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“Lucien,” Azriel mumbled as he took a seat next to the redhead male, “are you alright?”
“Mmm.”
The first week back to being an emissary was definitely...stressful. It was full of reintroductions as a Night Court emissary, which was then met with the expected response of questioning his loyalty after he deserted Tamlin. Not to mention working out the post-war logistics and establishing new ties to not only the continent, but to Mariam and Drakon’s kingdom.
Training with Cassian and Azriel early Saturday was a welcomed distraction. Until one of his many assistants came running with an urgent message from the Spring Court about refusing to work with him. Lucien had delegated the task to Nesta, hoping her blunt words would get through to Tamlin’s thick skull. But it had also ignited the stress again. Without even thinking, he laid down on the grass, letting the sun dance on his tanned cheeks.
“Question, foxy,” that was a new nickname Cassian had for him after he saw in a particular...fox like shirt Mor had ordered for official business.
“Sometimes, Lucien, playing up the titles given to us could benefit us,” she had said with a smirk .
“If it’s stupid, keep it to yourself,” Lucien answered, “or ask Nesta.”
“It’s not stupid, for once,” Cassian retorted.
“So you acknowledge that you ask stupid questions?” Lucien asked.
“Of course, that’s why I ask them. Someone has to lift up all of your dreary spirits,” Cassian said with a smile.
“It makes you look idiotic,” Azriel teased.
“He doesn’t need help in that department,” Lucien said. Cassian dramatically gasped in fake offense.
“Can we stop talking about my intelligence? I had an actual question.”
“Go ahead, oh Lord of Bloodshed,” Lucien said with a sly smile.
“Why do you always lay down outside when you’re upset?” Cassian asked. Seeing his serious expression, Lucien’s smile faded into something more somber.
“I...when I feel the sun on my cheeks I feel...comforted,” he mumbled, “like when my mother used to hold them.”
***
Lucien writhed under Azriel’s hand. He was pressing a water soaked cloth to the younger male’s burning forehead. Clothes frozen by Feyre and then melted against his skin was the only comfort they could bring him. Mor held another against the back of his neck and Rhysand kept the one of his chest from slipping off. He hadn’t stopped fidgeting and trying to fight against their grip for hours. But it was the only way to bring some form of control against the fever that burned their own skin.
He wasn’t getting better. It was evident in his flushed cheeks and continuous whines of pain. His eyes were glazed over when they were open and screwed shut when they weren’t. Not even sleep would bring him peace.
It had been hours and there was still no sign from Helion that he had received word from them. He could see that Rhysand was on the edge of keeping his composure. Seeing Lucien so close to the brink had brought back unwanted memories of his own sister. Azriel could see it in the way his eyes were open wide, wild just like the day he had found their heads in a basket. They had all urged for him to take a break from this so he could collect his thoughts, mourn, cry, whatever he needed to do to get rid of the horrified look in his eyes.
“I can’t reach him,” he whispered, “I-I-”
“Rhysand,” Elain said softly, tugging on his arm, “I can take this over. Please, go find Feyre.”
“No I-”
“Rhysand,” Azriel said, his scarred hand resting over slender fingers, “brother, please stop torturing yourself.”
“I could-she-they-needed-” Unshed tears glistened in his violet eyes.
“Rhys,” Cassian’s voice was uncharacteristically soft as he pried the High Lord’s hands off the wet rag so Elain could take his place, “c’mon, Feyre is waiting for you with a hot bath. Breathe, brother, he’ll still be here when you finish.”
“High Lord,” Nuala’s voice made them all look up as she floated out from the shadows, “High Lord Helion is here.”
“Fuck,” he cursed, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and attempte to flatten his wild hair. He took a deep breath and when he expelled it from his lungs the schooled mask of High Lord donned his face. It always startled Azriel how easily Rhysand was able to smother his emotions. It also saddened to know his brother had so much practice in hiding them.
He winnowed downstairs and moments later the door was opening with Helion stepping through, his expression much more somber than Azriel had ever seen it.
***
He had been told Lucien was ill. He had tried to prepare himself to see his son, who he had no idea about until a few hours prior, sick.
Nothing could have prepared him to see Lucien in such pain.
Helion gulped, taking a step closer to his son. The back of his hand grazed the side of his cheek and didn’t recoil back at the high temperature. As he suspected. He reached down the bond that had been haunting him for days. He soothed it, caressing it until it stopped lashing out at him in a blend of flames and solar flares. Searching through the overwhelming emotions Helion could feel the broken ribbons of an aged spell. He sighed.
“Just as I thought,” he said, “a spell kept his power at bay. It’s fragile. Seems like whoever put it there did not mean for it to be permanent or for it to even last this long. Lucien’s self-control over his emotions kept it intact for so long.”
