt the world zoom out around her as Lysandra’s eyes pierced her skin right into her deepest thoughts. And she knew she could have lied, she could have easily lied and said no, it’s just a bit overwhelming isn’t it, with these fabrics and the wedding and all? And Lysandra would have laughed and let it slide and they would have forgotten about it. Except Elide didn’t want that, she realized.
Elide said nothing at first, but turned towards the windows to their left.
“Have you ever been in Doranelle?” she asked quietly.
If Lysandra was slightly puzzled by the change of topic, she didn’t let on.
“No,” Lysandra said from behind her. “But you have?”
“Yes,” Elide said. “Only that one time.”
She looked down at the gardens below. Beyond the brick wall surrounding it they could glimpse a large courtyard, people bustling back and forth inside. “Have you spoken to any of the delegations from there?” she pressed.
“Some,” Lysandra said. “Not a great deal.”
There was a long pause. Elide studied the people now riding across the courtyard astride their large, shiny horses. Some of them were human, some fae. Some male, some female.
“They are all very elegant,” Elide said quietly, watching the female warriors.
She felt Lysandra reach her side, and she too gazed out the window. They watched the courtyard in silence for a moment before she spoke.
“Indeed. They are,” Lysandra agreed.
The picture of Essar filled Elide’s mind.
“I met a beautiful female, that time I was there,” Elide said quietly. “She was absolutely stunning.”
She felt Lysandra’s eyes on her again, but kept her own eyes on the horses below.
“Let me guess,” Lysandra said. “This was a female once involved with your soon to be husband?”
Elide smiled, just a small twitch of her lip. Lysandra truly did have a sixth sense.
“You’re good.”
She felt Lysandra shrug beside her.
“I am,” Lysandra agreed, looking out the window.
Elide laughed at that.
“And very humble,” Elide added dryly.
Lysandra turned towards her again, grinning.
“That’s not my strongest suit, I admit,” Lysandra said. She turned quickly serious though, and when she spoke next she turned her body towards Elide. Again she pierced her with serious eyes.
“Tell me Elide,” Lysandra said quietly. “This stunning female you mention. Why do you bring her with you here, when he left her there?”
Elide almost said she did no such thing, almost said that she had no idea what she was talking about, to just forget about it. But she stopped herself.
“I don’t know,” Elide said instead. “She was very- She was kind and friendly. And smart, and brave. And so very beautiful.”
There was another pause between them.
“You liked her,” Lysandra said quietly.
“I did,” Elide admitted. “She helped me.”
“Would you rather she was ugly, cruel and stupid?”
Elide snorted this time. “No. Of course not”
A moment passed. Lysandra said nothing. Another moment passed.
“Perhaps a little, then,” Elide finally amended.
Lysandra sighed, long and drawn out. “Trust me, I know the feeling.”
They watched the horses and the riders below them in silence for another moment.
“I think,” Lysandra said slowly after a while, “That more than anything else, it is telling of the male you’re about to marry when you find his former partner is kind and friendly and brave. That is solely a good and precious thing, Elide.” And she added, with a smirk, “Even if you wished she was ugly.”
Elide only shook her head, and to her surprise found her vision blurred. She quickly wiped her cheeks. “I don’t wish that,” she said. “I don’t wish that at all. I know I’m being stupid.”
“You’re not,” Lysandra said softly. “You’re honest, which is more than I can say of most people.”
“It’s just,” Elide started, and she couldn’t stop now. “I sometimes don’t feel the things he says about me. It’s not on him, it’s me, he does nothing wrong. But when I see- When I remember- I- I can’t help it. I know I’m not elegant, I can never be like that. I don’t walk like that, I don’t move like that. I know it’s stupid and petty.”
When she looked up at Lysandra, her eyes were gentle.
“Perhaps he does not care that much for elegant walks,” Lysandra said lightly.
Elide took a deep, shaky breath. “Yeah. Perhaps.”
Lysandra turned towards her then, facing her. “That male is stepping down from immortality for you. I would not worry whether or not he is yours.”
“I know this,” Elide hurried to say, to explain it right. This was precisely the reason why this was so difficult to talk about, the reason she had not told anyone - the easy assumption that she was unsure of him. “I’m not worrying about that. I know he is. It’s not on him. It’s just- it is that feeling. It’s that feeling, and I cannot shake it. Not all the way.”
There was another long pause. Elide was prepared to explain again, to clarify, but was surprised by Lysandra’s next words.
“That I can understand,” Lysandra said quietly. “That feeling.”
Elide looked up at her then.
“You do?” she asked, unable to keep the surprise from her tone, before realizing this was rather personal question. But Lysandra, the epitome of beauty herself, surely, would not understand.
“I do,” Lysandra said, firmly this time. “I understand.” She drew a deep breath, turning to study the horses below them now, her eyes sharp. “How can one truly know what is real? How can you trust a choice someone makes, when you cannot clearly see all the pieces playing on the board before them from where you are standing? How can you shake the years of lies told about yourself, layers and layers painted onto your skin, making it impossible to tell what is truly you and what is them? Pieces and fragments of them, left on your skin, eventually becoming yours. Where do they stop and you begin?”
Elide gazed out of the window for a long moment, not seeing.