“What can be done to help him?” Rhysand asked. Lucien whined, pressing his cheek more into Helion’s hand. He did not hesitate to cup his son’s cheek and soothingly trace his cheek bone.
“For now, lock away the power again. But he must learn to use it before the spell wears off again,” Helion warned.
“Do it, whatever you have to do,” Rhysand said.
Helion coiled his power around Lucien’s. He grabbed the frayed edges of the spell and tied them against the unstable power once again. With a blow to Lucien’s cheek, the spell was sealed.
Lucien gasped, his eyes flying open. New life had been breathed into the redhead so it seems. He tried to push himself up. Before Helion could stop him, Azriel’s gentle hands stabled Lucien. He mumbled, though Helion couldn’t understand a word he was saying, Azriel soothed him until he was laying back down.
“Lucien?” Rhysand whispered. The younger male hummed in response before his breathing evened.
“He’ll be tired for a few days,” Helion warned.
“Thank you He-”
“When were you going to tell me.” His expression was hard as he stared at Rhysand. “Were you ever going to tell me about my son , Rhysand?”
“We wanted to be sure before we brought it up to you,” Rhysand answered, “which was difficult because Aria was not willing to write us back or meet with us.”
“You should’ve told me,” Helion whispered, “he’s my fucking son, Rhysand.”
“I understand,” Rhysand acknowledged, “I’m sorry Helion, but I did not want to give Lucien the false hope.”
Helion couldn’t deny that. If it had turned out to be false, would that have wrecked Lucien’s spirit? He shivered at the idea. But with his power in Lucien, he knew that would never be a situation they’d have to face.
***
The soft patter of rain against the window was the first time Lucien heard. Opening his eyes he could see the droplets roll against the glass as the stars were hidden by grey clouds. Fuck, how long had he been passed out? What the fuck had happened to make his head pound? His arms were sore, scratch that, his entire body was sore.
“Good to know I won’t have to revive you, boy.” Amren’s voice made him jump. A groan beside him made him turn to see Azriel sitting in a chair beside his bed. His quick movement had made his head slip off his hand with which he was balancing it on. When he stretched his wings, one smacked into Cassian who was asleep in the chair beside him. He almost tipped back with a curse but his hands gripped Nesta who was on his lap. Nesta’s instinct was to steady herself with the chair beside them. That only made the chair tip over, making Mor slide onto the ground. Her groan made Lucien burst into laughter despite the ache in his ribs.
“Lucien,” Azriel breathed, one of his hands grabbed his jaw as he inspected for further signs of injury.
“I’m fine, Az,” he assured him.
“You gave us one hell of a scare, foxy,” Cassian said, patting his thigh, “glad you’re back.”
“What the hell happened? I feel like I got a face full of wing,” he mumbled, rubbing his temples.
“You-You don’t remember?” Cassian seemed startled.
“I remember sparring with Finnian and then nothing,” he answered. All four of them shared conflicting looks. Just as Cassian was about to speak again, Amren raised her hand.
“Not a word,” she warned.
Moments later Rhysand and Feyre entered the room.
Both looked worse for wear. Feyre had purple bags under her eyes and her greasy hair was braided back. Rhysand’s eyes were bloodshot and his hair tousled as if he had run his fingers through it an unhealthy amount. But relief filled their expressions when they saw him awake.
“We have to talk,” Rhysand’s scratchy voice said. The others nodded, leaving them. Azriel stole one last glance before shutting the door behind him.
“You look like shit, both of you,” he said. Rhysand replied a breathless laugh.
“You scared us,” Rhysand said.
“So I’ve been told,” he answered, “what happened?”
“Lucien there’s no easy way to say this,” Feyre whispered, her hand resting over his.
“Say what?” Anxiousness bubbled in his chest as he sat up.
“When you fought with Finnian you...exploded in power,” Rhysand said, “power I don’t think you knew you had.”
“Power? Wait did-”
“No, Beron is still alive,” Feyre said, “it was power from the Day Court. Lucien...Beron isn’t your father. Helion is.”
“Wh-What?” He stammered. No, no that couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be.
“Feyre noticed the similarities between you two after the High Lords meeting. We’ve been trying for months to confirm this before telling you. We did not want to tell you this unless we were certain. Helion confirmed it yesterday when he helped quell your power,” Rhysand explained, “we’re sorry for not telling you sooner, Lucien.”
“We’re so, so fucking sorry,” Feyre whispered, tear brimming her eyes.
“N-No thank you for not telling me if you weren’t certain,” Lucien whispered, “I don’t think I would’ve been able to handle a maybe.”