“Irrelevant,” Elide finally said. “That was the word my uncle used most about me. I was always irrelevant. The things I said, irrelevant. My objections and needs. My boundaries. Irrelevant.”
To her astonishment, Lysandra turned to her and smiled.
“You’re not irrelevant to Lorcan.”
Elide met her gaze, and felt her mind land back inside her body with a thump as if finally reconnecting with her body.
“That’s true,” she whispered. She felt the truth of those words land deep inside her chest.
Indeed. She was not.
Lysandra’s smile widened, as if she too could see it.
“Actually,” Lysandra added. “I would say you are anything but irrelevant to that male. You are lucky in that, Elide. Lucky in love,” Lysandra said.
Those words hit her, too. And she knew she was. She knew she was. Knew most were not.
Lady Elide Lochan. Lucky in love.
Elide smiled then, instantly feeling lighter inside. So light that she felt a sudden urge to laugh. It was stupid, how these simple, obvious words could impact her so much, but they had.
“Did you know he is more than five hundred years old?” Elide whispered, feeling silly and light-headed all of a sudden.
Lysandra lifted her brows at this information, and gushed out a breath. “Oh lord.”
And unlike herself, humour bubbled up in Elide’s throat at this reaction, and she giggled. She giggled like a small girl, like she had not thought she had in her at all. Giggled at her big brute of a soon-to-be husband, so old and stubborn and grumpy and kind, and how she loved him.
Lysandra slid her eyes to Elide. “Was he your first?”
Their eyes met, and Elide realized she did not find the question intrusive. So she nodded.
“Was he good to you?” Lysandra asked, already knowing the answer.
Elide could not stop her lips from curling up at that, felt her eyes crinkle into a soft smile as she remembered just how good.
Lysandra noticed, and returned it, and they shared a secret smile.
They were so close now, so close to the topic that gnawed on her uncertainty sometimes, but she could not. Dared not. Could not make herself say it out loud. Didn’t know how to put it.
“It’s just-” Elide blurted, forcing blindly ahead anyway. “It’s just - so enormous.”
Lysandra slowly raised a brow and looked pointedly at her.
Elide smacked a hand over her mouth, too late realizing how that had sounded. Because by the gods, she had not meant his-
“No,” Elide spluttered behind her hand, quickly amending “That was not what I meant, I meant the whole – thing – The situation. Everything. I meant…overwhelming. The situation, not the- oh stop!”
Because Lysandra was laughing out loud now, cackling loudly at Elide’s now surely purple face and blubbering attempts to correct her blunder. How’s that for spring colour, she thought, wondering if the peach brocade fabric would match her red hot face.
“I know that is not what you meant,” Lysandra reassured her, eyes impish as she turned her back to the window to lean back on her elbows against the window sill. “But thank you for putting images in my mind, Elide. And if you ever want to talk about that I’m all ears.”
“Oh stop,” Elide said again, leaning her forehead against the cool glass of the window. But she laughed, and Lysandra did too. “I meant only that he is so much more experienced than I am, that’s all. Five hundred years and all. And it can feel overwhelming to think of it. That’s what I meant. Not that I think of it often, I just remember sometimes. That’s all.”
She felt Lysandra’s fingers by her face as they brushed her hair behind her ear. The gesture felt strangely intimate - like something a big sister might do.
“That experience of his is also solely a good thing. Trust me.”
Elide peeked up at her at that. It was?
When Lysandra spoke next, her voice was steady, serious now, the impishness gone.
“I am quite confident you have nothing – nothing – to worry about, " Lysandra said. "We can talk about it, if you want, if you have questions. I’m not claiming to be an expert, and I am certainly not five hundred years old – gods – But we can talk. If you want. Though perhaps not over dinner with Aedion later,” she added thoughtfully, a mock frown on her face as she tried not to smile at how that scenario would have played out.
“Perhaps over wine,” Elide mumbled, still feeling hot headed, “Alone.”
Lysandra laughed. “Definitely over wine.” She looked down at Elide. “I like you, Elide. I hope we can be friends.”
Elide smiled at her, if still a bit flustered, cheeks still heated. The words warmed something long forgotten in her chest.
“I hope so too.”
And it felt lighter, better, brighter inside when she returned her gaze to watch the beautiful female fae strangers who rode past beneath their window. She calmly watched their perfect, beautiful profiles and the sadness did not return.
You are not irrelevant to Lorcan.
She knew that. She already knew that. She had just needed a little reminder, that was all. She turned back to Lysandra.
“What if I want that one, the horrendous one?” Elide said, picking up the peach fabric. “What if this is what I truly want for our wedding? What if this is the real me?”
Lysandra grinned, sensing her lighter tone. “Then I will try everything in my power to stop you.”
“What if you can’t stop me?” Elide challenged. “What then?”
Lysandra pursed her lips together, as if it pained her to entertain the idea. “Then I am sure we can make it work somehow.”
Elide considered for a moment whether or not it would be worth it having peach coloured napkins in her wedding, just for spite.
“Fleetfoot! Stop!”
The door burst open then, as Evangeline and Fleetfoot appeared, and Evangeline yelled as the dog launched into the room and threatened to topple over the whole table of fabrics. Lysandra caught Evangeline as she ran past, lifting her, and loud cackling filled the room.
And the nerves did not return that day.