“This isn’t easy, we understand that,” Rhysand said, “Helion is downstairs. You don’t have to face him now or tomorrow. Eventually you will, but we won’t force you to. Whenever you’re ready to speak to him, we’ll support you.”
Feyre pulled him into her arms, her long fingers loving rubbing his back and carding through his long hair. Her voice was soft as she spoke, “even if you never want to see him we’ll be on your side. Whatever comes next will be your decision.”
“I...I need some time to think,” he whispered. Feyre pulled away and patted his cheek softly.
“Whatever time you need.”
It had been hours.
Beron wasn’t his father.
All the torture he endured could’ve been avoidable.
Jesminda didn’t have to die.
Thoughts of what could’ve been raced through his mind to avoid the thought of what if it was never meant to me. What if Helion had known and not cared. Why would he suddenly care if when Amarantha ripped his eye out he looked just as bored as Rhysand? Would being his son suddenly make him care?
Then his mind drifted to Beron. He had been cruel to him his entire life, even after he had left the Autumn Court he found ways to make Lucien’s existence as miserable as possible. Beron had tortured a child that he must’ve known wasn’t his own. The suffering at his hands was...Lucien couldn’t find the words to describe it. His entire life his father had been a monster in his mind, not even stories of Amren frightened him as much as Beron did.
Yet, he had no connection to Lucien. There was no obligation to keep a bastard like him as a son unless he was waiting to use him against Helion. His father had always told Lucien that he might serve a purpose one day, was the purpose leverage? Revenge? He couldn’t figure it out.
Then came the problem of facing Helion. Facing him meant accepting that Beron was not his father, only another abuser to add to a disturbingly long list. With this he could sever the last of his ties to the Autumn Court. Would he, though? Severing those ties meant leaving his mother behind. But the future that Day offered was so tempting. A court away from any memory of his father with a different male who would guide Lucien through the rest of his life.
Was it too late for that now? He was well over a century old. There was not much left to teach him in terms of growing up or training. The only thing that could possibly interest Helion was this power wasn’t aware he possessed. The reason why his older brothers were so jealous. Other than that, Helion could very well be just another acquaintance to Lucien instead of a father. He was known for his lavish parties and abundance of lovers, would he even want a son to interrupt centuries of routine?
Pushing himself off the bed he knew he would not rest until he confronted Helion. He would not know peace until he knew.
It wasn’t hard to find him. He was in one of the sitting rooms flirting with Mor, who also gave her own flirtatious remarks back. How would his relationship with her change? Would his relationship with the friends he had known longer than Lucien was ever alive change?
“Lucien,” Helion breathed.
“Can we talk?” He rasped. Helion nodded rapidly. Mor smiled at him as she left the room, closing the double doors.
“Sit, you must be tired,” Helion said, motioning for the spot Mor was sitting in only moments prior. He hesitated for a moment before giving in to the exhaustion in his bones.
It was silent for a moment. Helion didn’t say anything, didn’t move until Lucien shifted to face him.
“Did you know?” He asked, his eyes narrowly avoiding that of his father’s.
“No,” Helion answered, “I did not know until yesterday.”
That eliminates the possibility of Helion not wanting him before, but it didn’t rule out not wanting him then.
“You’re upset.”
“Yes.”
“I understand if you want this to stay between us,” Lucien mumbled, “I won’t bother you. Won’t tell anyone. We could just...forget about this.”
“Lucien,” Helion’s voice was thick with emotion. His eyebrows were furrowed as he shook his head slightly, his long black hair flowing with the movement, “No, Lucien, that’s far from what I want. Yes, I’m upset, but not at you. I’m...upset that I missed so much. I’m upset at myself for not helping you.”
“I-what?” He was confused. He had prepared for rejection. He had already told himself Helion did not want a son, otherwise he was sure that the High Lord would’ve been able to produce at least three by now. But acceptance wasn’t something he thought was going to happen.
“Lucien,” Helion breathed out, “I’m happy to have a son, especially one as resilient and courageous as the Fox of the Night Court.”
Lucien blushed at the use of the title. He shook his head, mumbling, “I’m stubborn. Not very resilient or courageous, I’m afraid.”
Helion sighed, reaching to cup his scarred cheek. Lucien instinctively flinched. When his eyes finally glanced upwards he wasn’t met with usual disappointment. Helion’s eyes were patient as he waited for Lucien’s shoulders to relax as he continued.
The first thing he noticed was that his touch was warm. It felt like when he let the sun graze his cheeks. His thumb traced the scar down his forehead, over his eye, then across his cheek. For once, his golden eye did not whirl in response.
“No, Lucien,” Helion whispered, “you are so much more.”